“Can’t help wondering what was in those bastard crates though,” Böhm mused softly.
“Can’t help wondering when I’ll get my bloody coffee!” Schmidt exclaimed with a grin, raising an eyebrow in Milo’s direction. “Your thoughts on that, Untersturmführer Wisch…?”
“Now I know why you chose the panzer corps… too bloody lazy to walk with the rest of the frontschwein…!” Milo shot back instantly, eliciting a soft chuckle from everyone present. Even so, he made sure he was quickly out of his makeshift seat and bringing the flask over: several years of experience serving with his commanding officer had taught him well that it didn’t do to keep Berndt Schmidt and his coffee separated for too long.
“Shall we have a toast then…?” Schmidt declared with a broad smile and new-found enthusiasm, refusing to respond do the lieutenant’s last remark with anything more than a sly wink. “Having carefully consulted my calendar this morning, it’s occurred to me that it’s been exactly two years since we hit the beaches at Hythe and gave the Tommis a fine thrashing!”
“Two whole years indeed…!” Böhm exclaimed, as surprised at the unrealised news as the rest. So much had happened in that intervening 24 months, yet all still felt somehow that it was just ‘yesterday’ they’d all stormed the English beaches and fought their way into the pages of history.
“I’d prefer some schnapps, but let’s fill our cups anyway, gentlemen!” Schmidt stood once more, holding his own aloft as emphasis “Coffee will have to do for the time being.” Milo quickly passed the flask around for each to take his fill, and (of course) a light-hearted argument subsequently broke out between the other three over the appropriate subject for the first toast of the morning.
Hegel slumped back into his sumptuous leather seat and wound his rear window back up, mostly satisfied that the inquisitive group of Waffen-SS officers near the bow of the assault ship behind had been suitably sent on their way. He released a soft frustrated sigh, badly in need of another coffee. If he were being honest even he’d have to admit he’d felt a little guilty over his harsh treatment of the ship’s captain and XO earlier – they were merely doing their jobs after all and they weren’t the cause of his foul mood. Wilhelm Hegel was also more than a little nervous, although he’d be less inclined to admit that fact.
“None of that bothers you much these days though does it, Dieter,” Hegel observed softly with a grimace as he looked across at the passenger curled up on the rearward-facing seats opposite him, the man’s head resting against the window on the far side as he slept fitfully.
Zeigler’s death two years before had meant a great deal more than merely the loss of a good friend; it’d also burdened Hegel with the lion’s share of responsibility in looking out for The Directors’ interests as a group. That was a task that hadn’t been a simple one to begin with and the situation hadn’t been helped in the slightest by the affliction that had also befallen another of their group, Dieter Strauss. That one terrible night in early September of 1940 – the second anniversary had only just passed three days before – had come about in the aftermath of a British aerial attack on their Western Theatre GHQ as most of the Wehrmacht’s general staff met for final invasion briefings.
The Directors had sent Zeigler and Strauss to meet Martin Bormann, Hermann Göring and Deputy Führer Hess in the hope of forming an alliance aimed at toppling their common enemy – Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters – from his position as commander-in-chief of Germany’s armed forces. They’d hoped for a ‘Grand Alliance’ that would leave them free to direct the future of Grossdeutschland as they saw fit.
Instead their aspirations of complete control under Adolf Hitler had ended in complete disaster. Although it seemed inconceivable, what little information they’d been able to piece together after the fact seemed to suggest an argument had broken out within the group while meeting in a stable behind the Reichsmarschall’s Western HQ. The official interpretation of events was that Reichsleiter Bormann had drawn his sidearm as a result of that argument and had killed the other three prior to turning the gun on himself, as unlikely as that might’ve seemed to anyone who knew the man.
