It was a cold November morning. The ‘42 vette’s windscreen rushed with fog as the engine burst into life. It took a couple tries to turn over but one would expect that given the recent string of lower than average temperature nights. The vehicle cleared its throat and growled down the winding paved drive. He shifted up to third as the merge onto the M1 came into view, “the clutch felt a bit too firm, he thought to himself, “must be the humidity.” A lane of traffic heading toward Bletchley opposed the red corvette. The Yankee stood out in stereotypical fashion as he made south toward the capitol.
The contradiction of a past empire defending those who were once enemies was suppressed by the need for simple human survival. “Oh how triumph fades”, he noted. London loomed in the distance, exhausted but still teeming. The bombings of the previous two years burned the city to an unrecognizable shell. His duty was simple, orders direct, there would be no mistake.
Twelve of the clock. The meeting would be for tea, Earl Grey to be requested. Thirty minutes to relieve until appointment at the gate, clearance should be no problem. Parking four blocks away. The ‘vette was a gift in all 120 horse power, something for his troubles, especially flown to the island. It was one of a kind. He enjoyed the attention, and the release of shifting into third reminded him of home. The training had been rough and traditional service would have been a waste of talent. Brothers on the front would sacrifice in the light. He would sacrifice in the dark.
Eleven fifty of the clock. The ‘vette roared into life, no delay on ignition. Yankee pulled off the curb and the Palace gates came into sight. There were 121 horses in the car that morning. The extra was anything but a standard. The team at the gate validated his credentials and he pulled to the entrance. Head rush, pulse pounding, clutch slipping on up shift, time was now. The Office had just opened that June. He was the first, analytical and selfless, a patriot. Planted at the park to break the code.
He mounted the staircase. The wealth in visual stimulation was drown out by Yankee’s adrenaline. “The war is at its low.” “The Russians could not be counted on.” He must save the West. The Office was right. Tea would be for three: Yankee, Churchill, and Zhukov. He turned left at top of the stairs and took the second door on his left. They would be waiting, Yankee pictured them, Churchill in a tailored black suit and Zhukov in full regalia. He entered.
Handshakes were exchanged and tea was had - Earl Grey. Yankee’s appointment was to present the latest in decoded enigma transmissions from Bletchley. His presentation began and so did the perspiration. Lines, lines, lines, the maps on the table became too fine for mental dissection. Locations of battles in red dots on Eastern Front danced in vision, dark letters on the action summaries trade places as if to escape from the page, blood pressure rising. Yankee drew the 121st horse. Click. Pop. The Russian fell. Click. Pop. The Yankee fell.