England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  “You’ll allow Hauptsturmführer Stahl to leave with these men. You’ll proceed no further with any of the charges you’ve laid regarding this matter.” The Reichsmarschall commanded, staring unflinchingly at an incredulous Ritter. “You’ll do as I order.” With the Schutzstaffeln group staring on, he added: “And I’ll speak with you alone also.” As the reluctant pilot stepped into the small room, Reuters turned to the retreating Barkmann. “Take that ‘man’ of yours and get the hell out of here — I don’t want to see either of you when I leave this room!”

  “You’ve my permission to speak with complete candour,” Reuters remarked as he closed the door, turning to face an infuriated Carl Ritter.

  “How can you allow them to get away with that?” The pilot snarled wildly, deciding in his rage to hold the Reichsmarschall to his word. “Did you read my report? Do you realise what occurred at that house?” The manner in which he addressed the highest officer in the Wehrmacht, normally unthinkable, was drawn out of anger and indignation he’d never before experienced.

  “I’ve a clear understanding of the situation,” the Reichsmarschall replied, attempting to remain detached from the emotion of it.

  “He raped a twelve-year old girl!” Ritter hissed vehemently. “What they did to the woman I could perhaps understand from soldiers in the field, although it remains a vile act nevertheless, but they raped and murdered a child, for God’s sake! That fucking sergeant I’m supposed to have ‘murdered’ slit her delicate little throat from ear to fucking ear and he’d have done me too if I hadn’t put a bullet in him…and that bastard, Barkmann has the unmitigated audacity to threaten me with a court-martial! Are we not officers of the Wehrmacht? Where’s the ‘honour’ of the Officer Corps gone?”

  “Do not presume to question me on my honour!” Reuters snarled back, knowing full well at whom that last question was directed. “Didn’t you think for a moment what you were getting yourself into? You assaulted an officer of the Reich — of the SS! Did you actually think the SS or the OKW or anyone else is going to care about a couple of French civilians on the eve of our greatest triumph? They’re not even a drop in the fucking ocean! Someone will remember it if a Luftwaffe commander assaults an SS officer and shoots his NCO though — they’re sure to remember that! Did you actually think I enjoyed letting those SS shits walk out of here free as a bird? I came close to strangling the vile son of a bitch myself!”

  “I…I’m sorry, sir…” Ritter stammered slowly, totally deflated by the Reichsmarschall’s heartfelt rebuke. “I didn’t think…”

  “Of course you didn’t think,” Reuters snapped disgustedly, great frustration showed on his face as he tried to calm down. “I’d probably have done the same thing in your place. I probably would’ve ended up before a court martial too with a dozen SS ‘witnesses’ to condemn me no doubt, some of whom might actually have been there! There is still a place for honour in Germany, my friend, but there must also be a place for discretion. This Stahl is a — ‘friend’, shall we say — of Barkmann’s? Barkmann is also a ‘friend’ of one who is close to Heydrich! I’m an acquaintance of the Reichsführer’s, but not of the same vein… if you take my meaning…” The Reichsmarschall gave a distasteful grimace. “There’s no way justice might’ve been served here today. Do you think a small-time land-owner who made a name for himself at Verdun is enough ‘pull’ to subvert the influence of the SS?”

  “You know of my father?” Ritter’s eyes narrowed. “Why such an interest in my welfare…?”

  “Let’s just say I’d rather not see good officers wasted at the hands of scum like the SS.” The tone Reuters used wasn’t evasive — it was just one that conveyed no interest in giving an explanation greater than that. “The details are unimportant: just try to forget about it. I don’t like the idea any more than you but no one will care — there are greater things afoot. Just forget it.”

  In a staggering moment of clarity, Ritter suddenly saw the magnitude of the mountain he’d almost brought down upon himself. The attempt to bring the SS officer to justice was undoubtedly doomed to failure. All it might’ve accomplished was the destruction of his own career; probably his life too. All would’ve have been otherwise fruitless.

  “I understand, sir. Please forgive me for my outburst.”

  “Nothing to forgive…I asked for candour and you gave it.”

