The next morning the sun is out, shining brightly, just like it does on most days. Arno has been at the wall before sunrise, standing on the damp ground and pressing himself hard against the chill stone, ensuring that there is no trace of violence within. Hoping for a day that will bring no major change. Nothing new. Just one more day like any other.
But of course it is not.
After breakfast and another protracted roll call the internees are lined up at the gates with shovels on shoulders or wheelbarrows in hands and regulation white canvas hats on heads. They are ready for a solid day’s labour working on the monument. The guard comes out of the guardhouse and sees the men assembled for work and thinks for a moment to make a joke of it. But he can’t quite form the right words in his head and so he just spits to the side and unlocks the gates.
The internees stream out, splashing through puddles, some heading up the hill and some making their way to the quarry. Arno lets them push past him and then swings himself forward to take in the expanse of blue ocean. He feels himself calming at the sight of it. It seems so much bluer today. Bluer than it has ever been before. Larger than it has ever been before. He holds up his hands to shield his eyes from the enormity of it and then slowly turns his head to take it all in.
There are no ships steaming towards them today. No fishing boats out on the sea. And he turns away from the direction the other men are taking and makes his way down to the beach. There are no remains of the whale left there. The storm has washed them out into the bay, where the ocean’s strong current will have dragged them far away, obliterating them more thoroughly than the sharks had.
He tilts his head back and breaths in the scent of distant eucalypts and salt air. It smells like freedom to him. Arno then makes his way right down onto the sand. It is all pock-marked with the force of the rain and is wet like the tide had risen half-way up the cliffs in the night. He swings his way down towards the water, noting that his are the only feet prints there. His crutches sink deeply into the damp sand as he moves, and he continues right up to the water’s edge. He lets the sun embrace him. Warm him. Lets the breeze off the water clear his mind a little.
Then the turns and looks back up on to the headland. He can see the internees making their way up the hill there like an advancing party of soldiers, holding shovels across their shoulders like they might hold rifles. Advancing on the enemy’s positions on the high point. Walking quickly. Occasionally slipping in the mud in their haste.
Arno turns again and looks out across the bay. He searches for any sign of dark shadows swimming beneath the water. He knows there will be nobody in the little watchtower chair on the beach today, but resolves to swim anyway.
He slowly undresses and lays his clothes in a small pile near his crutches. Lays his watch in his canvas hat on top of them all. Looks at the time. 9.12. He thinks what a perfect day it will be today. He limps slowly out into the water. Feels the chill of it. Colder than he could remember it ever having been before. He wades out until it is around his thighs, then, taking a deep breath, he lowers himself quickly up to his neck. His testicles strategically retreat. The chill forces his breath out and he begins paddling his arms in the water. Kicking his legs and moving around. Getting the blood moving to warm his body.
Then he turns over and begins swimming. Slow strong strokes that carry him out into the bay. The further he swims the colder the currents are, but he keeps on. He swims until he is level with the end of the breakwater and can feel the first strong pull of the ocean’s current tugging at his legs. Then he turns and looks back to the prison. He sees the dark silhouette of the watchtowers and he sees the small shapes of men in the distance, toiling with blocks of granite, carting them slowly up the hill.
He chooses to imagine it is the convicts of the last century he is watching, toiling futilely on the breakwater. Then chooses to imagine that if he turns and keeps swimming he could swim forever.
Herr von Krupp is pleased with the day’s progress on the hilltop. He arrived with the first men there that morning to find that the trenches they had dug for their memorial’s foundations were flooded and had collapsed, and many of the blocks of granite they had placed there had slid down the hill as the soil under them turned to mud.
But they were undaunted. They bailed the foundation trenches and then dug out the mud. They threw fresh soil into the base and carted more granite from the quarry. They toiled on. For Herr von Krupp has a clear vision of what this monument will look like. It will be a fine memorial to the fallen—and not just to those who have died in the prison, but those German heroes who had sacrificed themselves for the Fatherland in Europe and Africa and German New Guinea.
Though God help that no more men should die here at Trial Bay.
