I reckon I've got some 'splaining to do.
First of all, assignment season struck me down with a vengeance. I had to put a lot of work into, as it's university next year and I need to be prepared. Then on the week assignments ended, I got Fallout 4. That's not an excuse but I can't help it, Fallout 4 is amazing.
If it makes up for it, this chapter is longer than my usual fare.
Here's hoping you enjoy!
WARNING: This chapter contains Nazis.
Chapter Six
"She's waking up! Get the Stürmbannfuhrer!"
"Yes sir!"
Wendy opened her eyes. Her vision swam – she could see the vague outline of a concrete wall. She heard a door open and a loud clack as somebody clicked their heels.
"Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler," came the blunt, stoic reply – the voice sounded slightly familiar, "Is this her, then?"
"Yes sir! Found her outside, sir!"
"Good, good. Leave us be, Hauptsturmführer."
Wendy blinked. Her vision cleared – a hard faced man with cropped silver hair and round glasses leaned over her, his arms behind his back. He wore a distinctive black uniform and peaked cap – the dress uniform of the infamous SS. His mouth was curved into a half smirk.
"My name is Wolfgang von Streichmann," he said, "Thank you for dropping in. My family has waited for you for a long time..."
"Uh...what?" muttered Wendy, her head pounding.
"Don't play dumb with me," snapped Wolfgang, "You've been around for centuries, Warrior – as far back as before the Roman Empire. You have lived for two thousand years, and I intend to find out how..."
"What, you wanna live forever?" demanded Wendy.
"I assure you, madam," replied Wolfgang, "Unlike my forebears I concern myself with higher powers. I shall find out what keeps you alive, and I will personally bestow it unto the Führer."
"Good luck with that," Wendy replied dryly, "You're gonna be disappointed."
"Will I?" demanded Wolfgang, "Will I really?"
He turned to the door.
"Hauptsturmführer!" he barked, "You will find out what makes her tick. Kill her if you need to but I will need a significant bodily sample!"
"Jawohl!"
"Thank you," Wolfgang nodded curtly, "I shall leave you in the captain's capable hands. Auf Weidersein."
He marched out the door, passing the Hauptsturmführer and two more SS men heading in. The Hauptsturmführer sneered as he drew a knife.
"I must admit, I don't know much about surgery," he said, "But I know how to make a sample. Hold her down, corporal..."
"Damn SS."
Two Naval troopers stood on the steel platform outside the bunker, looking out over the harbour. Below them, the last labourers were heading away from the dry dock. The dry dock here at Saint Nazaire was the only one large enough to service the massive battleship Tirpitz – once it was ready, the northern French port would be used to threaten British shipping in the Atlantic.
The other trooper – who had started whistling to obscure the shouting and pained cries from inside – shrugged.
"Better they be in there than lording over us out here," he said, "As if liquidating three hundred Ukrainians gives them officer's experience or something."
The first trooper shook his head, his gaze turning to the shape of a destroyer heading for port in the darkness.
"I suppose in the Party it does," he muttered, "Do you think that's how they promote people? Kill twenty thousand Bolsheviks and get your own Gau?"
"If it's that easy, I might transfer to them," shrugged the second trooper.
"Get your head out of your arse, Liebermann," grunted the first trooper.
He shook his head.
"Look at that destroyer," he said, "Can't be doing regulation speed."
"Freaking destroyer captains," grumbled his friend, "Think they're old-style corsairs..."
The first trooper narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.
"Hang on...that doesn't look like a German destroyer..."
The Hauptsturmführer placed the 'tissue sample' he had taken in a small vial, smiling smugly as he handed it to a junior officer.
"Take this to von Streichmann," he ordered, "And see that both he and the sample make it to Berlin."
"Why not simply send it to Berlin by courier?" asked the junior officer.
"Because between the resistance, the SOE and Martin Bormann, it would never make it to the Führer's desk," replied the Hauptsturmführer, "Now I do believe I gave you an order..."
The junior officer saluted sharply and made his way out of the room. The Hauptsturmführer sneered and turned to Wendy. She was still tied to a chair, wincing – a deep cut had been made in her arm, which was bleeding badly. She was biting back tears, but looked up at the Hauptsturmführer with sheer disgust.
"What to do with you?" he asked, "Von Streichmann wants you presented to Herr Himmler – he's always been interested in legends such as yourself. But me?"