  “Then thank you, sir,” Ritter added, extending his hand for reasons even he couldn’t fathom. Before Reuters could think better of it, he instinctively accepted the gesture. As their hands clasped it was as if a spark of static electricity passed between them. Ritter flinched noticeably but didn’t understand. Reuters understood, but in that moment he was equally shocked and quickly withdrew his hand.

  “There’s something wrong?” The Reichsmarschall asked, suddenly as concerned as Ritter felt.

  “No… Nothing, I think. I just felt for a moment that… no, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I must leave…” Reuters blurted hurriedly. “Barkmann will go howling back to his superiors before this morning’s out and I’ll have some serious shitting to do from upstairs to keep them under control.” He gave a salute. “I wish you luck in your career, Herr Ritter.” He added. “There’s no need to see me back to my aircraft.” With a whirl he threw open the door and marched out, leaving Ritter puzzled.

  “There’s a problem?” Schiller inquired as the pair walked back across the grass to the helicopter.

  “I’m not sure…” Reuters replied, ill at ease. “Müller warned me not to touch him but I wasn’t expecting that. It was like a spark — a bolt of static.”

  “You think he might suspect?”

  “How could he? No one would believe the truth of it.”

  “You’re all right?” Meier asked softly as the pair stood alone in the infirmary.

  “Hmm…? Yes I’m all right, I suppose. There was something…” Ritter shook his head. “I don’t know. We shook hands…and then… It doesn’t matter,” he stated in the end, dismissing the event. There were greater matters at hand. “It’s not important.”

  “The business with Barkmann… ?”

  “It seems the Reichsmarschall was able to change his mind. I doubt that we’ll hear anything further of it.”

  “Shall I return to normal duties, then?”

  “Yes, you may as well. There’ll be no further entertainment this morning.”

  As Meier saluted and marched briskly away, Ritter leaned against the end of one of the beds, deep in thought. Although subdued and under control, a rage still burned within him regarding the events of the night before…a futile, frustrated fury…

  “We’re not all such butchers, Herr Oberstleutnant…” The voice from a nearby bed caught him by surprise. It belonged to a shirtless Obersturmbannführer Berndt Schmidt, propped into a sitting position by extra pillows at his back. His wounded arm was heavily bandaged and a small stain of blood showed through — the roughly circular wound had been exceptionally difficult to close and stitch. “There is honour within the Waffen-SS, even if creatures like that sometimes have their way. That Stahl has a ‘reputation’, shall we say, for his ‘overzealous’ methods.” Schmidt had watched the previous, angry exchanges with much interest.

  “I fear perhaps that honourable men may soon become a dying breed, lieutenant…” Ritter growled in return, staring long and hard at the injured man as if seeking an excuse to lose his temper once more. The understanding, agreement and genuine disgust he saw in the younger man’s eyes mollified him somewhat and he finally gave just a curt nod of assent.

  ‘There’s still a place for honour in Germany.’ Reuters had said that. But what honour was there if these animals masquerading as men were allowed to carry out such acts with impunity? The answers to questions like that wouldn’t come readily to mind. What honour was there when honest men were persecuted for attempting to bring them to justice? What kind of ‘honour’ allowed inhuman sadists to reach positions of power in so civilised a nation as Germany?
Where was the honour in this? Ritter rose fully and began to walk slowly down the aisle toward the exit. The cold, dark ball of anger had reappeared within the depths of his soul and Ritter could feel it slowly growing.

  5. Revelations

  HMS Proserpine, Home Fleet Naval Anchorage

  Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands

  Eileen found Thorne in the Officers Mess completely by accident that morning as he stood behind the bar, filling a metal hip flask with scotch. They’d all slept late and it was midday before any of the Hindsight crew had showed themselves once more to the outside world. Thorne had spent a long time in the shower, luxuriating beneath the warm water before dressing in clean civilian clothes — comfortable jeans, tee-shirt and windbreaker of nondescript colours over which he wore a black, NATO-style parka with numerous, deep pockets. Donelson had also enjoyed the chance to spend time under a hot shower after a few needed hours of sleep and was also dressed in civilian denims, shirt and light jacket.

