“I’ve never seen combat, you know,” Schiller confessed, suddenly feeling somehow ashamed by that fact in the presence of a decorated Luftwaffe pilot. “I’ve had cause to order men into battle these the last few years I suppose, but I’ve never faced it myself.”
“Scares you a bit, doesn’t it?”
“More than a bit…”
“Good,” Ritter acknowledged firmly. “That means you’re human, and you’ll probably be a better officer for it. I’ve never felt comfortable with men who can order others to their death without compunction. I know those orders are often necessary, but you should at least care about it all the same.”
“I suspect it’s quite loud – louder than exercises...”
“Of course it is,” Ritter grinned, chuckling. “In the exercises, all the fire is going the other way… simple as that…” The grin remained on his face. “It should never be easy. Hard enough in a jäger, shooting down some poor bastard at a range of three hundred metres, but that’s not the same as putting a bullet in someone’s chest at fifty, I’ll warrant, or bayonetting an enemy who’s trying to kill you, when he’s so close you can smell what he had for lunch! Part of me – a small part – envies these bastards for their fanaticism and unwavering belief – it makes things all so bloody easy! So much like some of our colleagues in the SS! Sometimes I wish I too could feel some of that narrow-minded simplicity.” He shrugged, as if accepting that the answer to such questions was beyond him.
“Perhaps you grow accustomed to it...” He added thoughtfully as Schiller swallowed hard, finding in that moment that he was unable manage a characteristic wry smile for protection. “Desensitised… with enough experience...” Whether he believed any human being should get used to such experienced was another question he would leave unanswered.
Do you...? Do you really...? Schiller thought with more than a little bitterness, staring at the pilot for a moment with an almost accusatory gaze, but he didn’t voice those silent questions and Ritter, for his part, continued to stare out straight out to sea.
Of course, Schiller had informed on them… told the United Nations exactly where to find the New Eagles’ base by the Tunguska River, in the middle of the Siberian Taiga forest. To bring them all down had been the only way to ensure Rachael’s safety… to ensure that even if they could never be together, at least she could survive and life a long, happy life.
But he’d dithered and delayed in his fear and uncertainty, and the reaction force had arrived late… too late to prevent the departure of the bulk of the New Eagles’ forces… and Schiller had been forced to go with them, too cowardly in that final moment of failure to stand by his convictions and accept the execution to which they’d surely have sentenced him to upon realising what he’d done. And now her grandparents were dead, along with her infant mother and father… and Rachael Weinberg, the only love of Albert Schiller’s life, had not just been murdered by his hand; instead she’d ceased to have every existed.
He grimaced as clarity came to him. He could lie to his colleagues and even to himself, but the reality behind it all was simple. He had been too frightened to make a quick decision – too scared to make one single call that would have rendered worthless so many years of hard work and research. So brutally clear that he’d been too much of a coward to make the most important decision in his entire life, and through his procrastination he’d ultimately doomed his love and an entire race of human beings into the bargain. And still there was conflict in his mind, even now, as he vainly argued the pros and cons of what he’d done, as if there were still some hint of possible redemption that had so far somehow eluded him.
Would it have been worth it…? Even without the damning moral issued behind condemning an entire race to death, would it all have been worth throwing away, just for her…? Of course it was! His thoughts spat silently, loathing sweeping through his body at the suggestion there was any other possible answer. He felt guilt now that there were no tears; as if that fact somehow devalued his love for her… devalued his respect.
I’m so sorry, Rachael... He thought darkly, hating himself then as he often did in the quiet moments when he was left to face the inquisition of his own, terrible memories. Too late again to save you in this world… What a fine man am I that I murder my only love not once, but twice in a single lifetime…?
As usual, he held all of this inside, showing nothing of the pain he felt as both men stared out across the water at the brightening horizon. Ritter thought of home and his family and, for a moment, how he might yet discover the information that he was seeking. All the while he remained oblivious to the torment churning within the man at his side as Albert Schiller also gazed on in hard silence, lost and drowning in the agony of his own, private Hell.
