Read Online Patricia Potter by Island of Dreams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Island of Dreams
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tried it gingerly. It was the first time he had used one in years. Riding was precarious with his stiff leg, but after a few tries he was able to compensate for the injury.
The morning was beautiful. Moss hung in great silver shawls from giant oak trees, and the lavender of wisteria mixed with the wild white dogwoods glistening with morning dew. As he reached the beach, large graceful gulls were swooping over the water in search of their first meal of the day, and sandpipers were making fresh tracks on pristine sand.
Michael thought of the bombing in Berlin, the litter of death throughout much of Europe, and wondered if he were in a time warp. If so, he never wanted to leave it.
Unbidden and unwanted were thoughts of Meara. She would be rising now, perhaps even looking out over the salt marshes as he had earlier. He knew he had puzzled her last night, but it was better that way. Better to hurt a little now than a great deal later. Yet he kept seeing her as she was on the boat, her hair flying and her eyes dancing and her laugh dominating the wind. It had been so natural, so carefree, as if everything in the world was good and happy and just.
Much of the island was heavily wooded. The Jekyll Island Club had initially been mostly a hunting club for gentlemen until it became more family oriented with lawn bowling, tennis, golf and swimming. The wilderness hid bountiful wildlife, and the forest was very dense in some areas, its edges reaching almost to the water at high tide. Knurled roots of great oaks lay revealed in the sand; small palm plants obscured the ground. With the heavy undergrowth, it was a perfect place for an invasion, and he wondered at the lack of security of the island. There were only a few guards, all of whom looked as if they had never encountered anything more troublesome than a momentarily lost child.
God, how he hated what he had to do. The more he saw of the island the more he wished it could remain undisturbed, away from the harshness of war. He wondered at his own thoughts, for he couldn’t remember when he had been sentimental or soft or undisciplined.
Michael followed the curve of the beach, grateful for the hard-packed sand which easily supported the bicycle. The beach, and the woods above it, was utterly undisturbed. Jekyll could have been a deserted, exotic island except where the club was located. He laid down the bicycle at the point where the beach swung around again toward the marshes, and he walked into the woods. The undergrowth was heavy and he could hear the frightened scattering of animals. He worked his way into a deep clump of trees and studied the area carefully. There were no visible paths, no sign of recent human intrusion.
He was to make radio contact with a sub at midnight the next evening, late enough that the sub could surface safely for a brief time. He would ask for a picnic basket tomorrow and bring the radio here in the basket, then return back to this spot late in the evening.
That decision reached, he made his way back out of the woods, picked up his bike and pedaled slowly back to the clubhouse. And Hans.
It was midmorning when he arrived back at the clubhouse grounds. He quickly found Hans leaning over a rose bush. Nothing, he thought, could be more incongruous as Hans and roses.
He had disliked the man when he met him, and nothing since had changed his opinion. Hans Weimer was everything Michael detested about the “new” Germany. Fanatical. Cruel. Strutting in his feared black uniform as if he were God. Michael had seen similar antipathy in Weimer’s eyes. They had trained together for two months in wary silence. Unlike others in the American program, they had never shared a beer during their rare time off.
Michael had been forced into this mission, and he guessed that Hans was very aware of this fact, while Hans was obviously an enthusiastic and committed volunteer. Michael had killed, but it had been as one soldier in battle with another. He suspected
The morning was beautiful. Moss hung in great silver shawls from giant oak trees, and the lavender of wisteria mixed with the wild white dogwoods glistening with morning dew. As he reached the beach, large graceful gulls were swooping over the water in search of their first meal of the day, and sandpipers were making fresh tracks on pristine sand.
Michael thought of the bombing in Berlin, the litter of death throughout much of Europe, and wondered if he were in a time warp. If so, he never wanted to leave it.
Unbidden and unwanted were thoughts of Meara. She would be rising now, perhaps even looking out over the salt marshes as he had earlier. He knew he had puzzled her last night, but it was better that way. Better to hurt a little now than a great deal later. Yet he kept seeing her as she was on the boat, her hair flying and her eyes dancing and her laugh dominating the wind. It had been so natural, so carefree, as if everything in the world was good and happy and just.
Much of the island was heavily wooded. The Jekyll Island Club had initially been mostly a hunting club for gentlemen until it became more family oriented with lawn bowling, tennis, golf and swimming. The wilderness hid bountiful wildlife, and the forest was very dense in some areas, its edges reaching almost to the water at high tide. Knurled roots of great oaks lay revealed in the sand; small palm plants obscured the ground. With the heavy undergrowth, it was a perfect place for an invasion, and he wondered at the lack of security of the island. There were only a few guards, all of whom looked as if they had never encountered anything more troublesome than a momentarily lost child.
God, how he hated what he had to do. The more he saw of the island the more he wished it could remain undisturbed, away from the harshness of war. He wondered at his own thoughts, for he couldn’t remember when he had been sentimental or soft or undisciplined.
Michael followed the curve of the beach, grateful for the hard-packed sand which easily supported the bicycle. The beach, and the woods above it, was utterly undisturbed. Jekyll could have been a deserted, exotic island except where the club was located. He laid down the bicycle at the point where the beach swung around again toward the marshes, and he walked into the woods. The undergrowth was heavy and he could hear the frightened scattering of animals. He worked his way into a deep clump of trees and studied the area carefully. There were no visible paths, no sign of recent human intrusion.
He was to make radio contact with a sub at midnight the next evening, late enough that the sub could surface safely for a brief time. He would ask for a picnic basket tomorrow and bring the radio here in the basket, then return back to this spot late in the evening.
That decision reached, he made his way back out of the woods, picked up his bike and pedaled slowly back to the clubhouse. And Hans.
It was midmorning when he arrived back at the clubhouse grounds. He quickly found Hans leaning over a rose bush. Nothing, he thought, could be more incongruous as Hans and roses.
He had disliked the man when he met him, and nothing since had changed his opinion. Hans Weimer was everything Michael detested about the “new” Germany. Fanatical. Cruel. Strutting in his feared black uniform as if he were God. Michael had seen similar antipathy in Weimer’s eyes. They had trained together for two months in wary silence. Unlike others in the American program, they had never shared a beer during their rare time off.
Michael had been forced into this mission, and he guessed that Hans was very aware of this fact, while Hans was obviously an enthusiastic and committed volunteer. Michael had killed, but it had been as one soldier in battle with another. He suspected
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