The Dawn Patrol by Todd Kelsey
The meeting was highly secret, and some people who attended had agreed to be blindfolded. They only knew that they were somewhere in Germany or France, and as all 10 of the participants sat down around the table, recognition dawned, and they searched each others faces, knowing that any one of them could betray all of them, and that any hint of their meeting could result in all of them being shot. The gravity of what they were doing reached all of them, as their identities were unveiled, members of the top echelons of the German military structure, without their uniforms. And notably, not a single Swastika on display. They all carried a death sentence, imprinted as surely on their hearts as the tattoos on the Jews who were being sent to concentration camps.
“Welcome, brothers, to Schwarze Kapelle, the Black Orchestra.” the solemn voice said, and he looked into eyes that he knew so well. “It was not so long ago that we all sat in the Kroll Opera House, listening to Herr Hitler, and now we see what has become of the supposed invasion of England”.
“Dumkopf!” a voice hissed, and a hand struck the table. And in a more measured voice. “That idiot Goering lost control of the Battle of Britain!” The host of the meeting nodded.
“Yes, he was ever so confident he could drive the RAF from the skies and secure the surrender of the British by means of the Luftwaffe alone.”
Another voice chimed in, a senior commander of the Wehrmracht, the unified armed forces of Germany.
“What do the British say about Schwarze Kapelle? How were the overtures received?”
The moderator sighed.
“The Venlo incident has made them highly suspicious.”
“The Venlo incidient?” asked another voice.
“Yes – I suppose given the circumstances it does no good to pretend there are any secrets among us. Yes, the Gestapo damn them! They made false overtures to the British government, and lured two British Secret Intelligence Service agents to the outskirts of the town of Venlo, Netherlands, in November of last year.”
“What were the SIS agents told?”
“That members of the German military wanted to overthrow Hitler!”
They all sat in silence, thinking about how very dangerous the game they were playing was. A powerful commander from Abwehr, Military Intelligence spoke up, who had no love for the British.
“Do the British realize that we have no intention of surrender once Hitler is overthrown, that we merely intend to consolidate our gains?”
“We have to assume that they either know this, or suspect it, but that we must continue to try and make overtures – but not assume we will have any help.”
The host looked up. “Gentlemen, our time is short, so we must discuss the task at hand. I think we are agreed that Hitler made a fatal, strategic error when he insisted on switching to massive night bombings of London. Are we agreed?” Patriotic generals and commanders stared into space, and nodded.
“Very well, we must talk about Russia.” and the mood became grimmer, if such were possible, as they looked at a map of Europe and Russia before them.
“As you know, we face significant challenges in procuring raw materials, combined with the potential collision with the Soviet Union over territory in the Balkans.”
“Oh please dispense with the pleasantries! It’s not a challenge, it’s a crisis!” exclaimed another general.
“Very well. And it appears that in spite of our pact with Stalin, only an invasion of the Soviet Union will satisfy Hitler’s demand for more raw materials.”
“The madman must be stopped” said a quiet voice, who had not spoken before, and they all turned to him in deference. “In June, Herr Hitler told me that the victories in Europe had finally freed his hands for the real task – the showdown with Bolshevism”.
“So that has been his plan all along? Betray Stalin, invade the Soviet Union, and spend the blood and steel on a hopeless quest to invade the Soviet Union?!?! By all the heavens and fire on earth below” and a hand smacked down on the map “have we not learned from Napoleon?!?!” and they all involuntarily looked at the vast, large territory of the Soviet Union, stretching ever eastward, and they each shuddered inside, thinking of how as boys they had learned of Napoleon’s quest to conquer Russia, and how the Russian winter had conquered Napoleon, as his supply lines had stretched ever further. Another voice chimed in, quietly.
“We can occupy Western Russia, at least. And we told Herr Hitler that occupying Western Russia would create more of a drain than a relief for Germany’s economic situation. But Hitler is not content to consolidate our gains. He will inevitably try to invade Russia, and victory is far from assured.”
“Victory is impossible!” exclaimed another voice, the most senior commander at the meeting. “Does anyone here seriously doubt that America will eventually enter the war?” No one spoke. “And when Herr Hitler forces us to invade the Soviet Union, does anyone doubt that America will end up supporting the Soviet Union?”
