CHUCK VERSUS THE NAZIS

Headquarters – Allied Expeditionary Forces

May 18, 1944

Major John Casey stopped before the large wooden door and took a moment to look down to make sure his uniform was all in place. His 'Class A' uniform was, of course, immaculate. As a graduate of West Point in an army composed mostly of draftees, he took great pride in being more disciplined, more spit and polish, more everything than the reserve officers that were filling most of the officer posts these days. On his shoulder was the red 'AA' patch that marked him as a paratrooper with the 82nd 'All American' Division.

He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the polished wood door – only to have it swing open unexpectedly before him. He barely managed not to rap his knuckles on the forehead of the startled looking civilian who had just opened the door. He had longish curly brown hair and wide brown eyes – although the wideness of his eyes might have been surprise. The civilian was just a kid – he looked like he couldn't have been more than twenty-five – although come to think of it most of the men Casey led were considerably younger. But combat had a way of turning young boys into old men rather quickly. This kid didn't have that look about him.

The kid flinched back from Casey's knuckles. "Oh, excuse me," he said, ducking under the fist and brushing past Casey out the door and down the hallway. Casey turned to watch him scurry away.

"Come in, Major," a voice boomed from inside the room. Casey's eyes snapped back to the front and he entered the room using precise, measured strides. He turned and closed the door, then continued forward until he was exactly three feet in front of the large oak desk that dominated the room. He came stiffly to attention and threw a perfect parade-ground salute.

"Major John Casey, reporting as ordered, sir."

The small, red-headed man with two stars on his collar who sat behind the desk waved his hand in the general vicinity of his forehead by way of returning the salute. On the desk was a name plaque which read 'General Dwayne Beckman.' "At ease, Major," the general said.

Casey took a precise half-step to the side and put his hands behind his back in classic 'parade rest' posture.

The general looked up and shook his head. "I meant sit down, Major."

"Yes sir," Casey responded. He stepped in front of one of the chairs in front of the general's desk and lowered himself precisely into it. He sat on the front half of the chair, his back straighter then the chair's. He somehow managed to look more at attention sitting than he had standing.

The general opened a manila file in front of him and glanced through it while Casey waited. After a few moments, the general picked up a piece of paper and looked at it, glanced up at Casey, and then back down at the paper. "Major John Casey," he said. "West Point class of 1933."

"Yes sir," Casey barked.

"You were with the Big Red One at Casablanca," the general said, reading through the file. "And you landed with them in Sicily. You received a promotion and were assigned as a replacement to the 82nd for one of their officers who was injured in a practice jump."

"Yes sir."

"You've got a silver star, a bronze star and a purple heart."

"Yes sir."

"And it says here you've made seven practice jumps, including one at night?"

"Yes sir."

"That's not part of the standard training package, Major."

"No sir."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I wish to be prepared for any contingencies, sir."

The general nodded and closed the file. "Major Casey, I'm looking for a volunteer for a very dangerous mission. One which has a low probability of success and a high probability of death or capture. But if it succeeds, it will shorten the war by a year or more."

"May I inquire as to the nature of the mission, sir?" Casey asked.

"You may not. Everything about this mission, including its very existence, is classified."

Casey didn't hesitate. "I volunteer, sir."

"You understand the risks. This could be classified as a suicide mission."

"If it will shorten the war and save American lives, then I'm your man, sir."

"Good. Very good." The general stood and walked over to a cabinet in the corner of the room and opened it. "A drink, Major?"

Casey seemed to relax slightly. Of course, for him that meant that he slid back to sit three-quarters on the chair instead of just half on. "Thank you, sir. Scotch?"

The general got out two crystal glasses and poured some amber liquid from a cut-glass decanter. "Artie Tedder brought me down a couple bottles from Glasgow," the general said, crossing to hand a glass to Casey. Casey took it while the general propped himself up on the edge of his desk. He took a sip of his drink and then regarded Casey for a long moment. Casey kept his eyes straight ahead.

"You saw that kid that left just before you got here?" the general asked.

"Yes sir," Casey replied. "Civilian."

"Charles Bartowski. He's a scientist. Some kind of egghead. But he knows as much about the Manhattan Project as any man alive, including Oppenheimer or General Groves."

Casey furrowed his brow. "The Manhattan Project, sir?"

"A top secret project to harness the power of the atom and use it to build a bomb of incredible power. Oppenheimer is the scientist in charge. He and a bunch of the other eggheads convinced Roosevelt that the Germans were building a bomb of their own, so we had to come up with one first."

Casey nodded. "Sounds reasonable, sir. So what does this have to do with me?"

"One of the top German atomic scientists, code named Orion, is currently vacationing at a villa in France. He has sent word to us that he is willing to come over to our side, provided we can get him out of the country. The catch is, he specifically requested… actually, more like demanded… that Bartowski be on the team to extract him."

"If I may, sir. It sounds like a trap. A way to capture this Bartowski kid to see what he knows."

