There was worse still to come. The reality of what was happening was finally revealed to the world as the Red Army pushed into Germany in 1945, poised to crush the Wehrmacht in the east. Only as the Russians ‘liberated’ camp after camp could the true obscenity of it all be comprehended… if that were even possible. Bulldozers pushed emaciated, shattered and mostly-naked bodies into mass graves dozens at a time… the remnants of the Nazis’ handiwork as the SS deserted the camps and retreated westward. Men, women and children alike… all were subject to the mass exterminations… and even those found alive by the liberating forces were often too weak to survive, eventually dying of starvation or exhaustion. In the end the images were too much.
“Enough,” Oberstleutnant Carl Ritter croaked weakly, his mouth dry as Thorne leaned in to move the mouse once more and stopped the disc. The pilot’s face was drawn and ashen. The scenes it had shown…! The images…! Death of a scale he’d never experienced, and a level of extermination that made Guernica and the entire Spanish War seem like nothing.
“How many…?” He asked finally, his eyes staring away and to the floor. “How many…?”
“Nearly six million,” Thorne said softly, also visibly shaken by what they’d seen, despite having seen it before. “Probably more than that when you include the disabled, homosexuals, political prisoners and other ‘undesirables’ as well… they had dozens of those camps running: Auschwitz, Sachsenhausen, Bergen-Belsen and many others...”
The idea sent Ritter’s senses reeling. Who in the military had even heard of such names as Dachau or Auschwitz… Sachsenhausen or Belsen? Yet this man claimed six million Jews and others would be murdered in these places within just the next five years.
Six million! The number was incomprehensible in real terms, but the ramifications were clear nevertheless: Germany – his country and his people – were responsible... would be responsible.
“You okay…?” Thorne asked with genuine concern as he sat in the chair beside Ritter’s. “You don’t look too crash hot.”
“I think I will not be sick,” Ritter grimaced, “but it is a close thing!”
“Yeah, I guess that show is a bit heavy when it’s your country they’re talking about.”
“That really happened, didn’t it...?” Ritter began. “Will happen…” he added, trying to get his head around the complexity of it all. Thorne knew there was no need for an answer: the rhetoric question was the final plea of a man who’d already seen the truth but didn’t want to accept it. “Could I have a drink, please?” The pilot added as an involuntary shudder rippled through his body.
“No worries,” Thorne nodded, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and producing a hip flask he’d for the first time brought along purely for the benefit of someone else. “Scotch okay?”
“Please...” There was a pause as Thorne handed the flask over before he added: “Thank you…”
“One slug of ‘Ye Olde’ White Horse coming right up…!” Thorne tried to lighten the mood a little, sensing that perhaps a little detachment would now serve them better. “Sorry there’s no ice… these shortages are pissing everyone off … there’s a war on, I think...”
“It will be fine as it is, thank you,” Ritter replied, smiling very weakly at the attempted humour, and after a fortifying swig of straight whiskey, he offered it back to Thorne, who quickly shook his head and refused to take it. “You’re not drinking?”
“No,” Thorne said slowly, faltering a little. “I don’t feel like a drink right now.” He felt like one quite a bit in fact, but he now possessed the resolve to refrain.
“How could this happen?” Ritter demanded, as much to himself as anyone else. “This vile travesty against our culture and heritage… how could The Führer allow this to happen?” Ritter was so consumed by shock and disgust that he momentarily forgot where he was as he asked that question.
“Far be it for me to be the bearer of bad tidings,” Thorne tried not to show too much of a wry grin as he attempted to answer, “but your Führer’s as mad as a cut snake!” As Ritter frowned at the unfamiliar saying, Thorne explained with a more recognisable colloquialism as he tapped a finger to his head in emphasis. “He’s a fuckin’ mental case! Although there’s no concrete evidence, there are theories about him suffering from a range of illnesses that include syphilis, Parkinson’s disease, Asperger Syndrome, skin lesions and irritable bloody bowels… and that’s not including other rumours of involvement in occultism, and quack doctors pumping him full of Christ knows what…” he shrugged in resignation “…whatever the real reasons, you’ve got a fella that history proves had quite a few problems.”
“That’s not to say he wasn’t a brilliant tactician on occasion,” he added quickly, recognising the defensive ‘knee-jerk’ reaction on Ritter’s face he’d expected after that last remark... one video wasn’t going to wipe away thirty-odd years of environmental conditioning at one stroke after all. “He was a brilliant and gifted leader at times… his direction of the runaway victories at the beginning of the war is one example of that. Much as it galls me to say it, the man had huge potential despite some seriously unethical and unorthodox methods, however Hitler’s planning of the Realtime war also carried with it some significant flaws. One of his greatest mistakes was a failure to truly recognise the importance and danger of the United States, both for its untapped manpower and incredible industrial potential … something the Japanese also underestimated.
“More importantly, he also failed to capitalise on strategic opportunities in a military sense. The cancellation of the planned invasion of Great Britain is an example… a good one. Another is the failure to neutralise Malta during the North African campaigns of 1941 and ‘42. In both cases, those unconquered territories later caused damage to the German war machine out of all proportion to their relative value at the time, although perhaps his greatest blunder of all was invading the Soviet Union.”
