James Bond's Boyhood Adventures 14

By Pueros

(With thanks to Erik for some of the original ideas behind this saga.)

Chapter 14 – Mosquitoes

(An RAF airbase, somewhere in Southern England, November 1941)

Felix was resting, having already enjoyed his daily session practising to fly a Lysander aircraft. The young American’s recall to England for so-called ‘consultations’ had turned out to be more about training for the subversive activities to come.

Felix had flown crop dusters back on his parents’ farm in the United States. His superiors in the British Special Operations Executive, or ‘SOE’, had decreed that it would be useful for the young American to build on this knowledge and also tackle the not dissimilar ‘Lyzzie’, as no-one knew when such expertise might come in useful.

Felix, who was of Swiss ancestry, had, in fact, because of his flying ability, originally come to Britain to volunteer for the RAF’s Eagle Squadron, manned by Americans, despite their country’s continuing neutrality in the war. However, despite the chronic shortage of pilots to combat the might Luftwaffe, especially during the Battle of Britain, the young man had instead been diverted to secret operations because of his language skills and pre-war knowledge, through regular visits, of continental Europe.

It was a common joke, amongst the gregarious Anglophile Felix’s many British friends, that the young man spoke much better French and German than English, because the latter, unlike the former, was laced with a strong American accent. However, the jest was not entirely correct because their young ally from the former rebel colonies could linguistically imitate a local snobby upper-class toff with aplomb.

Felix was currently lying on his bunk in the hut provided for transitory trainee pilots, passing the time by attempting the crossword in that day’s ‘The Times’ newspaper, which normally only took him minutes to finish successfully. His eyes immediately fixed on one particular cryptic clue for an 8-letter word. This read ‘Hopefully the British species of this creature will give the Nazis something even worse than malaria.’ The young American did not have to vex his mind too long over the answer because, if he turned his head to the left to look out of the nearby window, he could actually see the solution.

Accordingly, Felix immediately wrote the word ‘mosquito’ in the relevant squares.

(Brittany, France, same time)

Jean’s confidence at his ability to withstand the visitation of the Germans to his remote farmhouse was shattered when the first vehicle of the small Teutonic convoy drew up in front of him and, amongst other plain cloths Gestapo, he saw Blofeld junior step out of the Mercedes.

It was immediately apparent from the look of delighted recall on Blofeld’s face that he had recognised Jean, who, in turn, instantly appreciated that his cover was blown and that attempted flight was the only realistic option. The beautiful unarmed French youth therefore turned quickly on his heel and made a desperate run for the farmhouse. His intention was to flee through the refuge provided by the stone building to the back, where trees in a nearby orchard might supply sufficient camouflaged protection to facilitate successful escape.

Unfortunately, Blofeld’s reaction was equally speedy. The young German, not very good at using his new Walther PPK himself, shouted authoritatively to his adult colleagues “Capture him alive!”

Also unfortunately, one of Blofeld’s Gestapo compatriots was a sharpshooter and one shot from his own pistol achieved Ernst Stavro’s request. A bullet penetrated Jean’s right leg, causing the French youth to collapse to the ground.

Although Jean subsequently tried desperately to regain his feet and stumble on, he was too late, being rapidly surrounded by his armed pursuers, one of whom was the smirking younger Blofeld.

“Well, hello again,” Blofeld greeted the agonised prone Jean, in his accented French, “and I have to say that I’m very pleased to see you once more. I think we have a lot of news to catch up on, particularly about what you’ve been up to since your escape from our protection 12 months ago, and I know the perfect place for our little chat. You’ll recognise it, of course, having once spent a whole pleasant night with me there. I wonder how long it’ll take this time to tell me all you know?”

(An RAF airbase, somewhere in Southern England, same time)

Felix suddenly experienced a painful cramp in his right leg, a phenomenon that was accompanied by a dark feeling of foreboding. He left his bed to try to restore his limb’s wellbeing by massage and activity, the latter comprising a walk outside, which he hoped would help to dispel the peculiar inauspicious feeling that had settled on him.

