To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  “I see you have my autobiography,” Richtofen said. “I thought you were my lawyer, not an admirer.”

  “I thought it better to get to know you before we met,” Wells said. “Seemed appropriate. A chap translated much of it for me.”

  “There are few things I regret from the war. That pulp rag is one of them. I had pilots to lead, battles to fight; I didn’t have time to truly share my entire life’s journey on the page, and at 25 the idea of having an autobiography wasn’t my own. The German Ministry of Intelligence and Propaganda thought it would help boost the public’s morale. That and all those blasted cards with my face on them.”

  Metzger set down a cup of tea and saucer for Wells, complete with several sugar cubes.

  “To more important matters. What am I charged with?” Richthofen asked.

  “Violation of the Hague Treaty of 1907, specifically Article 23, killing an individual who no longer had the means of defense. You’re to be tried under British law as you’re in our custody,” Wells picked up his tea, but set it down as the trembling in his hand threatened to spill.

  Richthofen gave off a chuckle.

  “Since when are soldiers to be tried for murder simply for carrying out their duties?” he asked. “I killed a great many individuals during the war. Am I charged with all their deaths?”

  “There is only one such incident at issue, a Sergeant Reuel Dunn. Is the name familiar?”

  “No,” Richthofen said quickly. “You’re in the Royal Air Force but you don’t have your flight wings. Are you aware of how air combat occurred over the front lines? I did not stop to exchange pleasantries with any English plane I saw. We simply did out best to try and kill each other.”

  “The 2nd of April in ‘17,” Wells said. “Seems you forced a Sopwith down behind your lines and then—allegedly—fired on the aircraft while it was stuck in the mud, killing Sergeant Dunn.”

  “That was what you call ‘Bloody April,’ yes? I shot down many planes that month. But firing at someone on the ground, I do not recall.”

  “As your solicitor and barrister, we share attorney client privilege. I’m not familiar with Germany’s laws, but anything you say to me is confidential and will only be used to better prepare your case.”

  Richthofen ran his fingertips along the scar on the back of his head.

  “My memory is not quite what it used to be.” Richthofen looked at Metzger and spoke with him in rapid fire German.

  Wells dropped a sugar cube into his tea, watching the two converse. Wells was bringing the tea to his lips when Richthofen snapped his fingers. The teacup bounced against Wells teeth painfully, and a drop of tea fell onto his tunic.

  “Now I remember,” Richthofen said, “a two-seater. The plane landed in a muddy beet field and when I flew over to note the location for my report, one of your men in the rear seat fired on me with his machine gun. I looped around and returned the favor. This is what I’m to be charged with? Trading bullets?”

  “There is some dispute as to the events of the day. Were there any other witnesses we could call in your defense?”

  Richthofen shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “Lothar, my brother, flew with me that day, but he was already on his way back to our base when I was shot at. Voss saw…but Werner is dead.”

  “He was something of a rival of yours, wasn’t he?” Wells asked.

  “I did not have ‘rivals,’ Mr. Wells,” Richthofen said angrily. “I had comrades. Brave men who would have died for me, and I for them. Voss was a hero, and a good man. Now,” he composed himself quickly, “the trial begins tomorrow morning, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Wells said, surprised. “How did you know?”

  “I swear it is always raining on this blighted island of yours, but the weather is starting to clear. This privilege between us, it extends to written documents?”

  “Certainly.”

  Richthofen sat at the desk and began writing a letter.

  “Give me a moment,” the German said. “Please finish your tea. I have too much.”

  “I wasn’t aware that prisoner rations included such fine leaves or actual sugar,” Wells said as he took another sip.

  “They don’t. The Red Cross delivers packages to me from Germany almost daily. Metzger is still sorting through yesterday’s post. Do you know the conditions back home, Mr. Wells? Your navy keeps up a blockage even though the fighting has ended. Food, food that starving women and children need to survive this winter, is held back from them by your government.”

