A TBO Homage: 'Code Name -- Mongoose'

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Nik-note: Believe it or not, this prial of linked tales began as the back-story for an off-beat Detective mystery. I could not make sense of my scrawled notes for the PI part, but the Alt-Histories took on a life of their own.

I had to get this written, out of my head, else I could not make progress on 'City of Fresno'...

I'll be posting 'Mongoose' in several parts...
--

Chapter #01

My name is Jacqueline Elizabeth Smith. I was born on the Fourth of May, 1929.

I do not remember my parents. They both died of 'pneumonia' in the Winter of '30/31. I was taken in by kin, then raised by a pair of strong-minded 'maiden aunts'.

At seven, my suburban 'Primary School' out-placed my uncommon wits to the City's premier 'Girls College'. At eleven, as the first bombs fell, I was their youngest student evacuated, not with most to North Wales, but Hartsfoot Hall, tucked against the Pennines.

There were a dozen girls of various ages from our college, similar groups from a dozen other colleges in the region. That first gathering in the cold, dim 'Dining Hall' was scary. Clearly the smallest and youngest, I was drawing puzzled, even hostile looks. Then a bossy lady stepped onto the low stage bearing the 'High Table', addressed us in ringing tones.

"I am Geraldine Matlock, acting-head of this temporary college: Call me 'Ma'm'.

"These are terrible, terrible times: The 'U-Boots' may starve us into submission. Churchill may be ousted and cruel, cruel peace-terms imposed. The Luftwaffe may bomb our ports and cities to rubble, drop poison gas or dire disease. Herr Rommel may lead his Panzers ashore any-where between Hull and Portsmouth...

"As a magician would say, 'Pick a card, any card...'

"All 'useful' men will die fighting, be executed, recruited, labour here or sent East to slave in vile camps. All 'Posh' girls not already 'sympathisers' will be sent for 're-education'. Stood hostage for their families and vice-versa, they must submit or be broken to pliable 'Horizontales'. Working-class girls will work the factories, the land, or as menial servants.

"Then there's you girls, you clever, clever girls...

"Your academic records are remarkable, truly remarkable. A 'Boffin' would say your potential is 'off-scale'. Sadly, we must conscript your exceptional wits, set them against the terrible fate that may yet befall our beloved country.

"As Germans love records and documents, your proud school reports have been carefully 'curated' to down-play your achievements. Officially, this site is a convalescence centre. Your wits cruelly beset by shock, loss of kin, 'Nervous Exhaustion', you are here for 'Remedial and Recovery'. Your reports will variously show 'small, but encouraging' progress.

"Your letters home, your diaries may treasure minor successes, such as hedge-row garnish gleaning, maid-training and bit-parts in our theatricals. They must not provide even the least hint, the least clue to the true nature of our curriculum.

"You may have noticed there is a 'Local Defence Volunteers' training area near-by ? It will become yours, too.

"Thus, you may write of learning to maintain and drive a tractor or small car, but not the LDVs' scout-car, truck or tankette.

"You may write of un-jamming, replacing the thrown belt on a hay-baler, but not the breech and belt-feed of a pintle-mount machine gun.

"You may report a hard-fought game of 'Rounders', but not that all your team put 'Three Rounds Rapid' into the central ring.

"You may report a fun afternoon of 'Crazy Golf', but not that your mortar crew briskly set up, ranged upon those well-camouflaged bunkers, shredded every scarecrow within.

"You may report learning 'First Aid' and the rudiments of nursing, but not the dozen ways of administering 'Last Rites' to sentries, sympathisers and such.

"Similarly, you may write of becoming competent 'Maids Of All Work', with placements and modest references.

"Though apparently a waste of your wits, merely 'acting the part' will not suffice. As 'Real' maids would soon spot a 'ringer', such skills must become 'Second Nature'.

"Beyond useful skills plus honest reason to be there, remember 'Modest Menials' are socially invisible, an attribute of inestimable value in your future lethal career.

"Attire: For appropriate visitors, your school uniforms until out-grown. Other-wise, the traditional maid dresses we have 'rounded up' from a dozen 'Great Houses'. Out-doors, unless exercising, the plaid shirts, dungarees and boots of 'Land Girls'.

"You will occupy the West Wing, our lecturers, nursing, catering and other staff the East. Some gents have war-injuries. Some are 'incognito': Do not even surmise who or what they may be. Many have survived nigh-unimaginable horrors: Training you should prove a balm to their troubled souls.

"Fraternising with staff is strictly forbidden unless authorised by our specialist 'nurses'. I use that term loosely: They have under-taken to 'train-up' willing Flirts. I must warn that such will never, ever look at a peeled carrot in quite the same way again...

