Chapter Text
It started out as an ordinary patrol – except that the squadron C.O. was in the air too. The R.F.C. needed all the thin ranks of its pilots to push back what might be the last great offensive of the German Army. So there was Captain Harry Hawkes, swooping and diving five hundred feet above the noise and turmoil of No Man's Land, his Camel quivering with the recoil of his guns, when across his vision flew a flash of red. A Triplane.
He was after it in an instant like a cat after its prey, never thinking until he'd pressed the triggers who it might be. But this Triplane was red and khaki, not red all over, and hard-pressed already by another couple of Camels diving in from the east.
One moment of inattention. That was all it took. His instruments flew to pieces. The Camel shuddered. A spray of castor oil flew back over Harry. The ground reared up in front of him, sprang sickeningly closer, whipped round - he cowered over the instrument-board, arms protecting his head. This is it.
The spin ended in a crash that jarred him to the bone. He was out of the wreck before the last of the wires parted, limbs doing his thinking for him, half-staggering, half-running for his life from the smoke of the burning machine. It was a perfect target – and - hang on? He was running towards the red and khaki Triplane, now on the ground ten yards away, crumpled like a dying dragonfly, its tail-unit already in flames -
Through the smoke, he could see the pilot struggling in the cockpit. A shell passed nearby, ripping the air. The ground rocked with the explosion. Harry stumbled, recovered, reached the Triplane, and clawed his way, gasping, up the fuselage. The pilot looked at him dazedly.
“Tommi!”
“One day you will remember my name, I swear.” A bullet sped with a mosquito whine through the crashed machine's struts; a moment later, Harry heard the rifle-crack behind him. Smoke from the burnt-out empennage rolled over them in a choking wave. No time to fumble the safety-belt undone. He dug in his pocket for his clasp-knife, cut, cut again and flung the straps back.
The flames were on the fuselage now, the heat striking through his flying-jacket. “Can you get out?”
The pilot lifted himself halfway out of his seat, coughed, and slumped back. “I cannot. Go.”
“Don't be stupid,” snarled Harry. He got his arms under the pilot's, heaved with a desperate strength and had him out of the cockpit, to the accompaniment of a dull cry. They skidded from the wing-root two feet straight down into Flanders mud. “Come on,” he yelled. “Up.”
Another shell landed, far too close. The ground shook, sending up more mud, some of it liquid, splashing Harry's face. He hoped it was only mud. No explosion. A dud.
“We've got to get away. They've got the range,” he gasped – in German or English? He snatched desperate glances around. There was a newly-dug shell-hole right ahead, and trenches, no doubt, just beyond. He grabbed the other man's arm and hauled it over his shoulder – another cry - and they stumbled as best they could through the thunder of the barrage. Five yards. Three. They were in, slipping down its walls. A good couple of yards deep, enough to protect them from anything except a direct hit.
Harry turned onto his back and looked up, panting, at the thick dark smoke roiling just above. A winged shadow flew right overhead, engine bellowing. Another. He didn't even know which side the machines belonged to.
His heart was slowing from its machine-gun speed. He got to his knees and pulled the German’s goggles up. Under the mud and oil, the man's face was white, but there was the faintest smile in those ice-blue eyes. “Harry Hawkes,” whispered Manfred von Richthofen, and passed out.
-x-
He manhandled the limp body in an attempt to lay it down, and in doing so discovered a wound, a long furrow, in Richthofen's back. He rolled him half over, and fished out the pocket first-aid kit, with its field-dressing and iodine ampoule that he always carried. So far, so good. He tore Richthofen's flying-jacket open, and wrestled the iodine-soaked dressing into place... ye gods, the man was thin. Surely Germany's greatest flying ace should not be so wasted? But Harry had lifted and half-carried him with very little effort... alright, panic strength, but -
No time for speculation. There was more struggling, this time with his scarf, to make some attempt at securing the dressing. Then he turned his attention to Richthofen's right hand. It was crushed somehow, and bleeding, though protected by the gauntlet. He would not remove that; simply wrapped his handkerchief (fortunately clean) round it, unwound and cut off a length of Richthofen's scarf and tied it round the hand.
