Silent Night
Short Story
By Grey Webb

For South Vietnam it was a silent night, the moon rising above a tree line, the night air calm like I had not experienced since I arrived in-country three months before. A quick glance at my Army issued Timex watch with its phosphorescent hands showed 2330 hours, my civilian mind translating it as 11:30 PM.

Ignoring my present location on the perimeter of a fire support base in South Vietnam, tonight could have been another South Florida Christmas Eve just like the ones that I now warmly remembered.

My fear of suddenly being shot dead had diminished some time ago, but the apprehension of the unknown always haunted me. Tonight however, my senses were subdued as if the Spirit of the Christmas Season had descended around me and my platoon. The rumor was that the North Vietnamese and U.S. forces had entered into a 48 hour truce. My platoon had been given instructions not to open fire unless fired upon first; a risky order to give a collection of hardened, trigger happy, barely out of high school troopers. Yet, even the most hard-edged soldier could not be blamed for feeling the tug of home and family tonight.

The minutes slowly turned to hours and my thoughts turned to home and Christmas. It was the Christmas I got the train set, family around the dinner table, football on TV, dad reading from the Bible, mom playing the piano and everyone signing carols. Oh, for just one hour of that sweet precious time. Thirty years from now, how would I remember this Christmas?

Another look at my watch: 0300 hours, at least the NVA are holding to the cease fire. I could barely make out the tree line now that the moon was directly overhead. If there was going to be any movement from Charlie, it would come from those trees. Glancing again into the eastern sky I could make out an illumination round; it appeared to be suspend in mid-air. Illumination rounds were fired by the artillery and would slowly descend using a parachute to light up a target area. Normally they were utilized to assist in spotting enemy movement. Some poor soul had called in an illumination fire mission because his unit had made contact with the NVA. It wasn’t going to be a peaceful Christmas morning for those soldiers. That’s strange, I thought, it isn’t moving, it’s just hanging there. It has to be more that a mile away but its much brighter than any other I’ve seen.

Sergeant Russo whispered: “Hey lieutenant, you see that illumination round, it hasn’t moved.”

“It’s not an illumination round,” I said, “It’s something else.” I knew what it was but kept my far-fetched thought to myself.

“Lieutenant, you don’t think it’s…nah, never mind” Russo slowly made the sign of the cross and kissed the St. Christopher attached to his dog tags.

“Merry Christmas sarge”, I whispered with a smile.

Evil Tidings

by Grey Webb

Prologue
Hillsboro Lighthouse
January, 1961

Emily quickly finished her breakfast, slurping the last drop of milk from the cereal bowl, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re going to be late for the bus,” her father yelled. From his perch atop the Hillsboro Lighthouse, he could make out the dull yellow bus slowly rounding the curve on A1A as it headed for its final stop before it turned around and headed back to Pompano Beach Elementary School.

A cold front had passed through the night before bringing with it one of the few chilly days South Florida would experience this winter. The air was fresh and clean; the westerly breeze flattened the waves and made the ocean appear as a tranquil lake. Emily preferred the ocean calm. It had been five months since Hurricane Cleo paid a visit to South Florida and raked the eastern seaboard of Florida from Miami to Palm Beach. As hurricanes go, Cleo wasn’t as powerful as others in the past, but to eleven year old Emily Stanton spending that dark night in her families frame home located at the base of the Hillsboro Lighthouse was the most terrifying experience of her young life. At one point the angry gray ocean edged up to the front porch of the Dade County Pine cottage; then inexplicably the waters receded and the winds became eerily calm. “It’s only the eye”, she remembered her father saying. The eye, she knew was just a momentary calm caused by the very center of the storm passing directly over them; the storm had not given up, it was just taking a breather.