"Questions ? Yes ?"

Our college's sassy Head Girl, remarkably ginger Michelle McGuire, had raised a hand. "Ma'm, you would train us as Spies and Assassins: What if some-one blabs ?"

"An excellent question with a terrifying answer: In your Botany classes, you will learn to identify and glean edible and non-edible roots, herbs and fungi from the kitchen-garden, local hedge-rows and wood-lands. We are not greatly distant from Pendle, infamous for their witches. They concocted herbal creams and potions, brewed mushroom teas to variously pleasure themselves, spawn 'Seeings' or kill.

"In 'Penny Dreadfuls' and 'Saturday Serials', a poisoner is soon suspect because they were not seriously stricken. But what if all have their wits spun awry ? 'The Dose Maketh The Poison'. So, beginning with small doses, a few girls at a time will be carefully 'distressed'. For several days, they must wear a towel, have their ranting muffled, raving restrained, be bathed and fed as an infant. Such nursing is also applicable to the high fevers of epidemic or wound infection...

"As doses increase, you will learn to distinguish reality from delusion. Such tolerance would let you confidently poison an entire house-hold, including your-self, your genuine distress and confusion averting suspicion. Deranging the proud self-confidence, judgement and professional standing of a senior officer or administrator, up-ending their proud family, may perhaps be combined with 'framing' a sympathiser or discrediting an informer.

"Any who break 'Operational Security' will be dosed until they have lost their grasp on reality. Then, minds broken, returned to their kin-folk following that 'Nervous Breakdown'. Any wild, fragmentary claims will be dismissed as 'Fevre Dreams'..."

[jemhouston]

Defines playing for keeps.

[Poohbah]

I could see Samuel Eliot Morison Lodge doing this in RD+20 if things got really dicey after ADVENT CROWN.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter #02

Our dour attic bedrooms each held two or three triple bunks, with simple hanging rails in lieu of wardrobes. Issued loose-fitting 'maid wear' and clogs, our smart school uniforms went into our minimal foot-lockers. The evening meal was simple but ample, a filling stew of diced meat, some onion for flavour, chopped carrots and turnip, sliced potatoes. Mostly, the latter.

Grouped by age, my evident youth was a concern to the other five in my room. Six, no, seven months younger than the next older, scary-slight, they clearly wondered how, why my still-child-bodied 'Blonde Poppet' had been conscripted. Must be said, I wondered, too. Though raised on a rich diet of Wells, Verne, Kipling, Buchan, Conan Doyle, Poe and other wondrous adventures, I was clearly ill-fit. But so had seemed young 'Kim', yet trained to the 'Great Game'...

The following morning, before breakfast, wearing only our maids' loose drawers and vest, we were mustered on the lawn. Miss Matlock blew her whistle, called, "There is a grassed mile course flagged: Off you go."

Barefoot or not, many of the Senior girls departed like a herd of gazelles. Those younger or less athletic hauled themselves into reluctant motion. My aunts loved brisk country walks. And, sad satchel laden, the urgent quarter-mile to my bus-route plus a further quarter-mile to the college meant I was nimble. Still, I could not run a full mile, even well shod. Worse, I must take three strides to most others' two.

Leaving last and slowest, I knew I would arrive long, long after the rest. I would probably be penalised, surely miss breakfast. So be it. I shrugged, set off at my own best pace. Trot a little, walk a little. Trot a little, walk a little. I covered ground steadily, following the now-beaten track, avoiding obvious mud pools. Trot a little, walk a little.

A few minutes peering from attic and stairs' windows had given me a fair map of the grounds surrounding Hartsfoot Hall. I reckoned I'd covered about three-quarters of that mile when I turned the corner of some ornamental yews, found a Senior girl sat in tears on their near-by bench. She was clearly favouring her left ankle, which was badly swollen.

"Hello ?" I ventured. "How bad is it ?"

She looked up at me, shook her head, muttered, "Just 'turned', kid. Who'd have thought 'Asher the Dasher' would throw a shoe ? But where's the stretcher team ? What's keeping them ?"

I looked both ways, then studied the three figures still gathered in front of the Hall. I turned to her, said, "You were in that lead group. The rest all streamed past you. They must know you're here."

"So where's the [REDACTED] stretcher ?"

I tucked that fish-wife of a curse away for future reference, asked, "When is a door not a door ?"

"Huh ? When it is a--" She stopped, blinked, whispered, "Riddle ? It's a riddle ! Oh, you clever, clever girl ! This is a test ! And they've all failed ! But..."

