“…It’s not my place to question the orders of my superiors. Still, could there be something awry here, for are there not ‘codes’ of war that must be followed…?”
“…I don’t understand what the Führer means by his ideas of lebensraum. What is the value of this ‘living space’ for these ‘Aryan’ peoples? What is its value if these rumours are true…?”
“They sound like the words of someone crying out to be turned,” he finished off, lowering the book once more to his lap. “We’ve got some exceptionally distasteful videos designed to enlighten people to what the Nazis got up to, as you well know… any one of them should serve quite nicely, and we’ve got plenty of audio-visual gear stored on DVD and Blu-Ray to back it up. Throw that in with the technology he’s already seen, and I’m willing to bet we can convince him well enough.” He smiled a little at the idea he’d put forward. “Just think what an ‘ace-in-the-hole’ we’d have if we could bring Ritter ‘on-side’...!”
“‘Ace-in-the-hole’… are you kidding?” Davies chuckled softly, beginning to like the idea. “Pull this off and we’ll have a whole Goddamn royal flush!”
Ritter spent two days in a small, concrete cell with one window high in the east wall that was barely large enough to allow light to filter through. The cell was part of a block at the rear of HMS Proserpine’s security buildings, and was set apart from the main layout of the base, some distance from the docks and the water. He’d been treated a good deal better than he’d expected and had been provided a meal, a shower and a clean set of clothes. The olive drab fatigue pants and shirt were a little uncomfortable, being a size too large, but they were clean at least.
He hadn’t eaten much… his appetite had all but disappeared, and he wondered how long it would take to come back. They’d at least left him a selection of recent newspapers to read so he’d not go entirely stir crazy through boredom. He spoke English moderately well, but his reading of the language was sorely out of practice, and it had taken him a good three hours to painfully fight his way through an issue of the Daily Sketch alone.
That being said, he’d found the perspective from ‘the other side’ morbidly interesting. The portrayals of the dastardly ‘Hun’, particularly the U-boat crews and the pilots, would almost have been a hilarious parody had the subject not been so close to home. One tired after only so many cartoons of ‘baby-killing’ Jerries, but some of the articles had indeed been interesting all the same.
Possessed of some literary ability, and having been a masterful member of the debating society at university, Ritter was able to read clearly between the lines of the ‘stiff-upper-lip’ English journalism. Despite the optimistic nature of the prose – probably under ‘suggestion’ from Whitehall – the signs were there to be read: Britain was in trouble, and although the kill tallies of German planes were apparently grossly exaggerated – God knew that was common enough on both sides – even those figures couldn’t deny there seemed to be no stopping either the Luftwaffe or the Wehrmacht in general.
It was afternoon on that Monday before anyone actually came to speak to him, and he was reclining in one corner of the cell on a small cot with a straw mattress as he heard the sheet-steel door being unlocked from the far side. Ritter straightened, preparing to more formally face whoever was about to enter, and as the door opened inward he was surprised to find a man wearing a high-ranking RAF officer’s uniform carrying a tray of food.
“Good afternoon,” the man offered in slow, faultless German that carried a strange, unplaceable accent. “I hope you’ve been reasonably comfortable?”
“Comfortable enough, all things considered,” Ritter replied with some hesitation as the officer stepped into the room. “Might I inquire, perhaps, after the safety of my gunner – he bailed out with me.” The officer looked to be in his early forties, with dark hair and of medium build and height. The uniform was clean and pressed, and seemed as if it were quite new. The butt of an automatic pistol of some description poked from a black holster of strange, synthetic material at the man’s hip, and he made no effort to close the door behind him. Ritter had no illusions about the idea of escaping: there’d be at least three or four guards beyond that door who’d be prepared for the slightest incident. All he really cared about at that point was the fate of Wolff.
The man hesitated, unable to meet his gaze momentarily. “From what we can ascertain, he suffered injuries when your plane was hit… he was dead when we pulled him out of the water. I’m very sorry... I assure you he’s been provided full military consideration, and we can organise for you to visit the grave in our cemetery here, if you wish.”
