(Author's Note: WildClover27 has written a series of excellent "Beginnings" stories for each of the guys, depicting their arrival at the mansion and their first impressions of Garrison and their teammates. I highly recommend them. I was honored when she asked if I'd be interested in writing Chief's 'beginnings'. Although my universe differs from hers in some details, I hope I have managed to stay as true to our guys as WildClover27 does. Thanks for your assistance and input, WildClover27. Your suggestions made this a better story.)
THE LAST BEST CHANCE
Early July, 1942
Chief never got any visitors in prison. The sorry excuse for a public defender they'd assigned him stopped coming long ago, telling him his last, best chance at getting out was an early parole for good behavior. That was never going to happen. The only other person who might have given half a rat's ass was Christine. But she didn't know where he was, and he wanted to keep it that way. He didn't want to face her again until he had things figured out.
That's why it was a little disturbing when two screws had singled him out in the exercise yard, cuffed him, and herded him to one of the interrogation rooms. The older guard, the one they called Grizzly, pushed him through the door and followed him in, closing it behind them.
The only other guy in the room, sitting on the far side of the table, was in an Army uniform. He stood as Grizzly shoved Chief forward. "Are the cuffs really necessary?"
"He's a quick, mean one, Lieutenant."
The tall, blond officer studied him briefly, then said to the guard, "He's probably not armed. I think I can handle him."
Of course he was armed. He was always armed. You just didn't flash it unless you were about to die. Or it could get you something.
"Take the cuffs off, please," the officer ordered.
"If you say so." Grizzly released the cuffs and backed up to stand by the door.
"Could you wait outside?"
"I don't think that's such a…."
"It's okay. I'll let you know if we need anything."
With a shrug, Grizzly left and closed the door with a thunk.
Chief rubbed at the red marks the cuffs had left on his wrists. He couldn't come up with a good reason why an Army officer would want to talk to him, so he waited.
The Lieutenant motioned toward the other chair at the table. "Have a seat."
"I'll stand."
"Okay. My name is Craig Garrison." The Lieutenant circled the table and leaned back against it, folding his arms across his chest. He was all spit-and-polish — short, neat haircut, creases ironed into his spotless uniform, and shiny brass on his collars. His cap sat on the table next to an attache case. Chief let the silence hang, waiting for the rest.
"I'll get right to the point. The Army is looking for a few men with special skills to pull off a mission against the Nazis behind enemy lines. Your file indicates that you have some of those skills."
He had to be kidding. Chief couldn't think of a single thing the Army might want him for. Picking fights? Seems they'd already picked a big one of their own. Stealing? They could commandeer anything they wanted without his help. He was pretty handy with a blade, but the Army had machine guns and tanks. What'd they need a knife for? He waited for the punch line.
"If you agree to undertake the mission with us, we'll guarantee your parole."
That made his ears perk up. But there had to be a catch. "You're joshin', right?"
"No. I'm deadly serious, and Warden Barnes will verify it. But it'll be dangerous. You'd be putting your life on the line. If you survive, you'll earn your freedom. It's as simple as that."
He had to be missing something. The authorities couldn't really be thinking about letting him out of here, even in the custody of the Army. That was too good to be true. He studied the officer in front of him, looking for some sign of a lie or a joke, something hidden that he must be missing. The guy looked relaxed, at ease, like he offered precious freedom to hardened criminals every day. So Chief had to ask. "What kinda skills? What'd ya want me to do that every private in the Army can't do?"
"For one thing, this is an undercover mission. Auto theft could come in handy. And a solid knowledge of engines."
Chief shook his head and just smiled at the floor. They wanted him because he could change the oil in a Studebaker?
The Lieutenant continued. "And we need someone who can kill quickly and silently. Think you can handle that?"
Killing. He could do that. Everybody he'd ever killed had deserved it, and he figured the Nazis fit right into that category. "Yeah, I can handle that."
The Lieutenant circled back to the other side of the table and flipped open the attache case. "I also need team players. Men who can take orders without question. Your life and the lives of the other team members will depend on it."
'Cooperative' and 'obedient' sure weren't words anyone had stamped in red across the top of his file, but Chief gave it some thought as the Lieutenant watched him. The man was up-front and no-nonsense. Grizzly was one of the more ornery bulls, and he'd accepted the guy's commands almost without question. And if he was truly offering freedom in exchange for slitting some Nazi throats and heisting a few cars, he'd be willing to play along, at least for a while. Could be fun. And it'd be some place other than here.
Chief shrugged. "Sure, count me in."
"You don't want to give it some thought first? I mean it when I say it'll be dangerous. To be honest, the odds are against you making it out alive."
"Get shot in Germany or get sliced to pieces in the shower here. Everybody's gotta die someplace."