Sergeant Gore is in the eastern watchtower. Private Gunn is beside him, standing fast to attention. He hopes the Sergeant isn’t looking too closely at his uniform as he knows it is pretty scruffy today. His top two buttons are undone too. He had been hoping for a quiet cigarette up here in the tower alone. Hadn’t expected the Sergeant to suddenly appear before him. The Sergeant almost never climbs up into the watchtowers. But Sergeant Gore isn’t watching Private Gunn. He has his field glasses tightly up to his eyes and is staring up the hill, watching the internees there. He does not like the way they are banding together. Does not like the precision with which they are working. Does not like this sudden burst of enemy activity at all.
Private Gunn takes the opportunity to lean his rifle quietly against the side of the watchtower and bring his hands up to fasten his buttons. He almost has the second of them done up when the Sergeant lowers his field glasses and turns back to him. Gunn grabs up his rifle and lowers his chin a little to cover the last undone button.
Sergeant Gore holds out the glasses to him. “Take these,” he says. “I want you to keep a very close eye on what’s happening up there. I’ll be back every half hour for a report.”
“Yes sir!” says Private Gunn, and takes the field glasses. He looks at them curiously for he has never used them before.
“Do you know how to use them?”
“Yes sir!” says Private Gunn.
The Sergeant nods. “Good man,” he says. Gunn smiles and watches the Sergeant make his way back down into the yard. Then he lifts the field glasses to his eyes. He isn’t sure what to see through them. He moves them around until he sees the German internees up on the hill. They appear closer, but less well defined. He squints and blurs his eyes, but can’t get them to focus properly. He can’t see the features of any of the men clearly. Then an idea takes his fancy that he might be spotting for artillery in France. A little higher. Further to the left. Pow. He lowers the glasses for a moment and the full panorama of the headland and the ocean fills his vision gain, making him a little giddy. He lifts the glasses back up once more. He isn’t quite sure how to work them and isn’t quite sure what he’s meant to be watching, but he is sure the Sergeant will be back soon asking for a report, so he keeps them trained on the men up on the hill. So, he watches them toiling up the slope and digging in the mud—but what he sees is that he might have a chance for a quick cigarette after all.
At 10.58 Arno is lying on the bed in the infirmary, waiting for Nurse Rosa. “Just a moment,” she calls from the small room next door. “You’re a little early.”
He looks at his watch again, and looks around the bare room. He thinks perhaps he can detect a faint smell of her in the air around him. Perhaps. Then she comes into the room and puts her hands on her hips. She smiles broadly and says, “What is your hurry today?” She is in a good mood.
“I’m always in a hurry to see such a happy pretty face,” he says boldly.
“Ha!” she says, and sits down and picks up one of his feet. She presses it against the starched white uniform by her thigh and begins massaging it. Arno looks at her between his legs and closes his eyes. He knows he’s smiling broadly himself but he doesn’t care.
Then he opens his eyes again. He decides he prefers to watch her today. She looks up and sees his idiot stare. “And what are you grinning at?” she asks him.
He shrugs. “You.”
“Why me?”
“There’s no one else to look at in here.”
“Tsk-tsk,” she says, and looks down at his feet as he fidgets a little with his trousers. He moves the waistband around a little, trying to make it look like he’s making them more comfortable. “You should be thinking of your girlfriend, not me,” she says.
“What girlfriend?”
She looks back at him. “You must have had many girlfriends before you came here.” He shrugs again and tries to remember the name of one girl back in Western Australia. Tries to remember her face. The soft touch of the cloth of her dress when it brushed against him. White with a fine red ribbon woven into the hem. He recalls the feeling of her though. One day he stood so close to her bare freckled shoulders that it made him giddy—reaching out his hand and feeling how warm and soft the skin was. It was just that one time, but he had dreamed of touching her like that many nights, and of her touching him. Until that night he looked up and saw the six dark angels around his bed with their bayonets poised. He thought at first they had come to punish him for lusting after an Australian girl. Thought that her bigoted father might have sent them.
