Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 11

* * *

Saturday, November 10, 1945
1:55 p.m.
Berlin

The skies were grey and low, and the air was bitterly cold. The breeze of our passage, in this open staff car, stung my face as we slowly rolled through street after street after street, of shattered buildings.

 

We must be getting close by now, I thought, for at least the tenth time. We must be.

 

It was a big car, of some British make that I didn't know. In the front row seats, were the driver — on the right, naturally — and Lieutenant Colonel Thorne, and Mister Grey. None of them was talking.

Me, I was sitting next to Pavel the Pimp. Mister MacLaughlin was on his other side.

Pavel the Pimp was talking. Unfortunately.

"Everything I have done, was for the sake of my country. Everything. I have sacrificed everything, for my country. You have told them that, haven't you — ?"

He spoke in atrociously-accented German. I could barely understand him. He sounded desperate, even through the breeze, and his accent; his sentences ended on high, querulous notes.

"I have told my contact exactly that," from Mister MacLaughlin, patiently. Again. "I have given him the full details of your operations, as we know them."

Pavel the Pimp had been talking — almost babbling, actually — since we'd left Lancaster House. He was a small, rather rat-faced man, who reminded me of Goebbels, the Nazi Propaganda Minister.

At first he'd tried talking to the both of us. I'd just shaken my head, pretending I didn't know German; although it was far and away my best foreign language, I'd gotten really good at it, in my Stalag.

 

I was in no mood, or mind, to talk to anyone, just then; much less Pavel the Pimp.

 

*

When we'd gotten back to RAF Gatow, last Thursday, I'd cornered Mister Grey in his room, and asked him what had just happened.

I may have been a little more blunt than that.

As he'd poured a generous measure of brandy for each of us, he'd sighed.

"I'm really not allowed to say … ", from him, automatically; woodenly.

He took a sip of his brandy; then he set it down on the coffee table, and gestured to one of the two armchairs in the room. We sat. Then he picked up his glass, and sighed again.

"Instructions from London," he'd said, flatly. "And new information."

"Instructions," I'd repeated. "New information."

I did not like the sound of any of it.

"Yes … I was instructed to ask Lieutenant Colonel Thorne to please put through a call to his commanding officer in Bad Oeynhausen, on the scrambled telephone line." Mister Grey smiled, very faintly. "And, oh, my, the look he gave me, then."

He swirled the brandy in his glass, just slightly.

"I did not overhear the conversation. Which is perhaps best, for everyone's sake, all around … Anyway. When he came back from his call, our comparative privacy allowed me to share some of the information I received by cable this morning." He paused for a moment, and looked at me, rather soberly. "It seems that the focus of our little rescue expedition has — altered — somewhat."

Altered. I liked the sound of that, even less.

I said nothing, and waited.

"The people in my organization are still, you understand, quite concerned for Rhys' safety and well-being; that has not changed, at all. But after my latest report, including the proposed arrangements for the exchange from Our Gallant Soviet Allies, they became, well, concerned."

Another sip of his brandy. I waited for the rest.

"Apparently, our good Lieutenant Colonel — did you know, he has a DSO? The Distinguished Service Order?" His face showed wonder, for a moment. "MacLaughlin told me. That is not something which is awarded, lightly … " Another pause, to swirl his brandy. "Anyway. Apparently, the good Colonel is quite correct. Such highly-visible exchanges, involving ranking officers and troops, are quite rare. Thorne told me the last one in which he'd participated, involved an SS Obersturmbannführer, whom the Soviets particularly wanted, in exchange for a Polish Cabinet Minister of their pre-war government, who we particularly wanted to bring to safety in Britain."

He looked at his brandy, then set it down again. "I do not like to think what happened to the SS officer."

I'd had enough of Germans, or of German soldiers anyway, to last me the rest of my life. I'd been threatened with death, in my Stalag, many times. Some of us had been shot. The Germans had told us repeatedly, we'd all be shot, if it looked like the Allies were going to overrun the camp. We'd been told by our own people, by coded messages, not to escape from our camp, that the Gestapo would torture and execute any of us they found outside the wire. And we knew they'd actually done it.