“There are the isolationists . . . I have friends in high places in the Nazi party who have visited New York City and spoken with manufacturers there who were friendly . . .”
“Bah! Japan is likely to attack America.”
“Japan? Surely not.”
“Surely so, because Japan is being squeezed in the same way we are – we are running out of oil!” And the host broke in again.
“Gentleman, are we agreed that England is a lost cause?” There were nods.
“We should have continued striking the airfields, when British defenses were reeling from losses in the air and on the ground. We should have finished them when we had the chance. We have now given them time to recover!”
“And now we need to fortify our defenses in France. How many years before the Americans invade Europe? Anyone?” and the host looked around the room, and put his finger down on Normandy to bring the point home.
“Within four to five years.”
“The losses in the Soviet Union will enormous. And when the Russians come back to Berlin, they will descend on the city with savage fury.”
“With England as a forward airbase, the U.S. will bomb Germany without mercy, both military and civilian targets”. The host looked around the table, and felt the time was right.
“We are agreed, then. We must try to kill Adolf Hitler.”
“How? When?”
“It will take years, perhaps. And it will become ever harder for us to communicate, and ever more dangerous. Perhaps an opportunity will be present itself. But most likely, a bomb.”
“One of us could just shoot him.” Suggested another person.
“Would anyone like to volunteer for that?” asked the host. “With a guarantee of instantly being shot yourself, or tortured, no guarantee that he will die, and also lose your place to try and influence the war?” There were no volunteers.
“A bomb, then. And in the meantime, we have no choice but to invade Russia, throwing all of our weight and fury, in the attempt to destroy the Soviet Union. Destroy the Soviet Union completely, or we are destroyed. Destroy Hitler, or we are destroyed.” The host looked around the room with finality, wondering if any of them would survive the war. “And now we must go”.
--
Ernst Grunen was gratified to receive the envoy from Winston Churchill. He had been blindfolded, escorted from the prison camp where he was being held, and judging by the time, taken to a location within several kilometers of the prison camp.
“So you were saying, Mr. Grunen?” asked the attendant, taking notes.
Ernst sighed, realizing that he would have to take the risk, and that the lives of so many people would be placed within the hands of this young clerk. He deserved at least to know his name.
“What is your name, if I might ask?”
“Nigel. Just Nigel.” said the clerk.
“Nigel, do you know who Erwin Rommel is?” asked Ernst.
Nigel Hawthorne remembered reading an article about Erwin Rommel, one of Hitler’s top generals, a tank commander who had made rapid gains in France. He was
one of the most highly decorated German military commanders, but uncharacteristically, he was known to be humane in his treatment of prisoners.
“Of course” said Nigel, making a note.
“Well if your intelligence service hadn’t made the connection, I can tell you that Erwin Rommel is my cousin.” said Ernst, watching the man’s face carefully, which registered some surprise. Ernst sighed. This will not be enough. I will have to risk my life, and the life of a hundred other men, by mentioning the trump card that Erwin had given me, the last time we met.
Ernst remembered going on a trip to the Bavarian Alps with his relatives, including Erwin Rommel, and they had taken a liking to each other. Out under the sun, the crisp air, the challenging hike had given them a sense of camaraderie. Ernst had adored Rommel, a brilliant man, but also reasonable. He had been an influence on his wanting to become a soldier, and had been an early encouragement on his learning how to fly.
And then, in the midst of the battle of France, Erwin had looked carefully at Ernst for a long time, and had astounded Ernst by telling him that he was placing his life in Ernst’s hands, and how he was beginning to have some doubts about Hitler. He had given Ernst a trump card, to present to the English if he should ever find himself a prisoner there. ‘Try and speak to Churchill if you can.” Erwin had said. And here I am, speaking to and attendant. Such a delicate conversation. Ernst sighed.
“Ok, Nigel, life is short and every day counts. Go and talk to Winston Churchill, and mention these two things. Please look at me for a moment, this is very important” and Nigel looked up, and noticed how earnest the expression was. “please do not mention these two phrases to anyone, and please do not write them down”
Nigel thought for a moment, looking at Ernst, and instinct told him that they should probably speak alone. He waived the military guard away. “Please give us a moment” and the guard left the room.