His smile vanished. Wendy could have sworn she heard the sound of thunder.
"My father," he said, "Served on the Russian Front in the last war. He lost an eye in 1917 – and he distinctly remembered who was with the Russians when it happened."
"I've never been to Russia," said Wendy.
The Hauptsturmführer slapped her, his face turning red.
"Lies!" he bellowed, "You were there! You let it happen! He never worked again – we spent fifteen years starving on the bitter pill of Versailles, and you claim it never happened?!"
The Hauptsturmführer inhaled sharply and began to smile again.
"No matter," he said, breathily, "What is the saying? An eye for an eye?"
He drew his knife again, poking her right cheek just below the eye.
"I'm sure the Stürmbannfuhrer will allow me this," he whispered.
Wendy closed her eye.
There was the crash of a door opening. Wendy felt a sharp pain below and above her eye, but when she opened it again, she found she could still see. A naval officer had barged in the door, his face wild and his clothing dishevelled.
"They're in the building!" he screamed, "You have to leave!"
For the first time, Wendy realised she could hear gunfire outside. Perhaps the sound of thunder had not been in her head?
"Who?!" demanded the Hauptsturmführer, "The resistance?"
"Nein!" replied the officer, "Don't you realise?! It's a raid, god damn it! It's the British!"
Operation Chariot was going about as well as could be expected.
After the old destroyer Campbelltown had redefined the meaning of 'dynamic entry' on the dock gates, teams of Commandos had gone ashore, their task being to destroy equipment that could be used to service the Tirpitz. Among them was a small team tasked with finding out the reason for an SS presence in the town.
Captain Nicholas Walton adjusted his helmet as his men finished clearing the bottom floor of the SS command bunker. Most of the troops down here were army and navy soldiers, men with little desire to fight for the SS, and had been disarmed fairly peacefully. Lord knew they'd get their weapons back soon enough, anyway. They couldn't exactly drag them back to Britain.
"Alright, gents," he ordered, "Lord Mountbatten wants any files these people have on Stürmbannfuhrer von Streichmann – apparently both he and the Yanks are very interested in him. Split into teams and comb the entire headquarters – if we get split up and can't be evacuated, go to ground and deliver the papers to the French Resistance. Understood?"
There were a series of acknowledgements and Walton nodded.
"Right," he said, "Lance-Corporal, bring your team with me. We're going officer hunting."
The Hauptsturmführer was swearing loudly, both at his SS guards and at the Naval Officer. His attention was turned away from Wendy.
She clenched her teeth, tugging at her bonds – her right arm was still bleeding and hurt to high heaven, but she felt the rope loosening. The knot had been weakened while Wendy had been struggling against the 'sample-taking' and with just enough effort...
"They're in the building!" someone bellowed, "On our floor!"
"Hold them off!" thundered the Hauptsturmführer as the sound of submachine gun fire filled the air, "We'll bar the door!"
Wendy tugged again – once, twice, three times – and the rope slacked. Her wrists were free.
"Well, if we can't have you," snapped the Hauptsturmführer, turning and walking over to Wendy as his men held the steel door closed, "Nobody can."
He drew his pistol and held it to her temple.
"Goodnight, frau-"
Wendy grabbed his wrist and pulled it up, causing him to shoot into the concrete roof. She quickly jabbed his stomach with the other hand before twisting his wrist and causing him to drop the gun. Another jab to the stomach and he was tumbling to the floor
She stood up, tugging the rope around her legs and freeing them as one of the men holding the door let go and pointed his rifle at her.
"What do you think you're..."
She grabbed his rifle and tore it of his hands, throwing it aside. The SS man gaped in shock, and Wendy used the opening to grab a baton from the downed Hauptsturmführer's belt. The officer tried to get up, but Wendy stamped on his back.
The soldier had recovered by now and had drawn a knife, bellowing as he lunged towards her. Wendy ducked to the right and swung the baton into his jaw. He was floored immediately, his cloth cap flying off as his head struck the concrete wall.
The final SS soldier turned off the door and pointed a submachine gun at her chest – unfortunately, the door flew open less than a second later and a Tommy Gun was shoved in his face.
"Not worth it, son," a British-accented voice declared.
The SS trooper slowly lowered his gun to the ground.
The British Commando nodded and stepped into the room, taking in the two floored SS men and the teenage girl standing over them, bloodied and with a baton in hand.
