“I…I’m sorry, sir…” Ritter stammered slowly, totally deflated by the Reichsmarschall’s heartfelt rebuke. “I didn’t think…”
“Of course you didn’t think,” Reuters snapped disgustedly, great frustration showed on his face as he tried to calm down. “I’d probably have done the same thing in your place. I probably would’ve ended up before a court martial too with a dozen SS ‘witnesses’ to condemn me no doubt, some of whom might actually have been there! There is still a place for honour in Germany, my friend, but there must also be a place for discretion. This Stahl is a — ‘friend’, shall we say — of Barkmann’s? Barkmann is also a ‘friend’ of one who is close to Heydrich! I’m an acquaintance of the Reichsführer’s, but not of the same vein… if you take my meaning…” The Reichsmarschall gave a distasteful grimace. “There’s no way justice might’ve been served here today. Do you think a small-time land-owner who made a name for himself at Verdun is enough ‘pull’ to subvert the influence of the SS?”
“You know of my father?” Ritter’s eyes narrowed. “Why such an interest in my welfare…?”
“Let’s just say I’d rather not see good officers wasted at the hands of scum like the SS.” The tone Reuters used wasn’t evasive — it was just one that conveyed no interest in giving an explanation greater than that. “The details are unimportant: just try to forget about it. I don’t like the idea any more than you but no one will care — there are greater things afoot. Just forget it.”
In a staggering moment of clarity, Ritter suddenly saw the magnitude of the mountain he’d almost brought down upon himself. The attempt to bring the SS officer to justice was undoubtedly doomed to failure. All it might’ve accomplished was the destruction of his own career; probably his life too. All would’ve have been otherwise fruitless.
“I understand, sir. Please forgive me for my outburst.”
“Nothing to forgive…I asked for candour and you gave it.”
“Then thank you, sir,” Ritter added, extending his hand for reasons even he couldn’t fathom. Before Reuters could think better of it, he instinctively accepted the gesture. As their hands clasped it was as if a spark of static electricity passed between them. Ritter flinched noticeably but didn’t understand. Reuters understood, but in that moment he was equally shocked and quickly withdrew his hand.
“There’s something wrong?” The Reichsmarschall asked, suddenly as concerned as Ritter felt.
“No… Nothing, I think. I just felt for a moment that… no, it doesn’t matter.”
“I must leave…” Reuters blurted hurriedly. “Barkmann will go howling back to his superiors before this morning’s out and I’ll have some serious shitting to do from upstairs to keep them under control.” He gave a salute. “I wish you luck in your career, Herr Ritter.” He added. “There’s no need to see me back to my aircraft.” With a whirl he threw open the door and marched out, leaving Ritter puzzled.
“There’s a problem?” Schiller inquired as the pair walked back across the grass to the helicopter.
“I’m not sure…” Reuters replied, ill at ease. “Müller warned me not to touch him but I wasn’t expecting that. It was like a spark — a bolt of static.”
“You think he might suspect?”
“How could he? No one would believe the truth of it.”
“You’re all right?” Meier asked softly as the pair stood alone in the infirmary.
“Hmm…? Yes I’m all right, I suppose. There was something…” Ritter shook his head. “I don’t know. We shook hands…and then… It doesn’t matter,” he stated in the end, dismissing the event. There were greater matters at hand. “It’s not important.”
“The business with Barkmann… ?”
“It seems the Reichsmarschall was able to change his mind. I doubt that we’ll hear anything further of it.”
“Shall I return to normal duties, then?”
“Yes, you may as well. There’ll be no further entertainment this morning.”
As Meier saluted and marched briskly away, Ritter leaned against the end of one of the beds, deep in thought. Although subdued and under control, a rage still burned within him regarding the events of the night before…a futile, frustrated fury…
“We’re not all such butchers, Herr Oberstleutnant…” The voice from a nearby bed caught him by surprise. It belonged to a shirtless Obersturmbannführer Berndt Schmidt, propped into a sitting position by extra pillows at his back. His wounded arm was heavily bandaged and a small stain of blood showed through — the roughly circular wound had been exceptionally difficult to close and stitch. “There is honour within the Waffen-SS, even if creatures like that sometimes have their way. That Stahl has a ‘reputation’, shall we say, for his ‘overzealous’ methods.” Schmidt had watched the previous, angry exchanges with much interest.
“I fear perhaps that honourable men may soon become a dying breed, lieutenant…” Ritter growled in return, staring long and hard at the injured man as if seeking an excuse to lose his temper once more. The understanding, agreement and genuine disgust he saw in the younger man’s eyes mollified him somewhat and he finally gave just a curt nod of assent.
‘There’s still a place for honour in Germany.’ Reuters had said that. But what honour was there if these animals masquerading as men were allowed to carry out such acts with impunity? The answers to questions like that wouldn’t come readily to mind. What honour was there when honest men were persecuted for attempting to bring them to justice? What kind of ‘honour’ allowed inhuman sadists to reach positions of power in so civilised a nation as Germany? Where was the honour in this? Ritter rose fully and began to walk slowly down the aisle toward the exit. The cold, dark ball of anger had reappeared within the depths of his soul and Ritter could feel it slowly growing.
5. Revelations
HMS Proserpine, Home Fleet Naval Anchorage
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
Eileen found Thorne in the Officers Mess completely by accident that morning as he stood behind the bar, filling a metal hip flask with scotch. They’d all slept late and it was midday before any of the Hindsight crew had showed themselves once more to the outside world. Thorne had spent a long time in the shower, luxuriating beneath the warm water before dressing in clean civilian clothes — comfortable jeans, tee-shirt and windbreaker of nondescript colours over which he wore a black, NATO-style parka with numerous, deep pockets. Donelson had also enjoyed the chance to spend time under a hot shower after a few needed hours of sleep and was also dressed in civilian denims, shirt and light jacket.
“Have you seen Nick, Max?” She queried from the open doorway as he glanced up, smiling in greeting. “I’ve been searching all over for him and his radio’s off.”