“Just what are you up to…?” Trumbull demanded with a smile of his own, the mischievous tone in Thorne’s voice instantly recognisable.
“Never you bloody mind,” Thorne chuckled in return “You’re in enough trouble with Eileen as it is… best you don’t know…”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Trumbull countered with a grimace, trying not to laugh. “I somehow doubt that fine distinction will be taken into consideration.”
“Hey…!” Thorne said suddenly, changing the subject as something else occurred to him. “You gave me a measurement in metres a minute ago!”
“What…?” Trumbull blustered, immediately horrified by the suggestion he’d used the metric system. “Impossible… the stuff’s pure gibberish to me…!”
“Earlier, you said the cloud cover was at three to four hundred metres… metres!”
“You’re obviously a little tired, there, Max,” the RAF pilot replied evasively. “I must’ve said ‘nine to twelve hundred feet’, and you’ve simply converted it in your mind…” But there was little real conviction in the explanation.
“‘Nine to twelve hundred feet’, eh…?” Thorne mused, a sly expression sliding across his face. “You converted that quickly enough for someone who finds the metric system ‘pure gibberish’.”
“Now look here…!” Trumbull began with a warning tone that masked more than a little mirth, and the mild disagreement that ensued would provide both of them with some light amusement during the trip north, although the discussion would of course end in a stalemate.
At about the same time the Lightning was cruising back to Scapa Flow, Carl Ritter was being delivered by helicopter to a field hospital set up in what had once been a Folkestone primary school. An initial dressing station near the front line had seen to his wound, but the doctor there had decided it better if the poor officer were transferred somewhere a little more comfortable. The man’s tale was one of incredible courage and endurance, and apart from the leg wound, Oberstleutnant Ritter was quite weak and emaciated from a lack of decent food over the preceding weeks: better care was needed for a decorated officer of the Luftwaffe than a simple dressing station could provide.
Ritter was entitled to some privacy in accordance with his rank, but he protested against it, claiming he wanted to be with others, and that much was true. For the time being, he needed to forget exactly why he’d returned to his own side, for there’d be many questions he’d have to answer convincingly in the next few weeks. Right at that moment, Ritter wanted simply to be around his own men rather than in isolation… he thought he might go mad if he were left alone.
It turned out he was in for a surprise, and as they wheeled him into a clean ward containing eleven other beds, he was astonished to see familiar faces sitting up on their mattresses at the far end of the room.
“Is this possible…?” He called out cheerfully, extremely pleased. “My God, gentlemen… you’re all right?” It was Rottenführer Wisch, one side of his head swathed in white bandages, who recognised the pilot first.
“You, too, sir…? Yes, we’re fine, really. This nasty scar on the side of my head will have some stitches for a while, but otherwise I’m quite sound. The second-lieutenant here was kind enough to take most of the blast for me.”
“They give us tanks impervious to the enemy,” Berndt Schmidt growled, nodding his greeting at the Luftwaffe officer rather than making any effort to salute, “but from our own gunships? Obviously not… trigger-happy idiots…!” Schmidt was bare to the waist and heavily bandaging around the ribs and head, above the eye line.
“We’d been immobilised and were waiting for a bergepanzer to come and tow us back for repairs,” Wisch explained further. “It seems your colleagues in the helicopter wings have trouble identifying our own vehicles…”
“It also seems that we’re are even then, gentlemen.” Ritter replied, honestly laughing as the orderlies wheeled his bed in beside theirs. “I was shot down some time ago and avoided capture for weeks, waiting for you fellows to come and get me, and I end up with a German bullet through my leg as I try to slip through our own lines!” The remark obtained an ironic laugh, even from Schmidt, and Ritter was surprised how easily the truth could conceal the greater lie. “I do believe I saw one of our gunships shot down close to Smeeth just before I was hit.”
“Serves the blind bastard right if it was him,” Schmidt growled unsympathetically. “If he can’t even see a bloody great swastika painted across a panzer’s rear decking, he shouldn’t be flying in the first place!”
“It’s good to see some familiar faces here, gentlemen,” Ritter said softly, the sincerity flowing through. “I’m very glad to see you both.”
“Good to see you too, sir,” Schmidt returned before Wisch could say the same, and to their own great surprise, both meant it equally.
21. Last Rites
Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
‘S-Day’:
Wednesday,
September 11, 1940
It was a dark, cold night as Thorne stood among the headstones of the Lyness Naval Cemetery, a clean change of warm clothes and a thick, Arctic-style black parka going some way to protecting him against the chill and the misting rain that continued to fall softly right across the British Isles. He’d been awaiting the arrival of a fast corvette carrying the rest of the Hindsight group across from Eday, and the Lyness CO and the men of the OR’s mess had been kind enough to allow it to be used as an auditorium for Thorne’s impromptu briefing. There was to be a function of sorts held afterward for all ranks who wished to attend, and although that had been organised partially due to his own instructions, he suspected the only mood that could possibly be that night was one of morbid depression. Thorne had prepared for it anyway, clinging to a faint shred of optimism that something good might come of it; as they were due to leave the next morning, it’d be the last time chance they’d have to farewell the colleagues and friends they’d come to know over the past months.
Of course, there were some Hindsight personnel who’d never leave the cold waters of Scapa Flow… those who’d died in the air raid of August 17th. Thorne stood before Nick Alpert’s grave –although it was impossible to read the inscriptions on the crosses in the distant lighting of the main base, he knew which one it was well enough. He’d brought along a torch in any case, but as he stood there among the final resting places of the fallen, the idea of turning its beam across the rows of headstones and crosses, new or old, seemed somewhat sacrilegious.
“We’re off tomorrow, mate,” he murmured reverently, standing almost in an ‘at ease’ position, as if addressing a fellow officer, which he was. “Would’ve liked you to have seen Australia… I know I went on about it enough.” He gave a thin smile and came to attention momentarily, presenting a crisp salute to all of the new graves there. “Gentlemen…” he added softly, then executed an ‘about face’ and marched away.