“You have my attention” said Nigel, who put down his pencil.
“Just mention these two phrases: Schwarze Kapelle, and the Invasion of Russia”. Nigel, being nominally an attendant, but also being a member of British Intelligence, knew the importance immediately, and wondered if it registered on his face.
--
A few days later, Winston Churchill sat in front of the young German pilot, smoking a cigar, and surmising him. British intelligence, the military, and every other official he had spoken to in meetings had advised against meeting with Ernst, claiming that Ernst could be a spy, that he might have a bomb implanted in his skull – any number of fantastical plots. They were even suspicious of Rudy Mitchell, like the good attack dogs they were, wondering if Rudy Mitchell was some kind of elaborate plant from the Gestapo. They had a right to be paranoid, god bless them, after the Venlo incident. But Winston had spoken to Eric Wallace, a friend of Rudy Mitchell’s, and Winston had sat with the both of them, and the conspiracy just didn’t fit, and besides, they’d scanned Ernst with an xray machine, probed every part of his body.
“So, Erwin Rommel told you about Scharze Kapelle, and you claim to be neither part of German Military Intelligence or the Gestapo?” asked Winston.
“Mr. Churchill – I volunteered for the mission to bomb Rudy’s house because I wanted to try and stop it, and I did. And I am volunteering to go back to Germany and try and kill Hitler.” he said. “Erwin told me about the Venlo incident, how your agents were taken by the Gestapo, but you have nothing to lose here – I am willing to go myself. I have come to despise the man, what he stands for, and furthermore, I believe he insane. I also suspect Goering is insane.”
“Oh? Goering”
“Goering is brilliant in his own way” said Ernst, aware that every word was being recorded. “Yet another thing you might wish to know is that he is constantly on morphine, and has been since 1923” Ernst let this sink in, but he could not read Churchill’s face. “And I believe, actually I know, and have seen signs . . . that it has affected his mental state” he said.
Well, well, it does not surprise me, thought Winston Churchill.
“I don’t suppose you can corroborate this?” asked Winston Churchill.
“No, but Erwin Rommel also gave me the name of Hitler’s private doctor Morell”
“We know about Morell”
“Yes, of course, he is publicly part of Hitler’s circle. Goering thinks he is a quack. But what Erin told me is that each morning, Morell gives Hitler a vitamin preparation he calls Vitamultin, and that a contact in the SS took a packet, had it tested, and it tested for methamphetamine.” And he let that sink in for a moment, seeing if anything would register.
“Methamphetamine, quite.” The whole bloody Nazi fighting machine on drugs, Winston thought, and now the leadership, God help us.
“Well sir, along with many other pilots and soldiers, I myself have taken Pervitin, and when Erwin spoke to me about it, he said that between April and July, 33 to 35 million doses were manufactured by the army and air force.”
“So basically, you’re warning me, telling me that both Goering and Hitler are drug-crazed maniacs?” asked Winston Churchill, wryly.
“Yes sir. I believe both Goering and Hitler exhibit . . . symptoms . . . that I myself have personally experienced. And I’ve been up close around them both.”
Winston sighed.
“About the Soviet Union, then?” the mention of the invasion of Soviet Union had at once filled him with hope that England may yet survive, and also dread, thinking about the Nazi war machine descending on Russia. The thought did not shock him, but he was curious enough to speak to this young German pilot who wanted to kill Hitler.
“Yes, sir.” and Ernst felt a curious sensation that by talking to Winston Churchill, he was being loyal to the future of Germany – not its present leadership, but the people of Germany, and to all those whom Hitler had been persecuting. Ernst knew that Churchill had fought against Germany in the trenches, but he also knew that he didn’t hate Germans, just Hitler. And he didn’t have the appearance of hate – looking at him, he had the appearance of pugnacity, defiance, and realism, as well as courage. Ernst thought forward fifty years, thinking about Communism in Russia, about Stalin.