"Don't laugh," I pleaded, pulled off my vest. Silently, she watched as I tore the side-seams, than a wide strip of cloth from each part. She flinched, but did not complain as I roughly bandaged, strapped her ankle as tightly as I dared. It needed a couple more strips, duly applied. Pulling on the wreckage of the vest, now only decent due my lack of endowment, I directed, "Arm around my shoulder. I'll hold your waist. Then, one hop at a time."

We needed a while to find a rhythm, then made steady progress. Step by step, exchanging few words, we wended our way along the flagged hedge-line. Slowly, now 'Jackie' and 'Dawn', we came to the last hundred yards with, at the end, two flags, a line of chalk-dust, two nurses with 'First Aid' bags, a folding chair. Nearby, Miss Matlock brandished a busy clip-board with a stub of pencil on a string, wore a lanyard with that whistle, had a pair of binoculars slung. Step by step, we reached, crossed the line.

At Miss Matlock's silent nod, the nurses helped Dawn onto the chair, unbound her ankle. Though exhausted, I held out my hand for those ragged strips, saying, "I'll stitch my vest."

"Not this time, Miss Smith." Miss Matlock handed me another. "Loaner. Our wardrobe department will mend your vest, adding ribbons on the new seams."

"Huh ?"

She waved to the nurses, adding, "The other students and staff have finished their breakfasts. So, after you and Miss Asher are washed and dressed, you are both eating with us. We have a small pot of jam !"

"Ma'm..." I paused, hesitated, reported, "Ma'm, your binoculars glinted."

Her eyes went wide. Then she nodded, smiled, added a brief annotation to the clip-board, said, "Miss Smith, you are the youngest, the slightest of our students, but I now understand why you were selected !"

Unless 'medically grounded', we ran that oft-muddy mile every day, rain, wind or shine, always bare-foot. Dawn needed a long week to do more than limp, strapped and shod then, allowed back onto the course, warily matched my 'Trot a little, Walk a little'. By the end of the Summer, helped by her pacing me, my stamina had improved such I could easily run the entire mile. And, after that first time, any who stumbled or fell were scooped to their feet by their fellows, helped along. Nothing had been said, my example sufficed...

[jemhouston]

A Jurassic Park raptor smiles in approval of her actions.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter #03

We had long, long days, the Summer light allowing morning, afternoon and evening classes. At first, our lessons were crazy-rushed, with but the essential groundings of our future purpose. When it became clear no 'fall' was imminent, that our fate instead balanced on the ghastly attrition of RAF, docks and convoys, we studied both wider and deeper. As promised, 'Botany' covered both edibles and poisons. It also taught what could be used for harmless dyes and such. As our tutor said, 'Even hungry foragers may shun your precious, but mould-green loaf...'

Our 'Geography' lessons covered both 'Human', the lay of towns, villages and such, and 'Physical'. This 'lie of the land' included 'Boy Scout' stuff, 'orienteering', sight-lines, 'military crests', pinch points and too-obvious ambush sites. Such segued into 'Small Unit Tactics'...

History wasn't the usual tedious 'Royals List', but famous and infamous battles, large and small, their tactics and flaws: Ancient Greeks, Roman Legions, shield walls, pikes, cavalry and lancers, long-bows, bronze cannon, the Renaissance 'Trace Italienne' and 'Star Forts'. We grimly sand-boxed our 'War of the Roses' and 'Civil War' battles, US Independence, Mexican, Civil and Indian Wars, the Napoleonic, the British Zulu and Boer Wars, the 'Tragedy of the Trenches', the 'Messine Ridge' mines. We ruminated on both Herr Rommel's Panzer Blitzkrieg and 'The Art of War' by Sun Tzu. As our battle-scarred tutor growled, "Fighting fair be for fair fights, Lassies: Like a 'Momma Cat', your only rule is 'WIN !' D'you ken ?"

'Home Economics' ?? Logistics, logistics, logistics. How an army 'fights on its stomach'. How grit in the supply chain may derange a campaign. Also, how poor sanitation may unevenly beset besiegers and besieged. That proud Mexican army which belatedly stormed the Alamo lost far more men to camp-disease than gun-fire. Then, ham-strung by the Alamo's single well, was left debilitated for the later battles with fresh Americans.

'General Science', a revelation to most of the girls, was much less so to me. My two aunts had fiercely encouraged my wide-ranging curiosity and eclectic reading. I'd a fair idea how weather and tides worked, water came to our taps, town-gas to our kitchen range, fires and gas-mantles, electricity via switches to bulbs and bells, or from magnetos to spark-plugs, even sound to gramophone, telephone and wireless. I could service, maintain and safely operate our side-road's shared 'Dennis' lawn-mower, was adept at coaxing its oft-reluctant 'Donkey Engine' from 'Winter Hibernation'. Now, we learned so much more: The better you understood how something works, the easier to adapt or subtly break it.