Ritter nodded in thanks at the respect. “Thank you… that would be appreciated,” he replied slowly, concealing the pain he felt at having his fears confirmed. Wolff had been a good man of whom Ritter had been very fond, and had been a guest at the man’s wedding just the year before.
“We thought you might be hungry, so I organised some sandwiches. I’m afraid there was only plain milk or water on hand, so I’ve brought both...”
“That will be fine, thank you,” Ritter nodded, smiling thinly. “I’m not very hungry anyway, as you might understand. You can leave them on the table though…” The man did so, sitting the tray carefully on the small, wooden side table by the foot of the bed.
“Your identification papers indicate that you’re Oberstleutnant Carl Ritter?”
“You’re correct… I assume this will be an interrogation, then?”
“Not an interrogation as such… just a bit of a chat, really… may I sit down?”
As Ritter shrugged an answer, dragging himself into a fully erect sitting position on the bed, the man took a wooden chair from near the door and placed it in the centre of the small room. “I have these things to give back to you,” he continued, reaching into his tunic. From it, he withdrew Ritter’s identification papers, his diary, and the photograph of his wife the pilot had grabbed from the instrument panel in the seconds before he bailed out. “I thought you might want them back. We’ve no further use for them. They’re a bit damp still, but they’ve held up remarkably well considering what they’ve been through.”
“Thank you again,” Ritter nodded as he took the items, smiling fully for the first time in many hours. “They mean a great deal to me.”
“My name’s Generalleutnant Max Thorne by the way,” he offered, having searched for a Luftwaffe equivalent to his rank of air vice marshal and settling on the closest rough approximation. As Ritter accepted the Australian’s extended hand, he added: “Feel free to just call me ‘Max’, if you wish – I don’t expect that immediately, of course, but you may well be here for some time and we’ll be getting to know each other much better… that I can promise you.”
“Possibly, Herr Generalleutnant,” Ritter muttered dubiously. He cocked his head to one side and changed to English, a move that didn’t seem to surprise Thorne. “May I ask of your accent? I cannot place it, but you are not British: of that, I am certain.”
“Very well picked, colonel,” Thorne smiled, returning to English also. “I’m a rather broadly displaced Australian who’s at the moment still trying to work out what the hell he’s doing in an air vice marshal’s uniform.”
“Australia? A long way from home, then...”
More than you could imagine! Thorne thought with irony, but he merely gave wry grin.
“I seem to remember reading the Australians were worthy opponents in the Great War.” Ritter continued after some thought. “You fellows gave us some trouble at Passchendale, Bullecourt and other places. The French, particularly, cannot sing praises of the ‘Aussies’ enough.”
“Yeah, well I think they had less to do with keeping us in line than the Poms,” Thorne observed with a smile, recalling what he’d read of the disciplinary difficulties Australian troops had continually caused behind the lines during World War One … during both wars, in fact.
“‘Poms’…? I – I do not know that word… my English is all ri
ght… but not perfect.”
“Sorry… the word’s an Australian colloquial term – it means ‘Englishmen’ in the same way you might call them ‘Tommis’. It’s derived from an acronym of the phrase ‘Prisoner of Mother England’… from our convict days. Don’t worry about your English either, mate,” he added as Ritter smiled in understanding. “You speak it bloody well.” There were a few words in the sentence Ritter didn’t catch due to the speed with which Thorne spoke, but he picked up enough to understand Thorne’s meaning and gave an ironic smile.
“I think that perhaps I shall have plenty of time to practice, yes…?”
Thorne’s reply was almost apologetic. “Yes, mate… I think you probably will...”
