Chapters One and Two of The Goliath
I. Gliding Into History
Even the German language, with its harsh pronunciations and creative use of compound words, was unable to adequately express the naked fury that engulfed the body and soul of Oberleutnant Rudolf Witzig in the early morning hours of May 10, 1940. After six months of intense training, and ten days of being on continous high alert, his moment of triumph lay firmly within his grasp, only to have it ripped out of his hands by, of all things, a snapped piece of tow rope. Witzig’s force, code-named Granite, was given the honor of leading the attack on Fort Eben-Emael, the Belgium fortress that was the linchpin of the entire German invasion of Western Europe. With a force of only 87 men, his part was to use secret weapons in ways never before attempted to take control of a fortress carved from a mountain of solid rock and garrisoned by over 1000 Belgian soldiers. Success meant a clear path for Hitler’s blitzkrieging tanks to run roughshod into the northern plains of France. Failure would delay the advance and give the Allies valuable time to mount a determined defense. Failure would mean the end of Witzig’s incredible upward rise in the ranks as one of the Fallschirmjäger, or assault parachuters, Hitler’s golden boys. Failure was not something to be even imagined, much less tolerated.
The attack had begun according to his well-laid plans. At 4:30 in the morning, eleven Ju-52 tri-motor planes clawed their way into the air, each towing a DFS 230 combat glider filled with eight highly-trained soldiers, a pilot, a co-pilot, their supplies, plus a nasty little secret known only to Witzig. Now, he was floating along in an unpowered glider miles out of range from his target. He wanted to blame the pilot, Corporal Pilz, but Witzig himself had seen an unknown aircraft pop-up out of nowhere and almost collide with their tow plane. If Gliz, the glider pilot, hadn’t dived at the same time as the Junkers they were attached to, most likely the front end of their DFS 230 glider would have been ripped off, and they would be hurtling to the ground to their deaths. Regardless, the abrupt maneuvering caused their umbilical cord to separate leaving them powerless 8500 feet in the air and miles from their target. Of course, Witzig was not about to let a little thing like this keep him from his appointment with glory. He had worked too hard over the past six months training his men to complete a mission personally endorsed by Adolph Hitler himself. Naturally, secrecy was always first and foremost to the point where none of his men even knew each other’s real names. If they ever left the base, armed guards escorted them, even to the cinema. In fact, two of them earned death penalties for talking too much. And there was much to talk about. No army in the history of the world had ever trained men for a single mission the way he had done. It was also going to be the first time that gliders would be used in combat. They were designed to deliver these highly prepared commandos within yards of their objectives. Even more importantly, it would see the unleashing of a new kind of weapon - a shaped charge. A weapon so secret that Witzig had never even allowed his troops to use them on concrete or armor for fear that their true effectiveness would somehow leak out. The Germans called them hohlladung. Basically, they looked like a small cup of ice-cream with a scoop taken from it. What the men who wielded them did not know was that when detonated, the barely 100-pound devices created a concentrated stream of liquid metal at over 5000 degrees, which is twice the temperature of molten lava, alongside a massive shockwave that traveled at a speed over five miles a second. So, while the Belgian gunners sat confidently inside their armored cupolas, they also had no idea what kind of calamity was silently coming their way in the pre-dawn hours.
Even with the anger boiling just microns below the surface, Oberleutnant Rudolf Witzig was not one to resort to raising his voice. Just like all commanders of men, he knew that if he had to yell to get their attention, then their respect was already lost. As Hauptgefreiter Pilz, the glider pilot, circled lazily over the recently reintegrated Rhineland looking for an open plain on which to land, Witzig made his desires clear to him. He should alight the glider in such a way to ensure it could become airborne again immediately. Hauptgefreiter Pilz made the initial mistake of trying to explain to his commander that obviously there was no way for a glider to become airborne without a powered aircraft to tow it. The barrel of a Walther P38 being jammed forcefully into his ribs quickly dissuaded him from continuing that particular line of discussion. He wisely refocused himself into finding a location suitable for takeoff, although he had no idea why.
Minutes later, having found a field that would allow for his commander’s orders, Corporal Pilz swooped in for landing, careful to not let his craft fall below the 35 mph stall speed. “Brace for impact!” he called out although in all honesty there was little the eight men behind him could do to prepare themselves considering the tight single-file line they found themselves in since the mission started. To his credit, the glider landed smoothly on its recently modified landing gear/brake. A piece of metal covered wood wrapped in barbed wire, it was added to slow the glider down fast enough to avoid slipping off the top of the fort and into the Albert Canal, a real possibility based on their tests. It seemed to work on unsuspecting farmer’s fields as well. No sooner had the glider rumbled to a halt than Witzig threw open the front canopy, climbed over the pilot, and impatiently waited for the rest of his men to exit the craft. Once assembled, he ordered them to unload the glider, move it to the edge of the meadow, reload it, then create a makeshift runway for a tow plane by removing any fences or obstacles necessary. He then went about the business of securing himself another tow plane. He started off by briskly walking until he was able to relieve a passing railwayman of his bicycle. Witzig mounted the bike and rode off towards a nearby farm consisting of several buildings, stables, and barns.
