62. Beginnings: Garrison

Chapter 3

The staff car pulled to a stop in the cobbled courtyard, otherwise known as a car park. Craig Garrison had not been happy when he first learned his base was outside of London for more secrecy; outside of London by two hours. Two redeeming factors were there was a local branch of G-2 in the nearby village of Brandonshire, and he was twenty minutes away from the Archbury 8th Air Force base, and his neighbor and friend, Joe Gallagher. The world seemed to be getting smaller.

With a slight bit of caution, Craig opened the car door and stepped out. He stopped and stared at the building that was to be his home for the duration and six months. He wasn't quite sure what the style was. Gargoyles and Grecian statues. Arches and stucco. Diamond-paned arched windows. French, Spanish, Moroccan, Italian and English. It was a confused conglomeration.

The staff car had stopped behind two parked vehicles. One was an Army jeep. The other looked to be a 1938 black, four-door Packard. At least he didn't have to learn how to drive with the steering wheel on the wrong side; just remember to keep it in the correct lane of traffic.

Picking up his grip, Garrison started up the stone steps to see what the inside of this monstrosity looked like. An armed corporal opened the door for him. Inside, Craig paused and looked around, absently setting his bag on the floor beside him. Museum or mausoleum? He wasn't quite sure.

It was dark; wood paneled walls, portraits of sour visage people in period dress, mismatched furniture, worn Persian rugs . . . and a suit of armor? A wooden stairs was in front of him, leading up, with a ninety degree turn to the second floor. To the left of the stairs was a door; to what he didn't know. A large common room held a round wooden table with high- and low-backed chairs. A smallish fireplace graced the middle of the far wall. It was flanked by two wing-backed chairs with floor lamps, side tables and ottomans. A small chess table, complete with pieces and a straight chair, was next to the diamond-paned window on the front wall.

"Takes some getting used to, Sir." A sergeant appeared at his left elbow.

"So it would seem," replied Garrison

"Your office is that first door," said Sgt. Davidson. "Down that little hall," he gestured to a hall barely visible behind the right wing-back chair, "is a library/map room combination. Across from that is what's been turned into a supply room for office, household and the like." He gestured to his right. "Dining area, kitchen, butler's pantry, mudroom and door to a walled in garden area."

Garrison eyed a barred double door in the dining area wall. "Access to the off limits private quarters?"

"Yes, Sir. Upstairs is a single door access between the stairs and one of the bedrooms."

"What's the set up like up there?" asked Craig.

"I'll give you the ten cent tour, if you want, Lieutenant," offered Davidson.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

Davidson picked up Garrison's bag and led the way up the stairs. "There's a big room set up like this one, only larger. We were told you wanted to house the men together so there's five cots in it."

They reached the top of the stairs. Garrison paused and looked around at two dissecting halls. There were doors on both sides of both halls.

"What are all the doors to?" asked Garrison. They were all closed so he could not see in.

"There's the big room on the corner and seven bedrooms. There's a bathroom down the end of that hall." The sergeant pointed to the left. "People who owned this house were a little strange. Each bedroom has a small full bathroom." He led the way to the first bedroom on the right. "We figured you'd like to be close, but still have some privacy."

The room was not large, but it comfortably held a bed, an armoire, a small fireplace and a compact bathroom. It would be just fine. There was more of the dark wood paneling on the walls and a recessed diamond-paned window. Craig looked outside. The bedroom overlooked an overgrown, enclosed garden area with what appeared to be a gazebo hidden in weeds and vines.

He turned back and spotted his grip on the floor beside the armoire. There would be time to unpack his one remaining uniform and toiletry items later. The army had assured Garrison more uniforms would be provided for him.

Craig had brought no personal items. It was best to have nothing about family the convicts might get their hands on and use against him. All they would be told was he was a First Lieutenant and had spent some time in North Africa.

"Are the rest of the rooms set up like this?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," replied Davidson. "While we were setting up the house and checking up on security, the men stayed here. We moved out yesterday. The beds have been stripped and the rooms are all empty. The air force base has a small barracks we are using now. We work in twelve hour shifts."

