Saturday
September 7, 1940
Samuel Lowenstein was in a poor mood that evening as he stood at the barred window of the small stable room that was his cell, staring out through the night at the lights of the nearby mansion. He’d been visited many times by Joachim Müller since their talk on temporal issues at the beginning of July, and it’d been difficult during the passing two months for him to continue the façade of civility as he desperately waited for some sign that might’ve confirmed his desperate hopes: that Hal or someone else from his future had finally managed to return to save him, and to right the course of history into the bargain.
He turned his head for a moment to stare nervously at the bookshelf near the door, knowing that no one other than himself could possibly understand the significance of the shred of newspaper he kept hidden there, yet he was frightened all the same. The feelings of elation and resolve he’d been filled with initially had slowly but surely been replaced by the overbearing weight of depression and despondency that had been the scientist’s constant companion throughout almost a decade of imprisonment. No one had come... there’d been no sign of the help he’d been so certain was coming… and Lowenstein had come to doubt himself seriously.
He continued to watch as civilian and military catering staff moved quickly about, undeterred in their haste by the fact that it was close to midnight. He didn’t know what it was, but it was obvious from all the activity that some kind of significant function was to be held at the headquarters judging by the amount of preparation. Trucks had been arriving steadily in convoys over the last three days to unload food and supplies, while the flat fields beyond the main buildings that served as an airstrip had seen an equal amount of activity as transports from all over Occupied Europe had converged on the Reichsmarschall’s western headquarters.
The sound of the door opening at the far end of the main stable area alerted him to the fact that someone was coming long before he heard the approach of soft footsteps outside his room. Making no effort to turn around, he sagged visibly and a pained grimace flashed across his face as displeasure at yet another visit from the pestering Müller swept through him.
“Forgive me if I’m somewhat abrupt, Joachim, but I’m really not in the mood for a chat tonight,” he began with an exasperated sigh.
“No doubt Herr Müller would be shattered by your rejection, Doctor Lowenstein, however I suspect you will want to speak to me tonight, once you’ve heard what I have to say…”
The unexpected, English-speaking voice caught Lowenstein by surprise, and he whirled to find himself staring at a man standing in the open doorway to his room wearing the regimental dress uniform of an SS standartenführer.
“What is it you want?” The scientist asked plaintively, his voice wavering as he was filled with a sudden sensation of fear. “You lot tortured everything you wanted to know out of me years ago… I’ve nothing so say to you now…”
“That’s fine, Samuel… may I call you ‘Samuel’…?” Brandis asked genially as he stepped inside, hands clasped behind his back as if maintaining an ‘at ease’ position. “This’ll only be a short chat this evening, and it’s I who’ve come to do the talking, although I’ll warrant you’ll have a few questions for me before we’re done. Shall we sit down… we need to get on with this quickly… it would do neither of any good for me to be caught here with you alone tonight.”
“What are you talking about?” Lowenstein demanded, still apprehensive but also now somewhat intrigued by the man’s strange words and demeanour. The man was dressed in an SS uniform, but he carried none of the usual swagger or arrogance of an officer of the Schutzstaffeln.
“Please… sit...” Brandis urged, taking his own seat at the foot of the man’s bed. “I’m only supposed to be on a cigarette break, and questions will be asked if I’m not back soon. I need to give you this,” he added, reaching inside his dress jacket and drawing out a tiny automatic pistol with a short, stubby silencer screwed to its muzzle. He tossed it onto the bed beside him as Lowenstein looked on in horrified disbelief.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” He blurted out, self-control faltering. “You think I’m stupid enough to pick that up? If you wanted to shoot me, why not just get it over with? Surely there’s no need to fabricate a motive of self defence?”
“I sincerely hope you’ll not think to use that on me, Samuel… you may well need every one of the six rounds in this thing’s magazine. I’d suggest you save them for tomorrow night instead… far better idea…”
“What’s going to happen tomorrow night?”
“The OKW is having a huge conference tomorrow as part of last-minute invasion preparations, and part of that will include a rather large black-tie dinner in the evening. I’ve had a terrible time working to ensure we’ve had enough linen to cater for all of these incoming guests… I’ve been so overwhelmed by the whole thing that I’ve sent a few of the requisitions out in plain, un-coded language by ‘mistake’…” He smiled faintly. “I can scarcely imagine what MI6 must think, listening to all that silliness on the other side of The Channel.” The smile disappeared once more as he got back to business. “Anyway, some time after sunset, that dinner will be rather rudely disrupted by an aerial attack from an F-35E stealth fighter.” Most of Lowenstein’s suspicions evaporated as he heard that last sentence, and hope flared in the back of his mind once more. There were only two groups who could possibly know that a ‘stealth fighter’ was, and he was dead certain no one from New Eagles would be coming to him to speak of one, or to warn him of an impending attack.
“How could you know this…?” The scientist asked in breathless anticipation, finally dragging across a chair and seating himself in front of Brandis. “Who are you…? Where are you from…?” He paused, then rephrased as a far more pertinent question. “When are you from…?”