That would have to do. He himself was uninjured, as far as he could tell. The spin had started close enough to the ground for that, and the wing had taken much of the impact into the soft Flanders mud. But now he sank back down against the side of the newly-dug shell-hole and began to shake.
It was not just he himself that was shaking; it was the ground that enclosed them. And then the barrage stopped, and he heard instead a noise very like aero engines, but louder, closer, almost on top of them.
A tank.
Whose tanks?
He checked Richthofen – still breathing – and dragged him down into the very bottom of the shell-hole. The he remembered that he had other duties, and felt about for his map, tore it up, and stamped the fragments into the mud. Had he been stupid enough to take his flying-orders into the air this morning? No. He pulled out his pistol in readiness, and waited.
He shrank down involuntarily as first steel monster hove into view above the crater rim. The world was filled with its noise, the tracks turning like the teeth of a mincing-machine as it slewed to avoid being trapped by the deep shell-hole. Its steel-clad sides showed then, and the black cross painted on them told Harry what he needed to know – that shortly, unless he was very lucky indeed, he would be a prisoner. His care of Richthofen had been partly the care of common humanity, partly the care of an almost-friend - but now it looked as if it would save him from all sorts of mayhem. He could not spare the other pilot a glance, though, not even to check if he were still breathing, because now the storm-troopers accompanying the tank were appearing, steel helmets and grey uniforms making them all but disappear in the background smoke. The nearest peered down into the shell-hole, and seeing the uniforms of each pilot – for Harry had unbuttoned his jacket in the last frantic minutes – made an unmistakable gesture with his bayonet.
He could not fight tank and infantry and all. He laid down his pistol and raised his hands. The grey-clad soldier made another gesture with his bayonet, to indicate that Harry should move away from the German airman – and then took another look at the face of that airman. His instant recognition was so comical that Harry, in the heat of a very crowded moment, could not help but laugh. The last thing he saw was the butt of a rifle coming towards him. He flinched back.
Not quickly enough.
-x-
There was a white ceiling above him. Cloud, perhaps, or was he in a room? He blinked at it a few times, but no black-crossed machines came swarming out of it, so he lost interest and went back to sleep.
He was woken the second time by the clatter of what sounded like a trolley. Yes; a white-clad figure appeared, pushing it, and when she saw Harry was awake and watching her, she smiled.
“Good morning, Captain Hawkes,” she said, speaking with a care that indicated that English was not her native language. “We must see to your injuries, and then you must eat a little. How do you feel?”
“Injuries?”
“You have mild concussion. No doubt when you crash-landed... Luckily your flying-helmet took much of the blow.”
“Ah. The gun-levers.” And a rifle-butt, which he was not going to mention. He had been oblivious to the pain before, but now it hit him full force. He had been so anxious to get to the Triplane, he must have broken all records for the twenty-yard sprint – and why was that? It was red and khaki, not red all over. But he had heard that Richthofen flew other aircraft from time to time, and the man had hauled him out of danger last time they'd met, so -
“This will hurt a little.” She began to unwind the bandage around his head.
He braced himself for the awful pain that would inevitably follow these words, and when it was done, gasped, “Why do you always say that?”
“It is an important part of our training,” she assured him solemnly.
“It must be. Every doctor or nurse I've met - ”
“You will feel much better afterwards.”
“Yes. They all say that, too.” He closed his eyes again, and refused to open them when he heard the sounds of a plate and cup and saucer being deposited next to his bed; but his head did indeed feel better. He ate and drank a little, and shortly thereafter fell asleep again.
The next time he awoke there was sharp sunlight, slanting in through the high window opposite. It had an afternoon quality to it. He turned his head, carefully, wondering whether the food was still there, and in doing so realised that he was not alone. There were three other beds in the room – not a ward, it was too small for that. Two of them were empty, and one, in the quietest corner, contained a still figure, with a face that he knew. He tried to struggle up on one elbow, and there was a flurry of movement from his other side.
“Do not try to move too quickly, Herr Capitan. Here, let me help you.” His nurse from this morning slid a practiced arm under his neck, and raised him gently.
“Is he – will he be alright?” asked Harry in a low voice. Richthofen's face was milk-white, and completely lacking in animation.