  He stopped writing and looked up at the English officer.

  “Do you know what it is like to return from the frontlines and see children, little more than skin and bones, in cardboard shoes running through the streets?” Richthofen asked. He picked up a handful of letters then slammed them back to the desk. “Conditions are even worse than my last trip home, but still people send me food through the Red Cross. I’ve tried to get word back to Germany that this must stop, the food should go to the needy, but your government censors every word of my letters home.”

  Richthofen returned to his writing.

  “You know where the Swiss Embassy is, yes? You’re to deliver this letter to Mr. Schmidt as soon as you leave here.”

  “Attorney client privilege does not extend to espionage,” Wells said as the color drained from his face.

  “The fighting is over, and I have no intelligence worth sharing with my government. Besides, Mr. Schmidt is with the Red Cross. He will see my requests finally delivered back home.” The baron looked up and cast a guilty glance to the pile of boxes over Wells’ shoulder. “Will you do this for me?”

  “I.” Wells cleared his throat. “I suppose I could swing by the embassy. But what of your case? How will you plead?”

  “There is something you must understand.” Richthofen signed the letter with a flourish then folded the paper. “There is no trial. There is only theater.”

  * * *

  Wells looked at his reflection in the glass window of the Old Bailey, where Londoners had faced justice since the 1700’s and adjusted his wig. Down below, he saw a sizeable crowd along the road leading to the guarded entrance where Richthofen would arrive. The entire front rank of spectators carried cameras, and a pair of motion picture cameras flanked either side of the door.

  There were signs in the crowd; BLOODY RED BARON and MURDERER stenciled on more than one poster, braced on a wood frame waved aloft.

  “Think this will take long?” a gruff man asked from behind.

  Wells smiled at the King’s Counsel, Jameson Mort, an older man wearing the same style of robes and wigs.

  “My client’s yet to arrive,” Wells said. “I’m sure we’re in for a full day before the judges.”

  “Lord Newton expects this business to be handled promptly,” Mort said. “Any grandstanding or needless delays will not be appreciated by those in Parliament.”

  Wells’ smile widened.

  “Sir Mort, are you suggesting we do anything less than our full duty as agents of the law? I’m aware that this is the first ever war crimes trial held under the authority of the Hague treaty, but that I’m acting as solicitor and barrister is odd enough to warrant a review of the judgement by the Supreme Court, no matter which way the case decides. Is the tribunal of judges, instead of a jury of peers, also done for the sake of expediency?”

  Mort levelled a finger at Well’s chest and made a phlegmy snort.

  “Be quick about this,” Mort said. “Your boy’s arriving.”

  Shouting from the crowd carried through the window. A lorry with barred windows pulled up to the gate. A pair of bailiffs went to the back of the car and unlocked the doors. Each grabbed ahold of a handle and paused as camera’s flashed. A man in a deep blue suit stepped onto the road and gestured to the film crews.

  “How did Richthofen know there’d be a media circus?” Wells asked himself.

  The doors open and Richthofen, his wrists and ankles bound by chains, came
out of the lorry. Even from his high vantage point, Wells could see the German wore a chest full of medals, a gold and enamel blue Maltese Cross at his neck, the Pour Le Merite, Prussia’s highest award for valor. Richthofen held his head high, staring at the assembled crowd with contempt as cameras flashed around him.

  A tomato sailed out of the rabble and struck the side of the lorry. A bailiff hustled Richthofen into the courthouse.

  Wells turned around and looked over the courtroom. The seating area was full of reporters and men in military uniforms. Even with winter’s cold, the room was heating up from so many packed bodies. He made his way to his desk situated next to a metal cell big enough for one person with a wooden stool inside.

  Mort’s desk held very little in the way of paperwork, which struck Wells as odd. He expected the prosecution to have a mountain of evidence prepared for this trial. Wells had passed the bar in the last year, and what limited courtroom experience he had led him to believe that Mort either didn’t take his role seriously…or he was supremely confident of the outcome.