But today was crisp, cool and the sky was a brilliant blue; not a cloud in sight. She knew this was the weather that brought the “snow birds” to the Wahoo Bay Club for the winter months. Located just a few hundred yards to the north of her family’s cottage and lighthouse, the Wahoo Bay Club had been offering cloistered sanctuary to the very wealthy for over thirty years. She occasionally caught a glimpse of the guests when they sunbathed on the beach, partially concealed in their brightly colored canvass cabanas, their plaster white skin soaking up the famous Florida sun. They don’t look rich, she remembers thinking once when she secretly observed a couple wading in the surf. The outside railing of the lighthouse made an excellent platform for her stealthy observations; it was amazing how far she could see with the help of her father’s binoculars.

Her mother had been a waitress at the club from the 1940s but quit when she married her father in 1946. When they were alone, her mother would recount amazing stories of gala parties and of all the rich and famous people she had the chance to encounter and serve. Her father did not like to hear of these stories. Emily was too young to understand the insecurities of men’s egos, but intuitively she knew her father did not want to be reminded of her mom’s past experiences; real or imagined. His job as the Keeper of Hillsboro Lighthouse was worthy she was sure, but from her mom’s accounts, she knew there existed beyond the borders of her young isolated world, a whole different class of important, wealthy, sophisticated people. “I want to be rich and travel the world when I grow up,” she would tell her mother. “If those people don’t look any different than me, then why can’t I be rich too?”

As she stumbled out the door, her books in hand, she realized Daisy had not greeted her. Normally the mix breed Labrador would meet her as she exited the screen door and accompany her all the way to the bus stop. It was Daisy, who had cuddled up to her the night of Hurricane Cleo and gave her solace as the winds blew hard against the cottage. It was Daisy who escorted her on her long walks down the beach. Where could she be? “If you don’t get your butt in gear young lady, that bus is going to leave you behind.” She knew she was running late and there was no time to waste; no time to look for Daisy.

Revis Stanton had discovered the lifeless body of the dog earlier that morning when he had made his rounds. It was lying prone just a few steps from the entrance of the lighthouse as if asleep. He hastily hid the remains under some dead coconut palm fronds just to west of the lighthouse, knowing he would have time later, after Emily departed for school, to properly bury the dog. Stanton knew he could not let on in anyway the dog had died if he had any expectations of getting Emily to school. As soon as he heard the school bus rumble across the Hillsboro Bridge he knew it was safe to bury Daisy.

The grounds immediately surrounding the Stanton’s cottage and lighthouse encompassed just under an acre of light brown grainy beach sand gently sloping to the water. Coconut palms, Australian pines and sea grape trees punctuated the landscape and provided a definite tropical air to the place. It would be difficult digging a very deep grave for Daisy in the loose beach sand; too deep and it would cave-in on itself. Some one hundred feet or so north of the cottage, towards the Wahoo Bay Club, the ground gently rose maybe three or four feet. There in a grove of sea grape trees, Revis found the perfect spot.

Revis knew this area well. An eight foot concrete block wall separated the southern boundary of the Wahoo Bay Club from the cottage and lighthouse. Only a heavy wooden gate, where Revis stood now with his shovel, provided limited access to the private club from the north. It was here Emily passed on her way to the bus stop located at the entrance to the club itself.

“This would be a proper place for Daisy,” he mumbled to himself. The sea grapes formed a canopy over a small open space. Someone, years ago, had placed an old weathered driftwood bench in the corner of the opening, giving the place a park-like setting. It was here, he and Maggie met for brief visits between her shifts as a waitress. This was also the place where Revis asked Maggie to marry him. His return to the clearing caused him to reflect.

When he arrived in the spring of 1942, the lighthouse had been without a keeper for several months. The previous caretaker had been killed and his wife and children relocated back to North Florida to live with family. The story regarding the man’s death had always been shrouded in mystery. He had heard rumors from some of the charter boat captains, but when questioned more closely, they could only speculate. Revis never could get a straight story of what really happened. Maggie would only describe the incident, in late December, 1941, perfunctorily as a ‘dreadful night’. He knew she either was hiding a secret that possibly involved a former lover or she was simply trying to moderate a frightful incident.