“The surgeon says so, yes. Now, do you want to use the latrines?”
Harry discovered that he did, and was assisted to a wheel-chair, to his extreme annoyance, and taken along a cold, high corridor, to them: where, headache or no, he insisted peevishly that he was able to manage the few steps necessary, and thereafter felt considerably more comfortable. He was returned to his bed, and an hour later was given soup and coarse bread, and slept again.
There followed brief periods of wakefulness, and welcome sleep, and wakefulness again. Over the next few days there were visitors, though none for himself, of course. He caught some famous names and squinted at their bearers with interest. Young men with old eyes, like himself and Entwhistle and Hercules Hannibal Pootle. If he seemed awake enough, one or two of them would stop to greet him, or to shake his hand. He was happy enough when this was someone like Udet, coming in from another hospital, or Reinhard, a quiet, steady man.
Someone stopped by and handed him a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles in German; one of the nurses contributed a translation of Jane Austen. He tackled the Hound rather than Emma, though the latter was one of his mother's favourites; she had read out a choice line now and then. "But how could they not know they were in love?" a much younger Harry had asked a time or two, before reaching an age at which he considered such matters beneath him. So instead, he picked his way through the familiar detective story in the half-familiar language with increasing confidence.
“I always felt sorry for the hound,” remarked Richthofen out of the blue.
“Rittmeister!” Harry put the book down. They were alone in the room, as had happened increasingly often, now it was apparent that neither would die at a moment's notice, nor would Harry attempt murder.
“It was quite the innocent in that mystery. And it had no chance when pitted against Sherlock Holmes.”
“No-one ever does – except for that one woman! But the hound, yes, it came to a sad end.” A thought occurred to him. “You have a dog yourself, I've heard.”
“Yes. Moritz. One of my lieutenants is looking after him. They say he's pining.”
“They do that... I had a dog once. I gave him away to a little French boy. A scout squadron was no place for a St Bernard. In fact one day he thought he'd fly my machine himself.”
A smile, unexpectedly boyish. “I took Moritz up once, in a two-seater.”
Harry's jaw dropped. “Did he enjoy it?”
“Oh yes. He would have been a good observer. Intelligent, you understand.”
“An intelligent observer is worth his weight in gold.” What was Entwhistle doing now? Had he taken Harry's place as C.O? Was he worrying? He had been the best observer a man could wish for. It had taken him a while to make the transition to pilot, but he'd turned out to be a good one for all that. Harry hesitated, then added, “I read your book. Once I got back from No Man's Land last time.”
Richthofen actually winced. “I didn't know it had reached the enemy.”
“Oh, yes. Not translated yet, of course, but I worked my way through it. It was... interesting.”
“I hope you do not... I am not that person now.”
“You weren't that person in No Man's Land! I could hardly recognise you in the book.”
“I have grown up considerably in the months since writing it.”
“Haven't we all?” Harry was trying to smooth over what was obviously an embarrassment to Richthofen; he wouldn't mention the book again.
An hour or so later, there were brisk footsteps in the corridor, and a middle-aged lady came through the door, and Richthofen, suddenly smiling, said, “Mother!”
After a moment's involuntary gaping – this small, grey haired lady did not seem a likely mother for Germany's greatest hero – Harry came to his senses, took up his book and the old woollen dressing-gown which had appeared one morning by his bedside and had never been claimed, and ambled off down the corridor. There was a small waiting area there, with a window looking out over a sodden landscape of fields and trees, and there he sat down on one of the hard chairs and resumed his exploration of Dartmoor.
A while later, a woman's voice close by said, “Captain Hawkes!”
“Hmm? Yes?” He looked up and found, not a nurse, but the Baroness standing in front of him. “Ma'am!” He struggled to rise.
“No, stay where you are.” She took a nearby seat. “I am going now, but I wanted to thank you. For saving my son's life.”
To his annoyance, Harry felt himself blush. “Ma'am, he saved my life a few weeks ago. I was simply returning the favour. And we're both pilots, after all.”
“Well, that is admirable, though it does not lessen my gratitude. One day, you must tell me the story of how he did that.”