And then, of course, they'd starved us …

I shook my head, a little; and took a very small sip of brandy, of my own.

"So … the point is, for an exchange of this sort to be taking place — well." He'd shrugged. "London is very particularly concerned to know, why. What, precisely, it all means."

"I see," from me. Cautiously.

Mister Grey looked over at me, for a moment. It struck me that he seemed tired.

"There is more." A moment's silence, from him. "Two more points, to be precise. The first is rather speculative."

Another sip; and a slight exhalation.

"There is … something … going on, with Our Gallant Soviet Allies. Encrypted radio traffic has increased, several-fold, over the last six weeks. This of course concerns us, a great deal. But from what we can tell, it does not appear that a military move is imminent; there is not any notable increase in traffic from Line units, nor do there seem to be any logistical moves — that we can detect — that would, say, presage a movement to take all of Berlin. Such moves would be very difficult to hide."

I blinked at that. God …

"Rather, the traffic seems related to their diplomatic posts, and particularly, their Intelligence services. Why this should be, we do not know. Or, at any rate," he went on, with a wry smile, "I do not know. The heads of my own organization can be really quite stingy at sharing information with lowly toilers in the fields, such as myself, I fear. But whatever it is, seems to be something big."

I said nothing. I felt a chill, around my heart.

"But one tidbit of information they did share with me, has a direct bearing on our retrieval of Rhys, on Saturday."

I took a breath.

"Okay," I said; as evenly as I could. Even as I appreciated the word, 'retrieval'  …

Mister Grey looked at me, seriously. Perhaps even, a little gravely.

"We have discovered the name of the Political Officer who shall be co-commanding the Soviet forces at the exchange. He is also a Lieutenant Colonel, of their GRU, their Military Intelligence; his name is Nosenko; and he has something of a reputation."

A pause, as he looked down at his brandy.

"He has a decided reputation for brutality, for one thing; but the same could be said for many Soviet officers who served on the front … "

He shrugged.

"Much more importantly; we know him to be something of a fixer, shall we say; the man who is sent in to a situation which the Kremlin finds difficult, or embarrassing, and … cleans it up. In various ways." He looked at me. "Why he should be here, now, for this exchange, we do not know. But I do not like it."

I felt the chill around my heart, deepen. It sounded like bad news. I was pretty sure, it was bad news.

I let my breath out.

"Thank you for telling me all this, sir."

"It's Ian. In private conversations, such as this, it's Ian." He flashed a quick, tired smile, full of his old charm, at me. "And, please don't pass any of this on to MacLaughlin? Quite seriously. I have broken all the rules already, telling you. But you are, as I've said, family. That counts for a great deal."

A pause, then.

"All right … Ian." Then; "Thank you."

*

I looked around, again, at the shattered, pulverized buildings. I could smell the concrete and brick dust in the air, along with the coal smoke.

There were a few bundled-up civilians, on the sidewalks, or picking through the rubble, just like last time. But unlike last time, they all seemed to stop what they were doing, to stare at us, as we passed.

Well, that made sense. Last time I'd come this way, we'd been in a single car. This time was different.

We were quite a sight.

Three motorcycles and a Jeep led the way, the motorcycles roaring along in front of the Jeep and our staff car. The Jeep was filled with armed British soldiers, and they held their rifles and machine guns at the ready, pointing upwards.

Behind us came the bulk of the British soldiers, in three large, open trucks. They were also heavily-armed, and keeping careful watch all around us; they seemed every inch the crack unit that the Coldstream Guards were known to be.

Then came the ambulance. A military ambulance, tall and truck-like, and painted with a red cross.

I tried not to think what that might mean …

And finally; two armored cars, huge things, belching exhaust, looking to my eyes more like small tanks on oversized wheels, than anything else. The guns protruding from their turrets were enormous, at least to me.

I turned back around, to face ahead of us, again. The cold wind nipped at my ears.