Poor Dieter had gone missing that night only to turn up several weeks later as a patient at a psychiatric hospital in Paris. The only records they had of his arrival was that he’d been dropped off by an unidentified SS officer who’d found him wandering the streets in a listless stupor. The methods of the hospital itself, in Hegel’s opinion, had been positively barbaric: by the time the remaining Directors had located Strauss he’d already been subjected to several rounds of extreme electroshock therapy – the local psychologist’s choice of treatment for what he’d had diagnosed as a state of partial catatonia brought on by severe depression.
There was therefore no clue as to the man’s whereabouts during that intervening time prior to Strauss’ arrival at the hospital: the intensive therapy had left a multi-millionaire with a PhD in mechanical engineering with severe psychological damage, massive short-term memory loss and the approximate mental capacity of a six year old child. It was a situation that had improved only moderately in the two years since.
Hegel shuddered as he glanced across at Strauss once more. The man’s continued presence gave him chills sometimes – as much in recognition of what had happened to the fellow as for the reality of his current condition – and the director knew that his daily tasks would’ve been far easier without an invalid’s presence. Yet despite all the gossip and talk among the public of the evils and malevolence of ‘The Directors’, Wilhelm Hegel felt a great deal of sympathy for the man and couldn’t bring himself to have Strauss institutionalised.
Even he wasn’t entirely sure why the decision was such a difficult one to make but he did concede that although ‘Poor Dieter’ (now his usual nickname with the remaining Directors) hadn’t been a close friend, the man’s continued presence did serve to remind Hegel of Oskar Zeigler in some small way.
“You stood with us all those years, old fellow,” he whispered softly, reaching across to gently lay a reassuring hand on the sleeping man’s knee despite his own reservations over such physical contact. “The least we could do is to stand by you now.” He grimaced again as a darker thought occurred to him in that moment. “Don’t want to see you end up at Hartheim, do we…?”
Hegel shuddered visibly at the thought. Schloss Hartheim near Linz was the site of one of the major installations used by the Aktion-T4 euthanasia program that had been set up in 1938 by Hitler’s personal physician, Karl Brandt. Under its auspices, any individual in Germany deemed by medical authorities to have permanent or incurable mental impairment could be consigned to one of their hostels for ‘special care’ – a deceptive euphemism that was far less uncomfortable than the reality of enforced euthanasia.
In truth it was also being used as for the disposal of other ‘undesirable’ elements: political prisoners, dissenters and other outspoken critics of the Nazi regime who’d proven exceptionally troublesome. Few ever left these facilities once admitted and Hegel had no interest in seeing Strauss meet his end in such a manner.
The Director turned his gaze back to the goings on outside the car and stared up at the ships before him. The cables that had lowered the second of his special crates were now unhooked and lifting skyward once more as the crane turned back toward other work. Much as he was concerned for Dieter’s well-being, he had almost as much reason to fear for his own safety – something he was acutely aware of as he watched the commerce raider’s crew working to move the cargo below decks. Their own alliances sometimes required of them some onerous tasks and he had to admit that his presence on the dock that morning was one of those: one that might well see him put up against a wall and shot for treason should the Reichsmarschall find out what they were up to.
“At least you’ve nothing to worry about now, old man,” he remarked softly with a tight-lipped smile, glancing back toward the still-sleeping Strauss for a moment, “although I’d warrant you’d be happy to trade p
laces all the same…” The smile faded as quickly as it’d come, replaced by a vague expression of sadness as he stared out at the world beyond the car window once more.
His eyes took in the ship itself… the ship that had once been called Steiermark. He’d been momentarily surprised upon hearing it would be that particular vessel assigned for this mission; yet at the same time his experience of the world he’d now lived in for the last nine years made it somewhat easier to accept. The name had been familiar of course: any good German student of modern military history would know that name well enough… any German or Australian student, no doubt… and there he was that afternoon sitting just a few dozen metres away from a vessel that’d once been part of a maritime mystery lasting sixty-seven years.