  “Have you seen Nick, Max?” She queried from the open doorway as he glanced up, smiling in greeting. “I’ve been searching all over for him and his radio’s off.”

  “He had to run down to the main communications centre at the anchorage this morning,” Thorne replied as he finished pouring and returned the bottle to the shelf behind the bar. “I believe there are a lot of people in very high places who’ve been asking after us and he’s the only liaison they have at present. He should be back in the next hour or so.”

  “Bit early for that, isn’t it…stress getting to you already?” She joked with a grin, nodding her thanks at the answer and changing the subject.

  “You might say that…” He shrugged, suddenly appearing a little uneasy. “Going to have a few words with Trumbull this afternoon about what’s going on here.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “The truth I suppose, sans a few important facts that’d do more harm than good and aren’t relevant anyway. Not speaking about his future was another of his brother’s stipulations and one that I intend to stick to if I can help it. I’ve seen the man’s record: Trumbull was — is — a bloody good pilot and a pretty sharp bloke all ‘round by the look of it. We could do a lot worse than have him on board and it mightn’t hurt having a few links with this world within our own ranks.”

  “Well if Nick’s not about I’m going to do a run around the defences to kill some time — make sure the crews have got themselves settled in. That should take an hour or so and give me a chance to warm up.” She locked eyes with him for a few seconds, her expression one of the fondness and sincerity of old friends, which they were. “Good luck with Trumbull…I’ll have my radio on if you need help.”

  “Cheers, Eileen…I’ll see how I go…”

  Thorne found Trumbull in his quarters, staring sullenly out the window at the busy goings out on the flight line beneath overcast skies. A two-day-old Scottish newspaper lay discarded on the bed…he’d tried to read for a while but had found himself too restless to concentrate. The scowl he gave Thorne as the Australian knocked and entered told a great deal of his annoyance.

  “I thought you might be here,” he ventured, attempting a grin as he stepped into the room.

  “Not much else I can do, is there?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that…” Thorne apologised, his nervousness building. “Must be a bit bloody infuriating trying to work out what’s going on, I guess.”

  “You have that entirely correct, old chap,” Trumbull replied, the words carrying a little more annoyance than he intended. “I believe I’m entitled to an explanation or two. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that everyone here is rather busy at the moment but I really would like a few answers.” His tone was level and good-natured: the man wasn’t particularly upset about things; just confused and desperate to find out what on earth was going on.

  “‘Bout time I owned up, eh?” Thorne asked with a wry smile, but inwardly he shuddered at the thought. “I guess I owe you that, much as I don’t relish the idea. Why don’t you come for a walk with me and I’ll explain a few things. I’ve also got some stuff I’d like to show you.”

  Trumbull shrugged a warm jacket on as they stepped outside and they walked off slowly toward the main flight area and the long, concrete runway. Despite still being nominally summer, the weather could be unpredictable that close to the Arctic Circle and there wasn’t a great deal of warmth in the air. The prevailing winds that whirled across the generally bleak and featureless landscape, depending on their direction, originated from either the North Atlantic or the North Sea and in either case there was always an icy chill to them.

  Thorne took a deep breath and there was a moment’s silence as they walked and the Australian gathered his thoughts.

  “You remember yesterday in the plane you said you didn’t think an aircraft like the Lightning could exist?”

  “I said that, yes…” Trumbull conceded, remembering clearly.

  “Well you’re right, after a fashion… You’d be pretty much right in regard to all four of the aircraft out there.” He waved a hand toward the group of planes they were approaching. “Although I was flying yesterday, I’m not actually a fighter pilot either, although I used to be…” As the RAF pilot nodded in acceptance of the information, he continued. “Actually I sort of work for the British Special Intelligence Service.”

