“Jesus, Jack — I want to turn the bastard to our use, not turn him bloody mental!” Thorne continued. “I’m gonna tell him sweet bugger all about Reuters — absolutely bloody nothing. There’s no reason for him to know the truth, and he probably wouldn’t believe it anyway. All he has to know is the truth of what his country is going to do to Europe, should they be victorious. In Realtime, he backed the army once they realised Hitler was destroying them, and he gave his life for that belief… I’m certain he’s still that man of honour in this temporal environment. His diary sure as hell supports that in the few pages I’ve read so far… listen…”
He lifted the diary he held in his hands and began quoting from it, selecting random lines from the page he happened to be on.
“…At the fliegerschülen we were taught that there were certain laws and ideals that were inviolate…”
“…Of equal importance however is honour. If the orders given are just then the two concepts should not be mutually exclusive…”
“…It’s not my place to question the orders of my superiors. Still, could there be something awry here, for are there not ‘codes’ of war that must be followed…?”
“…I don’t understand what the Führer means by his ideas of lebensraum. What is the value of this ‘living space’ for these ‘Aryan’ peoples? What is its value if these rumours are true…?”
“They sound like the words of someone crying out to be turned,” he finished off, lowering the book once more to his lap. “We’ve got some exceptionally distasteful videos designed to enlighten people to what the Nazis got up to, as you well know… any one of them should serve quite nicely, and we’ve got plenty of audio-visual gear stored on DVD and Blu-Ray to back it up. Throw that in with the technology he’s already seen, and I’m willing to bet we can convince him well enough.” He smiled a little at the idea he’d put forward. “Just think what an ‘ace-in-the-hole’ we’d have if we could bring Ritter ‘on-side’…!”
“‘Ace-in-the-hole’… are you kidding?” Davies chuckled softly, beginning to like the idea. “Pull this off and we’ll have a whole Goddamn royal flush!”
Ritter spent two days in a small, concrete cell with one window high in the east wall that was barely large enough to allow light to filter through. The cell was part of a block at the rear of HMS Proserpine’s security buildings, and was set apart from the main layout of the base, some distance from the docks and the water. He’d been treated a good deal better than he’d expected and had been provided a meal, a shower and a clean set of clothes. The olive drab fatigue pants and shirt were a little uncomfortable, being a size too large, but they were clean at least.
He hadn’t eaten much… his appetite had all but disappeared, and he wondered how long it would take to come back. They’d at least left him a selection of recent newspapers to read so he’d not go entirely stir crazy through boredom. He spoke English moderately well, but his reading of the language was sorely out of practice, and it had taken him a good three hours to painfully fight his way through an issue of the Daily Sketch alone.
That being said, he’d found the perspective from ‘the other side’ morbidly interesting. The portrayals of the dastardly ‘Hun’, particularly the U-boat crews and the pilots, would almost have been a hilarious parody had the subject not been so close to home. One tired after only so many cartoons of ‘baby-killing’ Jerries, but some of the articles had indeed been interesting all the same.
Possessed of some literary ability, and having been a masterful member of the debating society at university, Ritter was able to read clearly between the lines of the ‘stiff-upper-lip’ English journalism. Despite the optimistic nature of the prose — probably under ‘suggestion’ from Whitehall — the signs were there to be read: Britain was in trouble, and although the kill tallies of German planes were apparently grossly exaggerated — God knew that was common enough on both sides — even those figures couldn’t deny there seemed to be no stopping either the Luftwaffe or the Wehrmacht in general.
It was afternoon on that Monday before anyone actually came to speak to him, and he was reclining in one corner of the cell on a small cot with a straw mattress as he heard the sheet-steel door being unlocked from the far side. Ritter straightened, preparing to more formally face whoever was about to enter, and as the door opened inward he was surprised to find a man wearing a high-ranking RAF officer’s uniform carrying a tray of food.
“Good afternoon,” the man offered in slow, faultless German that carried a strange, unplaceable accent. “I hope you’ve been reasonably comfortable?”
“Comfortable enough, all things considered,” Ritter replied with some hesitation as the officer stepped into the room. “Might I inquire, perhaps, after the safety of my gunner — he bailed out with me.” The officer looked to be in his early forties, with dark hair and of medium build and height. The uniform was clean and pressed, and seemed as if it were quite new. The butt of an automatic pistol of some description poked from a black holster of strange, synthetic material at the man’s hip, and he made no effort to close the door behind him. Ritter had no illusions about the idea of escaping: there’d be at least three or four guards beyond that door who’d be prepared for the slightest incident. All he really cared about at that point was the fate of Wolff.
The man hesitated, unable to meet his gaze momentarily. “From what we can ascertain, he suffered injuries when your plane was hit… he was dead when we pulled him out of the water. I’m very sorry… I assure you he’s been provided full military consideration, and we can organise for you to visit the grave in our cemetery here, if you wish.”
Ritter nodded in thanks at the respect. “Thank you… that would be appreciated,” he replied slowly, concealing the pain he felt at having his fears confirmed. Wolff had been a good man of whom Ritter had been very fond, and had been a guest at the man’s wedding just the year before.
“We thought you might be hungry, so I organised some sandwiches. I’m afraid there was only plain milk or water on hand, so I’ve brought both…”
“That will be fine, thank you,” Ritter nodded, smiling thinly. “I’m not very hungry anyway, as you might understand. You can leave them on the table though…” The man did so, sitting the tray carefully on the small, wooden side table by the foot of the bed.
“Your identification papers indicate that you’re Oberstleutnant Carl Ritter?”
“You’re correct… I assume this will be an interrogation, then?”
“Not an interrogation as such… just a bit of a chat, really… may I sit down?”
As Ritter shrugged an answer, dragging himself into a fully erect sitting position on the bed, the man took a wooden chair from near the door and placed it in the centre of the small room. “I have these things to give back to you,” he continued, reaching into his tunic. From it, he withdrew Ritter’s identification papers, his diary, and the photograph of his wife the pilot had grabbed from the instrument panel in the seconds before he bailed out. “I thought you might want them back. We’ve no further use for them. They’re a bit damp still, but they’ve held up remarkably well considering what they’ve been through.”