James Bond In WW2

More advance chapters on [email protected]/Saintbarbido.

-0-

-Bond's P.O.V-

The camp was unusually quiet that night.

Shadows flickered across the walls of the officers' tents as lanterns swayed in the cold wind.

The heavy weight of loss hung in the air, and no one dared speak too loudly. The Debrief was yet to start and I was already itching to leave.

Evelyn sat beside just as morose.

She and I were the only survivors of our squad, and the echoes of that disastrous mission kept replaying endlessly in my mind.

Marcus, with his sarcastic wit. Royce, always calm under pressure. Both gone.

I gripped Marcus's sniper rifle tightly. It hadn't left my side since I'd taken it from his body. I must have cleaned it over ten times already, but its luster now couldn't match when Marcus held it.

His lessons echoed in my mind every time I sighted down its scope. "Sniping's not about brute force, rook. It's finesse."

It was more than a weapon to me. It was a reminder of the cost of failure.

Commander Charles Barlow's voice was a growl as he spoke to the room of officers. I sat stiffly at the back, my hands clasped tightly around the Barrel of my new gun.

The tent smelled of damp canvas and tobacco, the air thick with tension.

"We need answers," Barlow said, his piercing gaze sweeping over the assembled men. "How did this happen?"

I needed to know that too.

One of the officers—a stout, mustached man named Captain Jenkins—shifted uncomfortably. "The intelligence we received was vetted. There was no indication of a trap."

I clenched my jaw. "With all due respect, sir, someone knew. That factory was a setup from the start. The Germans were waiting for us."

Everyone turned to regard me, and I felt Evelyn elbow me on the side. We were only included in the meeting to give statements, not to speak out of turn.

Yeah, well screw that.

Jenkins bristled, his face reddening. "Are you accusing—"

"Enough," Barlow interrupted, his voice a sharp blade. "Officers, dismissed. Bond, stay behind."

The men, all higher ranked than me, filed out, casting wary glances my way.

"Good luck."

Eveyln squeezed my hand and left.

I remained seated, my expression calm despite my pounding heart.

Barlow tapped his desk rhythmically, studying me with an unreadable expression.

When the tent flap closed, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "You've been through a lot, Private. And you've raised some interesting points."

I didn't respond.

"I've read your file," Barlow continued, his tone softening slightly. "I know about your father."

The mention of my father hit me like a slap. "And?"

"He was a good man. A good soldier."

I scoffed. "He knew how to handle a gun. Not a four-year-old boy."

Barlow's gaze didn't waver. "Is that why you ran away from the military academy he enrolled you in when you were nine?"

I shrugged. "The food was terrible."

"And the food you got from dumpsters while living on the streets?"

"At least I had my freedom."

Barlow leaned forward, his tone growing serious. "Then why give it up to enlist?"

I hesitated, the question cutting deeper than I expected. Finally, I said, "Because I'm his son."

Barlow raised an eyebrow.

"At some point, protecting my freedom started to mean more than myself. It started to mean others."

Barlow sighed, shaking his head. "Naïve idealism."

"Maybe," I admitted.

"But this country was built by men like you," he said. "And it's men like you who win wars."

I straightened slightly.

"Remember this," Barlow continued, his voice low. "Missions come from the top brass. So unless you're calling Winston Churchill a traitor, dial it down and respect your officers. Dismissed."

I left the tent, the commander's words swirling in my mind. He'd sidestepped my accusations, but I wasn't satisfied. Someone had betrayed us. If it wasn't the officers, then who?

I wandered the camp, replaying the events leading up to the ambush. The strike team, the explosion, the Germans knowing our positions—it didn't add up.

Then, as I passed the communications tent, I froze.

The radio operators.

Who else had access to the mission plans? Who else could relay that information to the enemy?

My heart raced as the pieces fell into place.

-0-

Over the next few days, I observed the radio operators closely, keeping to the shadows and staying out of sight.

Most of them were dedicated soldiers, but one stood out—a wiry man named Corporal Harris. He was always nervous, glancing over his shoulder and keeping to himself.

It wasn't much to go on, but I trusted my instincts.

Late one night, I followed him as he slipped out of the tent and into the woods.

He stopped near a secluded clearing, pulling a small radio from his pack. My blood ran cold as I listened to him transmit in German.

I waited until he finished and turned to leave before stepping into his path.

"Going somewhere, Harris?"

He froze, his eyes wide with panic. "Bond? What are you doing out here?"

"Funny," I said, my voice cold. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

He stammered, reaching for the pistol at his hip, but I was faster. I leveled my gun at him, my hands steady. Like Marcus, I carried the rifle everywhere I went.

"Drop it," I ordered.

He hesitated, then let the pistol fall to the ground.

"You've been feeding intel to the Nazis," I said. "How long?"

Harris said nothing.

"Answer me!"

When he still didn't respond, I slammed the butt of my rifle into his stomach. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.

"You're going to tell me everything," I said, my voice low and deadly.

I lead Harris to a secluded shack on the edge of camp, and tied him to a chair.

Evelyn had no idea where I'd gone, and that was for the best. This wasn't something she needed to see.

Harris squirmed, his face pale. "You can't do this. It's illegal."

"So is treason," I shot back.

I started simple—questions, threats—but he stayed quiet. So I escalated. A fist to the jaw. A knife across his arm. Torture was never my cup of tea, but you learn something in the streets.

"You're going to tell me, or you're going to wish you had," I growled, snapping his ring finger.

Finally, he broke. Between sobs, he confessed. He'd been transmitting troop movements and mission plans in exchange for money and promises of safety from the Germans.

That's all I needed to know.

"You killed them," I said, my voice trembling with fury. "You killed Marcus and Royce."

"It wasn't personal," he pleaded.

I stared at him for a long moment, my hands tightening around the knife. I could take him back to the Camp and hand him over.

But no, he'd only be sent to prison after getting court martialed. That punishment was not enough in my eyes.

Without a word, I plunged the Knife into his chest, piercing his heart.

His body went limp, his eyes wide with shock. I kept staring into them, up until the light disappeared.

I washed the blood away, torched the shack with Harris inside to clear the evidence and left before Curfew.

When I returned to camp, Evelyn was waiting for me.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"Taking care of a problem," I said flatly.

She stared at me, her eyes searching mine. "James, what did you do?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

Instead, I walked past her, Marcus's rifle slung over my shoulder.

The next morning, the camp buzzed with rumors of Harris's disappearance. I said nothing, keeping my focus on the missions ahead.

But something had changed. The others noticed it too. I was colder, more calculating. They started calling me the "Young Lion," a name that carried both respect and fear.

The cost of survival was steep, but I paid it willingly.

For Marcus. For Royce. For what they believed in.

No matter the cost, I would protect what mattered and keep their legacy alive.