"And the intelligence — ?" from Pavel the Pimp. "You told them that you found real, actual intelligence, that I collected, and that I was trying to get to them — ?" He paused, looking on the verge of panic. "You couldn't give any of it to them. Of course. I realize that. But please tell me, they know that I had the intelligence — ?"

"I told you," from MacLaughlin; still, with that strange, almost gentle patience. "I gave my counterpart a full account of your activities. That includes the fact that you drew up reports." A pause. "And no, we did not give him any of your reports."

I thought his tone was dry. I knew he would have very much liked to pass on the misinformation to the Soviets.

Pavel the Pimp turned to face forward, clutching his hands in his lap.

*

I was feeling, just then — 

Well. I didn't really know how I was feeling. Or what I was feeling.

I'd tried to keep myself focused, oh, how I'd tried, as if I were on a mission — 

But I wasn't on a mission. I wasn't an Aircraft Commander with nine other lives depending on me. I was just a supernumerary, a token, there to show the flag with my American uniform, and maybe lend some credibility to the whole affair, and maybe to identify Rhys' body — 

 

Fuck that. Fuck that. Stop it.

 

I am normally an optimist. I imagine how things are going to turn out for the best, and my mind builds out how things are going to turn out for the best, in detail, until I can mentally just reach out and touch it, and taste it, and feel it, and usually I'm right, I can feel it, and I know I'm right — 

 

But I couldn't, this time.

Not with all I knew. Not with all the ominous signs; not with all the bad news.

 

So I sat still in the open British staff car, trying not to think, trying to be empty, feeling the cold breeze passing around me, feeling the cold wind blowing through my soul.

*

Yet another turn — for some reason, we were taking a circuitous route, and that didn't reassure me at all — then, down yet another shattered street. This one may have been hit with one of the British blockbuster bombs. The buildings on my right were completely pulverized; scarcely recognizable. Even the rubble was smashed, and thoroughly burned.

Pavel the Pimp stirred, again. He turned to Mister MacLaughlin.

"You will look after my girls, I hope?" Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him glance forward for a moment, with an unreadable expression; and then he looked back at MacLaughlin. "Please — ? They are good girls, and I am very fond of them. I worry about them." His voice was different; it seemed calmer, now. Dull, even. Sadly resigned. "And they are very fond of me."

A longer, pregnant pause, from MacLaughlin.

"Yes," he said, eventually. "We will take care of them. We have been taking care of them."

Silence between them, for a moment, as the wind flowed by. The sounds of the motorcycles, and trucks, and cars. The smells of dust, of coal smoke.

"I was very sorry for what I did to my poor little Anne-Marie. I still am. I tried to reach her, to explain, but they would not allow it, at the hospital … Could you tell her, please, how very, very sorry I am, still — ? It's just that, you see, when she couldn't get any of your men to go with her … I knew what it meant." Another short pause. "I knew what was going to happen to me … "

A much longer pause from Maclaughlin, this time.

"I will tell her," he said. Gently.

 

The part of me that was still feeling things … that part of me, understood. How MacLaughlin could be patient, and gentle, with such a man. A man who beat his 'girl', and who could utter such words, so utterly obscene and poignant and vile, all at the same time.

You don't treat a man who is going to his death, who knows he is going to his own death, harshly.

 

There was that one time in Cerignola … 

 

Ed Kieran, Art Scanlon and I were just coming out of the Red Cross movie theater on a rainy afternoon, blinking in the gray light, when we saw them. A group of Italians, marching down the street; a mix of underage teenagers, and old men — and they were all armed. Pistols, a few ancient-looking hunting rifles; they each had something. The underage teens looked ragged, and dirty, and grim.

In front of them was a man; a man neither young, nor very old. He looked somewhat chubby and prosperous, in this nearly-starving town, and he was wearing a decent suit — 

His hands were bound behind his back. And he was crying, as he was being marched. He was sobbing. We could hear it, clearly. His face was scrunched up and red, and covered in his own tears and snot …

We understood, at once. This was a band of Italian partisans, the partigiani. And they were on their way to execute … someone. A prisoner. Some Fascist Party official, we could only guess.

