England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  “‘Car accident’…?” Thorne’s incredulous repetition of those words echoed the surprise in everyone’s minds.

  “London Coroner concluded that the death was a result of losing control due to a combination excess speed and excess of alcohol while travelling through London’s Rotherhithe Tunnel very early on the morning of June the Tenth. The Rolls Royce Phantom they were travelling in lost control and veered onto the wrong side of the road inside the tunnel, colliding head on with a large coal truck heading in the opposite direction. All passengers in the Rolls were killed instantly including Simpson.”

  “So you’re telling us,” Eileen began, her eyes narrowing as she thought over what she’d just heard, “that the woman was killed in a car accident in a tunnel as a result of high speed and alcohol? She was nae bein’ chased by the paparazzi at the time as well, by any chance?”

  “Does sound rather familiar, doesn’t it?” Nick conceded with a sombre expression. “Of course, I instigated some investigations of my own upon my arrival but it was five years after by that stage and many leads had gone cold. Scotland Yard weren’t happy about revisiting such a sensitive case, but once they re-opened it and dug a little deeper they discovered some interesting facts about the accident…”

  “Such as…?” Kowalski inquired with keen interest.

  “That the driver of the coal truck that the Rolls supposedly hit head-on, who was the only survivor or the accident and escaped unscathed, had disappeared from the face of the Earth. There were no records of him existing until about three months prior to the accident and he disappeared about two months after the case was closed…hanging about just long enough so as not to arouse suspicion while the investigations were going on. As there were no other witnesses to the event, well before dawn as it was, the driver’s testimony was all the coroner’s court had to go on apart from forensic evidence that was rather basic and poorly-collected by our standards. Guests staying at the same boarding house the fellow had lived in at the time also recalled him having visitors on occasion who spoke with a distinctly German accent…”

  “Fuck me!” Thorne shook his head as the enormity of what Nick was implying. “You’re saying the Krauts pulled a ‘Diana’ and assassinated the Prince of Wales’ mistress?”

  “That’s exactly what it looks like.”

  “Why…?” Extra words couldn’t hope to sum up the simple question as effectively as Davies had just put it.

  “Actually makes sense…” Thorne conceded almost immediately, giving a shrug. “The Nazi Hierarchy of the Thirties were of the strong opinion — whether rightly or wrongly — that Edward as king wouldn’t oppose Germany and they hoped to build close ties with Britain rather than go to war with them over the Nazis’ plans for invasion of Continental Europe. In Realtime, Edward’s abdication made the whole thing academic, but there are a number of historians who believe at the very least that he was sympathetic to the Nazis and to Hitler.

  “Even after he stepped down from the throne and became the Duke of Windsor, there were unsubstantiated rumours that he’d leaked Belgian defence plans to the Krauts, or at least that Simpson may have. There was certainly some suggestion that she had some Nazi friends and they moved in some very ‘diverse circles’ in Spain and Portugal at the beginning of the war before Churchill bit the bullet and ordered him off to the Bahamas under threat of a court martial.” Thorne stopped and took a deep breath, then a sip of champagne before continuing.

  “Edward’s involvement with Wallis Simpson was considered a scandal and a constant source of embarrassment for the Palace at the time: even after he became king following the death of his father in ‘Thirty-Six, he maintained his intention to marry Simpson, a twice-divorced American, and this created a constitutional crisis within the British Parliament that was only solved by his abdication.” Thorne shrugged once more and paused for a moment to think. “I can see how any Nazi armed with knowledge of history might well think it worth the effort to try to retain Edward as the British Monarch, and it’d be obvious that the best chance of accomplishing that would be to take Wallis Simpson out of the picture.”

  “Might’ve worked too, except they weren’t counting on someone from MI6 sticking their nose in with a little ‘inside information’ of his own…” Alpert added with a thin but self-satisfied smile.

  “That canna been an easy conversation to have with the man,” Eileen observed after a moment’s silence.

