Smugler's Blues Chap 1

The first sensation that assaulted him was a blinding white light first in his left eye, then another long flash in his right eye, which made him aware of his pain.  The combination of searing pain and physical exhaustion prevented him from fending of the light.  Although he couldn’t see clearly, he could sense he was in a hospital of some sort by the odor of disinfectant surrounding him.  Somewhere nearby a radio played the Andrew Sisters singing “Boogy-Woogy Bugle Boy”.

“Steady - Old chap.” A disembodied voice with a crisp British accent advised him, as the blinding light withdrew.

He heard the whirl and chirp of medical equipment, connected to him trying to keep him alive.  Somewhere nearby a pump repeatedly filled then emptied itself, forcing air in and out of his lungs. 

As he began coughing, fighting to breath, the disembodied British doctor explained what he was going to do.  “I’m going to remove you from the ventilator.  You’re now able to breath on your own.”  He informed the patient. 

“When I remove the tube, I need you to blow through your mouth, just as long and as hard as you can.  Do you think you can do that for me old chap?”  The doctor asked.

“OK – blow as hard as you can, then.”  The doctor signaled the patient, as he removed the endotracheal tube, which had been supplying the patient with oxygen.

The patient coughed several times as he adjusted to breathing on his own.  Within several seconds, the images surrounding him became clearer, although waves of pain crashed against him.  He blinked his eyes several times attempting to focus on his surroundings. 

“I have to apologize for the spotlight in the eyes old chap.  I had to ensure someone was actually home, as it were.”  The doctor informed the patient, sounding quite proud of some major accomplishment.

“Where am I?” The patient whispered.

“Oh right you are!  You have been out of it for a bit….  You surely gave the Gassers and the Slashers a run for their money. Ay, What?”  The doctor mused referring to the surgeons and anesthesiologists. 

“You are presently at Brigs Park Hospital, Kingston.”

“Jamaica?”  The wounded man asked uncertainly.

“None other, old bean, all safe and sound now – right?”  The doctor reassured the patient. 

“How long have I been here?”  The patient asked as his breathing became easier.

“You arrived here nearly a fortnight ago.  A Destroyer on its way here came across the smoke signal you had ignited.  She sent out a search party and brought you back onboard.  They say you nearly burned the entire island to a cinder…”  The doctor informed his patient.

“There’s time for all that rot, later.  Let’s try something simple.  Can you tell me your name?”  The doctor asked.

“James” He gasped.  “James Benoit.”

“? Parlez-vous Français Monsieur Benoit ?” The doctor asked with a hideous accent.

“Bien sûr, je parle français, je Suis de la Nouvelle-Orléans.” The patient rasped in his native Cajun dialect.

“You did say, you’re from New Orleans?”  The doctor asked, ensuring his translation was correct.

The patient nodded his head to the affirmative.

“You’re a Yank then?  Excellent!  Your language skills appear to be in tact. Most excellent! Quite! Quite! And although you are a long way from home, I’d say you are a very lucky young man.  For the time being, I want you to rest up and gather your strength.  As you begin feeling better, we will work on getting you ambulatory.  In the meantime I believe a chaplain has been anxious to talk with you.”  The doctor dismissed the grievously wounded American.

From somewhere within the large hospital ward the rhythmic sounds of The Andrew Sisters singing “Beat me Daddy, Eight to the bar”.  In the middle of the song, the broadcast was interrupted with a news flash indicating the General Douglas MacArthur was ordered to withdraw from the Philippines as hundreds of thousands of American and Filipino troops were surrounded in the city of Bataan on the Corrigedor peninsular.  For several seconds the ward was silent as the grim news sunk in.

The patient accepted the setbacks in The Pacific as he turned his thoughts to the war in the Atlantic.  He wondered how much longer the war would have been had he not been able to save the Panama Canal from Nazi saboteurs.  The Canal was the only way to move troops and supplies from the Pacific to the Atlantic.

“Well lookie who’s awake!” A cheerful woman’s voice exclaimed, her London accent almost singsong to James Benoit’s ear.  As his vision cleared a gorgeous redhead, dressed in a striped uniform appeared above him.  The woman’s pale blue eyes and milky complexion were almost translucent when contrasted to her full pink lips.  Her wide smile revealed a full set of dazzling white teeth, almost too perfect to be real.  She stroked his cheek as she placed a cool cloth against his forehead.

“I’m dieing of thirst…”  The patient whispered and coughed.

“Steady there Luv.”  The nurses’ aid assured her patient.  “You’ve been on the ventilator for nearly a fortnight.  Your throat will be raw for a bit.” She sympathized with the wounded man.  “Let me check your chart and see if you can have something to drink, Luv.  Won’t be but a tock.”  She assured him as she drifted away.

Unable to see little more than the drab white ceiling above him, James Benoit listened to the activities around him. Although the ward was relatively quiet, the sounds of medicine and the ravages of war filled the room.  The woman in the striped uniform rematerialized above him along with a whisper of the perfume she wore.

“The charts says NPO Luv.”  The nurses’ aid informed the patient.  “But the head nurse said I could feed you some ice chips if you’d care…”  She gently stroked his exposed cheek as she attempted to make him more comfortable.

“Please…” James croaked as he parted his cracked, dry lips.

“You just lay there quietly and let me do all the work, Luv…”  She replied as she began placing small chips of ice in the patient’s mouth. 

“My name is Clarisse.  If there’s absolutely anything you need, tell me and I’ll take good care of you.”  She cooed.