Garrison nodded. Curious to see more, he moved out into the hall and went across to the common room. The inside was set up much the same as the one downstairs, only completely enclosed, and minus the tin man. As he had been told, there were five cots scattered around the perimeter of the room. A foot locker was at the end of each. This room had the same dark paneling and ugly paintings as downstairs. Scattered about the room were a few eclectic statues; again the combination of British and Grecian influence.

A dart board graced one wall. Craig wandered over and pulled the drawer out below it. A full set of darts was inside. He could remove them, but decided the convicts had to feel as though some trust was being put in them; especially with the handcuff that dangled from each cot.

Moving around the room, Garrison opened one of the diamond-paned windows and inspected the bars which had been installed on the outside. He tested them and decided they were very secure. The cons would not be going out that way. There was a tree in fairly close proximity, but except for Grainger, the second-story man, he doubted any of the others could swing out that far if they did manage to get past the bars. A vine covered trellis bordered one side of one of the windows. It did not look sturdy enough for someone the size of the con man to climb down. But then, Borghese did not look like the type to crawl out of a window, except in the Don Juan fashion.

Craig looked at his watch. It was 1100 hours. He had time to break in his office before leaving for Brandonshire to meet a Major Percy Schaeffer of G-2. Going back downstairs, he allowed the sergeant to go on about his business and stepped into his office. It too had dark paneling, but it was made lighter by four windows behind the wooden desk. Only the ones on each end opened and were of the same diamond-pane as throughout the rest of the house. He walked over to his desk, but took a look out the window first. The angle of this room gave him a view of a wide expanse of manicured lawn, leading to some woods. He would survey the outside tomorrow.

Pulling out the tall backed wooden desk chair, Craig took a seat. There were two wooden straight chairs facing his desk. Behind these was a couch along the wall with a wooden coat tree between it and the door. A conference table was to his left, in front of a map of Europe. At least the ugly people did not grace the walls of this room. Behind him, above a file cabinet next to the windows, was the standard portrait of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. On the other side of the windows was a portrait of King George VI. The room was diplomatic if nothing else. An open door to his right revealed a closet sized bathroom.

The desk had a wheeled table to the right with a typewriter. There was nothing much to speak of atop the desk besides a blotter, an ashtray, and a leather cup with pens and pencils. The top middle desk drawer held more assorted accessories and a key. The key he decided went to the locked lower drawers on either side of him. Smaller top drawers held papers, and a loaded handgun. Convenient. Craig unlocked both bottom drawers. The left hand drawer held files. Thumbing through them, he found the dossiers on each of his convicts and one on himself that was surely the sanitized version. The right hand drawer was empty except for a small box. He'd have to do something about filling that drawer. Idly, Craig picked up the box and removed the lid. Nestled inside were his captain's bars and his oak leaves atop the two medals for bravery. Garrison smiled.

GGGGG

Craig took the Packard and left for Brandonshire forty minutes before his meeting with Major Schaeffer at G-2. He had been told he couldn't miss the building; it was right on the main street through the village. The pastoral setting between the base and Brandonshire seemed to belie the fact there was a war on. There were crops, but very few farm animals. At least not the eating kind. Draft horses were hitched to farm equipment. Garrison did not know if this was the way they still worked their fields or an attempt to save on petrol.

At a leisurely speed, it took him twenty minutes to reach the edge of the village. The road narrowed even more than it was on the way in and wound through the village as if laid out by a drunken person. The buildings were two and sometimes three stories tall, made of brick or whitewashed stone. It had a quaint feeling of another era, as though there should have been horses and wagons on dirt streets. Old-fashioned, though bulb-less, lamp posts graced the red brick sidewalks that also wound around planters of colorful flowers. It seemed the residents were not about to allow the war to dampen their spirits.

The three story building that housed G-2 was in the middle of town. It resembled a hotel and Craig wondered if it had been one before the war. He continued past and drove up and down the streets looking at shops, a couple churches, and buildings that might hold flats. Making a circle tour, he parked across the street from the military building in front of a typical pub with a wooden sign showing a grinning blue fox with the apt name of Blue Fox.

He got out and crossed the street after a car had passed. Stepping inside the door of the brick building, he was stopped by a guard. Presenting his papers from the inner pocket of his jacket, Craig waited until he had been cleared before asking directions to Major Schaeffer's office. He was instructed to go up a wide curved staircase of marble and dark wood to the second floor. Noting the marble on the main floor besides the stairs, he decided he was right. It had been a hotel in an earlier time. The elegance of the interior made him wonder what an obviously high class establishment was doing in a rural area.