Inside one of those structures, Johan Müller was sitting at his table eating his typical early breakfast of eggs, bacon and potatoes cooked together in a skillet and thinking about his day when a very authoritarian pounding came from outside his front door. Concerned, if not alarmed, he wiped his mouth and strode across his modest kitchen to discover what latest calamity had probably befallen one of his neighbors. Probably that idiot Lukas got himself bitten by his plough horse again, he thought to himself. Johan himself never trusted the horse once he discovered its habit of spitting oats onto the ground, waiting for a pigeon to try to eat them, then stomping the unsuspecting bird to death with a massive hoof. He grabbed the handle and opened it while saying, “What’s the matter now, did your doof horse…” His words were cut short by the striking figure filling his door frame. Johann quickly noted the steel helmet, camouflage smock and high leather boots. What really kept his attention was the pair of pale gray eyes that appeared to have their own internal lighting system around the edges. They possessed the blank gaze of a hawk in pursuit of its prey. With the barest of pleasantries, Witzig stated his question to the now thoroughly confused farmer. “Guttentag, do you have an automobile?”
Still mesmerized by this stranger’s gaze, Johan could only croak out a one word reply.
“No.”
“Who does?”
“Herr Doktor Lukas Von Braun.”
“Who?”
“Our local doctor.”
“Where is he?”
“Home in bed, I suppose.”
“Show me.” A command, not a suggestion.
And with that, a thoroughly confused local farmer named Johan Müller gave Oberleutnant Rudolf Witzig directions to the center of town.
Barely a half-hour after his commander left, Corporal Pilz was wiping the sweat from his face after kicking off a picket fence’s crossmembers, when he heard a familiar sound in the distance. It was the unmistakable droning of the three engines of a Ju-52. It came in low, circled the field once, and dropped its gear to land. Hitting the ground hard, the plane bounced on its main wheels and jostled its way towards the glider. Seemingly without slowing, its pilot whipped the plane’s end around and finally came to a quick stop just ahead of the glider. Pilz watched as the passenger door opened, followed immediately by two tires being heaved out the side. Unsurprisingly, the first man leaping out of the left-hand side hatch was none other than Witzig, who was wearing a parachute in case the plane couldn’t land. He had found the good doctor, drove off with his car to Köln-Ostheim airfield, and requisitioned a reserve tow plane to take him back here. Before he touched the earth, he was barking out commands for his men to attach the aforementioned wheels to the glider to allow it to get off the ground. While that was happening, other crew members leaped from the plane and connected a new tow cable to replace the torn one. Only minutes passed before the pilot throttled the three BMW 132T-2 engines to full, and with the over 2400 horsepower they produced, Oberleutnant Witzig and his commandos were again on their way to Fort Eben-Emael. Thus, with barely three hour’s delay, the tenth glider landed atop Belgium’s main line of defense against the onslaught of the Nazi blitzkrieg. It was a fitting testament of the iron will of the attack’s commander.
Once his glider had rumbled to a stop, Witzig again was the first man out. He scanned the landscape, trying to get an operational picture of what was happening. He could see visible damage around several of the bunkers, and even with the sharp cracks of rifle fire in the background, he could hear his men communicating with each other. There was excitement in their voices but no sign of panic. Ignoring the machine gun fire from his right, he set out to find who was leading the attack in his absence. He ran across the top of the fort, through the soccer fields that tipped German reconnaissance planes to their lack of defensive landmines and found Oberfeldwebel Helmut Wenzel. He was situated at Mi Nord, a fortified observation post with machine guns, which had fallen in the first few minutes of the attack. It collapsed so quickly, in fact, that when a Belgian officer called from deep inside the fort on a field telephone looking for information, Kurt Engelmann, one of the Germans who attacked the outpost with flamethrowers, grenades, and shaped charges, answered it by saying, “Here are the Germans,” to which the Belgian replied, “Oh, mon dieu.” Another nearby observation post was only alerted to the attack when a soldier inside heard people speaking German and looked through his viewport to discover several pairs of Nazi paratroopers’ jump boots standing ominously outside.
Responding to a strong tapping in the middle of his back, Oberfeldwebel Wenzel turned and looked over his shoulder to see Witzig in a firm stance behind him. Reacting instinctively, Wenzel popped to attention and said with probably a touch too much confidence, “Oberleutnant Witzig, welcome to the battle. I have taken command of the operation.” To adequately describe the iciness of Witzig’s reply would require a discussion of the Kelvin temperature scale.
“No, Oberfeldwebel, I am now in command.”
Thus clarified and a bit mollified, Wenzel quickly updated Witzig on the tactical situation. The mission’s primary objectives, silencing all of the guns which could have hampered the Germans crossing of the Albert Canal, had been accomplished in the first quarter hour of the first glider’s landing. The shaped charges worked perfectly. In one case, the explosive power of the new secret weapon not only cut through almost a foot of concrete, but it still contained enough energy to rip a 75mm cannon from its mount and throw it backward down a sixty-foot deep staircase. True, several Germans sacrificed their lives on the altar of National Socialism, but there was always a price to be paid in such matters. Regardless, the bottom line, a place where Witzig always firmly entrenched himself, clearly showed that the attack, which they had trained for in ultimate secrecy for six months, had neutralized a fortress which took the enemy three years and 50 million Belgian francs to create. With over five miles of tunnels carved from the living rock providing cover for 1200 troops, it boasted of eighteen long range artillery pieces protected by concrete and armor that was typically measured in feet instead of inches. Intact, it could have held up the German invasion long enough for the British, French and Dutch forces to fly in and establish impregnable defensive lines in Belgium. Even a few minutes’ delay would have allowed the Belgians to destroy key bridges along the Albert Canal, effectively bottling up all the German armor and mechanized transports blitzkrieging towards them. All of this Belgian planning and preparation had been brilliantly nullified in less than fifteen minutes.