  “An SIS operative from Australia…” Trumbull stated blankly. The squadron leader knew little of the British intelligence service other than its name, but he suspected it would be unusual for an Australian to be working for the government in the intelligence field — at least, so high in intelligence as to be involved with such technically advanced equipment. He didn’t know a great deal about Australia at all really, save for the country’s strange animals, excellent fighting troops and a tedious penchant for fielding annoyingly good Test Cricket teams.

  “Not so usual in these times, I’ll bet…. not that that’s particularly relevant…” Thorne conceded. “I’ve been assigned as commander of the unit you’ve seen arrive last night. “We’ve been tasked with stopping the men behind the German War Machine and getting history back onto its correct course.”

  “You’re not exactly on your own you know, old chap…” Trumbull sniffed disdainfully, his professional pride a little insulted. “We’re all trying to do our bit as best we can.”

  “You don’t understand, yet…” Thorne began, his voice trailing off as he searched for the right way to begin. He suddenly realised this was something he’d in no way been briefed for adequately. “Shit…” he muttered softly and dragged the hip flask from one of his jacket pockets. Taking a drag of booze, he cringed a little at the taste before offering the flask to Trumbull. As the man hesitated, initially refused, then also took a pull at the alcohol and cringed, Thorne grinned a little. It appeared the scotch was neither man’s preferred drink but he was sure they’d both be able to cope.

  “Okay…” he began again, determination renewed as they walked on. “Let me give you an overview of what should be the correct path for the Second World War. The Wehrmacht rolls across the Polish frontier on the First of September, 1939 with the tacit support of the Soviet Union, and the Western Allies declare war on Germany on September Third. The Germans roll right on through France and the Low Countries during 1940, blitzkrieg tactics pushing all before them.” His tone and style became more confident and convincing as he gained momentum, instinct joining forces with his knowledge and training as he began to feel more comfortable and in his element.

  “In 1941, the Germans solidify their position in Europe, although Britain is never invaded and the Krauts instead invade the Soviet Union in June of that same year with Operation Barbarossa. At the end of ‘Forty-One, the Japanese launch a surprise attack on the American Fleet at Pearl Harbor and start pushing through Indochina and the Pacific Islands, and things look good for the Axis forces for the next year or so: battles continue to go their way through this period, save for a few isola
ted instances. Nineteen Forty-Three becomes the pivotal year however, and by ‘Forty-Four the tide has seriously turned in the allies’ favour.” He took a breath and another drink while Trumbull stared at him as if he’d gone mad. He forged ahead, not a chance of stopping the ‘lecture’ now, and Trumbull again didn’t refuse the flask that was offered. The alcohol was providing Thorne with the little bit of extra courage he’d needed to push through his inadequate preparation and he hoped it’d also allow the RAF pilot to become a little more open minded.

  “While the Japanese are pushed backward on all fronts, the Germans lose ground badly in the East against the USSR and, on June 6th, the invasion of France is launched from Southern England with British and Allied forces landing on the Normandy beaches. By the beginning of 1945 the war is lost for the Axis: Hitler suicides early in May and Germany surrenders while in the Pacific, the Japanese cease-fire commences on August Fifteen. The official surrender in the Pacific is signed on September Two, and the Second World War officially ends almost exactly six years after it began with something like fifty-five million people dead including twenty million Russians alone. The Nazis have also murdered in their concentration camps over six million Jews, foreigners and various ‘social undesirables’.”

  “That’s a fanciful idea for the future,” Trumbull said finally as Thorne took another, deeper drink — his tone was wary and he still wasn’t altogether sure what the man was getting at. “Not a particularly pleasant one, but better than some alternatives I could imagine. What’s all this conjecture supposed to mean?”

  “Not conjecture,” Thorne stated categorically, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol a little more now. “I had a chat with Nick last night and learned that things are going badly for England — very badly! The situation here shouldn’t be so bloody dismal by half!”

  “You just ‘learned’ all this last night? I had no idea Australian news services were so far out of date!” Trumbull muttered sourly and drank some more of the offered scotch, the flask now just a third full. “We’ve been doing the best we can here, let me assure you…” The pilot could feel the alcohol beginning to have a vague effect on him also, the most likely due to a light breakfast and no lunch as yet.