“The whole concept seems ridiculous to me,” Ritter admitted, starting to feel better as he developed a liking for the unusual ‘history’ lecture and a taste for the scotch, taking another fortifying swig. “We… Germany… attack the Russians next year? That is what that... moving picture said?” He used the term ‘moving picture’ simply because he didn’t know what else to call the documentary he’d just seen. “Why would we do this? We have a non-aggression pact with the USSR, signed just two years ago… I saw newsreels of Molotov and Von Ribbentrop signing it!”
“As I said,” Thorne reminded with a thin, knowing smile “Hitler was… is quite mad. To be fair, the USSR was always his real target… the almost limitless plains and resources to the east that would form the basis for that ‘Lebensraum’ you spoke of yourself in your diary. The invasion of Poland was the first step toward conquering Russia, and he was caught completely by surprise when the Western Powers declared war on Germany as a result. Hitler never expected Britain or France to care enough about the fate of the Poles to fight for them, and he was suddenly left with a war in Western Europe he hadn’t planned for. His own arrogance and megalomania however ensured he still attacked the Soviet Union in 1941 nevertheless, and in one stroke he was fighting a world war on three fronts: against the RAF and (later) the United States Army Air Corps over the Channel; the Commonwealth, the Free French and Americans in North Africa and the Mediterranean; and then against the might of the Soviet Union to the east. Anyone with even a limited experience in battle would understand how dangerous a three-front war is… the Wehrmacht’s substantial initial technical superiority notwithstanding.”
“A dangerous game indeed,” Ritter mused thoughtfully, sipping again at the whisky. “Given the choice, I shouldn’t like to face three different opponents at once in even the best of fighters. So America enters the war...?”
“At the end of 1941, yes… Japanese carriers carry out a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor on December Seventh that devastates the US Navy’s battleship fleet at anchor and draws the Americans into the war… although that m
ay not happen now.”
“What do you mean? History can be changed?”
“Not ‘can be’, mate,” Thorne corrected with a grimace. “History has been changed already. As I said, our unit’s returned from seventy years in your future, and we’ve only returned to your time to combat a group that’s already here and changing history to allow Germany to win the Second World War. There are already many things that have occurred in the first year of this war – particularly lately – that are in direct conflict with the ‘history’ of the war that I know… the history that should have occurred. Reuters knows that we’re here, and he also knows we’ll prepare the Americans for Pearl Harbor. In turn, they’ll no doubt counsel their ambassador to advise Japan on a different course of action. That’s the trouble with what’s happening in the world now… we don’t know exactly what’s going to happen any more.”
“Then Germany will win,” Ritter observed in a tone that was matter-of-fact rather than in any way triumphant or proud. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“I think they will in Europe, yes,” The Australian’s answer was equally direct. “That in itself isn’t so much of a problem...” The statement was completely correct in a longer-term strategic sense, but it also elicited exactly the reaction he was hoping for.
“‘Not a problem’…?” Ritter repeated angrily, finding the remark utterly unacceptable. “Six million people will die, and the exterminations only stopped because we lose the war? How many more millions will die if… we… win?” He was incensed at the concept of such an incomprehensible loss of life, and was progressively finding it more difficult to identify himself as being part of a nation that could perpetrate such hideous genocide. “I’ve never been a lover of Jews, but I cannot accept this! How can you make such a statement?” He held out an upturned palm in frustrated surrender. “How can anyone allow this…?” He added softly, his tone suddenly filled with shocked despair and disgust.
“‘How can there be ‘honour’ in Germany…?’ You asked that in your diary after the incident at the farmhouse, right?” Thorne continued as Ritter nodded silently. “I meant no indifference when I said the extermination wasn’t a ‘problem’… I don’t for a minute condone what the Nazis are up to in Poland with their ‘final-fucking-solution’. I’ve never loved the Jews either… never thought much about ‘em one way or the other to be honest… but I’ll never get tired of preventing the Nazis from getting their way. One of our team leaders is a Jew and a survivor of the death camps… he’s also one of the men who developed the time machine that got us here… and you can be bloody sure he’s going to do anything he can to stop the bastards as well.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance to hide a moment of dark sadness. “And me… well, for reasons I’m not going to go into here, I just don’t fuckin’ like Nazis…” He almost faltered as he remembered some of the nightmares, but was spared as a new and completely ludicrous memory suddenly replaced more painful ones.
“‘Illinois Nazis… I hate Illinois Nazis…!’” Thorne muttered softly to himself, eliciting a quizzical response from Ritter. “Hmm…? Oh, nothing...” He dismissed his own strange remarks, smiling broadly as he remembered the Blues Brothers movie scene the quote was taken from. He almost laughed then as he went through the scene again in his mind, and those that followed. “Nothing important...” he added, grinning faintly at Ritter.
“I want to be angry,” Ritter said slowly after a long pause, during which he took another large gulp of whisky. “I want to fly into a rage and break something… I want to hurt things… myself… others… until someone tells me none of this is true...”
