Airfield at St. Omer
Northern France
That next morning was as clear and bright as the day before with cloudless skies stretching right across Western Europe and the British Isles. Ritter was quite calm as he shaved before the mirror above his wash basin not long after breakfast, already dressed in his silk shirt, uniform breeches and boots. His report regarding events of the night before had been transmitted through to Fliegerkorps late the night before and fifteen minutes ago he’d received confirmation from his communications officer that a senior SS officer would be arriving within the hour to investigate the matter.
After drying his face, he shrugged on his tunic and slipped the Knight’s Cross over his head: he wanted to be properly dressed for such a serious occasion. Even as he was still buttoning his tunic and adjusting his uniform he heard the sound of an approaching aircraft and thought that it must be the officer they were expecting. He left his quarters, rendezvoused with Willi Meier by the door to the HQ buildings and the pair stepped out into the morning sunshine together, searching the clear skies. As the sound drew nearer they noticed a difference in its quality: it was a strange ‘whump-whump’ noise that was instantly recognisable as the sound of one of the Luftwaffe’s new hubschrauber aircraft — a helicopter.
Produced by Focke-Aghelis, the NH-3D — known colloquially as the ‘Schpect’, or ‘Woodpecker’ — was one of the many utility helicopters beginning to appear all over the Western European Theatre of Operations, zipping from place to place. Powered by a twelve-cylinder petrol engine mounted above the main cabin and able to carry fourteen fully-armed men, they increased the Wehrmacht’s mobility immensely, or at least would do so once available in great enough operational numbers.
The broad-bellied NH-3D banked gently around the northern side of the main control tower, circling right across the hangar area before setting down lightly just a dozen metres or so from the fliers’ position. A pair of 13mm heavy machine guns were fixed to each landing skid, firing forward, while a 7.92mm medium MG hung from a flexible mounting in the open doorway on either side of the cargo bay. The aircraft was painted an overall dark-grey on its sizes and upper surfaces, while its underside was a pale blue similar to the colour adorning the bellies of most Luftwaffe combat aircraft.
Ritter and Meier jogged across the short, grassy expanse to meet the chopper as it touched down and a black-uniformed brigadier climbed from the aircraft’s cargo bay, ducking his head in deference to the whirling rotors above. He carried with him a leather briefcase and behind him a lieutenant followed closely accompanied by a pair of troopers armed with stubby MP2K machine pistols.
“You’re Obersturmbannführer Ritter?” The thin-faced, dark-haired officer demanded as they met. He seemed to be in his mid-to-late forties and was of average height, perhaps just a few centimetres shorter than Ritter. It was hard to ignore the narrow, hawk-like slant of his features and the quite severe demeanour it conveyed; something that was in no way improved by an apparent total lack of ability to come anywhere near a smile.
“I am Oberstleutnant Ritter, Mein Herr,” Ritter acknowledged, ignoring the man’s use of the SS equivalent for his rank, both he and Meier coming to attention as he gave a proper, military salute.
“Heil Hitler,” was the reply returned in a severe manner along with a raised hand and arm in a Nazi reply. “I’m Brigadeführer Barkmann.”
“I’m sorry this has been necessary,” Ritter began. “It’s an unfortunate incident and I’d of course prefer to see it dealt with as quickly and as cleanly as possibly: we’ve all got other matters to attend with, I’m sure.”
“Indeed…” the brigadier mused dubiously “…unfortunate indeed. We shall see. You’ll take me to the officer in question immediately.” He turned to his aide and the SS troopers. “Come…” he commanded simply.
“This way, sir,” Ritter invited curtly, extending an arm in the appropriate direction as Meier caught his eye with a pointed stare. The CO of ZG26 feigned ignorance and walked off with the cluster of SS officers and troopers in tow.
The base infirmary was large and well equipped, with a dozen beds running down either side of the main aisle. The group marched straight through, headed for the Medical Officer’s records room at the other end, inside which a bed had been provided for captain Stahl as a pair of guards with pistols at their belts watched him from their posts by the door.
A large field dressing protected the right side of Stahl’s face and covered half a dozen stitches, while tightly-wound bandages held his fractured ribs firmly in place. Painkillers were only partially effective and the man suffered great discomfort when attempting to speak, while moving too quickly or in the wrong manner also elicited stabs of agony from his injured sides.
“Ernst,” he began, rising from his bed. Upon sighting the SS brigadier beside Ritter, his face once more assumed a semblance of his favourite expression: smug confidence. “Thank God you’re–!”
“Silence…!” The brigadier snapped sharply, turning to Ritter. “I wish to speak to the prisoner alone, if you please…?”
“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Ritter agreed reluctantly, deferring to the other’s superior rank and jurisdiction. “I pass responsibility for him to you, Herr Barkmann. Guards…!” The air force troopers followed their CO as he and Meier left the man alone with their prisoner.
“I don’t like the look of this much,” Meier muttered sourly as they stood with the guards outside the closed room as Barkmann’s aide and SS troopers stood impassively by the exit at the far end of the infirmary.
“Nor I…” Ritter concurred. “There’s not much we can do about it though. I was hoping the OKH would send someone down, but I should’ve expected it really: the SS don’t like airing their dirty laundry in public.” He paused and then added: “He may have the last laugh yet, that bastard!”
“How’s the baby?” Meier changed the subject instantly, seeing no point in continuing with that line of discussion for the moment.
“Well enough, fortunately,” Ritter conceded with a non-committal shrug. “As luck would have it, one of the nurses here has just given birth herself and has been able to care for the child for the moment…at least until more permanent arrangements can be made.”
The sound of more helicopters overhead sounded suddenly as they spoke, catching both by surprise.
“It seems we’ve some unexpected visitors,” Meier observed. “Shall we see who they might be?”
“Why not… no doubt those two will be a while yet…” Ritter turned to his own guards. “You two remain here. No-one is to go anywhere without my permission.” He walked away without waiting for a reply, ignoring the SS men who came to attention as he and Meier marched past.
A second NH-3D was settling to the ground near the first as they approached, this one similarly armed but also escorted by a pair of rather evil-looking SH-6C Drache kanoneschiffen — helicopter gunships. Long craft with narrow fuselages, each carried a 20mm cannon and a pair of 7.92mm machine guns in a low-mounted chin turret along with short stub wings that although empty in this case could each carry rocket- or gun pods on four hardpoints. The gunships had been christened ‘Dragons’ by the troops they supported in combat and they more than lived up to their names in their threatening appearance.