“Nowhere and everywhere,” Brandis replied with a wry smile. “Neither who I am nor where I’ve come from is particularly relevant at the moment… all you need to know is that this whole place will be thrown into chaos within 24 hours, and that will be a perfect opportunity for you to escape. You need to take that pistol and keep it hidden somewhere… you’ll know when to use it when the time comes…”
“Where shall I go? The area will be swarming with Germans, and I’m in the middle of occupied France… how far do you think I’ll get, even with a gun?”
“One of the servants here is a man by the name of François Reynard... he’ll be waiting for you as soon as you make it out of this stable. He’ll have a change of clothes and identification papers prepared for you. How’s your French?”
“Little used in the last twenty years, but I remember enough of it to pass for a native if I’m questioned by some idiot Jerry private.” Lowenstein gave a wry smile of his own. “‘Mother of Invention’ and all that… it’ll come back to me quick enough…”
“It’d better: the soldiers and officer’s you’re likely to be challenged by if you do get bailed up will be far from idiots.” Brandis gave that one warning before moving back to the subject at hand. “Once you make it clear of the area, you’re to head due south… there’s a small wood about a thousand metres away, and François will have a motorcycle waiting. From there, you’ll head east and be taken into the care of the French Resistance.”
“And after that…?”
“After that, we do nothing other than to keep you safe out of harm’s way for the time being,” Brandis answered quickly, ignoring the fleeting look of dismay that flickered across the other man’s features in the faint lighting of a single candle burning atop the bookcase nearby. “Britain will be invaded within two weeks, and will fall by the end of the year… there’s not going to be any point in getting you back across The Channel right now, and it would be too dangerous at the moment for us to try and take you south to Spain, or east to Switzerland. Once things have quietened down a bit, we can look at getting you somewhere a bit more permanent.” He glanced quickly at his wristwatch.
“I have to go… I’ve already stayed longer than is safe…”
“Please… just one more thing…” Lowenstein begged, his mind whirling with confusion now the escape he’d dreamed of for so many years now finally seemed so close at hand. “You must tell me… are they here…? Have the come for me…?”
“‘They’ don’t have the slightest clue that you exist in this era,” Brandis replied honestly, “But they have come, and they’re trying to find out exactly the information you’ve suspected all along. Make sure you have that scrap of newspaper with you when you make your escape.”
“Take it! Take it with you, and you can send it back to England tonight! They can fix all of this…!” But the confusion continued in Lowenstein’s mind as Brandis simply shook his head with a sad but knowing expression.
“It wouldn’t do any good… it needs to be you that carries this part of the burden for the time being.” Brandis rose to his feet and moved across to the doorway as the scientist looked on with desperate eyes. “I have to go… keep the pistol hidden, and wait for the attack… you’ll know when to take your chance.”
“But I can give you the time and date now, don’t you understand…?” Lowenstein pleaded, unable to comprehend why this strange man with knowledge of the future would not want the information that could put everything to right.
“I’m sorry, Samuel… I haven’t the time to explain to you right now why that’d be useless…” He gave a faint smile. “I already know everything, you see, but knowing isn’t the solution… I must go now… take care… don’t forget the newspaper clipping…”
And with that he was gone, striding quickly back the way he’d come and out through the guarded door at the far end of the building. Lowenstein sat for a moment, dumbstruck, before he finally roused himself from his stupor and picked up the pistol Brandis had left on the bed. Moving across to the bookcase, he drew out several of the books on the second shelf from the top and slipped the weapon in behind them. Standing back for a moment to take in a broader view, he then carefully adjusted the rest of the books in the row until they were all in a steady line, leaving no evidence that might suggest something was secreted behind them.
There were tears in Brandis’ eyes as he walked on across the open expanse toward the main buildings, his attempts at remaining detached from what was going on failing him in that moment.
“I could tell them everything, Samuel… but none of it would make the slightest difference,” he muttered darkly, the pain he felt quite evident on his face. “There are still far too many good people that need to die, you included, before any of this can finally be over.” How can I make you understand something it’s taken me a lifetime to realise for myself…?”
Are you saying that to convince him, or to convince yourself?
“Shut up, damn you!” Brandis snarled angrily, in no mood for mind games at that moment. “You know damn well how much remains to be done, and I’m no happier about my lot in this than you lot are! None of us ever have been!”
For a change, there was no answer – no glib or sarcastic reply – as he strode on, heading back to his expected post. He’d managed to compose himself once more by the time he’d reached the main buildings and returned to his post at the HQ’s quartermaster store.
Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
Sunday
September 8, 1940
Carl Ritter discovered that as he spent more time at Lyness and got to know many of the officers in charge of Hindsight, he was provided far greater freedom to wander about within certain areas of the base without escort. Most of the security personnel had been made aware of his presence, and were conscious of the fact that he’d been given clearance despite their distrust of his accent. There were one or two run-ins however with surprised base personnel who were less than pleased with the idea of a German being allowed to walk unchecked around the installation, one of which almost coming to blows as a mortified Ritter back-pedalled and tried to mediate desperately before MPs eventually stepped in at the last moment to save the day.
