Morina & the Switching Spell

Morina and the Switching Spell Ch. 02

Note: due to an autotype error, the nickname for the P-47 is "Thunderbolt," not "Thunderbird" as some readers have pointed out. My apologies for not spotting that in advance.

Chapter 2: Lee and Amanda help Agatha "relax."

27 April 1944, Thursday evening, around 1730.

I was meeting with Agatha in a tent on Ashford Airfield. Agatha was holding back. What didn't she want to tell me?

She gave me a strange look. Was it sadness? Fear? Maybe it was a little of both.

"I-I don't want us to get too close. I can sense that you're developing feelings towards me, and in war, that can be disastrous. People are getting killed every day, whether from Nazi bombs and rockets, or from combat missions. When you work for intelligence, you might find out that the people you develop feelings for might not be who you thought they were," she replied, suddenly breaking down on that last phrase.

She turned her back towards me and I saw her shoulders shake. As she fought to regain her composure, I walked over to her.

"Are you saying that you're not-?" I began.

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all," she sobbed.

"I'm sorry-" I began, as I placed my arms around her to comfort her.

"NO! Get away! This is exactly what I'm talking about!" she raged, pulling herself away.

"Agatha, you're obviously hurting. If there is some way I can help--" I began again.

She turned to face me. Her eyes were red, and her cheek was wet as she struggled to put a determined look on her face.

"Y-you can't. You mustn't. It is precisely these kinds of emotions that can blind you and cause you to trip up that will compromise you or get you killed. I can't...I won't...be anything more than your contact. Do you understand?" she asked, her voice getting stronger and steadier as she spoke.

I hesitated in answering. Not because I didn't know what to say, but because I didn't want to say it. I nodded.

"Is this about Squadron Leader Porter? Agatha, what's going on?" I asked.

A look of sadness crossed her face.

"Sit down," she said, sighing.

She waited for me to take my seat and then she looked across the table into my eyes.

"You remember I told you I grew up with Ni-- with Squadron Leader Porter," she began.

"Yes, you said you were seeing him to keep an eye on him," I recalled.

She looked down at the table.

"That's not the only reason," she said as her voice trailed off.

"Do you still have feelings for him?" I asked.

"If you haven't already guessed, Nigel Porter is a warlock. There is growing evidence that he is the mole who has been communicating vital information to the Jerries. One of the reasons I recruited you into our organization is because you're a warlock and if the evidence we have is true, then we're going to need your help in removing him as a threat to national security," she said sadly.

"What sort of evidence do you have?" I asked.

"Right now, it's all circumstantial. He was one of the few survivors of the Dieppe raid. The Jerries knew when and where we were coming, and the fact that he managed to somehow escape without a scratch on his plane is most suspicious," she said.

"Well, if the weather was bad, it would be easy enough for him to lose sight of the rest of his squadron. I've seen that happen before," I postulated.

"But there's more. He has German ancestry on his mother's side," she added.

"So does the royal family, but that doesn't make them traitors," I noted.

"A month ago, I found a letter from one of his distant German relatives among his belongings. The letter was written in German thanking him for his help at Dieppe," Agatha added, still looking down at the table.

"Why didn't you turn him in?" I asked.

"He claimed the letter was planted. He told me that a Nazi spy would never keep such incriminating evidence around and would have destroyed it after reading it," she said.

"You believed him?" I asked.

"I've known Ni- I mean Squadron Leader Porter most of my life. I can't believe he's a traitor. I keep looking for evidence to clear his name, but the more I look, the more I think he's our mole," she said, looking back at me. Her blue eyes seemed to plead with me.

"Is Nigel Porter a member of the Council?" I asked.

"You mean the AWC? No, he's way too low in the British warlock nobility for that, which also makes him vulnerable to Nazi agents," she explained.

"How is that?"

"The Jerries could bribe him with a peerage if he helped them win the war," She stated matter-of-factly.

"I don't know, he seemed too British to be a mole, if you ask me," I said.

"What do you mean by that?" Agatha asked a bit indignantly.

"Well,... you know,... the stiffness, the stodginess, and the insistence on rules and regulations. He just didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would give up King and country for the promise of a peerage, especially if that promise came from a foreigner. I don't even think he's very fond of Americans," I noted.