And Oberleutnant Witzig wasn’t even there. He played no deciding part. Wouldn’t even be able to serve as an eye-witness to the greatest air-based assault ever in military history.
Even as he led his men in the mopping-up operations, the fact of his non-participation in the first wave of attack began to gnaw at him. As nearby Belgian artillery batteries started firing on his troops, hoping to dislodge them from the roof atop Eben-Emael, it grated on him. When he watched in disbelief as Sergeant Ernst Grechza, blind drunk from the schnapps he had hidden in his canteen (combine with the crystal meth prescribed to the soldiers to keep them awake and functioning for hours), riding one of the still-rotating 120mm twin cannon armed turrets like a cowboy breaking a bronco, the thought of his absence during the key moments of the assault began to lay down neural pathways in his brain that soon became deep ruts. It continued to do so even into the night as his troops' water and ammo supplies ran dangerously low. In fact, this minor-seeming detail kept coming back to him louder and louder, despite the triumph of accepting the garrison’s surrender later the next morning. His men had accomplished a feat that would be studied and celebrated for years to come, while their leader was stuck impotently in a field of oats. Even having an Iron Cross personally pinned to his chest by Adolf Hitler himself less than a week later wouldn’t stop his insides from twisting at the sense that he had somehow failed in his mission. In the months that ensued, he was sure that whispered asides and snide comments ricocheted through high-level planning meetings. Meetings that went on without his inclusion or even awareness. Why else was he stuck here in Berlin as an aide to Hermann Göring, miles behind enemy lines? His need for affirmation, for validation, was like a roaring fire inside him. This feeling metamorphosed itself into a burning desire to redeem himself with a mission even more daring, one with a potential deciding impact on the war. Ambitious before even for a man in his early twenties, Witzig was now consumed with the need to earn validation as a leader of men in combat. And not just any run-of-the-mill operation, it had to be something big. Something worthy of him. Something that could change the course of the entire war which would soon engulf the whole planet.
It would be a desire with specifically tremendous consequences for three young people, two working-class British boys and a Jewish German girl. The only thing the children would have in common when they all finally met would be the belief that because of Oberleutnant Witzig’s ambitions, and those of like-minded people, they would never see their parents again.
II. Derailed
A good-looking, platinium-blonde-haired lad of pleasant demeanor, Hudson Aden loved his first name. It was unique in that no one else in his school had it. George Aden, his father, expended quite a bit of love capital convincing Avery, his wife, to go along with the name. In 1925 London, Hudson was mostly known as a surname, and she had a hard time understanding her husband’s insistence on giving it to their firstborn son. This was due in part to George’s difficulties in explaining how, as a wee lad, he was enraptured by the stories of the early European explorers of North America. Their exploits in strange new lands, when compared to growing up poor in post-Victorian London, were very attractive to him. It made his first trip across the Channel to fight the Jerries in 1916 seem like the beginning of a great adventure. He would soon be disabused of that notion. Yet, despite all the horrors he saw and experienced in Belgium and France, years later, when it came time to add a moniker to his newborn, he held out for Hudson, as in Henry Hudson. When Avery asked why not just use the name Henry, he replied, “I don’t want anyone thinking I was naming him after that bloody king.”
Generally well-liked, Hudson used to have many acquaintances, but, after the incident with his father in May of 1940, a mere four months ago, he chose to spend most of his time with his best friend, Jimmy. In stark contrast to Hudson, Jimmy couldn’t stand his first name. If there was one thing that Jimmy hated, it was being called “Jimmy.” It rankled him like no other insult or injury. Even if he was only fourteen, he already knew that no one of consequence was ever nicknamed “Jimmy.” James was a name given to kings, explorers, war heroes and guys who knew how to talk to girls. A “Jimmy” wore knee-britches, spit funny, and, despite being almost fifteen, checked under the bed (twice) for monsters every night before going to sleep. Hudson always found his friend’s complaints to be quite amusing.
Jimmy had been given the moniker by his parents before he had even made it home from Westminster Hospital after his birth in 1925. Charles Caden, his father, who never in all the years Jimmy knew him had been referred to as “Chuck,” failed to appreciate the pain his son’s nickname caused him. His dear mum Mary Caden, was a willing co-conspirator in his shame. She always replied to his passionate requests to be called James with the retort, "If you didn’t want to be called Jimmy, you shouldn’t have been born with such bright eyes.” Although they were a calming shade of hazel, Jimmy did indeed have the quick eyes of an inveterate observer. They seemed to always be in motion, seeking any possible distraction. He lived a few blocks down and one street over from the Aden’s modest dark brick townhouse. Jimmy’s last name was Caden, which, when paired with Aden, only helped cement their friendship. Aden and Caden, as they were invariably referred to, seemed to always be together, playing football in the street or aggravating the neighborhood playing “Knocking Down Ginger,” where they would rap loudly on someone’s door and try to run away before the occupant answered. It was all in good fun, though. Even if neither family had much to spare, their childhood days passed by quite pleasantly. At least, that is, until the war came.
Like most British kids his age, Hudson was immensely interested in all aspects of the conflict and couldn’t wait for his turn at the Hun, who he personally blamed for his father’s absence. He pored over the battle maps in the Daily Express, constantly questioning tactics and despairing at the quick progress of the Nazis, first through Poland and then into Belgium and France. Every night he would sit by the wireless and tune into the Home Service for news of possible German setbacks, which never seemed to happen. When the Miracle of Dunkirk took place, Hudson and Jimmy went down to the Thames to watch the fishing boats with their strange catch of bedraggled British soldiers creep into their respective wharves and deposit their most precious cargo. It was shortly after that Hudson first discovered what true war looked like and the seeming indifference of men who dropped explosives on high.