Harry made some sort of strangled response – he would have to check with Richthofen how much he could tell, or the Crown Prince would have his hide! “I will look forward to it,” he said politely, thinking nothing more of it, and she leaned across, took his hand briefly, stood up and was gone.
After a decent interval, he shuffled back to the little room, and climbed into bed again, glad to do so because the headache from the blow in the shell-hole was returning.
-x-
The next morning, he came back from a walk to try out his legs, around the top corridor of the hospital, to be given news.
“My mother has been given the use of a château close by,” said Richthofen.
“She will be able to visit you often, then? That's nice,” said Harry - utterly inadequately, but his mind was grappling with the idea of a château being lent out to anyone of his acquaintance.
“I will be moving there myself tomorrow.”
“Oh.” That was rather a facer. Richthofen was the nearest thing he had to a friend in this place – and that was a startling thought in its own right.
“She has exercised a mother's privilege, and asked that you be allowed to convalesce there too.”
Harry floundered for a moment. “I – well, that's very kind of her. But you won't want - ”
“My mother is not a person to be argued with,” said the Red Baron. “If she has asked for you to be her guest, you will go. Best to go with a good grace.”
“I'm not ungrateful -” began Harry.
“I understand that. She would not have suggested it if she did not want you there. Pack your kit, Captain Hawkes. You are going on a visit!”
There had been no mention of parole. Harry nodded. “Then - thank-you,” and began to revolve possibilities in his mind.
-x-
His kit was augmented that afternoon by a knapsack of clean clothes and a note from Entwhistle.
“One of you dropped a note!” he said, with real pleasure, to Udet, who had brought it in.
“Yes. We did not know which aerodrome you came from – but the message got through in the end.”
“Thank-you!” He had done the same thing himself from time to time. Not really endorsed by the authorities, of course, but pilots were pilots and had their own code of honour. He opened the knapsack. Clothes and a couple of books as well as Entwhistle's note.
Old chap, we're all so glad to know you're safe, if not sound. Here are your things. I've written to your people. Chin up! Telegraphic in nature, as being the only type of communication likely to make it through, but it was Entwhistle's authentic voice, and Harry was as glad of it as he was of the clothes. He tucked it into the breast pocket of his tunic, and returned everything else to the knapsack.
-x-
The château was quite small, and only had a few turrets. But it was a few miles further behind the Lines, and stood in a small park amid tall trees; all but leafless now, but they would be magnificent when in full leaf. April was turning towards May. It reminded Harry of his old school where the obsession with flying had bitten him, one fine Saturday afternoon, and never let go. What was the old place like now? he wondered. It was like another life.
The big car drew up by the front doors, from which issued a large and lolloping dog. It didn't need Richthofen's cry of “Moritz!” to tell him which dog this was; it had its paws up on the car door and was attempting to lick its master's face, who held it off, left-handed, with some difficulty, and planted a kiss on the top of its head instead. “Behave yourself, sir! Captain Hawkes, this animal is harmless, though he may not look it. Moritz, this is Herr Capitan Harry Hawkes of the R.F.C. Captain Hawkes, this is Moritz.” He grasped Harry's sleeve and moved his hand to where Moritz could sniff it, and the hound – certainly big enough to terrify a Baskerville – did so. For a moment there was silence, then Moritz's tail wagged, and he licked Harry's hand lavishly.
“You are accepted, Herr Capitan,” came another man's voice, and Harry looked up to see an older man, also in uniform, coming down the steps. One look told him who this was: the great ace's father.
“Sir.” He scrambled out of the car, and saluted. Albrecht von Richthofen returned the salute.
“I would shake hands with you, but I see Moritz has reached you first,” and Harry grimaced and fought the urge to wipe his hand on his breeches. “Come indoors – no, leave your things. The driver will bring them in. I am sorry I was not able to meet you at the hospital with my wife, but when the Crown Prince commands one's presence...”
It was as bizarre a situation as Harry had ever encountered, but he fought for the social training that his mother had dinned into him, and made his way into the cool dimness of the château.
-x-
The dinner that night was something of a trial to Harry. For one thing, the food was decidedly scanty and sub-par to someone used, as he had been, to British rations and all the fresh produce of France. He began to realise why Manfred (as he found he had to call him in his mind, since there were now two Baron von Richthofens in the room) had been so thin; he was not the sort to eat well when his compatriots were going short.
