Ramsey nodded respectfully.
“I rather fancy that circumstances will dictate that, Sir.”
The King leant forward again as the two men shook hands.
“You know, Ramsey, I have heard the circumstances behind this award. Extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary. I have asked my private secretary to bring you to my study when the ceremony is over, if you find that convenient. I simply must hear the story about you and the Russian first hand.”
Ramsey smiled at the memory of a man who wore a different uniform.
“It would be my pleasure, Sir.”
They exchanged smart salutes and Ramsey returned to the throng, his mind full of pictures of Barnstorf, of McEwan, Green, and Robertson… and of Yarishlov.
The next VC was awarded to Sergeant Carl Jones of the 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers, nine-five to his boys, his selfless act during the last throes of the battle of Hamburg undoubtedly worthy of the highest gallantry award and the thanks of a grateful King and nation.
“I have no idea, Frau Hallmann, none at all.”
Not totally true, as the markings indicated a military origin, but Postman Pfluggman had a date with a cold beer in nearby Blankenrath.
“What are these marking here, Hans?
“Military. Maybe some relative’s things, Frau Hallmann?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve no relatives fighting now. Willi was the last one, and he was lost in Austria… so long ago now.”
“Perhaps it is his then, Frau Hallman? They find things all the time, you know.”
“You think it might be? They never found him. Maybe it is his?”
“One way to find out, Frau Hallmann. Good day.”
The mother of Willi Hallmann, now dead, but once an SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer in the Das Reich division, hurried excitedly to the kitchen table, and quickly found a knife to cut open the package.
She ignored the briefcase, and immediately sat down to read the accompanying official document.
Dear Frau Hallmann,
The enclosed briefcase was recovered from the site of a fatal air crash in Austria, a matter which would appear to have been unrelated to you, or any member in your family.
However, a rough handwritten note was discovered in a broken glass phial within it, a note that gave your address.
As we are unable to ascertain to whom the briefcase belonged, and no third party has claimed it, we felt it only proper to forward it to you, without certain contents that were declared the property of the unknown deceased’s employers.
We have taken the liberty of copying the message as, in its present form, it is suffering from the effects of handling and its exposure to traumatic forces.
The original is in the marked envelope with the case itself.
The message reads as follows.
Frau Hallmann,
Hauptstrasse,
Haserich,
Mosel,
Germany.
AKNEPSU-65AB141/63RK29-29U532
Für-EAK
Schildkröte.
The Government has satisfied itself that the message is not of a military nature, but would be grateful if, should you discover its meaning, that you communicate with the office indicated below at the earliest possible moment.
The dispatching postal official’s name was illegible, but was, in any case, unimportant.
The nondescript US Army mail address meant little to her.
What had caught her eye was a set of three letters.
EAK.
Annika Hallmann understood them perfectly, for she had seen them many times before, when the boy had come to play in the fields around her home, and later, when the man had visited her with his wife and two little girls.
The message was ‘…Für-EAK.’
EAK…
Ernst-August Knocke, her godson.
She went to the telephone and sought a connection to a grand house on the outskirts of nearby Riedenhausen.
The housekeeper answered and promised to get the General straight away.
“Kumm.”
“Good afternoon, Herr General. Frau Hallmann here.”
“Ah, Frau Hallmann. Good afternoon to you too. How may I be of assistance?”
“I need to see you straight away, Herr General. Something you will wish to see has come into my possession. Can I cycle over now?”
Kumm paused for a moment, his Saturday afternoon card game in full swing, but his knowledge of Annika Hallmann was enough to know that she would not trouble him if it were not important.
“Yes, of course. Come over immediately. I have friends here, but they are ones who will understand the interruption, and the concept of discretion, should the need arise. I can have the car sent for you?”
“Thank you, but no thank you, Herr General. I will be with you shortly.”
“Shortly, Frau Hallmann.”
He replaced the receiver and strode back into the orangery, where his friends eyed him quizzically.
“Frau Hallmann is coming over. Something that simply couldn’t wait.”
They all knew Frau Hallmann from her work with their organisation, so the men relaxed as one.
“She’ll be a while, so I suggest we play another hand.”
The man with the eye patch swept the cards up and shuffled.
“Zu befehl, Brigadeführer.”
SS-Brigadeführer Otto Kumm gathered up the twelve cards that the dealer, SS- Obersturmführer Krause, had dispensed, looked at them with something approaching disgust, and waited for his partner to lead off.
They had two further hands before the game of Doppelkopf was brought to an end by Frau Hallmann’s arrival.
The briefcase did the rounds as the woman who had the HIAG’s records hidden in her attached barn, explained the note and the significance of ‘EAK’.
“I see, Frau Hallmann. And the significance of this other scrawl?”
“Unknown to me, Brigadeführer. But clearly my godson is supposed to know. I had hoped you’d know how to get hold of him, as he’s one of ours.”
Kumm nodded.
“Yes, I know how to get hold of Knocke, Frau Hellmann.”
“Can you get this note to him, Brigadefuhrer?”
He looked at his playing partner with a smile.
“I think we can arrange that easily enough, don’t you, Willi?”
The ex-SS senior officer simply nodded and savoured his chilled Riesling.
“Yes, Otto. Easily.”
Ex-SS Obergruppenführer Willi Bittrich, now Général de Brigade in the French Foreign Legion, finished his wine and accepted the note.
Frau Hallmann cycled home, less speedily, as the road was uphill most of the way.
She wheeled her bicycle into the barn and went in to make herself coffee, unaware that eyes watched her from across the street, and that she had been followed all the way to Riedenhausen, and all the way back.
Major Presley had finished her lunch and was relaxing with a cup of the finest Columbian, having reserved the final fifteen minutes before her shift began to read the Sunday Pictorial, and the section relative to yesterday’s events at the Palace.
Sipping greedily at the fresh coffee, she examined the picture of Ramsey, complete with his latest Victoria Cross, shortly to become a bar to his original award.
She examined his posture and grunted to herself, proud of the fact that he stood erect and seemingly comfortable, a resolution she found wholly satisfying, given the effort the man had given to getting ‘back on his feet’.