“Sir, if I might ask you for your perspective – do you think that someday people in Russia will be free from Stalin and Communism, and that Germany will be free from Hitler and Nazism? How long will that be?” he asked, and Winston found himself liking the pilot in spite of himself, as he thought back to the Great War, and Christmas Day of 1915, when they had heard the Germans singing the Christmas carol “Silent Night” 100 meters away, and they had responded by singing “Good King Wenceslas”.
The killing had been savage and horrific on both sides, hundreds of thousands had died up until that day, and millions would die thereafter, but by some miracle of sanity, or insanity, a small group of soldiers from both sides had stepped up beyond the deadly zone of the trenches and actually played football!
“Perhaps, if we’re lucky. How long do you think it will be?”
Ernst thought for a moment, and said hopefully, “100 years?”
“Let’s make it 50” said Winston Churchill, marveling at the unassuming audacity of the young pilot. “Now, where were we?”
“Sorry, sir.” said Ernst, feeling the freedom of being wiling to die. “Erwin also spoke to me in France about the dire situation Germany is facing with oil. And one of his contacts in the German Military High Command told him that Hitler mentioned his ultimate goal is to destroy the Bolsheviks. Erwin told me about Schwarze Kapelle, and how he wasn’t sure he agreed with them, but he also mentioned Hitler’s zealous madness for power, and how it reminded him of Napoleon”.
“So you, and your relative Rommel, and others, presumably, believe that it’s only a matter of time before Hitler invades Russia.”
“Yes, sir, and Erwin was a bit of a cynic about England. He was afraid that Hitler would make bad or erratic decisions about England, and when I as forthcoming about my impressions of Goering, we
both weren’t hopeful. I do have to admit that we both had been drinking, and so our guard was down. After that meeting I didn’t think much more about it, because I was afraid the Gestapo would find out somehow and I would be shot, so I bottled it up inside.” and then he was quiet, thinking about how he had gone from being one of Germany’s top fighter pilots, to an enemy of Hitlers.
“And then you began to have doubts?” asked Winston, gently.
Ernst nodded. “Yes sir, and admittedly, the Pervitin was taking its toll – I was off of it, and then on it again, trying to escape from my doubts. But when I was in the Kroll Opera house, sitting there listening to Hitler and his ‘Last Appeal to Reason’, I became convinced that while the German military may be loyal and noble, Hitler and Goering and the Nazi war machine had collectively become insane. They are all insane, Prime Minister.”
“Agreed” said Winston, and he was convinced of the pilot’s sincerity. He stubbed out his cigarette. It’s going to be a long war.
“So, I can tell you, that you won’t get anywhere trying to convince me or British intelligence to overtly support a plot against Hitler” and Ernst looked crestfallen. I’m trying to save your life, young man. He sighed. Blood and glory, is it?
“What if I was to escape somehow?” asked Ernst.
“Well the truth is, only one prisoner of war escaped from England in the last war, and we don’t intend to let any escape in this war, and the Gestapo also knows this. You’d almost certainly be shot if you went back to England.” he said, wondering what to do with the young man.
Ernst thought quickly. Ok, let’s go to plan B, here goes.
“Ok, how about I try to take a bomber to France, and kill Goering in his headquarters? Maybe a captured German bomber, escorted by some captured German fighters? I know the protocols. It would certainly be a suicide mission, but I do believe Goering is insane, and so is Hitler”
Winston sat there, admiring the pluck of this pilot. The risks were enormous, the propaganda value would be great if it could be carried off, but Goering was erratic to begin with, and his star was no longer rising. If Hitler turns to Russia then Goering might be a lost cause anyway. He may be of more value in a trial for war crimes, after the war, if he survives. Then again, Hitler might be shaken by the death of one of his inner circle – or enraged.
“I find myself in the strange position of wanting to ask the Queen to give a knighthood to a bloody German pilot who has probably killed my countrymen.” Churchill said, staring at Ernst, who lowered his head. “I appreciate what you’re offering, and I believe the risks are too great and the likelihood of a return too small. But I’ll think about it.” he said.
“Yes sir, I understand. War is hell.”