For another, Harry's head still ached slightly when her tried to chew. And for a third; although he had dined with the enemy before – dinner with Immelman's squadron was fresh in his mind at this point – eating with an entire nest of Richthofens was not an everyday experience for anyone.
He was coping pretty well, though, up until the point at which the servant removed the soup-plates. Remarkably pretty soup-plates too; his mother would know the make, but they had a pattern of gold and white lattice-work, very much in keeping with the light and delicate dining-room with its blue-green walls and gilt picture-frames. He was surveying the silverware and identifying which fork would be used for the next course, when the door opened suddenly.
Upon the civilised scene burst a man a year or so older than Harry, dressed in field-grey and with a brash and confident air. His hosts greeted him with pleasure. He returned those greetings and made straight for a chair which was standing, empty, next to Manfred.
“Well, brother, I'm glad to see you up and about! And Mother, Father, I'm sorry it's been so long.”
“Duty first, my boy.” Albrecht was regarding him indulgently, while Harry, sorting through names in his mind, came up with Lothar. He eyed him curiously. Word of Lothar had spread back across the Lines; and so had news of the friendly rivalry between the two brothers; who were now talking shop, having touched on Manfred's injury.
He was surprised to find himself being suddenly addressed. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Captain Hawkes, for rescuing my brother.” This was said with a bonhomie that, Harry was sure, presaged something else. He inclined his head civilly, and waited.
“And also for increasing my score! You flew M-4963, did you not?”
Harry swallowed a mouthful of vegetables, and, in the second or two this gave him, decided on the course that would be most likely to annoy Lothar. A sporting attitude. “Yes, I did. Am I speaking to my conqueror?”
“You are indeed! And a pretty fight it was.”
Harry half-stood and reached across the table to offer his hand. “My congratulations, Herr Leutnant. You gave me quite a fright!” There was plenty more that he could have added, but he certainly wouldn't give Lothar that satisfaction.
Lothar, surprised but grinning, took the proffered hand. With luck the conversation was not going entirely as he had planned. They shook, and Harry sat back down. “Tell me, if I may ask - were you hunting me particularly, or was it simply that an opportunity arose and you took it?”
“Lothar does not hunt,” said Manfred, amused. “Lothar dives headlong into whatever fight he can find, and generally comes out unscathed. I am the hunter.”
“Ah yes, cold precision, that's our Manfred! Tell me, Captain Hawkes, how do you fly?”
Harry wondered briefly how he could translate “By the seat of my pants,” but gave it up. “It's second nature to me by now. I started on Farmans, that tells you how long I've been at it.” He reckoned his score was barely half Lothar's, and amassed over a longer period. But he was ready to swear that he'd done things neither Lothar nor his brother would ever dream of. Night missions, deep into enemy territory, for a start – though Manfred had spotted him on one of those, sitting in a Berlin café while waiting to make a contact.
“We have not heard of you in Germany,” Lothar was saying, still smiling.
“I don't suppose you have! That's not how we do things in England.” Harry smiled back.
“Teamwork. Playing the game.”
“Doing our jobs behind the scenes,” Harry took a sip of water from the cut-crystal glass. “It seems to work.”
The others were watching this passage of arms curiously. Two years ago, at Immelman's table, Harry had punched a man on the jaw for saying much the same thing as Lothar. He was a good deal older and wiser now; and there was the Baroness to consider. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw her watching with interest. Now what was going on?
“I had some experience of that in Scotland before the war,” remarked Albrecht. “I was at a country house-party, for the salmon-fishing. There were guests of all kinds – diplomats, industrialists, and peers. I believe there were more decisions made in that one week than in any session of Parliament.”
“Quite possibly. It sounds like the kind of thing my godmother would do,” replied Harry. “Lady Jermyn. You don't know her, by any chance?” he added, with a humorous lift of the eyebrow. As a child he had sometimes felt that she knew everybody.
A short silence fell.
Now that was interesting.
-x-
Lothar left the dining-room before the coffee was brought in - “I must get back to the Jasta, I'm needed there!”
