“Spain or Switzerland… not easy either way,” the naval officer shrugged, “and what then, even if we did make it? Spend our time in an internment camp instead of a prison? Don’t expect any rescue or help soon either, if England does fall…”
“The Americans!” Dupont insisted, grasping at the same, slim hope he’d carried as a young man serving in the Great War, two decades earlier. “They saved us in 1917, and they will again!”
“How can they help if there’s no England?” Whittaker muttered dismally. “How can anyone help?” It was a question none could answer.
Near Boulogne-sur-Mer
Northern France
Ernst Barkmann liked to play golf when off duty, assuming a decent, private golf course was to be found close to wherever he was posted at the time… golf or a leisurely walk in a suitable forest, hunting game with rifle in hand. It was in a quite picturesque little wood, just a few kilometres west of Boulogne-sur-Mer, that the brigadeführer found himself that pleasant afternoon, indeed walking with gun in hand as his eyes scanned the track ahead for any movement. He wore civilian clothes that day — a tan shooting jacket over cotton trousers and shirt, with a pair of comfortable hiking boots on his feet.
The jacket carried a thin layer of extra padding at its right shoulder to protect against soreness from recoil when firing, and over the left breast, Barkmann had personally added ten small loops of fabric, seven of which currently held .22 calibre cartridges ready for use, all fitted nose-down. The single-shot Haenel .22LR rifle he carried was a personal favourite in his collection, and even with the simple open sights fitted it was accurate out to 100 metres in the right hands. Barkmann was a deadly shot with decades of constant practice, and in his hands it was a lethal weapon regardless of the small-bore round it fired.
Beside him, a similarly-dressed Oswald Zeigler matched the slow pace and also scanned the track ahead, his own rifle also held with the air of a man accustomed to the use of firearms. Several metres behind the pair, a trio of escorts acted as ‘gun bearers’, between them carrying spare ammunition, water and light rations. One of the men also carried at his belt the carcasses of three brown hares that’d already fallen prey to the shooters’ superior marksmanship.
“Obergruppenführer Weiss mentioned you’ve had some ‘difficulty’ with our esteemed Reichsmarschall recently,” Zeigler broke the silence as they walked, the soft words spoken in the form of a observation rather than a question. Heinrich Weiss was the head of the SS Regional Political Department for the Pas-de-Calais. It was the same department which Barkmann was posted to as second-in-charge, which of course meant that Weiss was his commanding officer.
“I’m not sure that I follow, Oswald,” Barkmann evaded the remark with all the skill of the professional liar he’d practiced years to become, although he cringed and cursed inwardly. Zeigler’s reputation as a high-level Party member was well known, and the revelation that his commander has revealed such information to the man was ‘awkward’ to say the least. “I’ve had cause to speak directly with the Reichsmarschall on just one occasion, and I’d have to say the meeting was an amicable one.”
“You’re an excellent liar, Ernst,” Zeigler almost laughed at the reply, “but you really shouldn’t try to work your ‘magic’ on someone equally practiced in the art of deception. Rest assured, Kurt Reuters has no friends among the men present this afternoon and I, for one, am always pleased to encounter others within the upper echelons of the Wehrmacht or SS who feel similarly. I also have it on good authority that the ‘incident’ we’re speaking of came about as the direct result of Herr Reuters’ personal interference in an investigation into the actions of a Luftwaffe officer by the name of Ritter.”
“I couldn’t say I know anything about that, Mein Herr,” Barkmann stopped walking and stared directly at Zeigler, his expression clearly showing the truth of the man’s statement despite his continued denial.
“Well, that’s just the thing, Ernst…” Zeigler pointed out in a conspiratorial tone that was overtly insincere and quite unsettling into the bargain. “No one seems to know very much about… or, more importantly… why the highest ranking officer in the Wehrmacht has such a personal interest in the fate of some insubordinate pilot.” Both now stood motionless in the middle of the forest track, hunting momentarily forgotten. “I myself would very much like to know the background behind the man’s interest.”
Barkmann was now very tempted to open up to Zeigler and tell him everything of what had transpired during his meeting with Reuters at St. Omer. It was only a few days earlier he’d driven over to the small hamlet of Tardinghen at Cap-Gris-Nez, where a large marshalling yard was being established for the newly-refurbished 3rd SS Shock Division. It was there he’d managed to spend a few hours with his lover, Pieter Stahl, and had become quite concerned by the continued stress the younger man seemed to be suffering under.
Although the wound in his cheek was now healing, Stahl was still in almost constant pain from it and the injuries to his ribs, and it seemed possible there might be a hidden infection complicating the issue. It also appeared he’d carry a permanent scar from the incident, which in Barkmann’s opinion would be a terrible shame. A mark of that nature would ruin the young man’s beautiful features, and that just wouldn’t do at all.
That in itself was reason enough to maintain a grudge against Reichsmarschall Reuters, and on top of that was of course the personal humiliation the man had inflicted upon Barkmann himself. No one should be permitted to speak to a high-ranking officer of the SS in such a manner, and nobody would speak to him that way with impunity if Barkmann could possibly help it. The reality of it all was that the brigadeführer was also a rather vindictive and petty creature — something his often-bruised and lonely young wife could attest to if she could find the courage, although she had no clue as to his true sexual tendencies.
Barkmann was a man who had some understanding regarding the necessary concealment of secret feelings or tendencies that, if brought into the open, might see an officer disgraced — perhaps even harmed physically. Homosexuality wasn’t a tolerated ‘life choice’ in National Socialist Germany, even if it were widespread and carefully hidden by many of the middle/upper classes and the bourgeoisie, as Barkmann well knew. As such, he had his own suspicions as to why Reuters might’ve had an ‘interest’ in Oberstleutnant Carl Ritter, although he could have no clue as to how wide of the mark those suspicions were.
“I doubt I could shed any real light on any relationship between the Reichsmarschall and the pilot, Ritter,” Barkmann answered finally after a long, thoughtful pause. “However…” he added as he noted Zeigler about to reply in protest “…one doesn’t really need to know the details of their connection to make some use of it.”