  Cameras flashed as Richthofen came in through a side door and was placed into the cell. He looked regal and carried an air of contempt.

  Wells hurried over and leaned close to the bars.

  “This is madness,” Wells said. “I don’t know how it is in Germany but in England the accused is innocent before proven guilty. We’ve already grounds for a dismissal.”

  Richthofen shook his head slowly.

  “Let this play out,” the baron said.

  “I’m beginning to think everyone’s having a laugh at my expense,” Wells said. “This is a trial, not a ten-penny show on the West End. They can sentence you to death, Manfred. You must take this seriously.”

  “All rise!”

  Three judges in far more ostentatious wigs than Wells and Mort came into the courtroom and took their seats behind a tall bench. The judge in the center banged his gavel and set a pair of spectacles onto his nose.

  “Be seated. Hauptman Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen,” the judge said, “of the Imperial German Flying Corps, you are charged with violating Article 23 of the Hague Convention of 1907. Specifically, that you did, on the 2nd of April last year, kill one Sergeant Reuel Dunn while he no longer had the means of defense. How do you plead?”

  Wells rose to his feet.

  “If it pleased the court. The defendant will—”

  “Not guilty!” Richthofen shouted. He sprang to his feet…then turned to the camera and raised his bound wrists as high as he could. Camera bulbs popped like rifles along a trench line and several military men in the audience began shouting at the baron.

  Wells felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment as the judge hammered his gavel, demanding order in his courtroom.

  Richthofen returned to his stool and gave Wells a wink.

  “There will be silence, or I will clear this courtroom,” the judge said. Calm returned in short order.

  “Counsel Mort, call your first witness,” the judge said.

  “The state calls Second Lieutenant Algernon Warren to the stand,” Mort said.

  A tall man in his early twenties and a uniform so crisp it looked as if it had been sewn that morning took the witness stand.

  “Lieutenant Warren,” Mort said, “I understand you’ve just been freed from a German prison camp. Thank you for your service. I do hope you were well treated.”

  The judge levelled his gavel at Wells before he could voice an objection.

  “It’s good to be home,” Warren said.

  Sounds like an educated bloke from money, Wells thought. That’s not going to help our cause.

  “Tell us what happened on the day in question.”

  “We were to conduct a photo reconnaissance over Vimy Ridge,” Warren began. “I flew the Sopwith while Sergeant Dunn manned the rear gun and carried the camera.”

  Warren’s face scrunched in concentration.

  Can’t tell if he’s trying to recall what happened or rehearsed testimony, Wells noted.

  “We’d just crossed the front lines and come through a cloud bank when Jerry, excuse me, the Germans, attacked,” Warren continued. “Sergeant Dunn took a bad hit to the shoulder that first pass and collapsed into his seat. He never had a chance to fight back.”

  Wells heard the rattle of chains as Richtofen stiffened.

  “Second time around the Germans took out my instrument panel and holed my gas tank. My engine quit, and I managed to glide to the ground where a mud puddle stopped my landing before my plane could roll into a canal. I turned around to help the good sergeant. He’d been hit in the back of his shoulder and down his arm, but it wasn’t too bad.”

  So, by his own admittance, the sergeant was still capable of wielding a machine gun, Wells noted, jotting a note to himself.

  “I was about to apply a bandage when we heard an aircraft approaching. I looked up and there’s that bloody baron diving right for us. He hit Dunn again, this time in the stomach, and put a fair number of holes in my flight suit. Then the last of the fuel in my tank caught fire, and I had to pull Dunn clear.”

  But you didn’t suffer any burns or wounds yourself? Wells noted again, writing another note.

  “I got him to a dry spot and then he looked up at me and said, ‘Think I’m done.’” A melancholy smile touched Warren’s face. “Sergeant Dunn…ever the joker. He lost consciousness a few minutes later. German soldiers took him to a field hospital and me to a prison. I learned Dunn died of his wounds that same day.”