After several swift stabs with his shovel, the blade struck something hard. “What the hell?” he cursed. Again, a hard thrust with the shovel and the same hard clink. Dropping to his knees, he brushed the loose sand from around what appeared to be a strong box. The pad lock had rusted open and was hanging by its clasp. Lifting the metal box from its grave, he placed it on the driftwood bench. For a brief moment he thought of found treasure, but only briefly, the box was too new for that. He had seen a box of similar dimensions, 18” by 5”, before. It looked to be a safety deposit box. Wiping the crusted sand from the lid, he carefully opened the box. No gold, he still had thought, maybe! Nothing but a strange looking black disk with two electrical wires extending from the center, along with what appeared to be rolled-up engineering drawings and several booklets.

He heard rustling and then sensed someone behind him; it was Maggie. “I think I have something to tell you,” she said sobbing.

Evil Tidings

by Grey Webb

Chapter One
Off the Coast of Pompano, Florida
8:00 PM , December 19, 1941

But for the distant twinkling lights from the small coastal town of Pompano, Florida, darkness surrounded German U-boat 57. Commanded by Kapitanleutnant Heinz Trautman, the submarine had surfaced to take a quick look to determine the boat’s present distance and bearing from the Hillsboro Lighthouse. On the surface any longer than ten minutes would only increase the chance of being seen by civilian volunteer spotters scattered up and down Florida beaches.

The last thing Trautman needed was any telltale sign that he and his crew were operating this close to the coast line. Germany had been at war with the United States just over two weeks. For the last two years, however, German U-boats had been operating with impunity, almost at will, sinking cargo ships and oil tankers flying international flags. Sometimes, to the dismay of beach goers along the Florida Coast, decaying human body parts would wash ashore. A horrifying reminder that somewhere there was a war going on.

A cool sea breeze mixed with diesel fumes from the boat greeted Kapitanleutnant Trautman as he made his way to the bridge. He struck a commanding poise as he raised his German made binoculars to his bearded face. “I have 240 degrees at three kilometers,” he shouted over the din of the twin diesel engines. His findings were repeated and recorded by First Watch Officer Leutnant zur See Jules Wimer. This was the third and final position fix needed to insure the exact rendezvous location specified in his orders. Now Trautman patiently waited for his contact on shore to send a coded message with a flashlight. He detested this cloak and dagger crap. He was a submariner not a spy! The only thing Trautman knew about the man on shore was that he was a German partisan and had been in the United States for some time. Trautman had on two previous occasions made visual contact with the agent known only by his code name: The Count. How stupid, Trautman thought, I am playing spy games with some pretender armed with a flashlight; and a very weak one at that. “Where is this idiot tonight? I can’t stay on top this long.”

“There sir, I see him now, he’s starting the message.” The coded message took only minutes to be received and recorded carefully by First Watch Officer Leutnant zur See Jules Wimer. Because of civilian volunteer spotters dotted the coastline, there was no way the U-boat could send an acknowledging signal.

As he stood on the bridge waiting for the message to be received, Trautman’s thoughts strayed for a moment. Small waves lapped the side of the U-boats hull, Christmas carols drifted across the water from the homes directly on the beach. A quiet calm descended on him. He looked through his binoculars and could actually make out Christmas lights decorating many of the beachfront homes. The pleasant holiday scene was contrary to his thoughts of Christmas in frigid Germany. His wife and child flashed in his mind. Trautman put the binoculars to his face for one last glance at the coastline printing the peaceful image onto his memory. The pale notes of a familiar Christmas carol reached his ear from across the water.

From nowhere a boat with running lights appeared just clearing the Hillsboro Inlet. “Sir we have a vessel approaching off our starboard bow.” Where in the hell are we, he thought, he was a thousand of miles away. He stood motionless for a second. I’ve stayed too long! “Full left rudder, all ahead full, come to a heading of zero nine zero,” he yelled coming back to reality. The diesel engines roared to life, belching black smoke, but the boat responded as if it were in mud.

“Kapitanleutnant, we’re hard aground,” shouted a frantic voice from below. His charts had shown that he was in at least 50 feet of water, but seasonal tides and currents often altered the sandy ocean floor close in to shore. He had to get away unnoticed and to deeper water so he could dive.

