The Sword and the Net

1 BERLIN

I here was a hard, pale sun outside. It shone down through the tracery of the naked lime trees and made their branches black against the chill blue of the sky. It shone through the window of the room they had lent Otto in the new S.S. barracks and glittered cheerfully on the bright surfaces of paint and chromium. It brought with it the music of a band playing at the far side of the grounds—good, swinging martial music which seemed to swell in Otto’s head—and in his throat, where that fantastic and unpredictable and most unmilitary lump had been gathering all the morning.

He coughed harshly; then swallowed three times. That sometimes worked all right. . . .

There was a rapping at the door, and a voice, harsh yet respectful. “Herr Captain. . . . Is the Herr Captain ready?”

Otto swallowed again; then put both hands to his collar. It was clipped already, but he constricted his aching throat yet further with two fingers.

“Almost. What is it?” he called throatily. “This damn collar!” The added mutter was convincing.

“All officers to the Mess-Hall in five minutes, Captain!”

Otto swallowed again. He turned away from the dresser and surveyed himself in the long mirror set into the chromium door of a closet. He was satisfied with what he saw, and not without reason.

He saw six feet of lean, erect and resilient body, wide-shouldered, narrow-hipped and admirably set off by the new bluish-grey Luftwaffe uniform. It was a good fit—an admirable fit. Berlin tailors certainly worked well and fast. Particularly, he supposed, in such a case as his—that of a young and distinguished officer who must on short notice attend an investiture ceremony where the Fuehrer himself would pin yet another decoration upon his chest.

He twitched the high-collared tunic up at the back and down in front. He went back to the dresser in two strides, picked up a hairbrush and dabbed once more at the crisp, corn-coloured hair which would insist upon curling. He noted with distaste the pallor of his face and the slightly drawn look over the cheek-bones beneath the steel-blue eyes. To the prejudiced gaze of these same eyes the pallor and faint gauntness were glaring clues to the childish throat-filling which would so frequently obsess him at any emotional moment.

He gave the harsh, rasping cough again; then repeated the triple swallow. He strode to the door and went through it and down the wide, gleaming staircase. Both entrance hall and messroom were filling now with officers; young officers and middle-aged officers, officers from every branch of all three fighting arms; officers of all shapes, sizes and ranks; officers, to a man, clad in new, smart uniforms and carrying themselves with pride.

There was a swelling, deep-toned rumbling of men’s voices in the outer hall, and from the inner Mess-Hall came yet more and louder voices swelling to a diapason.

Otto, seeing no one whom he knew, threaded his way into the Mess-Hall. Here it was really crowded, and the roar of voices was punctuated by the tinkling of glass, the popping of corks and bursts of laughter. Still there seemed no one here whom he knew—but as he pushed his way towards the bar, edging between a noisy group of dark-uniformed S.S. officers and a little knot of navy men, a heavy hand clapped upon his shoulder.

He looked into the broad, beaming, black-browed face of Ulrich Hegger. Hegger, looming enormous in his new Artillery uniform, had an empty champagne glass in his hand; a glass which he now set down upon the tray of a passing mess-waiter.

“More!” he said to the man. Then, indicating Otto, “And a glass for Captain Falken. Quick!”

“Yes,” said the man. “Yes, Herr Major.” At the sound of the name he had started, looking at Otto with wide and warm and worshipping eyes.

Hegger now had Otto’s hand and was pumping it up and down enthusiastically. He was delighted to see Otto. And Otto, though not really liking the man, could not help but be pleased.

“Falken!” Hegger said. “Falken, you young villain! How are you?”

“All right.” Otto’s voice, because of the lump in his throat, still sounded husky in his own ears. “Bit of a cold, but nothing much.”

Hegger turned to the man he had been with—another Artilleryman and a couple of middle-aged Infantry Majors. He said:

“Come and meet Otto Falken—before he is too famous to know you!”

The trio crowded about Otto and were introduced one by one.

Each in his own way showed gratification.

“We’ve heard all about you,” said the Artilleryman. “Great work!”

“Proud to meet you, Captain,” said the elder Infantry officer. “You certainly gave those Englishmen a black eye!”

The last was a man of monosyllables. “Great!” he said jerkily. “Magnificent!”

Otto mumbled thanks in reply, as pleasantly as he could manage. He was rescued by the returning waiter and a glass of champagne which stunned the lump and seemed to reduce it. The band was now outside the windows and its vigorous music came loudly over the humming talk.

Otto suddenly realized that he felt happy—ecstatically, wonderfully happy. . . .

