Uncommon Enemy

by Reynolds, John

  “Yes, sir. We’re just going through some---.”

  “Good. Come to my office immediately, please.”

  The phone went dead.

  “Who was that?” asked Brendan.

  “The Prof. Wants us in his office immediately.”

  “Do we have to bring anything?”

  “Didn’t say so. Just ourselves, I suppose. Come on.”

  After knocking they entered Sterling’s office and sat down in front of his desk. He greeted them with a perfunctory nod and then sat with his chin resting on his clasped hands, gazing at the back wall. Stuart and Brendan exchanged glances but continued to sit in silence.

  Abruptly Sterling lowered his hands. “The German government has commanded each of the main British Empire and Commonwealth countries to attend peace talks in Berlin,” he began slowly.

  “‘Peace talks’?” said Brendan. “That’s a bloody laugh.”

  “A euphemism, of course,” replied Sterling. “Each country has been instructed to send a delegation, led by their head of state, to meet with German government representatives to discuss peace terms.”

  Seeing Brendan was about to speak, Sterling held up his hand. “Yes, we’re all aware that ‘peace terms’ mean terms of surrender. However, there may be some room for discussion regarding the implementation and administration of the terms.”

  “One point, if I may, sir?” said Stuart. Sterling nodded and he continued. “You said that each delegation was to be lead by its head of state. King George VI is our head of state.”

  “True. I don’t think the Germans quite understand that. The assumption is that our new Prime Minister Peter Fraser will head the delegation.”

  “What sort of delegation?” asked Stuart.

  “Good question, and one which leads me to the main point of this meeting,” responded Sterling. Picking up a small paperweight from his desk he began twisting it around in both hands.

  “The Germans have specified that no military personnel are to be included in the delegation. We have been told that we are to bring Peter Fraser the Prime Minister, his Deputy Walter Nash, Frederick Jones the Minister of Defence and five civil servants from specified ministries. We are also being allowed to include three advisors, provided that they have no connection with the military. The government has invited me, due to the work that this office has been doing regarding German foreign policy.”

  “Wow,” breathed Stuart. “Go to Berlin. Could be a bit dicey, sir.”

  “Possibly,” replied Sterling. Abruptly he placed the paperweight back on his desk and looked directly at the two young men.

  “I have also been asked to recommend any other personnel who could be useful. If you’re agreeable, I would like to forward both your names to Wellington.”

  “Us, sir?” gasped Stuart.

  “Stuart and me, sir?” echoed Brendan. “Why?”

  “Sound, logical reasons,” replied the professor. “In Stuart’s case, he has acquired an in-depth knowledge of German policy and actions regarding the occupation of recently conquered territories. Obviously there is much that we don’t know, but what knowledge he has could prove invaluable in briefing the other members of the delegation prior to departure. Furthermore, his knowledge will also be useful if there is the opportunity for input from the delegation regarding the coming German occupation of this country.”

  “And me, sir?” asked Brendan.

  “Self evident,” was the reply. “You have a considerable fluency in spoken and written German. You’ve proven your expertise in both translating and interpreting and, like Stuart, you’ve gained considerable knowledge of current German thinking through the documents to which you’ve had access.”

  For a long moment the three men sat looking at each other.

  “You’re under no obligation, of course,” said Sterling. “They are our conquerors and it could be dangerous. I won’t put your names forward if you have any doubts.”

  The younger men exchanged glances and nodded simultaneously.

  “No doubts, sir!” Stuart leaned forward in his chair. “I suppose it is a bit intimidating but it’s also a unique opportunity.”

  “Agreed. I’d be delighted to come.” Abruptly Brendan stood up and thrust his hand towards the professor. “Thank you, sir.”

  Sterling half rose, shook Brendan’s then Stuart’s hand briefly and then resumed his seat. “Gentlemen, your enthusiasm is commendable and gratifying. This is unknown territory for all of us but, in my view, we may be able to use our knowledge and experience to help our country at this difficult time. Now let’s go through the trip in more detail.”