We'd looked at each other, Ed, Art and me.

We knew the partisan Resistance had been active in this part of Italy. We knew it had been violent, and cruel on both sides, and that scores were still being settled; we'd been briefed on it; and we'd been ordered, in the strongest possible terms, not to interfere. It wasn't our country.

I'd looked back at the man, as he sobbed, and sobbed, walking on to his own certain death …

The image, the movie-clip of it, has haunted me, ever since. Even after everything I'd seen since, even after all I'd been through, so much of it so much worse than an execution. It haunted me.

*

Ahead of us, the motorcycles slowly rounded a corner, still in perfect formation, and then the Jeep followed, and then our staff car in turn … and suddenly, we were in a park.

I assumed it was the Tiergarten; I knew about it from briefings before the few bomb runs we'd made to Berlin. What trees were still standing, were bare and shattered-looking, branches shorn away; I remembered the denuded trees of the World War 1 battlefields  …

Then, one last, slow, sweeping turn to the right, onto a broad, broad road — 

 

And there it was in front of us. The Brandenburg Gate.

 

The living symbol of Berlin. Which made it the living symbol of Nazi Germany.

 

Rhys and I had grown up seeing the damned thing in movie newsreels, week after week after week; festooned with those enormous red banners, with their enormous black swastikas in white circles.

We'd seen the Nazi political rallies stage-set with the Brandenburg Gate in the background, the brown-clad and black-clad men sometimes carrying torches and goose-stepping and giving the stiff-armed Hitler salute to That Bastard Himself, up on a stage or in his special car, marinating his soul in the whole ridiculous, dark, fetid spectacle.

Then later, we'd seen the newsreels of the Wehrmacht troops parading triumphantly through the Gate, into the Pariser Platz, time and time and time again, as yet another neutral or Allied country had fallen; it had become a kind of sick joke, between us. By then we'd known we'd both be caught up in what was to come. We'd all known. And I had raged at it all, to myself, for Rhys' sake. He was gentle, and sensitive, and in some ways, fragile; the very last person in the world, to be thrust into a war. The very last. I'd raged.

 

I stared at the thing, as we drew closer.

 

From further away, it had seemed intact. But closer up, we could see … it wasn't. It was a standing ruin.

The Brandenburg Gate was enormous; seemingly of solid stone throughout. It had five, tall, broad … passageways? Bays? … leading through the bulk of it, to the Pariser Platz, beyond.

It was blasted and battered. Pockmarked, all over, with rifle-file, machine-gun fire, and more. Great chunks were missing, here and there, from the facade; obviously from artillery-shell hits, or bombs … And the buildings that had stood to either side of it, connecting to it — ? Mostly gone; a wall here, a column, there, still standing; nothing more. The Gate stood alone; obviously too solid to take down, by whatever storms of explosives that had destroyed the rest.

As we got closer still, I could appreciate the scale of the thing. The motorcycles ahead of us increasingly looked tiny, by comparison to the empty passageways of the Gate. The British MP's waiting for us, who were now waving the motorcycles on to our left, were dwarfed by the mass of the thing.

Our staff car followed the motorcycles and the Jeep off to the left, and the trucks followed us. We rolled along for a distance, and came to a stop; and the unloading began. Sergeants barking orders, in accents I wasn't really equipped to understand; the men in the trucks exiting quickly and quietly, and forming up with practiced efficiency.

We climbed out of the staff car; Pavel the Pimp moving awkwardly, with his bad leg. I kept staring up at the Gate.

Blackwell and Clark and another officer I hadn't met came up to us. Salutes exchanged, all around.

"Right, then. Stay with me, gentlemen," from Lieutenant Colonel Thorne, with a quick glance at MacLaughlin, Mister Grey, and myself.

Then, fronted by, followed by, and surrounded by brown-clad British soldiers with sloped rifles and brown berets, we moved back towards the center of the Gate; the soldiers marching with perfect, synchronized steps, boots echoing on the pavers, their arms swinging far out, front and back, in that British style. It was a little like being embedded in a river of men; I wondered if fish felt this way, in their schools and shoals.

