Free Devils with Wings by Harvey Black Page B

into the living room and rather than a wood burner there was an open log fire.
    The crackling, spitting log fire was a nice welcome after the dreary cottage, with its wood burner that gave out more smoke than it did heat. There were a few oil lamps scattered around the Head Quarters, clearly the Generators had not yet been set up. In the dimly lit quarters, barely sixteen metres square, the fire cast flickering shadows over the room and its two occupants.
    Either side of the fireplace, angled so that they faced towards the warmth of the fire, sat two officers.
    The half-light and the shimmering effect of the fire, made their faces seem artificially long and drawn. It was warm too, Paul could already feel the sweat trickling down his back, a result of his earlier rushing to get ready, his fast walking pace to get to the HQ promptly; then entering a fire baked room. Wearing his combat uniform plus steel helmet, only added to his discomfort.
    On the left of the fireplace was Oberleutnant Volkman and on the right an officer he did not recognise. But, he did recognise the Feldgendarmerie uniform and he felt his stomach knot as he realised what this might be about.
    He quickly came to attention and saluted the two officers.
    “Leutnant Brand reporting as ordered sir.”
    “At last Leutnant Brand,” rebuked Volkman, the hooked nose profile making him even more Raven like as he turned towards Paul.
    “I requested your attendance some time ago!” he said in a clipped, impatient voice.
    “I apologise, Herr Oberleutnant,” replied Paul, “I came as soon as I was notified.”
    “Well you are here now Leutnant Brand, stand easy,” indicated Volkman with the flick of his wrist and the swagger stick he always carried with him.
    Paul relaxed slightly into a stand easy position, his MP 40 pointing downwards, although he felt far from comfortable in the two officers’ presence. His eyes flickered to the window directly behind Volkman, distracted by a troop of Paratroopers marching by.
    “This,” informed Volkman, “is Major Eichel, of the Feldgendarmerie troop twelve, who has come to see me about a most disturbing matter.”
    Paul’s mind raced; what could it be he thought?
    The Major stood up; his uniform was immaculate, almost as impeccable as Volkman’s. Clearly there were aristocratic roots in the Feldgendarmerie as well.
    He was quite a short man, probably some 45 years old, which seemed quite old for the rank of Major, particularly with his aristocratic links. With grey, thinning hair, that was swept back, and a round face, he looked almost paternal. He was a good six inches shorter than Paul and although not stout, he noticeably had an appetite for good food.
    The father like impression was to soon dissipate. He walked across to the window behind Volkman and looked out, leaning on the windowsill.
    “Are you a crusader Leutnant Brand?” he asked without turning around to look at Paul.
    “I’m not quite sure what you mean sir,” responded Paul looking and sounding slightly bewildered.
    “Oh I think you do know, your love of the Polish peasant is evident in your behaviour,” mused the Major.
    It suddenly dawned on him what this was all about and he felt his stomach knot as he thought back to the incident with the Feldgendarmerie patrol yesterday.
    “It has been brought to my attention that you came to the aid of one of the Polish peasants yesterday,” informed the Major, still not looking around from the window. In fact he appeared to be examining the structure of the window framework, his face suggesting contempt for its poor fabrication.
    “Just look at the construction of this building and compare it to one constructed in the Reich, it is almost medieval.”
    “I stopped a German NCO from beating one of the local population sir, that is all,” defended Paul.
    At that point the Major swung round to look directly at Paul.
    “What my NCOs do in their line of duty is none of your damn business Leutnant Brand. We