Garrison's eyes narrowed, and his mouth hardened into a thin line. But he pulled some papers and a pen from the attache case and slid them across the table to him. "Then I'll need you to read and sign this, explaining what the Army expects of you."
Taking a seat at the table, Chief picked up the pen and flipped through the pages, giving them a quick read. It really didn't matter what might be hidden in the fine print. He figured the Army didn't intend to live up to the agreement anymore than he did. But the chance at freedom was something he was willing to risk almost anything for. He scratched his name on the line at the bottom of the last page.
Late July, 1942
For a week Chief had allowed himself to dream. There were all kinds of ways he could slip free from Army guards and disappear if he were outside these walls. He might even be able to get away before he left the states. Then he and Christine could start over fresh. The possibilities were intoxicating. But after a week of not hearing another word about being released and flying to England, he'd realized it had all been some kind of sadistic hoax. He'd kicked himself for believing all that crap in the first place. As the weather turned hotter, so did his cell, and his temper. The fist fight in the mess hall had been inevitable, and had landed him back in solitary, which was even hotter.
Then the Army had shown up. A different lieutenant this time, and two MP's. They'd pulled him out of solitary, given him a duffle bag with his few personal possessions — mostly just the clothes he'd had on his back when he'd first been sent here — and loaded him, shackled and handcuffed, into the back of a military truck. The next stop had been the air field.
He'd never been on an airplane before, but he knew regular passenger planes probably weren't as loud as the military transport. It had landed over an hour ago, and his ears were still ringing. The truck they'd loaded him into the back of this time wasn't much quieter. And if possible, it was more uncomfortable. Even though he was shackled, cuffed, and chained to the hard metal bench, a couple of armed MP's sat across from him, watching him like he was a cornered rattler about to strike. Even if he'd had the opportunity, he didn't have the energy — he hadn't slept since they'd rousted him out of solitary sometime before daylight two days ago. By the angle of the moon when the plane had landed, he guessed it was close to dawn here in England. His mind and body told him it was still the middle of the night.
The older MP — the Sergeant who looked like a prizefighter who'd lost a knife fight — had been staring at him since they'd closed the doors. It was making him antsy.
Finally the guy spoke up. "Your papers here say they call you Chief. You're one of them redskins, ain't ya?"
Chief closed his eyes and leaned back, too tired to get into it with this jerk.
"I'm talking to you, injun!"
"I heard ya."
"Then you'd better answer when spoken to, boy."
The MP was right. Getting on the bad side of a screw right from the get-go was never a good idea. He might have to put up with this guy for a long time. The chains rattled as he sat up. "Yeah, half Navajo."
The MP's laugh sounded like a donkey. "So you're a breed, huh? Musta been why ya got yourself caught. What'd ya do? Steal some horses? Get drunk and all handsy with a white girl?" He slapped his partner on the arm, trying to get him in on the fun. "So which half of you's injun? Your pappy find himself some poor little pioneer girl to violate? Or did your squaw mama get herself mixed up with a pack of fur trappers?"
The other MP shifted uneasily. "Leave him be, Georgie."
"Ah, I'm just funnin' with him."
Fun, he called it. Two could play this game. "Yeah, like your mama sold herself to the sixth fleet…."
The rifle butt swung upward — he didn't dodge fast enough, and it slammed into the side of his head. The flash of pain exploded into stars…the world faded to grey, then tilted back into blurry reality. As he tried to pull himself upright on the bench again, he wondered why he let that kind of crap get to him…it never turned out well. He felt the blood trickling down the side of his face, but the chain holding his cuffs to the bench was too short to let him wipe it away.
The MP grumbled something he didn't catch, but after that, the rest of the ride passed in tense silence. He memorized their faces. He wanted to be ready if he ever ran into them again.
gg gg gg gg gg gg
By the time the truck rattled to a stop, Chief's head was pounding and his hands were going numb. He heard voices, and what sounded like iron gates squeaking open. The truck pulled slowly forward for a short distance before it stopped again, and the engine cut off. When the back doors swung open, he caught a glimpse of the faint pink glow in the eastern sky. At least he thought it was east. He'd lost all sense of time and place.
The quiet MP leaned down to release the shackles around his ankles and the chain that held him to the bench, and the prizefighter MP slapped him on the arm with the rifle barrel. "End of the line. Get up."
Flexing his fingers to try and work some feeling back into them, he reached down to pull his small duffle from under the bench and headed for the open door. The officer from the prison interrogation room — Garrison — stood on the pavement at the back of the truck, now dressed in sweat-stained fatigues with the shirt sleeves rolled up, and flanked by an armed corporal. Chief dropped his duffle to the ground and jumped down after it, the jolt setting off a spike of pain behind his eyes. Now free of the chain, he swiped at the dried blood on his cheek with his shirt sleeve.
