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Richter sat seething at his desk in his office at the Kommandantur, his place of power. It was, of course, more correct to say that it was the place of power of the Third Reich, with whose authority he had been clothed, at least for as long as the Wehrmacht saw fit.
This sense of impermanence over his authority in Guernsey was never far from him at the best of times. Confronted as he was now with the problem that had plagued him for the better part of his tenure, he had never before been more cognisant of the limits to his power.
Said problem was standing at correct attention in front of the Kommandant’s desk, lithe form as neat as a pin in his black uniform, pressed hair shining under the office lights. His fine-boned features were schooled to an expression of polite courtesy that fooled no one, least of all his commanding officer.
Hauptsturmführer Reinicke had been a thorn in the side of the command staff since his arrival on Guernsey. Over almost a year and a half of occupation, he had picked a fight with the local librarian and arrested several of the island’s teenagers, unnecessarily escalating tensions with Guernsey’s civilian population - - all allegedly in the name of the Führer himself. Worst of all, the man hadn’t been a bit regretful. He’d been even more smirkingly incorrigible since his return from leave in Paris a week ago.
Standing beside Reinicke, Oberleutnant Kluge widened his already bulbous glare at his colleague, snapping, “Your troops have truly surpassed themselves this time!”
Richter, having parsed through the relevant report, could not help but agree. The SS were supposed to be the crème de la creme of the German military machine, but here on Guernsey, it was hard to find any evidence of such elite performance. When they were not half-heartedly rousting Todt workers and prisoners of war to construct their part of Hitler's Atlantic Wall, they were busy getting raucously drunk at Fat Molly’s Bar and behaving boorishly to the populace. Reinicke, their commander, did nothing to keep them under control.
Now matters seemed to have come to a head, immediately after Reinicke’s return from leave. Not two days before, five SS riflemen, all the worse for drink, had gotten into the Gosselins’ farmhouse by dint of breaking the barn door and frightening old Mrs Gosselin; when Mr Gosselin had confronted them, they’d roughed him up. Gosselin had suffered a concussion and a broken arm. According to the medical report provided by Dr John Forbes, which Kluge had appended to Gosselin’s complaint, “it was small wonder that he was not more seriously injured.”
Richter supposed this was an unexpected benefit to having sent Dr Martel to Cherche-Midi prison: at least it was Martel’s colleague and not Martel himself who was berating him for not doing enough. Martel’s penchant for drama aside, though, it did sound as if the soldiers’ drunken assault could have foreseeably resulted in death for the old farmholder.
Kluge added, fiercely, “We should prefer charges of breaking and entering, and grievous battery, to start with! We must make an example of Soldaten Helmut and his little friends, or else there will be a complete breakdown of law and order on these islands!”
Reinicke waited for Kluge to run out of steam before directly addressing his Kommandant. “Herr Major, my men were just having a bit of fun. Admittedly, they entered private property by accident - - there was a snowstorm that night, they clearly lost their way and were in need of shelter. But if a man suddenly attacks with a pitchfork, in the middle of the night, how would you expect any red-blooded soldier to react?”
“A 60-year-old man in his pyjamas, who thought he was being burgled! Don’t you expect your men to know the difference?”
Reinicke smiled as he let loose with this provocative sally: “Not necessarily. I expect a bit of rough behaviour from my men.”
No doubt to try to head off a rare explosion from the Kommandant, Major Freidel intervened from his position at Richter’s right hand. “Do you know, I recollect a suggestion from the Feldgendarmerie that we might put that bar out of bounds to the SS?”
Reinicke bristled visibly at this, though his voice remained level. “Herr Major, with the greatest of respect, my men should be able to go anywhere they like. They are not second-class rabble like many of the troops here, or some of the islanders for that matter.”
Richter tried to keep his own voice level, which was not easy when addressing Reinicke. “That remains to be seen. As their commander, you were unwilling to take advice to de-escalate matters, refused to discipline your men, and now they have committed criminal offences and injured a civilian. You must be prepared for the consequences.”
Reinicke paused. A look of concern at the Kommandant’s sharp words passed across his face, or at least Richter flattered himself that that was so. In humbler tones, he said, “Perhaps, Herr Kommandant, I might be allowed to deal with this matter internally. For instance, this might be an occasion for Leibstrafen.”