"You need to be careful with him. That could all be a deception and part of his disguise. Don't forget, there are spells and potions that could change a person's appearance to look like someone else. With a transmogrification potion, he could even look and sound like me," she warned.

"I'm not potion expert, but I thought those potions only last about an hour," I noted.

"That may be long enough to kill you if you're not careful," she said.

"For that matter, he could use the potion to look like me and kill you," I replied.

She looked hard at me, clearly deep in thought.

"Perhaps we should establish some code words to use for identification to be sure we're really communicating with each other and not some doppelgänger. What identifying code word would you like?" she asked.

"How about 'wanker'?" I suggested facetiously.

That broke the tension. Agatha laughed despite herself. Maybe that was just what she needed.

"Perhaps you should choose a word that's a little more subtle. I don't think the word 'wanker' will go over too well in a public situation. How about we use the word 'mother' just to remind you how to behave," she said, smiling.

"Fine, but my code word for you will be 'Penny', to remind you about the time you set me up," I replied.

"And how you failed my test," she retorted.

"I... uh,... okay, let's use the word 'lipstick' instead," I said, touching the cheek where she kissed me on that first night we met," I suggested.

"Lipstick it is," she said, smiling. "But speaking of wankers, you never did answer my question about your date with Penny. You'd be surprised at the rumors I've been hearing."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't believe what that woman can do with her mouth," I recalled.

"Actually, I could. Why do you think I chose her for your date? You should have seen her face when I offered her the chance to be your date, especially when I told her I'd give her a vial of lust potion to get you in the mood," Agatha replied.

"It did a lot more than that. I had an erection that lasted over 90 minutes. Sex was all I could think about on that stuff. I must have come at least six times," I remarked.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said, laughing lightly.

"I didn't really like it all that much if I can be honest with you. I mean the orgasms were amazing, but they were so powerful, and my mind was in such a frenzied haze that the orgasms kind of got lost within a surreal sense of ecstasy," I replied.

"What was so bad about that?" she asked.

"The lust potion worked too quickly and too powerfully to appreciate the intimacy of the experience. I missed the foreplay, the teasing, the excitement of romancing a woman and getting her in the mood. I enjoy the challenge of finding all those different places on a woman's body that give her pleasure, and then using my sexual skills on her with my lips, tongue, and fingers to bring her to the edge before giving her a mind-blowing orgasm," I replied.

As I was talking, Agatha's cheeks became flushed, and her eyes glazed briefly.

"Penny--" Agatha said hoarsely before clearing her throat.

"--Penny said she never came so much in her life. She thinks she must have come at least ten or twelve times," Agatha explained, finishing her thought.

"I think she took half the potion for herself. She said she couldn't get pregnant on lust potion," I noted.

"She drank some of the lust potion? That whole vial was supposed to be for you! That twit, I told her she couldn't get pregnant while

you

were on it. In addition to raising male and female libido, it acts as a contraceptive for men," Agatha said, throwing up her hands.

"Maybe it was just as well, I barely made it back to camp before the curfew as it was," I mused.

"On the plus side, the rumors about you have piqued the interests of the British pilots. They're all anxious to meet you. That should make it easier for you to get to know them," Agatha noted.

"Yeah, well, how am I going to get to meet those guys? We're not even camped on the same side of the airfield," I noted.

"I'll have to find a way to have you meet Lord Ayresdon. I'm sure he can arrange to have you spend more time with the pilots of the RAF six-five. But we're going to need a good excuse for you to meet him. It would help if you could get another German kill under your belt," she said

"I'll see what I can do, but it's not like I can plan for that sort of thing," I responded.

***

Like all the military bases in Southern England, Ashford Airfield was busy as more American airmen, P-47's, and other personnel were shipped in. In addition to the 5-1-2 Squadron, the 5-1-3 and 5-1-4 Squadrons joined us, bringing the 4-0-6 Fighter Group closer to its full complement. The base was expanding to accommodate the influx of personnel, but it still looked like it would take another couple of weeks before we'd be able to conduct our first full mission.

