Something the crew of Grosvenor hadn’t expected that afternoon was the arrival of three armed men on foot, guided by their own lieutenant. The trio were dressed in a varying manner of camouflage smocks and fatigues, and carried an equally-broad variety of weaponry along with their backpacks and webbing. Amazingly, one of them proved to be a German officer, dressed in a very poorly-maintained Luftwaffe uniform beneath a long, ‘tiger-striped’ battle-jacket. Little was given by way of explanation for the men’s presence, other than orders from the CO that Davids’ crew was to ‘look after them’, although for what exact purpose was intentionally left unsaid. An Australian and American accompanied the German pilot, and it quickly became clear that the Aussie was in charge, while the Yank was carrying a ‘rifle’ on his back large enough to be more at home mounted on a split-trail gun carriage. The fact that the German was also armed, the butt of a Luger poking from the flap of his regulation, cross-draw holster, gave none of the tank crew any feelings of amity or comfort.
Gerry Gawler, the German-hating gunner, had by his own admission almost gone into ‘conniptions’ upon discovery of a despised ‘Hun’ in their ranks, and there’d been some tense moments, along with some stern glares from the Australian and (to a lesser extent) the American, and some serious talk from Davids, before the corporal had calmed himself down enough for the Luftwaffe officer to be allowed anywhere near the tank. Although unlikely, Davids didn’t put it beyond the realms of possibility their commanding officer had purposefully volunteered his tank because of the well-known hatred Gawler harboured for the enemy: the CO’s warped sense of humour was well known, and to be honest, some light relief couldn’t hurt to boost morale.
The Australian — introduced as an Air Vice Marshal by the name of Max Thorne — was at least somewhat more forthcoming about why the trio were there. Although he quoted ‘Official Secrets’ and gave little detail, he explained they’d come along to make sure the German was returned to his side as the invaders advanced, and the rest wasn’t hard to work out: although no one was admitting it, the man was ‘obviously’ a British agent preparing to infiltrate the enemy. That was all well and good in Davids’ opinion, and the logic certainly mollified Gawler a great deal. Keeping in mind that the man might actually be an agent for MI6 or SOE helped the gunner force himself to at least try to be civil.
Within minutes of arrival, Thorne was using a small, strange-looking radio set attached to his webbing belt, its microphone mounted at his collar, and appeared to be communicating with a relaying station they all assumed was in London. He’d given their approximate location and a précis of the situation, and there’d been some relatively heated discussion that had left the man red-faced and ill-tempered for a short time, although he’d moved far enough away from the tank to keep the actual content of the conversation’s private.
It was in this fashion that the three newcomers spent an unusual hour or so in the company of the crew of Matilda II infantry tank Grosvenor of A Sqn, 7th Royal Tank Regiment. The tankers were obliging, and passed around warm tea that was gratefully received, although Connolly as usual insisted on coffee to be difficult, and was more than a little miffed when Ritter agreed with his choice of brew, requesting coffee also and spoiling the tank driver’s fun in being the only person wanting something different. Most of that time, the trio in any case preferred to keep to themselves by the rear of the Matilda, which offended no one. It also gave Davids and his boys a chance to speak about the trio in hushed whispers, and spend some free time in discussion over the group’s true purpose.
“How’re you holding up, Carl?” Thorne inquired as the three men stood together, holding tin cups filled with hot beverage. He could see the pilot was displaying signs of stress in his expressions and actions, and he didn’t envy the man’s situation. Ritter also stank to high heaven, which also must’ve been causing the man some serious discomfort, considering how much it was already offending his and Kransky’s senses of smell.
The story they’d devised for the pilot’s return to the Wehrmacht was one of having made a forced landing in Scotland following the attack on Scapa Flow, then escaping custody while being transferred to London for interrogation. Ritter’s uniform had been exposed to some rather rigorous environments in support of the pretence in order to produce the required look and, more importantly, the appropriate smell.
“This is… not easy…” The German admitted after a moment’s thought.
“Well… if it helps, the Wehrmacht was coming anyway, regardless of Hindsight, and as such you’d have ended up back home regardless in the end.”
“Back home, yes… the chance of being uncovered as a spy…‘no so much’ is the phrase I believe I’ve heard you use on occasion…”
“I can’t force you to do anything for us, Carl,” Thorne pointed out. “You know who to contact once you’re back in Germany, but no one will actively seek you out… it’s up to you whether you do anything about what you know.”
“I think I know you well enough now to know you would not expose me if I do not have the strength,” Ritter ventured, his tone holding great nervousness and fear. “But there are my wife and the boys now to think of also… I am… concerned…”
“There are a lot of things I probably could do, Carl,” Thorne agreed, nodding slowly, “and I’m a little ashamed to admit that I at least thought about some of them… you could be our only hope, and this is that important.” He shrugged. “But I like to sleep at nights too, mate,” he explained simply, hoping the man could understand that. “It’s your call on what you and your conscience can live with… I’m not going to push you into it.”
“I too have to sleep though, yes?” The man grimaced in return, his thoughts turning again to the exterminations his countrymen would exact on defenceless Jews and other so-called ‘undesirables’ in the next few years, the sadness of it all sweeping over him.
“What are we that we could do such a thing?” Ritter added with a hollow voice. “Is Germany a land of butchers? I’ve lived through these times, and I saw what was happening, just like everyone else…” his voice trailed off for a moment “…yet none of us have really seen what we’ve allowed to go on right under our noses.” Ritter hadn’t been one of the growing number of Germans from all over the country who’d voted for the NSDAP and Adolf Hitler in the elections that had eventually brought the Nazis to power in 1933, but thinking back now, neither could he recall anyone, himself included, being particularly active in decrying their tactics or their extremist creed. In his heart, he’d known they’d been be the major cause behind the waves of violence, disruption and civil disturbance that’d signalled the death knell of the Weimar Republic and caused the cries for order that’d swept those same Nazis to power… and he was now left wondering how he and his fellow Germans had allowed the insanity to continue without even a peep.