The general nodded. "That was my analysis as well. But the brass thinks that the risk could be worth the reward. If we get our hands on this Orion, we'll know everything there is to know about the Nazi bomb project."

"And I'm supposed to get Bartowski in and Orion out," Casey said.

The general nodded. "You'll have a four man team and a liaison from the French underground who'll act as your guide."

"Do I get to pick the team?" Casey asked.

The general shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. You're a replacement, Major. Major Michael 'Big Mike' Turner was going to head up this mission, but he's become… unavailable."

"Unavailable?" Casey asked.

"He picked up a case of the clap on his leave in Portsmouth."

Casey tried not to roll his eyes. He was less than happy about having to lead a team assembled and trained by someone else. Hopefully he would have some time to whip them into shape. "When do we leave?" Casey asked.

Three days. May 21 will be a new moon. Perfect for an undetected night drop into France."

"Three days!" Casey exploded, almost coming out of his chair. He took a moment to compose himself and sat back down. "I'm sorry, sir, but three days? There's no way to get a mission together that quickly."

"It's already together, Major. As I said, you're the new man to the operation. I assure you, it's a crack team."

"And the French Liaison?" Casey asked.

The general reached over and picked up his phone. "Send in Walker." The general took another sip of his drink and waited. Casey looked down at this glass, gave a slight shake of his head, and downed the contents in a single gulp.

A moment later the door opened and a woman entered. She was beautiful, with blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, a stylish grey suit, and, Casey noted, real silk stockings – quite the luxury in wartime. Both Casey and the general stood as she entered the room.

"Major Casey, may I present, um…" The general hesitated.

"You may call me 'Sarah Walker'," the blonde said in a voice that somehow hinted at both Oxford and the Sorbonne. She held out a hand to Casey. He took it and she grasped it firmly.

"Major John Casey," Casey responded. If he wasn't a married man… He called up a mental image of his beloved Ilsa.

"Miss Walker is your liaison with the French underground," General Beckman said.

"So you'll give me the codes, pass-phrases and safehouses that I need to operate?" Casey asked.

Sarah frowned. "No, Major. I'm going with you."

"What?" Casey exploded again before taking a deep breath and settling back down on his chair. "No offense, but a covert mission behind enemy lines isn't the place for a woman."

Sarah was suddenly a blur. She reached behind her back, pulled out a knife, and with a flick of her wrist sent it flying toward Casey, burying itself in the wood of the chair between his legs. "No offense, Major, but I have been operating covertly behind enemy lines for nearly four years, since France surrendered to those Nazi pigs."

Casey glanced down at the knife, still vibrating slightly. He reached down calmly, pulled it out, and held it out for her.

He studied her as she took the knife from him and slipped it back behind her waist. Four years in the French resistance was nothing to be taken lightly. The Gestapo had been highly successful in infiltrating and rolling up French underground cells. In fact… His eyebrows narrowed. Four years in the French underground was grounds enough to raise a red flag. If she had been turned, he could be dealing with a double agent. This one would require watching.

"If you two are quite finished?" the general asked.

Casey looked up sheepishly at the general. Sarah, on the other hand, simply shrugged and slipped into the chair next to Casey.

General Beckman stood and walked back around behind his desk. "Major, Miss Walker will introduce you to your team. Insertion is in three days, on May 21. We'll have one final briefing before then. Dismissed."

Casey stood and snapped off another perfect salute, which the general lazily returned. He executed a proper, military turn and strode from the office. Sarah gave the general a smile and a nod and then followed Casey out.

Sarah took the lead and led Casey down a hallway and out to a waiting jeep. She started to slide in behind the wheel.

"I'll drive," Casey insisted, walking around to stand over her, looking down and looking slightly perturbed.

"I know where we're going, do you?" Sarah asked.

"You can point me in the right direction," Casey said. "But I'm not going to let a woman drive."

"So you're going to jog behind the jeep?" Sarah asked.

Casey crossed his arms over his chest. "If I have to."

To his surprise, the jeep lurched forward. With a shrug, he started after it in a long, steady stride. After about two hundred yards, Sarah stopped the jeep and looked up at Casey as he came loping up alongside the jeep.

"You really would run all the way, wouldn't you?" she asked.

Casey gave an almost imperceptible nod. "If necessary."

With a huff, Sarah got out and crossed over to the passenger's side of the jeep. She collapsed into the seat, crossed her arms, and pouted. Suppressing a smile, Casey climbed in behind the wheel. "Where to?" he asked.

Still pouting, Sarah pointed him in the proper direction. After about twenty minutes of driving, they pulled up in front of a rather dilapidated barracks. Casey looked around and grunted. This was not the home of an elite military unit. The place was a disgrace.

As if she could read his mind, Sarah said, "Camouflage, Major. No one expects anything of importance to be in a place like this."