Luftwaffe Airbase at Stavanger
Sola, Southern Norway
The officer’s mess at Stavanger was mostly empty as Willi Meier sat at the CO’s table, a large glass of Beaujolais before him that was accompanied by an almost-empty bottle. He’d been there alone for an hour and a half, and although it was barely afternoon, Hauptmann Wilhelm Marius Meier was quite drunk. The mess sergeant, more understanding than apprehensive, had decided to leave the officer to his own, private thoughts: everyone at the base was aware that almost the entirety of I/ZG26 had been officially posted as ‘Missing In Action’, and there were few experienced pilots or ground staff who didn’t understand what that probably meant for fellow fliers lost so far from home, across hostile waters.
Meier had actually seen the deadly accuracy of those incredible guided rockets, and of the cannon that’d been fired at his gruppe. He was one of just six fellow fliers and crew who’d returned in their three damaged machines, the same number of returning aircraft as there’d been of B-10A bombers that’d survived to tell the tale of their encounter over Scapa Flow. He held little hope that a few of the lost crewmen might yet be found before the harsh environment brought on hypothermia or enemy units picked them up, and he was resigned to the ‘fact’ that his friend and commanding officer was dead.
Uncertain of his movements, he hesitantly took up the wine glass in his right hand and raised it to his lips, draining the remainder. Returning it awkwardly on the tabletop, he endeavoured to pour more from the bottle, droplets of the dark liquid staining the white cloth. Several attempts proved fruitless as his drunken co-ordination proved too poor for him to get the neck of the bottle within reach of the glass’s rim without far too great a danger of complete catastrophe.
“Please, Herr Hauptmann… allow me...” The voice startled Meier as much as the large, weathered hand that suddenly appeared and gently took the bottle from his grasp, tipping it expertly and filling the pilot’s glass with Beaujolais.
“Reichsmarschall Reuters,” Meier stated flatly with a mastery of the obvious, squinting as his forced his blurry eyes to focus. “An unexpected pleasure, Mein Herr!” There was little animosity in the statement, but neither did Meier make any attempt to come to attention or show any respect. Drunk as he was, he was well aware of how impossible it would’ve been for him to carry out that kind of action. He might’ve saluted, but he found that he had no desire to do so… for some reason, the idea left a sour taste in his mouth. Reuters was happier to keep it that way in any case: he was in no mood for the regimen and protocol of the military at that moment either. He lifted a filled glass he already held in his other hand.
“May I join you? I’d very much like to talk.”
“As you wish, sir,” Meier shrugged after considering the request, “although I must warn you I’m not exactly ‘good company’ this afternoon.” The words were slurred, but Meier picked them carefully, and his sentences took longer to complete than sober ones should have as a result.
“Nor am I, Herr Meier,” Reuters gave a thin, mirthless smile, “yet I’d speak with you nevertheless.”
“Allow me to apologise for my appearance, Herr Reichsmarschall… my condition isn’t exactly becoming an officer of the Reich at the moment.” There was no real sincerity in the words.
“You’re excused. I’m well aware of the friendship shared between Oberstleutnant Ritter and yourself… I understand better than you think how much his loss affects you. I’m not here as a Reichsmarschall, Herr Meier… I’m here simply as fellow officer who wishes to pass on his deepest sympathies and share a little of the burden of grief.”
“‘Pass on his deepest sympathies’,” Meier repeated slowly, almost snorting with derision. “Carl used to use that exact phrase when he wrote to the families of his own men. I’m sure they were quite heartened by the words in such a time of loss. I never realised how pathetic that really sounded until now.”
“You don’t understand,” Reuters began sadly, shaking his head as he gestured for an orderly to bring another glass.
“You’re damned right I don’t understand!” Meier snapped sharply, the tone more accusatory and unpleasant than he’d intended or even expected. “Just what are you doing here? What the hell were we doing on that mission in the first place?” He demanded angrily. “There’ll be a court of inquiry, of course… I’m sure Fliegerkorps will be able to apportion blame quickly enough…. on past experience, they’ll no doubt lay it at the feet of the CO. Very convenient of him to go and get himself killed into the bargain… saves all that messy defending yourself business that gets in the way of court proceedings.”
