“Thank you again,” Ritter nodded as he took the items, smiling fully for the first time in many hours. “They mean a great deal to me.”
“My name’s Generalleutnant Max Thorne by the way,” he offered, having searched for a Luftwaffe equivalent to his rank of air vice marshal and settling on the closest rough approximation. As Ritter accepted the Australian’s extended hand, he added: “Feel free to just call me ‘Max’, if you wish — I don’t expect that immediately, of course, but you may well be here for some time and we’ll be getting to know each other much better… that I can promise you.”
“Possibly, Herr Generalleutnant,” Ritter muttered dubiously. He cocked his head to one side and changed to English, a move that didn’t seem to surprise Thorne. “May I ask of your accent? I cannot place it, but you are not British: of that, I am certain.”
“Very well picked, colonel,” Thorne smiled, returning to English also. “I’m a rather broadly displaced Australian who’s at the moment still trying to work out what the hell he’s doing in an air vice marshal’s uniform.”
“Australia? A long way from home, then…”
More than you could imagine! Thorne thought with irony, but he merely gave wry grin.
“I seem to remember reading the Australians were worthy opponents in the Great War.” Ritter continued after some thought. “You fellows gave us some trouble at Passchendale, Bullecourt and other places. The French, particularly, cannot sing praises of the ‘Aussies’ enough.”
“Yeah, well I think they had less to do with keeping us in line than the Poms,” Thorne observed with a smile, recalling what he’d read of the disciplinary difficulties Australian troops had continually caused behind the lines during World War One… during both wars, in fact.
“‘Poms’…? I — I do not know that word… my English is all right… but not perfect.”
“Sorry… the word’s an Australian colloquial term — it means ‘Englishmen’ in the same way you might call them ‘Tommis’. It’s derived from an acronym of the phrase ‘Prisoner of Mother England’… from our convict days. Don’t worry about your English either, mate,” he added as Ritter smiled in understanding. “You speak it bloody well.” There were a few words in the sentence Ritter didn’t catch due to the speed with which Thorne spoke, but he picked up enough to understand Thorne’s meaning and gave an ironic smile.
“I think that perhaps I shall have plenty of time to practice, yes…?”
Thorne’s reply was almost apologetic. “Yes, mate… I think you probably will…”
Luftwaffe Airbase at Stavanger
Sola, Southern Norway
The officer’s mess at Stavanger was mostly empty as Willi Meier sat at the CO’s table, a large glass of Beaujolais before him that was accompanied by an almost-empty bottle. He’d been there alone for an hour and a half, and although it was barely afternoon, Hauptmann Wilhelm Marius Meier was quite drunk. The mess sergeant, more understanding than apprehensive, had decided to leave the officer to his own, private thoughts: everyone at the base was aware that almost the entirety of I/ZG26 had been officially posted as ‘Missing In Action’, and there were few experienced pilots or ground staff who didn’t understand what that probably meant for fellow fliers lost so far from home, across hostile waters.
Meier had actually seen the deadly accuracy of those incredible guided rockets, and of the cannon that’d been fired at his gruppe. He was one of just six fellow fliers and crew who’d returned in their three damaged machines, the same number of returning aircraft as there’d been of B-10A bombers that’d survived to tell the tale of their encounter over Scapa Flow. He held little hope that a few of the lost crewmen might yet be found before the harsh environment brought on hypothermia or enemy units picked them up, and he was resigned to the ‘fact’ that his friend and commanding officer was dead.
Uncertain of his movements, he hesitantly took up the wine glass in his right hand and raised it to his lips, draining the remainder. Returning it awkwardly on the tabletop, he endeavoured to pour more from the bottle, droplets of the dark liquid staining the white cloth. Several attempts proved fruitless as his drunken co-ordination proved too poor for him to get the neck of the bottle within reach of the glass’s rim without far too great a danger of complete catastrophe.
“Please, Herr Hauptmann… allow me…” The voice startled Meier as much as the large, weathered hand that suddenly appeared and gently took the bottle from his grasp, tipping it expertly and filling the pilot’s glass with Beaujolais.
“Reichsmarschall Reuters,” Meier stated flatly with a mastery of the obvious, squinting as his forced his blurry eyes to focus. “An unexpected pleasure, Mein Herr!” There was little animosity in the statement, but neither did Meier make any attempt to come to attention or show any respect. Drunk as he was, he was well aware of how impossible it would’ve been for him to carry out that kind of action. He might’ve saluted, but he found that he had no desire to do so… for some reason, the idea left a sour taste in his mouth. Reuters was happier to keep it that way in any case: he was in no mood for the regimen and protocol of the military at that moment either. He lifted a filled glass he already held in his other hand.
“May I join you? I’d very much like to talk.”
“As you wish, sir,” Meier shrugged after considering the request, “although I must warn you I’m not exactly ‘good company’ this afternoon.” The words were slurred, but Meier picked them carefully, and his sentences took longer to complete than sober ones should have as a result.
“Nor am I, Herr Meier,” Reuters gave a thin, mirthless smile, “yet I’d speak with you nevertheless.”
“Allow me to apologise for my appearance, Herr Reichsmarschall… my condition isn’t exactly becoming an officer of the Reich at the moment.” There was no real sincerity in the words.
“You’re excused. I’m well aware of the friendship shared between Oberstleutnant Ritter and yourself… I understand better than you think how much his loss affects you. I’m not here as a Reichsmarschall, Herr Meier… I’m here simply as fellow officer who wishes to pass on his deepest sympathies and share a little of the burden of grief.”
“‘Pass on his deepest sympathies’,” Meier repeated slowly, almost snorting with derision. “Carl used to use that exact phrase when he wrote to the families of his own men. I’m sure they were quite heartened by the words in such a time of loss. I never realised how pathetic that really sounded until now.”
“You don’t understand,” Reuters began sadly, shaking his head as he gestured for an orderly to bring another glass.
“You’re damned right I don’t understand!” Meier snapped sharply, the tone more accusatory and unpleasant than he’d intended or even expected. “Just what are you doing here? What the hell were we doing on that mission in the first place?” He demanded angrily. “There’ll be a court of inquiry, of course… I’m sure Fliegerkorps will be able to apportion blame quickly enough…. on past experience, they’ll no doubt lay it at the feet of the CO. Very convenient of him to go and get himself killed into the bargain… saves all that messy defending yourself business that gets in the way of court proceedings.”