Casey frowned, obviously unconvinced. Sarah walked up to the door of the main building and before she could reach for the doorknob, the door opened. A tall, impeccably dressed British Colonel stood in the doorway. "Sarah," he said, in his crisp Oxford accent. "You have returned to us." He took Sarah's hands and kissed her once on each cheek, then quickly planted one right on her lips.

"Roan, what have I told you about that?" Sarah asked.

Roan looked down, where a knife was pointed directly at his groin. "Ah, but you must allow an old man his fun, my dear. What other light ever comes into this drab existence which is my life?"

Sarah shook her head and slipped the knife back in her waistband. The sound of a throat clearing echoed from behind her. Sarah and Roan turned to see Major Casey standing at attention, saluting Roan.

Roan snapped to perfect attention and snapped off a salute of his own, albeit in the British fashion of palm forward instead of horizontal. Sarah took Roan's arm and said, "Major John Casey, United States Eighty-second Airborne Division, may I present Colonel Roan Montgomery, 13th Duke of Connaught's Own Lancers (retired)."

Casey scowled at the last word. He was not in the habit of saluting retired officers. "Why is he still in uniform?" he grumbled.

"An affectation, dear boy," Roan said with a sniff. "Gets me an extra dram or two in the pubs." He turned to Sarah. "Is this the replacement for the lamentable Major Tucker?"

"I am," Casey said. "Where is my team?"

"This way, this way, dear boy," Roan said, sweeping a hand toward the open door. "I believe they are in the mess hall."

Casey pushed past Sarah and Roan and strode through the building. He stopped at an intersection and paused, then headed toward the direction of the boisterous laughter. He reached a door marked 'Mess' and looked through the dirty windows.

Four men sat around tables in the far end of the mess. One, the stripes on his sleeve marking him as a sergeant, sat at a table with a dissembled .45 caliber pistol before him. He was wearing a blindfold and his hands hovered over the various pieces. As if on silent cue, his hands began to fly over the pieces, quickly and expertly assembling them.

The other three were not engaged in any such productive pursuits. One, a large fellow with a single stripe marking him as a private and wild hair, had a stein perched atop his head. At a signal from a small Indian soldier standing next to him, he snatched the stein from atop his head and started downing the pint of beer as fast as he could, while the fourth man, a short, bearded corporal, egged him on.

Major Casey slapped the Mess Hall door with his open palm. The door flew open and slammed into the wall with a loud 'bang' that echoed through the cavernous mess. The sergeant scrambled to his feet and flung away the blindfold in one, quick motion. Seeing Casey in the doorway, he bellowed, "Aten, hut!"

The large private dropped the stein, which went clanging to the floor as he, the Indian and the corporal all sprang to attention.

Casey strode up to the sergeant, who stood at rigid attention, his hand held in an unwavering salute. Casey returned the salute crisply. "Report," he barked.

"Sergeant Bryce Larkin, sir."

"And your men?" Casey asked.

Sergeant Larkin took a step forward, made a perfect ninety degree turn, and stepped off the distance between him and the three miscreants. "Sound off," he bellowed.

"Corporal Morgan Grimes, Second Armored Division, sir," the corporal intoned, holding to rigid attention.

Larkin took a step forward. "Private Lester Patel," the Indian soldier said in thickly accented English. "Fourth Indian Infantry Division."

Larkin took another step forward. "Private Jeffrey Barnes *hic*, Engineers. Um, First Engineers Special Brigade. Ah, sir."

Casey stepped up to each man and eyed him carefully. Finally, he said, "At ease."

Larkin and Patel went to parade rest. Grimes went to something approximating it. And Barnes slouched. Casey growled and scowled at Barnes, but ignored him for now. "I'm Major John Casey, Eighty-Second Airborne, All American Division. I have been given command of this sorry unit and I don't have much time to whip you slackers into shape."

"Ah, I see you've met the men," came Roan's cultured accent from across the room. He entered, Sarah Walker on his arm. Casey noted the way Larkin's eyes immediately darted over to Sarah and lingered, before he noted Casey's scowl and snapped his eyes back to the front.

"Hi, Roan," Jeffrey said, waiving.

Casey spun and snapped, "I did not give you permission to speak, soldier."

"Oh, sorry," Private Barnes said. Casey shook his head.

Roan and Sarah strolled over toward Casey and his merry little band. They had just reached them when there was a terrible commotion from the doorway at the other end of the room. Every eye turned to see a young man in army fatigues, stripped of rank, standing in the doorway trying to carry three suitcases, a briefcase, and a duffle bag… and failing miserably. Casey immediately recognized him as the curly headed civilian who he had nearly knocked in the forehead.

The man stumbled into the room, dropping his briefcase which he promptly stumbled over. Arms pinwheeling, he dropped one suitcase and practically threw another. Now off balance as a result of the large duffle, he fell backwards and landed hard on his butt.

"Ow," he cried. He dropped his bags and scrambled to his feet. "Am I in the right place?" he asked loudly. "I'm Chuck Bartowski."

"Oh, Chuck me," Major Casey muttered.