Coop's War - A World War Two Adventure

By Robert Kammen

In the early spring of 1944, as World War II was being fought on foreign soil, the German government designed a machine that would control the weather over Europe by shooting high density rays into the Earth's Ionosphere. Major Mike Cooper of Timber Lake, Wyoming, a member of the 82nd Airborne, was asked to volunteer to assist a group of Norwegian underground operatives in seeking out and destroying this machine.

Back in Wyoming, Mike's younger brother, Derrick "Coop" Cooper and a group of his friends who called themselves the Moon Bouncers, spent countless hours in Mike's cabin within the Big Horn Mountains, playing on the Ham radio that was forbidden by the United States Government. Little did they know, they were not alone in their excursions to the out of the way cabin.

When an agent with the Federal Government showed up to put a halt to the Ham operation, Coop and his group of friends were devastated. A new friend and ally of the most unimaginable sort, not only fixed the radio with the power of magical crystals, but enhanced the radio's operations as well. Kulu, a young lad of the Nimerigar tribe of Little People living secretly in the hidden caves of the Big Horn Mountains, finally introduced himself.

Together, Kulu and Coop, end up in trouble with Chief Tutla of the Nimerigar tribe. They are sentenced by the tribe's council of elders to assist in the demolition of the magic crystals that had been stolen from the ham radio by undercover German spies. The two young boys find themselves magically swept along on the lights of the Borealis and transported into the mountainous region of Tromso, Norway where, incidentally, Coop's older brother, Mike, was undergoing his assignment to destroy the German weather machine. With the help of the magic of the crystals, Europe is saved and the Germans are thwarted in their evil plan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Longhorn Publishing
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224719235

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Valkenswaard, the Netherlands

In 1940, one of the many Dutch properties confiscated by the Germans was the Valkenhorst estate in Greenhaven, a small village located close to the Belgium border. The owners were the Louden family, with scions at the Dutch embassy in Washington. 

The normal routine of farming continued, the German Reich post installed an experimental listening post in the manor. Behind the main house a large directional dish antenna and peripheral antennas were set up and so well camouflaged that the local public mistakenly believed they were searchlights.

A bunker was installed to house the ‘hackers’ and necessary guards and to expand the listening post. To the estate came Berlin architects who painstakingly concealed the entire operation within a real farmstead. When work was completed the Birkenhof or main house looked like a large two story U-shaped farmhouse typical to the area. Inside, the manor had central heating and a living room with fireplace and spacious dormitories, while the expanded bunker held all of the technical facilities.

Although the Dutch underground knew of the beehive of German activity at Birkenhof, they could never report on the bunker’s function.

While RAF reconnaissance flights showed a peaceful manor surrounded by fields of newly planted grain. It was in fact now a German spy station used as an around-the-clock listening post that tapped into telephone and short-wave radio conversations between civilian and military leaders in England and the United States of America. Any messages were first decoded by Reichpost technicians before being sent on to Berlin, where Reichpost Minister Dr. Wilhelm Ohnesorge put them at the personal disposal of Henrich Himmler, the leader of the S.S. and new Interior Minister.

Early spring, 1944...The German command car rolled on gainfully through the Dutch countryside. It was unusual to see an Unteroffizier behind the steering wheel, but not when you considered the fact that one of the passengers in the back seat had just been personally congratulated by his Fuhrer Adolf Hitler.

When I told the Fuhrer we had actually picked up a conversation between Churchill and Roosevelt...I tell you, the Fuhrer’s eyes beamed with pride, Wilhelm Ohnesorge slapped a satisfied hand down on his knee. He was pudgy, big-boned, and seemed out of place wearing a uniform, even though it had been tailored to fit.

At this point in time, and in fact ever since boarding an airplane in Berlin for the flight to Holland, SS Major Klaus Schaller could barely tolerate being in the Reichspostminister’s presence. The major’s reason for coming along was of a secret nature, and upon orders issued to him personally by SS Leader Himmler. He had deliberately refrained from telling this buffoon of an Ohnesorge that those orders involved one of his engineers. Finally, Major Schaller threw his seat companion a bone, Yes, your Reich post unit is doing a splendid job for the Third Reich.