The fabled Battle of Britain began barely a month after Dunkirk. It was thrilling at first to watch the dogfights taking place up north at Hornchurch. To see an actual enemy plane burst into flames from the guns of a Hurricane or a Spitfire was almost too exciting to witness. Cheers would erupt, and pictures of wreckage would dot the Times the next day. In contrast, whenever one of England’s finest was shot down, there was a united prayer for the white silk mushroom cap of a parachute being deployed. If it did not show itself, as was sometimes the case, every spectator on the ground knew another brave young man had given the last full measure of devotion to protect those he had left behind. The Jerrys were trying at first to ground Britain’s air force so that they could mount a landing across the channel. Hitler’s army was at the coast, and its officers could clearly make out the fabled white cliffs of Dover, just a few tantalizing miles away. Without air cover, though, even Hitler understood the folly that would come from sending out thousands of troops in lightly armored landing craft. The ones who didn’t die directly from the strafing and bombing of English fighters would surely drown in the channel. The back of the RAF had to be broken first.
Of course, this turned out to be a tougher nut to crack than Goering, Hitler’s corpulent leader of the German Luftwaffe, initially believed. The British had the advantage of flying and fighting over their own territory. Any of their downed pilots could be quickly returned back to their airfields like Biggin Hill, while their Nazi counterparts were captured by irate farmers with pitchforks and sent to the Scraptoft or Thurnby POW camps in Leicestershire, never to fly under the swastika again. Plus, with the added fuel cost of flying to Britain from their newly acquired airfields in France, the Germans could barely manage a few minutes’ time over target before they would be forced into a potentially very unwelcome dip in the chilly waters of the English Channel. Combine those factors with the British fighting with their backs against the wall, and the difficulty of the task facing the Germans became very apparent indeed.
Stupid mistakes didn’t help their cause much either.
During a night raid in late August, 1940, a stick of bombs fell in the posh financial center of London instead of the docks along the Thames. Despite being most likely caused by an error of the bomber’s navigator, Winston Churchill was furious. Bomber Command decided to retaliate by hitting Berlin, which the British did the very next night. This was a huge blow to Goering’s reputation since he had earlier vowed that no bombs would ever hit the German capital. In response, he then proceeded to order the unrestricted bombing of England’s population centers with the stated goal of breaking their will to fight. Clearly, Herman Goering did not understand the character of the average Brit. With bombs dropping on their heads nightly, they simply scuttled into underground shelters, where the biggest complaint was how the price of a cup of tea doubled once one went below the surface. At least, that’s how the campaign went for most citizens. For the Home Guard, each night was an absolute flurry of activity. Before the drone of the Heinkel and Messerschmitt bombers had left the skies, firefighters were out trying to desperately contain the blazes racing out of control, while contending with broken water mains, blocked streets and destroyed equipment. Many firemen lost their lives when buildings imploded or unexploded ordnance went off with no warning. It was a battle as important as that taking place thousands of feet about the streets.
And to make the most of their limited resources, London utilized a centralized command structure to send help where it was needed most. It was a job that needed to be done, regardless of the cost to a normal home life, which is why Hudson was by himself on the evening of October 27, 1940. His mother was at work again, even though it was a Sunday, and it simply couldn’t be helped. With her husband’s recent death, she became the sole breadwinner for the family. The best-paying jobs for women were found working for the armed services, and Mrs. Avery Aden secured one in the most secret of places. Even after being thoroughly briefed on the importance of keeping her work confidential, she did sometimes slip and relate a juicy story to her son, her last remaining confidant. But seriously, she justified to herself, what person that mattered was he ever going to tell?
By all accounts, the air raid sirens should have gone off that night. They should have been wailing out their parabolic screams of warning to let the citizens know to seek shelter. As per usual, the incoming enemy bombers had been picked up by a RF7 receiver down in Poling, Sussex. The Chain Home system operators sent out their warnings, but somewhere along the line, the system failed. The end result was neither Hudson nor his good friend Jimmy having any idea about the chain of events that would be set in motion when a Luftwaffe bombardier readied his bombsight, allowing for altitude and the wind resistance’s effect on the 550-pound bombs carried directly behind him, as he lay prostrate on the padded floor of his Heinkel He 11’s nose cone. When the indicators in his stereoscopic sights lined up, an electrical connection automatically released the payload, and, just like that, the first domino was tipped in a sequence that helped determine the course of the largest armed conflict in history. Of such small things are great events made.
Without passion or prejudice, the bombs sailed downwards back to Earth. That this particular piece of Earth had been selected by humans for settlement a thousand years ago made no difference. That empires had risen and fallen throughout the world while simple folks tried to eke out a living on that spot made no difference. And that the Caden family -Mom, Dad and young Jimmy- were sleeping quietly in their beds with no true animosity towards anyone, made no difference either.
After a pre-set time determined by the plane’s altitude, the fuse detonated within the mass of TNT that made up half of the bomb’s total weight. After that, it was a simple matter of chemistry. The laws of physics, which will always reign supreme over the laws of man, made a summary judgment of the tensile strengths of the studs, beams, and joists underneath it. The deliberations took less than a microsecond. The verdict: annihilation with no opportunity for appeal. And the Caden family, along with their home, was simply wiped away like chalk by an eraser.
