FAN FICTION SET IN THE
WW-II ENGLAND OF FOYLE'S WAR
Plain toast and weak tea. It
wasn't much of a breakfast, but it would have to do. Sam
couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper fry-up, but
meat and eggs were for proper soldiers, not Mechanized Transport
Corps volunteers, not when they were living in civilian quarters
and seconded to the police as drivers. Of course, if it
were large enough, an MTC depot might have an actual mess hall,
and it might have questionable butter to go with its
toast, as well as Spam and powdered eggs; but that would entail
day after day of servicing a never ending queue of jeeps and
lorries. Far better to drive for DCS Foyle.
Uniform neat and proper, Sam left her tiny, shabby apartment
(which she felt very lucky to have) and trudged through the
quiet, early morning streets of Hastings to the police station.
Would it be another hurry-up-and-wait day of chauffeuring Foyle
to various crime scenes, interviews, and meetings?
Possibly, but driving for the police, especially driving
DCS Folyle about the Hastings area could be exciting, very
exciting. At the very least it was often interesting, and
she encountered people she would never have met under ordinary
circumstances. One never knew where an investigation might
Sergeant Rivers was manning the front desk, as usual.
"Good morning," Sam said with a bright smile as she added her
trench coat and cap to the row of police overcoats and helmets
hanging from pegs on the wall behind the counter.
Rivers smiled back. "Mornin', Sam." He nodded down
the hallway. "I was told to send you in straight away as
soon as you arrived. Something hush-hush arrived at
sunrise, via motorcycle messenger."
Sam gazed down the hallway at DCS Foyle's closed door. "That's
Rivers nodded. "By the courier's uniform and accent, I
believe she was Polish. And yes, she was a woman."
Sam favored the grinning sergeant with a wry smile.
"Imagine, a woman driver," she called back over her shoulder as
she walked down the hall, then rapped on DCS Foyle's door and
Foyle was behind his desk, an unfolded sheet of flimsy paper in
"Good morning, sir," Sam said with a smile.
Foyle's eyes were on the paper. "Good morning, Sam," he
intoned, then glanced at his wristwatch, dropped the paper on
the desk, and smiled. "Prompt, as usual. I have a
task for you."
"You know Whatlington, of course," Foyle said.
"North of Battle, yes sir," Sam replied.
"I've received a detailed order," Foyle explained. "to provide
transportation for two important persons to an undisclosed
location somewhere in Sussex." He picked up the paper and
focused on Sam. "And you're specified by name, Sam."
Sam swallowed, somewhat nervously. "By name, sir?"
Foyle folded the paper and handed it to Sam. "Your
copy. The order is from Military Intelligence,
countersigned by the Commissioner. It authorizes petrol
replenishment from any source, as required. Highly
"I'll say," Sam said as she started reading, then added a
belated, "sir." There was no information regarding who she
would be driving or where, only that she was to report to
someone named "M. Carter."
Foyle smiled. "I have no idea what this is all about," he
said as Sam hurriedly read, "but if you're to meet the timeline
specified, you'd better shake a leg."
"Uh, yes sir." Sam turned and headed for the door, still
reading, then turned back. "Oh! Who's going to drive
you if I take the Wolseley, sir?"
"Orders are orders, Sam," Foyle chuckled. "I'll be fine."
"Oh." Sam folded the paper and tucked it in her uniform
coat pocket. "Yes sir. I'll... report
afterwards." She opened the office door, then paused in
the threshold. "Sorry, sir. That was silly. Of
course I'll report afterwards."
A ghost of a smile curled Foyle's lips. "Off you go, Sam."
"Yes sir," Sam sighed, then closed the door.
Foyle's smile faded as he reached for the telephone. "DCS
Foyle for Assistant Commissioner Redgrave," he said when the
police operator came on the line.
|KEEP CALM AND RESCUE SAM—1
Sam made good time from Hastings to
Whatlington. There was a brief delay at a crossroads north
of Hollington while she waited for a convoy of American lorries
laden with troops to pass, but made up time afterwards.