The music swelled in Otto’s ears and mingled with the surf-like thunder of the cheers. . . . He sat in the open car with two other officers whom he never would know. . . . Their car led the procession of many similar cars which wound its way through crowd-lined streets towards the Sportspalast. . . .

At intervals in the serried, orderly ranks of cheering spectators were bands. . . . When you drew near a band there was no cheering until you had passed it and were out of its immediate range—then the cheering began again. . . .

He and the other officers sat stiffly. Taking his cue from the senior—a bearded naval man whose rank badges were those of a junior Admiral—Otto occasionally turned his head to this side or the other and saluted in acknowledgment of the cheers. . . .

The sun glittered palely down. . . . The cars rolled steadily, slowly on. . . . The roaring and the music and the iron voices of the loudspeakers mingled into one prolonged, triumphant pæan. . . . Otto’s throat constricted agonizingly behind the high stiff collar of the new uniform. . . . He felt a suspicious pricking behind his eyelids and dared not blink them. He kept the eyes fixedly, burningly wide. . . . He despised himself and was ineffably proud and miserably happy. . . .

And then the Sportspalast—and a species of coma which wrapped him about, cutting him off from real contact with the outer world—his own private, transparent, impregnable cloak. . . .

More music . . . more cheering . . . himself in the centre of a rapid line of waiting officers. . . . Then silence—and on the platform before him, the Fuehrer. . . . Then the harsh, volatile voice, addressing—through the officers, through Otto himself—the tensely listening thousands. . . . That awe-inspiring, extraordinary voice . . . the wonderful voice . . . the voice of the Liberator, future Ruler of the World. . . .

And then the slow, single-rank procession to the platform—and Otto in his turn upon it. . . . A firm handshake and the pinning upon his left breast of the most coveted honour in the New Germany. . . . A smile such as had not been granted to any of the men before him. . . . And then, after the smile, words of praise and thanks for his ear alone: personal, private words from the Fuehrer to Otto Falken! . . . Then, amazingly, yet another signal honour—a second handshake. . . .

After minutes or hours in which the coma-cloak had seemed opaque, he found himself out of the main hall and in an anteroom. It was filled with men in uniform; the men who, as well as himself, had just been honoured. He stood apart, wrapped in happiness and misty, unformulated thought. He did not want to speak to anyone nor do anything; he was satisfied to be in this moment. . . .

For the second time to-day a heavy hand slapped him upon the back and a voice boomed in his ear.

“Falken! Still speaking to your old friends? Or are you waiting to dine with the Fuehrer?”

It was Hegger again. Otto did his best to be polite—but it must have been a poor attempt, for soon the man edged away and was caught up by other companions. Otto stayed where he was—and people left him alone. . . .

The press began to thin. In twos and fours, and even singly, officers began to leave. Otto, still wrapped in the impalpable dream-sensations, did not notice their going until he realized that the room was already three-fourths empty.

He was startled. He began to think, untidily. He had four weeks’ leave and no idea what he was going to do with it. He did not know many people in Berlin. He went so far as to wonder whether Hegger were still around. He turned his head to look for him—and felt a light touch upon his shoulder.

He turned to find himself—all six feet and more of him—looking up into the grey, lined face of a towering man in S.S. uniform with badges which, although unfamiliar to Otto, seemed certainly to be those of exalted rank.

“Captain Falken?” said this person.

Otto nodded, trying to keep bewilderment from his eyes.

“Follow me, please.” The man turned and strode away.

Otto followed—not towards the entrance which he and his fellows had used, but to another door, in the rear of the room, which was covered by a heavy curtain bearing golden swastikas upon a background of black velvet. . . .

Behind this door was a dark, narrow passageway dimly lit by yellow bulbs. His guide’s feet rang echoingly ahead of him—and Otto followed. Under the tonic of this mystery his mind was functioning almost at its normal and decisive speed.

At the end of the passageway was another door—and they passed through it into a little high-walled court-yard. There was a car there, with a nondescript, hunched-over man behind the wheel. Its engine was running. It was a black limousine, and blinds were down over its windows.

The S.S. officer opened the tonneau door. “Get in, please,” he said.

Otto paused with one foot upon the running board. This was too much. He said:

“Where are we going? And what for?”

The thin-lipped mouth of the escort twisted in what was doubtless meant to be a smile. “You are not under Arrest, Captain. Important personages wish the pleasure of your company.”

Otto did not answer the smile, and he did not move to enter the car. In silence, he looked steadily into the other’s eyes.

