Even so, the intensity of the fire had been such that there’d have been little chance of saving surrounding dwellings had it not also have been for the arrival of four RAAF fire fighting units despatched from the airbase. A large cross-section of the local community also turned out to lend what assistance they could, assisted by several truckloads of Australian and American servicemen. Bucket brigades worked ceaselessly to protect other structures against the spread of flames or from flying embers that lit up the night sky for many miles around.
The first warning at the church had been the strange and distant sound of popping glass as the fire had spread through the pub’s ground floor and burst the windows with intense heat. The sky was turned bright red and a billowing tower of black smoke laced with the sparkle of glowing embers rose high into the air as fire fighters battled desperately to subdue the blaze. There’d been few guests staying at the hotel since the war had begun, and it was a fortunate thing now that there’d therefore been just one casualty as a result.
Briony had been hysterical, of course. Brandis had left immediately to join a growing group of volunteers, but Mrs Tuttle, a kind but firm-handed stalwart as always, had made sure the devastated girl was kept away from the area. That the church cottage didn’t lay in direct line of sight of the hotel was one small mercy in the face of such disaster. All night, the widow had reassured her in soft, gentle tones that there was still a chance her mother would be found alive and well. The cold, harsh light of morning however quickly dashed any remaining hope as a search of the ruins revealed the terrible reality that Eliza Morris was dead.
The intensity of the fire had been such that there was nothing recognisable left in the cellar – although none doubted for a moment the identity of Eliza’s charred corpse – and with no evidence to contradict the ‘facts’ as they appeared on the surface, the fire fighters and volunteers on the scene came to exactly the conclusion that had been intended: that death had resulted from accident and the fire itself rather than foul play.
Brandis knew better, but without any real evidence there was little point in making accusations even if he had wanted to see Eddie’s role in everything brought to the attention of the authorities. The man was something of a hero at that point, and any suggestion to the contrary would’ve more likely made things extremely difficult for Brandis rather than create any great problem for PFC Edward Leonski.
Against all instinct, Brandis instead remained silent, staring on sullenly from across the road and leaning against a telephone pole as volunteers and airbase fire brigade members continued to comb through the rubble. He’d done his part earlier in night, helping all around town passing buckets of water and dousing surrounding houses. He felt filthy and stank of wood smoke, yet rather than head back to the church for a well-earned shower and some rest, he instead found himself compelled to hang around and watch the proceedings with a sad and heavy heat.
As a grey dawn broke over the town that morning, the air laden with the stench of smoke and burning, he kept a keen eye out for any further sign of Leonski but there was none forthcoming. The man had returned to barracks several hours earlier, almost collapsing with exhaustion after a long night of firefighting… and other activities…
Seems they don’t always return to the scene of the crime... The thoughts carried a tone of overall sadness that matched his own and also hinted a little at surprise.
“Probably a good thing too,” he muttered softly in return, bitter and angry as his thoughts considered the weight of the automatic pistol he kept hidden beneath his robes. “I think I’d shoot him on the spot if I saw the son-of-a-bitch right now, and I doubt that would do any of us any favours!”
Might create a few problems at that, the agreement came readily, although I’ll admit I’d get as much enjoyment out of it as you would... as we all did...
“He’ll get what he deserves soon enough,” Brandis added, a distinctly malevolent tone creeping into his soft words as he spoke. “We know what’s coming after all... I can afford to bide my time...” He shrugged, the action almost involuntary as he made a conscious effort to clear his mind of such dark and unproductive thoughts. “First priority right now is Briony: we need to make sure she’s properly looked after before we leave for good.”
He’ll take good care of her... you know he will.
“Of course I do, but I’ll miss her all the same...”
Try to look at it this way... the words rose in his mind, a faint hint of dry humour quite clear in the background ...even after you leave, she’ll always have a part of us with her...!
Brandis was forced to chuckle at that in spite of his poor overall mood, which had been exactly the intention. He roused himself finally and stepped away from the post he’d been resting his shoulder against for support, giving a single stretch and a shake to loosen his joints.
“Come on, you...” he said finally, shaking his head at the attempted joke “...best we head back and make sure she’s all right.”
Why don’t I stay here then and keep watch while you head home...?
“Dickhead...!” Brandis growled back, still shaking his head but nevertheless appreciating the mostly-unsuccessful attempt at making him feel better.
It was at that moment, breaking away from his position leaning against the pole, that Brandis turned back for just a moment to give the smouldering ruins one last glance. Instead, from a distance of perhaps twenty metres or so, his eyes locked unexpectedly with those of Group Captain Alec Trumbull. The 1ARDU commander had come down like every other able-bodied man on base to lend a hand with the fire.
Dressed in a plain, blue RAAF-style mechanic’s tank suit, face streaked with sweat, dirt and smoke, Trumbull had spent the last four hours helping to shift debris and sift through the rubble for any sight of other victims or survivors of which, thankfully, there were none. Taking a momentary break, he’d moved away from the smoking ruins for some fresh air and had suddenly caught sight of an unfamiliar, solitary figure leaning against a telephone pole across the other side of the road.