The Heinkel’s crew of five returned to their airfield in France, drank a few rounds in the makeshift beer garden near their barracks, and went to sleep dreaming of their own families back home.
Hudson’s first indication of the tragedy that had just occurred two streets over came when he found himself blown half-way out of his bed and onto the floor. Luckily, the thick fabric of the drawn curtains had caught the majority of the glass from the window, sparing him from the potentially deadly shards. He quickly threw off the remaining covers, slid his feet into the slippers beside his bed, flung open the curtains, and looked out into what was now a view unobstructed by glass. It took his brain a few seconds to process the difference between what he expected to see and what he actually saw. As he peered out up and down Argyle Road, careful not to cut his hands on what jagged pieces remained in the frame, he was surprised by the glowing light that silhouetted the three-story townhouses across the street. He quickly realized it must have been caused by a large fire very nearby. At about the same moment is when the yelling started. It was like a chorus conducted by a madman. First, the opening notes of barked out questions of, “What ‘appened?” and, “Is everyone okay?”, followed closely by a counterpoint of higher pitched voices asking, “Where’s Olivia?” and “Have you seen Garret?” Finally, the crescendo of the strained vibrato notes of uncontrolled grief as victims were identified one-by-one.
Discarding the strict orders to never leave the house after dark alone, Hudson quickly dressed, ran downstairs and threw on his blue cap and brown wool jacket as he sailed out the door into the night. He turned right, sprinted past the familiar red cylindrical letterbox, turned left, and barreled up through the alley between the Katterhenry and the Lemon townhouses. Jumping a burning section of plaster-covered lathing, he emerged onto Holton Street ,where the Devil felt fit to relocate Hell. Clearly, some unconscionable evil was responsible for the mayhem that dominated his sight. On his right, the southern side of the street, the homes seemed like giant dollhouses with the front facades removed so that one could see directly into the rooms. Beds, dressers and tables could be seen violently shoved up against the back walls and strewn about the rubble on the sidewalk in front. In front of him, Hudson could make out people moving dazedly, almost all of them injured in some form, many with makeshift bandages already stained red, covering wounded limbs and foreheads. Pieces of burning ash floated up into the air as he stared in amazement at the countless fires fueled by shattered wood and uncapped gas jets. The smell of wood smoke coated the inside of his nostrils.
On his left, the damage was clearly more pronounced. Hudson guessed that the bombs must’ve exploded almost directly in the small backyards between the two rows of houses. The only discernible walls left were at the far end of the block where the street emptied onto Alderney Road. He was spotted by old Mrs. Sailer, but before she could call out to him, he took off at a flat sprint with his feet crunching over the debris field of glass, plaster and stone which covered some three quarters of the street. When he got to where the second-to-last house should have been, the only recognizable remnant was the space where the three steps of the stoop used to lead to a green door with a round brass knob. That’s where Hudson planted his feet and quickly took in the horrific scene.
He could see the jagged ends of the pipes that used to bring water to the kitchen and W.C. On the ground was a piece of flowered wallpaper curled at the edges, next to what looked like a piece of the frame that used to hang above the small fireplace, except the idyllic painting of a 17th-century farm was nowhere to be seen. Other than that, it was just a pile of lifeless rubble. Maybe not, thought Hudson. He went down onto all fours and started to pick his way up the mountain of debris, avoiding any projecting nails or shards of glass.. The way the wreckage had settled, once he scrambled his way to the top, the pile slanted downwards to the back of the lot, so he could no longer see the street behind him. He started to call out, “Jimmy! Mister Caden! Missus Caden!”
No response.
Using his bare hands, Hudson started tearing at the pieces of roofing tar paper and loose bricks. He called out again with the same results. Frantic, he commenced digging into what remained of his best friend’s house. He was throwing stuff aside wildly, yelling out in an ever shriller tone. Finally, his initial burst of adrenaline spent, Hudson fell panting to his hands and knees. Defeated, he felt his eyes well up with tears and his nose starting to run. He angrily wiped his sleeve across his face and wondered what to do next when he first noticed the sound. It was barely at the edge of his hearing, but it seemed to be metal striking metal in a rhythmic pattern of three clangs, then a pause, then three more clangs in quick succession. Trying to ignore the sounds of the burgeoning activity going on the other side of the mound of debris behind him, Hudson tore off his cap and placed his head as close to the ground as he could. There it was again. Someone was alive down there. Maybe all three of them were trapped in a pocket clear of wreckage. Looking over his shoulder, Hudson called out to the street for help before frantically resuming his own recovery efforts, which were soon stymied by a large section of ceiling joist.
Instinctively, he reached for a five-foot section of two-by-four to use as a lever to gain mechanical advantage. Jamming one end into the rubble, he placed another fragment beneath it as a fulcrum. Hudson then attempted to lift the other end. He crouched down, placed his hands underneath the board, and tried to straighten his legs. He strained until his muscles began to cry. A memory of the circus came to mind. A clown jumped onto the end of a teeter-totter, flinging his compatriot up onto the shoulders of another. Without hesitation, Hudson climbed back up the tower of detritus and leaped off onto the exposed end of the board. This time he accomplished his goal but not in the way he intended. Instead of the joist rising up, Hudson went down. The block of plaster the lever was sitting on gave way like an unbalanced skillet. As it flipped down on one end, he dropped like he tripped a trapdoor. His legs straightened out in front of him, and his arms flew over his head. Feet first, Hudson’s momentum carried him below the ceiling joist and down a slide made from the remains of his best friend’s house. The last thing he recognized before all went black was a piece of fabric pinned between layers of wreckage. It was of a distinctive pattern that he had seen many times hanging on a hook in the upstairs loo. Jimmy’s mum’s housecoat, he inanely thought as he slid by. He also noticed it was covered in blood.