“I have orders,” said the man. He put a hand to his breast pocket and produced a folded paper. He smiled again.

Otto made up his mind. He waved aside the paper and climbed into the car and sank into its soft upholstery.

The S.S. officer climbed in beside him, slamming the door. The car started—and Otto saw with surprise that the glass partition behind the driver was curtained like the side-windows. He was in an opaque, luxurious box which at once began to move. . . .

The box came to a standstill. They had driven, Otto judged, for some fifteen minutes. They had twisted and turned on some devious route which might have led them through the heart of Berlin. The driver opened the door on the pavement side; the door nearer Otto.

Otto got out, looking about him curiously. He thought that the street, which he did not know, must be somewhere in the western suburbs. He was before a solid stone house of some size and no distinction, which stood separated by drab strips of garden from other identical houses. The S.S. officer stood beside him and the car drove quietly away.

“Come, please.” His guide opened a squeaky iron gate, and Otto followed him up stone steps to a door which was opened as they reached it and closed as they passed through.

“Wait, please.” His guide disappeared into a door at the far end of the square hall. The manservant who had opened the door walked away without so much as a glance behind him.

Otto surveyed his surroundings with questioning eyes. He was in the entrance hall of what certainly seemed nothing more than the slightly old-fashioned home of some retired businessman of comfortable means and a solid bourgeois taste in decoration. And yet . . .

The tall S.S. man came back—but this time through a door upon the other side of the hall.

“Please,” he said to Otto, and led the way to the door he had first gone through. He opened it and stood aside and closed it again as Otto crossed the threshold into a small book-lined room.

A heavy-set, broad-shouldered man in civilian clothes stood up behind a desk which filled the small bay window. He raised his arm in official salute. “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” Otto returned the greeting.

The man came towards him now with outstretched hand. He said, in a rich, deep voice:

“Captain Falken! I am delighted and honoured to make your acquaintance.” But he did not, as normal manners demanded, give his own name nor make reference to the omission.

Otto took the hand in silence. When he did not know what to say, he always said nothing.

The other regarded him with a benevolent smile. “You are wondering, no doubt. Your mind is full of questions, is it not?” He chuckled. “Who? . . . Why? . . . Where? . . . And what?”

Otto smiled—the chuckle was infectious. He said:

“You mean you’ll give me the answers?”

The chuckle came again, richer than before. “I’m afraid not. But you will have them—and very soon.” He tilted his head on one side and looked up at Otto and the smile left his face. He said:

“Captain Falken, you have already done major service for Germany and the Reich. But you are on the threshold of far greater things!”

He looked steadily at Otto for a moment; then raised a hand and beckoned and crossed to a door in the right-hand wall and threw it open.

“Captain Otto Falken!” he said loudly—and guided Otto over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

This time Otto stood in a large, square room which seemed to contain only three desks and a number of plain wooden chairs. Upon each desk were several telephones, and, upon the wall behind the central desk, a case of gigantic maps. There were three men in the room, all seated. Behind their desks they were a horse-shoe facing Otto. The flanking men behind the smaller desks were in civilian clothes, one bespectacled and bald; the other shaggy-haired with a wild black beard. These two did not rise. But the man behind the big desk—a man in Staff uniform and with the badges of a Generaloberst—got to his feet. His face and name were familiar to Otto, thrillingly familiar. He gave the formal salute—and Otto, very stiff at attention, replied in kind.

The General sat. He said, pointing to a chair in the exact centre of the horse-shoe:

“Sit down, Captain.” It was more order than invitation.

Otto took the chair. He sat stiffly, facing his superior officer, ignoring the civilians.

The General’s eyes, black and polished-looking beneath thin grey brows, surveyed him unfeelingly. There was a long silence. Somewhere a clock was softly ticking: it kept time with the beating of Otto’s heart. He did not let his eyes fall from the General’s and he did not move a muscle in his body.

The General dropped his gaze to a file upon the desk before him. He opened it with a flick of his finger. He began to read out of it—a series of statements which all ended upon a note of interrogation. Throughout his reading he never once raised his eyes to Otto.

“Heinrich Maximilian Otto Falken?” The voice was clipped and each word had a sharp edge as if it were metal ringing against metal.

Otto knew he was to answer. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Height, six feet, one and a half inches?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Weight, one hundred and eighty pounds?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Born November 3, 1914?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Family name originally Von Falkenhaus? Father, Ulrich Von Falkenhaus?”

“Yes, sir.” Though he never took his eyes from the clipped grey head of the General, Otto could feel the gaze of both the civilians. His collar was hot and uncomfortable and little beads of sweat were forming over his cheekbones.