  The ensuing days flew by. Within a few days the German government approved the list of names submitted by the New Zealand authorities. The three Auckland delegates were informed that in two days they were to take a train to Wellington for a briefing with other members of the delegation. All would then be returning to Auckland for the first stage of a long journey by air to Germany.

  Stuart’s family was appalled at the prospect. Berlin loomed large in the minds of all New Zealanders as the enemy stronghold, the source of all the woes that had befallen the nation and perhaps above all, the source of all that was repugnant in Nazi ideology.

  “You’re too young, dear,” pleaded his mother.

  “Men with more experience should be sent,” growled his father.

  “Berlin,” intoned his brother Stephen, “is on the other side of the world. You might not ever make it home.”

  His sister Claire simply clung to him, quietly crying.

  In spite of his family, and his own disquiet at entering the enemy’s lair, he was determined to go. Yes, of course it would be dangerous. Yes, he could be locked up as a hostage or shot as a traitor. He’d read enough reports on Nazi reprisals against those who opposed them in the occupied countries to have some inkling of the possible consequences. However, the Berlin visit was a significant event in his country’s history and whatever the risks, he wanted to be part of it. Could his presence make any significant difference, he asked himself. Probably not, but he felt increasingly that surrender should not be synonymous with a complete capitulation. Whatever the realities of the pending occupation he at least would be able to gain some sort of insight into the nation’s and his own uncertain future.

  And Carol? Since her phone call from the railway station he had heard nothing. He thought of writing or making a toll call to her parents’ house in Wellington but then worried that this would make trouble for her in an already emotionally charged household.

  Feeling that he had to do something, he phoned her Aunt Catherine in Milford. Explaining that he was a friend of hers from church he asked her to let Carol know that he was going to Berlin with the New Zealand delegation and would probably be returning in about two to three weeks. Carol’s aunt was initially somewhat bemused by the phone call, but at the mention of the Berlin delegation she immediately became businesslike and said that she would inform Carol when she made her weekly phone call to Wellington.

  “Miss Mason, it’s important that you give the message directly to Carol herself and no-one else,” requested Stuart, trying to sound both official and pleasant.

  “No-one else. Of course, I will, Mr. Johnson,” she assured him.

  Feeling a little more reassured Stuart thanked her and hung up the phone. Clearly he’d just have to live with the uncertainty and concentrate on the major challenge ahead of him.

  The initial briefing was held at Parliament House. The delegates were introduced to each other and to Prime Minister Peter Fraser, who had taken over in March 1940 after the death of the revered Michael Joseph Savage. Although Fraser was an enthusiastic supporter of the New Zealand war effort, Professor Sterling had reminded both young men on the trip south that the new Prime Minister had served twelve months in jail during World War I for opposing conscription. “A complex individual,” was his final comment.

  The delegates assembled in a large room within parliament house where
they were introduced to Fraser. On his right hand sat his deputy Walter Nash. Like Fraser he was bespectacled but unlike his leader he had a full head of hair, which, Stuart noted, couldn’t seem to make up its mind whether it was parted in the middle or to the right.

  Fraser rose and addressed the delegates in a low voice emphasizing the delegation’s responsibility to the nation and his own determination to obtain the best possible terms from the Germans. Occasionally during the speech he referred to written notes. Suffering from poor eyesight he disconcertingly had to lift the papers up close to his face where, with a frown of concentration, he read them through thick-lensed spectacles. Although his voice was flat and calm, Stuart felt that the monotony of the delivery was masking a nervous uncertainty. This was confirmed when, at the end of a thirty-minute speech Fraser put down his notes, ran his right hand over his receding hairline, and asked if there were any questions.

  The first to speak was Professor Sterling.

  “Prime Minister,” he began. “You spoke of the restrictions that the German occupation force is likely to impose on our population.”