As the small convoy took Winston away from the prison camp, he thought deeply, and reached inside his coat pocket for the little stopwatch, gazing at the Dragonfly, and the emblem, Liberet et Defendat. He thought about how if the Allies won, Germany would need to be rebuilt in a better way after this war than the last, and that minds like Ernst’s would be sorely needed. I have half a mind to mention Ernst to young Eric Wallace as a potential recruit for the Order of the Dragonfly, he thought. Winston began humming Silent Night, and then glared at an attendant, who was looking at him from over the top of some papers. The attendant ducked under his paper. “Sorry sir”. And Winston looked out the window, and lit a cigar, and hummed King Wenceslas, as they rode back towards London.
“Welcome, brothers, to Schwarze Kapelle, the Black Orchestra.” the solemn voice said, and he looked into eyes that he knew so well. “It was not so long ago that we all sat in the Kroll Opera House, listening to Herr Hitler, and now we see what has become of the supposed invasion of England”.
“Dumkopf!” a voice hissed, and a hand struck the table. And in a more measured voice. “That idiot Goering lost control of the Battle of Britain!” The host of the meeting nodded.
“Yes, he was ever so confident he could drive the RAF from the skies and secure the surrender of the British by means of the Luftwaffe alone.”
Another voice chimed in, a senior commander of the Wehrmracht, the unified armed forces of Germany.
“What do the British say about Schwarze Kapelle? How were the overtures received?”
The moderator sighed.
“The Venlo incident has made them highly suspicious.”
“The Venlo incidient?” asked another voice.
“Yes – I suppose given the circumstances it does no good to pretend there are any secrets among us. Yes, the Gestapo damn them! They made false overtures to the British government, and lured two British Secret Intelligence Service agents to the outskirts of the town of Venlo, Netherlands, in November of last year.”
“What were the SIS agents told?”
“That members of the German military wanted to overthrow Hitler!”
They all sat in silence, thinking about how very dangerous the game they were playing was. A powerful commander from Abwehr, Military Intelligence spoke up, who had no love for the British.
“Do the British realize that we have no intention of surrender once Hitler is overthrown, that we merely intend to consolidate our gains?”
“We have to assume that they either know this, or suspect it, but that we must continue to try and make overtures – but not assume we will have any help.”
The host looked up. “Gentlemen, our time is short, so we must discuss the task at hand. I think we are agreed that Hitler made a fatal, strategic error when he insisted on switching to massive night bombings of London. Are we agreed?” Patriotic generals and commanders stared into space, and nodded.
“Very well, we must talk about Russia.” and the mood became grimmer, if such were possible, as they looked at a map of Europe and Russia before them.
“As you know, we face significant challenges in procuring raw materials, combined with the potential collision with the Soviet Union over territory in the Balkans.”
“Oh please dispense with the pleasantries! It’s not a challenge, it’s a crisis!” exclaimed another general.
“Very well. And it appears that in spite of our pact with Stalin, only an invasion of the Soviet Union will satisfy Hitler’s demand for more raw materials.”
“The madman must be stopped” said a quiet voice, who had not spoken before, and they all turned to him in deference. “In June, Herr Hitler told me that the victories in Europe had finally freed his hands for the real task – the showdown with Bolshevism”.
“So that has been his plan all along? Betray Stalin, invade the Soviet Union, and spend the blood and steel on a hopeless quest to invade the Soviet Union?!?! By all the heavens and fire on earth below” and a hand smacked down on the map “have we not learned from Napoleon?!?!” and they all involuntarily looked at the vast, large territory of the Soviet Union, stretching ever eastward, and they each shuddered inside, thinking of how as boys they had learned of Napoleon’s quest to conquer Russia, and how the Russian winter had conquered Napoleon, as his supply lines had stretched ever further. Another voice chimed in, quietly.
“We can occupy Western Russia, at least. And we told Herr Hitler that occupying Western Russia would create more of a drain than a relief for Germany’s economic situation. But Hitler is not content to consolidate our gains. He will inevitably try to invade Russia, and victory is far from assured.”
“Victory is impossible!” exclaimed another voice, the most senior commander at the meeting. “Does anyone here seriously doubt that America will eventually enter the war?” No one spoke. “And when Herr Hitler forces us to invade the Soviet Union, does anyone doubt that America will end up supporting the Soviet Union?”