It was all a little dreamlike.

Here I was, in Berlin; at the Brandenburg Gate, of all places; about to try to retrieve Rhys, who must, must be very close nearby; and me, with a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, thinking, no feeling, that something was about to go badly wrong …

Two barked orders from some sergeant, somewhere. The formations of marching soldiers split in complicated ways, some heading heading further ahead of us, some staying behind.

Another shouted order. A temporary halt. Yet another order. The marching resumed, but as the line of men directly ahead of us reached a certain point, they wheeled to their left in perfect formation, as did the men further in front of us, and behind us — 

 

We went through the Brandenburg Gate, that same gate that had seen so many Wehrmacht parades, so many Nazi spectacles, over the years. The sound of marching boots echoed off of the stone walls of the passageway, until we were out under the cold gray sky again, on the other side.

 

More shouted orders. More following the Lieutenant Colonel, and his soldiers. We wound up in lines, the Gate to our backs, the Pariser Platz before us.

The first thing I did, of course, was to ignore the confusion of the platz in front of me, and look for the Soviets; even before we'd come to a stop. My eyes snapped to them; a line of Red Army soldiers, so familiar to me, reminding me of the soldiers who had rescued my prison camp contingent in April … 

They seemed small, and far away, standing at ease, their rifles grounded. Their trucks were behind them, on the big Unter den Linden; at least six trucks, I thought.

 

That they were so far away, was understandable. The Pariser Platz before us, was a wreck.

 

But it wasn't wreckage in the way I'd half-expected, from the photos and newsreels after V-E day. That had been debris and rubble, burned-out trucks and chaos everywhere.

Now, in places at least, the rubble was … piled; organized, even, obviously half-cleared. Mixed among the rubble were some piles of dirt, obviously dug from the excavated, rectangular holes and trenches that that dotted the square, where unexploded bombs and shells had been defused and removed …

Mostly defused and removed. At one or two of the trenches, further away, I saw the small red flags still in place. It was a chilling sight.

From what I could see, there was one, narrow roadway — maybe ten feet wide, big enough for two cars to pass — crossing the platz, connecting to the Unter den Linden, beyond. Lighter tire-marks on the pavers showed it was clearly in use.

"Major," from Lieutenant Colonel Thorne. "Please give the signal to Lieutenant Ayerton."

"Sir."

A long pause, with just the sound of the wind in the platz. Then, the roar of big engines; and a moment later, the two armored cars slowly emerged from two of the side-passageways in the Gate. They stopped shortly after emerging, the guns in their turrets pointing politely and peacefully, away from the Soviets. Their motors rumbled, once, and stopped.

I should have found the spectacle moving, and full of meaning, and maybe a little menacing; Allied armored forces here in Berlin, rolling through the Brandenburg Gate, the Brandenburger Tor, the heart of Hitler's Reich … 

 

My mind was on other things.

*

"The final details have been agreed," from Lieutenant Colonel Thorne, earlier that day; briefing us in the same room at Lancaster House, at the same long table with the brass ashtrays.

He'd looked around the table, once, quickly; then he'd nodded, at Mister MacLaughlin.

"MacLaughlin here, and his Soviet counterpart, have accepted the identifications of each other's detainee, Captain Williamson and Monsieur Kozlovsky." I heard the merest hint of irony in his tone, referring to Pavel The Pimp so politely. "It only remains to conduct the transfer … "

Specifics followed, which I barely listened to. Detachments, trucks, commanders, minute-by-minute schedules. Captain Clark supplied many supporting details. The junior officers and sergeants listened carefully, and jotted down notes.

Then Thorne went on; and I began paying urgent attention.

"Once our respective forces have lined up facing one another, the exchange should take place relatively quickly. There will be a brief salute, from the Soviets to ourselves, and from ourselves to the Soviets … "

I saw the merest twitch of something, in his expression.

"At that time, the respective detainees will be brought forward."

He paused, for a moment; and turned to us, Mister Grey, Mister MacLaughlin, and myself.

