Normally, she might have discarded it, but the impressive row of ribbons stayed her hand, and she decided to go through with washing.
The blood and mud stains were all quite dry, and in any case, Major Jocelyn Presley was no stranger to the products of violence, so she fished about in the pockets without concern.
Pulling a few scraps of paper out, she laid the jacket aside, ready for the wash.
The first note was an official order, the one that moved Ramsay’s unit to Barnstorf for that awful October bloodbath.
Second, and tricky to unfold, was some sort of poem, obviously something the British Major had been working on.
Third seemed to be a relatively straightforward hand written note.
Except it wasn’t.
Ten minutes later, Presley handed it to the camp intelligence officer, who also couldn’t read it.
It was not until nearly an hour later that they found a Corporal Potin on Ward 13 who had sufficient language skills to decipher the note.
“Jeez, yeah. Ain’t read any of this stuff since ma Grand-pappy got out his old newspapers from the first war.”
“So?”
Presley was impatient.
“Yes, Ma’am. It’s Cyrillic.”
He scanned it quickly, turning it over and whistling as he reached the end.
“Guy first named’s a Major Ramsey. It’s about a fight at a place called Barnstorf. Man who signed it is a Commie Colonel called Yarishlov.”
“So what does it say!”
Alexey Gregorevich Potin, whose family had come to America to avoid the Revolution, read the text word for word.
He finished to the sort of silence that seems oppressive.
The camp IO spoke first.
“Wowee… now, ain’t that something.”
Major General Kenneth Strong, in the chair, called the meeting to order.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming, and a particular thank you to our three new members who have responded at such short notice.”
Whilst each of the people sat around the table was known, if only by name, Strong went through an introductory process.
“Dudley, author of the Cascade operation and head of ‘A’ Force.”
Brigadier Dudley Clarke’s credentials were impressive. Cascade had been the operation to alter the German perception of the North African order of battle, and had been wholly successful in convincing the enemy of the existence of many divisions that were solely recorded on paper. ‘A’ Force was the prime deception unit on the previous Italian Front. Dudley had been involved in some of ‘J-Cip’s work already, but had been brought in to provide first-hand critique and advice.
“Jane from MI5.”
Second to be introduced, and with less of a flourish, was Jane Archer, former head of MI5’s Soviet Intelligence Department, and brought in for her understanding of the Soviet psyche.
One look at her was sufficient to understand that the woman was all business and could stand her ground.
Again, with the lack of information due to those from the shady world of intelligence, Strong introduced the final arrival.
“And lastly, Harold. Most of you know Harold from MI6 Counter-Intelligence.”
Nods of recognition acknowledged the new member.
Additional copies of the ‘Ash’ file were passed around and the group go down to the business of fooling the Soviet Union as to Allied intentions.
The meeting broke up later than expected, the new arrivals having been able to provide some excellent insight into Soviet thinking, as well as offering a few tweaks to the disinformation programme that would run throughout the summer.
As they strode from the Billiard House, dispersing to their various destinations, Major General Harold R. Bull waited to pull two people aside.
“Mrs Archer, can you spare me a minute?”
She went to take leave of her companion but Bull continued.
“Both of you please.”
Bull produced two tan folders from his briefcase.
“Needless to say these are top secret. We’ve not yet acted on their contents, so perhaps you could have a look and have some ideas ready for the next ‘J-Cip’ meeting?”
Jane Archer noted the cover, with its impressive markings denoting the highest security requirements, alongside the file’s two names.
“Mother and son, General Bull?”
Archer was well up on her Greek Mythology, as was her companion, who followed up Jane Archer’s comment.
“So we have an Achilles to worry about?”
Bull laughed.
“No, Mr Philby.”
“Please do call me Kim.”
“No, Kim, it’s Thetis that’s more our concern.”
Dropping into the back of the US Army staff car he had been assigned, Kim Philby struggled to maintain his composure, believing, rightly as it happened, that the driver was an intelligence operative. The knowledge that he was now aware of a great deception being inflicted upon the Soviet Union nibbled constantly at his composure, as did the concern that he would be in time to prevent the damage it could inflict.
With a fifteen minute drive to his quarters ahead, he decided to read the Achilles/Thetis file as a light distraction.
It proved anything but.
Their mission was to go wherever the Legion training detachment went, and bring them safe back to the 16th when they had finished the job.
The small unit could have waited it out in the warmth and comfort of their barracks, but that wasn’t the way their senior NCO did things.
So 2nd Special Platoon, 16th Armored Military Police Battalion, found themselves secreted in the countryside outside of Bickenholtz, carrying out a practice anti-partisan surveillance and interception mission, all at the behest of First Sergeant James Hanebury, which experienced NCO, moving between apoplectic and incredulous, was about to visit himself upon the squad commanded by a man who was about as unfit to be a soldier as Hanebury had ever encountered.
“What in the name of the Almighty do you think you’re doing, Sergeant Smith?”
The rotund NCO almost jumped out of his skin, so unaware had he been of the approach of his nemesis.
“Top, we’ve set up an OP here, and we’re logging movement through the area, as ordered.”
Hanebury gathered himself.
“As ordered? Look at this position! It’s fucking useless… no height… no cover worth a fucking damn… and you’re set up watching one side. Where’s your security? Where’s your rear cover eh? Goddamnit Smith, but I fucking walked up on you and your sorry bunch and none of you had a snowball’s that I was here!”
Hanebury’s eyes bored into the hapless Smith, burning deeply but, as usual, failing to find anything capable of absorbing the lesson.
“This position is shit. Find another.”
The experienced First Sergeant looked around, assessing the area, seeking a suitable point to set up and observe from.
There were three choices immediately apparent.
Smith had summoned Corporal Buzzy to his side, a man that Hanebury considered to be equally as useless.
“I’ll be back directly. Get it fucking sorted by the time I return, Sergeant.”
Smith waited for the grizzled Non-Com to get out of earshot before shaking his head and spitting into the mud.
“Sargeant fucking Lucifer the Perfect says we gotta move to a better position. Where d’yer figure, Buzz?”
Transferred in from a Maintenance section, the new MP was as clueless as his squad leader.
“The old church there?”
He pointed to the far distance, just west of Bickenholtz.
“Too far, I reckon. How about the trees there. Looks like plenty of brush too… and we got a good field of vision.”