“Nineteenth of November of last year, if I recall correctly,” Hegel muttered to himself, his mind struggling to locate the long-forgotten information. “What of it now eh, Dieter old chum? Already well passed and meaningless now… not even a memory let alone a place in the history books.” He knew he was talking to himself but it made him feel better sometimes to pretend his sleeping companion could understand – something that was unlikely now even if the man were awake. Hegel allowed himself just the barest hint of smugness in a thin smile. “You missed that one didn’t you, Synchronicity?” He whispered in a moment of hubris that was quite out of character. “Where were you hiding when that date came and passed…?”
The ‘old’, superstitious Dieter almost certainly would’ve chastised his colleague for tempting fate in such a fashion. Wilhelm Otto Hegel was made of sterner stuff however and gave no heed to such foolishness as fate or Karma, although he’d been forced to accept on a number of occasions during the last decade that the strange effect they’d come to know of as ‘Synchronicity’ could indeed result in some very unusual events on both a personal and, on occasion, an international scale. Their lead technician, Joachim Müller, had hypothesised these strange situations were most likely what he called a left-over or ‘residual’ effect of what they’d created and that everything would ‘sort itself out’ over time.
“Didn’t work out that well for you though, Joachim,” Hegel observed with dark humour. Müller had died the same night as Zeigler and the others, rather ironically shot to death by the very Jewish scientist who’d made possible everything they’d accomplished. Müller had been well and truly in Reuters’ ‘camp’ but he’d been an intelligent and important man nevertheless and had been generally well thought of by all of The Directors. Although there’d been some small solace to be taken in the pain and disruption the man’s loss had caused the Reichsmarschall, it was also true that Joachim Müller’s death had negatively affected all of them to some extent.
For its part, Schiff-41 – the vessel once named Steiermark and also referred to as Hilfskreuzer-8 – remained unaffected by the philosophical musings inside the limousine parked beside it on the dock. As that last piece of cargo was finally secured, all that remained was to put to sea with a crew eager to finally take her into active service in defence of The Fatherland. She’d been renamed of course. She was a warship now after all and it wouldn’t do for her to carry the name of a lowly freighter into battle when the time came.
After some deliberation, Detmers had settled on an appropriate new name that all had accepted readily: a name that took its inspiration both from a captured Russian ship the Kriegsmarine had used as a surface raider in the First World War, and also from the bird of the same name that for centuries had been prized by the Chinese, Japanese and Macedonians for its fish-catching skills. When all was said and done, that was what her crew would be using her for after all: to catch unsuspecting Allied ‘fish’ on the open waters of the Indian and Pacific Oceans. It seemed fitting that she carry a title suited to her new role.
It was almost noon as Auxiliary Cruiser Kormoran finally put to sea beneath a solid, unbroken layer of grey cloud and cruised off into Kiel Fjord heading for the Baltic and beyond.
Old Lime Kilns near Haltwhistle
Northumberland, England
Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien
September 13, 1942
Sunday
Hadrian’s Wall: 120km of squared stone wall built approximately three metres wide and around five to six metres high along most of its length. At the command of Emperor Hadrian, construction had commenced in the year 122AD and had lasted approximately six years. Records of the time suggest Hadrian’s intent was to maintain the integrity of his empire and secure its frontiers. The manner in which that security was to be ensured however was – and still is – open to conjecture.
Several theories existed as to the real purpose behind the structure, and with dubious military benefit behind the costs involved in manning such long fortifications in such a sparsely populated region there were many who postulated that the wall’s real intent might’ve been more to do with the control of immigration and/or small bands of criminal elements rather than any true defensive capability against a hypothetical rebel or enemy threat from the northern wilds of Scotland.
Haltwhistle was a small, Northumbrian town of just a few thousand people that lay less than two kilometres south of Hadrian’s Wall. Itself dating back to Roman times, Haltwhistle was one of the closest approaches to the River South Tyne in its upland reaches, with a town centre largely comprised of well-constructed stone buildings. Weavers and a baize factory were set up during the 18th century, and the area became a local centre of industry with quarries, lime burning and coal mining prevalent in the area. Mining and the town’s use as a lesser rail hub created significant growth during the 18th and 19th centuries, with many mills of various types constructed along the nearby meandering waterway that was the Haltwhistle Burn.