Through a pleased smile Ohnesorge said, To higher glory of the Fuhrer and the Deutsche Reich post.

A few miles away at the Valkenhorst estate it was business as usual in the bunker. Hackers were at their listening posts intercepting the shortwave voice traffic of the allies. Of particular interest was the radio chatter coming from London. The spy station was so important to the Third Reich that everyone had been told they would remain here until the war ended.

At his desk, Captain Otto Glissen scanned with a vague disinterest some of the decoded messages. He was an engineer, a university professor who had been conscripted into the army. Tall, darkly handsome, and from Munich, Glissen felt that his usefulness here was over, since his fellow officers were quite capable of repairing and watching over the apparatus he had helped install at Birkenhof. Anymore he considered himself nothing more than a human carrier pigeon. 

My skills as an engineer, he mused silently, Could best be put to use on the Atlantic Wall defenses, or even off someplace building a bridge. Nazi madness.

In need of a cigarette and some fresh air, he rose and moved past a row of hackers seated at their listening posts, only to have one of them, Kreuger, beckon him over.

Captain, I was doing a sweep of air traffic coming from America.

Ja, so?

This is an unusual one. The call sign is W7ZBO. Our records show this station is located in grid FN31. The exact location, Captain Glissen, is Wyoming. More specifically, in the Big Horn Mountains.

Wyoming, he said skeptically. Over in England, practically on our doorstep we have the Allied Expeditionary Force just waiting to cross the English Channel. Wyoming is sheer nonsense.

But, sir, as you know, the American government ordered all of their civilian Ham radio operators to shut down. This is obviously some military source.

Kreuger, he said wearily, Proceed with your present mission. If by any chance you pick up the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra in your wild ramblings let me know. Wyoming...nothing but prairie and windstorms.

Captain Otto Glissen was seated at one of the tables scattered about under shading elm trees, trying to relax while puffing on a cigarette filled with strong Spanish tobacco, when a command car passed through the open gate. He paid no attention, since staff and signal corps officers dropped in at all hours of the day and night, only this particular vehicle had as a passenger Glissen’s commanding officer.

He sat there, watching from a distance as Wilhelm Ohnesorge and an SS officer started walking across the cobblestone courtyard toward the bunker, only to pause when they spotted Glissen. Quite clearly, and to his pleased surprise, he could hear the lower ranking SS officer tell Ohnesorge quite bluntly, rudely, that his presence was no longer required.

Suddenly Otto Glissen’s cigarette tasted a lot better, but still, why had the SS officer singled him out. He had no interest in politics, was not a member of the Nazi Party, watched what he said here at Birkenhof since it was rumored that the SS liked to place a mole among the officer staff. To Glissen’s surprise, the SS officer goose-stepped across the cobblestones, bared his teeth in a comradely smile and said, How fortunate that I found you out here, Captain Glissen. Please, don’t get up. He duffed his hat as he settled onto a chair and regarded Glissen through icy blue eyes. I am Major Klaus Schaller here from Berlin at the behest of my leader, Henrich Himmler.

Fear eeled up Glissen’s back like a werewolf running over one’s grave, the hand that held his cigarette shaking a little. He remained silent waiting for a mortar or at least a hand grenade to explode. 

Captain Glissen, I expect it is very difficult, sometimes humiliating, to be working for der Prahlhans, the blowhard.

Somewhat warily Otto Glissen said, Ja, Herr Ohnsorge says a lot when the day is long.

But for me time is short so I’ll get right to cases. You have been selected for a special assignment.

I was told, Major Schaller, that no one will be transferred out of here.

As of this moment you are attached to the SS. Pack your personal belongings and put them in my car. He consulted his watch. Do it quickly for we have a plane waiting for us at Eindhoven.

Major, would I be out of place if I asked...