  “Fortunately not one I personally had to take care off, but I can’t imagine it was pleasant, “Nick conceded. “Whatever else can be said about the man, there’s no denying he was utterly in love with Simpson and he was devastated when she died. The five years between her death and my arrival and subsequent re-opening of the case were by all accounts quite a dark time for the King and his Country.”

  “How’d he take the suggestion that the love of his life was assassinated by the Nazis?”

  “Not well, Robert…not well at all…”

  “I suspect he accepted it in the end though, yes?” There was a knowing look in Hal Markowicz’ eyes as he asked that question.

  “We gave him someone to ‘blame’.” Thorne caught exactly what the old man was getting at. “Rightly or wrongly, the suggestion that there was someone actually responsible for his mistress’ death — someone else being the unspoken part of that equation — would be a very persuasive idea. Its human nature to want a scapegoat…the Nazi propaganda that the Jews and the Communists were to blame for the First World War and for the ‘stab in the back’ at Versailles basically brainwashed an entire nation and swept them into power. People want someone to blame for their misfortunes: telling someone they don’t have a job because they’re lazy or just because ‘shit happens’ will never win votes, but tell them it’s someone else’s fault they’re out of a job and have no hope and they’ll follow along like rats behind the Pied Piper.”

  Nick Alpert nodded slowly and stifled a yawn as he glanced around at the rest of the faces in the room and noted the unequivocal excitement and interest the conversation was generating. He was tired — dead tired — but he also understood how much adrenalin would be coursing through the veins of rest of the people there, having arrived in similar circumstances on his own just a year before. He’d recount as much of what had happened in that world as he could… he owed them that much just for turning up. The conversation and the associated questions and answers would continue on until dawn and beyond

  Airfield at St. Omer

  Northern France

  That next morning was as clear and bright as the day before with cloudless skies stretching right across Western Europe and the British Isles. Ritter was quite calm as he shaved before the mirror above his wash basin not long after breakfast, already dressed in his silk shirt, uniform breeches and boots. His report regarding events of the night before had been transmitted through to Fliegerkorps late the night before and fifteen minutes ago he’d received confirmation from his communications officer that a senior SS officer would be arriving within the hour to investigate the matter.

  After drying his face, he shrugged on his tunic and slipped the Knight’s Cross over his head: he wanted to be properly dressed for such a serious occasion. Even as he was still buttoning his tunic and adjusting his uniform he heard the sound of an approaching aircraft and thought that it must be the officer they were expecting. He left his quarters, rendezvoused with Willi Meier by the door to the HQ buildings and the pair stepped out into the morning sunshine together, searching the clear skies. As the sound drew nearer they noticed a difference in its quality: it was a strange ‘whump-whump’ noise that was instantly recognisable as the sound of one of the Luftwaffe’s new hubschrauber aircraft — a helicopter.

  Produced by Focke-Aghelis, the NH-3D — known colloquially as the ‘Schpect’, or ‘Woodpecker’ — was one of the many utility helicopters beginning to appear all over the Western European Theatre of Operations, zipping from place to place. Powered by a twelve-cylinder petrol engine m
ounted above the main cabin and able to carry fourteen fully-armed men, they increased the Wehrmacht’s mobility immensely, or at least would do so once available in great enough operational numbers.

  The broad-bellied NH-3D banked gently around the northern side of the main control tower, circling right across the hangar area before setting down lightly just a dozen metres or so from the fliers’ position. A pair of 13mm heavy machine guns were fixed to each landing skid, firing forward, while a 7.92mm medium MG hung from a flexible mounting in the open doorway on either side of the cargo bay. The aircraft was painted an overall dark-grey on its sizes and upper surfaces, while its underside was a pale blue similar to the colour adorning the bellies of most Luftwaffe combat aircraft.

  Ritter and Meier jogged across the short, grassy expanse to meet the chopper as it touched down and a black-uniformed brigadier climbed from the aircraft’s cargo bay, ducking his head in deference to the whirling rotors above. He carried with him a leather briefcase and behind him a lieutenant followed closely accompanied by a pair of troopers armed with stubby MP2K machine pistols.

