“I’m disappointed; I could have sworn that one would be able to see the Brandenburg Gate from here,” said Colonel Farmer pettishly, leaning out of the bomb-shattered window. His artificial leg crunched on broken glass. Overhead, a flight of French Potez bombers droned over the devastation that had been Adolf Hitler’s Berlin.
“The Poles blew it up three nights ago, Professor,” replied Lieutenant Booth abstractedly, using the title Farmer preferred. He had been rummaging through filing cabinets in the anteroom to the huge office in the Reichsministerium, the German Interior Ministry. “You complained about the noise at the time, if you remember. And it’s not wise to lean out like that: there are still German snipers who think the war isn’t over.”
“Far too many damn bangs these days,” said Farmer, as if two years of war had made no significant impression on him. “When you get to my age, you appreciate uninterrupted sleep, Mr Booth. Now what, if anything, have you found among the ridiculous amount of papers Minister von Busch felt it necessary to keep?”
“Nothing specific, sir; appointments for three meetings with Ernst Auer at a house in Babelsburg at about the right time, some Abwehr, Military Intelligence, correspondence from Admiral Canaris’ office: but no minutes from the meetings, no details…” Booth had spent two days poring fruitlessly over this latest batch of records, and had to make an effort not to sound resentful. This posting wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for: Berlin in November was much colder, smellier, and windier than he’d expected. As well as being in ruins. As a fluent German speaker fresh out of university, he’d been sure he would be assigned to something more … glamorous.
“That’s disappointing as well; one would think that a nation as anally-retentive as the Germans would keep a proper filing system,” said Farmer, poking at a file with his walking stick. “You’re sure you know what to look for?” Nettled, Booth started to answer that yes, he, Booth, was perfectly clear what he was looking for, unless the professor-colonel’s two-month-long obsessive search, close – sometimes too close, for a small unit, unarmed except for a few pistols --on the heels of the invading British and French armies, for details on a German Army operation called Fall Tziganer, Operation Gypsy, had been suddenly terminated, when the clatter of nail-shod army boots interrupted him before he’d properly started.
“Y a quelqu’un?” asked a French corporal, sidling apprehensively into the office, followed by two equally scruffy and unshaven privates, rifles at the ready, obviously unimpressed with their grand, if ruined, surroundings.
“Of course there’s someone here,” barked Farmer in French. One of the Poilus sniggered at his accent. Farmer’s French was grammatically perfect, but his pronunciation considerably less so. “And weren’t you taught to salute an officer? What do you want here anyway? There’s nothing to steal here.”
“Yes, mon colonel,” said the corporal indifferently, coming to sloppy attention and saluting, a millimetre away from insubordination. “You are indeed the Colonel Far-meur? If yes, I have a message for you, from the Major Séguin.”
“The Polonais, the Poles, have taken everything worthwhile anyway,” muttered the sniggering private.
“The Poles blew it up three nights ago, Professor,” replied Lieutenant Booth abstractedly, using the title Farmer preferred. He had been rummaging through filing cabinets in the anteroom to the huge office in the Reichsministerium, the German Interior Ministry. “You complained about the noise at the time, if you remember. And it’s not wise to lean out like that: there are still German snipers who think the war isn’t over.”
“Far too many damn bangs these days,” said Farmer, as if two years of war had made no significant impression on him. “When you get to my age, you appreciate uninterrupted sleep, Mr Booth. Now what, if anything, have you found among the ridiculous amount of papers Minister von Busch felt it necessary to keep?”
“Nothing specific, sir; appointments for three meetings with Ernst Auer at a house in Babelsburg at about the right time, some Abwehr, Military Intelligence, correspondence from Admiral Canaris’ office: but no minutes from the meetings, no details…” Booth had spent two days poring fruitlessly over this latest batch of records, and had to make an effort not to sound resentful. This posting wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for: Berlin in November was much colder, smellier, and windier than he’d expected. As well as being in ruins. As a fluent German speaker fresh out of university, he’d been sure he would be assigned to something more … glamorous.
“That’s disappointing as well; one would think that a nation as anally-retentive as the Germans would keep a proper filing system,” said Farmer, poking at a file with his walking stick. “You’re sure you know what to look for?” Nettled, Booth started to answer that yes, he, Booth, was perfectly clear what he was looking for, unless the professor-colonel’s two-month-long obsessive search, close – sometimes too close, for a small unit, unarmed except for a few pistols --on the heels of the invading British and French armies, for details on a German Army operation called Fall Tziganer, Operation Gypsy, had been suddenly terminated, when the clatter of nail-shod army boots interrupted him before he’d properly started.
“Y a quelqu’un?” asked a French corporal, sidling apprehensively into the office, followed by two equally scruffy and unshaven privates, rifles at the ready, obviously unimpressed with their grand, if ruined, surroundings.
“Of course there’s someone here,” barked Farmer in French. One of the Poilus sniggered at his accent. Farmer’s French was grammatically perfect, but his pronunciation considerably less so. “And weren’t you taught to salute an officer? What do you want here anyway? There’s nothing to steal here.”
“Yes, mon colonel,” said the corporal indifferently, coming to sloppy attention and saluting, a millimetre away from insubordination. “You are indeed the Colonel Far-meur? If yes, I have a message for you, from the Major Séguin.”
“The Polonais, the Poles, have taken everything worthwhile anyway,” muttered the sniggering private.