“There are the isolationists . . . I have friends in high places in the Nazi party who have visited New York City and spoken with manufacturers there who were friendly . . .”
“Bah! Japan is likely to attack America.”
“Japan? Surely not.”
“Surely so, because Japan is being squeezed in the same way we are – we are running out of oil!” And the host broke in again.
“Gentleman, are we agreed that England is a lost cause?” There were nods.
“We should have continued striking the airfields, when British defenses were reeling from losses in the air and on the ground. We should have finished them when we had the chance. We have now given them time to recover!”
“And now we need to fortify our defenses in France. How many years before the Americans invade Europe? Anyone?” and the host looked around the room, and put his finger down on Normandy to bring the point home.
“Within four to five years.”
“The losses in the Soviet Union will enormous. And when the Russians come back to Berlin, they will descend on the city with savage fury.”
“With England as a forward airbase, the U.S. will bomb Germany without mercy, both military and civilian targets”. The host looked around the table, and felt the time was right.
“We are agreed, then. We must try to kill Adolf Hitler.”
“How? When?”
“It will take years, perhaps. And it will become ever harder for us to communicate, and ever more dangerous. Perhaps an opportunity will be present itself. But most likely, a bomb.”
“One of us could just shoot him.” Suggested another person.
“Would anyone like to volunteer for that?” asked the host. “With a guarantee of instantly being shot yourself, or tortured, no guarantee that he will die, and also lose your place to try and influence the war?” There were no volunteers.
“A bomb, then. And in the meantime, we have no choice but to invade Russia, throwing all of our weight and fury, in the attempt to destroy the Soviet Union. Destroy the Soviet Union completely, or we are destroyed. Destroy Hitler, or we are destroyed.” The host looked around the room with finality, wondering if any of them would survive the war. “And now we must go”.
--
Ernst Grunen was gratified to receive the envoy from Winston Churchill. He had been blindfolded, escorted from the prison camp where he was being held, and judging by the time, taken to a location within several kilometers of the prison camp.
“So you were saying, Mr. Grunen?” asked the attendant, taking notes.
Ernst sighed, realizing that he would have to take the risk, and that the lives of so many people would be placed within the hands of this young clerk. He deserved at least to know his name.
“What is your name, if I might ask?”
“Nigel. Just Nigel.” said the clerk.
“Nigel, do you know who Erwin Rommel is?” asked Ernst.
Nigel Hawthorne remembered reading an article about Erwin Rommel, one of Hitler’s top generals, a tank commander who had made rapid gains in France. He was
“Of course” said Nigel, making a note.
“Well if your intelligence service hadn’t made the connection, I can tell you that Erwin Rommel is my cousin.” said Ernst, watching the man’s face carefully, which registered some surprise. Ernst sighed. This will not be enough. I will have to risk my life, and the life of a hundred other men, by mentioning the trump card that Erwin had given me, the last time we met.
Ernst remembered going on a trip to the Bavarian Alps with his relatives, including Erwin Rommel, and they had taken a liking to each other. Out under the sun, the crisp air, the challenging hike had given them a sense of camaraderie. Ernst had adored Rommel, a brilliant man, but also reasonable. He had been an influence on his wanting to become a soldier, and had been an early encouragement on his learning how to fly.
And then, in the midst of the battle of France, Erwin had looked carefully at Ernst for a long time, and had astounded Ernst by telling him that he was placing his life in Ernst’s hands, and how he was beginning to have some doubts about Hitler. He had given Ernst a trump card, to present to the English if he should ever find himself a prisoner there. ‘Try and speak to Churchill if you can.” Erwin had said. And here I am, speaking to and attendant. Such a delicate conversation. Ernst sighed.
“Ok, Nigel, life is short and every day counts. Go and talk to Winston Churchill, and mention these two things. Please look at me for a moment, this is very important” and Nigel looked up, and noticed how earnest the expression was. “please do not mention these two phrases to anyone, and please do not write them down”
Nigel thought for a moment, looking at Ernst, and instinct told him that they should probably speak alone. He waived the military guard away. “Please give us a moment” and the guard left the room.
“You have my attention” said Nigel, who put down his pencil.