At this, Kluge turned to stare at Reinicke with even more enhanced ocular acuity; Richter could see Freidel’s minute frown of disapproval. The practice of Leibstrafen, or military corporal discipline, had fallen into disuse after the Great War after numerous deaths and detrimental impact on morale. No civilised Wehrmacht officer would have subjected his troops to the floggings or field punishments like Anbinden that were barbaric holdovers from those early days of war; certainly, Richter would not have countenanced its use to discipline his own men. That said, the SS, which comprised a separate command structure from the OKW, had seen fit to retain this cruel practice.
“I don’t believe you have referenced this method of discipline before, Reinicke.” Once again, Richter had to remind himself to keep his voice level. “Surely this is a measure which one deploys only after debarment fails?”
“Ah, not necessarily, Herr Major.” Was it just the light, or were Reinicke’s eyes gleaming? “You see, when administered with the right amount of sympathy, Leibstrafen can prove very efficacious, with recipients being given the opportunity to show courage and obedience and even loyalty. Our own fathers did not stint from showing corporal discipline to their sons; in the same way, our soldiers may show us the same loyalty and love that they showed to their fathers.”
Richter frowned. Certainly, his own very traditional father had taken the very traditional belt to him when he'd been a rebellious youngster, though he suspected that he’d never quite managed to show Ordentlicher-Professor Helmut Richter the requisite amount of loyalty and love in response to said discipline. Though, other men might respond differently; for instance, it seemed as if Reinicke himself had had a much more positive experience.
It fell to Kluge to announce, angrily, “Don’t soft soap it, Reinicke, it’s a beastly practice! Do you know how many men died from flogging in the last war? How many lost limbs or froze to death from field binding? We have outlawed the same in Hamburg, and the modern military police, and rightly so.”
Reinicke favoured his colleague with a cutting smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the subtleties of discipline and loyalty, Herr Oberleutnant. Just understand this: I am perfectly capable of keeping my men in line without any help from you or anyone in the Kommandantur.”
“That is demonstrably not the case,” Richter said, stung. “Your men have gone from bad to worse, Leibstrafen or no Leibstrafen. I mean to nip this in the bud before someone gets killed.”
Reinicke turned back to his Kommandant. Surprise lowered his defences for a fatal instant; the unguarded curl of his upper lip made Richter’s skin prickle with a rage that proved startlingly difficult to master.
Stiffly, he said, “Don’t push me, Reinicke. Be glad that I don’t find this a case for a court martial. I still might, if Mr Gosselin’s condition worsens because of his injuries. Oberleutnant, please pursue the criminal charges that you suggest.”
Kluge nodded with vicious triumph, while Freidel sighed in his most longsuffering fashion. But Reinicke was not prepared to admit defeat. He took a half-step forward, and locked gazes with his commanding officer.
“Excuse me, Herr Major. If any such action is taken against my men, I will be compelled to make a report of the same. I am sure that Berlin will take an interest in how our SS troops are being treated in this war… To say nothing of the conduct of our policy on these islands, which ought to be made clear to all our soldiers, not just the SS.”
Richter could feel the rage rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. Damn it all, maybe Reinicke would do what he threatened, would escalate matters to his and Richter’s superiors in Berlin, a battle in which he might even prevail.
“I trust I make myself absolutely clear,” Reinicke said in lieu of Don’t push me, Herr Major, the menace crackling in his blue eyes.
“I think you do,” Richter managed, watching Richter’s nostrils flare with triumph, and something else. “And now you may go.”
Reinicke stalked off without the polite heel click he usually proffered his Kommandant, slamming the door behind him, a blatant challenge to the command staff and to Richter himself.
Damn and blast the man! Richter dismissed Kluge and leaned back in his chair, breathing more quickly. Such insubordination might be enough to drive any civilised man to try his hand at corporal punishment after all.
“Will he do as he says?” Freidel asked.
Richter considered this, as best he could in the circumstances. “Perhaps. Perhaps he has complained about us already, in one of his letters to his SS-Brigadeführer in France or even to Berlin. Or perhaps he did so in person; he was just in Paris, after all.”
Freidel paused, and then said, in measured tones, “The SS is an elite corps with special privileges and responsibilities. Would it be too much to hope that loyalty to one’s immediate colleagues would be numbered among them?”