  “This must be difficult for you, Lieutenant.” Mort turned to the audience and asked, “Did you or Sergeant Dunn fire your weapons after you landed?”

  “No, Counsel. We knew the gig was up after we landed well behind enemy lines in a dead plane.”

  “Did you try and signal to your attacker that you were out of the fight?”

  “I was too busy trying to patch up Sergeant Dunn. By and large, the German pilots were known to be a sporting lot. I didn’t think they’d decide to use us as target practice, especially not one as famous as the German propaganda machine had made Richthofen.”

  “No further questions.” Mort looked at Wells. “Your witness.”

  “Thank you.” Wells adjusted his robe and remained behind his desk as he stood up. “Lieutenant, for those of us who’ve not served in the air corps, how can you tell your fellows apart while in the air? I imagine it’s difficult when more than a few dozen yards away.”

  “It’s not called the fog of war because things are damp. It was quite difficult,” Warren said. “Whenever there was a spat in the air, we had to work out the details after we landed.”

  “If it was so difficult telling other British planes apart, then how do you know that the defendant was—as you allege—the man who fired on you and Sergeant Dunn?”

  “Because after he was done murdering Sergeant Dunn the pilot flew right over the top of us,” Warren snapped. “That plane was red. Bright red. There’s only one fighter in the whole war that was so garish, and that was his!”

  Warren’s finger was like a weapon as he pointed at Richthofen.

  “There’s a simple explanation why he’s called the Red Baron.”

  Cameras flashed again, capturing the accusation.

  Well, walked right into that one, Wells thought, keeping his face passive even as bedlam erupted. I just established the witness’ credibility for the prosecution. Good show, I’m sure this will be mentioned as a shining example of idiocy in every law textbook for decades. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, Wells struggled for a moment before managing to speak again.

  “Lieutenant, clearly this was a serious incident. You surely reported this to the Red Cross once you were sent to detention.”

  “No, I did no such thing.” Warren shifted in his seat. “The guards knew who’d shot us down and were quite keen to remind me how lucky I was to have survived the encounter. To level such a charge while in German custody would have been something of a death wish.”


  There were murmurs around the court room at that.

  “These are Huns we’re talking about. You know what they did to Belgium, killing any civilian they could get their hands on if it pleased them. Whatever treaty protected me as a prisoner could have been just another scrap of paper to them if I tried to expose the truth about that hero of theirs.”

  “Then when did you bring this incident to light?” Wells asked.

  “During my…” Warren frowned, then looked down at his knees. “During my reintegration after I got out of the prison camp. Yes. I told everything to the intelligence chaps then. No need to fear retribution.”

  Ah, now we get to the coached responses, Wells thought. He stepped around his desk and was about to approach the witness stand when Richthofen tapped against his bars. The defendant motioned for Wells to come over.

  “Your honors, may I have a moment to confer with my client?” Wells asked.

  The judge nodded curtly.

  Wells went to the cage and leaned close to speak with Richthofen.

  “The witness is lying,” Wells said, “Let me get to the bottom of this.”

  “Of course he’s lying, but that’s not what’s important,” Richtofen replied, then continued as if he were speaking to a simpleton. “We are not here for justice Mr. Wells, we are here for a show. For the theater of it all. What will be in the papers is his accusation. The brave war hero back from captivity to balance the scales for his dead comrade. Press him too hard and his entire story comes apart.”

  “Exactly my point.” Wells seethed.

  “Your jackals can’t have that. Oh look, the man in the blue suit from my arrival is speaking to the judge. I wonder what they’re talking about?”

  Wells looked up at the bench, and indeed a man in a blue suit was there whispering in the judge’s ears.

  “No more questions to Warren,” Richthofen said. “He’s suffered enough.”

  “I’m the one that’s passed the bar examination here, not you,” Wells put his hands on his hips. A dozen cameras flashed, capturing the moment of disagreement between client and counsel.