Zero Hour Trilogy: Double Trouble

Book 0: Zero Hour Trilogy

by Rob Lofthouse

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; War & Military; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

Double Trouble is the sensational, breathless sequel to Deep Trouble and tells the story of one of the most famous operations of the Second World War: 50,000 airborne troops, nine days of fierce fighting, one bridge too far. September, 1944 - Just three months after D-Day and the Allied invasion is getting bogged down in France. The commanders need a change of tactics. Cue Operation Market Garden - the largest and most audacious airborne raid of the war. Fresh from D-Day, Robbie Stokes finds himself drafted into an airborne division and landing in occupied Netherlands. Greeted by a hail of German flak and bullets it quickly becomes clear that the operation is not the surprise it should be. Battle-hardened in Normandy, Robbie finds himself forced to take a leading role as he and his platoon try and break through to Arnhem Bridge.

Release date: April 7, 2016

Publisher: Heron Books

Print pages: 119

Sample

I’d returned from France along with a few blokes from the 2nd Battalion, the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry in August 1944. As always we’d no real idea why we’d been moved. One minute we were busy trying to help hold the line in Hérouvillette, Normandy; the next minute we were ordered home – jumping on a truck for Gold Beach, witnessing the destruction that 40,000 heavily armed men had wrought in a day there. I got another reminder of the cost of the operation just before embarking on a boat for England, when word came through that my platoon serjeant, Terry Thomson, was missing in action. I’d been through a lot with Terry. His disappearance was a blow, an unpleasant reminder that I was leaving friends and unfinished business behind. It made for a bittersweet homecoming as we disembarked at Gosport, Hampshire in the early hours. A grim place. All along the jetty ambulances were lined up to take our broken boys away.

An army truck unglamorously took us to RAF Tarrant Rushton, people in villages going about their business oblivious to the carnage going on across the Channel. I did notice one smartly dressed old gentleman, who nodded to me as we passed as though he knew where we had come from. Perhaps he was a First World War veteran; soldiers, no matter what generation, always remain soldiers.

Back on home soil the chat turned to family, and as soon as the truck dropped us at the airbase there was a scramble to grab kitbags, travel warrants and backdated pay as quickly as possible. We were told we had two days’ leave, after which we were to use the travel warrants to get to Fulbeck Hall in Lincolnshire, headquarters of 1st Airborne Division. Two days wasn’t much time, especially with the country’s transport up the spout. Last I’d heard, my family were staying with my aunt in High Wycombe, having moved there from London to escape the Blitz, and I knew it would take me many precious hours to get there. Fortunately I decided to ring ahead, and my aunt told me they were back in Mortlake, collecting some stuff from our house.

I got the train to London, hoping there was sufficient rail infrastructure left to get me to Mortlake. My carriage was full of Americans who felt the need to shout at each other. There seemed to be more Yanks in the country now than before D-Day, or maybe they were just making more noise. Some were giving it the big ‘I am’, saying what they would do to the first Nazis they came across. I smiled to myself, wondering if we were ever that arrogant when I was a rookie. And what was I now – a veteran? I certainly felt different, and I wondered if it showed. Would my family see it?

One of the two lines running through Mortlake was in service, and the place didn’t look too roughed up, all things considered. The brewery had reopened, and it looked like business as usual as I made my way across a green which had a couple of weather-worn bomb craters, grass now evident in them. Off to the left the houses were a mess. Where the front gardens met the green, a group of kids wearing caps were throwing vinyl records and crockery found in the ruins at each other. A couple of them noticed me. Sprinting towards me, they waved their friends to join them. I knew what they were after: food. Kids knew soldiers always had at least chocolate on them. The biggest lad, knees scuffed and bloodied below his short trousers, found the confidence to ask, ‘Got any grub, please, sir?’

I pulled my kitbag from my shoulder. ‘Have you been fighting, sir?’ a squeaky little voice from the group piped up. I nodded. They gazed open-mouthed at each other, clearly impressed.

‘Where?’ another lad enquired.

‘Normandy.’ Their eyes opened even wider as though I was a movie star. I smiled to myself, aware that I was enjoying their adulation.

The biggest lad grinned. ‘Killed any Jerries?’

I laughed. ‘One or two.’ I rummaged through my kitbag and fished out some biscuits, a small tin of jam and some chocolate. They ran off with it all; it was almost all eaten before they made their way back to the ruined houses.

I headed to the Jolly Gardeners pub. Pushing my way through the double doors, I was greeted by a thick haze of cigarette smoke. It hung from the ceiling to about waist high throughout the place. Nothing new there. Some of the windows had been boarded up, though, and the remainder had grimy white tape strips across them, forming crosses of sorts. The place wasn’t exactly brimming with life. No one was manning the bar, but I could hear the crashing and rattling of bottles and crates out the back, the racket probably made by Kirby Green, the landlord. Over in the corner a couple of old fellas sat quietly playing dominoes, pint glasses almost empty, their dogs dozing under their table.

