Under Other Circumstances: A Hank Barton Tale

by Jim DelRosso

Under other circumstances, I gladly would’ve talked to the man. My German’s good, no accent good, and I’m certain it wouldn’t have taken me long to convince the young man guarding the door of my credentials. But either someone tipped off the commanders of this well-hidden Alpine base that I was on my way or my face is more famous in Germany than I thought, because after one look I found myself ducking a haymaker that would’ve gotten this strapping young Aryan twenty push-ups if he’d thrown it in Baxter Thomas’ gym back in New York.

I’d like to think the hook I replied with would’ve garnered a bit more appreciation. In any case, the guard dropped like a sack, and for my trouble I got his keys and a bit of hope that my sister’s kids wouldn’t be sieg heiling in school this time next year.

I’m not sure who was more surprised when I unlocked the door at the end of the hallway, me or the three submachine-gun-toting guards who I caught in the midst of discussing their last leave in Berlin. Now, I’ll say this for the Nazi: he makes a fine weapon. I knew that if they got those guns up, I’d be ending the night in a shallow grave behind the base.

Fortunately, I’d drawn my .45s the second the door swung open. The German guns stayed down. But all the noise meant my time was a damn sight shorter than it had been a second before; company was surely on its way. I leapt through the door at the opposite end of the room, and wished not for the first time that I’ll killed Ernst Hallenbeck three weeks ago in New Mexico.

This is a work in progress -- as more gets written, more will be uploaded here. -- Jim