“Mein Herr,” the junior NCO declared immediately, halting and snapping to attention with a salute as he caught sight of the generalleutnant.
“At ease, unteroffizier,” Schiller instructed immediately, trying desperately to hide the dismay in his voice over the loudness of the man’s greeting. “I’ve been looking for Reichsmarschall Reuters… have you seen him by any chance?”
“I haven’t myself, sir, but I did hear another of the guards I passed a few moments ago mention he thought he’d seen the Reichsmarschall talking to some of the panzer crews outside. I’d try out there if I were you, sir.”
“Very good, unteroffizier,” Schiller replied, managing to feign a grin, “I shall do just that. Thanks for your help.” He came to attention and saluted, turning on his heels and moving quickly off the way he’d come as the man returned the action.
As he passed by the doorway to the briefing room once more, the main doors were this time wide open, and the opening was filled with the imposing bulk and stern face of Martin Bormann, open suspicion clearly evident I his expression. An equally surprised and apprehensive Zeigler could also be seen, his substantially greater height allowing him to easily stare out from over the man’s right shoulder.
“Reichsleiter Bormann… Direktor Zeigler…” Schiller nodded the barest recognition in greeting as he passed by without slowing his pace. “Meine Herren…” It was in his own opinion the best acting he’d ever managed in his life, and the generalleutnant didn’t dare stop or allow them to draw him into conversation, lest he give away the fact that he knew something of what they’d been discussing in that room. Instead he strode on at a fast but even pace, never looking back until he’d rounded the corner at the far end and could release a held breath of fear and adrenalin.
“Did he hear us?” Zeigler stared at Bormann, searching the man’s impassive features as fear rippled through him. “How long was he standing out there before that guard showed up?”
“If he’d heard anything, he’d have stormed in here with a gun in his hand,” the NSDAP secretary dismissed the question with a shrug as he returned to his own seat, and Zeigler made sure the doors were this time properly closed.
“And do what…?” Hess pointed out, also a little apprehensive at the thought Reuters’ aide and confidant might’ve heard what was being discussed. “Waltz in here and arrest the Reichsleiter, the Stellvertreter des Führers and the Oberbefehlshaber der Luftwaffe single-handed and accuse us of treason…? That’s exactly what he’d have to charge is with: how do you think he’d like his chances alone, when we have so many witnesses here to corroborate our own stories? The man would have to be an imbecile to burst in here, even if he did hear everything.”
“We need to know what he knows…!” Göring observed, also nervous. “Someone needs to approach him… perhaps make him an offer…”
“You’ll never turn him against his master,” Zeigler dismissed the idea immediately. “It’s you who’s the imbecile if you think you could corrupt Reuters’ little lap dog so easily.”
“Then we take him aside, find out what he knows… and kill him…” Bormann said with cold simplicity, as if discussing some innocuous activity such as ironing a suit. He looked about the faces of the rest of the men present and was mildly amused by the common expressions of horrified distaste that stared back at him, the sight drawing a soft, derisive chuckle from deep within his stocky frame. “Look at you all! So eager to speak of insurrection, yet so squeamish when it seems there might actually be a need to get your hands dirty!” He patted a hand to the Luger P’08 holstered at his belt. “Relax…! I’ll take care of this little worm when the time comes… just keep and eye on him, and make sure he doesn’t get a chance to speak with Reuters in private.”
Schiller found Reuters ten minutes later, as the Reichsmarschall stood chatting with a group of panzer crewmen in the lee of their parked tanks on the opposite side of the wide, circular gravel drive that swept past the front of the main house. The ranking officer present — a very nervous Hauptmann Leipart in command of the entire tank troop — had been as initially amazed as the rest of his crews to discover the Reichsmarschall to actually seem quite human and, under the circumstances, excellent company on such a cool night.
All of the men present ‘braced up’ to attention as Schiller drew near, but Reuters, the ranking officer of the group, was the man expected to perform the salute.
“At ease, gentlemen… please…” he commanded softly with a tired laugh and a dismissive wave of the hand. “There’s been more than enough formality for one evening already!”
“I heard a rumour I’d find you out here, Kurt,” Schiller noted, forcing a broad smile that mostly masked his fear and nervousness as their breath whirled about them in the cold air. “You never could stand these formal occasions, could you?” With hand gestures alone he requested and readily received an imported cigarette from one of the nearby crewmen, followed by a burning match extended in the man’s hands for him to light it with. He took a long, reassuring drag that almost steadied his shaking hands, and he blew the billowing clouds of cigarette smoke that followed high into the air above them.
“Well, I actually came out for a little fresh air,” his commander observed with a wry smile, nodding accusingly at the newly-lit Lucky Strike. “Remember the ‘old’ days, Albert, when one had to come outside to have a smoke, rather than to get away from it?” They both laughed this time, Schiller trying desperately to appear genuine as confusion over what he should do next sent his mind reeling. “These gentlemen have been kind enough to put up with me wasting some of their time.”
“It’s our pleasure, Herr Reichsmarschall,” Leipart slipped in quickly, the nervous tone of his voice a little too evident.
“The poor fellow…!” Reuters chuckled sympathetically, giving Schiller’s arm an unexpected nudge and almost causing the generalleutnant to leap out of his own skin in fright. “I do believe we’re making him nervous.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, accompanied by a warm and genuine smile. “Don’t worry, Herr Hauptmann… both Albert and I were frontschwein once too, although its too many years ago now for some of us to feel comfortable about reminiscing…”
Any further conversation was suddenly impossible as the raw, unearthly wail of an air raid siren split the night as it wound up to full power. Reuters and Schiller exchanged sudden and very surprised glances… it seemed inconceivable to the pair of ranking officers standing there that any enemy aircraft could’ve gotten so far beyond the coast before night-fighters had intercepted them. There was instant activity from the crew of the P-11A Wirbelwind close by as they battened their hatches and powered up the searchlight mounted above their turret. As the four long barrels of its 23mm flakvierling cannon turned toward the west, the beams of far larger searchlights began to flicker into life at various points about the area and other gun crews went to instant alert. The clusters of flood lights bathing every facet of the main building in stark illumination remained switched on however, in direct contravention of standard practice during an air raid alert: the night had been long, and minds were dulled and slow to react as a result.