Aside from destroying most of a city block and cutting short some thirteen lives while injuring another score, the bomb blast created a rift in the earth that resulted in a steep ramp some eighteen inches wide and forty feet long. It was into this abyss that Hudson found himself rapidly accelerating deeper into the ground. His hands flailed about trying desperately to gain some purchase to slow his descent but to no avail. He was out of control and headed straight into the unknown. A moment later, he found himself blinded by a blast of white light and hurtling through space as if being shot out of a gun. This free-flight was abruptly cut short as he hit the travertine-covered ground and tumbled unceremoniously into a tile-covered wall with a thud.
It took Hudson a few moments to inventory his fingers, toes, and other limbs. He stood up and whipped his head back and forth to try and clear it. As soon as he could focus his eyes, he found himself surrounded by gleaming white porcelain tile. Looking left, he saw a row of dark walnut toilet stalls. The other way he noted a line of unblemished sinks with chrome faucets. Glancing up, he saw a ceiling plastered as white as snow. Across from him, in an otherwise unadorned wall, was an oval hole roughly three feet up from the floor. It must have been from this same hole that Hudson found himself ejected moments before. He stumbled over to it, and by leaning over at the waist, he could look back up the steep ramp of debris on which he slid down here. Just as he filled his lungs with air to yell into the darkness for help, a loud crashing sound preceded a billowing cloud of dust that enveloped his entire head and left him choking. It signaled that a large amount of Jimmy’s former home had just collapsed further upstream, which effectively cut off this route back to street level. If he wanted out of here, Hudson was going to have to find another way.
He caught his reflection in one of the black framed mirrors over the sink and almost didn’t recognize himself covered in plaster, dust, and dirt. He cleaned himself up the best he could in the pair of soft upswept lights that mounted alongside each mirror. The bulb itself was mounted in translucent amber, which made Hudson think of being in an Egyptian tomb for some reason. Well, he thought, This isn’t the first tube toilet I’ve been in. Now, where’s the proper exit? Wiping his hand on a thick cotton hand-towel, he saw an arched opening in the wall just to the side of a line of urinals. He walked through it, still a bit shaky, and turned left towards a large varnished door. Pushing on the brass plate intended for that purpose, Hudson went out into what he assumed was the local tube stop.
At least that’s what he expected. Above him, lights shined brightly from their brass fixtures and caught the gilded edges of the railings which formed the empty queues. He walked out onto the platform and the squeaks from his shoes were the only perceptible sound.
Immediately, he looked around and noticed that no one else was in the station. In fact, there is no sign that anyone had ever been in the station. Aside from a large pristine map of modern-day Europe, the walls were completely bare of the typical mix of wartime propaganda, adverts for Guinness ale, and motion picture posters. The ashtrays are clear of half-smoked Lucky Strikes, and the trash cans are empty. Not just empty. They’re like they have never been used. Vaguely confused, Hudson glances to the left and to the right before stepping onto the loading platform. For the first time, he gets a clear look at the tracks and they are actually shiny, as if they just arrived that day from the forges of Devonshire. The cross-ties are absolutely identical to each other, and Hudson imagined he can still smell the Highland sap leaching out of them. As far as he can see, there are no empty packets of Camel cigarettes, no discarded pages from the London Times, and not even a piece of used Wrigley’s chewing gum serendipitously affixed to the edge of the platform.
A single thought whirled through Hudson’s brain, Where the bloody ‘ell am I? Like almost every citizen of London, Hudson was intimately familiar with all the routes and stops of the nearest underground. Yet, he was sure he had never been to this place before. Perhaps it was a new addition being added for the war effort or an extra bomb shelter to provide cover from the Heinkel 111s that seemed to roar over every night.
Looking across the tracks, Hudson’s eyes moved from left to right at an unbroken pearly white wall of tile. Even the grout was without defects. Aside from the typical vent openings and iron pipes which protected the electrical cables, there were no openings at all. Over his shoulder, he saw through an opening the bottom half of a pristine escalator. Oddly, the steps themselves were not in motion. Over the entrance portal was the usual “This Way Out” sign. This one was dark, as the bulb which illuminated it was also either turned off or burnt out. Since everything else seemed to border on perfection, he immediately assumed the former. Light or no light, Hudson thought, I still need to get back home and tell me mum the horrific news about the Cadens. This caused him to focus momentarily on the events of the evening, and with it came a crushing sense of sadness. Every moment from now on would only add to the amount of time since he last saw his best friend Jimmy alive. Before his mind could go down this path any further, he took action and bounded over the base of the unmoving escalator. He didn’t know if he could survive another loss like this so soon after his own father died. Without thinking further, he leapt onto the frozen belt and went up two steps at a time. Before he made more than a few steps, and without a sound, the treads came to life and smoothly began moving downwards. Surprised, Hudson lost his balance and almost immediately found himself face down and unceremoniously deposited back on the floor of the platform. Confused, Hudson realized that unlike every other exit escalator he had ever been on, this one was going downwards in the opposite direction it was supposed to go. Rising tenderly to his feet, he placed both hands on his hips and looked back at the infernal machine that was conspiring against him getting out of this station. Surely, I can outrun an escalator, he thought to himself as he rose up to full-height, took a half-step, and started running again up the belt of stairs. This time, he only managed a bare half-dozen strides before realizing that, not only was he not making progress upwards, but he was, in fact, sliding back downwards. The faster he tried to run, the faster the stairs moved in the opposite direction. Despite this odd behavior, young Hudson Aden wasn’t about to let a malfunctioning escalator trap him down in this hole.
