England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  By the first years of the 21st Century, the German economy had recovered well enough, but the new world of ‘Post-9/11’ no longer had so much need for a large and powerful standing army, and Oberst Albert Schiller of the Deutsche Bundeswehr also found himself staring directly down the barrel of forced redundancy and the loss of a professional life that was all he’d ever known.

  He’d still kept in touch with his old friend and former CO however, and it was as his military career was winding down that Reuters had come to him with the wild and crazy proposal to change history itself. At first he’d gone along purely out of curiosity, never believing anything would seriously come from such a ridiculous idea, and by the time they’d come to realise the project might produce results, Schiller was far too deeply involved to back out. Although none of the businessmen financing the operation admitted it openly, both he and Reuters had known or at least suspected that Zeigler, Strauss and the others were Neo-Nazis. It was easy to ignore the truth however, when one was being well paid to carry out what was, in theory at least, an incredibly interesting and challenging research project: how to bring 1930s Germany out of the Great Depression and within a decade turn it into a true world power capable of conquering Europe and Great Britain.

  Schiller would be lying to himself if he’d said there were no feelings of guilt over what they were doing, but they’d fooled themselves into believing the new Grossdeutschland they’d be helping to build would be truly great rather than just in name only. The ‘reality’ behind the ideals had of course never come to fruition, however the beliefs themselves had at least served to provide cold comfort and a casus belli for their actions as Reuters, Schiller and the others had set about changing the course of history.

  The moral issues hadn’t truly become a problem for him until the very last weeks before their departure. It’d been relatively easy to rationalise about the Holocaust, and about the death and destruction they were planning, while they lived in a future that was seventy years and an entirely different world away. It had proven far more difficult during the brutality and insanity of the nascent Nazi regime of the thirties. The dark multiplicity of alliances and dealings they’d been forced to become party to had taken a savage toll on all their consciences, and it’d been difficult indeed, although none of them would ever call themselves poor as a result.

  Schiller himself owned several very lucrative industrial concerns in Switzerland, and a great deal of land in Spain. He’d holidayed there several times in the last years before the outbreak of war, the fine weather and sweeping landscapes surrounding his country estate almost able to divert his mind from what he’d become involved in that’d ultimately provided the wealth that had made everything possible. Most of the time, if he kept himself busy and maintained his façade of irreverent sarcasm, he could forget about the fact that they’d sold their souls in return for their successes.

  He’d forget about Rachael too, eventually… or, at least, he’d mostly convinced himself that he would. It was only at night, alone in his quarters, that he couldn’t push away the memories of the girl he’d met and fallen in love with just months before their ‘great’ mission was realised. Rachael Weinberg… her parents and grandparents would no doubt be rounded up by the Gestapo in the next few years, if they hadn’t been already… and Schiller knew they’d die, along with millions of others, as part of the plan for the ‘Final Solution’. The Führer was already developing the project in secret, although he’d never openly revealed to Reuters or the rest of the Wehrmacht… save for explicit orders to allow the Einsatzgruppen free reign in their conquered territories. Realtime studies of historical patterns suggested the persecution and eventual extermination of the Jews should have been less of a priority while the Nazis were provided with continuing successes, but somehow the New Eagles’ presence and effect on the world had instead accelerated it to the point that thousands across German-occupied Europe were already being collected, registered and shipped eastward to the camps.

  ‘What else could we do?’ Schiller thought darkly, staring out at the black waters beneath a dark, cloudy sky. The Wehrmacht and the Reichstag and the rest of them had asked that same question over and over as the Nazi Party rode roughshod all of them, and over the rest of the world as well. He knew all the history; he’d read all the books, and discussed all the reasons and the ramifications and the ‘what ifs’… and he remembered the guilt. Is there a single German of my time who’s never felt guilt? Year after year… our fault… declared time and again in schools, and in the media, and in the eyes of the rest of the world… and we were never allowed to forget… or to be forgiven by some, he admitted silently, his features hardening slightly as the thoughts entered his mind. Yet they were right all the same: our fault indeed, as much for what we didn’t do, or could’ve prevented, as anything we blindly went along with as a nation. How much clearer that is, now I’ve lived through it all and seen it for myself.

  But Kurt can’t see it…won’t see it. Schiller had come to realise that too, in the years since their return. We stuck to the ‘plan’… we developed industry and production… we improved and we advanced… but make Germany great? Is that really what we’ve done… or have we placed our nation so far beyond redemption there’s no hope for us now whatsoever? He snorted angrily over the concepts as he considered the same terrible truths that had filled his thoughts many times since their arrival in the past. We had the entire world at our feet… ours to command. We had enough technology and equipment to do anything we wanted, and be rich beyond our dreams into the bargain… we didn’t need the Nazis… we didn’t need Hitler or the Nazis or any of it. We could’ve been the true saviours of Germany, rather than one more tool of fascism — one more tool of murder and oppression. We could’ve shattered the NSDAP and instead created a truly great Germany of our own, more benevolent devising. And instead we did nothing… and through our own inaction, we’ve become are far worse, and carry far more blame than the Officer Corps or the weak, vacillating politicians of Weimar… for we knew what was coming… knew exactly what the Nazis would do… and we went along with it all the same…!