"In our previous experiences of this type," he went on, in a different tone, "in Vienna, the exchanges have taken place at much closer proximity. Under the circumstances here, given the condition of the Pariser Platz, there will be some distance between our forces. I would ask the three of you to please confirm Captain Williamson's presence and condition by use of binoculars." He paused, again; looking this time, directly at me.

Presence. Condition. I knew he suspected something … wrong.

So did I.

"Yes, sir," from MacLaughlin.

"If all checks out," Thorne went on, evenly, "the two detainees will proceed to each other's side, under escort. Then the Soviet Colonel and I and staff officers will meet somewhere in the middle, between our forces, to sign the necessary documents. I would appreciate your presence, Captain Van Doern, to sign on behalf of your Government."

"With very great gratitude, sir," I'd managed …

*

And now, after all this time, after all the travel, all the planning, we were here.

 

It was actually happening, I thought to myself. After all the effort, all the explanations; all of the talk, all the hope, and all of the crushing fear, it was actually happening.

 

Everything around me felt a little … unreal. The cold wind blew through the shattered Pariser Platz; the two double-lines of soldiers, Soviet and British, were standing still in their formations at last. The ruins of the very heart of Nazi Germany loomed around us and over us like broken teeth in a dead jaw.

Of course, I'd scanned the Soviet line, looking for Rhys. Of course I had. Of course, I hadn't seen him. I knew he was being held back a ways, just as Pavel the Pimp was now being held in back of our own formation, by two large, competent-looking guards.

I did see the Soviet colonel — or colonels — though. They were impossible to miss. Officer's caps set off in red bands, overcoats with gold-trimmed epaulettes, obviously surrounded by their own staff officers and NCO's …

Lieutenant Colonel Thorne saw them as well.

"Stand ready, Major," from him, quietly; then he drew himself erect, and took two long, firm strides forward, bringing his right foot crashing down emphatically at the end, standing stiffly at attention; and then, he saluted the Soviet colonel, his palm facing outward in the British way.

Across the platz, the Soviet colonel — he was as broad and thick, as Thorne was tall and lean — took a similar two strides forward; stopped; and saluted in his turn. The salute was held for a long moment, on both sides; and then, their arms came snapping down.

And immediately, from somewhere on the Soviet side of the platz, came the sound of a lone … trumpet, maybe; it sounded too pure and deep, somehow, to be a bugle. After a moment, it was clear that the music was 'God Save The King', being rendered unusually slowly. The trumpeter went through one verse, and then the music died away, to be replaced by the hiss of the wind in the ruins.

 

I registered it all, without really thinking. It was like I was watching it all take place remotely, from outside my own body, somehow. Waiting for whatever was going to happen.

 

Another salute; this one, initiated by the Soviet colonel. Lieutenant Colonel Thorne answered, in kind; and then the arms came snapping down, again …

From behind me somewhere, the unmistakable sound of a bagpipe; a lone bagpipe. It started with the usual bagpipe drone; and then the melody started … and eventually I recognized it as the Soviet national anthem, I'd heard it often enough with our rescuers, before we'd been transferred to our own field hospitals.

Beside me, I thought I could sense Mister MacLaughlin trying to to keep a straight face. The Soviet anthem is a stirring one, especially when sung by a mass of deep, soldiers' voices, as I'd heard it. But even I could tell, that it was spectacularly unsuited for a single bagpipe …

"Compliments of the Coldstream Guards," I heard someone whisper very softly, in the rank in back of me, and then a wry, answering puff of breath.

The bagpipe soon fell to a merciful silence. Then, another pause. The wind in the platz continued to hiss through the rubble. And then — motion, in the Soviet formation.

"Prisoner to the front," from Lieutenant Colonel Thorne, clearly and evenly.

"Here you are, sir — sirs," from a corporal, quietly, handing each of us, Mister MacLauglin, Mister Grey and me a pair of field binoculars. I took mine automatically, not thanking him, not even registering the man's face.