Now completely in command and without hesitation he ordered quick thrusts of alternating forward and reverse power from the twin diesel engines. “Sir the vessel is closing shall we man the deck gun?” Wimer asked.

“No we don’t have time to load and calculate range, but have Hansen bring up the machine gun.” Binoculars fixed hard into his face, Trautman could see the boat was an 18 feet inboard cabin cruiser with maybe six or seven passengers. It was closing fast. “Do you really want to test me this lovely evening”? He whispered.

Finally, a slight movement forward then a scrapping sound, then sluggish momentum and they were free. The maneuver took no longer than three to four minutes but to Trautman and his crew it seemed like and eternity. They had been in tighter spots before, but having to surrender while grounded just a short distance from the enemy’s shoreline would be the ultimate humiliation.

U-57 was equipped with the latest version of the German coding machine, known as Enigma, along with all the cipher codes used my the German submarine fleet. The equipment and codes could not be compromised and if threaten with capture, would have to be destroyed. That thankfully would not be the case now that U-57 was making headway, slowly separating from the smaller craft. Trautman stayed fixed on the boat to try and determine its mission. Was it a private boat full of party goers, viewing the Christmas lights as he had been doing, or had some volunteer spotter made out the silhouette of the submarine and radioed the Coast Guard? If it were the latter, a patrol plane would be arriving on the scene within minutes. He must make it to open waters to dive.

Regardless of the boats intentions, he could not allow this incident to spoil his planned assignment. Too many others were counting on him. Although he knew very little about the scope of the operation he had a suspicion it would require his utmost skill and courage. The Third Reich and the German Navy did not jeopardize its submarines and crew on ill-conceived cloak and dagger missions. No, whatever his orders charged him and his crew to accomplish; it must be of great importance for the war effort. Once in open waters and with two hundred feet under his keel U-57 swiftly slithered below the surface of the Atlantic and out of sight.

Kapitanleutnant Heinz Trautman was born in the German port town of Rostock. His father died in World War One when Heinz was only four years old. Growing up without a father had made him an independent sort which made him a perfect candidate for submarine duty. Hard work and a little luck won him a position as a Kriegsmarine Career Officer. His promotion to Kapitanleutnant came two years ago along with the current command of U-57. Now at twenty-nine, he was about to face the most daunting task of his naval career. Although he cared little for the espionage game he had been ordered to play, he knew that his mission would require cunning, skill and if successful, could change the outcome of World War II.

As U-57 descended into the depths of the Atlantic, Trautman cautiously listened to the characteristic groins, creeks and tapping his boat made as it slipped deeper and deeper. When the submarine was below the surface, the electric motors took over, generating a low dull hum. The smell was unmistakable, wafting scents of hydraulic fluid, diesel fuel and sweat coupled with the ever present stench of human waste. The inside of a German U-boat could be described as a combination of food market and garage. So stingy was the storage areas on board, the cook was forced to place strings of sausages and bags of dried meat on hooks hanging throughout the boat causing the crew to duck and weave as they traversed their way from station to station.

Trautman was now in his element, alone with his crew. The fundamental nature of leadership gave him the courage needed to do the daunting work for the Fatherland. Where else could one of average upbringing have such accountability; guiding his boat and crew from place to place, destroying enemy shipping without immediate control from his superiors? That in itself was the common characteristic of a submariner. A universal freedom; it was as if they were self appointed modern day pirates; the only difference being, they did not share the bounty of their destruction.

Inside the privacy of his cabin, for what is was, Trautman thought back to the near catastrophe that had just occurred. What was he thinking, allowing himself to get caught up in a moment of weakness? This secret mission had him on edge. After two years of sinking enemy ships he knew his crew like family. He respected each one for the job they did and he felt that they trusted and respected him. And now I’m asked to carry out some half-baked cloak-and-dagger assignment. What could be so important to waste the time of one of the most productive U-boats in the Western Caribbean? Even with all these questions clouding his mind, he knew one thing: he would carry out his orders without hesitation. Failure to do so was unimaginable.