  “You’re Obersturmbannführer Ritter?” The thin-faced, dark-haired officer demanded as they met. He seemed to be in his mid-to-late forties and was of average height, perhaps just a few centimetres shorter than Ritter. It was hard to ignore the narrow, hawk-like slant of his features and the quite severe demeanour it conveyed; something that was in no way improved by an apparent total lack of ability to come anywhere near a smile.

  “I am Oberstleutnant Ritter, Mein Herr,” Ritter acknowledged, ignoring the man’s use of the SS equivalent for his rank, both he and Meier coming to attention as he gave a proper, military salute.

  “Heil Hitler,” was the reply returned in a severe manner along with a raised hand and arm in a Nazi reply. “I’m Brigadeführer Barkmann.”

  “I’m sorry this has been necessary,” Ritter began. “It’s an unfortunate incident and I’d of course prefer to see it dealt with as quickly and as cleanly as possibly: we’ve all got other matters to attend with, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed…” the brigadier mused dubiously “…unfortunate indeed. We shall see. You’ll take me to the officer in question immediately.” He turned to his aide and the SS troopers. “Come…” he commanded simply.

  “This way, sir,” Ritter invited curtly, extending an arm in the appropriate direction as Meier caught his eye with a pointed stare. The CO of ZG26 feigned ignorance and walked off with the cluster of SS officers and troopers in tow.

  The base infirmary was large and well equipped, with a dozen beds running down either side of the main aisle. The group marched straight through, headed for the Medical Officer’s records room at the other end, inside which a bed had been provided for captain Stahl as a pair of guards with pistols at their belts watched him from their posts by the door.

  A large field dressing protected the right side of Stahl’s face and covered half a dozen stitches, while tightly-wound bandages held his fractured ribs firmly in place. Painkillers were only partially effective and the man suffered great discomfort when attempting to speak, while moving too quickly or in the wrong manner also elicited stabs of agony from his injured sides.

  “Ernst,” he began, rising from his bed. Upon sighting the SS brigadier beside Ritter, his face once more assumed a semblance of his favourite expression: smug confidence. “Thank God you’re–!”

  “Silence…!” The brigadier snapped sharply, turning to Ritter. “I wish to speak to the prisoner alone, if you please…?”

  “I suppose that would be acceptable,” Ritter agreed reluctantly, deferring to the other’s superior rank and jurisdiction. “I pass responsibility for him to you, Herr Barkmann. Guards…!” The air force troopers followed their CO as he and Meier left the man alone with their prisoner.

  “I don’t like the look of this much,” Meier muttered sourly as they stood with the guards outside the closed room as Barkmann’s aide and SS troopers stood impassively by the exit at the far end of the infirmary.

  “Nor I…” Ritter concurred. “There’s not much we can do about it though. I was hoping the OKH would send someone down, but I should’ve expected it really: the SS don’t like airing their dirty laundry in public.” He paused and then added: “He may have the last laugh yet, that bastard!”

  “How’s the baby?” Meier changed the subject instantly, seeing no point in continuing with that line of discussion for the moment.

  “Well enough, fortunately,” Ritter conceded with a non-committal shrug. “As luck would have it, one of the nurses here has just given birth herself and has been able to care for the child for the moment…at least until more permanent arrangements can be made.”

  The sound of more helicopters overhead sounded suddenly as they spoke, catching both by surprise.

  “It seems we’ve some unexpected visitors,” Meier observed. “Shall we see who they might be?”

  “Why not… no doubt those two will be a while yet…” Ritter turned to his own guards. “You two remain here. No-one is to go anywhere without my permission.” He walked away without waiting for a reply, ignoring the SS men who came to attention as he and Meier marched past.

  A second NH-3D was settling to the ground near the first as they approached, this one similarly armed but also escorted by a pair of rather evil-looking SH-6C Drache kanoneschiffen — helicopter gunships. Long craft with narrow fuselages, each carried a 20mm cannon and a pair of 7.92mm machine guns in a low-mounted chin turret along with short stub wings that although empty in this case could each carry rocket- or gun pods on four hardpoints. The gunships had been christened ‘Dragons’ by the troops they supported in combat and they more than lived up to their names in their threatening appearance.