Space in our own lines opened up, and Pavel the Pimp's two big guards marched him up in quick step. He limped along, trying to keep pace — 

And on the Soviet side, something similar. A gap in the formation opened; three figures appeared, the one in the middle, shorter, slender, not in uniform — 

 

It was Rhys. I recognized him immediately, without the binoculars. My heart hammered like it would burst. Oh God, please God — 

 

"That's him," I called out, as steadily as I could.

"Yes," from Mister Grey, at once. He lifted his binoculars, and adjusted them.

"Agreed," from Mister MacLaughlin. He was looking hard, at the Soviet line.

 

I lifted my own binoculars up, and focused in on Rhys.

He was bareheaded, his dark hair even longer than when he'd left Paris, and a little wild in the breeze. His long overcoat was open in front, and he was facing down, slightly hunched over …

His hands were behind him. They must have been tied behind his back.

I registered that, without thinking, without drawing conclusions. My heart was still hammering hard, in my chest, so hard. I moved my binoculars, to look closely at his face — 

 

No. Oh, no.

 

"Something's wrong," I said. Then I called it out, louder. "Something's wrong."

His expression …

Rhys wasn't looking across, at us, as one would expect. His face was down, and he was examining the ground closely, scanning back and forth — 

He was looking for a place to fall, or to jump. He was looking, desperately, for some kind of cover, some place to fall, or to jump, if he had a chance. I was sure of it.

His expression was one of bleak, controlled anguish.

I remembered the look on the face of the Italian Fascist, as we was being marched to his execution …

"He's expecting to be shot," I called out. Then; "He's about to be shot." My stomach clenched down on itself, in terror. I couldn't believe the words I was saying. I knew them to be true.

"Could he just have the wind up — ?" from Lieutenant Colonel Thorne; his voice maddeningly calm and controlled.

"No, sir!" from Mister MacLaughlin. Urgently. "I told you; he's very experienced, with their version of the SIS and the SOE, both! He's absolutely steady — "

Suddenly, a number of people were talking at once. A cascade of warnings.

"Sir!" from a sergeant, with binoculars. "Look at his guards! They're standing three feet away and in back of him, and they're looking scared as hell — !"

"His hands are behind him, and he's bareheaded! He's set up for a head-shot — !"

"Sir!" from Captain Clark, urgently. I could feel him look at the Colonel. "Sir! Remember what happened to the 9th, after they relieved us — ?"

"They're beginning to move — !"

I saw Rhys' guards obeying somebody's order, and step forward a pace, even now with Rhys, though still far to each side of him; preparing to march — 

"Right," from Colonel Thorne; still calm and composed. "As we discussed, Major. On my mark."

And with that he strode out into the Pariser Platz, walking directly and very quickly towards the Soviet officers, waving his arms urgently over his head, over and over; "Halt!", he called out, in German, then "Halt!", and he repeated himself, again and again. Two aides, non-coms, followed along in his wake, almost running to keep up with him.

At the same time, Major Blackwell had given an order I couldn't hear, and the British side had exploded into motion. The men quickly, calmly took cover, either in the rubble, or in the ruins to either side of the Gate. The big engines of the armored cars rumbled back into life, and their turrets tracked ominously, guns pointing high up towards the upper levels of the shattered buildings to either side of the Soviets. Major Blackwell, Captain Clark and ourselves stayed where we were, with a group of the men. Where Pavel the Pimp was taken, I didn't see.

"What happened to the 9th, after they relieved you? In Vienna — ?" from Mister MacLaughlin, urgently.

"We lost one of ours, in an exchange," from Captain Clark. "Not as formal as this one. But the man we were going to get was shot and killed by a sniper." His binoculars were fixed on the Colonel, as he spoke. Others were clearly scanning for a shooter in the ruins. "The Soviets said it was done by the German Resistance; the Werewolves. But we know better. They just didn't want us to get him."

 

I took a breath; and then another.

I saw black, for a long, long moment; as my world changed. As my world ended. And then my vision cleared.

 

One last breath; and I thrust my binoculars at somebody, without even looking, and I took a step — 

A sudden, strong grip on my arm. "Oh, please, sir, no, the Colonel wants us to stay and — "

"Take your hands off me," I said; officer to enlisted man, in a low, terrible voice I didn't know I had.