Most of the regulars would still be behind the brewery walls, humping casks until the whistle, before streaming into the pub, shouting their usual orders to Kirby. He was built like an ox, just like my father. Kirby had served in the Middlesex Regiment during the Great War, and I had heard he had been decorated for evacuating his platoon commander under fire. He had apparently won the Military Medal. When I was a kid, I remember thinking the two Ms behind his name on the plaque above the pub doors were the initials of his middle names.

I realized one of the blokes in the corner was Bernie Campbell-King, a nightwatchman at the brewery. He was no spring chicken when I was a kid, stealing beer from under his nose. But now he looked really old. ‘Blimey,’ he began, ‘Robert Stokes, as I live and breathe. How are you doing, lad?’

‘Not bad, Bernie, not bad.’

The other fella turned. I realized he was another of the old brewery guard force, Wally Bath. ‘Hey, Bobby boy,’ he said. ‘Looking good, son.’

‘Hey, Wally,’ I replied. ‘What are you two drinking?’

They quickly snapped childish grins at each other. Swiftly they finished their dregs and handed me their warm pint glasses. ‘Two milds, please, Bobby lad,’ said Wally.

I left my kitbag with them, before leaning over the bar, craning my neck to look out the back. A female voice called out, ‘Be right with you.’ I knew the voice but couldn’t picture the owner. I heard a feminine clip-clop of heels, then a beautiful blast from the past appeared behind the bar. Molly Gardner was never the tallest of girls, but her heels made up for it. She had a fresh face of make-up on. Her brunette hair was up in a bun, held in place by numerous clips. She was looking rather trim, which was hardly surprising given the rationing situation. When we were kids, I remembered her being tubbier. It felt like a long time since I’d seen a woman, and my eyes were drawn to the sizeable knockers trying to fight their way out of her dress. She bent slightly to get my attention. ‘Blink, Robert, they’re just boobs.’

I snapped out of my trance, feeling myself blushing. Behind me, Bernie and Wally chuckled away like a pair of kids. ‘Oh. Hello, Molly,’ I managed to get out. ‘Wow, you look great.’ At least the words weren’t been as clumsy as my gaze.

‘Thank you, Robbie,’ she cooed. ‘You look quite dapper yourself. What can I get for you?’

A few things sprang to mind, but they would probably get me a slap across the chops and kicked out of the pub. I had to focus, get a grip on myself. ‘Three pints of mild, please, and have something yourself.’ Her little pale hands and her scarlet fingernails worked the draught pump. As she filled the glasses, her boobs bounced lightly with the effort. I found them mesmerizing.

She lined the glasses up on the bar, my cheap thrill over. I paid her and took the giggling schoolboys their pints, before composing myself to go back to the bar. ‘How long have you worked here?’ I enquired as I took my first sip of the dark, sweet, malty liquid, which tasted good.

‘Couple of months now, since Kate went to work the bar at the American base over in Bushy Park.’

Kate was Kirby Green’s wife. I took another long pull at my ale and smiled ruefully. ‘Mr Green can’t be too happy about that.’

‘You can say that again. But then they pay handsomely, and God knows we all need the money these days. She’d have been a fool to turn it down, and Mr Green saw that in the end.’ She paused to stack some glasses before turning back with a wink. ‘And the pay’s not all that’s handsome either.’

I looked aghast. ‘You don’t mean Mrs Green and some American serviceman . . .’

‘No, silly. Me. I’ve got myself a lovely Yankee sweetheart.’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling slightly crestfallen. ‘Is he from the base and all?’

‘He is. They know how to have a good time, those boys. Some of us are going over for a dance tomorrow night, if you fancy it.’

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Come on, Robbie. Must have been a good while since you had a night out, and you’ve the look of a man in need of one. Not all the girls are spoken for.’

I smiled. ‘You’re not an easy person to say no to, Molly.’

‘So you’ll come.’

‘Well, let’s see how I go. I haven’t even seen my folks yet.’

‘They’re over at your old place in Alder Road,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. The fuckers have stripped everything.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘When you moved out to High Wycombe, your dad asked Mr Green to secure the place. The street was a mess from the bombing, but apart from some blown-in windows and missing roof tiles, your place didn’t seem so bad. Mr Green found the house key under a stone pigeon by the doorstep and managed to board up the broken windows, draw all the curtains. He fitted an extra lock and clasp to the front door, but the looting bastards still got in and stripped the place. I’m sorry, Robbie.’

I felt anger begin to boil inside me. I found my fists clenching as I thought of the bastards stealing our belongings. People who’d never worked or fought for anything stealing from those who were busy fighting to protect them. I wanted to wring their bloody necks. The shrill whistle from the brewery signalled the end of the day shift, piercing my thoughts. Soon workers began pouring into the bar, and Kirby Green appeared behind the bar, rapidly serving drinks with Molly.

I looked around for some familiar faces and found Mum’s. She was just coming through the door. My stomach flipped, excitement building up inside me. I got to my feet and waved. She didn’t notice, but someone pointed her in my direction. Her eyes lit up. She began to shove her way through the mass of drinking bodies, l. . .