The weather wasn't helping us as the Spring rains were slowing operations down. The rain meant the ground was too soft and wet to take off or land safely, or even to put up large temporary structures to use as service hangars for repairs. It also hampered the supply trucks bringing in food, ammunition, and other supplies.

Our first break in the weather came on the last two days in April. It was over that weekend when the skies suddenly cleared, and the ground was dry enough to take off. Once again, the RAF were sent across the channel on recon missions while we stayed behind and flew in circles over Southern England.

The Luftwaffe was in full force on Saturday and the RAF 6-5 suffered multiple casualties. Even the normally temperate Sqn. Ldr. Porter displayed some rare emotion at the losses.

The following day, Colonel Archibald Drummond, the airfield commander decided the 5-1-2 Squadron should do recon duty and give the RAF a chance to rest and recover. While the circumstances were unfortunate for the RAF, it was the opportunity we were waiting for.

Our recon mission was to patrol an area northwest of Amiens, but we met up with a squadron of Messerschmitt Bf 109s and 110s shortly after crossing the channel. It was almost as if they knew we were coming. We held formation until the very last minute, when we broke up into groups of twos, a strategy recommended by the RAF. We managed to down one Bf 109, but lost Harnagel.

Browning distinguished himself that day. I was paired with him, and he managed to down the Bf 109 chasing me. I did my best to get another kill, but by the time I was able to maneuver myself into position, the Nazis had broken off the attack and Major Locke ordered us back to base.

It wasn't until we got back to Ashford that I realized how lucky I was. There were quite a few bullet holes in the wings and fuselage of my P-47, but fortunately, with the exceptions of a few wires, there was no critical damage to the aircraft.

Memorial services were held in honor of Captain Al Harnagel after the post-mission debriefing.

My lucky break happened on Monday, May 1

st

. We were back in the air, this time heading for an area east of St. Lo. We were flying above the low cloud cover over the French coast when we surprised a German air patrol below us through a break in the clouds. The Major ordered an immediate attack, but not before the Jerries spotted us and scrambled their formation. I managed to down a Bf 110 before he could maneuver away with the rest of his squadron. When a second German squadron approached from the south to cover the first squadron's retreat, Major Locke ordered a recall.

I had the second kill I needed.

The RAF 6-5 took over recon again on Tuesday and Wednesday. It was raining on Thursday, and we spent the morning listening to lectures on tactical maneuvers and Nazi anti-aircraft technology. By late morning, we were on our fourth lecture, this one on survival strategies, should we find ourselves bailing out over enemy territory, when the lecturer, Capt. Lewis, was handed a slip of paper.

He read it briefly and looked out at the audience, a sea of bored pilot faces, many of whom suddenly found themselves interested in that message.

"Is Captain Spellman here? Captain

Morley

Spellman?" He called out.

"Here, sir!" I shouted, standing.

"Captain Spellman, you are to report immediately to company headquarters," he said, before turning back to his notes. "Now where was I?"

I made my way down the row and out the door.

Colonel Drummond was waiting for me in the headquarters tent along with Agatha Brewster.

"Captain Spellman, you have been summoned to London by a British Lord. He is in charge of the Royal Air Force's Meteorological Service, but I have no idea why he wants to see you. He has sent Miss Brewster here to pick you up and drive you to London," Colonel Drummond announced.

"Yes, sir. How long will I be gone, sir?" I asked.

"I have no idea, Spellman. Miss Brewster tells me it's a little over a 1-hour trip from here to London and then another half hour to Lord... Lord..." Colonel Drummond turned to Agatha.

"Lord Ayresdon, sir. Lord John Ayresdon," she prompted him.

"Thank you, Miss Brewster," Colonel Drummond said, glancing at his watch. "Good Lord, it's almost 1300 hours now. Those lectures should have been over by now. With all this rain and heavy traffic coming in from London, there's a good chance you won't be back before curfew, Spellman. I will write orders giving you permission to spend the night off base if it should come to that. Please report to me when you return. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Any suggestions on where I should bunk or billet if I'm not back by curfew, sir?" I asked.

"I can assist the captain with that, Colonel," Agatha quickly inserted.

"Very well," he said as he was writing out his orders, "And Spellman, don't forget that you represent the 5-1-2 and the 4-0-6. I expect you to be on exemplary behavior."