“Perhaps,” Richter said slowly, remembering the difficult discussion three weeks ago when he had made the command decision to correctionalise the offences against the Martels and Peter Porteous. To keep the peace on the islands, and to spare Dr Martel’s life, Richter had preferred technical charges instead. Reinicke had been visibly perturbed by this decision, but his superiors had assumed he would take that perturbation no further.
Had they just been given reason to doubt that assumption? Richter couldn’t tell.
*
Four weeks later, the matter was placed beyond doubt by a communique from Mount Durand.
Richter hadn’t seen Generalmajor Erich Müller, commander of the 319 Infantry Division, since the new commander-in-chief’s arrival in the Channel Islands in early October. The Generalmajor had apparently been too busy riding his horses and inspecting the fortifications on Alderney and Jersey; Freidel had heard he’d recently been called away to Paris to meet General Stülpnagel and update himself on the OKW’s strategies in Vichy France.
Now Müller was coming to St Peter Port to honour the Kommandantur with his presence. The note did not provide a reason for the visit, but its coldly formal tones left Richter in no doubt that the visit was an official one.
Richter received the Generalmajor in his - - that was to say, the Kommandant’s - - offices. Müller strode in in full regalia, ubiquitous riding crop in one hand, and dismissed his escort; he knocked the snow from his boots and he lowered himself ponderously into the chair opposite Richter’s desk without removing either cap or riding gloves. Nor did he permit Richter to sit: a sign of trouble to come.
Richter found himself standing at attention before his commanding officer, meeting that sharp gaze with some difficulty, and feeling more devoid of power than he had since Kriegsschule - - or maybe even since he had come of age.
Müller clearly believed in dispensing with niceties, or perhaps he was too angry for small talk. He fired the first salvo without preamble: “How long have you been here on Guernsey, Richter?”
“Since 30 June 1940, Herr Generalmajor.” The date had been engraved deeply on him, to say nothing of the weight of the intervening days, and decisions large and small.
“One year and 5 months. Do you not desire a return to regimental duties?”
Richter felt a lightness in his knees, similar to how he’d felt years ago when Chancellor Büchel had told him he’d been passed over for tenure at the Friedrich-Wilhelms University.
“I should like to think I could still be of service here, sir.”
“Hurm,” Müller said, deliberately noncommittal. “I recall you served with General Rommel in the Great War, with some distinction. But before this war, you had another career, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Before this war, I was an academic.” In philosophy, like his father before him, though nowhere near as respected, nor had Ordentlicher-Professor Helmut Richter ever let him forget it.
Müller nodded. “Undoubtedly, governing these islands, under these special circumstances, requires special attributes, and not necessarily the straightforward military ones.”
His gaze sharpened even more. “Nevertheless, and however special the circumstances, the immediate military responsibility for both Guernsey and Jersey fits into a command structure that flows through me, to the Military Kommandant in France, and from General Stülpnagel to the Commander der Wehrmacht, and from the High Command to the Führer himself. Who is keenly interested in how we conduct matters here in the name of the Third Reich.”
The riding crop rapped sharply on the table surface like a gunshot. The Generalmajor snapped: “I am told you failed to prosecute a group of islanders caught spying.”
Müller’s glare was like facing down a firing squad. Over the sound of his pounding blood, Richter heard himself describe his decision in the Martel case in remarkably level tones, given the circumstances.
“General Stülpnagel’s proclamation was precise. Anyone instigating, participating in or facilitating any activity with intent to interfere with the operation or success of the military forces of the Third Reich or to promote the success of its enemies would be guilty of an offence, punishable with the death penalty, without power of appeal. Dr Martel was innocent of any intent to commit espionage; he enjoys a certain amount of support and standing in Guernsey as a member of the Controlling Committee. In my view, it would not assist the military government for civil unrest to break out on these islands. As such, I decided to sidestep the risk and prefer lesser charges of breaching censorship regulations instead.”
Müller levered himself to his feet. His eyes bored into Richter’s: the Almighty searching the face of Solomon in the wake of that king’s famously difficult decision for the greater good. Richter made himself hold as firm under this scrutiny as Solomon might have.
Finally, Müller said, “As an exercise in local command initiative, I don’t criticise you. What I do criticise you for is naiveté. Something one occasionally finds in the academic.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I don’t - -”
Another crack of the riding crop, startling Richter badly. Müller thundered: “You have an SS officer attached to your staff. Hauptsturmführer Reinicke. Did you suppose an SS officer would have a similar attitude?”