Nein, ist das klar. Not until we are airborne.

Two hours later and someplace over the northern reaches of the Netherlands, what was being revealed to Captain Otto Glissen brought feelings of Germanic pride along with a cold sense of reality. His engineering mind probed the following: could one control local modification of the Ionosphere, which is the upper layer of the atmosphere, and thus be able to change weather patterns any place on Earth. Almost in a hypnotic trance he listened to SS Major Klaus Schaller drone on.

Once the allied invasion fleet sets out into the English Channel, Valhalla, our new weapons system, will be activated. The disturbance it creates up in the Ionosphere will bring a low pressure system down into the coastal waters and turn the English Channel into a maelstrom of total destruction.

Schaller refilled his glass with French cognac. Unfortunately, Otto, he went on in a comradely way, So far we have had only disappointing results. We are heading for Tromso, Norway. How peaceful Denmark appeared below us. Take a look, Otto, it may be the last time for both of us.

By this, Glissen knew, it meant that failure was not an option open to him and he didn’t object when the major refilled his glass. Tromso, as he recalled lay in the northern reaches of Norway, and in the shadow of 

Jaeggevarre Mountain, a most logical place to operate a research station Schaller had spoken about. 

Instead of just listening to radio transmissions, they would be sending high frequency beams into the Ionoscope, in an attempt to control weather patterns all over the world, according to SS Major Schaller. A dream, a desperate last hour grasp to hold back a certain invasion by the allies, or salvation.

Ja, others have failed to make Valhalla a practical reality, he thought worriedly. I am being asked, a mere captain, to do what could be an impossibility. Now I would gladly return to Birkenhof and put up with der Prahlhans and become a human carrier pigeon again. But nein, nein, it was not meant to be.

CHAPTER ONE

The Moon Bouncers

April 1944

A day ago the Coopers Hawk had finished the long migratory flight which began in Costa Rica and ended in this mountain valley in Wyoming. It held in a pine tree just below rimrock, wearied from the long, hazardous journey, ignoring the hunger pangs, the wily raptor gazing down upon long familiar terrain while deciding where it would start its hunt.

There was the lake spread over the southern reaches of a valley some five miles in width and split by the highway crossing over the historic Tongue River. A narrow, two-lane highway passed through the secluded village of Timber Lake. A sign on the outskirts stated that 345 people lived in this place which before the stock market crash of ’29 was the exclusive domain of the wealthy. The Depression Years which followed, and now WWII, had thinned out many of the residents and the money. What remained were the lavish homes and estates, some of which were located in canyons fingering up into the mountains to the north and west. The Hathaway, a rambling hotel and pavilion jutting out over the southern shore of the lake, still cast its inviting lights at night. Some snow pack still lay on the upper reaches of the mountain looming back of the hotel, and through a narrow gap to the east a gravel road meandered through on its way to the Tomahawk Ski area. While a man who had once been ultra-rich, still held to his rambling estate on North Caraway Lane.

For Cyrus Tritch, the morning ritual of chicory coffee and breakfast prepared by his housekeeper would not be served inside, but much to his delight, out on the east veranda. Sunlight streaming over the lower mountains to the east was even more pleasurable after a long winter, warming to his sixty one year old rather obese frame ravaged by a few minor ailments. He was dressed for work; an old pair of brown coveralls, heavy black boots, shapeless was an apt word, Fedora.

Around Cyrus lay the twenty acres which contained his worldly possessions. Three carriage houses composed of fieldstone and pine wood walls stained a dark brown, as was the four-car garage, which occupied the southern side of the circular driveway, up which at the moment walked Cyrus Tritch’s two employees. West off the house loomed the Pyramid, a monstrous McCormack tractor red hip-roofed barn. Once the barn and the grassy acreage hemmed in by aging white wood fences were home to his polo ponies. But starting in the early Thirties his love for the automobile, but mostly his lack of money, saw the ponies replaced, the barn and carriage houses now filled with vintage autos. Many of these autos were stored here, for a fee, by some still wealthy locals. The barn had been dubbed the Pyramid the day a wealthy socialite had ventured inside to discover to his delight what he claimed to be King Tutt’s tomb in the form of a rare 1922 Detroit Electric sedan. Selling the car had been the one bright spot in the dismal Depression year of 1937. While instead of lush grassland, the twenty acres had been plowed up and turned into garden plots, the produce from it given to needy townspeople.