  As he exorcised his lifelong nightmares, Kurt Reuters could rationalise all the horrors they knew were being committed… rationalise it all for the erasure of those decades of personal humiliation and hardship. And loyal, obedient Albert Schiller had supported his friend and CO with good humour as he went about his business, simply because it was his duty: Reuters had been his commanding officer for so long now, he’d really known no other life than working in that great man’s service. It was ultimately that military conditioning as an officer that proved most useful in justifying what they’d done… the so-called ‘honour’ of the Officer Corps, and the visceral need to follow orders.

  What was that old joke? He wondered suddenly as the memory came to him. ‘What do you call a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean… a good start…’ He almost managed a genuine smile as he remembered, but the grin turned quite dark and malevolent a moment later. What do you call the assassination of Hess, Bormann, Göring and Zeigler…? I suspect the punchline would be something similar. He felt no guilt or remorse whatsoever over the killings in that stable at Amiens, three days before, although there was still the underlying fear that he’d be found out… something that worried him as much for what it’d do to Reuters’ position as Reichsmarschall as for how it might affect his own fate. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Reuters what had happened… couldn’t bring himself to lay that extra burden at the man’s feet… and so he carried what he’d done in cold silence.

  All those years of rationalising what I’ve done in the name of Grossdeutschland… about time those ‘skills’ were put to good use, he reasoned, knowing there was at least some truth behind his justifications. If I can sublimate guilt over complicity in the deaths of millions of innocent Jews, why should I feel guilty about the extermination of four true blights upon the face of humanity? As he thought about all of this, Albert Schiller f
ound it the greatest irony of all that what he’d done three days ago was something they should’ve done upon their arrival in 1933: had they simply rounded up all the high-ranking Nazi figureheads and shot them all out of hand, Hitler included, could there be any doubt now that the world would’ve been a far better place?

  Unlike Carl Ritter, Schiller kept no diary… no journal… no repository for his private thoughts with the potential for incriminating evidence that an enemy might use against him. He smiled thinly — mirthlessly — as he recognised that the only enemy who could — and did — use his thoughts against him was the one enemy he could never avoid nor defeat: himself. There’d been no one he’d ever loved in his life before Rachael, and there’d certainly been no one after, and there was therefore no one else he could confide anything in, had he trusted anyone from that era sufficiently anyway, which he did not. Schiller’s own, personal demons were exactly that… personal… and he would deal with them alone, as he’d always done.

  He’d visited England several times in his youth, both on holiday and as part of his military service with the Bundeswehr. He’d visited Dover and walked about the castle and the fortifications there of what at the time had then been a distant past… a bygone era when Churchill and ‘his’ Island had stood alone across forty kilometres of English Channel against the greatest power the world had ever seen. No one had cared that he was German in those days, or that he was a member of the military. West Germany was by that stage been a solid NATO ally, and a bulwark against communism and the danger of the Soviet Union. The British, American and French forces they’d served beside in Western Europe had regarded their German colleagues with pride, and shown respect for their Bundeswehr training and professionalism — they’d not felt fear at the sight of German troops, tanks and aircraft.

  Will there ever be a time now when anyone looks on a German without fear? That thought stung him more than he’d have liked to admit. He gave another faint snort, this time in mild disgust. Will there ever be a time when I’ll walk down a European street without these feelings of guilt as my constant companions? Albert Schiller smoked his cigarette and stared down at the busy docks below, searching for resolve, and for answers that would never come.

  Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine

  Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands

  As many had been feared, the night began in subdued fashion, what little conversation there was sparse and somewhat hollow between people stunned and left gutted by what was happening in the south. Some had relatives, or knew friends living in the areas now under German control, although of course there was always the hope that most had joined the streams of evacuees moving west. In any case, most present in the mess that night were in no mood to do more than sit and drink in sullen silence, barely aware of the music playing softly in the background.

  US Marine Sergeant Lyle Abraham Walters, a thirty-eight year old African-American from New Orleans, had been serving overseas in Iraq when he lost his entire family to Hurricane Katrina on the 29th of August, 2005. Only the support of his commanders and his fellow marines had gotten him through the terrible grief that had naturally followed, along with the man’s own inherent resilience and inner strength. He’d served under Michael Kowalski in Iraq during the First Gulf War, and again following the September 11 attacks of 2001, and as a twenty-year veteran with a wealth of military experience, Kowalski had personally selected the man as a prime candidate to be offered a place with the Hindsight Team.

  While his parents had both worked their day jobs to make a better life for their only son, Walters had spent a great deal of his youth in the care of his paternal grandfather. A war veteran himself, Abraham Jeremiah Walters had served on the Western Front with the 761st Tank Battalion, under Patton’s 3rd Army, during the last year of the Second World War. The old man had spent hours recounting tales of his war service, much to the delight of his young grandson, and it was the memory of those stories that’d made it a natural choice for Lyle Walters to join the Marines straight after graduation. It’d also been the treasured memory of those times spent with his grandfather that had made his decision to accept Kowalski’s offer to join Hindsight an easy one.