“Just mention these two phrases: Schwarze Kapelle, and the Invasion of Russia”. Nigel, being nominally an attendant, but also being a member of British Intelligence, knew the importance immediately, and wondered if it registered on his face.
--
A few days later, Winston Churchill sat in front of the young German pilot, smoking a cigar, and surmising him. British intelligence, the military, and every other official he had spoken to in meetings had advised against meeting with Ernst, claiming that Ernst could be a spy, that he might have a bomb implanted in his skull – any number of fantastical plots. They were even suspicious of Rudy Mitchell, like the good attack dogs they were, wondering if Rudy Mitchell was some kind of elaborate plant from the Gestapo. They had a right to be paranoid, god bless them, after the Venlo incident. But Winston had spoken to Eric Wallace, a friend of Rudy Mitchell’s, and Winston had sat with the both of them, and the conspiracy just didn’t fit, and besides, they’d scanned Ernst with an xray machine, probed every part of his body.
“So, Erwin Rommel told you about Scharze Kapelle, and you claim to be neither part of German Military Intelligence or the Gestapo?” asked Winston.
“Mr. Churchill – I volunteered for the mission to bomb Rudy’s house because I wanted to try and stop it, and I did. And I am volunteering to go back to Germany and try and kill Hitler.” he said. “Erwin told me about the Venlo incident, how your agents were taken by the Gestapo, but you have nothing to lose here – I am willing to go myself. I have come to despise the man, what he stands for, and furthermore, I believe he insane. I also suspect Goering is insane.”
“Oh? Goering”
“Goering is brilliant in his own way” said Ernst, aware that every word was being recorded. “Yet another thing you might wish to know is that he is constantly on morphine, and has been since 1923” Ernst let this sink in, but he could not read Churchill’s face. “And I believe, actually I know, and have seen signs . . . that it has affected his mental state” he said.
Well, well, it does not surprise me, thought Winston Churchill.
“I don’t suppose you can corroborate this?” asked Winston Churchill.
“No, but Erwin Rommel also gave me the name of Hitler’s private doctor Morell”
“We know about Morell”
“Yes, of course, he is publicly part of Hitler’s circle. Goering thinks he is a quack. But what Erin told me is that each morning, Morell gives Hitler a vitamin preparation he calls Vitamultin, and that a contact in the SS took a packet, had it tested, and it tested for methamphetamine.” And he let that sink in for a moment, seeing if anything would register.
“Methamphetamine, quite.” The whole bloody Nazi fighting machine on drugs, Winston thought, and now the leadership, God help us.
“Well sir, along with many other pilots and soldiers, I myself have taken Pervitin, and when Erwin spoke to me about it, he said that between April and July, 33 to 35 million doses were manufactured by the army and air force.”
“So basically, you’re warning me, telling me that both Goering and Hitler are drug-crazed maniacs?” asked Winston Churchill, wryly.
“Yes sir. I believe both Goering and Hitler exhibit . . . symptoms . . . that I myself have personally experienced. And I’ve been up close around them both.”
Winston sighed.
“About the Soviet Union, then?” the mention of the invasion of Soviet Union had at once filled him with hope that England may yet survive, and also dread, thinking about the Nazi war machine descending on Russia. The thought did not shock him, but he was curious enough to speak to this young German pilot who wanted to kill Hitler.
“Yes, sir.” and Ernst felt a curious sensation that by talking to Winston Churchill, he was being loyal to the future of Germany – not its present leadership, but the people of Germany, and to all those whom Hitler had been persecuting. Ernst knew that Churchill had fought against Germany in the trenches, but he also knew that he didn’t hate Germans, just Hitler. And he didn’t have the appearance of hate – looking at him, he had the appearance of pugnacity, defiance, and realism, as well as courage. Ernst thought forward fifty years, thinking about Communism in Russia, about Stalin.
“Sir, if I might ask you for your perspective – do you think that someday people in Russia will be free from Stalin and Communism, and that Germany will be free from Hitler and Nazism? How long will that be?” he asked, and Winston found himself liking the pilot in spite of himself, as he thought back to the Great War, and Christmas Day of 1915, when they had heard the Germans singing the Christmas carol “Silent Night” 100 meters away, and they had responded by singing “Good King Wenceslas”.
