As a pair of the base guards led the moaning Stahl away, Willi Meier issued a few short, sharp orders to the others to secure the area. As the rest of the troop dispersed to carry out his commands, he turned his attention back to the wounded Schmidt, who by this stage had dragged himself to his feet and was leaning against the front of one of the trucks as Milo Wisch carefully applied a more effective combat dressing to the wound in his arm.
“You’ll need you get that looked at…” Meier observed with some compassion, nodding at the wound.
“I’ve had worse…” Schmidt replied honestly with a dismissive shake of his head, almost managing a thin smile “…I’ll live. Your CO’s got some guts, and that’s the truth!” He observed, changing the subject. “Jumping in balls and all like that on his own.” There was a certain amount of grudging admiration in those words…and also a certain amount of guilt. “…Something that should’ve been taken care of ‘in house’…” he finished softly with no small amount of shame.
“He shouldn’t have needed to jump in,” Meier agreed, then adding: “Hard to take charge though with a slug through your arm…” Under the circumstances, the XO was willing to cut the wounded lieutenant some slack.
“What’s that about?” Schmidt changed the subject again, nodding his head in the direction of the farmhouse, still feeling guilty and not willing to let himself off the hook quite so easily. From where they stood, all could see straight through the open back door and the seated figure of Carl Ritter beyond, cradling the sleeping child.
“Carl has a wife at home…” Meier answered sadly, staring at the scene inside the house with the others. “…Once he had a family.” He took a breath and allowed the statement to sink in. “Lost his boy ‘to crib death in Thirty-Six while he was in Spain…wouldn’t have been much older than the child in there…”
“Scheisse…!” Schmidt cursed softly, and spat at the ground in disgust. The war had kept him away from his own family for months now, and every mail call was a desperate wait for the next letter from his wife and more news of the daughter who was his unashamed pride and joy. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how he might cope with the concept of the loss of his own child.
“…Shit indeed…!” Meier agreed, nodding slowly.
Inside, Ritter continued to hum that gentle melody as the little boy slept in his arms. The tears had ceased, finally, and instead his face was now a cold, hardened mask completely devoid of emotion. The wild, righteous rage he’d felt earlier had now coalesced into something dark and fathomless…something he’d never before experienced in his thirty-five years…something that began to churn and fester in the pit of his stomach.
HMS Proserpine, Home Fleet Naval Anchorage
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
The Orkneys lay just a dozen kilometres or so off the North coast of Scotland. Comprised of a multitude of islands at the north western edge of the North Sea, three major land masses of the group — Hoy, South Ronaldsay and Mainland (the largest) — surrounded the naval base HMS Proserpine: the huge natural anchorage of Scapa Flow that was the home of the Royal Navy’s Home Fleet.
It was a windblown and desolate place to the large part with fishing settlements being the main areas of habitation dotted about the islands. It was also a place of much historical note and some of the oldest recorded settlements in the British Isles could be found in the Orkneys. The islands were comprised predominantly of low hills and grassed expanses where sheep and goats were often the only variation to a largely treeless, unwelcoming landscape. The only real exception was that of the island of Hoy, the western half of which rose to high hills and cliffs on its western side. St. John’s Head, on the west coast, was the highest vertical cliff in Britain and towered hundreds of metres above the surface of the ocean.
From his excellent vantage point in the Lightning’s rear cockpit, Trumbull had enjoyed the flight north across the darkened British countryside. He’d been more than a little surprised however to find their destination lit up like a veritable chandelier upon their arrival. Never having visited Scapa Flow previously, he knew little actual detail about the place but the little he did know had suggested a base far less comprehensive that the massive land-based installation they were now circling above.
“Icebreaker to Harbinger: come in please.” The call came within seconds of the jet arriving over the base’s airspace.
“That’s our cue,” Thorne quipped conversationally as he keyed the transmit toggle on his radio. “This is Harbinger receiving you loud and clear, Icebreaker. How the hell are ya, mate?” It seemed to Trumbull in that moment that Thorne might actually have been intentionally accentuating his own accent.
“Coping, old chap — coping. How’s our friend?”
“Safe as houses — the pickup went as smooth as silk…mostly… A couple of those Flankers we were worried about did try to gatecrash though…” As he spoke these words, Thorne was bringing the F-35E in over the airfield proper, his speed dropping away dramatically.
“Glad you managed to show them the door, old man…” The radio voice countered jovially. “I’d have been rather upset if these last twelve months had been wasted!”
“And it seems like only this morning we parted!” Thorne chuckled, knowing only he and the man at the other end of the radio would get the in-joke. “Mind if I park this bastard down there near the hangars there? She’s chewed quite nicely through what little fuel I’ve got left…”
“Wherever you can fit her in, Max — go right ahead.”
HMS Proserpine lay on the east coast of the island of Hoy by the small village of Lyness, opening onto the south-western edge of Scapa Flow, while close by lay five smaller islands within the Flow itself: Cava, Faro, Flotta, Switha and Risa. Anchorages for the Royal Fleet Auxiliary, destroyers and smaller warships lat between the string of islands and the coastline itself and stretched from Gutter Sound in the north-west down to Switha Sound in the south-east. Beyond the string of islands in West Weddel Sound, corralled by Caro, Faro and Flotta, lay the main fleet anchorage in the deeper sections of the Flow.
The airfield and attendant structures lay a thousand metres or so west of the main naval base and comprised a large rectangular area covering quite several square kilometres. There were clusters of buildings and hangars to the south-east of the area while an incredibly long concrete runway stretched away to the north-west a little more than three thousand metres. As they circled in slowly above the landing area, Trumbull noted a number of heavy and medium AA emplacements on the far side of the runway, their gun crews following the aircraft with their sights as it halted completely and hovered over a broad concrete area at the near end of the strip, close to three gigantic hangars.
The subsequent landing was just as impressive from inside the aircraft in Trumbull’s opinion, and seemed a great deal more straight-forward watching from inside than it’d appeared from outside. The jet remained steady on its pillars of exhaust, lowering smoothly to the concrete below as Thorne gently drew back the throttle and eased down the power. A trio of Fleet Air Arm ground crew appeared immediately with a set of wheeled steps, pushing them up to the side of the Lightning as Thorne began to shut down its powerplant and unstrapped himself from his seat. The canopy rose above them with a whine and Thorne dragged the helmet from his head to reveal a shock of medium-length dark hair with just the hint of grey about it. He clambered from the cockpit and climbed down to the ground on those steps, stretching and running his hands through his hair as Trumbull awkwardly followed him.