The rendezvous specified in her orders was at a pub named The
Royal Oak. She parked the Wolseley and went inside,
not knowing what to expect.
The public room was closed, as was appropriate for the hour, but
two women were seated at a table near the entrance and sipping
tea, one in uniform and the other in civilian dress. Both
were attractive... not that that was either here nor
there. They looked up when Sam entered.
Sam blinked uncertainly, then reached into her pocket and pulled
out her orders. "Uh... M. Carter?" she inquired.
The woman in uniform smiled and raised a hand. "M for
Margaret," she said, "but I go by Peggy. 'S. Stewart', I
Sam smiled back as she stepped forward. "S for Samantha,
but I go by Sam."
Both women stood and shook hands with Sam. The unknown
civilian introduced herself with a single word: "Joan."
"Please, sit," Peggy said, indicting an empty chair. All
three sat and Joan lifted the brown teapot and filled an empty
Sam noted that the tea service had been for three, so they'd
been prepared for her arrival.
Still smiling, Peggy extended her hand. "Orders and
Sam suppressed a frown. She had produced her papers to
pass through innumerable roadblocks and checkpoints, but this
was the first such request from someone she'd been assigned to
drive. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her
paybook and driving permit. As Sam handed them over,
together with her orders, she noted that Peggy's uniform was
unlike any she'd seen before. It was the same khaki drab
as Sam's own, but its style was more feminine, like a woman's
suit tailored along military lines. The only insignia were
a pair of unfamiliar gold badges on her lower lapels.
The tailored aspect was enhanced by Peggy's figure, which was most
decidedly feminine. Peggy had bosoms, and even the uniform
couldn't disguise their volume. (Not that Sam was jealous,
As for Joan, her clothing was inexpensive and rather drab, not
that Sam was a fancy dresser when she was in
mufti. As for figure, Sam had no cause to be jealous of
Joan in that department. However, with respect to her
features, Joan was a looker, indeed.
Having finished her thorough inspection of Sam's papers and
orders, Peggy handed them back. "Please don't think either
of us are unfriendly, but Joan is under orders to keep all
conversation to an absolute minimum."
Joan smiled (and she had a truly stunning smile) but said
Sam smiled back. "How very hush-hush, and what about
Peggy favored Sam with coy smile. "I can tell we're going
to get along famously, not discussing any and all
aspects of our respective duties." She pointed to Sam's
teacup. "Drink up."
Sam did so, gulping the warm tea as Peggy and Joan stood.
"At least tell me where we're going," she said as she followed
suit. "I am the driver, after all."
Peggy pointed towards the door. "I'll give you a series of
way points," she said, "after we're underway."
"Very cloak-and-dagger," Sam said in a near whisper, smiling at
Joan. "Makes me feel like Mata Hari."
Joan giggled, earning both Sam and herself a disapproving frown
from Peggy. "Let's all behave ourselves and soldier on,
shall we?" The twinkle in her eyes put the lie to her
Sam joined Joan in a final giggle, but allowed herself to be
shepherded from the pub, together with Joan. Mysterious
they might be, but Sam had already decided she liked these
|KEEP CALM AND RESCUE SAM—1
BETWEEN FULKING & EDBURTON, WEST SUSSEX
The land belonged to Harry Winborn, a prosperous
farmer currently serving as a sergeant with the 8th Army.
Harry's wife and young daughter were currently living with her
parents in Stafford and his fields had been apportioned among
his neighbors to be worked in his absence. The use of the
barn was also shared by the neighboring farms, but at this time
of year its space wasn't required and it was closed up and
secure, as were the other outbuildings and the main house—or
rather, had been until quite recently.
A contingent of female soldiers (believe it or not) had rolled
up in a modest convoy, posted an official notice on the front
gate, opened the house, and then started moving crates into the
barn. Once things were well underway, a female officer in
a jeep with a driver called on all the neighboring farms,
informing them that the house and its immediate environs had
been requisitioned as a temporary training facility and the
farmyard and house were now strictly off limits.