Reaching down into his highest gear, Hudson’s feet flew over the metal treads. His knees shot up and down in the fashion of steamship pistons. His arms pumped at his sides like some mad timpanist while his lungs gulped for air. Glancing up, he could make out the glossy black framed portal of light that marked the top and could clearly see he was still no closer to getting there. Frustrated and out of energy, his steps slowed to a crawl and then to a stop. As if in reply, the escalator gently carried him back down to the platform level and deposited him there. Defeated, he stepped off the stainless steel treads and gathered his wits along with his breath.
A slight tickling in his feet and a low rumble in his ears alerted him to an oncoming train. Looking down the tunnel to his left, he could barely make out the dim glow of a headlight approaching the station. Hudson backed up a few steps behind the loading line and patiently waited. He figured he’ll just hop on to the train, get off at the next station, and find his way back home. No worries. His mom will be there soon from her job at the War Ministry, and she would be understandably worried about him once she turned the corner of their street and saw the damage. Probably for the millionth time, he wished his father was still around. His father had died shortly after the war had started. Hudson would like to think his father was a hero who gave his life in defense of King and Country, from which a particular point of view he had, but the awful reality of how he died made such a neat conclusion an impossibility. As far as he could see, there was no rhyme or reason to it. Just one of those things. That's what all the uniformed veterans at his father’s funeral told him. “Sorry, Hudson, it’s just one of those things. You’ll understand when you’re older.” Hudson closed his eyes tightly to block out the memory. Evidently, the four months since then weren’t quite enough to make him older. He took in a deep breath while his eyes rolled up behind closed lids.
The click-clack of steel wheels grew both louder and slower as the train neared the station. Hudson, having been a veteran of literally hundreds of rides on the tube, barely noticed as the train eased to a stop in front of him. It really wasn’t until the doors slid open on their pneumatic slides and he took a step through the opening, that he noticed something else odd. The train was completely empty. Just like the station itself, the interior of the car was spotless with none of the tell-tale signs of heavy usage typical of the rest of its brethren on the Round Line. The leather on the seats lacked any cracks or creases, the floorboards were free from scuffs and scrapes, and the smell was of fresh varnish and paint.
“What the bloody ‘ell is going on here? Where am I?” Hudson muttered aloud for the second time.
Instead of an answer, a slight hiss signaled that the doors were closing, and Hudson made an almost reflexive decision to pull his leg back out of the opening. As the panels sealed shut in front of him, the train barely hesitated for a moment before starting on its course with only the slightest creaking of the steel wheels. Hudson could easily make out his open-gaped reflection in the car windows as they streaked by him. Each one appeared to be entirely empty. The absence of passengers spilled over into the engineer’s cab, which also lacked any inhabitants. This only confused Hudson further in that, without a driver aboard, who was controlling the train?
Maybe it was something the War Department was working on, he thought to himself. A remotely operated train would free up a lot of men to fight, and Britain certainly needed them. With America so far staying on the sidelines, and the Soviets refusing to fight because of their peace treaty with Herr Hitler, England certainly appeared to be standing alone. Just like Hudson was.
Not wanting to repeat the farce of his attempt to climb the escalator, he carefully jumped down onto the tracks, being especially careful to not touch the electrified center rails. He then clambered up the other side onto the narrow pathway that ran parallel to the tracks. This gave him a clear view to both ends of the platform, and, as he feared, each side ended abruptly in a solid wall that was as neatly tiled as the rest of the station. Hudson knew immediately that he only had one option remaining. If he wanted out, and he certainly did, the only way open to him was to follow where the train went. He hopped down back onto the tracks and exited out of the station through the high-arched opening and disappeared into the blackness of the tunnel.
It did not take him long to question the wisdom of this path. By holding his right hand outward, he could feel the outside wall long after he could no longer see it. As he crept forward, he couldn’t help but to keep staring back over his shoulder at the rapidly diminishing light of the platform. He noticed that as he went on, the small oval of light moved ever more to the right, which meant the tracks were following a curve. If another train car came by, he had no idea what he could do to avoid being squashed by it. So far, no side exits appeared, at least not on this side of the rails. Hudson didn’t trust his luck in clearing the middle rails in a blind jump to the other side, so he just assumed it was a solid wall over there as well. His ears were highly attuned to any sound that could indicate an oncoming train, but the silence was almost deafening. Not even the skittering sound of a mouse or rat could be picked up by his straining senses. That train had to go somewhere, he thought. And with that, he continued on.
After what seemed to be a very long time, Hudson imagined he saw a very faint light in front of him. His pace quickened, and soon it was undeniable that there was another station up ahead. The tunnel opening was becoming more and more distinct as it slowly slid from right to left in his field of vision. His steps came more quickly as his stride lengthened. He had no idea how much time had passed since the bombing raid. If the phones still worked, a big if, his mother surely had been informed of the night’s tragedy by one of her friends and would undoubtedly be worried about him. Only a few steps more, and Hudson was once again bathed in the light of civilization. However, there was one small caveat.
The station, just like the first, was completely empty.