I knew the rudiments of the Periodic Table's elements, their kin-ships, isotopes, and the cruelly afflicted 'Radium Girls'. I'd read of the Curies, how Madame Curie had earned two --Two !!-- Nobel prizes for her work on 'Radio-actives' and such. Beyond new-found 'Photo-Electric' and 'Atomic' theory, we learned how Einstein, now officially reviled by the purblind Germans, calculated astonishing energy lurked within many atoms. That intrepid Physicists had 'Split' such atoms. Why we must beware toxic 'Yellow Cake' and its scary kin, for a Uranium isotope's dividing atoms' fragments might split one or two more. The former, warily 'moderated' by Deuterium-rich 'Heavy Water', suited steam-raising for great turbines. The latter avalanched unto vast explosion. Beyond hyperbole, one such 'device' could indeed raze a city...

We also did enough 'Geometry', 'Mathematics', 'Physics' and 'Chemistry' to prepare us for much, much more, should time permit.

'Music' was interesting. Yes, those with any talent, be it for violin, flute, piano or voice, were coached in their discipline. We were all taught to read music, and how recursively amended manuscript scores might usefully conceal information. This led to codes, cyphers, commercial 'telegraph' phrase-books and, yes, 'One Time Pads'. Apparently 'Morse Code' could be considered musical, as skilled operatives developed a 'Hand' or 'Style'. Though some of us excelled, we all learned enough to be dangerous. Also, 'semaphore', with 'Dog Latin' variants: As signalling thus implies a recipient, perhaps now contriving ambush, such activity must be honoured...

Our Gymnasium 'Apparatus' went far beyond the usual. Yes, we learned to climb, clamber, swing on ropes and such. We'd also notched poles as scaling and bridging ladders, zip-lines to rig and ride. We tackled obstacles singly and as a team. We learned carters', sailors' and anglers' clever 'bends', also the stage-magician's trick of evenly climb-knotting a coiled rope in one pass. We learned how drain-pipes, ivy, quoins and put-log notches may provide 'monkey' routes, then better ways of setting a padded grappling hook than a mere toss. We learned those intrepid Alpinists' skills of pitons, belaying and abseiling.

Calling our Gymnastic mat-work 'Dance' was a shameless lie: Much was 'Chinese Wrestling', bare-handed, else armed with batons, knives or what-have-you. To my surprise, I took to knife-work like a duck to water. My sparring partners, including Seniors, yielded like wheat to the scythe. And, after I thrice nimbly 'tagged' our Blade Master, he bowed, christened me 'Mongoose'.

[jemhouston]

I can't remember the name, but over RD verse, the Soviets had a program that took young girls, did nasty stuff to them, and made the operatives.


It was the Marvel's Red Room, only nastier. This seems like the kinder gentle version.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Nik-note: Am currently 'Speaker to Cat', singular, as, this morning, our beloved, bolder missy, 'Robbie The Ratter', who'd had a mild stroke just before New Year but seemed to have 'rallied', was found dead in mid-floor.
Down-side, her sib is distraught: They didn't get along, but, hey, 'family' !!
Upside, don't have to shift furniture, deploy probe-cam etc trying to find...
Off-side, must get expensive roof-repair re-done before can re-stock clan with 'missy & kits'...
{ Sigh... }
--
Chapter #04

Our maid-training took place in-situ, using Hartsfoot Hall's extensive kitchen and scullery, pantry and laundry, the grand and lesser rooms, the near-maze of public and service stairs. We'd mop, scrub, rug-beat, change bedding, fluffy-dust and polish. Affect small alterations and repairs to most fabrics. Haul wood and coal, set and light oven, stove and hearth-fires, clear their cinders and ashes. Place-set, serve and clear tables. Run errands, do domestic shopping.

This training became bilingual. Given the still-desperate situation, though, learning 'Low German' held a harsh logic. We first acquired a maid's meagre vocabulary, then extended it to technical matters. We were issued personal copies of 'Mein Kampf', learned to slowly, carefully, respectfully read it aloud. In truth, 'Know Your Enemy' ! We also learned a few useful phrases of French, Spanish, Polish and Russian.

One 'Theatrical' set held a generic, but intimidating front-office, variously 'Train', 'Post Office', 'Bank', 'Administrative' and 'Police'. A second offered a tiny 'Shopping Arcade' with butcher, baker, green-grocer, news-agent, hard-ware and 'wardrobe' stalls. Everything was real, the edibles destined for the kitchen. Yes, most of us had 'run errands', but not as 'Humble Menials', never mind 'Pitiful Anglics'. We learned to watch for hard-pressed or merely sly traders' tricks of 'short measure', 'short change', even light weights and mis-zeroed scales. 'Turn-about being fair play', we also learned to be shop-assistants, work scales and cash-register, neatly wrap purchases.