The officer and her soldiers struck the neighbors as...
odd. Not only were they women—"Blimey! Women in
arms! It ain't natural!"—but their uniforms were peculiar,
they saluted in a rather outlandish manner (with two fingers, no
less), and spoke with foreign accents, even the officer!
"Polish! They's Polish," Thom Tuppen announced at the
pub. "It's right there on the requisition notice.
They's with the 'Polish Independent Parachute Brigade'."
The somewhat relieved villagers nodded, and several checked for
themselves the next day. Someone
left a bouquet of flowers tied with a red and white ribbon. (Actually, it was Mary, Tom's daughter.
A nice girl, to be sure.)
The "Polish" troops kept strictly to themselves, visiting
neither the local pub and shops nor attending church on
Sunday. "They's Polish, so they's Catholic!" Peter Collins
pointed out, so that explained their absence from
services. It did not explain their lack of interest in the
pub. "They's Polish, so they only drink vodka," James
Harris stated, and all agreed that if anyone knew about drink,
it was Jimmy Harris.
Anyway, things quickly settled down to a new normal. The
locals left the female soldiers to their unspecified
training. There was the time the officer and a
sergeant returned a ten year old lad to his mother after he'd
been apprehended playing too close to the farmhouse, but so far
that was the only incident. The townsfolk agreed that it
was a good thing the women were there. They might be
foreigners, but they were Allies and were no doubt keen to punch
Hitler's ticket and free their homeland.
Meanwhile, in the basement of the farmhouse...
Two women were present, and neither was in uniform.
The first was a blonde, in her thirties, and quite attractive,
even glamorous—movie star glamorous. She was
smartly dressed in a hideously expensive, custom tailored suit,
the height of fashion in occupied Paris, and was smoking a Gaulois
Bleu in a cigarette holder.
The second woman was slightly younger, either in her late
twenties or early thirties. She was naked and reclined
full-length, flat on her back on a hard wooden table covered by
a dark gray wool blanket. Her curly hair was bright red
and her skin lightly freckled. She lay on the rough
blanket, unmoving and staring up at the smoking blonde.
"Frau Professor Doktor," the blonde purred, "I am zo
disappointed. Zhe Reich is disappointed. Hydra
is disappointed." She drew on the cigarette... then
exhaled. "I hope you don't mind if ve converse in
English," she continued. "I know you are fluent in our
native tongue, French, Russian, und Polish, vith at least
zcientific literacy, but mein, I mean my English is—vhat do zhey
say?—rusted. Und as ve are
currently on an active mission in zhe 'homeland of shopkeepers',
I must practice."
The naked redhead continued staring without moving and without
making any reply. Her eyes blinked and her breasts slowly
rose and fell as she breathed, but she was otherwise still.
"I vas against bringing you on zhis operation," the blonde
continued, "but vas overruled by my superiors. Your enthusiasm
for coming to England aroused my zuspicions." She took
another drag on the cigarette. "And as it turns our, my
instincts vere correct. Und zhank you for making your
notes on zhe use of zhese marvelous new drugs you haff developed
zo complete und comprehensive. Dosages, combinations,
all right zhere in zhe documentation. Most
The redhead continued staring... and breathing... and not
"Yes, I vas suspicious," the blonde purred, "und zho, I ordered
zhe drugs field tested on you, Frau Professor Doktor...
and you exposed yourself to be zhe traitor zhat you are.
You came here to defect to zhe Allies, not to serve zhe
Reich. Obviously, zhat is not goink to happen. You
will return to zhe Fatherland when our mission is complete, und
you vill continue your research under direct Hydra
zupervision at a Hydra facility, either as a zcientist... or as
a test zubject... or both."
The blonde snubbed out her cigarette, pocketed the holder, then
stood and continued smiling down at the redhead.