“Both parents died in your early childhood? No brothers or sisters?”

Otto swallowed. “That is correct, sir.”

“Only known relatives, two paternal uncles? One, Ludwig, killed in action on the Western Front in 1916—the other, Karl, executed for seditious behaviour in Rittenberg, 1934?”

Otto lifted a hand towards his collar; then checked the movement. “Yes, sir.”

And so it went on, question after question, in the hard, quiet, ringing voice; question after question, answer after answer. All facts, all accurate, many of them amazingly private; things which Otto could have sworn upon his life no one could know—every fact and facet and, almost, every fancy of his life. It was all there, in that file, all of him: he felt as if he were being stripped of clothing, piece by piece, in a public square. . . .

And all the time, while his eyes were fixed upon the grey head, he could feel the four eyes watching him. . . .

Unchanging, unmodulated, the hard metal voice kept on. “On this same day,” it was saying now, “you and your squadron participated in a daylight raid over the South-west Coast of England?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were escorting six Heinkel bombers? You encountered severe fighter opposition and you yourself were shot down, landing on the English Coast by parachute?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were taken prisoner and confined in a prison camp near Colchester?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were there three months and two days?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You finally effected an escape and succeeded in obtaining civilian clothes and lay hidden for two days?”

“Yes, sir.”

Now the General did look up. It was a sudden and unexpected movement, and Otto had difficulty in suppressing a start as the black, glittering eyes once more met his own. The General said:

“Falken, tell how you managed your return to Occupied France. Concisely.”

A change here. Otto did not know whether he liked it or not—but he obeyed promptly. He continued to look directly at the General, and to sit straight and stiff. He said, keeping his voice flat and toneless and without emotion:

“I hid in some woods near Colchester. I think they were game preserves. I stole food and the clothes at night. They were searching for me, but I managed to evade them. On the third night I began to move. I was trying to reach the Coast. Towards morning I found a hiding-place in some more woods. I was discovered by two men. I think they were farmers. I heard them coming and did not let them find me hiding but accosted them. I spoke in English to them. I said I was off a Swedish freighter that had been sunk. I said I was making my way to Colchester where I had relatives. They believed me and gave me directions. Later in the morning I was hiding again. I was near the sea. I heard planes and saw, very high, some bombers coming in from the sea escorted by fighters. They were ours. A fleet of Hurricanes and Spitfires went up to intercept them. I saw them climbing. There was fighting—and I saw two of our bombers come down in flames. One fell about half a mile from where I was.”

He paused for a moment, moistening with his tongue lips which were very dry. The black eyes opened a little more widely and he hurried on. He said:

“It was quite early in the morning, I think about seven. I had no watch; it had been taken from me at prison camp. I stayed where I was in hiding. Above, the fighting went on. The rest of our bombers turned back but some Messerschmitts were still engaging the English planes. Three of ours came down. I did not like it. The others turned back and followed the Heinkels. The English planes went after them—except one. This one puzzled me. It started, then came back, losing altitude. The engine sounded good and it did not seem that the plane had been hit. But it kept dropping—and eventually it landed. It landed not more than two hundred yards from where I was. The ground was bumpy and uneven but the plane did not turn over. I expected the pilot to get out—but nothing happened. I realized suddenly that he must be wounded. I had an idea. I knew that people would be coming soon, so I ran quickly to the ship. The pilot was wounded—badly: perhaps he was dead, I lifted his body out and threw it to the ground, after I’d taken off his helmet and put it on. . . .”

He hesitated. He did not want to tell the rest of the story. There had been too much said about it already—everywhere. He hoped they would let him off.

“Go on!” The metallic voice was impatient.

Otto swallowed. “I . . . I jumped into the plane. . . . I looked at the petrol gauge and found there was enough. I . . . I flew it. It was strange at first—but I was lucky in guessing the controls—and I found out how the forward guns worked. . . .” He laughed without volition, a nervous little sound; then, appalled, hurried on.

“I flew straight out across the Channel. I was lucky. It was too soon for anyone to have found out that I had stolen the plane. It was a Spitfire—very good indeed . . . and—well, sir—I landed at Number Four Field, Calais. At 9.12.”

A short, barking laugh came from the civilian on Otto’s left, the man with the black beard. It was the first sound either he or his colleague had made—and Otto, surprised, flashed a glance at him.

“Tell the whole story.” The metallic voice was hard. “I told you to be concise—but not to make omissions.”