Richard Kransky was cold… cold and wet. He’d taken shelter inside the second of three disused, historic lime kilns that looked down across the banks of the Haltwhistle Burn. His position was just 1,500 metres or so north of the town centre, although the trees and grassy hillside behind him gave no evidence of its proximity. The surrounding flora was no great help against the elements, however. It’d been raining steadily now for almost three days; enough time for even a relatively light drizzle to soak him to the bone beneath the small amount of shelter the inside of the shallow kiln afforded.
It was probably dry enough within the very rear of the kiln for a small campfire but Kransky had been forced to concede comfort to be of a lesser priority than safety. The outskirts of Haltwhistle weren’t much more than a kilometre south, while the nearby Military Road was just a few hundred metres above his position, running parallel with Hadrian’s Wall as it stretched away in either direction to the east and west. German patrols weren’t common this far north, particularly in this weather, but neither were campers for that matter and the smoke of a campfire would almost certainly bring unwanted attention should a patrol indeed happen to pass by.
Kransky wore a one-piece, khaki tank suit devoid of insignia over which a tattered brown oilskin coat was wrapped about him in deference to the elements. Both were filthy and provided little protection against the cold, although the oilskin had given some relief against the downpour to begin with. Three days of constant rain had been enough for it to soak through however, leaving him sodden and bedraggled. Dirty and unshaven, his thick blond hair matted and unkempt, the tall American felt every single one of his thirty-nine years as he shivered beneath the bricks of his kiln shelter and waited for the arrival of his contact.
The cynical, hardened man that was Richard Kransky had originally experienced a relatively sheltered, middle-class upbringing. The only child of a university professor and a primary school teacher, as a young man he’d begun a career in journalism with a cadetship for a local New Jersey newspaper. Ability and a sharp mind had quickly accelerated his advancement to the point where, by the age of twenty-eight, he’d been sent to Manchuria at the request of a major US daily to cover the Japanese annexation of 1932. It was during that time – amid the rape, murder and other
atrocities committed at the hands of the Japanese Army – that his life reached a watershed moment and he walked away from journalism forever.
His time in Manchukuo – as the Japanese now called Manchuria – eventually taught Richard Kransky something new: it taught him how to kill. Falling in with local resistance movements and a few foreign volunteers, he’d fought against the occupying invaders and learned how to lead and organise men in the process. He’d learned how to fight a guerrilla war against an enemy that was numerically and technologically superior, and above and beyond everything else, he also discovered he was a ‘natural’ with a firearm. During the three years he spent in that war-ravaged country, Kransky became lethally proficient as a sniper and could easily kill a man at ranges up to a thousand metres if armed with a suitable rifle of sufficient power.
He’d fought in many wars since. The Spanish Civil War against Franco and the fascists; in China, following the Japanese invasion there in 1937; and then to Europe three years later as the unstoppable Wehrmacht rolled westward, sweeping all before it. He’d evacuated to Britain as France had fallen and had spent some time at an installation at Scapa Flow with a very special task force known as ‘Hindsight’. While there, he’d been made privy to some incredible and extremely classified information and operations before being sent back into the field once more as the Nazis landed on the beaches of South-East England in September of 1940.
He’d been on the run ever since and had learned to travel light as a result. The only belongings he’d brought with him were a small rucksack, a compact ‘bumpack’ that attached to the rear of the web belt he wore at his waist, a tiny submachine gun and a long, narrow canvas sack that carried a large rifle in several disassembled pieces. Both were propped against the very rear of the kiln, as far away from any moisture as was possible, yet the machine pistol was within easy reach all the same.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 3