The Sword and the Net
1 BERLIN
I here was a hard, pale sun outside. It shone down through the tracery of the naked lime trees and made their branches black against the chill blue of the sky. It shone through the window of the room they had lent Otto in the new S.S. barracks and glittered cheerfully on the bright surfaces of paint and chromium. It brought with it the music of a band playing at the far side of the grounds—good, swinging martial music which seemed to swell in Otto’s head—and in his throat, where that fantastic and unpredictable and most unmilitary lump had been gathering all the morning.
He coughed harshly; then swallowed three times. That sometimes worked all right. . . .
There was a rapping at the door, and a voice, harsh yet respectful. “Herr Captain. . . . Is the Herr Captain ready?”
Otto swallowed again; then put both hands to his collar. It was clipped already, but he constricted his aching throat yet further with two fingers.
“Almost. What is it?” he called throatily. “This damn collar!” The added mutter was convincing.
“All officers to the Mess-Hall in five minutes, Captain!”
Otto swallowed again. He turned away from the dresser and surveyed himself in the long mirror set into the chromium door of a closet. He was satisfied with what he saw, and not without reason.
He saw six feet of lean, erect and resilient body, wide-shouldered, narrow-hipped and admirably set off by the new bluish-grey Luftwaffe uniform. It was a good fit—an admirable fit. Berlin tailors certainly worked well and fast. Particularly, he supposed, in such a case as his—that of a young and distinguished officer who must on short notice attend an investiture ceremony where the Fuehrer himself would pin yet another decoration upon his chest.
He twitched the high-collared tunic up at the back and down in front. He went back to the dresser in two strides, picked up a hairbrush and dabbed once more at the crisp, corn-coloured hair which would insist upon curling. He noted with distaste the pallor of his face and the slightly drawn look over the cheek-bones beneath the steel-blue eyes. To the prejudiced gaze of these same eyes the pallor and faint gauntness were glaring clues to the childish throat-filling which would so frequently obsess him at any emotional moment.
He gave the harsh, rasping cough again; then repeated the triple swallow. He strode to the door and went through it and down the wide, gleaming staircase. Both entrance hall and messroom were filling now with officers; young officers and middle-aged officers, officers from every branch of all three fighting arms; officers of all shapes, sizes and ranks; officers, to a man, clad in new, smart uniforms and carrying themselves with pride.
There was a swelling, deep-toned rumbling of men’s voices in the outer hall, and from the inner Mess-Hall came yet more and louder voices swelling to a diapason.
Otto, seeing no one whom he knew, threaded his way into the Mess-Hall. Here it was really crowded, and the roar of voices was punctuated by the tinkling of glass, the popping of corks and bursts of laughter. Still there seemed no one here whom he knew—but as he pushed his way towards the bar, edging between a noisy group of dark-uniformed S.S. officers and a little knot of navy men, a heavy hand clapped upon his shoulder.
He looked into the broad, beaming, black-browed face of Ulrich Hegger. Hegger, looming enormous in his new Artillery uniform, had an empty champagne glass in his hand; a glass which he now set down upon the tray of a passing mess-waiter.
“More!” he said to the man. Then, indicating Otto, “And a glass for Captain Falken. Quick!”
“Yes,” said the man. “Yes, Herr Major.” At the sound of the name he had started, looking at Otto with wide and warm and worshipping eyes.
Hegger now had Otto’s hand and was pumping it up and down enthusiastically. He was delighted to see Otto. And Otto, though not really liking the man, could not help but be pleased.
“Falken!” Hegger said. “Falken, you young villain! How are you?”
“All right.” Otto’s voice, because of the lump in his throat, still sounded husky in his own ears. “Bit of a cold, but nothing much.”
Hegger turned to the man he had been with—another Artilleryman and a couple of middle-aged Infantry Majors. He said:
“Come and meet Otto Falken—before he is too famous to know you!”
The trio crowded about Otto and were introduced one by one.
Each in his own way showed gratification.
“We’ve heard all about you,” said the Artilleryman. “Great work!”
“Proud to meet you, Captain,” said the elder Infantry officer. “You certainly gave those Englishmen a black eye!”
The last was a man of monosyllables. “Great!” he said jerkily. “Magnificent!”
Otto mumbled thanks in reply, as pleasantly as he could manage. He was rescued by the returning waiter and a glass of champagne which stunned the lump and seemed to reduce it. The band was now outside the windows and its vigorous music came loudly over the humming talk.
Otto suddenly realized that he felt happy—ecstatically, wonderfully happy. . . .
The music swelled in Otto’s ears and mingled with the surf-like thunder of the cheers. . . . He sat in the open car with two other officers whom he never would know. . . . Their car led the procession of many similar cars which wound its way through crowd-lined streets towards the Sportspalast. . . .
At intervals in the serried, orderly ranks of cheering spectators were bands. . . . When you drew near a band there was no cheering until you had passed it and were out of its immediate range—then the cheering began again. . . .
He and the other officers sat stiffly. Taking his cue from the senior—a bearded naval man whose rank badges were those of a junior Admiral—Otto occasionally turned his head to this side or the other and saluted in acknowledgment of the cheers. . . .
The sun glittered palely down. . . . The cars rolled steadily, slowly on. . . . The roaring and the music and the iron voices of the loudspeakers mingled into one prolonged, triumphant pæan. . . . Otto’s throat constricted agonizingly behind the high stiff collar of the new uniform. . . . He felt a suspicious pricking behind his eyelids and dared not blink them. He kept the eyes fixedly, burningly wide. . . . He despised himself and was ineffably proud and miserably happy. . . .
And then the Sportspalast—and a species of coma which wrapped him about, cutting him off from real contact with the outer world—his own private, transparent, impregnable cloak. . . .
More music . . . more cheering . . . himself in the centre of a rapid line of waiting officers. . . . Then silence—and on the platform before him, the Fuehrer. . . . Then the harsh, volatile voice, addressing—through the officers, through Otto himself—the tensely listening thousands. . . . That awe-inspiring, extraordinary voice . . . the wonderful voice . . . the voice of the Liberator, future Ruler of the World. . . .
And then the slow, single-rank procession to the platform—and Otto in his turn upon it. . . . A firm handshake and the pinning upon his left breast of the most coveted honour in the New Germany. . . . A smile such as had not been granted to any of the men before him. . . . And then, after the smile, words of praise and thanks for his ear alone: personal, private words from the Fuehrer to Otto Falken! . . . Then, amazingly, yet another signal honour—a second handshake. . . .
After minutes or hours in which the coma-cloak had seemed opaque, he found himself out of the main hall and in an anteroom. It was filled with men in uniform; the men who, as well as himself, had just been honoured. He stood apart, wrapped in happiness and misty, unformulated thought. He did not want to speak to anyone nor do anything; he was satisfied to be in this moment. . . .