Twenty-five miles away, standing in complete darkness on a beach on the tiny island of Selpele Sayang, Sub-Lieutenant Aaron Tonks, Royal Australian Navy, reached the top of a rope ladder tied to a tall palm and stared out across the dark waters, a huge pair of binoculars lifted to his eyes. Selpele Sayang, an island so small as to be almost non-existent, was part of the Raja Ampat group at the very western tip of West Papua, looking out toward Celebes across the northern approaches of the Halmahera Sea.
The pair were Coastwatchers, part of a unit devised by an RAN officer between the wars for the purpose of monitoring enemy ship movements in the advent of hostilities. Singly and in pairs, Australian naval officers, often in partnership with native guides and assistants, would be left to basically fend for themselves on deserted islands throughout the southern Pacific and South-East Asia, surviving off the local flora and fauna and through infrequent supply drops as they ‘disappeared’ into the jungle and reported back to HQ on anything out of the ordinary.
“Yeah, we got ‘em alright, Joey,” Tonks called softly down to his assistant, an Ambonese native with an indigenous name Tonks found completely unpronounceable. “Full moon’s showing ‘em up clear as bloody day!”
“Many ship…?” Joey called back, standing beneath the tree in little more than a traditional loin cloth, his eyes and teeth gleaming brightly in the moonlight.
“You better believe it, mate…! Twenty… twenty-five… -six… -seven… Jesus, nearly thirty of the bastards; a couple of carriers and a few o’ them are bloody troopships too, I reckon, judging by the shape.”
“Where they go?” Joey asked with a huge grin as Tonks scrambled back down the latter to the beach line.
“Buggered if I know, mate,” Tonks grinned in return, shaking his head, but they’re sure as hell not headed for Batavia or Surabaya, coming through here… Too small a fleet for that anyway…”
“Beta seng tau…”
“I dunno either, Joey,” he shrugged. “Shit, Bali, maybe… or Ambon…”
“Shit…” Joey repeated, having picked up that English word and few choice others very early on.
“You said it, mate,” Tonks agreed, shaking his head. “Better let Darwin know…”
Ambon Island
Dutch East Indies
The Tan Tui Barracks, built specifically for the 2/21st Battalion by Dutch forces on the island, had been considered by the Australians to be positively luxurious upon their arrival, the lack of plumbed water or electricity notwithstanding. Their long, palm-thatched wooden huts were comfortable and well-furnished, with officer’s quarters in some cases even boating four-poster beds and marble wash basins. North-east of the town of Ambon itself, the barracks stood on a stunning section of beach looking out across the sparkling waters of the bay, where many warships and small fishing vessels were clearly visible, slowly cruising this way and that.
The power and plumbing issues had since been rectified in the twelve months since the battalion’s arrival, and Eileen Donelson had to admit that it was a view worthy of a five-star resort as she, Lloyd and Langdale stepped from a tender onto a small wharf leading up the beach to the barrack huts. It was well into the afternoon, the sun hanging low across the bay, above the hills of the Hit
u Peninsula, as they made their way up to a US-made jeep, waiting for them on the beach.
“Bill Jinkins, ma’am; D Company,” the young lieutenant offered in greeting as he climbed from the vehicle and presented an extremely casual salute that Donelson was coming to accept as standard practice among Australian troops. “The CO asked me to take you up to the hospital this morning and to drive you anywhere else you needed to go while you’re over this side of the bay.
“Thank you, lieutenant,” Eileen nodded with a smile, returning the salute with a far more professional version. “Sorry to drag you away from your duties.”
“That’s all right, ma’am,” Jinkins grinned broadly. “If I wasn’t here driving you blokes around, I’d be humping a pack up the top of Mount Nona just to sit around scratching my a- er, head at an OP all day,” he explained cheerfully, managing to self-censor his words at the last moment. “I reckon this is pretty soft work by comparison, ma’am…”
“Fair enough, lieutenant,” Donelson acknowledged, climbing into the jeep’s front passenger seat as Langdale and Lloyd grinned over Jinkins’ quick save and clambered over the sides and into the rear seats. “First stop is the camp hospital if you please – I was hoping to check on how the injured were doing from Kormoran.”
