The White Knight (7 page)

A slight smile played around the lips of the general. “I think that can be arranged.”

Ritter looked at his commanding officer. “What does that mean, sir?”

“It means we captured him after he crashed. He's in pretty good shape considering what he went through. Lieutenant Garcia is holding him now.”

Erich Ritter's eyes were wide. “I can't believe it, but I would like to meet him.”

“Go on over. I'd like to meet him myself, but I don't have time right now.”

“I'll go at once if you don't mind, General.” Erich Ritter saluted and left the general's headquarters at a quick pace. He called for a driver, got into the vehicle, and said, “I want to talk to Lieutenant Garcia's prisoner. Do you know where he's holding him?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Take me there at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

The driver took the words
at once
seriously and Ritter had to hold on, but he did not mind the rough passage. The driver drove like a madman, perhaps to impress the famous Erich Ritter, the Black Knight, as he was called by many. He pulled the truck up and slammed his foot onto the brake, throwing Ritter forward.

“Shall I wait for you, Lieutenant?” the driver asked.

“Yes.”

Ritter got out and was met almost at once by Lieutenant Garcia. Garcia saluted smartly, and Ritter returned it.

“It's good to see you, Major. I suppose you've come to see the prisoner.”

“Yes.”

“I hoped you might come.”

“Where is he?”

“We have him locked up safely. He won't be getting away.” Garcia was curious. “The rumor is that he shot you down before he himself crashed, but I suppose that's a lie.”

“No. It's the truth.”

Garcia was shocked. “I can't believe an American could shoot you down, sir.”

“You can believe it, Lieutenant Garcia. Now let me see the prisoner, if you will.”

“Yes, sir. Right this way.”

Ritter followed the lieutenant, aware that soldiers were
watching him and talking behind their hands. He turned to Garcia, asking, “Has he given you any trouble?”

“No, no. We gave
him
trouble, Major.” Garcia laughed. “I wouldn't mind being in the firing squad myself when he's shot.”

“Why would he be shot?”

“Because he's a traitor, of course.”

“He's not a traitor. He's a prisoner of war.”

“But, sir—”

Ritter cut off the lieutenant's words quickly. “Just take me to him, Garcia.”

Ritter followed the lieutenant to what appeared to be a cow shed. He stopped and stared at it. “He's not in there, is he?”

“Oh yes. He's there, all right. He can't get away.”

When the man shoved the door open, Ritter stepped inside, and the feeble light of the single lantern was so dim he could not see for a moment. The stench was terrible, and he looked around, narrowing his eyes. He found a figure sitting against the wall, but he could not make out the man's features. “Lieutenant Garcia!” he barked.

“Yes, sir?”

“Why is the prisoner in this place?”

“So that he won't escape, sir.”

“Turn that lamp up!” he commanded.

“Yes, sir.” Garcia turned the lamp up, and as the light increased, Ritter gasped. The man's face was half covered with blood and he had a terrible wound over his left eyebrow. He was filthy and did not move, though he watched Ritter with his good eye.

Ritter stepped forward and bent over. “I am Major Erich Ritter. You are Lieutenant Winslow, I assume?”

The answer was feeble, but the one eye that was open looked back defiantly. “I am.”

“You are the pilot who shot me down?”

“Yes.”

Ritter stared at the face. He could not see much about it for the dirt and the blood. “Can you stand up?”

“I think so.”

Erich watched as the prisoner got to his feet. “Come with me.”

Erich stepped aside and watched as the prisoner, carefully holding his side, stumbled out. He followed him and turned to Garcia and said shortly, “I'm taking your prisoner, Lieutenant.”

“But, sir—”

“I will have something to say about your actions. We do not treat prisoners of war like this. I hope you've enjoyed your rank. You're not likely to have it long.”

The two approached the vehicle, and Ritter asked Winslow if he could get in.

“Yes, Major. I think I can.”

Erich watched as the prisoner very carefully got into the vehicle. Ritter climbed in and said to the driver, “Back to headquarters, Private.”

“Yes, Major.”

Luke did not say a word. He felt sore and weak, but pride kept him sitting upright. He did not turn to look at Major Ritter.

Ritter did not say anything either, but he carefully studied the other pilot. He knew little about the man except that he was an American and had a reputation for being an exceptional fighter pilot, but he intended to find out more.

They reached the base and Ritter ordered the driver, “Over there at those quarters.”

“You mean the officers' quarters?”

“That's right.”

The driver pulled the vehicle over in front of a line of low buildings. Ritter got out and said, “Get out, Lieutenant.”

Luke got out carefully and stood there breathing hard. It was all he could do.

“Come this way.”

Ritter led the way into the building and called to a sergeant. “Sergeant Mueller, which one of these rooms is empty?”

“The one on the end, sir. Lieutenant Schiller has been transferred.”

“I am putting this man in your charge, Sergeant Mueller. I want you to see to it that he's cleaned up. Then give him something fit to wear, some clean clothing, and then come report to me.”

“Yes, sir!”

“He's a prisoner of war. He will be treated as such. Keep two guards at his door.”

“Yes, Major Ritter.”

“Lieutenant,” Ritter said to Winslow, “I will speak with you after you've had a chance to clean yourself up.”

“Yes, Major.”

Ritter left the officers' quarters and went to the office of Dr. Karl Bittern, the physician of the Condor Legion.

Dr. Bittern rose when he saw Ritter in his doorway. “Well, I heard the news,” the doctor said. “I thought we had lost you.”

“You almost did, Doctor.”

“I heard you were shot down.”

“I was indeed.”

“A first time for you.”

“There's always a first time.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, but I have a prisoner I want you to see. He's been treated rather badly.”

“A pilot?”