"According to your notes, zhe paralytic drug I gave you vill
wear off within zhe hour, und an immediate zecond doze might do
permanent neurological damage." She removed her fedora,
then unbuttoned and removed her stylish jacket. "I zuppose
I could have you locked in a room und place guards on
zhe door..." She reached under the table and lifted one of
several coils of hemp rope from the shelf under the redhead's
table. "Zhat zeems like an unconscionable vaste of highly
trained Hydra verdecktesoldaten. The blonde
released the retaining hitch, let the coil fall open, then
doubled it and found the center. "I have an alternative
Over the next several minutes, rolling the redhead's limp body
as required, the blonde tied her wrists together behind her
back, her elbows about two inches apart, her knees, her ankles,
then trussed her arms against her torso, taking hitches around
her waist and yoking her shoulders. She continued taking
hitches, linking the redhead's various bonds into a unified
The blonde readied another coil for use, then smiled, paused,
and tossed the length of rope to the side. Still smiling,
she reached out and cupped the redhead's milky white breasts
with her two hands... and gently squeezed.
"You are very beautiful, Frau Professor Doktor," the
blonde said as her hands slid over the redhead's well-roped and
drug-paralyzed body. "I haff always had a veakness for
flaming red hair und... sommersprossen. I don't
know zhe English vord. Zpecks? Dapples?" Her
hand slid down the redhead's flat stomach
and she tugged on the bound captive's copper-red pubic
hair. "Zo very beautiful. Perhaps ve vill haff time
for a little playtime... later. For now, I must make sure
zhat vhen you are able, you will not be able to speak... or to
The blond pulled a strip of sacking from under the table.
Its length and width was similar to a scarf or cravat. She
tied a large overhand knot in the center of the cloth and pulled
it tight, then thrust it into the redhead's mouth and tied the
ends together at the nape of the redhead's neck, under her
tousled curls. The resulting thick, mouth-filling
cleave-gag was tight enough to make the captive's freckled
Next, the blonde rolled the redhead onto her stomach, lifted her
bound ankles, and lashed them to her wrists, enforcing a
stringent hogtie. This caused some of the hitches linking
her bonds to slacken and others to tighten, but the blonde
solved this "problem" by taking additional hitches and removing
the slack. She used more rope to bind the redhead's shins
to her thighs, then crafted yet more linkages between her
"Und now," the blonde purred, "zhe pièce de résistance."
She gathered the redheads curls behind her head, tied a tight
hitch around the resulting bun, then tied it to her ankles,
feet, and big toes. Finally, she added a gag-to-ankles
rope, further reinforcing the cruel hogtie.
The result was an elaborately trussed bundle of freckled,
peach-pink flesh. The redhead was balanced on her taut
stomach with her pink breasts and thighs lifted off the gray
blanket, her body contorted, her spine bent, her wrists lashed
slightly past her ankles, and with taut ropes lifting
her chin and pulling back and immobilizing her gagged
head. The redhead was still unmoving, and now, thanks to
her stringently hogtied condition, was unable to focus on her
tormentor. Her blinking green eyes stared away into the
Just then, a female soldier in black boots and trousers, a
camouflage frock, a coal scuttle style helmet, and a black face
mask clumped down the basement stairs, snapped to attention, and
extended both arms in salute. "Heil Hydra!" she
"Heil Hydra," the blonde answered with a wry smile,
lifting her right palm in a casual return salute.
"Wir sind bereit, Frau Baroness," the soldier reported.
"In English, please," the blonde purred, "as per mission
protocol." Apparently, she was a Baroness.
"Ve are ready, Baroness," the soldier responded.
"Excellent," the Baroness chuckled.
"Should I have zhe security vatch check on zhis ungeziefer
while ve rest of us are gone?"
The Baroness smiled down at the naked, helplessly hogtied
redhead. "No, I don't zhink Frau Professor Dokter
Vogel vill be goink anyvhere, even after zhe drugs leave
her zystem." She donned her jacket, then her hat, and
headed for the stairs. The soldier followed... and the
door at the top of the stairs closed with a solid thud.
Back on the table, the redhead remained naked, hogtied, and
The dim electric lights dangling between the basement rafters
continued burning. And then, the redhead's fingers
More minutes passed.
The redhead twitched... then wiggled... and finally, squirmed.
Yet more minutes passed, and it became clear that the "Frau
Baroness" was correct. The paralytic drug might be
wearing off, but Frau Professor Doktor Vogel wasn't
|KEEP CALM AND