“Please… just one more thing…” Lowenstein begged, his mind whirling with confusion now the escape he’d dreamed of for so many years now finally seemed so close at hand. “You must tell me… are they here…? Have the come for me…?”
“‘They’ don’t have the slightest clue that you exist in this era,” Brandis replied honestly, “But they have come, and they’re trying to find out exactly the information you’ve suspected all along. Make sure you have that scrap of newspaper with you when you make your escape.”
“Take it! Take it with you, and you can send it back to England tonight! They can fix all of this…!” But the confusion continued in Lowenstein’s mind as Brandis simply shook his head with a sad but knowing expression.
“It wouldn’t do any good… it needs to be you that carries this part of the burden for the time being.” Brandis rose to his feet and moved across to the doorway as the scientist looked on with desperate eyes. “I have to go… keep the pistol hidden, and wait for the attack… you’ll know when to take your chance.”
“But I can give you the time and date now, don’t you understand…?” Lowenstein pleaded, unable to comprehend why this strange man with knowledge of the future would not want the information that could put everything to right.
“I’m sorry, Samuel… I haven’t the time to explain to you right now why that’d be useless…” He gave a faint smile. “I already know everything, you see, but knowing isn’t the solution… I must go now… take care… don’t forget the newspaper clipping…”
And with that he was gone, striding quickly back the way he’d come and out through the guarded door at the far end of the building. Lowenstein sat for a moment, dumbstruck, before he finally roused himself from his stupor and picked up the pistol Brandis had left on the bed. Moving across to the bookcase, he drew out several of the books on the second shelf from the top and slipped the weapon in behind them. Standing back for a moment to take in a broader view, he then carefully adjusted the rest of the books in the row until they were all in a steady line, leaving no evidence that might suggest something was secreted behind them.
There were tears in Brandis’ eyes as he walked on across the open expanse toward the main buildings, his attempts at remaining detached from what was going on failing him in that moment.
“I could tell them everything, Samuel… but none of it would make the slightest difference,” he muttered darkly, the pain he felt quite evident on his face. “There are still far too many good people that need to die, you included, before any of this can finally be over.” How can I make you understand something it’s taken me a lifetime to realise for myself…?”
Are you saying that to convince him, or to convince yourself?
“Shut up, damn you!” Brandis snarled angrily, in no mood for mind games at that moment. “You know damn well how much remains to be done, and I’m no happier about my lot in this than you lot are! None of us ever have been!”
For a change, there was no answer — no glib or sarcastic reply — as he strode on, heading back to his expected post. He’d managed to compose himself once more by the time he’d reached the main buildings and returned to his post at the HQ’s quartermaster store.
Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
Sunday
September 8, 1940
Carl Ritter discovered that as he spent more time at Lyness and got to know many of the officers in charge of Hindsight, he was provided far greater freedom to wander about within certain areas of the base without escort. Most of the security personnel had been made aware of his presence, and were conscious of the fact that he’d been given clearance despite their distrust of his accent. There were one or two run-ins however with surprised base personnel who were less than pleased with the idea of a German being allowed to walk unchecked around the installation, one of which almost coming to blows as a mortified Ritter back-pedalled and tried to mediate desperately before MPs eventually stepped in at the last moment to save the day.
Other than those isolated incidents, his days spent at Lyness had been relatively free of trouble. To those men who’d never heard him speak, he was just another nameless face in an ill-fitting khaki tank suit, the only significant point of note being the set of lieutenant-colonel’s crown and pips at his shoulders in pale, embroidered stitching. The display of rank certainly helped in keeping most of the ORs, NCOs and junior officers out of his way.
He found Max Thorne late that morning in the same place the Australian was often to be found in recent days: sitting at his laptop in the small briefing room, going over the planning of some important mission in his mind. Kransky was also present on this occasion, seated beside Thorne and engaged in serious discussion.
“You’re busy?” The pilot ventured as they looked up upon his appearance in the doorway. “I should perhaps come back later?”
Kransky was about to suggest exactly that, but Thorne shook his head. “Come in, Carl… take a seat if you wish. This may be of interest, and it may actually concern you. Go on…” he added, directing the last few words at Kransky as Ritter entered and seated himself on the opposite side of the table.
“As I was saying, the raids on supply depots, marshalling points and railheads around Kent and Sussex have almost tripled in the last forty-eight hours, and also right around the south-east coast as far as Portsmouth and The Solent… and these were a series of attacks that weren’t light to begin with! We’ve also had reports of enemy fighter sweeps further west than have been previously detected… the RAF boys aren’t being fooled into coming up after them at the moment, and are mostly managing to stay hidden, but it’s quite worrying nevertheless.
“There’s also been a significant increase of attacks on what shipping we have left in the Channel Ports, but the concentration’s generally switched to warships rather than commercial vessels, and there’s also been a hell of a lot more air activity at night over the coast from Ramsgate down to Dungeness. No attacks so far as anyone can work out, but we’ve had large, unidentified aircraft flying low in formation across the Channel, moving a few miles inland before simply turning back again like they’re on some training flight plan. Their night fighters stop ours from getting anywhere near them to take them out, or even get a good look at what they’re up to.”
“Sounds like they’re practising for air drops,” Thorne observed sourly.
“Sure does. Throw all that in with that random bombardment from those goddamn ‘Superguns’ two days ago — which Army Intelligence thinks was to set target pre-registrations — and it ain’t looking all that great.” He gave Ritter a pointed look as he finished speaking: although he mostly trusted the man, instincts and prejudices died hard.
“This means an invasion is coming soon… yes?” Ritter asked uncomfortably, taking the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to voice his question.
“Looks like it, Carl… maybe only a few days… probably not much more than that. We’re fairly certain this meeting tonight is their final pre-invasion briefing.” Thorne admitted, no happier about the idea. “That means we may have to be ready to get you south at a moment’s notice… how are you feeling?”