Felix’s action was assisted by realisation that it was also time to meet again the pilot of the Mosquito aircraft, who had promised him another flight in the new plane.

(Dinard, Brittany, France, later that day)

Blofeld junior stormed in anger out of Gestapo headquarters to return to Jean’s farmhouse, having been ordered to assist his colleagues in searching the property for the undoubted resistance materials that were hidden there. The German youth was furious because his parent, a Sturmbannfuhrer and local commander of the Staatspolizei in Dinard, had decided that he wanted the lone pleasure of interrogating the young beautiful French captive himself.

The rightfully tremulous Jean was once more naked and suspended from the ceiling of the cellar in Gestapo headquarters, where Ernst Stavro had raped, tortured and castrated him. However, the 17 years old, wounded leg already hurting badly, now realised that he was imminently to suffer even worse. Unlike last time, the French youth currently possessed much information relating to resistance activities that the Germans did not know.

Jean therefore appreciated that his interrogator would not stop asking his questions until he was sure that he had secured all the data that there was to collect from his young captive. The French youth also realised that, as he was an unwilling informant, he was going to have to endure much torment during the hours and possibly days ahead, which he did not realistically expect ultimately to survive, at least in any worthwhile liveable condition. The 17 years old additionally recognised that he would indeed eventually probably tell all, as there was a limit to what humans can endure. However, he planned to extend the period it took to extract the information from him for as long as possible, in order to give his resistance colleagues time to learn of his arrest and make their own escape before he succumbed to giving their identities away.

“Now, boy,” the evilly grinning Blofeld senior announced, “I suggest that it would be better to tell me everything about your group of murderous saboteurs before you come to too much harm. If you don’t, let me advise you of what I propose to do until you do, much of which I’m sure you’ll remember from your time here with someone who was then a member of the Hitler Youth. We’ll start off with the paddles, canes and whips before progressing to clamps and eventually the electric and water tortures. If you’re still recalcitrant, I’ll have to use the red-hot irons. If you continue to annoy me with your answers, I’m afraid that I’ll then have to start to dismember you bit by bit!”

Blofeld senior reinforced his latest proposal by holding Jean’s pleasant long flaccid cock in his right palm and stating “As the Hitler Youth has already deprived you of your balls, I think that it’ll be appropriate if I first finish the genital work by cutting your penis off. Then, I think your fingers and toes could follow. My attention would then turn to your face, with the rest of your teeth extracted, your ears and nose being lost, and finally your eyes. I’ll naturally leave your tongue in place because I’m sure that, amidst all this excruciating suffering, you’ll want to talk with informative abandon sometime!”

Blofeld’s own ugly Teutonic face was then covered with Gallic phlegm in brave retort to his dreadful proposals. However, the Sturmbannfuhrer retained his composure and simply began to wipe the oral fluid from his visage with his left hand whilst he simultaneously fiercely squeezed Jean’s cock with his right. He then suggested to the courageous but now agonised French youth, who was uttering the first of many agonised groans that were to resound round the cellar overnight, along with many screams indicating great distress, that “I think, boy, you’ll find that that action was very unwise!”

(Corregidor Island, Philippines, same time)

It was already well past dark in the Philippines and Douglas MacArthur was lying alone on his own bed, protected from the inevitable mosquitoes by an all-engulfing net. President Roosevelt had recalled the general from retirement earlier in the year to active service in command of U.S. Army Forces, Far East, based in the islands.

Mobilisation, planning, organisation, training and equipping of his own command and the Philippine army had occupied the general since his return to the islands, where he had previously spent much time during the years between the two World Wars. MacArthur and Roosevelt both feared that the avaricious Japanese, seemingly bent on creating a self-sufficient empire in the area under the guise of a co-prosperity zone, might be daft enough to invade.