Other than those isolated incidents, his days spent at Lyness had been relatively free of trouble. To those men who’d never heard him speak, he was just another nameless face in an ill-fitting khaki tank suit, the only significant point of note being the set of lieutenant-colonel’s crown and pips at his shoulders in pale, embroidered stitching. The display of rank certainly helped in keeping most of the ORs, NCOs and junior officers out of his way.
He found Max Thorne late that morning in the same place the Australian was often to be found in recent days: sitting at his laptop in the small briefing room, going over the planning of some important mission in his mind. Kransky was also present on this occasion, seated beside Thorne and engaged in serious discussion.
“You’re busy?” The pilot ventured as they looked up upon his appearance in the doorway. “I should perhaps come back later?”
Kransky was about to suggest exactly that, but Thorne shook his head. “Come in, Carl… take a seat if you wish. This may be of interest, and it may actually concern you. Go on…” he added, directing the last few words at Kransky as Ritter entered and seated himself on the opposite side of the table.
“As I was saying, the raids on supply depots, marshalling points and railheads around Kent and Sussex have almost tripled in the last forty-eight hours, and also right around the south-east coast as far as Portsmouth and The Solent… and these were a series of attacks that weren’t light to begin with! We’ve also had reports of enemy fighter sweeps further west than have been previously detected… the RAF boys aren’t being fooled into coming up after them at the moment, and are mostly managing to stay hidden, but it’s quite worrying nevertheless.
“There’s also been a significant increase of attacks on what shipping we have left in the Channel Ports, but the concentration’s generally switched to warships rather than commercial vessels, and there’s also been a hell of a lot more air activity at night over the coast from Ramsgate down to Dungeness. No attacks so far as anyone can work out, but we’ve had large, unidentified aircraft flying low in formation across the Channel, moving a few miles inland before simply turning back again like they’re on some training flight plan. Their night fighters stop ours from getting anywhere near them to take them out, or even get a good look at what they’re up to.”
“Sounds like they’re practising for air drops,” Thorne observed sourly.
“Sure does. Throw all that in with that random bombardment from those goddamn ‘Superguns’ two days ago – which Army Intelligence thinks was to set target pre-registrations – and it ain’t looking all that great.” He gave Ritter a pointed look as he finished speaking: although he mostly trusted the man, instincts and prejudices died hard.
“This means an invasion is coming soon… yes?” Ritter asked uncomfortably, taking the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to voice his question.
“Looks like it, Carl… maybe only a few days… probably not much more than that. We’re fairly certain this meeting tonight is their final pre-invasion briefing.” Thorne admitted, no happier about the idea. “That means we may have to be ready to get you south at a moment’s notice… how are you feeling?”
“Hungry, as always,” the German smiled faintly, “but otherwise I am prepared.” Ritter had been purposefully underfeeding himself during the last week weeks to lend credibility to the lie that he’d evaded capture and had instead lived on the run in his trip south.
“Good,” Thorne grinned back. He’d grown to quite like the man, and had a great deal of respect for him. It was becoming more and more difficult to ask him to walk so directly into danger on their behalf, important as the mission was.
“On that subject,” Kransky began, gaining the attention of both men, “I should probably get myself ready for action too… when the shit hits the fan, I’ll be more help to the Limeys ‘at the coalface’ than I’ll ever be sittin’ behind some g
oddamn desk.” That statement was true enough, but it also hid the fact that the American had come to realise he was becoming far too accustomed to working around the people of Hindsight. It didn’t pay to make such close friendships and connections in his line of work, and part of him was now clamouring for a return to the solitude and subsequent ‘freedom’ of being a sniper in the field.
“Much as I hate to lose you, I’d have to agree with you there. Whitehall’s organised resistance cells all over Britain that you can draw on for supplies and to remain hidden, and with a bit of luck you can do some real damage behind the lines.”
“With a bit of luck,” Kransky agreed in a deadpan voice before a new thought occurred to him, and he glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re flying out tonight, aren’t you? Hadn’t you better get some rest or something?”
Thorne stretched and checked the time himself. “Yeah, you’re probably right. A few hours sleep wouldn’t do me any harm at all.” He took a deep breath and shook some tiredness out of his head. “Have to have my wits about me tonight if I want to pull this off!”
“What you’re doing tonight is vitally important… this I’ve gathered already,” Ritter observed softly, and Thorne nodded in reply.
“Yeah… hopefully, if all goes well, this may actually force the ene-!” He halted himself just in time and rephrased, causing Ritter to smile at the obvious tact. “Force Reuters to delay, or maybe even call off the invasion altogether.”
Ritter thought about what Thorne said for quite a few seconds before finally making comment.
“I don’t expect you to tell me what your target is,” he began slowly, “nor do I in truth wish to know, as I do not like the thought of my own countrymen dying…” he lowered his eyes slightly, as if ashamed of what he was about to say, “but if this can stop the Nazis and what they’re doing in Europe… then I wish you God speed and good aim.” The moment that passed between the two men as they locked eyes was palpable, and Thorne nodded once in recognition of the German’s significant support.
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 73