Richter had to take a moment to recover his composure, to be able to say, with artificial equanimity, “I explained my reasons. If they satisfied me, I had every right to assume they should have satisfied him.”
The Generalmajor began to pace back and forth, riding crop keeping time with his heavy stride. “Academics assume everyone else to be rational as them. You were wrong in what you did - - the best that one can say is that you did the wrong thing for the right reasons.” He paused and pointed the crop at Richter, as if sighting down a weapon. “You were under a duty to inform me before making this decision. But instead of doing so, you decided to dispense justice yourself as if it were your God-given right. Simple arrogance, Herr Major!”
Richter took hold of his courage, as he had before the headlong pitch into enemy territory at the Argonne Forest, one war and almost one lifetime ago. He was no longer that green lieutenant; with hard-won experience from the intervening years of conflict, he said, evenly, “I did so because I wanted to spare the Herr General a problem that arose on the day of his arrival.”
This time, Müller smacked the crop into his open palm; it was like a blow across Richter’s face. “No, you did so because the Herr Major doubted the Herr General possessed wisdom in the same degree as himself!”
As Richter struggled to regain his equilibrium, Müller continued, fiercely, “Duty and common sense required you would inform me of these particular offences beforehand. Had I been so minded in the light of that advice to interpret them similarly, I would have been without the monumental embarrassment of some damned SS busybody reporting up the chain behind my back. The whole damn business has echoed around Berlin. Why do you think I was summoned to Paris last week?”
The realisation dawned too slowly: a roar of thunder after lightning had passed that shook Richter down to his bones. Then, underneath, belatedly, the slow rumble of anger, all the more heated for how belated it was.
He’d been naïve indeed. Worse, he’d been either monumentally stupid or fatally arrogant to assume that young Reinicke would have had the loyalty not to complain of him to his superiors in the SS. He likely also complained about the command staff; Richter’s arrogance and stupidity had put Freidel and Kluge at risk as well.
He set aside fear and the groundswell of fury, and marshalled as much dignity as he could. “In which case, Herr General, perhaps I ought indeed to seek a return to regimental duties after all.”
Müller pulled up sharply. “But I thought you said you could still be of service here?”
“Yes, but if there is a lack of confidence …”
Once again, the crop pointed straight at Richter. The Generalmajor said, “If there is a lack of confidence, you will be told! Until that time, you enjoy my, and the OKW’s, full confidence.”
Müller nodded towards Richter’s chair, and Richter belatedly found his seat. Found, too, that his knees were shaking, thrown off-balance by the feint and this accompanying, incomprehensible reprieve.
What long game was Müller - - that is to say, Wehrmacht High Command - - playing with him, and Reinicke, and the SS?
“I’m gratified, Herr General.”
“Don’t be,” Müller said grimly. “We were lucky. The military command structure in France is currently undergoing a period of upheaval, and General Stülpnagel and I have taken advantage of the situation.”
Off Richter’s quizzical look, the Generalmajor explained, “Reinicke addressed his complaint to his commanding officer, SS-Brigadeführer Thomas, who sent it on to Berlin. However, Thomas was immediately thereafter recalled in disgrace and sent to the front, thanks to the stupidity of his SS troops, who went behind his back to supply some French extremists with explosives to attack Parisian synagogues. Those young officers who carried out the false flag operation were then recalled as well, on orders from SS-Obergruppenführer Heydrich.” Müller looked pointedly at Richter: “You see what comes when a commander fails to properly control his men?”
Richter, of course, could hardly respond to this, and Müller continued: “The end result? There is, for the time being, no SS presence in occupied France. General Stülpnagel has at present full authority over the SS as well as the Wehrmacht in the Channel Islands.”
Richter tried to jolt his academic’s brain back into working order. “And what of Reinicke’s complaint about us?”
“Before he fled, Knochen saw fit to sign off on a promotion for Reinicke that Berlin has placed in Stülpnagel’s hands. It is this promotion that Herr General wished to discuss with me when I was summoned to Paris.”
Richter was astonished. It was very early for Reinicke to be promoted to Sturmbannführer; clearly his actions had found favour with Berlin. And such a promotion could only bode ill for the military command on Guernsey, not to mention for Richter himself.