Brandis fought the sudden, almost overpowering urge to nod in greeting, knowing that was the last thing either of them needed, and instead forced himself to break away. Hands jammed into the pockets of the pants he wore beneath his robes, he stalked quickly off, upper body rigid as he made quite sure he maintained his gaze straight ahead and most definitely did not look back again.
Trumbull watched Brandis move away, intrigued and suddenly struck by the inexplicable sensation that he knew the man, although his memory failed him as to how that might possibly be. An overpowering urge to pursue and confront the retreating figure rose within him, his subconscious somehow insisting that this man’s presence was significant. He took a step toward the road as if to do exactly that, but his path was suddenly blocked by the appearance of a local police officer, a Constable Gambon, as dirty and dishevelled as the rest of the volunteers there.
“Morning, sir,” he began quickly, oblivious to Trumbull’s frustration at the unexpected interruption. “You asked me to report if there were any other casualties?” Gambon was a man in his fifties with a widening waist and eyesight that had deteriorated enough through his forties to ensure he was no longer considered fit for military service.
“Er… yes… yes, constable, I did…” he muttered haltingly, trying to crane his neck to stare over the man’s shoulder and keep the retreating figure in sight.
“No one else but the woman in the cellar, so far as anyone can determine,” he carried on eagerly, happy to be of assistance to such an important and high-ranking officer.
“Yes, well that was what we expected I believe,” Trumbull sighed, frustration and surrender in his tone as he caught a final glimpse of Brandis disappearing between two houses, some distance along the street. “Are we certain of the identity of the victim?” He added, now able – grudgingly – to accord the policeman his full attention.
“There was quite a bit if damage to the body sir,” Gambon informed with a
grimace, believing he’d have been happier never having seen the corpse at all. “It’s difficult to be certain, what with the fire and the building collapse and all, but we believe the victim was Eliza Morris, the wife of one of the owners.”
“You’re sure of this, constable?”
“Sure as we can be, sir… Mrs Morris was black, sir, and as the body in the cellar appeared to be that of an Abo, sir, it seems unlikely to be anyone else.”
“And the husband…?” Trumbull inquired tactfully, choosing to ignore the distaste with which the man had mentioned the fact that the victim had been an Indigenous Australian.
“Arthur Morris, sir? Away with the army, sir… in North Africa, I believe…”
“Oh dear…” Trumbull observed with sincerity, all thoughts of Brandis now gone for the moment as he considered the situation at hand. “You said ‘one’ of the owners?”
“Yes, sir… Brothers Arthur and Bruce Morris, sir… Bruce’s wife, Maude’s, down at the base hospital now in shock…” He lowered his voice noticeably and stepped in quite close to the group captain as he spoke again. “Bruce is also in the army, sir… with the CMF in New Guinea…” He paused again, choosing his next few words delicately. “It’s believed that Mrs Morris was on friendly terms with Private Leonski, sir: the man who raised the alarm.”
“I see…” Trumbull nodded sagely, catching the constable’s hidden meaning.
“See, sir, it’d be a bit rough if people started tellin’ tales out ‘o school about what’s been happenin’, ‘specially when it’s only that Leonski bloke’s quick thinkin’ that saved so many people’s houses… see, if he hadn’t been here last night, ‘visiting’ Mrs Morris, there mighta been nobody to raise the alarm…” He made a face as if deciding between the lesser of two evils. “It’d be a shame for the locals to get the wrong idea and start spreadin’ rumours about what’s basically a private matter, sir… ‘specially when such a good deed’s come of it…”
“Don’t worry, constable,” Trumbull reassured, trying to his own displeasure over so abhorrent an activity as marital infidelity. “As you’ve said, it’s a private matter. I’ll be happy to have a quiet chat with the local command and make sure we let Mrs Morris send a message to her husband, notifying him of what’s happened.”
“Good idea, sir…” Gambon agreed quickly, attempting a smile. Maude Morris’s extra-marital activities were the talk of the town, the constable well knew, but she was a local all the same and there was no cause for someone’s dirty laundry to be aired in public. Private was private, and anything poor Bruce Morris was going to find out about the loss of his pub or his sister-in-law he deserved to find out about from Maude. Whether she was getting about behind his back with some dopey Yank didn’t seem all that important right now considering the losses the family had suffered already.
With a nod of respect, Constable Gambon moved away and left Trumbull standing bewildered on the street corner. He found himself staring down the street in the direction that Brandis had disappeared, wondering who the man had been and why it had seemed so important that they should meet.
Island of Hirta, St Kilda Archipelago
Atlantic Ocean, west of Scotland
Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien
September 28, 1942
Monday
To say that early morning was biting cold would’ve been an understatement of gargantuan proportions in Albert Schiller’s opinion. ‘Cold’ was a completely inadequate word to describe the icy chill that seemed to bite right through to the bone regardless of how many layers of clothing one wore. He thought than even ‘freezing’ would’ve been wanting in relation to the surrounding temperature although it perhaps came a good deal closer as he clapped his hands about himself and stamped his feet in a vain attempt to generate some warmth.