He was more confused than panicked. How could this be? Where were all the people who would normally be sheltering here to escape the planes flying overhead? Was the damage from the bombing more widespread than he originally thought? Were they all dead? It seemed the only logical explanation. Maybe England wouldn’t win the war. Maybe he would end up as a child laborer for the Nazis and be sent off to work in a factory somewhere (such stories were already circulating about what happened to the civilian population after Poland fell last year). He was beginning to doubt if he would ever get out of this tunnel, and the panic was starting to set in.
After it passed and he started to get a grip on himself again, Hudson felt incredibly thirsty. He climbed up onto the loading platform and looked for a bubbler. Finding none, he headed off to a heavily varnished door marked “Men’s W.C.” and pushed it open. Once inside, he walked over to sink, turned on the faucet, and leaned over to place his mouth into the path of the flowing water. It was deliciously cold. His thirst now slackened, he stood up and wiped the excess water off his lips. He was faced with his own image in a mirror, but that wasn’t what caused his heart to skip a beat. It was the manhole-sized hole he could see reflected in the wall behind him. He turned around and came face-to-face with the uncomfortable truth. He had been in this bathroom before. This is where this nightmare began. The tunnel had taken him on a circular path, and he was right back where he started. If that was true, then where did the train he saw earlier go to? It couldn’t just vanish into thin air, could it? This horrible piece of knowledge only served to make the next event all the more improbable, but his ears never lied to him before. The screeching noise was unmistakable even through the door of the W.C.
Another train was pulling into the station.
This makes no sense, Hudson thought as he rushed back out the door and into the terminal. Sensical or not, he could clearly see first the headlamp, then the green outline of the train as it pulled into the light. Somehow, and without logical explanation, a forty-two-ton railcar had magically appeared on a circular track with no connection to the rest of the world. And just like its predecessor, it had neither passengers nor a driver. Hudson again walked up to the doors, which opened automatically before him with a small hiss of escaping air from their piston-equipped hinges. Then he noticed it, and his next decision changed his path in a way he never could have expected.
It is very probable that his life would have played out in much the same way as thousands of other British boys his age. Somehow, he’d find a way to deal with the deaths of his father and his best friend. In a few years time, he would be old enough to put on the uniform his father once wore and serve his time in the military. If he survived, maybe he would go to university, but, most likely, he would eventually marry a local girl, get a factory job that never paid enough, and play his part as a member of the working class. Instead, he made a split-second decision after an item caught his eye right inside the open car. Just as the doors started to close, he nimbly leapt between them and rushed over to the padded red bench on the opposite side. While reaching down to grab it, he felt a slight hitch as the railcar began to move forward. This he ignored for the moment as he was fixated on the object in his hand. The train was entering the tunnel, and Hudson had to squint a little to see by the small electric lights located in recesses above. It was a blue peaked cap, the kind schoolkids of both the private and state school variety wore. What had caught Hudson’s attention was the small slash of yellow near where the short bill attached to the rest of it. As he turned it over, his first hypothesis was confirmed. The discoloring certainly was caused by an errant breeze that once blew the hat too close to a freshly painted fence. The smoking gun was the name written inside the brim. It had been scrawled with a fountain pen a few months ago.
“Jimmy.”
The only way that hat could have made its way here was if Jimmy himself brought it, which meant his best friend was alive. With that conclusion firmly planted in his head, Hudson had no doubt that wherever this train was headed, he would find Jimmy there. With a half-smile on his face, Hudson sat down upon the bench, hat in hand, and waited expectantly for the train to stop at its next destination.
After a minute of travel, Hudson realized clearly that somewhere in the tunnel he had walked, there must have been a set of switch-tracks, which led off into a new direction. Since he had only walked on the right-hand side of the tracks, any opening to the left could have been missed in the pitch dark, which still surrounded him. The car continued to rumble along, the click-clack of the wheels creating a comforting swaying motion. He got up out of his seat and began to walk around the car, his gaze wandering around the car, looking for some sign of who operated it. He noted the lack of adverts across the top of the walls, not one mention of “My Goodness, My Guiness.” Also missing was any sort of route map to inform the passengers of the stations along the way. The only writing, aside from a small sign warning to “Keep Clear Of The Doors” and “Do Not Alight From Moving Train,” appeared on a deeply polished brass plate located on the floor right by the entrance. Etched in bold block letters was what Hudson assumed was the name the company that ran this very secret endeavor had given this particular train, The Goliath. Clearly, it was not under the control of London Transport like the rest of the tube system. Like all Anglicans, his Sunday school teachers taught him about the famous battle between David, a child, and Goliath, a giant. He then peered out the windows on both sides but this got him no closer to finding out where they were going. Pressing his face up against the glass, he was able to erase the reflection of himself to focus on the sides of the tunnel. Even then, he could barely discern the blur of the brick walls speeding by. Frustrated, he slumped back down on one of the upholstered bench seats and picked up Jimmy’s hat. Rotating it on his fingertips, he wondered what he would say to Jimmy once they reunited, if they ever did. At this particular moment, there were certainly no guarantees. The topic of what happened to the Caden’s house would obviously come up, and then what? Hudson figured he would deal with that particular horse when it arrived. Stretched out across the seat, arms now folded over his chest, Hudson’s eyes began to grow heavier and heavier. Despite his best efforts, the stress of the last few hours had taken its toll on young Hudson, and he soon was fast asleep, his body rocking slightly with the swaying movement of The Goliath.
And, as was becoming the norm, he dreamed of his father and the last time Hudson saw him alive. It was a memory he couldn’t stop recalling because, really, how often do you find yourself awakened from a dead sleep to find your dad with one arm around your chest and a knife at your throat?