Stan Pulanski, a wizened man with a stubbled beard on a head that seemed too large for his body, came up the short flight of steps wearing his customary grin. Late Forties, a former lumberjack and a man handy with tools, Pulanski’s only son was off in Africa, or probably in Europe by now, if the headlines were right, with General ‘Blood and Guts’ Patton’s Third Army. He nodded at Cyrus, waited until Len Jensen came up, and with both of them doffing their cloth caps while easing down eagerly at the round table. Even for Cyrus, this breakfast was the high spot of the day, for here they planned what work had to be done, what supplies were needed, and with Cyrus determining this particular morning that he would not send Thelma Kjos a bill for the work he’d done on her aging Model T Ford, not with her husband in the hospital and the Kjos’ three sons off to war.

Cyrus also removed his hat, plopping it down carelessly on the floor beside his wicker chair and as his housekeeper swept out a side door bearing a tray sending out pleasant aromas. She set the tray down, telling them more vittles were coming, which provoked Pulanski to say, Thankee kindly Gladys, for your gracious hospitality.

She threw back over her shoulder, You do less talking, Stan, and more eatin’, you wouldn’t be so scrawny.

You’d probably look like me, Cyrus filled all three cups.

Len Jensen, a tall man with pensive brown eyes and a walrus mustache that needed trimming, took a long, warming sip, for despite the warm sun, a little chilly nip still remained doggedly in the air, as was usual for high mountain country. He set his cup down, pointed the other hand in a southeasterly direction, Ya, there it still is...first chicken hawk I’ve seen this spring...a good sign. His thick Norske accent seemed to linger on the veranda.

Wish I was far-sighted, groused Stan Pulanski. Oh, yeah.

Circling to hit into town, commented Cyrus. For your information, boys, it is not a chicken hawk. Its rightful name is that of Coopers Hawk.

Somewhat testily, Pulanski said, Yup, maybe so, but it is one sneaky scavenger, and it eats most anything...rodents, chickens. His sudden grin revealed the gap in his upper teeth. Even cats and been known to take what it catches down to the lake and drown it, nine lives a cat has or no. He broke out laughing before dipping a hand over to fork out another couple of sausages.

Coopers Hawk you called that bird, Cyrus, Jensen said blandly, deadpanned. Which reminds me, this is the last day of school, and will this rascal kid Cooper be showing up for work? Jensen and Pulanski turned questioning eyes upon Cyrus. 

Cyrus continued on eating, savoring the moment, until he said dryly, Yes, it is, isn’t it, last day of school. And, yes, Coop will be working here again. The rest of the food arrived, and everyone bent to the task at hand.

As for Cyrus Tritch, and even as he went on eating, his thoughts were turned back to the bitter years after the stock market had crashed. Almost overnight his Ohio manufacturing plant went out of business, leaving him almost penniless. The one saving grace had been that his summer home here in Timber Lake had been debt free. The tragedy of it all had been too much for his wife Helen, and in 1933, on a dreary fall day, she passed away. Alone, without any children to cling to or bring him solace, Cyrus had gone into virtual isolation, trying and failing to find any reason that he should continue living.

The boy had changed all of that, stealing in here to poke around the grounds, sneaking in and out of the stored autos, until the day that Cyrus cornered Derrick James Cooper in the Pyramid, trying to siphon what gas he could out of a 36’ Reo. 

What in tarnation do you think you’re doing? thundered Cyrus Tritch, and holding up his gas lantern to make sure the little culprit wasn’t able to dart past him and get away.

Evening, Mr. Tritch.

