In the beginning there was only one world and when our world happened, the two were divided, sealed from one another. But as time passed it grew tired and what was on the other side started permeating.
Soon what should have been left untouched was studied and used by oppressors and oppressed alike.
Testimony from an unknown source
Somewhere, in Nazi-occupied France
“Everyone shut up and keep your hands where I can see them,” ordered the British captain. “There is no need to shoot a bullet tonight if you cooperate.”
One of his soldiers repeated the order in German, then in French.
Nobody moved. It had been a quiet, boring night until that point. Just a couple of French peasants gathered after a hard day of work and a group of five Wehrmacht officers loudly enjoying their free beer. Nobody had seen the British commando coming in. Nobody expected any trouble from such a small village in the French countryside.
“One last time,” the Captain went on. “I’m looking for a certain Mr. Western Evelyn Smith.”
A young Oberleutnant rose to his feet.
“Englisch?” he shouted. “Was ist es-”
“Guter!” another man interrupted him. “Sitz still.”
He was older than all the others sitting at the table. A well-shaved face wearing the SS uniform and the Hauptsturmführer insignia. He looked calm and kept his hands well spread over the wooden surface.
“I am the Hauptsturmführer Johan Schiller,” he said. “At this moment I am the highest-ranked German officer in this tavern.”
The British captain walked towards him.
“Lt. John Hurding,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nazi-man.”
The German’s left eye twitched, but he didn’t respond to the insult.
“Lt. Hurding,” he said with a heavy Munich accent. “Can you explain this... this... ambush?”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“I already did. I’m looking for a man that goes by the name Western Smith. I’ll take him with me and we don’t have to see each other again until the King’s riflemen enter Berlin.”
Mr. Nazi-man smiled back.
“Smith?” he asked looking around in mockery. “I don’t think you’ll find any Englishman here beside your soldiers.”
“Is that so?”
Lt. Hurding turned back to face the room.
“We are in a bit of a hurry,” he explained. “There is a war to win. No time to be wasted. So, how about I’ll start shooting people until Mr. Smith decides it’s time to come out?”
The translator had barely the time to open his mouth before Lt. Hurding grabbed a quivering Frenchman by the collar.
“Smith!” he barked in his face. “Where is he?”
The poor peasant looked like a trembling piece of chalk.
“Je ne sais pas!” he mumbled. “Je ne sais pas!”
The British officer threw the man over a table, smashing all the half-empty glasses, and pointed his Sten rifle at him.
“Smith!” he ordered once more. “Where is Western Smith?”
It looked as if he were about to shoot, but someone grabbed his arm.
“There is no need for such a hustle.”
The calm voice had come from a strict-looking woman of thirty. She too wore a military outfit, but with no insignia and it was clear she was not used to it.
She walked toward the Wehrmacht officer’s table with sharp bright blue eyes.
“Isn’t that so, Mr. Smith?” she asked.
The Hauptsturmführer Schiller stared at her as if she were crazy. All of the Germans but one had a completely puzzled expression on their faces. The dark-haired man dressed as a Wehrmacht Oberleutnant in the middle of the group however looked rather pleased with the whole situation.
“Have we met, perhaps?” he asked curiously in perfect Oxford English.
“Not at all.”
“Then how did you know it was me?”
Dr. Anita Ostborn smirked as if that was a stupid question.
“There is a rather simple trick to single out the Englishman in a group of Frenchmen and Germans,” she explained
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. The Englishman is the only one drinking Scotch.”
West puffed some smoke out of his cigarette.
“How foolish of me...” he chuckled waving the glass.
He looked back at the other Germans sitting at the very same table. Their expression was slowly changing from muzzy to angry.
“Well,” he said raising the glass. “Prost!”
He emptied the glass and set it back on the table.
“Damn good Scotch,” he said. “What now?”