“No rest for the wicked,” muttered Harry to himself sourly, and relaxed as Lothar's confident stride diminished into silence down the hallway. There was the sound of a car starting up and hurrying away, then all was quiet once more.
“You must not mind Lothar, Herr Capitan,” said the Baroness. “He is like that with everybody. Also, there is some rivalry with his brother. He is constantly chasing Manfred's score.”
“It's no disgrace to be shot down by any von Richthofen,” said Harry politely. “Though I confess I would rather his brother had downed me!” And they all smiled at that.
Really, his mother would be proud of him.
-x-
The next morning, he was sitting quietly in the morning-room (a pretty room with yellow walls, this one) and catching up with Holmes and Watson, who had just met on Dartmoor. He felt a good deal of sympathy for poor Watson, who, like himself, was completely at sea.
The family must be somewhere else in the château; the room was very quiet. This meant that he was able to hear a clattering of claws on the polished boards of the floor, which diminished to silence as their owner came further into the room and onto the rug. “Good morning, Moritz,” he said, without looking round the side of the armchair. “What can I do for you?”
“You may take him out for a run, if you like,” said a familiar voice, and Harry laughed and put aside his book quickly, and got up. There was Manfred at the door of the room, wearing carpet-slippers which looked incongruous with his uniform.
“I didn't realise you were there!”
“Just passing by – but Moritz is eager for a run, and I can't oblige him at this moment. Or indeed at all! This hand does not permit the throwing of objects as yet.” He held it up, swathed in its strapping. “If you would do so - ”
“Of course.” He held out his hand for Moritz to smell, just to reassure him that he was the same person who had been introduced to him the afternoon before; then caressed his head. He didn't have to bend, even slightly, to do so. Moritz was even taller than Champion Charlemagne of Cheviot, though not as heavily built. “Where shall we go?”
“The lawn below the terrace is a good place,” said Manfred. “He will find a stick for you to throw.” With a nod, he went across the hallway, and opened a door into what must be a library; Harry got a glimpse of Albrecht before the door swung to. A family conference, then. He debated going upstairs for his scarf and gloves – the morning was fresh, for all it was fine – but decided against it; if he was going to be throwing sticks for the biggest dog in the German Empire he would warm up soon enough.
Moritz led the way to the back door of the house, and they went down the semi-circular steps to the terrace. Another set of steps, and they were on a smooth lawn, beyond which was a stand of cedar trees, and a lake gleaming below. Moritz cantered across the lawn, picked up what looked like half a branch, brought it back to Harry, and sat expectantly.
“Right! Let's see how far I can get this!” The branch sailed through the air, turning end over end, and Moritz was after it before it had reached its apex. Harry put his hands on his hips, and assessed its flight. “Nothing like good enough! We'll try again!”
A faint breeze from the prevailing westerly wind brought the sound of guns.
He had given no parole.
He had been treated with courtesy and more than courtesy.
He had a duty.
Truth to tell, he had no idea why he was here at all. Gratitude could only extend so far. He frowned a little, as he and Moritz approached the reed-fringed lake at the furthest extent of the gardens. His superiors would surely question this little holiday, pleasant though it was, when the war was over.
That faint noise of gunfire reminded him that the war was not over. The Germans' great spring offensive had been halted. The awful grinding stalemate had been re-established – and for what purpose? In the middle of the offensive he had almost become friends with one of the enemy. Last night he had conversed perfectly pleasantly with that enemy's family, and had liked all of them. Well, almost all of them.
He found himself at the lake-shore. Moritz was off foraging somewhere; Harry wandered onto a little jetty, to which was tied a boat. Fifty yards across the water was a small, tree-grown islet. It would be fun to row out to it, and there were oars in the boat, but he didn't have the nerve to do it.
“I used to play at pirates on that island when I was a child.”
He spun round, and there was the Baroness making her way across the grass towards him.
“Ma'am! I didn't know you were there. I was -” the untranslatable term wool-gathering sprang to mind, to be replaced with “Miles away. You have been here before, then? I didn't realise.”
“It is my cousin's château. He is at the front, but when he heard what had happened, he offered us the use of it.”
He fought to continue the conversation. “You were happy here, then?”