He remembers that he had once thought of her every day—in the old world—but now he can’t even remember her face or her name. “Let’s talk about something else,” he says.
“Like what?”
“One of your secrets.”
She stops massaging him and says, “What makes you think I have secrets?”
“I have always thought you must have a great many of them.”
“Well—I do have one,” she says.
“Yes?” asks Arno.
She leans forward and says in a soft and confidential voice, “Do you know what I heard from Doctor Hertz about the men from the Emden?”
During lunchtime, Welt am Montag is distributed throughout the camp. Herr Herausgeber is proud to be the one who shares news with the whole camp, as he is proud to be the one that controls the news. He walks amongst the rows of benches laying the thin eight-paged newspaper on the tables beside those men who have subscribed to it. For their payments they get to read its news first, and in the camp news is a commodity to be waited for, and savoured—even when it is mostly already known. But there are usually a few bits that are really quite new.
The copies will then slowly make their way down to the rest of the men, like a chewed-over block of dried meat, less valued each time it is passed to another man. But when it appears newly printed, men snatch it up eagerly, ignoring their meals and devouring the words in front of them. Savouring each phrase of their mother tongue. They read some parts out loud to their table comrades, smiling at the way German victories are reported in camouflaged language. Or they laugh at the obviously satirical way Australian news is reported—such as stories of sheep flocks increasing but beer production being rationed. And they always enjoy the theatre reviews, so full of hyperbole. But each reader becomes a little more solemn when they read the obituary notices for Herr Eckert and Herr Peter. The newspaper eulogises them as great heroes, and summarises their lives outside the prison—in the old world—expressing confidence at the greatness each man would have achieved in his field, had they not been interned. The men read those words several times over and then turn back to their meal—sated on words for the moment and content to pick over the articles again and again and again in the privacy of their cells.
Herr Kaufmann, who is a subscriber and is sitting beside Arno, tells him that the obituary report says that Doctor Hertz has been officially informed that Herr Peter’s death has been attributed to an accident. It was determined that he had fallen from the wall and had seriously injured himself, and had then stumbled along the breakwater where he had fallen again, and there had been attacked by the sharks. His body was then carried back up onto the breakwater by the strong tide. He reads out each word in the report very carefully and precisely, as if it is important that he himself believes it. But Arno does not believe it and asks Herr Kaufmann, “So there is nothing in the newspaper about the Emden officers coming here?”
It is all he needs to say and word quickly overtakes the newspapers being passed around, leaping from table to table. “Emden officers are coming here!” This is something so new and so compelling that copies of the newspaper are now being left unread on tables. Herr Herausgeber grinds his fists as he hears the rumour, and thinks for an instant that he should take all the newspapers back from the ungrateful men and then reprint it with the Emden story. But he knows it is too late. This is a different type of news—something that he has no control over.
After lunch, while the labourers return to the hill on the headland, Arno makes his way back to his cell and finds Horst is sleeping. His breathing is laboured and heavy. Arno has told him that he should go to the infirmary for his fever, but Horst has refused. He says Arno can go there and have his feet massaged, or any other part of him he cared for, but he would not be going.
Horst looks much worse today. Arno has told him that he should at least go out into the sunshine and try to dry the infection out of his lungs. But Horst wrapped himself tighter in his blanket and rolled over towards the wall. Fell asleep. And didn’t once taunt Arno about his poor German.
Arno steps over and looks at him now. There is heavy spittle hanging out his mouth and mucus blowing from his nose when he snores. Arno reaches out and puts his fingers gently on Horst’s brow. It is a peculiar feeling, for it is the first time he has ever touched him. The skin feels hot. Clammy and hot. Arno runs his fingers slowly around the edges of Horst’s face and wonders if he can feel that in his sleep and imagine it might be his wife. He pulls his hand back and takes up the blanket to tuck it a little tighter around Horst’s neck. And then he sees a book there. Between Horst and the wall. He thinks it not a safe place to put a book and he picks it up, meaning to put it onto the shelf above his bed. And then he sees the photo sticking out of it. It is probably a picture of Horst’s unseen wife and children, he thinks, and he pulls it out to look at it. But it is not Horst’s wife. It is a small photograph of Pandora, as she had danced for the men in the hall. He looks at it and feels his own skin turning hot. Then he opens the book and lets it fan open in his palm. It is a diary like his own, full of small tightly scrawled Gothic print. And there are photographs between the pages. He pulls out another. It is a picture of a woman, heavily made up, leaning against a chair. One hand is held up beside her face. Her long hair is tied back behind her head. There is a look of boredom on her face. Sensual boredom, Arno thinks. A look he has seen before. Then he knows where. The women’s face. It is Klaus Peter.