“Sir may I enter, I need to discuss our upcoming orders.”

“Enter,” countered Trautman quickly. His quarters were small and bare like everything else on the submarine. Two framed pictures, one of his wife and 7 year old son, the other of his father taken just months before he was killed in World War I, were affixed to a wall of his otherwise austere quarters. A green curtain provided the only privacy offered anyone on the boat.

First Watch Officer Leutnant zur See Jules Wimer was second in command of the submarine. He joined the crew on U-57’s recent return to Germany for needed repairs and re-stocking of arms and rations. The previous Executive Officer had been promoted to Kapitanleutnant and given command of a new VIIB class submarine. Wimer was his replacement and came to the sub without combat experience. Heinz had only the three weeks since they had left port in Germany to acquaint himself with his new charge and he wasn’t sure the young officer was cut from the same cloth as he. There was something about Wimer that didn’t seem right but Trautman couldn’t put his finger on it. Heinz and his crew of U-57 had been together in the Atlantic and Caribbean for nearly two and half years, long enough for everyone to mold into a well-organized destruction machine; a machine that had sunk over 100 tons of enemy shipping, killing countless Allied merchant marine seamen and destroying much needed cargo for the war effort.

“What exactly is your part Mr. Wimer, in this little charade we have been charged with?” Trautman spoke slowly emphasizing each word, rubbing his hand through his dark scruffy beard.

Wimer knew that Trautman had very little knowledge of the overall plan but wasn’t naive enough to think he was totally in the dark. It was true that Wimer was a trained
Kriegsmarine officer, but he was much more. Not long after he was commissioned an officer, he was selected for special training with ABWHER, the foreign intelligence arm of the Third Reich. For nearly two years he was trained in improvised explosives, Morse code, subtle ways of assassination and other stealthy techniques required for subversive operations. It was during this training that he met his counter-part in this current operation: The Count.

Wimer sat up in his chair and cleared his throat. “Sir I have not on purpose kept anything from you and want you to understand that up to this point I have been under orders to keep this mission secret. What I can tell you is that we are involved in a mission directly sanctioned by ABWHER, one that has the direct blessings of the Fuhrer himself.”

Trautman looked at him with disdain, but knew there was nothing he could do.

“Do you have the key?” Trautman asked grudgingly

To open the safe that contained the official orders Trautman needed two keys, one that he had possession of and the other assigned to Wimer. Wimer quickly handed over his key and Trautman slowly moved to the gray steel box under his desk. He removed a large brown envelope emblazoned with a red swastika, opening it carefully.

The orders consisted of what appeared to be at least fifteen to twenty pages, each page stenciled with the words “Top Secret”. The extensiveness of the orders immediately concerned Trautman. It became clear that this was no haphazard mission, nothing that could be arbitrarily dismissed. It was clear that this mission had been planned for sometime and would involve the highest effort of him and his crew. The problem Trautman thought: I’m no damn spy

“You may leave, it will take some time for me to go over and absorb this.” Trautman waved his hand dismissively as if he were shooing a fly.

“Sir, as you can understand I have full knowledge of what those orders contain. If you should have any questions or if I can clarify…” Wimer sounded apologetic.

Trautman interrupted and re-established his authority. “No, Mr. Wimer, I think my experience as a Kriegsmarine Kapitanleutnant will provide me with the knowledge and good sense to interpret and carry out these orders. You’re dismissed.”

Now that Germany was officially at war with the United States, Kapitanleutnant Heinz Trautman knew that any officers and crew who were captured in the course of espionage, which these orders most undoubtedly conveyed, would be summarily executed. He had always known that death would possibly be the price he and his crew could pay for a mistake he made as Kapitanleutnant of U-57, but the thought of swinging from the end of a rope as a spy turned his stomach.

If by chance the day comes and my Maker looks down on me and delivers me up and in the end I die for the Fatherland; if the courage I show grants me a glorious place in heaven then I will give thanks for a life well lived but I’ll be damned I’ll die, hanging from a noose.