“Oh yes. We spent the summers here, I and my cousins. I think that might be the same boat – though I swear it's got smaller.”
“Would you like to go out to the island again? I think I can row there.” Harry spoke on impulse.
She looked at him, surprised. Then she smiled. “Thank-you, yes. I would. But we should perhaps wait for my husband and son. Moritz went to meet them, and wanted more sticks thrown.”
“We can get the boat ready, at least.”
He scrambled into it, and as it showed no signs of leaking, assisted the Baroness down too. They busied themselves with oars and rudder, and while they were doing so, the rest of the family approached, preceded by Moritz.
“We're going to the island! Do you want to come?” The Baroness sounded almost girlish.
“Of course we do!”
“Moritz, lie down. Stay.”
The huge hound did so, with a mournful expression, and Harry held the boat steady while Albrecht and Manfred clambered down, both of them awkwardly, one of them coping with old wounds, one with new. But once in the boat, Albrecht insisted on taking the oars; so Harry pushed off, and Albrecht settled into a steady stroke, pulling for the island.
“Did I not win the pirate battles, more often than not?” asked the Baroness, smiling.
“You stayed here too, sir?” asked Harry.
“I did. She was the pirate queen, and was far more ruthless than I ever was.” Albrecht exchanged a smile with his wife, and Harry boggled quietly at this tale of early Richthofen family life.
“There might be photographs at the château still,” said the pirates' son. “Perhaps we can find them.” This brought on protests from his parents, and meanwhile the Baroness steered them towards her childhood lair. They drew under its trees, overhanging the water – oak and sycamore and alder, just like home. The leaves were beginning to show bright green. Birds were singing, too.
“Captain Hawkes, will you take the rope?”
Harry took the end of the painter, and scrambled, awkward in his boots, onto a rock, then pulled the boat after him into a little cove with a muddy beach. There was a flagstone to serve as a quay, and he helped the Baroness out. Albrecht and Manfred followed, while Harry fastened the painter to a stake he had found, driven into the beach.
“Well. Let us see if we can find the old fortress.”
In increasing mystification, Harry followed the family along a faint path through the trees that crowded the island. Birds twittered among the branches; there were wildflowers, bluebells and others he could not name. There was a difference of opinion ahead of him, but Manfred's parents agreed on a route in the end, and suddenly they came on a tiny clearing with a jumble of stakes and planks in it.
“Ah, it's fallen down!”
The desolation of the Somme rose suddenly behind Harry's eyes, but he remained silent, just hunching into himself a little. Beside him, Manfred was very still. Harry came out of his reverie to find that Albrecht was seating himself on an upended, sawn section of tree-trunk. There was a half-circle of these, and he gestured to family and guest to sit likewise.
“So. We cannot be overheard here, even by chance.”
“Sir?” Harry could not help an exclamation of surprise. The three Richthofens were all looking very serious.
Albrecht's expression was grim. “Captain Hawkes. We are here because we need to talk to you privately: and because we believe you may be trusted.” He paused. “This war has gone on long enough. Germany cannot win.”
Harry almost blurted out, “Why did you ever think you could?” but caught the words before they left his lips. “Well, no. But what - ?”
“In the absence of any sign of negotiation by the High Command, others might perhaps make the attempt.”
Harry exhaled as though he had been punched. He glanced round; the Baroness had her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and Manfred's expression was unreadable.
“You believe you may – end the war?” He could hear the incredulity in his own voice.
“Someone has to make the first move. We may begin negotiations for negotiations, at least.”
“But this should be a deadly secret! Why are you telling me?”
“You said last night that Lady Jermyn is your godmother. I was impressed when I met her before the War. This might be the opportunity we need.”
“You want me to take a message to her?” It seemed incredible, but it was the only possibility his reeling brain could come up with.
“More than that. I want you to take my son to her.”
Harry's jaw dropped. He stared in astonishment, first at Albrecht, then shot a wild glance at the Red Baron, sitting silent and still beside him; but who looked round, and gave a curt nod.