Horst suddenly coughs and turns on his pillow. Arno quickly puts the photos back in the book and slips it down beside Horst’s head, then turns and leaves the cell, the ground feeling just a little giddying beneath his feet.
Sergeant Gore is alone with the Dark Knights. Just him and his six chosen, in the remains of an old stone store building that the convicts built outside the prison walls. The darkness within is dissipated by a single candle and he is whipping them into a frenzy, talking loudly, above the sound of rain falling outside.
“The Hun was the first one to use gas,” he says. “He had no principles about how ungodly a weapon it was. At first they used to lay out long pipes and pump it towards our trenches, but sometimes the Good Lord would turn the wind back towards them and they’d get a mighty dose of their own medicine.”
The six chosen smile and chuckle, despite being cold and wet.
“But the Hun is crafty,” Sergeant Gore says. “He then loaded it into shells and shot it at our boys from many miles away.”
The men curse the Hun’s ingenuity in warfare.
“But he is crafty because he is a coward,” Sergeant Gore says. “He is notorious for trickery and deceit. Did you know that the cruiser Emden had been disguised as a merchant vessel.” He looks around the group. “The captain had a false funnel constructed to disguise the ship. Too many merchant vessels were lured falsely into their doom because of Hun trickery.”
“Did they fire gas shells at them?” asks Private Strap.
Sergeant Gore turns and looks at him. Sees his question was serious. “Gas is not effective at sea because of the high winds,” he tells him. “It is most effective inside a confined space.” Private Strap nods his head very slowly, as if that is a statement he is committing to his memory forever.
“Hun officers are skilled in deceit and treachery,” he tells them, “and you’d all be advised to keep a very, very close watch on our new guests. It’s my bet that they’ll be up to something before very long.”
The six men nod their heads eagerly. It is happening at last. The war is coming to them!
The truck with the Emden officers arrives in the middle of the afternoon. The men working on the memorial on the hill pause to watch it drive out of the dark forest and up the thin road. They lean on their shovels and follow its slow progress up to the prison gates. They see a small squad of guards emerge from the guard house, and, peering harder now, shielding their eyes from the sun, watch carefully as four men climb down from the truck and be led into the prison at close gun point.
The internees look at the rock and dirt at their feet and then look at Herr von Krupp. And one by one they shoulder their shovels and make their way down the hill back towards the prison.
The Emden officers are standing in a small group together, with their Captain in front, as they have stood every time they had been transferred over the past three years. Commandant Eaton comes out to greet them, but he does not shake their hands. The four men look around the empty prison yard and look at each other.
“I trust your journey here was not unpleasant,” the Commandant says.
“There was some small trouble at the township,” says Captain von Müller. “Many protesters. Some throwing rocks. Apparently, many of the locals do not want us here.”
He has a thin face with a pointed nose, and high cheekbones. And Captain Eaton thinks he has seen the like in a Biblical painting somewhere. Perhaps one of the ancient kings. Perhaps. “Yes,” he says. “There is a certain amount of antagonism from the local people. They tolerate the internees, but are less accepting of actual prisoners of war who have engaged in military activities against them.”
“I don’t recall ever shelling this tiny hamlet,” says von Müller. “Did we ever raid here, Wolff?” he asks one of the lieutenants behind him.
“No sir,” the surliest looking of them says. “I’m sure I would have advised it a waste of shells.”