“There’ll be no court of inquiry,” Reuters stated flatly in return, surprising Meier and leaving him momentarily speechless as Reuters drained his glass and accepted a new one from the waiter at the same time. “I already know this disaster was no fault of Carl Werner Ritter. I know exactly who’ll be held responsible for sending you all into that fiasco, and the Führer shall soon know of it also. He doesn’t take kindly to wasting such good men, and both ZG26 and SKG1 were full of good men.”
The last remark was an outright lie – Reuters knew from cold experience how little the Führer cared for the ‘cannon fodder’ that were Reuters’ fighting soldiers – but there’d be retribution meted out in the Chancellor’s name, whether Hitler knew about it or not. Reuters’ intelligence sources knew about Zeigler’s meetings with Barkmann, and his meetings with Hermann Göring – both of whom had good reason to wish ill of Kurt Reuters – and it was no great leap of logic to work out who was behind the unexpected reassignment of ZG26 to the mission over Scapa Flow.
“The defences were like nothing we have ever seen!” Meier finally broke, holding his face in his hands. “Rockets that followed us and blew us out of the sky…!” Somehow he actually sensed a level of empathy in the man beside him. “You can’t imagine how terrible it was!” But Reuters had seen the reports of survivors from both decimated units, and he also knew exactly what they’d come up against.
“I think perhaps I can,” Reuters nodded slowly, sipping at his second glass as he realised his own hands were shaking.
Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
Max Thorne took his prisoner for a walk that evening, along the waterline near the Martello Towers where he’d argued with Eileen the day before. Ritter hadn’t been forced to wear restraints or bonds of any kind, but the Australian still wore his sidearm, and four guards wearing red berets and carrying strange-looking rifles walked twenty yards behind them the whole time.
“I must admit I took the liberty of reading your diary,” Thorne confessed as they walked.
“I expected as much,” Ritter shrugged, unperturbed as both men continued to speak in English. “I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t. What did it tell you of Carl Werner Ritter?”
“It told me that you seem an honourable man at the very least… if, of course, you actually believe what you’ve written.”
“It would serve no purpose, I think, to keep a private diary that was composed of lies,” Ritter countered without irritation, shrugging once more. The idea was matter-of-fact to him and he cared little whether this man believed him.
“That had also occurred t
o me… I think you’re a man who should have no need to lie in any reasonable society.”
“No reason at all,” Ritter agreed uneasily, apprehensive of the direction that the conversation might take.
“I also think you’d be at least reprimanded, should your superiors read some of the things you’ve written. I hear freedom of thought isn’t so widely encouraged in Germany as it once was.”
“I think that reports of...” he searched for the words in English, found himself at a loss, and instead reverted to German. “...reports of ideological control in my country are somewhat exaggerated.” He returned to English. “Things are not so bad as they sometimes seem.”
“That’s not what you imply in your diary… either you’re lying there, or you’re kidding yourself now… and we’ve already agreed on the accuracy of the diary.” There was a knowing tone in Thorne’s voice, devoid of any sarcasm, that engaged Ritter’s mind rather than making him feel patronised.
“You may believe what you will – I think we both can see the truth of it…”
“I think I probably see the truth of it a bit clearer, but there’s no chance of me convincing you of that at the moment. It’s a fact nevertheless.”
“Perhaps you’ll explain it to me, then,” Ritter suggested, feeling positively challenged and warming to the idea of a thought-provoking discussion.
“In time,” Thorne said thoughtfully. “You’d no doubt think me mad if I told you everything I know right now…”
“I sometimes think I must be mad,” Ritter said dryly, shaking his head and almost grinning. “When I first saw that grey aircraft before me, I believed I’d suddenly fallen into some grand hallucination.” Thorne laughed at those words… something he’d not been able to do two days before when faced with the loss of the Raptor and the damage the raid had inflicted.
“That ‘hallucination’ turned into a fireball and some pretty big pieces of wreckage after you shot it down though… There’s an American pilot back at the base who’s certainly crossed you off his Christmas list!”
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 64