In fact, as MacArthur read the latest intelligence reports, the general became even more convinced that something momentous would soon happen somewhere. He was also convinced that his own forces on the Philippines were not yet ready to repel a Japanese invasion.

(An RAF airbase, somewhere in Southern England, same time)

It was still light in England as Felix climbed down from the two-seat Mosquito aircraft, exhilarated by the flight because it was the fastest he had ever travelled. The young American was also delighted that the pilot had declared him to be an excellent support, capable of going on combat missions with him anytime.

The de Haviland Mosquito was a remarkable aircraft, not least because most of it was made of wood. It was also beautiful to look at, a pleasure to fly and faster, at over 400 mph, than most contemporary planes.

The Mosquito, powered by Rolls Royce Merlin engines, was originally designed to be an unarmed bomber, which would rely on its speed to evade enemy fighters. However, by the end of World War 2, the versatility and superb handling characteristics, of the 7000+ aircraft of its type built, had enabled it to play many other vital roles.

The first prototype flew in November 1940 and the first Mosquito to enter service did so in September 1941, as a long-range photo-reconnaissance aircraft. In deep penetration missions over German-occupied Europe, the planes quickly demonstrated their ability to out-pace any enemy fighter, so much so that losses throughout the war would prove very light.

The second type of Mosquito to enter service, in November 1941, was a bomber variant, the BIV, whose pair of 1250 horsepower Merlin XXI engines was capable of carrying 2000 pounds of bombs. These aircraft rapidly acquired an enviable reputation to deliver their deadly cargoes with devastating pinpoint accuracy over long ranges. It was from this new version of the plane, fresh from the factory and resplendent in its dark green and light grey camouflage paint, that Felix was now clambering, whilst his strange feeling of foreboding was suddenly returning.

Felix’s perplexing emotion was compounded when he was met on the tarmac by a private of the RAF Regiment, responsible for force security, carrying an urgent verbal request that the young American immediately visit the airfield commandant’s office.

When Felix arrived, the commandant, addressing the young American by his official SOE rank, picked up his telephone, dialled a number and, when a voice answered, advised “Someone wants to speak to you, Lieutenant!” The RAF officer then discreetly left the room whilst the resultant conversation proceeded.

Felix’s face became a deathly shade of white as he was acquainted with the appalling news, bravely sent via Morse radio by a member of his Brittany resistance group before the Frenchman concerned went into hiding. After eventually putting down the telephone handset with his now shaking hand, the young American began to sob uncontrollably. However, after an elapse of several minutes, he suddenly realised that such emotion was doing no good whatsoever for his beloved Jean, now in the evil hands of the Gestapo and undoubtedly suffering horribly to encourage him to reveal his knowledge.

Felix then looked out of the RAF commandant’s window and once more saw the Mosquito in which he had just flown. The dreadful idea came to the young American at once and he initially tried to drive it from his distraught mind. However, the thought would not go away, as if it had been planted there by some undeniable omnipotence.

The distressed Felix eventually recognised that there was no other choice to save his beloved Jean. The young American therefore collected the telephone handset again to speak once more to his SOE superior.

Felix’s suggestion was reluctantly accepted.

(Dinard, Brittany, France, next morning)

Blofeld senior had used all his paddles, canes and whips, and clamps and electrical and water devices, as well as the red-hot irons, on Jean’s devastated body, now already well beyond repair. However, the French youth had only very slowly revealed some of the required information, hoping that his pleas that this was all he knew would be accepted.

Unfortunately, Blofeld senior was too expert an interrogator to believe such brave falsehood and he therefore proposed to continue relentlessly with Jean’s torture, following the schedule he had appraised his young victim about on the previous evening. This now entailed cutting off the youth’s cock before dismembering other parts of the 17 years old’s formerly beautiful anatomy.

Blofeld senior pulled on the flaccid cock of the tearful agonised Jean, stretching the doomed penis vulnerably to receive the Sturmbannfuhrer’s knife. The French youth, despite the excruciation searing though other parts of his tortured body, felt the cold steel come to rest against the underside base of his member.