The Commandant’s face reddens a little. He sees this man has the most piercing blue eyes—and his hair is so fair it is almost white. He also sees a twinkle of danger in the man’s eyes, undimmed by almost three years of captivity. “We are used to a well-regulated and organised lifestyle here,” he tells his new prisoners. “Life is not hard, but you will be expected to follow the regulations and not cause any disruptions.”
Captain von Müller makes the slightest of bows, and then asks, “You have many men here?”
“Over four hundred men,” says the Commandant proudly.
The four officers look around the compound once more. They run their eyes over the rows of cells and their many barred windows. Captain Eaton sees their backs stiffen a little and suspects they have been in small cells before, and they know what to expect of them.
Then Captain von Müller turns his head towards the gates. He hears the sound of many feet approaching. Men in shabby work clothes are walking up the road to the gate, holding shovels and tools in their hands, with ugly white canvas hats on their heads.
“What is this?” asks von Müller. “A reception committee of your countrymen? Come to smash down the walls to send us back to Holsworthy?”
The Commandant says nothing until the first of the men have reached the gates and stand there, lowering their tools and staring at the four new arrivals. He waits until he can see the unease in the four officers. Waits until the crowd has built to a menacing size, far outnumbering the guards. Then he says, “Captain von Müller, lieutenants Wolff, Bärr and Kat, these are your countrymen, not mine.”
The Emden officers are handed over to Herr von Krupp for a tour around the prison. He thanks the Commandant with a sharp click of his heels and leads the men around the walls. At every corner it seems there is an internee, aged or overweight, waiting to shake hands with the sailors.
Herr von Krupp leads them through the kitchens. Through the infirmary. Introduces them to Dr Hertz. Shows them the washrooms. The workshops where the internees mend clothes or shoes. The hall where the orchestra practises. The cell where Herr Herausgeber produces the newspaper, and finally into the great hall where he sits them at a table with coffee and buns waiting for them.
Captain von Müller is polite, but his fellow officers appear less tolerant, and finally the youngest lieutenant, a tall man with very close-cropped blond hair, says, “Yes, yes, you have shown us everything except our quarters. Will you show us them please?”
“Forgive me,” says Herr von Krupp. “You are undoubtedly tired after your journey and would welcome a rest before dinner. Let me escort you myself.” He waits for the four officers to rise and leads them down one cellblock—to the far end, where two cells have recently been emptied of brooms and buckets for them.
“We are expected to make our own furniture and beddings,” explains Herr von Krupp, “but we have proved quite enterprising in this, even charging the authorities for our labours.” He smiles as he talks, as if this is a victory over the enemy to be proud of. “But of course we won’t expect you to have to make your own furniture. We are honoured to provide this to brave German officers like yourselves.”
“Yes, yes,” says the Lieutenant. “Thank you. I would like to rest now.” And he strides into one of the cells and closes the door. Von Müller and von Krupp look at him through the bars and von Müller says, “Lieutenant Wolff finds that incarceration brings out the worst in him, which you may find too.”
“I’m sure he will find that he is only amongst friends and comrades here,” says von Krupp.
“Yes,” says the Captain. “I’m sure that if he finds nothing else in this godforsaken outpost he will at least find that.” Then he bows a little to von Krupp and opens the door and goes into the cell with the young lieutenant.
The officers don’t emerge from their cells again until dinnertime when Herr von Krupp personally escorts them into the dining hall. He has members of the athletics club ready there to take control, and when the four new arrivals enter the hall all the internees rise and applaud them. The officers look self-consciously at each other and ask Herr von Krupp to please ask the men to stop.
Herr von Krupp nods and strides to the front of the hall, holding up his hands for silence. The applause dies down and he says, in a strong voice, “Gentlemen, we are honoured to have heroes of the German Empire amongst us. I trust they will find our humble meals fitting and our entertainment worthy of the sacrifices they have made for the Fatherland.”
All eyes then turn to Captain von Müller. The internees stand by their places, waiting for his stirring words. Waiting for his fine speech. But he simply says, “Please do not treat us any different from the rest of you.” Then he sits at the table. The internees stand there for several long moments before they too begin taking their seats again.