Otto flushed. “I am sorry, sir. About ten miles from the French Coast, I saw two English planes—Hurricanes—coming towards me, about a thousand feet lower. They were probably two of the planes that pursued the bombers. They sighted me and climbed. . . . Well, I had found out about the forward guns. . . . I was very lucky. . . . I got them both. . . . After the fight, I made my way to Calais and landed as reported. That’s all, sir.”

The bald civilian muttered something, then was silent. No one else said anything. The General, his head bent again, turned back some pages in the file. Otto sat motionless.

The General looked up. “When you were escaping, in England, and these two men spoke to you: you say you addressed them in English?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You learned English as a child from this Swedish governess I mentioned before—Fräulein Harben?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You also learned Swedish?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have kept up your knowledge of these languages?”

Otto hesitated. “I think so, sir. At least, I have not forgotten them.”

“So.” The General closed the file and made a little gesture with his hand.

Immediately the bald civilian spoke—rapidly and in Swedish. He said:

“Captain, you would not be embarrassed by having to talk nothing but Swedish?”

Otto replied even before his mind had told him that here was some sort of test. He said, in Swedish:

“I do not think so, mein Herr.”

The General made a slight movement with his head—and the other civilian spoke in rapid English with a slight mid-western accent. He said:

“It was interesting, Captain Falken, to hear you say the British plane you flew was so good. Does that only apply to the fighter types?”

Again, though now definitely conscious of the ‘test’ feeling, Otto replied promptly.

“I am not aware concerning the others,” he said carefully. “Not from a pilot-angle.”

For the first time, the General gave overt evidence that he knew the civilians were in the room. He looked from one to the other.

“Well, gentlemen?” he said.

The bald man answered first. “It seems very good, General. There is an accent—but, strangely, it sounds like a Danish one.”

“Not bad for the purpose,” said the man with the beard, in a curiously high-pitched voice. “An educated Swede talking English laboriously learned. The usual mistakes in syntax. No trace of German accent.”

Otto wanted to look at the men as they spoke. But he thought better of it and kept his eyes fixed upon the cold, regular, emotionless features of the General. The black, polished eyes were downcast now, as if in thought.

There was another silence. It was broken only when the General moved, stretching out a hand for the nearest of the telephones upon his desk. He took off the receiver and pressed a button set in the stand and spoke almost immediately. His fifth word astounded Otto by its implication.

“I have seen Falken, sir,” he said. His voice was different now—still ringingly metallic, but softened by respect. It was a subtle change, but startling.

The telephone cackled harshly.

“Yes, sir,” said the General. Then again, after more cackling: “Yes, sir. Yes, I have. . . . Yes, they are here. They tried him: satisfactory. . . . Yes: very well, sir.”

Otto, though his eyes were fixed still upon the General, was momentarily lost in whirling thought. What was all this to-do? And where did he fit into the picture, whatever it was! The man in the first room had implied that all the questions clamant in his mind would be answered—but so far they had merely increased, both in number and improbability. . . .

He became aware, with a start, that the General was rising. Otto shot to his feet. Rigid at attention, he waited.

The General came out from behind the big desk. He was lean and spare and wonderfully tailored, but he was not so tall as Otto had thought him. He said curtly:

“Captain Falken: I am going to take you to see a man who has been following your career with interest and appreciation. You are honoured by this above your fellows.” He named a name—and Otto so far forgot himself as to let out a strangled exclamation. It was a name even more illustrious than either of the two he had wildly guessed—and it was not the name of a man in any of the fighting services. . . .

“Attention!” The metal voice rang harshly. “He is going to see you, now, and tell you what he requires of you. Neither I, nor anyone outside his own immediate counsel, knows exactly what this is except that it is work for the Fuehrer and the Reich—for Germany. Whatever it is, you will perform it to the limit of your ability—and beyond. You understand?”

Without speaking, Otto saluted—and the General did a curious thing. He brought this strange chapter of these strange proceedings to a stranger end. He looked full into Otto’s eyes with his own eyes of polished black—and he lifted his arm and gave the hail or valediction which is only used upon solemn occasions of ceremony.

“Sieg heil!” he said, and then turned on his heel, beckoning Otto to follow, and walked with ringing spurs towards an inner door. . . .

Three days later, in the smoking-room off the big bar of the Adlon, Major Hans Hegger was glancing, very idly because he was waiting for a girl, through the pages of an official Services gazette. He was skimming over the pages, not really reading, when a name caught his eye. He read:

“Too bad, too bad!” Hegger shook his head and muttered. “Can’t afford to lose that sort of lad!”