“Yes. An American. He's been injured. I want you to give him the very best treatment.”

“Why are you so interested in an enemy flier?”

“He had me under his gun, Doctor. He could have killed me, but he let me go, so I'm in his debt,” Ritter explained. “You understand me? I want him to have good treatment.”

Usually Ritter's expression was pleasant enough, but at times he could look very dangerous—as he did now. Dr.

Bittern cleared his throat. “Why, of course, Major. I'll give him the very best care.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Ritter left the doctor's office and went to the cookshack. The cook was a small, round man named Adolph Keller who obviously enjoyed sampling his own wares.

“Sergeant Keller, we have a prisoner. I want you to fix up a nourishing meal for him. Something tasty. Your very best.”

“For a prisoner?”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, sir. Where is he?”

“He's in the officers' quarters. I would appreciate it if you would take very good care of him.”

“I will give him a feast indeed, Major.”

****

The two guards who had been assigned to watch Luke Winslow's door were opposites. One was tall and lanky with a sullen-looking face, the other short and rotund with a silly grin. The tall one complained bitterly, saying, “I'll rot before I treat this American like we're told. Just give me a chance and I'll beat him to a pulp.”

The shorter man laughed. “That's right. You've had a full life, I guess. Just you tell Major Ritter that you don't like the way he's doing things.”

“I don't know what's wrong with the major, but I'm—”

“Shut up. Here he comes!”

The two men straightened to attention and saluted as Ritter came to stand before them. “Open the door,” he ordered. He stepped inside without another word.

“Lieutenant Winslow, you're looking somewhat better.”

Indeed, Winslow did look better. He'd had a bath and been given a set of German fatigues. He had a bulky bandage over his left eyebrow and he stood with more ease.

“I have to thank you, Major, for the bath and clothes—and the doctor.”

“I'm sorry you were treated so badly. It was not my doing, of course.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

Ritter suddenly felt at a loss for words. He studied the American's face and liked what he saw.
He's the kind of man I'd like to have in my squadron,
he thought. But he said, “Please sit down, Lieutenant. I have a question.”

Luke sat down. “As you well know, Major, I'm only required to give my name, rank, and serial number, which I've already done.”

“It's not about things like that. This is a personal question.” Ritter sat down and the two men faced each other across a wooden table. “I want to know why you didn't shoot me when you had me in your sights.”

“I don't know.”

Ritter grinned. “Well, that's an honest answer, I suppose. I was a dead man. All you had to do was pull the trigger. How many of our planes have you shot down since you've been in this war?”

“I've lost track.”

“Some of the men you shot down no doubt died. I would be just one more.”

“The others weren't helpless men in a parachute.”

At a loss for words, Ritter rocked on the back legs of the chair. “I just don't understand why you're here.”

“That makes us even, Major. I don't understand why you're here either.”

“I'm doing my duty to the fatherland. My family is military. I was called to the service and I obeyed. But you had no call to come. Your army was not called here.”

“No. We weren't.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You won't like my answer, Major Ritter.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I think Hitler is the most dangerous man on the face of
the earth. I think he must be stopped, and this seemed to be the place to do my bit to stop it.”

Ritter cleared his throat. “You Americans do not understand Germany. We must have our place in the sun.
Lebensraum,
we call it.”

“Living space. I understand that. The trouble is you move in on other nations, slaughter them, and then take their land from them.”

“We cannot argue politics. We will never agree.”

“Tell me this, then. There was a little village not far from here. There were no military targets there—no soldiers, no factories—nothing military. Just innocent civilians. You bombed it out of existence. Was that part of your duty to the fatherland?”

“It was unfortunate,” he said, looking down at his hands. When Ritter had learned about the huge number of civilian deaths in the town, he had felt horrible. That had not been their intent when they had set out that day.

“The woman I was going to marry lived in that village. So did her parents, her ten-year-old sister, and her eight-year-old brother. They're all dead now, Ritter—all of them. Were they the enemy of the German Reich?”

Ritter felt his face growing warm. “I cannot answer your question except to say that in a war innocent people sometimes get killed. You know that, Lieutenant.”

“They do when they're caught in a battle, but that little village wasn't in a battle. They were just going about their daily lives when all of a sudden the Condor Legion flew over, dropped bombs, and obliterated them.”

When Ritter did not answer, Luke leaned forward onto the table, his eyes harsh. “Are women and children your enemies, Major?”

“War is not kind.”

And then in a voice of steel, Luke said, “Neither am I, Major Ritter. If I ever get you in my sights again, I will treat you exactly as your Condor Legion treated those I loved.”

Ritter got to his feet. “As I say, we cannot discuss politics. The war is almost over. You will be treated well while you are our prisoner.” He paused and sought for words. He wanted to say “Thank you for sparing my life,” but the sharp planes of Winslow's face, the tightness of his mouth, the bitterness in his eyes made him understand that such a comment would not be taken well. “I will see to it that you have what you need.”

The major walked out of the room and found that his hands were not entirely steady. Something about the American disturbed him greatly, and he nodded to the two soldiers and walked out of the building. The tall one grunted, “We ought to shoot the prisoner, I say.”

“No need of that. The war's over.”

CHAPTER SIX

An Unexpected Trip

Luke was sitting on his bunk reading a book when the door opened. Major Erich Ritter entered and at once Luke put the book down and stood up. “Thanks for the book,” Luke said. “I'm enjoying it very much.”

Ritter shrugged. “I didn't know whether you would like it or not. It's the only book in English I could find.”

“It's always been a favorite of mine—
Great Expectations,
a fine novel by Dickens.”

“I have not read many novels,” Ritter said, sitting down on one of the chairs and putting the newspaper he'd been carrying on the table. “What is it about?”