“Now, boy,” Blofeld senior suggested, “tell me the truth. I want the identity of all the other members of your murderous group or you lose your dick. I’ll then slowly, bit by agonising bit, despatch you to hell!” However, the Sturmbannfuhrer was now shocked to observe Jean’s facial expression suddenly change from one of deep lachrymose torment to one displaying a sweet smile. The local Gestapo commander also received another copious coating of phlegm across his own visage.

As Blofeld senior began viciously to slice off Jean’s cock in instant infuriated retaliation, the Sturmbannfuhrer was further confused when, despite the anguish his victim now had to be enduring, the French youth exclaimed, with apparent incongruous delight, “It seems you’re going to accompany me to hell!”

It was then that Blofeld senior heard the twin Merlin engines above and the unmistakable screeching noise, becoming ever louder, of single large bomb begin to fall. However, the Sturmbannfuhrer had no time to appreciate anything else, as the 2000 pound heavy explosive easily penetrated the upper storeys of Gestapo headquarters before performing its fatal function in the cellar.

The last sight that Blofeld senior ever saw from his phlegm-spattered eyes was Jean. The French youth, somehow prescient of what was about to happen before the aircraft above was audible, was smiling back at him, just before virtually every trace of the 17 years old and the Staatspolizei officer was wiped from the face of the earth.

Several Gestapo colleagues above were simultaneously to join their leader on the road to hell. However, no friend, who knew the beautiful brave Jean, believed that the French youth would be going to the same destination.

Meanwhile, the co-pilot of the Mosquito in the sky above, who doubled as the bomb-aimer, sobbed profusely as the low-flying aircraft began its steep climb and turn, to return whence it came. Felix could not prevent his emotion, especially as he had clearly just heard Jean’s voice whisper in the young American’s mind “Thank you. See you in heaven later!”

(Brittany, France, December 1941)

Felix had returned to Brittany, via a Lysander, to regroup his local resistance organisation. The young American appreciated that his duty had been made much easier by Jean’s selfless endurance because it was clearly evident that, by the time of his ultimate sacrifice, the courageous French youth had betrayed no-one.

Felix, possessing a new cover, as a mere itinerant agricultural labourer, was now more determined than ever to play his part in the eventual defeat of the Nazis, although he could not yet see how this could really be achieved without the entry of his homeland into the war. However, the young American was not currently performing resistance activities. He was instead feeding some pigs on the remote farm that now formed his group’s secret base because it was owned by one of the members.

Felix, not normally one to be taken by surprise, now jumped with fright when a sudden voice next to him declared “Hello!” The young American immediately turned to see a young pretty but rather dirty and disheveled boy, about 13 years old and with something familiar about him, also standing adjacent to the large smelly pigsty.

Felix relaxed, relieved that the intruder was not a German, and returned the greeting before not unnaturally enquiring “Who are you and what brings you here?” However, the young American’s previous surprise returned when the boy answered “I’m looking for Penknife!”

Felix immediately recognised his own resistance code-name, an appellation derived from his Swiss heritage. “I d….don’t know any Penknife,” the young shocked American managed to stutter unconvincingly. He was later sure that, if the question had been asked by a German, he would have responded with much greater conviction, but claimed that the fact that the query emanated from a young boy had disorientated him.

Nevertheless, it was not just Felix’s unconvincing reply that now induced the boy to retort “I think you do because I think you’re Penknife.” The young American tried to retrieve the situation by again denying the truth, before repeating “Who are you?”

The boy responded with a delightful smile that Felix would have recognised anywhere. “My name’s Antoine,” the 13 years old announced, “I’m Jean’s younger brother and I’ve come to kill Bosch!”

Antoine made his declaration on a Saturday. The next day was Sunday, the 7th of December, 1941.

(To be continued in chapter 15 – ‘Infamies’)

*