Müller mused, “As can be seen from the episode with Thomas, the command structure in occupied France has been plagued with disobedience and disruptions to the proper chain of command, particularly among the SS. The Herr General sees Reinicke’s act of disloyalty as a symptom of the widening gulf between our two services. He asked me: how do we use this opportunity to make this promotion conditional on better relations with the Wehrmacht and the Kommandant, at least on these islands?”
Müller leaned across the Kommandant’s desk and prodded Richter in the chest with the riding crop. “Not forgetting that this Kommandant has himself given his commanding officer ample reason for chastisement! I must say I was tempted to take you in hand myself, Richter. But I daresay you’d find it a harder lesson to mete out Züchtigung than to receive it.”
Müller used the old-fashioned term for discipline, which was why for a long instant Richter didn’t understand what he was saying. When comprehension finally dawned, it was with a return of the slow-kindled fury, and an even more slowly-kindled heat of a different sort.
“Reinicke will never agree to it, Herr General.”
“He will, if he wants to receive his promotion,” Müller said briskly. Then he paused, and the tip of his riding crop lingered a moment longer against Richter’s sternum. “Besides, he strikes me as a young man who might welcome the personal attentions of his commanding officer.”
Richter was at a complete loss: gone to ground in No Man’s Land, far from familiar signposts. Once again, he saw Reinicke’s grey-blue eyes gleaming under the low lights, heard Reinicke’s voice describing how it was that, when administered with the right amount of sympathy, Leibstrafen could offer those subjected to it the opportunity to show courage and obedience and even loyalty. To fathers, and those commanders who stood in the place of fathers for soldiers so far from home.
Finally, he stammered, in tones that sounded as if they had come from a long way away: “I cannot believe he would welcome such attentions. From anyone, but especially from me!”
Müller made a scoffing noise and returned his crop to his lap. Smiling thinly, he remarked, “Come now, the Hauptsturmführer might surprise you. More, you might surprise yourself. Pull yourself together, Dieter. You need to get that SS busybody under control, and this is the best way to do it.”
Richter very much doubted this, but there was no way to gainsay his commanding officer. Particularly since if he refused, Müller might make good on the threat to chastise his Kommandant himself.
Was Müller right? Would Reinicke welcome chastisement from his, Richter’s, hand, and more, would such chastisement help engender loyalty amongst the command staff on Guernsey? It was true that thus far, Richter had spent little time and effort trying to better the conduct of his SS attaché; perhaps he was as much a failure as a leader as Reinicke was, at least in terms of keeping this one man in check.
Richter believed himself a civilised man and a humane commander. But he could not deny the prospect of taking his smirking, self-righteous young compatriot down a well-deserved peg or two was growing on him. More than growing, it had to be said: there was a prickling all along his skin, a rousing of the blood, at the prospect.
Müller was eyeing him shrewdly. “Best to do it quickly, I’d say. I’ll have a word with him and then send him along to you.”
The Generalmajor leaned back in his chair and began to take off his gloves. “Now, let’s move on to other important matters, hey? My young men are interested in social life. What can you offer them in terms of society amongst the important families here?”
*
Best to do it quickly, Müller had said; he’d been as good as his word. After barely 48 hours, a second missive came from Mont Durant. Reinicke would present himself at Richter’s quarters after supper that day, at 8 o’clock. It was accompanied by a letter that was addressed to Reinicke, the envelope bearing the OKW crest.
Richter was none too pleased by the location that Müller had selected, but he could not deny that there were few other options that spared Reinicke the embarrassment of public chastisement. It was too cold to do this in the open, and Reinicke’s own quarters were located in the barracks with his men.
According to the Militärstrafgesetzbuch, the old Military Code of the Imperial German Army, Leibstrafen could be carried out with or without the use of a flogging triangle, which secured the unfortunate soldier's bare body against a wooden frame. The punishment was to be administered with a braided cord or a whip. Lashes would be applied by one or two superiors; if the latter, the men would do so from the left and right sides to create a crisscross pattern. A non-commissioned officer would often count the number of lashes aloud.
Richter did not have any of these prescribed trappings to hand, given that the practice was no longer part of the laws or usages of the modern OKW military code. He was certainly not going to seek out the equivalent SS regulations. To preserve Reinicke’s privacy, he had chosen not to consult Freidel or any of his staff about the logistics as he ordinarily would. He was just going to have to make do with the tools he had to hand.