Upstairs, he followed a hall, again with marble floor, past rooms that had once been hotel rooms and were now offices. Finding Major Percy Schaeffer's name on the fifth door on the left, he knocked and entered. The anteroom was empty except for a small, pretty, young woman with curly brown hair behind a desk, fingers flying with a staccato clacking of keys on a typewriter. She looked up with a smile.

"Are you Lieutenant Garrison?" she asked in a friendly manner.

"Yes, Ma'am," Craig replied.

"Please, have a seat. I'll let the Major know you are here," she said.

He sat on a straight chair while the woman went into a room behind her. She must be used to Yanks. She had called him by his American rank and not the expected British 'Leftenant.' In a few seconds, she returned and held the door open for him. Craig nodded as he moved past her into the office of the British Major. He stood at attention and saluted.

The Major looked at him over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. "Lieutenant Garrison. You may sit."

It was the superior tone of voice that grated on Garrison. The man went back to the papers he was working on, ignoring the young officer. Craig sat and said nothing, using the time to study the man. Thin, with a pointy nose and chin, he had sparse brown hair, with long strands attempting to cover a bald pate. Brown eyes squinted through the glasses that were perched halfway down his nose. Schaeffer looked to be in his early to mid 50s. Finally, the Major looked up and studied the man in the chair in front of his desk.

"Well, Garrison, it seems I have the misfortune of being your commanding officer. I must say, I do not appreciate the group you are bringing to England. We do not need criminals around here. Especially not American criminals. I furthermore do not approve of Allied Command giving the Newcastle estate to you and your . . . men. They should be housed in your stockade in London until they are needed."

Great, thought Craig, not replying. The men aren't even here yet and he was having to keep them out of jail.

"I trust they are not here yet?" said Schaeffer.

"No, sir," replied Craig. "The security of the house and estate is being put in place before their arrival."

Schaeffer gave him a disgusted look. "Your reports to Allied Command will go through me. I want you to report here weekly for progress reports. Have you been issued a mission yet?"

He didn't know? Amazing, thought Garrison

"No, Sir," said Garrison. "They have to be trained first."

"Well I hope they are trained quickly. The sooner you complete the mission, the sooner you will be leaving here."

If they lived through the mission, this pompous ass might find himself in for a surprise.

"I have no further need for your presence," continued Schaeffer. He looked back at his papers. "You are dismissed."

Craig stood, snapped off an unreturned salute, pivoted and walked out of the office. Welcome to England.

"Welcome to England, Lieutenant," smiled the girl at the outer desk.

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Craig with a genuine smile in response to the infectious one he was receiving.

"If you need anything, call," she said in a low voice. "I'll be happy to assist you if I can."

"Thank you . . ." Garrison left a pause.

"Meg," said the girl. "Meg Schaeffer."

Schaeffer? Craig glanced questioningly toward the Major's office.

A brighter smile of amusement crossed the girl's face. "My father."

Father. Well that left this one out. That man in the office would not allow an American, especially one with 'criminals,' near his daughter. Besides, though she was cute, he preferred his women older and more experienced.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Schaeffer," he smiled.

"We'll see you next week," said the girl, getting back into secretary mode. "I will call you with a day and time as soon as I know the Major's schedule."

Craig gave a nod and left the office. He made his way back to his car, but hesitated getting in. It wouldn't hurt to visit the neighborhood pub. Maybe he could find out where to buy a bottle of bourbon, if they even had any in this country.

He entered the pub and paused to let his eyes adjust. The place was empty except for a slim woman behind the bar putting up glasses. Garrison approached the long oak bar.

"Be right with you," said the girl in an American voice. The red, shoulder-length hair should have warned him, but it hadn't as he recognized the voice in surprise.

"Kit?" he asked.

The girl spun around, green eyes wide. "Craig? What on earth are you doing here?"

She hurried around the bar and threw her arms around his neck, giving him a big hug. He returned it with a laugh.

"I should be asking you that," said Garrison. They stepped apart and eyed each other. "I'm stationed here now."