Our biggest 'set' was a nice corner suite, converted to faux-German. It had office, study, private lounge / dining and two bed rooms. This 'set' housed and was 'operated' by three of our incognito tutors, whose accents and out-look suggested 'Academic Viennese' origins. Off-stage, the two gents taught 'Physics' and 'Chemistry', the lady much of our 'Maths' and 'Music'. We learned to 'maid' inconspicuously, apparently incuriously. We were told we'd be watched, have bait, traps and markers, both overt and covert, set to snare the least hint of petty theft, never mind espionage. But, as our tutors warned, we were after bigger fish.

Nor did those tutors 'spare the rod': Any skew document, place-setting or bed-sheet drew a harsh caning. Worse, we had role-playing 'household' staff foully blame us 'Clumsy Anglics' for the least fault or flaw, be it real, imaginary or contrived. Our arms, butts and thighs were cruelly whacked, our faces slapped. Yet, though we suffered worse doing 'Gymnastic Dance', we must not take such domestic abuse in stoic silence, never mind 'In Our Stride'. We must weep and wail 'appropriately', ignore threats to 'Shut Up, Or I'll Hit You Again', take a boxer's 'long count'...

For, as our tutors warned, fighting back their own tears, we were after bigger fish...

'Arts and Crafts' ? Before beginning our 'Calligraphy / Penmanship' lessons, we had to formally swear not to use these skills for mere 'criminal' purpose. Our tutor, a bemused 'Master Forger' paroled from HMP Wandsworth, taught us many 'Tricks of the Trade'. Together, we studied, adapted, copied the German and other materials supplied. We learned many oft-subtle 'tells' to distinguish real from fake, be they documents or currency. Plus, a wicked, wicked wheeze, how to subtly tamper with real documents to make them seem fake, creating consternation.

We learned the rudiments of 'Work Shop' skills: Plumbing, carpentry, small metal, mechanics and 'electrics'. We saw how apparently harmless items such as the 'Common or Garden' replacements for a blown fuse-wire or drippy tap-washer provided wicked options. Using scant tools, we could readily improvise a lethal 'Prison Shank' or add a 'combat quillon' to a mere 'kitchen' knife.

We again had to swear that oath before studying the mechanisms of clocks and locks with a notorious 'Cracks-man' also paroled from HMP Wandsworth. Beyond crafting keys and 'picks', briskly opening doors, manacles, cases, keyed safes, cabinets and desks, we also learned how to progressively 'inconvenience' such unto 'exasperating' then 'near-seized'.

Beyond the obvious, copying or adapting a key, document stamp, even a ticket punch could be very useful. Modifying, slightly sabotaging a 'borrowed' item, even more so. Weeks, months might pass before 'Occupying Authorities' discovered the problem. The cascade of consequence could include wide-spread administrative distress as *all* others such were hastily located, listed, inspected, perhaps replaced by initially unfamiliar versions. As our tutors said, 'busy' document stamps, like type-writers, develop a 'finger-print', with 'tells' that may be studied, matched, traced. New versions are 'naive'...

We learned how to make clocks run fast, slow or merely 'erratic', confounding careful scheduling. How did Napoleon put it, ? 'Ask of me anything but Time !' An alarm-clock might be variously adapted for malicious purpose, prompting 'Alarums and Excursions', if not out-right disaster, 'In Absentia'. We contrived wicked traps and snares, sought more ways mischief and mishap might be delivered. A lump of coal or chunk of fire-wood could be bored to conceal an 'infernal device'. A bullet, preferably German, exploding within a stove or launching from a fire-place would surely ruin domestic harmony. Other 'inclusions' could do worse...

We learned the ins and outs of 'Small Arms', be they British, often 'legacy', American, German and French. What they could do, their best employ and such. I learned to shoot small-bore pistols equally well with either hand, how to craft workable 'mufflers' from a piped stack of rubber tap and springy 'dished' washers.

We were not told how that crate of German 'practise' grenades or their colour code chart were obtained, but we studied them with the care they deserved. Some of the Seniors could toss such 'sticks' a fair distance, the rest of us perforce contrived slings, sling-sticks etc. We figured how to emplace grenades as 'booby traps' attached to trip-wires, or placed under bait, bodies. We were taught how to dismantle 'live' versions, mischievously modify their fusing to 'delayed', 'short' or 'instant'.

We were told of the 'London Anarchists', who burrowed beneath the street from a cellar, set explosives to ravage a forthcoming 'Lord Mayor's Parade'. They lit their tunnelling with electric bulbs, but timed the blast with a traditional slow fuse. The parade ran late, the dire explosion was premature, the lessons obvious...