“Heard there was a few of ‘em, ma’am,” Jinkins nodded, a little more serious now as he gunned the engine and slotted the jeep into gear. “Our boys and theirs… They say it was a German sub that did some of the damage, captain… did they really shoot at their own men…?”
“That they did, lieutenant,” Eileen answered solemnly as the jeep pulled away from the wharf, “…that they did…”
The hospital was inland at the far end of a track running between four of five long rows of barracks huts. A large, H-shaped building of wood and bamboo with the same palm-thatched roof as the rest of the surrounding structure, it was clear even as they pulled up out front that the place was overwhelmed by the number of patients currently requiring treatment.
Perhaps half a dozen large army tents had been set up around the main building, all of them covered in mosquito netting, with nurses and orderlies moving about here and there tending to the sick and injured. From what little Eileen and the others could see as they alighted from the jeep, most of the patients appeared to be crewmen either from Kormoran or rescued from the wreckage of HMAS Sydney.
As they approached the hospital’s main entrance they were met by Korvettenkapitän Detmers and Kormoran’s engineer, Lindemann coming the other way, escorted by a pair of MPs.
“Captain Donelson,” he acknowledged instantly, coming to attention long enough to provide a proper salute.
“Captain,” she nodded, returning the salute as Lloyd and Langdale automatically braced up to attention behind her. “You’re here to check on your men?”
“I am, yes,” he confirmed with a thin smile. “I must thank you all for the care you’ve extended to us. I’ve no doubt many more would have died were it not for the hospital here.”
“We helped each other out when it comes down to it, sir,” Eileen conceded, deferring to his seniority of rank, “and we may well need your help again. We need to get your ship back to Darwin as soon as we’re able, and that’s not going to be possible without the help of your crew.”
“We’ll assist as best we can, of course,” Detmers assured readily, conscious of the perceived debt that was owed for the fair treatment of his crew at the hands of their captors. “That may be very little however unless we can find sufficient material to effect repairs…”
“What exactly do you need,” she asked quickly, suddenly interested now that matters of a technical bent were involved.
“Our main problem is the bearings,” Horst Lindemann answered in rough English following a subtle nod from Detmers. “We can make more on board but have no quality metal to use.”
“Maybe I can help with that, gentlemen,” Donelson offered readily, eager to become involved. “Have someone send over specifications of what you need and I’ll see what we can rustle up.”
I short and rather intense discussion ensued in German between the pair; one in which Detmers clearly came out the winner after some mildly heated debate.
“I thank you again, captain,” he affirmed with a stiff nod of recognition. “We will make a list and send this over as you ask.”
“What was that about?” Lloyd asked softly as they German officers were escorted away, leaning in and whispering the question under his breath.
“I don’t think either of them realised I speak German,” Eileen grinned in return, giving a shrug. “I think the other fella was the ships’ engineering officer. He was – shall we say? – dubious about how much help a woman might be…
“Ouch…!” Lloyd cringed as Langdale also pulled a face behind him. “How did he manage to avoid singing alto in the POW choir?”
“Actually, the captain put him straight back into his box,” Eileen chuckled, the faint sound of pride in her voice as she turned to push open the front door. “Told him to show respect for a superior officer and to do as he was ordered. Guess I must’ve made an impression on him.”
All good humour disappeared the moment they stepped into the hospital itself. Wounded lay everywhere; on beds, on gurneys and on the floors along the side of the hallways as nursing staff tended to them or in some cases simply stepped over them as they worked with other patients. Most seemed to be dealing with their conditions in a stoic, gritty silence that was broken here and there by the occasional moan or cry from those suffering too greatly to maintain control. The smell of blood, rot and human waste filled the air to the point that the few ceiling fans spinning above were completely inadequate to deal with it all, and only the faint gusts of cool breeze coming up off the bay through the open windows did anything to provide sensory relief.