The hands fell back, immediately.

Then — "Wait here," in almost the same voice, to MacLaughlin and Mister Grey, and then I remembered who and what they were, and I glanced to my right, and added, "Please."

"Sir," from MacLaughlin, his voice tense; his eyes to his binoculars, still. A quick impression of Mister Grey's white, strained face — 

And then I was off, striding, not-quite-runnning, across the Pariser Platz, striding directly towards where Rhys was standing bound as prisoner. The smell of crushed stone and concrete in the cold air; the stench of turned earth and open trenches, smelling like latrines, like graves.

 

A thousand things ran through my head, all at once.

 

On the one hand. What a fool I'd been, to think that we'd actually gotten through it all, Rhys and me, gotten through all the death and violence and destruction, and lived to see the other side.

What a fool, to actually think that we'd be given a chance to rebuild our lives together, to live together, in peace.

What a fool. What a fool.

 

And then, at the same time. Why should I have even dreamed of surviving, when so many, so very many of my friends had died?

Why should I live, when so many good friends, better men then me, had died? Friends like Howie, and Stu, like Eric and Dennis and George — 

 

Like Wade.

 

And as I pelted along, step after step, I could feel a knot inside me, an old pain inside me … begin to unwind.

A part of me was — relieved. Beginning to feel … at peace.

Maybe it's better this way, I thought to myself. Maybe I don't belong here, in this type of world. Maybe I never did. Maybe I belong with them, my friends, instead …

 

Well. I didn't belong in any world that didn't have Rhys. Of that, I was sure.

 

As I walked, I loosened the flap on the holster of Rhys' sidearm, at my hip; not caring who saw me. I checked to see the pistol was free and clear to draw. I was a few dozen yards away from Rhys, now; he was still looking down, he hadn't yet seen me — 

"Sir. Sir!"

In the corner of my eye, a brown-uniformed figure; one of Colonel Thorne's non-com aides. I didn't stop. I didn't even look at him.

"Colonel's compliments, sir, and he asks if you could please come join him, and the Russian colonels, sir — ? They're right this way. Sir."

The corporal — I'd glanced at him, this time — was striding along with me now, fast.

I said nothing. I was going to Rhys. I expected I was going to die with him.

Two more long strides. The corporal skipped-jumped two paces ahead, and put himself in front of me, facing me, not touching me, backpedaling. I stopped, for just a moment.

"Please, sir," he said, quietly. "Please. The Colonel's in a bit of a spot, here. He could really use your help … Sir."

The corporal was very young, and slender, and looked like a schoolboy; and there was something in his expression, something in his eyes. Fear, and alarm, I thought; but also, understanding, and beneath that, compassion.

It struck me, then, on some level without words, that his time with Thorne had taught him how to deal with an officer who had one foot in the grave.

I looked past him at Rhys. His head was still down, and for the first time, I realized he wasn't just scanning the ground; he was also ducking, he was trying to make a sniper's clean head shot more difficult, if he could. I started to move again, to dodge past the corporal — 

"Please, sir," from the corporal again, as he backpedaled, and moved to block me. "Please." Then, in a lower voice. "'Colonel'll get your friend back safe, sir. You'll see. Please, sir."

I stopped again; this time for five whole seconds. It felt like an hour.

I was torn like I'd never been in my life. Oh, God — 

"Sir," from the corporal. Quietly. Almost pleading.

A breath. Two breaths.

Rhys stood motionless; his head down. His guards were looking anxiously over at their own Lieutenant Colonel. I followed their gaze, a little to my left, to where the three officers and translators and aides stood, halfway between the Soviet and British forces — 

And then I remembered what Ian, Mister Grey, had told me about the Political Officer. The one who was brutal, and had a reputation as a 'fixer', of problems.

The one who had clearly fixed, all this.

My vision turned almost-black, again, as the idea came full-formed into my head, out of nowhere.

Then everything cleared; and I heard my voice saying, "Lead the way."

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