“Captain Hawkes,” said the Baroness, taking pity on his confusion. “This must go no further. But you risked your life to save Manfred. We know you are a good man. The High Command believes, or acts as though it believes, that we may still win this war. None of us here shares that belief. It must end. Your godmother is a political hostess of some note. Therefore, we wish to send a message to her, that certain elements in German society will be willing to negotiate. As a sign of good faith, our son will take the message.”
“But it must be secret,” said Manfred. “You understand this, Captain Hawkes?” He was giving Harry the stare that had surely so many times sighted along his twin Spandaus - and Harry read the warning in that look. Betray my parents, and I will kill you. He glared back, and turned to Albrecht and the Baroness.
“Of course I understand,” Harry assured them. “Forgive me. This is – a lot to take in.”
“It is. But someone must make the first move. It seems it falls to us – and you.”
Harry fought the urge to clutch at his hair. “To you, maybe – but to me? I'm not the sort of person you need. You need a statesman.”
“We need a brave man, a man of good faith, and we have one here," said the Baroness.
Harry gaped for a moment, then shut his mouth. “What do you want me to do?”
Manfred spoke again. “There is an aero park not far from here. Captured aircraft are stored there to be studied – it's where I got the Camel for you last month. Among them is a Bristol Fighter, in airworthy condition. Lothar will bring it here – to give me a joy-ride, you understand - and you and I will take it on to England.”
Harry twitched at the mention of Lothar.
“He will not betray us,” said Manfred, very distinctly.
“No, no, of course not,” Harry hastened to reply. “I just -” The thought of Lothar on a peace mission - he stopped that idea before he could dig himself any deeper. “I'm sorry. Go on.”
“Once in England, you and I will go to Lady Jermyn, and give her my father's message. She will speak to her friends in your government, and the way for negotiations will be open.”
Harry wondered who among the German government might be in favour of negotiations, and had a sudden memory of the Crown Prince, learning about the realities of war first-hand. That thought could not be spoken, even here. He banished it, passed his hands over his hair, and hid his face in them for a brief moment. Then he looked around the little ring of his enemies, and said, “When do we start?”
-x-
The next evening, he and his hosts stood on the stone-flagged terrace, watching Lothar bringing in the Bristol to land on the lawn behind the chateau. Harry could hardly restrain himself from dancing a little jig of pure happiness – with its big roundels it was such a reminder of normality – but managed not to. The people around him would not understand the impulse; or if they understood (and Manfred and Lothar might) they would look down on him for giving in to it. So he watched it trundle along the sheep-cropped grass, then ran down the steps, and out to catch hold of a wing-tip to turn it just before the end of its run. Lothar's helmeted head turned to regard him for a brief moment, then turned back, dismissing him. Behind him, in came a Triplane – an escort, provided by Wolfram von Richthofen, a cousin who also flew with the Circus.
Harry was beginning to feel hopelessly outnumbered, a solitary hawk amid a brood of eagles.
But there was the Bristol - “Good old Biff!” he said to it, and patted the fabric of the fuselage affectionately. Lothar gave him a look that said, “My brother is going to fly with this idiot?” and swung down from the cockpit. Harry smiled cheerfully at him, and while the two brothers shook hands and exchanged a few words, tossed his knapsack up into the cockpit, climbed after it and started checking over the controls. No need for the Richthofens to fear he'd take off alone in it, not with that Triplane sitting on the turf just behind him, with guns at the ready.
The Bristol dipped as his passenger climbed aboard, rather slowly, which must be a comedown for him – but there it was, Manfred's injuries would not permit the kind of vaulting ascent that he would have used in times past. Harry twisted in his seat, and looked an enquiry. He got a nod of assent, opened the throttle and heard once again the roar of a Rolls-Royce engine right in front of him. He allowed himself one moment of complete happiness as they took off, pretending to himself that this was just another night mission.
The Bristol had been on the ground for perhaps five minutes.
Something soared up beside them – almost bounced up, it climbed so quickly. A triple-winged silhouette against the glowing evening sky, of the sort that would normally give Harry the heebie-jeebies. But the pilot gave them a friendly wave, and settled himself comfortably to fly in formation. Wolfram would escort them to the coast, the red paint-work on his Triplane being all the passport they needed through occupied Belgium. And from coastal waters onwards, they would be on their own.