We learned how to efficiently 'nobble' German equipment, be it 'kubelwagon', a motorcycle-sidecar, staff-car, truck or half-track. Making sabotage look like 'road damage' was our ideal, such routine 'Wear and Tear' a murain upon depot mechanics and their logistics.

[Poohbah]

I can't remember the name, but over RD verse, the Soviets had a program that took young girls, did nasty stuff to them, and made the operatives.


It was the Marvel's Red Room, only nastier. This seems like the kinder gentle version.

Gatchina.

[jemhouston]

I can't remember the name, but over RD verse, the Soviets had a program that took young girls, did nasty stuff to them, and made the operatives.


It was the Marvel's Red Room, only nastier. This seems like the kinder gentle version.

Gatchina.

Thank you

[kdahm]

Nik-note: Am currently 'Speaker to Cat', singular, as, this morning, our beloved, bolder missy, 'Robbie The Ratter', who'd had a mild stroke just before New Year but seemed to have 'rallied', was found dead in mid-floor.
Down-side, her sib is distraught: They didn't get along, but, hey, 'family' !!
Upside, don't have to shift furniture, deploy probe-cam etc trying to find...
Off-side, must get expensive roof-repair re-done before can re-stock clan with 'missy & kits'...
{ Sigh... }

Very sorry to hear that. They are with us for so long a part of their lives, but so short for ours. The only real comfort is that is was quick.

Chapter #03

That intrepid Physicists had 'Split' such atoms. Why we must beware toxic 'Yellow Cake' and its scary kin, for a Uranium isotope's dividing atoms' fragments might split one or two more. The former, warily 'moderated' by Deuterium-rich 'Heavy Water', suited steam-raising for great turbines. The latter avalanched unto vast explosion. Beyond hyperbole, one such 'device' could indeed raze a city...

This part is anachronistic. Fermi's Chicago Pile-1 was in December 1942, and held in secrecy. The chain reaction was hypothesized in 1933, and fission discovered in 1938. This was more-or-less restricted to physics publications and wild-haired physicists. At the time of the pile, Fermi thought he knew what would happen, but wasn't sure.

The use of nuclear fission for a power reactor and for a Device was a deeply held secret for longer, and even those wild-haired physicists considered it a possibility only.

I would suggest replacing it with "Practical Chemisty". All kinds of ways of making rapid exothermic reactions, from thermite to ANDO to perchlorates. Plus civil engineering (or is that de-engineering), as in ways to remove structures and vehicles from operational existence using the results of that Practical Chemistry. Stressing methods to keep all of their fingers and eyes, of course.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

It is covered.
Yes, there was plenty of speculation about, much of it implausibly hyperbolic.
But, their incognito 'Academic Viennese Physicist' ?
What might he know, be able to extrapolate ??

[kdahm]

It is covered.
Yes, there was plenty of speculation about, much of it implausibly hyperbolic.
But, their incognito 'Academic Viennese Physicist' ?
What might he know, be able to extrapolate ??

I was speaking of replacing the physics description in the text with a practical chemistry description.

The physics bit, regardless of who gives it, is something that absolutely would not be taught. The girls are in essentially enemy territory, and some of them are likely to be captured and interrogated. It's not needed for their tasking, is highly classified, and the US and British absolutely do not want it to fall into British hands. Consider it like teaching French resistance members on Bletchely Park and the workings of the Bombe. Or telling front-line company grade officers about breaking Japanese codes.

Teach what's necessary. Teach optional stuff that could be useful in their jobs. If you have to, give them a few words or people's names to pay attention to and report upwards. Don't teach why those are important.

[Belushi TD]

Sorry to hear about your four footed loss. The furry ones are just as important as the two footed ones, and we love them no less.

My two cents...

I think I agree with kdahm about the nuke stuff.

Belushi TD

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter #05

As 'Land Girls', we learned to dig like badgers, keep our spades, mattocks and hoes scary-sharp. The Hall's formal gardens were reduced to remnants. Most of the 'Hallowed Turf' was cut, rolled, stacked to dry as 'peat'. The revealed surface was trenched for drainage, heaped to 'raised beds', planted with root-crops. South-facing walls were planted with fruit canes. Wide paths, even the Hall's grand steps, were narrowed by herb-filled planters.

As local farms were unable to 'bus in' their usual 'seasonal pickers', we were deployed. And, yes, I confounded a glum farmer by briskly diagnosing, un-tangling, re-fitting, correctly tensioning his old, horse-drawn hay-baler's oft-thrown belt. Then I warned him where the rusting frame had part-fractured welds which would soon require attention. Smiling, Miss Matlock added that I was rather more than 'mascot'...