“Oh, Christ,” Eileen breathed softly, fighting an urge to gag as the two men with her steeled their own nerves behind blank, hardened expressions.
“Confronting, isn’t it,” a voice asked from a nearby doorway, and she turned to take in the sight of a man in his late thirties wearing an army captain’s uniform beneath a blood-stained, white medical coat. That the fellow also spoke with a marked Scottish accent did not go unnoticed. “We’ve been dealing with them as best we can since your ship docked, but it seems like treading water most of the time. John Watson,” he added suddenly, stepping into the hallway and extending a hand in greeting rather than presenting a salute. “I’m the lead doctor here… at least until they can send out someone with a little more experience…”
“Doctor… John… Watson…?” Eileen asked with a raised eyebrow as she accepted the offered hand and shook it firmly. “Father was an Arthur Conan Doyle fan?”
“Ironically no… but there’s normally a ‘junior’ on the end of that, so I suppose it is partially his fault…” he grinned wryly and gave a shrug. “The ‘doctor’ part was all my doing. You came in with Kormoran…?” He ventured, extending an arm to encompass the wounded sailors lying in the hall around them. “I’d heard there was a female officer on board.”
“Seems like everyone has…” Eileen observed drily. “Eileen Donelson… we came down to see how they were doing.”
“Most of them will be okay,” Watson conceded with a grimace, guiding her down the corridor as her escorts followed on behind, “but we’ve lost a few so far, unfortunately, and I fear we’ll lose a few more before the night’s out. There’s only me and another junior doctor on staff at the moment, with a handful of nurses in support, and I’m sure it’s painfully clear we’re overwhelmed here. We’ve precious little morphine or any other painkillers for that matter, and we’re quickly running out of that. We’re doing what we can, but in many cases its little more than making patients comfortable while their bodies decide whether or not they’re strong enough to carry on. Some of the prisoners particularly have been terribly wounded…” there was the momentary flash of accusation in his eyes before his usual demeanour r
eturned. “Word is that at least some of that was caused by a rather barbaric use of anti-aircraft shells at close range against unprotected deck crew…?”
“I’m not happy about it, doctor, but I’m not going to make excuses either,” Eileen replied quickly, feeling a sudden pang of guilt for what had largely been her idea to clear the raider’s decks of their gun crews. “At the time, that ship would’ve been more than happy to kill every one of us aboard the Sydney, had they been given the chance.”
“And yet the survivors of both ships worked together to fight off a U-boat and limp back to port here at Ambon,” Watson pointed out in a neutral voice, as if intentionally keeping any judgement from his tone. “You’ll forgive me, captain… this uniform notwithstanding; I’m a pacifist at heart… I canna abide senseless death, and war’s about as senseless as it gets.”
“I think we all agree on that, doctor,” Eileen conceded, willing to give a ground on her defensiveness. “We’re hoping to have that ship repaired enough to be away back to Darwin in a few days, if luck’s on our side. We’d be eager to take as many of the wounded with us as you might consider safe… see if we can get them somewhere with better facilities.”
“There’ll be plenty not up for it, but I’ll do what I can to get as many ready as possible,” he nodded, immediately assuming a professional tone as the discussion returned to business. “There’s not a one of ‘em that wouldn’t benefit from a decent hospital right now, but there’s too many who’ll not survive the trip. Victoria…!” He called out, turning toward a young nurse at the far end of the hallway.
Looking up immediately, she left the patient she was tending to and hurried over. Dark hair was tied back in a tight bun behind a pale, oval face that carried fine, almost doll-like features. Slim and fragile of figure, she seemed perhaps eighteen at best in Eileen’s estimation – possibly younger – and seemed wildly out of place in her bloodied nurse’s uniform, surrounded by the wounded and dying.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 64