  “Professor Sterling, isn’t it?” interrupted the Prime Minister peering through his spectacles.

  “Yes, Prime Minister. What type of restrictions do you envisage?”

  “The one’s typical of a Fascist regime, of course,” responded Fraser with ill-disguised condescension. “Widespread censorship of the press and radio, the use of other forms of communication such as our Film Unit for propaganda purposes, and a general curtailment of freedoms using the predictable excuses about the good of the nation.”

  Some of the delegates had just begun to nod or grunt their agreement when Brendan spoke.

  “Um, with respect, Prime Minister, those conditions are already in place. Your government introduced them last year as wartime emergency regulations.”

  “Your name?” Fraser asked icily.

  Each of the delegates turned to look at Brendan, who was seated at the end of the table.

  “Brendan Ritter, sir. I am----.”

  Fraser interrupted him with a raised palm. He turned slightly in his chair towards his deputy Walter Nash who murmured in his right ear.

  “‘Ritter’. Ah, yes,” said Fraser slowly. “The German speaker from the Auckland University College.” Pointing his finger at Brendan he asked, “You are New Zealand born, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” replied Brendan with a touch of indignation.

  Fraser’s eyes blinked rapidly and then engaged Brendan’s in a long cold stare. “My censorship legislation, for your information Mr. Ritter, was enacted by me as the democratically elected prime minister, for the good of the people of New Zealand.”

  He continued staring at Brendan as if challenging him to offer a contradiction. Wisely, Brendan kept his council.

  In a voice that gradually rose, the Prime Minister continued.

  “Your job, young man, is to observe all that you can while we are in Germany and to pass this information directly to,” he paused, “me.” His eyes narrowed. “It is not, I repeat, not your role to question any of my decisions.”

  Stuart saw Sterling’s hand reach under the table and grip Brendan’s arm tightly resulting in the young man’s muted response of, “Yes sir”.

  After a ministerial official had clarified the final details of transport and accommodation, the meeting concluded. At the professor’s suggestion the three of them walked together back to their hotel. As they left the grounds of Parliament House and crossed Bowen Street, Sterling turned to Brendan.

  “I should have warned you, Brendan. The Prime Minister has two key characteristics.”

  “Two, sir?”

  “Two that were germane to today’s meeting. The first is that he does not handle criticism well. He has to be in control and as such requires others to fall into line with his thinking.”

  Brendan grimaced. “That was certainly obvious today.”

  “And the second, sir?” asked Stuart.

  “As you know, he was born in the Scottish Highlands. His parents were not well off and he had to leave school at twelve and go to work. He immigrated to New Zealand and educated himself by reading extensively and involving himself in local politics. Eventually he gained the highest position in the land. Unfortunately somewhere along the way, he acquired a deep suspicion of academics.”

  The Germans had agreed to allow the New Zealand delegation to begin their Berlin journey by flying across the Tasman on board the Awarua - one of the new Empire Class S 30 flying boats that had begun flights between Auckland and Sydney in 1939. The first stage had taken them nine hours during which time they had been served several light meals cooked in the aeroplane’s galley. At Sydney they landed smoothly on the waters of the inner harbour and the pilot guided the plane towards the refuelling wharf. The delegates had been given an hour to stretch their legs before re-embarking and heading towards Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth.

  At Sydney and each of the Australian stops, conversation with the handful of Australian officials who had met the aircraft was at best perfunctory. The Australian delegation had departed for Berlin three days earlier leaving behind a climate of uncertainty. Clearly the rapid capitulation had been as great a shock to the Australians as it had been to their southern neighbours. Although the conversations veered between foreboding and bravado, there was little information on which to base any real predictions as to the nature of either the peace talks or the pending German occupation of Australia and New Zealand.

  The western city of Perth was the final Australian stop before the flying boat headed across the Indian Ocean to South Africa. When the plane completed its noisy ascent from nearby Fremantle harbour and levelled off into its flight path the co-pilot came through from the flight deck to announce that they were en route to Durban on South Africa’s west coast. There would be one refuelling stop, at the small island of Mauritius.