Beyond Churchill or those 'Battle of Britain' pilots, the country's fate seems to have pivoted upon Captain 'Johnnie' Walker, sub-hunter supreme. Though in failing health, he was the bane of the 'U-Boots', his tactical genius keeping the sea-ways open.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter #06

Time-line 'A_1' AKA 'Almost OTL'

By the time valiant Captain Walker's exhausted heart finally failed, it was clear there'd be no invasion, no capitulation. Life would be hard, but we would endure.

So, us 'Dour Hall' girls would not require our lethal skills. Nor could we be allowed 'Active Service'. Our two HMP Parolees were transferred to 'Special Operations Executive' to contrive documents, instil skills. Our 'Viennese' went to the USA. Years later, I recognised them in the background of group-photographs of senior 'Manhattan Project' staff. Some of our Senior girls went as WRENs to Liverpool. They implacably plotted Wolf-Packs, extrapolated and war-gamed their tactics, trained RN and USN officers to outwit them. Most of our 'Musicians' joined the 'Interception' service, trawling German signals from the aether. Many 'Mathematicians' went as 'Clericals' to that vast hole in the map later revealed as 'Bletchley Park'. Those two 'specialist' nurses took 'Team Flirt' South. I'm fairly sure three starred in saucy 'Windmill Theatre' revues then several rather scandalous movies. So-ginger Michelle McGuire certainly seduced, mouse-trapped two dangerously 'blabby' senior US officers prior to D-Day...

I could not go back to my aunts. As with our neighbours, they had taken in several families 'bombed out' of the City. Too young to Serve, I became Miss Matlock's Assistant, Aide, Deputy. To our surprise, a 'bamboo' growth spurt left me taller than her, though 'Plain as a Pike-staff'. Apparently fated to follow my aunts into 'Maidenhood', I shrugged, got on with my work. As the last tutors and students left, and Hartsfoot Hall became a genuine 'Convalescence Centre', I became Miss Matlock's replacement. Some months after D-Day, I found myself eye-to-eye with a lanky USAF pilot. He had nursed his badly damaged B-17 back from those flack-filled skies over Germany, was visiting several injured crew his remarkable skill had saved.

We'd both scoffed at romantic blatherings of 'Love At First Sight', but...

Young Captain Eastwood was being 'rotated home' to become a training officer, I went as his bride. He rose to command a wing of 'Six Turning, Four Burning' SAC Behemoths, fathered our four children, doted on our six grand-children...

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter #07

Time Line 'A_2'.

UK officialdom deferred, deferred then denied my request to marry the Captain. Perhaps I was too dangerous to let go ? So, he returned to Homeville and, on the re-bound, married Sarah-Lee, a nice local girl. Still, with her approval, we remained 'pen-pals'...

Several years later, I looked up from my always-busy desk to find two familiar faces at the open office door. "Ooh ! Miss Matlock ! Miss Asher ! You look well !"

"As do you, Jackie !" She smiled. "But, in uniform, we'd be Captain Matlock and Lieutenant Asher, Military Police: 'Special Investigations'."

"Oh, dear," I sighed. "Has another of our patients been naughty ?"

"Not this time, Jackie ! After the way you 'spanked' the Hall's last trouble-maker, they're even more scared of you than the Matron !" Her face turned serious. "Is there some-where private we could talk ?"

"Uh, do I need a lawyer or witness ?"

"No. But though this is an unofficial visit, it will be 'Need to Know'."

"Okay. Come in, close the door, pull the shutter down," I directed. "Grab seats: They're all the same, too worn for 'smart'. Shall I put the kettle on for tea ?"

"No, thank you." Captain Matlock shook her head. "Our 'Special Investigations' teams trawl the German records, the prisons and many 'Displaced Persons' camps for war-criminals and atrocity witnesses. We find, arrest the 'clericals' who wrote, authorised and processed the orders, the surviving overseers, warders and guards who ran those slave factories and death camps, did unspeakable deeds.

"My team hunt the women."

"Hard work," I allowed. "They won't want to be found..."

"That is putting it mildly," Cpt. Matlock replied as Lt. Asher nodded glumly.

"So, what brings you to my humble abode ?"

"To prevent us becoming too 'stale', we're routinely rotated home, given a few months of less ghastly investigations. Among which, thanks to your 'war-bride' refusal, there was a file on you. With an open query: Why were you refused ?"

"Huh ?" I shook my head. "I thought it was down to us 'Dour Halls' being too dangerous to 'let off the leash'..."

"You are half-right, Jackie." Cpt. Matlock sighed. "Took some digging and, yes, some serious arm-twisting. In the end, we heard through back-channels that it was the Americans who blocked you. Not your nice pilot, *you*. Veto came all the way down from J. Edgar Hoover !"