“Now can you tell me your name then?  Or will I have to interrogate you then?”  She coaxed as she flashed her gorgeous smile.

“James Benoit. Friends call me JEB.”  He replied in a horse whisper.

“Jeb…”  The nurse said, testing how the name felt to her mouth.  “No, Luv, YOU are clearly a James, but you understand I DO want you to count ME as one of your friends.”  Her voice reminded JEB of melting butter over French Toast, all warm and sweet.

JEB managed to smile at his aid, Clarisse.  She was a vision of an angel as surely as any etched in a church window.  Her gentle touch and soft caring voice did much to reduce his pain.  “I suppose, if you insist, it will have to be James then, Clarisse.”  JEB assured her, as his voice became marginally stronger.

Clarisse paused feeding her recovering patient ice chips and applied a cold wet cloth to his face, then applied an ointment to his lips.  “This will make your lips feel better in a bit Luv, they can’t be feeling any too pleasant about now…”  She coaxed her patient.   

“You nearly had the doctors convinced you weren’t coming back to us.”  The young woman confided to her patient. 

“But I knew you were going to be just fine…”  She said gently, as a mother would comfort an ill child.

“I have the gift…”  Clarisse explained matter-of-factly as he returned to feeding him more ice.  “But me mum had it too…”  She admitted. 

Clarisse fed JEB small pieces of ice as she explained her gift.  “We can feel the spirits that exist around us all…  And I just knew, you’d be coming back to us…”  The redheaded beauty sounded as if she sincerely believed she could commune with netherworld, but JEB was far too week to entertain a deep conversation. 
***
“Mr. Benoit, are you up to some company, an American Navy Chaplain has been waiting to speak to you since you arrived?  He has barely an inch moved from your side, all the while you were here.” Clarisse asked.

Materializing directly above him, a Navy chaplain leaned close to the now conscious patient and whispered, “I want to share the joy of Jesus Christ with you my son.”

The woman in the striped uniform slowly backed away from the patient and the priest, it was then the priest began whispering in James Benoit’s ear.  “I’m Commander Nathan Finnegan, here to debrief you sir.”  The man hurriedly whispered, his lips nearly touching the patient’s ear.

“Benoit, James E, Lieutenant, US Army, Signal Corps, Service number 126-265H,  assigned to temporary duty to Naval Intelligence, Atlantic Command?”  The priest informed rather than inquired of the wounded man.

“You’ve got the wrong guy, Padre.”  The patient said weakly, “I’m not even in the Army.  I’m a civilian.”  The patient protested, sounding as if he was trying to talk his way out of a parking ticket. 

The masquerading Navy Chaplain was well acquainted with Lt. James J.E.B. Benoit’s background. The Commander had received a rather thick file on Lieutenant Benoit, which he studied thoroughly.  The dossier verified the wounded man possessed a Masters degree in Business Management from Harvard.  The bandaged patient lying in a British military hospital had until recently been working on a college project in the West Indies and Central America.  What few people knew is during the same time, he was also organizing, infiltrating or disrupting Nazi, Vichy or French Resistance activities in America’s Southern Hemisphere.

Along with the pertinent information regarding James Benoit’s background, he had memorized the appropriate sign and counter sign that would identify him as someone cleared to discuss this operation.  “Cleopatra says there will be snow…”  The priest whispered in JEB’s ear.  If the man lying in the hospital bed before him was who he claimed to be, he would ask the priest from where the snow was coming from.

“Where from?”  Lt. Benoit asked, still weak from his injuries.

“From the East.”  The Naval commander replied, thus completing the cloak and dagger identification nonsense, he was often forced to participate in.

“Washington was concerned you might have become a target. I was assigned to keep an eye open for you and to debrief you.”  The masquerading intelligence officer / chaplain confided.  “Your file indicated that you had been raised Catholic, so I figured I would draw less attention if I masqueraded as a chaplain.  Otherwise I might have attracted unwanted attention watching over you these past twelve days.”  Commander Finnegan whispered in his ear, explaining his unusual appearance.

Lt. James Benoit spoke in whispers partially due to his injuries, but also due to the nature of the information that was passing between him and his dog-collared visitor.  The Commander listened carefully to the raspy whispers of his counterpart, nodding his head occasionally, as if understanding his parishioner’s shortcomings and frailties.  To anyone observing the meeting, they looked like any other priest and proselyte, quietly exchanging words that no one beyond them would ever hear.

“I discovered a straw-man on Dominique.  I intercepted short bust messages on the UHF band.  They use the standard German Navy enigma code.  He acts as a relay between u-boats in the Atlantic and agents in the West Indies and Central America.”  The wounded man told the Chaplain / Naval Intelligence Officer.

“How do the u-boats approach their targets?”  The Navy Commander masquerading as a priest asked.

“If they are delivering agents bound for South or Central America, they use Vichy controlled island of Martinique.  The u-boat anchors offshore and sends in a motor launch.”  The wounded Stanford biologist / Army Intelligence officer answered.

“The intelligence we have been receiving seams to indicate a lot of activity in Panama.  Do you have any idea why so many curriers are going there suddenly?”

“I managed to sneak down to Panama City before the operation was blown.  From what I gathered, it looks as though the Nazis are hiding money in Panamanian banks.  From the looks of it, millions and millions of dollars are being funneled to there.”  Lt. Benoit speculated quietly.

“It’s as if they’re…”  The wounded man contemplated.