6. Opening Moves
Airfield at St. Omer
Northern France
Sunday
June 30, 1940
Ritter was once again completely composed by the time Staff Flight and I/ZG26 were ready for take-off, the twenty-six mottled-patterned heavy-fighters waiting in two rows of thirteen at the near end of the airstrip. All the trucks but one had already left, beginning their afternoon journey to the train station, and the last was waiting under Ritter’s specific orders.
Ritter himself was in the communications room, just as he’d been first thing that morning. This time however he wasn’t reporting to Fliegerkorps. In that hectic thirty minutes since he’d found the boy, a wild and irrational idea had taken root within his mind; one that a calm and logical Carl Ritter well might’ve dismissed as ludicrous only a few weeks or even days before. Had he been consulted, Willi Meier certainly would’ve considered his commanding officer mad. The captain hadn’t been consulted at all however: the first person other than Ritter to know of his idea was eventually to be the man he was trying to get in contact with at the other end of the phone.
The main base switchboard shared the room with the radios and Ritter had instructed it to be cleared of everyone save himself and the operator on duty. The non-com was astounded when his CO indicated who he wished to speak to, but a moment or so later he was nevertheless attempting to put Ritter in direct contact with Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters.
At first they met with little success — the all-powerful military principle of ‘chain of command’ saw to that — and it took Ritter himself getting on the phone before the sergeants and lieutenants they initially encountered at the other end began to take notice. After ten minutes of discussion and argument, which included the ‘dressing down’ of a truculent army major that in all probability would see Ritter end up on a charge, he was finally put in direct contact with Schiller, the Reichsmarschall’s aide.
“This is Generalleutnant Albert Schiller speaking, Herr Ritter: what is it you require of the Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht?” The tone was inquisitive but also detached, with almost a faint hint of amusement.
“Herr General, thank you for your time: I must speak with the Reichsmarschall immediately — it’s extremely important.”
“May I inquire as to the nature of this ‘importance’?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s a matter I can speak of only with Reichsmarschall Reuters.” The matter-of-fact tone of Ritter’s gentle rebuttal hid the fact that his initial rush of adrenaline had subsided to be supplanted by fear and uncertainty, and he was quickly coming to his senses regarding what he was actually doing. As he waited desperately, images of not only being refused audience but also of a court-martial flashed through Ritter’s mind in the seconds before Schiller finally gave his considered answer.
“Despite the unorthodox nature of your request, Oberstleutnant Ritter, I’ll put you through in a few moments if you’ll be patient…please hold…” Ritter was too surprised to do anything other than exactly that.
Those moments passed with agonising slowness as he waited, unsure now as to how to proceed. He fully recognised the enormity of what he was doing and the logical, rational side of his mind was taking over from the emotional, instinctive reactions he’d experienced earlier. He also realised that he’d caught a proverbial ‘tiger by the tail’: he was scared of proceeding but also knew it was far too late for him to turn back.
“Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters, Herr Ritter. I hadn’t expected to be speaking to you again so soon. What exactly is it I can do for you?” The Reichsmarschall’s voice at the other end of the phone suddenly brought his mind back to reality.
“I need a favour of you, sir,” Ritter began cautiously, almost humbly. What he was hoping to ask was a great deal and the pilot knew it. “It’s imperative that I meet with you as soon as possible to discuss a problem I need to resolve. It’s something I don’t believe I can accomplish without your help.”
“Another favour…? I’d have thought my efforts this morning far exceeded my responsibilities as it was…?” There was a statement of position in that: the Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht considered the pilot in his debt already for the morning’s intervention, Ritter wasn’t disputing. Yet Ritter could nevertheless detect a strange quality in the Reichsmarschall’s speech. Unlike Schiller’s amused tone, this one carried something the pilot hadn’t expected: an undercurrent of evasiveness. It sounded almost as if the OdW was intimidated by him in some strange, improbable way, and it spurred Ritter on somewhat, his own stance becoming a little more confident.
“I certainly recognise and appreciate the help you provided me this morning, Mein Herr, however this problem unfortunately still exists. It’s only yourself who has sufficient authority within the military to act on my behalf.”
“I’m an extremely busy man, Herr Ritter — you do understand that?”
“I understand completely, Mein Herr…” Ritter replied instantly, but in that moment he knew that he’d won…that battle at least.
“I’m glad you understand that, for I shan’t expect to hear from you in this manner again. Where do you wish to meet?”
“Are you aware, sir, of the new training airbase at Orly that Fliegerkorps has set up?”
“I know of it: you’re going to be there soon?”
“My unit’s transferring there this afternoon for re-equipment with a new type of aircraft — we’ll be there for a number of weeks, I expect.”
“Oh, yes — of course. I’d forgotten it was ‘Horst Wessel’ that was receiving the first operational S-2s.” He’d not forgotten at all in fact, and had given the order himself. “You’ll be there the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes sir, I will,” Ritter stated emphatically, almost breathless.
“Expect me to arrive by air at nine that morning then. Until then, goodbye, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“Thank you, sir…” Ritter began, but Reuters had already hung up.
Thorne was seated with his back to the entrance to the Officer’s Mess that afternoon, an immaculate Maton Messiah six-string acoustic in his arms as he leaned forward in his chair and carefully tested the tuning. He was oblivious as Trumbull entered the mess and quietly approached, the Hindsight CO’s attention completely captured by the superb instrument in his hands as the fingers of his right hand plucked experimentally at each of the strings in turn. Pleased with the result, he nodded silently to himself in approval and proceeded to launch into a quite serviceable rendition of the classical guitar solo from ‘Is There Anybody Out There?’ off Pink Floyd’s The Wall album.