Kit Gallagher, friend and neighbor from home, stared at him. "Where? The closest base is Archbury and you aren't Air Force."

"I really can't say," hedged Craig.

She threw her head back and laughed. "Let me guess. You're the Yank who is billeted in the Mansion."

The Mansion would be appropriate for the house. "How did you hear about that?"

"Hey, this place is about the same size as Midvale. Everybody knows what goes on around here." She went back behind the bar and reached up, taking a bottle of liquor from one of the glass shelves flanking the big mirror in the center of the wall. "Except nobody knows what's going on there. A lot of security."

"You don't have clearance,' said Craig. He steered away from that. "So what are you doing in England?"

Kit poured a strong bourbon for Craig and lifted an open bottle of Coca Cola from under the bar for herself. "Back home isn't the same. There's nobody except the women there. It was me and Ma at our place and Josie, Cinder and Kelly at yours. Kelly doesn't count as a man yet. Terry and Chris were gone besides the rest of you boys. We kept just enough animals to keep us in meat and a small garden for the rest of the food. Ma was spending most of her time with your mom. Pres was home for a little while to recuperate from the plane crash he was in. He took up with Cinder again. Then he was gone and she got grumpier than ever. I needed out, so I hopped a train and a boat and came over here closer to Joe. This place needed a barmaid so I took the job. The man who owned it died in North Africa and the widow didn't want it. She sold it to me cheap."

"You own this?" asked Craig in surprise.

Kit nodded. Both took a sip of their drinks.

"Have you seen Terry and Chris?" Kit asked.

Craig took another sip before answering stonily, "Yes. Chris is back at the ranch and Terry is in Washington with Dad."

Kit stared at him in shock. "Terry is in Washington with your old man? They don't get along at all. How'd that happen?"

"Long, bad story. I don't want to talk about it." He smiled and held up his shot glass. "Tell me, where can I get a bottle of this stuff for 'the Mansion'?"

"Well, if you don't tell anybody . . . I'll be right back."

She disappeared through some curtains into a backroom. It gave Garrison a chance to look around. Nothing the Gallaghers did surprised him anymore. The nice décor and display of liquor bottles filled with hard to come by booze did surprise him. Maybe Kit had learned the ropes of the Black Market bar business.

The flame-haired girl returned and plopped a bottle of Jim Beam in front of Garrison.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked.

"First one is on the house," she said. "After this, it's whatever the going price is. Totally under the table of course."

"Of course," he grinned. "Why is this place empty?"

Kit grinned. "Give it another hour," she said. "The locals start coming in around five-ish and the monster across the street changes shifts at six. I do okay. Americans have more money to spend than the Brits do. It makes things a little testy sometimes, but on the whole they get along . . . separately."

Garrison grinned. "I have to get back to the base, or Mansion as you call it. I'll be by now and then,"

"You better," laughed the girl.

Craig held the bottle up, "Thanks for the libation."

"And I thought it was bourbon," Kit joked back.

Chuckling, Garrison walked out to his car. He didn't see the curtain to the backroom part and a tall, blond-gray curly haired man emerge. Kit exchanged a worried look with the man.

"Of all the places to get stationed, he has to end up here," said the man with a shake of his head.

GGGGG

The next week was hectic as the soldiers and Garrison tried to get everything in place before the arrival of his men. Between meetings in London at Allied Command and with Maj. Schaeffer, an obstacle course was put in under Craig's watchful eyes. A parachute jump tower that had been started before his arrival was completed. Five frames were made to hold the targets for the men's introduction to guns and shooting.

The last morning saw supplies brought in. A kit was made for each of the men and placed in the footlocker at the end of each cot. Army issue clothing would be added later. Bedding was put on the beds. A last check of the common room that was to be their home for sharp objects turned up nothing except the darts for the dartboard. Craig stuck with his decision to allow those to stay. It would give the men a false sense they were being trusted to some extent. He wasn't about to trust any of them at all.

It was still light out, but fading into twilight when the prison van arrived. Lt. Garrison, in full uniform, including cap and Ike jacket, walked down the stone steps and waited to the side of the van when it stopped. The first two men were here now and judging from the commotion at the back of the van, anything that had resembled peace and quiet in the somewhat isolated estate was over.