Authors: David LaBounty
He plans to fulfill a second.
The plan to attack the Aberdeen synagogue is simple in its brutality. Father Crowley instructs Brad to stand at the door of the synagogue, armed with Thor’s hammer. He is to keep the spike in constant motion, striking any man, woman or child that tries to exit the synagogue. Chris and the priest are going to dispense Molotov cocktails through the lone window after the door is ignited with gasoline.
Crowley shows Brad and Chris the assortment of pipe bombs and wine bottles and even a small propane torch he has purchased for the occasion. He salivates at the image of the synagogue in smoke and flames and wonders how he will feel when he hears the screams of the Jews as they meet their certain end.
His mood lightens. He tousles Brad’s hair and puts his arm around Chris’s shoulder. Gently, Chris pulls himself away.
“Chris, when is your next Saturday off?” He asks the question merely out of ceremony. He has long memorized Chris’s schedule.
“I have a mid-watch next Saturday,” Chris replies, knowing that the priest already knows the answer.
“Excellent, excellent,” continues Crowley. “You will both stay here Friday night, and then on Saturday morning we will make our assault on Aberdeen. If that isn’t effective enough, we will turn to Glasgow, Edinburgh, and finally Dundee. I am afraid I have become a blip on the radar of the Tayside Police, and I should really stay out of Dundee, until the end, anyway.”
Father Crowley’s last sentence causes Chris alarm, as if the priest knows Chris has betrayed him. Chris studies his face and sees no sign of resentment pointed in his direction.
They will conduct a rehearsal Wednesday evening, timing the drive to Aberdeen and how long it takes them to assume their positions.
When next Saturday comes, Father Crowley will take the license plate off his Allegro. They will wear black ski masks that Crowley acquired long ago for just such an occasion.
He wants their appearance to be as fearsome as possible.
“How about a drink, gentlemen? Let’s have a drink to celebrate the last Saturday of freedom for the Jews in Scotland.”
Father Crowley’s earlier suggestion of driving to Lutherkirk for a drink is discarded. There is too great a chance they will run into fellow Americans so close to the base, and the existence of their Trinity must be kept a secret, especially now in these furious, last days. Crowley decides to drive to Finavon, a village slightly larger than Lutherkirk to the South and West, away from the coast. It is perhaps twenty minutes away, and the chance of coming across other Americans is nil.
Chris breaks his self-imposed vow of abstinence in the priest’s presence. They spend nearly two hours in a dark little pub in the heart of Finavon. There is precious little else to do besides drink. He drinks slowly, making one of his pints last as long as three of Brad’s. The evening is not entirely unpleasant; Chris enjoys traveling to a village that he’s never seen and inhaling the atmosphere of the village from the bottom of a pint glass.
Chris and Brad remain mostly silent while Crowley talks vaguely about their impending greatness. They are to be the liberators of the white world, he says. Statues of them will adorn the great cities of Europe and North America by the time the war is complete.
“The blacks and Jews and Asians that are scattered away from their ancestral homes will be grateful to us, too, in the end,” the priest predicts. “They will find more fulfillment in their natural realms.”
He also talks about the need for reservations, not unlike those occupied by Native Americans in North America. Not all the blacks will be able to go to Africa, and not all the Jews will be able to return to Israel.
“There is a lot of empty land out west,” Crowley says, thinking of Utah and Nevada. “There is acre upon acre upon acre of federally owned land that would be perfect. Reservations could be made and the whites that live out west would still be miles away from these encampments. We could even let the blacks and Jews govern their own affairs, but of course, they would be corralled. Like Soweto in South Africa—a brilliant move by the whites there, creating black homelands that are only partially self-governed, and still under white control. The same thing should happen in America, for those blacks and Jews and Asians that remain behind.”
“What about spics, Father?” Brad asks, recalling the sight of migrant workers in the summertime fields of Nebraska.
“The same, the same. They can be sent back to Mexico or Central America or wherever they came from. It is easier to repatriate someone to a neighboring country than it is to send them across the oceans.”
They drive back to Crowley’s house. The priest and Brad are both quite drunk. Chris, who would normally be drunk in their presence, is nearly sober. The priest’s driving terrifies him. He grabs the handle of the door tightly, his fingers and knuckles turning white as the priest fails to slow down for the many curves and rises in the road.
They return to Crowley’s house. Looking at Chris, the priest invites them both to stay the night.
Chris declines. He says he doesn’t feel good.
He starts walking towards the base, not bothering to see if Brad is coming with him.
Brad doesn’t follow Chris to the barracks, and Chris is relieved; he needs a certain amount of privacy as he arrives at the base after walking in the dark.
He calls Karen from a payphone in the barracks lounge; the time is nearing 11 p.m. She listens to his account of the evening, and tells him to telephone Holliday straight away in the morning, before Brad returns.
“Can’t I just come and stay with you?” Chris asks. “It would be easier for me to call Inspector Holliday from your place, without the chance of running into Brad.”
“You know the answer to that one. Of course you can’t. You will only be able to see me at work until this is done, but don’t worry, I plan to be in Aberdeen when this whole thing goes down, and you can come home with me then. I’m going to be there, just to make sure that you’re okay.”