"Yes, sir. No, sir, I won't let you down, sir," I said as I placed my orders in my shirt pocket.

On the way to London, Agatha filled me in a little on Lord Ayresdon. Aside from being a wealthy Lord and landowner, he was also a powerful warlock who held a seat on the warlock council as the Warlock of Air. He and Lord Burnham were the only two warlock Lords who knew about the CIM and had assisted the Coven in rounding up and converting German agents to become double agents.

"Who is Lord Burnham?" I asked.

"He's the Warlock of Fire and the head of the Albion Warlock Council," Agatha explained.

As the Colonel predicted, the trip to London took much longer than expected due to the slow traffic and the rain. Several large convoys were making their way south, out of London. The wide lorries and the narrow roadways meant frequent stops and pull-overs in order for them to pass by. It was just past 1600 hours by the time we pulled up in front of a large building with Georgian architecture in one of the finest London neighborhoods that had not yet been touched by the Nazi air blitz or rockets.

"I'll leave you here, Lee," Agatha said as she stopped the car, "This is a men's club and I'm not allowed inside. Just ask the butler for Lord Ayresdon and he'll escort you to him."

I looked down at my uniform. It wasn't even my first-class issue.

"Don't worry about your dress," she said, following my gaze, "Your American uniform carries a lot of respect in there and I'm sure His Lordship will see that you're treated well."

I had left Ashford Airfield so quickly that I hadn't had time to go back for a raincoat, so I made a mad dash for the door of the men's' club. Once inside, a very formal-looking gray-haired man in a dark green butler's attire greeted me at the door.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked in an emotionless, flat, slightly nasal tone.

"Yes. I'm Captain Morley Spellman of the 4-0-6 Fighter Group, and I'm here to see Lord Ayresdon at his request," I explained.

The butler did his best to keep his face expressionless, but I detected a slight rise in his eyebrows when I mentioned Lord Ayersdon's name.

"Indeed, sir? Please follow me," he said as he spun on his heel and led me inside.

He led me past the coatroom to a set of large, oaken double doors. He pushed both doors open at the same time. I stepped from the flagstone foyer into a cavernous room filled with large, high-backed leather chairs. My shoes sunk noiselessly into the plush pile carpeting. The room smelled of tobacco and leather, with the sweet smell of pipe tobacco dominating against the acrid clouds of cigar smoke.

At first glance, the chairs appeared to be placed randomly about the room. But when I looked more closely, I saw that there was indeed a pattern to the arrangement. Some were arranged in groups of two and four for conversation while others were by themselves and closer to decorative reading lamps with neatly folded copies of what I assumed was the London Times. There were several men who looked to be in their 50's or 60's reading. None of them bothered to look up as we entered.

The walls were covered with heavy oak panels, many with intricate designs carved into them. An ornate tin-plated ceiling was overhead, between the heavy, lacquered wooden beams.

The butler led me past all of that and opened a second set of double doors into a large, carpeted dining room. Here were three rows of tables set up with fine linens and small, decorative oil lamps on each table. There, men in groups of twos and threes were drinking tea and talking amongst themselves. They looked up when they saw me enter and the conversation immediately stopped, only to resume again once we passed.

At the far end of the dining room was a heavy velvet curtain, stretched on a long rod between the two side walls and hung from ceiling to floor. The butler parted the curtain in the middle and stepped to one side to allow me to pass. Once through, he closed the curtain behind us.

There was a six-foot gap between the curtain and the far wall, which was covered in oak paneling. Carved into the paneling was an elaborate, life-sized reproduction of the Battle of Hastings by Francis Wilkin. The butler faced the wall and reached to his right and pressed down on the shield of England to the right of the dead King Harold.

A subtle "click" was heard and a vertical crack appeared in the carving, revealing a hidden door. The butler pulled open the door, enlarging the doorway opening into the room behind the wall. The butler stood outside the doorway and announced:

"Captain Morley Spellman of the American Army Air Force four-oh-six Fighter Group, Your Lordship," he said.

I waited for the butler to precede me, but he just stood there.

"Come in, Captain," a voice inside called.

I stepped over the small coaming of the paneled wall and into the room. Once I was clear of the secret door, it closed behind me.