"Uh ? Okay, what could I have done to be on his 'Naughty List' ?"

"You came through 'Dour Hall'."

"Oh, dear..." I groaned. "But I thought all documentation was destroyed ?"

"It was. I made double-damned sure. Which made this personal...

"Here's what we think happened: You remember our 'Viennese' prial ? Well, they did a lot of work for the 'Manhattan Project'. In fact, all three became quite senior. Which may be how the FBI learned of 'Dour Hall'." Cpt. Matlock took a long breath. "We know some English 'Project' scientists became concerned the US was getting a monopoly on nukes, leaked lots to the ruddy Russians. Who, it seems, already had their own spies in place. Plus, we think, they've enough emplaced *here* to cover for each other. Set in like fly-strike maggots ! There'll be terrible, terrible scandal when they're found...

"So, for the US authorities, us Brits are no longer their best friends..." Cpt. Matlock sighed. "Now it is official, with a distinct chill in the diplomatic air. But it had already begun when you and Captain Eastwood applied.

"He'd been ear-marked for 'Strategic Air Command'. You'd come through 'Dour Hall', so tick all the boxes for 'Spy / Assassin'. Who knows what pillow-talk you'd share ?"

"Uh... Uh... I know he's in SAC. I know he commands a wing of those six-turning, four-burning behemoth nuke bombers. For Pete's sake, Jimmy Stewart was his jump-seater in that 'documentary' ! But, never mind what's on the news-reels or in 'Flight' magazine," I waved at the shelf with its bound volumes, "our letters do not hold even the least hint, the least clue, the least query about his work. Never have, never will.

"It would not be fair...

"Still, thanks to our friendly forger, I can tell his type-written letters get seriously scrutinised. Routinely re-typed, perhaps twice. Paraphrased to throw off codes, ciphers, micro-dots and such. Loupe inspection shows it is the same model type-writer, just three different machines. Their family photos are cropped copies. And their post always takes a week or two longer than it should.

I waved at my desk's machine. "I reckon my letters get the same treatment."

"They do," Cpt. Matlock admitted. "Re-typed over here, re-typed over there. Official opinion is that your correspondence is so anodyne that it is almost suspicious..."

"Huh. Do our censors know about 'Dour Hall' ?"

"No. Justification is that, some years back, you had extended contact with some-one who might yet take advantage of that old friendship for an apparently harmless 'Small Favour'."

"Fair enough." I shook my head. "At least now I know the truth. Or, um, enough of the truth to salve my soul. Thank you."

Cpt. Matlock nodded, said, "Jackie, there's some-thing else: When our 'live' hunt winds down, as we shift to 'peace-time' work, most of our 'Regulars' will finish their enlistments, go back to 'Civvy Street', many joining the civil Police. We intend to recruit a team of specialist civilian 'Investigators'. Think 'Sutton Hoo', how 'Field Archaeologists' meticulously map and record, figure what really happened. There'll be excellent training, lots of variety, good pay and prospects.

"Would you be interested ?"

"Hmm..." I loved 'Detective Mysteries', or at least the 'proper' tales, with all their clues there to be studied, rather than a 'Deus ex Machina' on the last page. And, yes, here at 'Hartsfoot Hall', I was bored to tears.

Cpt. Matlock read my expression, put a business card on the desk. "No hurry but, please, think about it..."

[jemhouston]

I can't remember much about the story this comes from, but I do remember the "Law of the Tool." Once invented a tool can't be uninvented. Even if destroyed, the memory of it remainds.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

"The Law of the Tool"

Yes. Though Byzantium's 'Beyond Top Secret' recipe(s) for 'Greek Fire' got lost, guns developed.
And the US reportedly spent umpteen millions re-creating 'FOGBANK', that thermo-nukes' aero-gel 'filler' which flatly refused to 'gel' using modern reagents. Like the infamous catalytic trace of oxygen required to make the first poly-ethylene, seems now-routine 'Analar' was just too pure...

I think "The Law of the Tool" came from one of those wondrous 50s era short SciFi tales, perhaps re-worked as eg an 'Outer Limits'...

All I've been able to find is 'The Law of the Instrument', AKA 'Cognitive Bias'. Claimed by several, seems but a less-witty re-phrasing of Mark Twain's acerbic, "When all you have is a hammer..."

FWIW, I've seen a version of that, meant as an 'Inspirational Business Poster™', but wickedly retitled, 'When all you have is an MBA, every-one looks like a clone..."

[jemhouston]

Speaking of MBAs, Ben Rich said, "Harvard Business School = 2/3 BS."