Beneath Gray Skies

by Hugh Ashton

  About twenty bureaucrats later, an open-topped touring car drew up, driven by a uniformed chauffeur, who jumped out of the car as it drew to a halt, and opened the rear door for his passenger, an elderly white-bearded man, dressed in frock coat and vest, with a silk top hat, who gazed about him somewhat disdainfully as he stepped down, using a cane to support him, to the sidewalk in front of the building’s front door.

  “Endlich, at last,” muttered Goering to no-one in particular, a few yards away from David.

  “Who’s that, do you think?” hissed David to Brian.

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s Walther Rathenau. Very important man. He survived an attack on him a few years back. Shot up by some bastards,” he dropped his voice still lower, “friends of your chum Hermann Goering. They drove by his car in another car and just sprayed him with bullets. He took five bullets in the leg and two in the lungs. Miracle he survived, what? And still driving around in an open car. Brave chap, don’t you think?”

  “Suppose so,” said David, looking at both Goering and Rathenau in a new light and asking himself how Brian knew so much about these things.

  “And, of course,” went on Brian, so quietly that David had to strain to hear him, “he’s Jewish. Which means that, if our friend in the smart leather coat has his way, this is the last morning the poor beggar will ever see.”

  “But we’re not going to be shooting anyone!” protested David.

  “No, we’re not actually going to be pulling any triggers,” agreed Brian. “But who are we working for, eh?”

  That was a good question, David asked himself. More and more he was getting the feeling that he and Brian weren’t working towards the same ends.

  Like the arrivals before him, Rathenau was rounded up and marched to the holding area, where the other Germans made space for him, treating him with obvious respect. Rathenau’s chauffeur was dismissed by Goering, and the car purred off.

  Next came a group of young women, giggling and talking as they prepared to enter the Ministry. As they saw the armed group outside the entrance, they fell silent.

  “We’re gentlemen,” proclaimed Goering to the Confederates (“A matter of opinion,” muttered Brian quietly). “We let these ladies go free. Except for you,” he added, his hand shooting out to grab a slender dark-headed girl by the arm.

  “Sind Sie jüdische?” he asked. The girl nodded. “Dahin!” snapped Goering.

  “What’s going on?” asked David.

  “He’s making her a prisoner just because she’s Jewish. We can’t have that sort of thing going on now, can we?” he added in a loud voice.

  Goering turned to look at him. “Were you talking to me, Private?” he asked in English.

  “Ja, Herr Oberleutnant,” answered Brian.

  “So, können Sie deutsch sprechen?”, somewhat surprised. “The rank is Major,” he added, somewhat irritated, in English.

  “Yes, I do speak and understand German, but your English is good enough for what I have to say, and I want everyone else to understand. You are going to let that girl go.”

  Goering laughed. “If you want her, I will give her to you. After I have finished with her.”

  “No, Mr. Goering.” There was a subtle insulting emphasis on the title. “You will give her to me now. And she and I will walk away together and I will make sure she is safe.”

  Goering laughed again. “You are a funny man. I like you. But I do not like this joke.”

  “No joke, Mr. Goering.” Faster than David had ever seen anyone do such a thing, Brian’s bayonet was fixed at the end of his rifle. The click-snap of the rifle bolt completed the action.

  “No joke, Mr. Goering. Now then? The girl?”

  “You’re English, not American? Your voice sounds different. How brave of you, how … What’s the word? Chivalric?”

  “Very close, Mr. Goering. Chivalrous is the word you’re looking for. I must congratulate you on your English. But I’m afraid that you’ve made a mistake. I’m not chivalrous. In fact, I’m so damned unchivalrous, I have no worries about shooting you, and cutting the throat of this boy here to make my point. Drop that rifle, Corporal.” David suddenly found himself in Brian’s firm grasp, with the edge of the bayonet terrifyingly close to his neck. He dropped his rifle. Brian’s voice hissed in his ear. “Sorry about this, old man. Do exactly what I say. We’ll both be all right. Don’t worry.” David relaxed, but only a little. This new Brian was something rather frightening.

  Goering was not laughing now. “So, if I give you the girl, and you walk off together, why cannot I shoot you in the back? Or give the order to your comrades to do that?”

  “First, the boy will be with me, and my last reflex action will be to slice his throat open. When the girl and I are well away from you, he’ll come back safe and sound. Second, you may not know this, but I’ve killed quite a lot of Germans in my time. A good number of them I killed while I had German bullets in me. One more German won’t be too hard for me to manage.”

  Goering strutted up to come almost toe to toe with Brian, who stood nearly a head taller. “I am giving the orders here,” looking up at Brian. “Maybe I can persuade your officer to forget all this if you stop this nonsense now.”

  Brian’s hands moved in a complicated fashion too fast for David to follow. The bayonet at the end of his rifle flashed, cutting the ribbon around Goering’s neck, and the large Pour le Mérite medal fell tinkling to the sidewalk. Goering’s face flushed as his hand shot to his neck, wiping away a trickle of blood that had suddenly appeared there.