His breath swirled about him in fine clouds as he stared off into the stygian darkness that was all he could ‘see’ of the horizon to the west, what he could actually see being precisely nothing at all. Behind him and brilliantly illuminated by a mass of widely-spread floodlights, the concrete bunker atop the summit of Mullach Mòr was a hive of activity as last-minute preparations were made by technicians and military personnel alike.
There’d been little for Schiller to actually do during the entire time they’d spent on Hirta and that’d been doubly true in the time since work had been finalised atop the summit of Cnoc Glas the week before. Most of his days since then had been consumed in keeping up with a tense and frustrated Kurt Reuters as the Reichsmarschall struggled with a succession of unexpected problems that had further delayed a test originally scheduled for the week before.
Not the least of those obstacles had been the late arrival of Adolf Hitler himself. No explanation had been given – The Führer answered to no one after all – and it’d only been his arrival by special transport the preceding afternoon that had – finally – allowed the final preparations to begin.
A trio of fully-tracked ACVs (armoured command vehicles) stood a few dozen metres south of the bunker, each a specially-fitted variant of the Wehrmacht’s standard P-6A Marder infantry fighting vehicle. None of the three carried any armament whatsoever: instead, bulbous observation cupolas mounted a variety of cameras and other sensors that included a state-of-the-art infra-red night vision system in place of where a small turret would’ve been fitted on the original model.
All three ACVs were also fitted with the best internal heating systems available… an important feature considering that at that moment one maintained the German Chancellor at as close to an approximation of comfort as was possible in such a cold and inhospitable environment. Reuters was currently seated within the same vehicle, leaving Schiller presently at a loose end and with nothing better to do than stand about in the freezing cold, maintaining the pointless pretence of actually being in control of whatever was going on.
Wearing a fur-lined, nylon parka of Wehrmacht field grey, Sturmbannführer Klaus Brenner approached Schiller in that moment, excitement crystal clear in his eyes as he came to attention.
“Herr Generaloberst…! We have confirmation all personnel have cleared the test area. Telemetry monitors are all green and we’re clear to go ‘live’ whenever the Reichsmarschall commands…” The unadulterated glee that was clearly apparent in the man’s voice almost made Schiller laugh out loud. Although he wore an SS rank equivalent to that of a major in the Wehrmacht, Brenner’s position within the RFR made it an honorary commission at best.
“Very good, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he replied with a nod, stifling his amusement with some effort. “I will advise the official party accordingly.”
He allowed a wry smile to flicker across his lips as the man saluted quickly and executed an immediate about-face, heading back toward the command bunker from whence he’d originally come.
“Geek…!” Schiller muttered with a derisive shake of his head, finally also turning and making his way toward the cluster of command vehicles a few dozen metres away.
It was the central of the three vehicles which he sought, and even with a rank of generaloberst he was nevertheless prevented from approaching within several metres by a trio of SS guards armed with MP2 submachine guns.
“The test is ready to begin,” Schiller advised the ranking NCO present, making no great effort to match the man’s snap to attention and cry of “Heil Hitler…!” that accompanied his hand raised in a crisp, Nazi salute.
“Please advise the Führer and the Reichsmarschall that we’re now awaiting their attendance,” he added, continuing to stand in a rough approximation of ‘at ease’ as the sergeant turned and stepped up to the rear doors of the P-6E command vehicle.
The relaxed attitude changed both instantly and dramatically as that same hatch flew open seconds later to reveal the presence of Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler; the first of four men to emerge from the rear of the ACV. His unmistakeably dark and brooding features seemed even more sombre and ill-at-ease than usual as he stepped from the rear of the ACV
wearing a long, woollen greatcoat over his usual boots, trousers and brown Nazi Party jacket. Fifty-one years of age at his last birthday in April, the German Chancellor at that moment felt as tired and irritable as his sour expression clearly indicated.
Schiller snapped to rigid attention as he caught sight of the man, raising his right arm and crying out the very same salute he’d wilfully ignored just seconds before.
“Heil, mein Führer…!” He declared loudly, not taking any chances.
“Heil…!” Hitler responded in return with sullen disinterest, his own raised hand repeating the gesture in a distinctly desultory fashion. “I would hope the RFR are finally ready now, Herr Schiller… we’ve waited through almost the entirety of an extremely cold night for this…”
“Sturmbannführer Brenner has assured me everything is now prepared, Mein Führer,” Schiller answered instantly, happy for the opportunity to at least partially apportion blame somewhere else should anything go awry in the next few minutes. “If you’ll follow me to the command centre…?”
“I know where the verdammt bunker is, herr general…” Hitler snapped testily and strode quickly past Schiller as he attempted to extend a directing arm toward the squat, concrete structure behind him. “I’m cold, tired and looking forward to something resembling a decent meal… let’s just get on with this, shall we…?”
Hitler stalked off at moderate speed, a pair of armed guards racing to keep pace with him as a somewhat crestfallen Schiller followed on belatedly behind, joined by the rest of the small group that had been meeting inside the ACV. That group included Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters and Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel, commander of German forces in North Africa and slated to replace Franz Halder as Wehrmacht Chief of Staff upon the expected and imminent successful completion of the North African campaign.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 38
