“Of course,” Trumbull reassured sincerely. “I completely understand.”
“Anyway… the upshot of telling you all this is that I’m offering you a position here with us at Hindsight if you want it, as per your brother’s wishes. As I said, the decision’s ultimately yours, so I’m not going to demand an answer right now, but time is relatively short — no irony intended there — so I’ll ask you to have a think about it and come back to me tonight after dinner. It’s not a minor thing — it’d mean you giving up regular flying with the RAF and a huge change in direction for your career that I can’t give you any predictions on — but you will be right here with us at the cutting edge of what we’re doing, and that’s something I can guarantee. Those of us who’ve come back from the future will need some close ties with this era, and I can’t think of anyone better offhand, so have a think about it.”
Alec Trumbull was close to making a decision right there and then but held back in the end, taking Thorne up on his offer to wait and think more on it. It was a tempting offer indeed, but having to give up his career as a fighter pilot was not something he could take lightly…after all, that’d also mean giving up a career he loved more than anything else in the world.
“Thank you, Max…I will think about it and give you a decision tonight.”
No worries then,” Thorne grinned broadly, extending a hand that Trumbull accepted and shook in an instant. “Until tonight…”
Airfield at St. Omer
Northern France
At midday the sun was bright in the summer sky over the European continent, a light, patchy cloud cover the only variation from the day before. At St. Omer, preparations were already being made for the transfer of Staff Flight and One Gruppe to the assigned airfield north of Paris to commence their conversion to the new aircraft type. The move wasn’t something that took a great deal of time: just a day or so of packing altogether at the most. ‘Horst Wessel’ had only started operations at the St. Omer strip a month before, at a time when construction and fitting out of the base facilities had already been well on its way to completion, and all had known there was little likelihood of settling in. Front line combat units like ZG26 grew very accustomed to travelling light and being ready to move at short notice.
Ritter was completely ready by noon, his overnight travelling bag sitting by the door to his quarters awaiting his departure and stuffed with a spare flight suit, clean underwear and toiletries. It was at least enough for a few days’ operations. His two large leather suitcases carrying his dress uniforms, other clothing and personal effects were already stacked carefully inside one of the dozen or so Brussig and Opel trucks that would follow on behind the flight, ferrying their maintenance crews and the rest of the flyers’ personal property on to the local rail head for shipment to Paris by train. The orders they’d received were unclear as to whether they’d be returning to St. Omer at all, so the pilots and ground crew made sure they packed everything.
The afternoon found Ritter inside one of the base’s four large hangars, checking and pre-flighting his J-110 with his rear gunner and head mechanic. It was as they double-checked their flight plans at a small table beside the aircraft that the duty sergeant approached, followed at a discreet distance by Corporal Wisch.
“NCO to see you sir, as per your orders…!” The man snapped loudly, coming to attention a few metres from the table. Ritter took a moment before glancing up, his expression instantly turning cold as he caught sight of Wisch.
“Well…well…well…” he growled with slow sourness, standing completely upright. “You may recheck the instruments, Wolff,” he added, turning to Kohl. “I’ve some business to attend to. You also are dismissed, Herr Feldwebel.”
“Jawohl, Mein Herr!” The duty sergeant replied crisply and saluted. Turning on his heels, he marched off with the intention of going about his normal business of the day.
“What’s your name, boy?” Ritter asked directly, his gaze sharp and icy as he approached with slow, deliberate steps.
“Rottenführer Milo Wisch, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the young man answered immediately, snapping to attention. Almost before he could stop himself, his right hand moved as if to fly forward and upward into the salute of the SS. At the last second he halted, the hand instead rising to provide the standard Wehrmacht version that was very much like the salute of armed forces the world over.
“Very good, corporal…” Ritter nodded faintly, not smiling at all. “The SS can learn new tricks, I see…” He stepped forward suddenly, brushing past Wisch and heading in the direction of main hangar doors. “Join me in a stroll…” He said softly as he passed, and the SS NCO instantly turned to follow.
“How old are you, Milo Wisch?” Ritter inquired with slightly less coldness as they ambled slowly across the open expanse of grass by the main runway a moment or two later.
“Twenty, sir,” Wisch replied apprehensively. “…Twenty-one in September.”
“I see… and what did you think of the incident last night, young man? You may be completely frank — no doubt you’ve gathered I’m no fan of the SS or your methods, but I’ll respect your opinion should it not concur with my own.” Wisch stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily stumped by the position Ritter’s unexpected question had placed him in. The pilot halted a metre further on and turned to stare directly at the NCO, the gaze expectant and intense.
For a moment there was silence and Wisch wasn’t sure how to answer. His instincts of self-preservation — strong in anyone who’d spent time in the SS — instructed him to support his commanding officer: to officially sanction what’d occurred the night before. Should the Luftwaffe officer decide to lay some obscure charge against him for that, he’d be acquitted for his loyalty and esprit de corps — of that he was certain. Yet there was something in Ritter’s gaze that inspired him to tell the truth. The lieutenant-colonel possessed an expression of intensity that, although intimidating at times, also instilled trust in those with whom he interacted, and there were few who felt they couldn’t confide in the man should the need arise. In the end, Wisch’s conscience made the final decision.
“I was horrified, sir,” he answered slowly, carefully. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He paused, and then added: “I only hope I never see the like again.”
“Not something they mention in the enlistment drives, is it?” Ritter noted with a grim expression, agreeing with the young man. Another of the pilot’s abilities was his judge of character, and he believed this young fellow to be honest and direct. “You sound like an educated man — you’ve studied?”
“Universität zu Köln, Mein Herr: I was studying social sciences, but left my course to join up.”
“Ah; my old school also…” Ritter observed, surprised and a little impressed. “You could’ve been an officer with those credentials.” He turned and began walking once more. “Why enlist into the general ranks…?”
“My father’s idea — he considers the SS to be the elite service,” Wisch explained as he hurried to catch up, drawing level with Ritter. “I might have had a commission in the Wehrmacht, but he convinced me to choose the Schutzstaffeln. As I wasn’t with ‘Der Jugend’ there was no way I was going to get a commission, but the opportunity did come up to join the newly-formed armoured corps.”