  “You’ll pay for this!” he shouted.

  “Send a letter to my bank,” retorted Brian, deliberately misunderstanding Goering. “There’s enough in my account to pay for a bit of dirty ribbon. Come on, David, we’re off. Gnädige Fräulein,” he said to the frightened girl who was standing alone in the space that had cleared itself around Brian, David and Goering. She moved to join him, on the other side from David.

  “Very sentimental,” said Goering bitterly. “A happy family outing.”

  “Don’t look back,” said Brian to David as they started walking. He repeated what David assumed to be the same thing in German to the girl. “Keep walking, and for God’s sake, don’t stop.”

  -o-

  As they reached the corner of the street and were about to  turn into a side road, a pistol shot rang out. The girl clutched her shoulder and shrieked. “Round the corner, you two,” said Brian, pushing them out of sight of Goering and the other Confederates, and dropping to one knee. He fired three shots from his rifle, rapid fire.

  “Got the beggar in the legs,” he reported with satisfaction. “With luck it’ll hurt him for the rest of his life. Maybe have to take dope or something for it. Come on,” to the other two. “I want to get a long way away.”

  They ran, the girl moving with some difficulty at first, following some plan known only to Brian, it seemed. Or maybe it wasn’t a plan. It was hard to tell. They twisted left and right through alleys and back streets. Eventually they stopped, breathing hard. They were by a doorway leading into what seemed to be a deserted factory. A canal or river flowed at the end of the street, which seemed to be a dead end. They dodged into the doorway, making their way into what must have been the watchman’s hut by the entrance.

  Brian seemed to be apologizing to the girl, speaking rapid German.

  “It’s not hurting her too badly,” he said to David. “Where’s your medical kit?” As a corporal, David carried basic medical supplies, which were in too short supply to be issued to every soldier.

  “I speak some English,” said the girl, looking into David’s eyes. “It hurts, but not bad. Thank you for everything. Those Nazis are not good people.”

  “You bet,” said David. “That Goering’s a skunk.” He looked at the girl. She was extremely pretty, he thought, but at least three or four years older than him. He’d just started to take a serious interest in girls, and he gave this one high marks. “I’m David,” he said to her.
“What’s your name?”

  “Hannah. Hannah Meyer.”

  “Hannah? Pretty name, huh?” said David.

  “When you two have finished making eyes at each other, where’s that medical kit, David? And while I’m looking after Hannah here, you stand guard and make sure no-one interrupts us.” David reluctantly took Brian’s rifle and left Hannah. He scanned the road, his stomach starting to rumble. No-one seemed to be stirring in this quarter of Berlin, and David would have welcomed something to eat. He was just wondering if he should go back to Brian and suggest that he look for some bread or soup, when he spotted a figure at the end of the road, moving towards him.

  When the figure came close, he gripped the gun tight, and shouted, as he’d been instructed in his basic training, “Halt! Who goes there?”

  “Friend. Definitely a friend, lad,” came the answer in English, in an accent a bit like Brian’s. “Now do put that gun down like a good fellow. Have you seen a tall Englishman around here, going round in clothes that look as though they don’t belong to him?”

  Brian’s voice from behind him spared him the trouble of answering.

  “Dowling. What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

  “Finch-Malloy at last. I’ve been looking all over for you. Thought you might be here, somehow. And what bloody awful togs, if I may say so,” wrinkling his nose.

  “Well, if you must know, I’ve been rescuing damsels in distress from fire-breathing dragons,” replied Brian.

  “Again? The last dragon rescue you did caused a hell of a problem for C and myself back in London, you know.”

  Brian scratched his head. “Oh, you heard about that, did you? Now why would C be interested in that?”

  “Can we talk about this without an audience, please? Is that the latest rescued damsel, by the way?” He pointed to Hannah, who had crept out silently to see what was happening.

  “If you want to put it that way,” said Brian. “Yes, this is Hannah.”

  “And the dragon?”

  “Hermann Goering.”

  The other whistled softly. “You do like playing with the big boys, don’t you? And this?” he added, pointing to David, who’d been following the conversation with interest, trying to work out exactly what was going on. Something really strange involving the Limeys, that was for sure.

  “Ah. David here is my friend and fellow-warrior in the Army of the Confederacy. He is also, if you are interested, potentially the finest chess-player under fifty years of age I have ever encountered. David, meet my colleague Mr. Henry Dowling. Dowling, meet my friend Corporal David Slater.”

  David mustered his manners and shook hands with Mr. Dowling. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” said David.

  “And I yours,” replied the other. “But I really do need to talk to our friend here in private, so I fear our acquaintance this time will not be a long one.”

  “I’d best be getting back to the rest of them,” said David to Brian.