  As the new arrival lowered itself to the ground, a small group of men disembarked and the pair of escorts banked away to land off in the distance by the construction area for the new airstrip. Four of the men wore the grey uniform of army grenadiers while the other two were officers: army staff officers. A chill ran through Ritter as he realised who the first of the approaching men was: Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters, the highest-ranking officer in the entire Wehrmacht.

  “Herr Reichsmarschall!” He snapped, smartly coming to attention and saluting.

  “You’re Oberstleutnant Ritter, I presume?” Reuters inquired as he returned the salute, in fact fully aware of that fact already. Taking the pilot’s silence as appropriate confirmation, the Reichsmarschall added: “This is my assistant, Generalleutnant Albert Schiller. We’ve come to observe this matter you’ve speedily brought to the attention of OKW.”

  “I’m honoured to have such recognition, sir, although I regret the situation that has arisen, of course,” Ritter informed, taken aback. “I was beginning to think the SS would be handling the matter alone.” He frowned as he regarded the Reichsmarschall with an inquisitive gaze. There was something undefinably odd about the man that Ritter couldn’t quite determine.

  “And where is Generalmajor Barkmann?” Reuters’ purposefully incorrect usage of army rank for the SS officer didn’t go unnoticed by Ritter or Meier — the intentional slight was a significant one coming from the Reichsmarschall himself.

  “The brigadier is interviewing the prisoner as we speak, Herr Reichsmarschall. Shall I take you to them?” Reuters nodded and Ritter led them away just as he had the SS officers ten minutes earlier. Only Schiller accompanied them as Reuters’ guards remained by the helicopters.

  As thy all entered the infirmary once more they found Barkmann and Stahl stepping from the records room.

  “My deliberations are complete,” The brigadier growled, apparently only slightly perturbed by Reuters’ appearance. “You’ve come to investigate this matter also, Herr Reichsmarschall?”

  “Merely to observe at this point, Herr Barkmann… what conclusion have you reached?”

  “Of course,” Barkmann replied sourly with little obvious respect for the man’s supreme rank, although the fact that Reute
rs knew already his name was somewhat unnerving. “Hauptsturmführer Stahl here was engaged in the pursuit of members of the French resistance, although it might be argued that his methods were — shall we say — slightly ‘overzealous’? In any case, he was involved with the interrogation of a prisoner when obstructed by this Luftwaffe officer. In the resulting confrontation, Obersturmbannführer Ritter murdered the senior NCO present. I’ll be recommending to the OKW that this ‘officer’…” he indicated an almost speechless Ritter, “…be tried by court-martial as quickly as one might be convened.”

  “You must be joking!” Ritter was incredulous. “This is–!”

  “This is no joke, Herr Obersturmbannführer!” Barkmann snarled, cutting him off. “I hope for your sake that no connections are uncovered concerning yourself and the resistance members at that farmhouse.”

  “‘Connections’…? I will not have my–!”

  “Enough…!” Reuters snapped, ending an exchange that was degenerating rapidly into rage on both sides. He turned to the SS officer. “I’ll speak with you alone…now!” He immediately guided the man back into the records room, closing the door behind them. The smug Stahl merely stood there, smiling in serene confidence.

  “You were warned…” he observed with a sneer.

  “You’ve not won yet, mark my words…” Ritter returned icily, refusing to be baited as he forced his fury back under control.

  Although it was impossible to understand what was being said within that room, the volume and heated nature of the conversation was distinctly audible to all standing outside… something that went a long way in tainting Stahl’s self-confident expression with just a hint of concern. Within three minutes the door opened once more, the SS officer obviously infuriated but under control. The Reichsmarschall appeared a little red-faced also but to nowhere near the same extent, and Ritter rather wryly deduced that rank on occasion carried the benefit of relieving stress, if only in the ability to pass it on to subordinates.