Evening, you thieving scamp. Is all you can say? You’re a heartbeat away from being incarcerated in the town jail.

I meant no harm, sir. I just needed a little petrol for my Indian motorcycle.

After hearing this, Cyrus suddenly realized the boy, though gangly, could be no more than seven at the most. The boy’s unexpected grin widened Cyrus’s eyes even more; darn, should have worn my specs. But what he viewed more closely was the thatch of brownish hair poking out from under an old Chicago Cubs baseball hat setting slightly askew on the boy’s head and the guileless blue eyes radiating instead of fearing an unmasked glee. Before him, he was realizing, was a seven year old bundle of boyish impertinence coupled with a mischievous curiosity and unmitigated gall. Or maybe another Sundance Kid if this wasn’t stopped in its tracks.

Now, what is this nonsense about you owning a motorcycle?

Ah, I borrow it mostly, ah, mostly late at night...

More like steal it to go joy riding. What’s your name, boy?

Coop, sir.

Coop, what kind of name is that? Aha, yes, you are the offspring of Lydia Cooper. I’ve seen you at your ma’s café. You live above the café, and Coop, if you please, that’s where we are headed right now.

Almost before Cyrus Tritch realized it, the boy seemed to vanish, and he hurried that way, until lantern light picked out the open window. He stood there for a moment, let his anger subside, and then he trudged back to his house. Instead of calling on the boy’s mother, Cyrus claimed his own bed found that sleep eluded him for what raced through his mind were images of a boy called Coop. As the days went by, he shoved all of this aside, but somehow the incident seemed to bring him out of his shell.

One day he saw the boy perched on a lower tree limb a short distance outside of his white wood fence, and again in the days to come, the boy gazing longingly at the autos parked in the open door carriage houses.

And one day it happened, an impulsive thing that completely changed Cyrus Tritch’s world of isolation to one of his becoming an active member of the town. Coop, he remembered calling out, and waving the boy in, do you want gainful employment. So it began, Coop washing autos and doing other chores around the grounds. And Cyrus, to his surprise, finding himself placing an advertisement in the local newspaper proclaiming that he was going into the auto repair business.

The years fled by, in which he no longer mourned his wife’s passing, and then the war started, and his two young mechanics left to join up. He replaced them with the men who now worked for him. However, the biggest surprise of all had been Coop, now going on 13, who had proved to be possessed of an uncanny knack to fix most anything, especially a grateful Cyrus Tritch’s broken heart.

My... my... yes, all because... 

Along Came Coop!

CHAPTER TWO

The Redland Emporium an edifice of native lumber and artisanship had been erected in 1912 by a rancher of the same name. The building still dominated Timber Lake’s four block business sector strung along the highway. Some went so far as to say that the main lodge at Yellowstone

Park had been modeled after the Redland. There had been a succession of owners until Captain Wade Cooper purchased the building seven years ago, remodeled and turned the place into a café and curio shop.

Captain Cooper’s plans to retire were pushed aside when the outbreak of hostilities over in Europe found him being ordered back to Portsmouth, where he took command of a Merchant Marine ship. It was with a great deal of misgivings that his wife Lydia, a plump but handsome woman with chestnut hair and a fiery temper, found herself running the Redland in the midst of trying to raise three sons. The older boys, Mike and Tommy, soon graduated from high school and managed to find work, which left Lydia alone with a seven year old bundle of rambunctiousness; who was turning out to be even more mulish than his seafaring father. 

As for the building Lydia now owned, The Redland, in years past the upper floor had been used as a theater, with many famous Broadway actors listed on the billboards. One memorable time the Hollywood actor Gary Cooper showed up to stay across the lake at the Hathaway, where he was wined and dined by some Timber Lake socialites. The news that one of the actor’s movies would be shown out there, and that there would be no charge to the public, brought Lydia heading around the lake in her old Model T with her son Derrick James in tow. What happened over at the Hathaway that night was simply the most humiliating moment of her life. Even now, where Lydia Cooper sat at a back table enjoying a cup of coffee and some small talk with one of her waitresses, the scene replayed itself in her mind like a bad and endless dream.