  Walters sat at the upright piano at the rear of the stage that evening, playing along to a selection of jazz and blues instrumental numbers as Evan Lloyd stood up front with his acoustic guitar, accompanied by a pair of Royal Navy junior NCOs on drums and a large double bass. Both of the Hindsight men’s musical skills were well developed, and although both had found themselves a little rusty at first, regular playing with the band during their time at Lyness had quickly returned their skills to a high standard that even they’d been surprised by. They’d learned quite a few popular songs of the time they’d never before encountered, and both Lloyd and Walters had also taken the opportunity to teach their 1940s band mates a few of the songs they’d know from their time, most quite different to the current styles of music to which the others were more accustomed.

  “I think someone’s supposed to say something like ‘So… this is it…’” Davies observed softly, his humour strained as the others remained silent. The Hindsight officers sat at one large table… a table that felt bare and incomplete, now that the group lacked the presence of Richard Kransky and Carl Ritter.

  “So… this is it,” Bob Green stated in a deadpan voice a moment later, not the slightest hint of emotion in either his expression or tone. “Just about time to ‘Get the hell outta Dodge’…”

  “At least we’re able to leave with everyone,” Kowalski stated with feeling, raising a glass of beer to Thorne and then Trumbull, sitting two seats away and opposite Eileen Donelson. “Well done, Alec…”

  “Aye, things worked out all right in the end,” Eileen agreed grudgingly, “but don’t for a moment think you’re off the hook, mister… God knows the shit we’d have been in if we’d lost the pair of ye down there, not to mention the bloody aircraft…!” She directed her words at Trumbull, fixing him with an icy glare, and failed to notice as Thorne looked across toward the stage at the same time and threw Lloyd a conspiratorial wink. She also failed to notice, until it was far too late, that the music had stopped as Thorne rose from the table and walked up to stand beside Evan and the other musicians.

  Thorne’s own Maton Messiah appeared from behind the bar, and as he lifted the strap over his head and hung the guitar in front of him, he stepped forward to speak into the large microphone that rose upon a tall stand at the front of the stage.

  “Good evening, everyone,” he began after briefly clearing his throat, an unexpected nervousness in his voice as he addressed the entire crowd. “For those of you who don’t know who I am, my name’s Air Vice Marshall Max Thorne, Commanding Officer of Hindsight Group. Corporal Lloyd here, who I’m sure you all know for his fantastic guitar work and evil sense of humour…” A faint ripple of laughter washed through the crowd as Lloyd grinned, nodding behind him. “…Has asked me to sit in with the band tonight and help out with some guitar work of my own, although I’ve no doubt you’re all about to discover exactly how lousy I am.” He paused a moment to take a breath, and only the men around him on stage were close enough to see that Max Thorne was actually shaking with tension, a thin film of perspiration breaking out across his brow. “Evan’s asked me to help out tonight because two of the band’s regular members gave their lives this afternoon, defending their country on HMS Warspite… lest we forget…” he closed his eyes and momentarily lowered his head out of respect for all the men of the Home Fleet lost that day, accompanied by several subdued cheers and a few calls of ‘hear, hear…!’ as the huge majority of those present in the room breathed the words ‘lest we forget…’ softly in unison a moment later.

  “The men lost today,” Thorne continued quickly, a waver in his voice as his nerves showed through, “were Seaman Hubert Haversham and Petty Officer James Melville. I doubt there’s any chance of matching Seaman Haversham’s accomplishments on guitar with my own meagre abilities, however
I’m willing to do what I can.” He paused again, this time for effect as he purposefully avoided staring directly at a completely unsuspecting Eileen. “With regard to vocals however, PO Melville was by all accounts an excellent vocalist, and I wouldn’t dare insult the man’s memory by attempting to fill those shoes.” He took another breath, managing a characteristically broad grin despite the mounting fear he always experienced when about to play in front of crowds. “Instead, I think the singing tonight should be left to someone I know will do us proud…” He half-turned toward Evan, hand outstretched, and was instantly handed a thick folder of clear plastic that was filled with printed sheet music. It was only as he held the folder up for all to see that he fixed Eileen Donelson with an expectant stare, and a look of abject horror spread across her face as she recognised what he was holding.

  “Commander Donelson,” Lloyd continued quickly, lifting his guitar microphone from its own, shorter stand and raising it to his lips as he laid a hand momentarily on Thorne’s arm, signalling that he was prepared to take over. He could clearly see his CO was suffering from a severe bout of nerves, and was beginning to worry that if the man to became any more stressed, he’d be no use at all to the band when it came time to play again. “I have it on good authority you were a fine singer back… where we came from…” he finished finally, deciding on ending the sentence in a purposefully non-specific fashion.

  “Ah… well… aye, I guess I did sing a little,” she blustered, raising her voice as much as she dared as her face turned the unmistakeably bright pink of embarrassment. She was under no misconception as to where that information had probably come from, and instantly fired a filthy glare at Thorne powerful enough to kill a field mouse at fifty metres. “Just a little…”