  “Yes, you should be doing that,” said Brian. “Trouble is, I really don’t know the safest way for you to get back to them, lad. The way we came may be the quickest but it may not be the best, all things considered. Your best bet is to find some Nazis and get them to help you find your way back to your unit. Where would you go looking for Nazis right now, Dowling?”

  “If I had to? Wouldn’t want to try, to be honest. But if I had to, I’d try getting back to the Reichstag and maybe you’ll bump into some of them. But I wouldn’t wear that armband, if I were you, David. There’s a lot of people don’t like that symbol.”

  David had forgotten he was wearing the swastika armband, and took it off, putting it in his pocket. Brian had already removed his, he noticed.

  “How do I get there, sir?” he asked Dowling, but it was Hannah who answered.

  “I cannot go to there all the way, because I think that it will be dangerous,” she said. “But if we go together to my home, then my friend can guide you.”

  “And what should I tell the Lieutenant, Brian?” asked David.

  “Tell him goodbye from me,” replied Brian. “I’m not coming back. How can I? Tell him that I kept you at bayonet point all the way to a factory by a canal, just like this one, where I tied your hands and feet and left you, taking the girl with me. You struggled, but I hit you, like this—” here Brian’s fist flashed out and hit David hard on the jaw. David cried out. “I’m really sorry to have hurt you, David, believe me. But you’re going to have a rough time when you get back, and I don’t want them to believe you had anything to do with this. If it will make you feel better, you can hit me back.” He offered his face to David.

  “Don’t be dumb,” said David. “I know why you done that. If you hadn’t done that, I’d of thought of it or something like it myself, I reckon.”

  “See what I mean?” said Brian to Dowling with a grin. “Chess wizard.” He turned to David again. “Anyway, you worked your way out of the ropes after a bit and met up with some of the swastika boys. You’ll know what you have to say from there. So it’s goodbye from me, David. If we don’t meet again, it’s been a pleasure and a privilege knowing you. I mean it.”

  “And the same here,” replied David, shaking hands. He felt he had to go away soon, or he’d start crying.

  Brian noticed. “Don’t start, Davy, or I might feel like doing the same myself.” He grinned suddenly. “Y’all take good care now, y’hear,” he added, in a perfect Georgia accent—the first time that David had heard him speak in anything other than his usual British accent.

  “Go on, off with you, the pair of you,” said Brian, back to his usual voice.

  “Come, David,” said Hannah. “Maybe I can rest a little on you? My shoulder still hurts.” David had no objection to this—the feel of her body against his as they walked away was comforting and more than a little exciting, and helped take his mind off the fact that he’d probably seen his friend for the last time.

  At the top of the street, David turned round, having deliberately not done so until the last minute, but Brian and his friend were nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 12: Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America

  “Some of the ones they’d shot were still alive. I could see some of their hands opening and closing, sticking out of the ground. Just the hands.”

  “Mr. President, Colonel Vickers is waiting to meet with you.”

  “Thank you, Gaylord, I’ll see him now.”

  “The President will see you now, Colonel,” Davis heard from outside the room, and his visitor entered. He was a tall man, wearing a pale seersucker suit, and a splash of color provided by a red flower in his buttonhole.

  Davis glanced at the flower. “Not what I expect from a fighting man, Colonel,” he remarked, not altogether playfully.

  “No sir, that it is not,” came the answer in a low voice. “I had enough of being what you may choose to call a fighting man in Berlin, I am sorry to say.”

  “I read your report. What was it really like?”

  “The actual business of arresting the folks at the ministries and so on went pretty slick. We had one guy try to fight back, and the soldier who had to stop him lost some teeth, but that was all that happened on the arrest side.”

  “What about the Limey who took off?”

  “Sorry, sir, except for that Limey you mentioned. He went kind of crazy and shot one of the high-up Nazis. He took one of our folks with him as some kind of hostage, an orderly from one of the regiments, but the kid turned up later no worse for wear, except for a bruise on his face where the Brit had slugged him.”

  “How did it all come about, anyway? Your report wasn’t clear about that.”

  “From what I heard—I wasn’t there, you understand, and even the folks who were there don’t seem to be that straight in their minds about it—this German, Hermann Goering, who’s one of Mr. Hitler’s main folks, picks out some girl, and the Limey likewise takes a kind of fancy to her. Fixes his bayonet and does some fancy work with
it, cutting off the medal from round Goering’s neck and hardly touching the man himself, according to them all—a great piece of work, I suppose you’d have to call it, if it was in a good cause. Then he grabs this kid who it seems he’d been friends with for some time, and holds the bayonet to his throat, telling the Kraut—” Davis looked at him askance. “Sorry, sir, I mean Major Goering. Some of us got into the habit of calling them that while we were over there. He told Goering that he was going to go away with the girl, and let the kid go after that.”

  “So when did all the shooting happen?”

  “Well, sir, it seems that the Limey and his girlfriend were just about to turn off the road, when Goering draws his pistol and takes aim at the girl’s back.”