The emcee, a retired banker named Petrie, stood before a large movie screen and exchanged smiles with the audience, as he said, Glad so many of you took up Mr. Cooper’s most gracious invitation. He beckoned the actor to his side. Here he is, folks, the star of such movies as Beau Geste... ...High Noon. Now, Gary, you have a nickname.

Yup, reckon I’m known to many as just plain Coop.

That name struck into Derrick James Cooper’s ears like a lightning bolt. Through an awestruck smile he sat there for a moment, mesmerized by the tall, handsome star of western oaters. Gone was his look of disinterest, his surly attitude at being dragged out here, for what Gary Cooper had just said was something that seven year old Derrick James had been searching for, a breakout name that he could wear proudly, defiantly, like a brand.

Somewhat taken by the handsome actor, Lydia didn’t realize that her son had twisted on the chair and risen to a standing position on it, from where he shouted out delightedly, Coop! That’s my name too! Coop...Coop... Cooper!!!

As the audience, which included about everybody still living in Timber Lake, broke out into tumultuous laughter, Lydia Cooper tried to shrivel up on her chair, to bite the bullet as the laughter went on and on. All of a sudden she realized that the actor was coming down the aisle and singling her out.

Ma’am, it sure is a mighty pleasure to meet another Cooper. I’m from High Sky country Montana. You got any relatives out that-a-way?

Red-faced, mortified, she started to respond, than did the only thing a woman of breeding and high standing could do in this situation—-she swooned.

Hey...are you okay?

Uh...yes, stammered Lydia Cooper, blinking the past away and focusing again on Rosie, one of her waitresses. Just took a trip down memory lane.

They were seated at a back table in Lydia’s restaurant, enjoying a moment of relaxation before the noon crowd came in. The room was quite large, while the lower portions of the walls were wainscoted with high quality oak paneling and had matching tables and chairs. Above the paneling hung artwork in the form of paintings and framed photos dating from when the Redland had first opened to the present time. Timber Lake still had a small art colony, and had consigned some of its work to Lydia. Three crystal chandeliers spaced along the ceiling added a final touch of elegance, as did the ornately tiled floor.

Didn’t you say Derrick was supposed to come here right after school let out this morning?

Oh, my gosh, yes, Lydia’s eyes flicked to a wall clock. Almost eleven-twenty. She should have remembered the kids were always let out in the morning on the last day of school. She sprang up from the chair, and told Rosie to watch the till, angry that her son had gone over to work for Mr. Tritch while wearing his good clothes; Tritch and those stupid old jalopies of his.

She passed into the curio shop and was almost to the front door when it opened and George Wilcox, the local postmaster, entered carrying a bulky package and some letters, I brought your mail over, Lydia. 

He set the package on a counter as Lydia caught a glimpse of a yellow envelope; could it be a telegram? Her heart began to beat faster, saying to herself, no, not again. Like the one which had arrived at exactly twelve minutes past nine on a cloudy Tuesday morning, the ninth day of October 1940. In a way, she had been expecting something to happen to Wade, listening as she had been doing to daily radio reports of how convoys of unarmed Merchant Marine ships were being attacked by U-boat wolf packs. A few letters from her husband had spoken vaguely about the dangers he was encountering up in the North Atlantic. The telegram had confirmed her worst fears. We regret to inform you...the SS Santa Cruz went down with all hands...down with all hands. The grim finality of it all the barest of words lacking any sympathy. And Wade’s shipmates...so much sorrow.

Lydia discovered that a person could mourn only so long, and for her that day came on Sunday, December 7, 1941. A few months before this, it had become clear that she must do away with either the house or put the restaurant up for sale. Actually the decision had been easy, in that the Redland was now her only means of support. After getting what she could for the house, she hired a local carpenter to turn the upper floor of the restaurant into an apartment.

And it was on her way home from church on that fateful day in December, when upon finding out about the attack on Pearl Harbor, she contacted