"Well," he declared, "That ought to teach them."
"And you are?" demanded Wendy.
"Captain Nicholas Walton, Royal Marines," replied Walton, "I'm here to find a 'von Streichmann'..."
"He's gone, Captain!"
A moustachioed man with a Canadian accent had entered the room.
"Probably halfway to Berlin by now," he added.
"Damn," nodded Walton, as if he'd just missed a bus, "Well, we'll get him next time, Barnes. Grab papers and wait for my signal to move out."
"Yes sir!"
The Canadian filed out, barking orders to commandos outside.
"So what brings you here?" asked Walton.
Wendy scratched her chin, trying to think of a reply. As she did, she realised that she was beginning to glow again.
She remembered what Tamworth had said; "But if you're going to survive, adrift in history as you are, you will need to become the Warrior."
"Training," she replied, simply.
"Huh," nodded Walton, who was treating Wendy glowing and sparkling as if he was watching daytime television, "Quite unconventional, I suppose."
"Trust me," replied Wendy, "Nothing about me is conventional."
"Good to hear," said Walton, smirking for the first time.
Then there was the flash, and Wendy felt herself fall again. She closed her eyes.
It was hot when she got her bearings – hot and bright. She opened her eyes and saw a desert – not far in the distance, she could see a half-constructed pyramid. Once again, she guessed, she had gone a very long way back in time.
"So," she said to herself, "Looks like I'm going to have to have my own real-time training montage. Who's first?"
She turned around. Two spearmen in ancient Egyptian garb were holding their weapons at her. Both looked very startled at her roughed up appearance – one dropped their spear, turning pale. The other shakily held his higher, beginning to declare that she was being arrested in the name of the 'King of Kings.'
"Okay," she nodded, holding up the baton, "Here we go."
It was November, now, and Oregon was becoming bitterly cold.
Despite everything that was going on, Mabel had insisted that they were going to have Thanksgiving. Of course she had invited her parents – an eventuality Stan and Ford were not prepared for, although Stan managed through his natural lying abilities and Ford played the ironic role of 'Stanley Pines', the death-faking man who had 'found himself again through science', very well. Soos had brought his grandmother over, and altogether it was a very awkward but ultimately pleasant Thanksgiving.
The only downside was Dipper, still down and depressed at the slow process of the portal rebuilding process. Alexander von Streichmann was a good source of funds, but a lot of the material needed was hard to find even for him. The project was behind schedule and it was tearing the poor boy up.
He sat on the roof, long after everybody else had gone to bed, and stared up at the stars.
"Mind if I join you, kid?"
Dipper glanced over to the trapdoor from the gift shop. Stan's head was poking out.
"Sure, whatever," sighed Dipper.
Stan climbed up and sat next to his great-nephew.
"Look, kid, I know you're upset," he said, "But we're gonna do..."
"If I'd just told you guys about that stupid rift," lamented Dipper, "None of this would've happened."
"Hey, not your fault," grunted Stan, "You wanted to keep us safe, kid. You just went about it the wrong way. We all make mistakes."
"But my mistake got Wendy trapped in space and time!" said Dipper, holding his head, "And Bill told me she got captured by Nazis! Nazis, Stan!"
Stan put a hand on Dipper's shoulder.
"We'll get her back," he said with total certainty, "And you know how?"
"How?" muttered Dipper, flatly.
"Because you're not gonna give up, kid!" replied Stan, "You cared about Mabel enough to drop-punch that Gideon robot right in its ugly flabby face! You're loyal, Dipper, loyal and determined. If someone you love is in trouble, you will never stop until they're safe."
Dipper opened his mouth.
"And before you ask, I know that because I've been there," finished Stan.
Dipper looked Stan in the eye.
"You never considered giving up on Ford?" he asked.
"Still don't," replied Stan, "Have you ever considered giving up on Wendy?"
"Not for a second," replied Dipper.
"That's why we're gonna do this," said Stan, smiling.
He hugged his great-nephew. Dipper smiled and hugged back.
"Now let's get inside before we get pneumonia or something," said Stan, patting Dipper's back, "I don't wanna have to pay a doctor, you know?"
"I know, Grunkle Stan," said Dipper, still smiling as he followed Stan back inside, "I know."
AN: Okay, I swear, there's a montage-y bit and then no more British history for a while.