“No one’s going to,” Thorne shook his head, momentary humour descending once more into sad reality. “All of the things you’ve seen unfortunately do happen… will happen… and probably far worse. Flying into a rage, or hurting yourself won’t change any of it.”
“I need to be alone for a little while,” Ritter croaked, his throat dry as a faint wave of stress-induced nausea swept through him.
“No problem,” Thorne agreed, nodding with complete understanding. “I’ll have the guards take you back so you can rest… we can talk again in the morning…”
Friday
August 23, 1940
Thorne brought breakfast personally to Ritter’s cell the next morning, but the pilot had no appetite after what he’d seen the day before. The German rose from his bed the moment the door opened, and the intensity of his expression stopped Thorne in his tracks just inside the room.
“Yesterday, you said rage won’t change anything,” He said immediately, hands positioned expectantly on his hips. “Tell me what will…?” The question was as sharp and direct as the man’s gaze, and for some inexplicable reason, Thorne almost felt the need to look away.
“What do you mean?” Thorne suspected he knew already, but wanted the pilot to spell it out for him.
“Exactly what I said,” Ritter stated coldly, his eyes bright and piercing. “You didn’t show me those images yesterday without reason, and you’d not have taken me there at all if you thought me a fool. You obviously have some purpose behind all this… what is it you’d have me do?”
“It sometimes slips my memory that you’re on record as being pretty sharp,” Thorne grinned faintly, placing the tray of food on the table as he instantly turned serious. “I think you can help us as perhaps no other person could. I can’t explain why that is right now… you probably wouldn’t believe me, and if you did that might be worse… but the point is, I think you are as you seem – an honourable man, trapped in the service of a dishonourable government.” Thorne took great care to use the term ‘government’ rather than ‘country’, clearly separating the statement from any possibility of a slur against the man’s culture or heritage. “I don’t believe such an honourable man would allow the annihilation of an entire race across an entire continent, were it his choice to make.”
“I’m an officer… I’ve sworn an oath to fight for my country… but is this the country I would want my children to grow up in…?”
“And you now have two children to care for who’ll one day be old enough to serve their country also,” Thorne observed carefully, again drawing on information gleaned from Ritter’s diary. “What kind of country would you have them serve?” He didn’t need to say anything more: the Hitler Youth movement was already consuming the minds of Germany’s children and filling them with propaganda and ideology. There was no way the pilot could ignore the ramifications of that.
“I think I’m hardly in a position to do anything about all this as a prisoner of the British Empire.” The statement was deliberately leading in the same direction as Thorne wanted to go, and he was a little unsettled that the man had so unexpectedly and readily taken them both there so quickly.
“We can change that… if you agree to help us,” Thorne replied, and Ritter made no show of surprise. “The Wehrmacht will invade England… that’s a certainty… and I suspect it’ll be sooner rather than later. My guess is before the end of September, and when they do, I’m prepared to release you close to the front line and have you returned to your own side. We can make it seem as if you’ve somehow managed to evade capture and made your way south into England. Your return will be welcomed at the highest levels, and I think most probably welcomed enough to avoid any difficult questions.”
“You seem sure of that,” Ritter observed dubiously. “Even if I’m returned to the…” his voice faltered momentarily as he caught himself and rephrased “…to my own people, what makes you think I’d be able to make a difference? I’m nothing more than a front line officer… I have no say in policy or strategic decisions...”
“You will if you go back,” Thorne stopped Ritter in mid-sentence. “In Realtime – that’s what we call the original path of history that’s now being altered – you’d attain the rank of generalmajor later in the war, and be posted as an advisor on the Führer’s General Staff. I have reason to believe that in this OKW, you’ll probably go
a lot further, particularly considering that Germany’s unlikely to be defeated and will last quite a bit longer than the Realtime Grossdeutschland.
“If you join us, this may go on for many years,” he continued after a breath. “We need you to place yourself as high as you can within the Wehrmacht, and that may sometimes force you to issue orders you don’t agree with or condone. You’ll need to get yourself as close to the OKW hierarchy – Reuters, Schiller and the others – as you possibly can. It may be that they’ll even take you into their confidence regarding the existence of the New Eagles, and what they’ve done for Germany: if they do, you’ll need to remain disbelieving and sceptical. I’m not going to lie to you: this battle may never be over.”
“How will that save these millions of lives when they will already be dead?”
“There’s no telling where they’ll take that Realtime figure of six million to… in an Germany undefeated and unassailed by invading armies, that figure could easily double or triple in ten or twenty years. Every ‘undesirable’ element of the European populace will fall victim to their ‘Final Solution’: gypsies, Slovaks, those who are politically ‘unreliable’; Poles and Serbs; people with disabilities, either physical or mental. They too will all go to the gas chambers. Twenty-five thousand a week, shipped in rail cars to their ‘resettlement’ programs for God knows how many years. We can’t help the original six million people exterminated in Realtime – that’s something we can’t change – but we can make sure that figure doesn’t become ten million or twenty million.”
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 69