Reinicke arrived promptly at 8 o’clock, his uniform flawlessly pressed, hat under his arm, medals and boots polished to a high sheen. His narrow face was pale and set, the look of an officer determined to do his duty at a firing squad - - though whether as marksman or condemned prisoner, Richter couldn’t quite tell.
“Good evening, Herr Major.”
“Hauptsturmführer Reinicke.” Richter glanced at the letter from the OKW, which he’d left on the desk nearby in easy reach. “Albeit that I hope to have the pleasure of addressing you with another title in due course.”
Reinicke followed the sideways glance for a moment and then returned to meet Richter’s gaze again. “I have the same hope, Herr Major. And if I may, if I have previously given offence, to you and to the command staff of the Kommandantur, I would take this opportunity to apologise.”
This was likely just another obfuscation, or an attempt to mitigate the punishment, but Richter could not help being affected by it all the same. “You undoubtedly did what you thought was the right thing to do. Which is why the matter goes deeper than you saying sorry to me and my staff.”
Reinicke’s eyes gleamed with what Richter had always interpreted as malice. “Then perhaps you did not consider loyalty to the order of General Stülpnagel to be the right thing to do?”
Here, again, was the surge of fury that Richter had experienced 48 hours earlier in Müller’s presence, and indeed during all those times when he’d learned of inexcusable behaviour from Reinicke.
“I consider loyalty to one’s immediate colleagues to be the right thing to do, and clearly so does General Stülpnagel himself!”
To his credit, Reinicke didn’t flinch from his commanding officer’s wrath. He hesitated, and then bent his head, fair hair shining under the low light. Meekly: “I do understand that is the Herr General’s view. And I am here showing my loyalty, both to him, and to you.”
This sudden, seeming capitulation went straight to Richter’s blood. He forced it aside by dint of sheer willpower. Knowing Reinicke, this was just an act; he, Richter, should not let his guard down.
How best to ensure that the message Stülpnagel and Müller wished to convey to the young officer was truly taken to heart?
Lacking the prescribed braided cord, or a riding crop like the Generalmajor’s, Richter had set aside his own gun belt with its square claw buckle. This was part of his regulation uniform; at the same time, it resembled the belts worn by fathers across Germany. Richter took up the belt, feeling its thick heft as he wrapped it around his fist.
Reinicke watched him as if he couldn’t look away. Hesitantly, he said, “My father had a belt just like this.”
Richter raised his eyebrows. “Did he have many occasions to use it on you?”
Reinicke bit his lip, flushing. “Not many. I was a good boy; I took to lessons well.”
Richter had to take a deep breath. Reinicke’s schoolboy blush looked surprisingly vulnerable, and he found himself surprisingly moved by it. He made himself clear his throat and say, briskly, “Let’s see if that is still the case.”
Richter had planned on three short cuts: enough for pride, not too many to risk a loss of propriety. But at the same time, he carried with him a year and a half of frustration. Reinicke had started his career on the islands banning books and antagonizing the town librarian; he and his troops had moved swiftly on to terrorising islanders like fifteen-year-old Billy Le Prevost, who had walked into a minefield to get away from them. Now this business with the Gosselins, to say nothing of the complaints to Berlin. Richter and his command staff had every right to be angry.
And it was, of course, more than mere punishment or expiation of anger. Reinicke needed to be taught a lesson - - on loyalty to one’s immediate colleagues, on reining in his and his troops’ baser instincts to cruelty, on tempering justice with mercy for the sake of order on these islands, and in the interests of the German military occupation.
As outlined by Müller, it was clearly Richter’s duty to make the attempt. “Please prepare yourself, Hauptsturmführer.”
Reinicke did so with great dignity. He put his hat down on the nearby chair and took off his own belt. Then he unbuttoned and took off his field tunic, and removed his boots as well as his uniform trousers. When he was in his shirtsleeves and regulation long johns, he turned back and presented himself to Richter defiantly. In this state of undress, he looked young enough to be a cadet or even a schoolboy, with his wide eyes and the pale skin that was flushed pink everywhere that Richter could see.
Richter’s blood was pounding. He knew civilisation was ebbing from him: his fingers itched to mark that pristine skin; he was consumed with the urge to pound some loyalty into the stubborn young man and convince him it came from a place of love.
He murmured, into Reinicke’s ear, “Now, let’s begin. Tell me how you could have done better in the matter of Cecily Brown.”