The Lieutenant frowned at him. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, peachy."
"Sergeant!"
Prizefighter leapt from the truck and saluted. "Yes, sir."
"What happened?" Garrison demanded.
"Ah, it weren't nothin', Lieutenant. He just got a little mouthy is all."
"He was shackled, cuffed and chained. Did you feel threatened?"
"Well, it's just that he was disrepectful…"
"That's enough, Sergeant. Uncuff him."
Prizefighter silently did as he was told. When Garrison held out his hand and snapped his fingers, Prizefighter pulled a pack of folded papers from inside his jacket and handed them over. They all waited while the Lieutenant flipped through the pages, signing his name several times. When he handed them back, he said, "You're going on my report, Sergeant. Expect to hear from your commanding officer. You're dismissed."
"Yes, sir," Prizefighter stammered, saluting again. As he turned to climb back in the truck, he gave Chief a snarl that the Lieutenant probably didn't see. Great. Now if he ran into this guy again, he'd have an attitude AND a grudge.
As the truck pulled away, taking Prizefighter with it, the Lieutenant turned and motioned for him to follow. "Come on. Let's get that cut taken care of."
Chief finally looked up at the massive grey building in front of him. He'd been expecting a prison, but he'd never seen one like this. Someone had taken the time to decorate it with marble sculptures, fancy carved stone, hanging ivy and potted plants. It had big square turrets, but there were no search lights, no barbed wire or armed guards, except for the single corporal with a rifle.
"Mr. Clayton?"
Chief suddenly realized the Lieutenant was speaking to him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had called him by his real name. And it had never had "Mister" in front of it. He picked up his duffle and silently followed the man up the stone steps and through the massive carved wooden front doors, the corporal close behind him. Once he was inside, it was plain to see this was someone's home. Or it used to be. The smell of furniture wax and a wood fire lingered in the air. A library with comfortable furniture and shelves of books was on his left, and old paintings in gilded frames hung at intervals along the walls. The Lieutenant headed straight up the carpeted staircase in front of them, so he continued to follow, figuring they'd take him to his cell later, after all the paperwork had been sorted out.
At the end of the upstairs hall, Garrison pushed open one of the big double doors and waved him through into a large, high-ceilinged room. While the Lieutenant stopped to speak to the corporal, Chief took the opportunity to study the odd space. Old mismatched furniture, more paintings of frowning, over-dressed aristocrats, a few statues on fancy wooden stands, and a suit of armor. A couple of towels and someone's underwear hung on a line in front of the small fireplace on the left. Five Army cots occupied the corners of the room. This was a dormitory. Like the one he'd lived in at the mission school, only fancier. He didn't have good memories of trying to get along with a gang roommates.
"Welcome to your new home. That's your bunk." Garrison indicated the cot in the corner to his right.
A million questions swarmed into Chief's head at once, but there was one he needed the answer to first. "There are four other guys?"
"You're the last of the team to arrive. The others are in a training session now. You'll meet them later this afternoon."
Chief walked over to the bunk and set his duffle onto the footlocker at the end. He dropped onto the cot, giving it a bounce, and it resisted firmly, not like the sagging springs of the bunk he'd been sleeping on for the last year. The wool blanket felt thick and new, and the faint odor of bleach wafted up from the sheets. But what he found hooked to the cot rail snapped this whole fancy scene back into reality. He fingered it, verifying that it was a pair of handcuffs.
The Lieutenant answer his unasked question. "Until I can trust you won't attempt to escape, you'll be cuffed to your cot at night."
Once a prisoner, always a prisoner, he thought. At least the other four would be cuffed, too.
A soldier wearing an armband with a big, red cross on it appeared at the doorway. "You needed me, Lieutenant?"
"Take a look at that cut on his head, please, Corporal."
The soldier walked over to Chief, and placing his aid kit on the cot, he leaned over to push his hair away from the wound. Chief grabbed the guy's wrist. He didn't need to be doctored. "It ain't nothin'. I'll take care of it."
Garrison studied him for a minute, as if trying to make a decision. He finally dismissed the Corporal with a nod. "Just leave the aid kit, please."
The medic saluted and left the room.
"You'll find a toiletry kit and fresh fatigues in your footlocker. Corporal Parker will escort you to the head. Get showered and changed, then Parker will bring you down to my office so we can go over the rules." With that, the Lieutenant left, closing and locking the big oak door behind him.
Chief closed his eyes and sat quietly for a long minute, rubbing at his temples to ease the throbbing, and trying to make sense of this new, strange world. Maybe a shower would help. But one thing was for sure — this wasn't North Eastern Penitentiary, and if he could keep his shit together, he'd be free.