  “What will await us in Durban, gentlemen?” pondered Professor Sterling as they settled back into their seats. “It’s bound to be different.”

  “Because it’s Africa, sir?” asked Brendan.

  “Yes, but perhaps not in the way that you mean. Remember that South Africa’s white races comprise those of both British and Boer descent. The latter group contains many who were strongly opposed to their country joining us in the war against Germany.”

  “But their president Jan Smuts is a Boer,” said Stuart. “He supported the war.”

  “True. But there was plenty of opposition to his decision from his fellow Boers. It’s still early days, but I think we’ll find South Africa rather different from Australia.”

  He was right. After the long trip over the Indian Ocean, in the late afternoon the flying boat glided into a sheltered part of Durban Harbour. As the delegates crowded round the small windows to absorb their first sight of an African city they saw four high powered motor boats bouncing across the waves towards the aircraft. In a sweeping manoeuvre, each of the boats slithered noisily sideways two abreast in outrider formation providing a nautical escort towards the wharves.

  The flying boat was manoeuvred towards a large jetty where several black African men in overalls were waiting to tie it into position. One of the stewards opened the exit door and the Prime Minister stepped out onto the jetty. He was immediately greeted by a uniformed officer who thrust a gloved hand forward and, in heavily accented English, barked, “My name is Colonel Barend Van Zyl. On behalf of the people of the new Suid-Afrika it is my pleasure to welcome you here, Prime Minister Fraser.”

  The officer then turned and signalled whereupon a band, poised in readiness at the far end of the jetty, struck up a military march.

  The remaining delegates exited and grouping around Peter Fraser gazed at the scene that had been prepared for their arrival. Behind the band a battalion of smartly dressed troops were drawn up in precise ranks. As the last of the delegates emerged from the flying boat and reached the far end of the jetty they heard “Para
de! Aandag!”

  Boots crunched in unison as the battalion snapped to attention.

  The officer, facing the assembled delegates, addressed them in a parade ground style.

  “It is our pleasure to welcome you here to the new Suid-Afrika. Although your stay is a short one we hope you will enjoy our hospitality before continuing your journey to meet our colleagues in Berlin.”

  He turned towards Peter Fraser. “Prime Minister, we would appreciate it if you would do us the honour of inspecting the guard.”

  With a flourish he swept his polished sword to a perpendicular position in front of his nose. “Follow me, please, sir,” he said and executing a half heel and toe turn, began a slow march towards the assembled soldiers.

  Tired from the long journey and confused by the swiftness of the events, Fraser obediently fell into line behind the South African colonel, signalling Walter Nash and Frederick Jones to join him. Immediately four other officers stepped forward and guided the remaining delegates towards a roped off area on the front of the parade ground.

  The sound of the military band filled the late afternoon air as the Colonel, followed by Fraser, Nash and Jones moved along the rigid ranks. Stuart, standing with the other delegates, studied the four officers who had taken up positions on either side of the group. The men’s uniforms were in traditional British khaki but on closer inspection he noticed that the front of the officers’ caps were tapered to a German-style high front and trimmed with grey braid. On their lower left sleeve each wore a cuff band bearing the silver-threaded inscription ‘Suid-Afrika’. Clearly this was a uniform and a nation in the throes of transition.

  Completing their inspection, the party walked slowly to the parade ground. As they reached the front of the rigid ranks the band abruptly ceased. Instantly Colonel Van Zyl sprang to attention and looked upwards.

  “Jesus,” gasped Brendan.

  All eyes were drawn towards the flagpole. From its base two soldiers were rapidly raising a large flag. The gentle breeze slowly unravelled its folds. The burnt orange rays of the slowly setting African sun caught the flag’s base colour - a vivid red. As the folds spread they revealed the central emblem – the black crooked cross of the swastika inside a bright, white circle.