The killing had been savage and horrific on both sides, hundreds of thousands had died up until that day, and millions would die thereafter, but by some miracle of sanity, or insanity, a small group of soldiers from both sides had stepped up beyond the deadly zone of the trenches and actually played football!
“Perhaps, if we’re lucky. How long do you think it will be?”
Ernst thought for a moment, and said hopefully, “100 years?”
“Let’s make it 50” said Winston Churchill, marveling at the unassuming audacity of the young pilot. “Now, where were we?”
“Sorry, sir.” said Ernst, feeling the freedom of being wiling to die. “Erwin also spoke to me in France about the dire situation Germany is facing with oil. And one of his contacts in the German Military High Command told him that Hitler mentioned his ultimate goal is to destroy the Bolsheviks. Erwin told me about Schwarze Kapelle, and how he wasn’t sure he agreed with them, but he also mentioned Hitler’s zealous madness for power, and how it reminded him of Napoleon”.
“So you, and your relative Rommel, and others, presumably, believe that it’s only a matter of time before Hitler invades Russia.”
“Yes, sir, and Erwin was a bit of a cynic about England. He was afraid that Hitler would make bad or erratic decisions about England, and when I as forthcoming about my impressions of Goering, we
“And then you began to have doubts?” asked Winston, gently.
Ernst nodded. “Yes sir, and admittedly, the Pervitin was taking its toll – I was off of it, and then on it again, trying to escape from my doubts. But when I was in the Kroll Opera house, sitting there listening to Hitler and his ‘Last Appeal to Reason’, I became convinced that while the German military may be loyal and noble, Hitler and Goering and the Nazi war machine had collectively become insane. They are all insane, Prime Minister.”
“Agreed” said Winston, and he was convinced of the pilot’s sincerity. He stubbed out his cigarette. It’s going to be a long war.
“So, I can tell you, that you won’t get anywhere trying to convince me or British intelligence to overtly support a plot against Hitler” and Ernst looked crestfallen. I’m trying to save your life, young man. He sighed. Blood and glory, is it?
“What if I was to escape somehow?” asked Ernst.
“Well the truth is, only one prisoner of war escaped from England in the last war, and we don’t intend to let any escape in this war, and the Gestapo also knows this. You’d almost certainly be shot if you went back to England.” he said, wondering what to do with the young man.
Ernst thought quickly. Ok, let’s go to plan B, here goes.
“Ok, how about I try to take a bomber to France, and kill Goering in his headquarters? Maybe a captured German bomber, escorted by some captured German fighters? I know the protocols. It would certainly be a suicide mission, but I do believe Goering is insane, and so is Hitler”
Winston sat there, admiring the pluck of this pilot. The risks were enormous, the propaganda value would be great if it could be carried off, but Goering was erratic to begin with, and his star was no longer rising. If Hitler turns to Russia then Goering might be a lost cause anyway. He may be of more value in a trial for war crimes, after the war, if he survives. Then again, Hitler might be shaken by the death of one of his inner circle – or enraged.
“I find myself in the strange position of wanting to ask the Queen to give a knighthood to a bloody German pilot who has probably killed my countrymen.” Churchill said, staring at Ernst, who lowered his head. “I appreciate what you’re offering, and I believe the risks are too great and the likelihood of a return too small. But I’ll think about it.” he said.
“Yes sir, I understand. War is hell.”
As the small convoy took Winston away from the prison camp, he thought deeply, and reached inside his coat pocket for the little stopwatch, gazing at the Dragonfly, and the emblem, Liberet et Defendat. He thought about how if the Allies won, Germany would need to be rebuilt in a better way after this war than the last, and that minds like Ernst’s would be sorely needed. I have half a mind to mention Ernst to young Eric Wallace as a potential recruit for the Order of the Dragonfly, he thought. Winston began humming Silent Night, and then glared at an attendant, who was looking at him from over the top of some papers. The attendant ducked under his paper. “Sorry sir”. And Winston looked out the window, and lit a cigar, and hummed King Wenceslas, as they rode back towards London.