Reinicke had clearly been steeling himself for silent, stoic punishment. Now his mask evaporated, and he glared at Richter in undisguised dismay. “I’m sorry, Herr Kommandant - -”
“I thought we agreed this matter goes beyond an apology, and instead concerns an appreciation of the right thing to do,” Richter remarked. “But let’s take this step by step. What do you think you could have done better in that case?”
“She was intransigent on the matter of ideological policy! She assaulted me and refused to apologize! You yourself sent her to Cherche-Midi!”
At this stage, the surging, slow-kindled anger felt almost pleasant; Richter found himself smiling fiercely. “You forget yourself, Reinicke. Kindly take up your position. Against the wall will do.”
For a split second, Reinicke looked like he would refuse, and stamp out of the room as he had done in the wake of the Gosselin case. Then a shiver of surrender went through him, and he braced himself on his forearms against the near wall.
Richter made him wait for a long moment before lashing out with the belt. The thick leather made a sharp noise that resounded across the bedroom. The cotton of the long johns would have provided little protection; still, to his credit, Reinicke didn’t flinch, though his breath hissed through his teeth.
Richter took a step backwards, his own breath coming heavily. “You should have better explained the policy to her. And you should never have put yourself in a position to engage in a shoving match with an unarmed female civilian. Thanks to your recklessness, I had no choice but to send her to Cherche-Midi.”
Reinicke opened his mouth, as if to hurl further defiance at Richter, before clearly thinking the better of it and closing it with a snap.
Richter continued, “Now, tell me how you could have done better in the matter of Billy Le Prevost.”
Reinicke addressed Richter’s wallpaper in quiet tones. “Herr Kommandant, we - - that is to say, Kluge and I - - wished to lay a trap for the rebels who had been painting signs and vandalising the town. The boy knew who the rebels were and could lead us to them. Hans and I were merely following the plan.”
“Kluge said it wasn’t part of the plan to beat the boy black and blue. Your man’s cruelty was the direct cause of Billy’s death!”
Reinicke didn’t deny it, and Richter took aim again, harder this time, the belt arching through the air and landing across Reinicke’s backside. This time, Reinicke jerked under the blow, and a small whine escaped from his lips. For some reason, it made Richter even more angry.
Now, finally, the topic of Reinicke’s worst conduct. “More recently: could you have done better in the matter of your complaint about the Martel case?”
Reinicke hesitated for so long that Richter believed he wasn’t going to reply; he was readying himself to take the blow when Reinicke finally spoke up, in a voice that shook with more than just physical pain.
“Herr Major, I should not have gone behind your back to complain about your decision. That was disloyal. But I may not have done so if you had chosen to discuss that decision with me beforehand.”
Richter had never had to raise his voice during his previous posting on General Ludwig Beck’s staff, but he raised it now, above the fierce pounding of blood in his ears.
“I am your commanding officer, Reinicke! I had full authority to decide; I needed no permission from you!”
Reinicke bent his head, and Richter lashed out once more, this time with the full force of his rage. The leather sang as it took flight; it cracked savagely against the meat of Reinicke’s arse, and finally drew a shuddering groan from the young officer. He slumped to his knees, panting heavily, as if his legs could not hold him up. Richter could almost see the bruises he’d raised on the flesh under the thin cotton.
Richter was panting, too. He cast the belt aside with trembling fingers. But he couldn’t so easily cast aside the burden of belated insight.
Had Richter indeed taken the time to explain his thinking concerning the Martel case, Reinicke might have still disagreed with the decision, but loyalty to his superior may have curtailed any further complaint. But Richter hadn’t explained himself. He’d ignored his troublesome SS attaché, as he’d done in the instance of Cecily Brown, and Billy Le Prevost, hadn’t made any attempt at guiding or redirecting Reinicke’s bad behaviour. He’d washed his hands of all responsibility because of his antipathy toward the young man and the organisation he represented. Müller had had to order him to do his duty.
Reinicke’s shoulders heaved, his face resolutely turned to the wall. Richter realised the young man was trying not to cry.
As treacherous sympathy twisted into his heart, Richter found himself saying, “Authority aside, you have a point. Loyalty is earned with trust, and I should have trusted you enough to explain myself.”
Reinicke looked up in surprise. His face was wet; it seemed Richter’s chastisement had brought him to tears after all.