Chris feels a sensation of warmth in the base of his stomach, the same sensation he feels when he thinks about Karen, his mind constantly playing back the image of her underneath him while he made love to her—the smoldering look in her eyes, the sight of her unclothed body, the sound of pleasure from her lips. His mind has been too busy and too afraid to think about that moment for very long.
“Okay,” Chris replies, smiling, feeling better about the whole situation. It has brought him Karen, and he can sort of consider her a girlfriend. The companion that he has wanted all along, coming from the unlikeliest of sources.
“And Chris?”
“Yes?”
“You should go to Mass tomorrow. You know, you have to play the part of a good soldier. You can show no wavering of loyalty or else your cover may be blown. But call the inspector first. Call me tomorrow if you can.”
They say farewell. Chris hangs up and looks at the telephone with longing, wishing he were in the company of the voice that was on the other end.
Chris calls the inspector after a mostly sleepless night. The night has been spent with his headphones attached to his ears, the sounds of Radio Luxembourg intermingling with the fear of the priest and the lust and affection for Karen. His mind is a cacophony of images and emotions. He fell asleep finally as the sight of dawn just started to appear over the base.
Inspector Holliday is full of reassurances. There will be many policemen on the scene in Aberdeen when Saturday rolls around. Chris gives him a description of Brad and a description of the Allegro. The inspector thanks him and tells him not to worry. Chris is only slightly reassured.
Chris lingers in front of the television in the barracks lounge as he exits the phone booth. A situation comedy from the States is blaring, the sound of canned laughter echoing through the nearly empty lounge. The sound of laughter reminds Chris of a sad detail of his life—his life has been devoid of laughter.
He returns to his room to shower and dress for church. Brad is in the room and is sprawled across his bed fully clothed.
“What’s up, faggot?” he asks as Chris exits the bathroom with only a barracks-supplied towel wrapped around his waist.
Chris ignores him and proceeds to get dressed. “You going to church?” Chris asks Brad.
“Naw. Father would like that, but I told him as we drove back to base that I need more shuteye. I can’t sleep for shit in that damn house of his. It’s too musty or dusty or somethin’. I always wake up with a headache.”
“I think it’s called a hangover,” Chris replies with mild sarcasm.
“Fuck you. I can drink you under the table any day. Good drinkers like me don’t get hangovers.”
Chris leaves. He stops in the galley for breakfast. He eats alone, and it really doesn’t bother him. He would now rather eat alone than with Brad. Besides, he has something more than anyone else in the galley. Chris studies the scattered faces in the dining hall, most in groups of two or more stuck inside inane conversations. He has something more than dining companions; he has love, and he knows that none of these people know what love is. He eats quickly and thoughtfully, his mind on Karen for a while instead of the priest. He longs to see her naked again, he longs to sit on her couch in comfortable silence. He sees himself there, in her small flat, reading a book beside her as she too reads, the sound of pages turning the only noise in the room.
He goes to church and is shocked at how empty the pews are. Only a few of the very devout seem to be attending, those who need to take communion to proceed with their lives. Crowley enters the chapel, and Chris can tell he is still under the influence of his constant flow of wine. His eyes and face are tinged with red and his hair is greasy and uncombed. He sees Chris sitting in the back and smiles and waves without regard to the handful of congregants.
The Mass is brief, and Chris spends it inside a daydream. He is looking forward to the day when all his trouble with Father Crowley is behind him and his free time can be spent exclusively with Karen.
The Mass concludes, and Chris tries to sneak out of the chapel without talking to Crowley. He is unsuccessful. Crowley stands by the doorway that separates the lobby from the chapel and puts his arm around Chris and leads him into his office.
“You know,” he says to Chris with wine-laden breath, “you can spend the day with me—just you, not Brad. I want to go to Dundee and take care of some business, and I’d rather not go there myself. What do you say?”
Chris feels like a mouse that has been dropped into a cage with a boa constrictor. He feels that any time alone with the priest could be dangerous.
“No thanks, Father. I have to do laundry, and I need the rest. We have a big week ahead of us, and I want to be one hundred percent.”
“Of course, of course.”
“I’ll see you Wednesday.” Chris leaves the office without waiting for a response from the priest.
Working with Karen is now euphoric for Chris. It’s like not even working at all. The long hours spent inside a windowless building are his sole refuge—the only place where he feels safe from the demons that occupy most of the other aspects of his life.
Karen is a bit cool to him while working. He tries to show her affection, but she halts him as he leans forward to peck her on the cheek as she enters their workspace.
“Not at work. We’ll get in trouble. Fraternization is a big no-no. My record is blemish-free, and yours is going to look real interesting pretty soon. We don’t need any extra stress in our lives. Just be patient. I’ll be waiting for you in Aberdeen the minute it’s all over.”
And that’s how the next two watches go, Chris staring at Karen longingly and giving little thought to the priest and the task required him of him in less than a week. Nothing seems worth worrying about while he is in the presence of Karen.
Until Wednesday evening. Chris is in between days and mids, and it is the day Crowley set aside for a trial run. Crowley stealthily drives off the base with Brad and Chris in tow, as there are no cabs queued outside the base on a Wednesday evening.