“Thank you, Herr Major. It is good of you to say so.”
Richter put out a hand and helped him to his feet. There was a curious softness in his eyes that Richter didn’t understand and wasn’t sure he wished to make the attempt.
Reinicke put his clothes on, moving very gingerly. When he was dressed once again, he asked, “Will that be all, Herr Kommandant?”
“One last thing.” A thing even more distasteful than that which had come before: Reinicke’s promotion to the same rank as him and Freidel.
Richter handed over the envelope, and watched Reinicke’s face light up with badly concealed glee. “This is a great honour. Thank you, Herr Major.”
“Congratulations, Sturmbannführer Reinicke.”
Which meant that Richter’s authority to subject his SS attaché to Leibstrafen had come to an end with this first and last encounter. In the moment, Richter was unsure whether he was relieved, or disappointed.
Reinicke presented his Kommandant with a salute that may well have also been his last. Then he left the room, not quite limping, letter in hand: a warrior who had endured punishment with courage, and received the ultimate reward.
Richter closed the door behind him, and then had to sit down. He felt woefully unsteady, as if he had himself been the recipient of the discipline, even though Reinicke was the one who would have difficulty sitting down for days.
*
Another day passed. This time, Richter was summoned to Mount Durand, the handsome Georgian building which Müller’s staff had requisitioned to serve as the Generalmajor’s administrative centre. The snows of the past few weeks had blanketed the grounds in a pristine blanket of white; the afternoon sky was an uncharacteristic blue.
The Generalmajor was also in much more jovial spirits. Richter was waved to a chair in front of Müller’s heavy oak desk, and even offered a drink. Müller poured himself a double measure and raised his glass in a toast.
“I must commend you, Herr Major! I will say I wasn’t sure you had it in you to do it properly - - you never know how much stomach academics have for this kind of thing, and there are those who still think they’re in their headmaster period, hey? But you seem to have done young Reinicke a world of good.”
As Richter raised his eyebrows in surprise, Müller added, “Our new Sturmbannführer took me to breakfast at the Hotel Normandie this morning. He was meek as a lamb, and brimming with collegial ideas for the good of the military command on these islands - - for the good of us all, he took pains to add.”
“I’m glad to hear it has worked, for now.” And Richter found he was indeed glad that he’d found a way to steer his SS attaché toward more collegial behaviour. At least for the time being.
Müller tucked his riding crop under his elbow, strolled over to the window, and looked out at the snow-covered vista beyond. He mused: “Something’s brewing in Berlin again. It seems as if young Knochen will be promoted in place of Thomas. In the new year, the SS will implement a new position of Höherer SS-und Polizeiführer to take charge of its affairs in occupied France. They say Carl Oberg’s slated for the job.”
This was important news, and heralded another shift in the balance of power between the OKW and the SS, in the latter’s favour. Richter asked, tentatively, “Will General Stülpnagel remain in post as Military Kommandant?”
“Stülpnagel will do what he needs to do. Maybe he’ll resign in the new year,” Müller shrugged. Then he turned on his heel and returned to his desk, remarking, “But in the meantime, he and I agree that the balance of power on these islands needs to be restored.”
The Generalmajor picked up an envelope and handed it to Richter. “Congratulations, Herr Oberst.”
Surprise jolted through Richter. As he collected himself, Müller continued, with a glint in his eye, “You’ve made a good start with Reinicke, it would be a pity to refuse the next fence.” He rapped his riding crop on the desk. “Get that stallion trained and loyal, or at least get him under control. By all effective means, of course.”
Richter nodded. He hoped his expression remained level, but he could not deny how pleased he was by this promotion, even if it was just because of politics. He couldn’t deny, either, how pleased he was that he retained the standing to legitimately discipline Reinicke, remembering the young man’s tears, and his openness at last to the better judgment of his superiors. Or perhaps it was an openness to Richter himself.
Müller was speaking again, about Reinicke’s suggestion to hold the social evening the military command had asked for at the Hotel Normandie. Richter wasn’t sure how wise the suggestion was, or whether Reinicke had a sinister motive for suggesting it.
The new Colonel felt a telltale tingling in his palms. If there was in fact a sinister motive, or indeed if Reinicke proved intransigent on any other matter, he now had the means to take the young Sturmbannführer in hand, in the interests of the islanders, and the OKW, and for Reinicke’s own good.