Doctor Hertz sits opposite Captain von Müller, as if he has important things to discuss with him. But before he can say anything, Herr Herausgeber squeezes himself onto the end of the table, and asks, “What news from the front?”
Captain von Müller stares at the editor as if he has said something quite preposterous. “I hear there is going to be a big push any day now,” Herr Herausgeber insists. “I hear our troops are preparing for the final assault that will carry them all the way to Paris. I hear they have created new guns that can reach London from Berlin.”
Still Captain von Müller just stares at him.
“I hear they are amassing a fleet to sail to South East Asia to reoccupy German territories. You know the German raider Wolf is already active in the Indian and Pacific oceans, sinking allied shipping. The fleet will recapture German New Guinea and will sail right down to Sydney. They will sink the Australian navy ships and land on the shores of the prison here. Liberating us all.”
“You hear all this?” asks von Müller.
“We hear many things…” begins Herr Herausgeber, but von Krupp is now beside him, and cuts him off. “This is Herr Herausgeber, the editor of our camp newspaper,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” says Captain von Müller to him. “I have heard none of these things.”
Herr Herausgeber looks surprised. “You have not?”
Then Lieutenant Wolff leans a little over the table and bares his teeth as if he were going to bite him, and says, “We have been prisoners since 1914. We have been living in small cells on the Cocos Islands, then in several tropical backwaters, and for the last two years in that infernal heat and dust of Holsworthy—what news of the front do you think we have?”
Herr Herausgeber looks hurt. Then the Captain smiles to him. A weary smile. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I have heard none of these things yet, but if I hear of them now I will certainly let you know.”
Herr Herausgeber sits back a little and nods his thanks. “Danke.” Then he just sits there with his hands holding tightly onto the edge of the table, as if it were a life preserver, holding them all afloat in a wide rough sea.
Arno stands under the southwest watchtower as darkness descends. He touches the rock wall at his back and thinks of all the changes of that day that have distinguished it from any other. He thinks of Horst’s infection, which has not cleared up. He thinks of the Emden officers. Thinks of the way the internees are reacting to them. The way the guards are subtlety treating them all like military prisoners now. He thinks of the memorial to the dead. And he thinks of the way the truth about the deaths will be buried with them unless he can discover it.
He stands there with his back to the stone wall, and ponders what other secrets are hidden in the cold rock before leaning forward and making his slow way around his nightly circuit, seeing shades and shadows scuttle away in front of him, long before he reaches them, and wondering what unsettling things he might dream that night. Wondering if any two days will ever be the same again.
Dinner has been cleared away, and the hall readied for the evening concert. The audience sit waiting for the orchestra to gather. They know tonight will be special and the four Emden officers are seated at the very front of the hall. Herr von Krupp sits on one side of them and Herr Schwarz on the other. They keep leaning across and telling the officers that they are in for a pleasant surprise. The officers nod politely and look back and forward at each other, clearly not needing words between themselves.
Then the orchestra walks out and takes their seats, as solemn as if they are the Berlin philharmonic. Herr Schröder the conductor then comes out and gives a short bow. Without a word he turns to the players and lifts his baton aloft. He holds it there a moment, then brings it swiftly down. Boom. The drum beats a single loud note and the strings leap in to follow it, thrumming strongly. The men in the hall smile. They know this one well. Wagner! The Ring of the Rhine Maidens!
The strings carry the rhythm, then the brass comes in—loud! The drums roll. The brass roars again—the sounds of the Germanic gods. The Emden officers smile. The strings take up the rhythm again. A fast beat like a forced march. Then the brass returns. Strong and stirring. The flight of the Walküries. The audience thrums with the music, letting it carry them aloft. Bearing them to the hall of the gods.
Now three maidens come on stage. Not the Rhine Maidens in their long flowing robes and hair that swims like the Rhine’s current—three tall women in ancient battle dress. They wear brass bustiers and helmets and carry swords or spears by their side. These are the Walküries, handmaidens to the gods, who will carry the fallen heroes up to the skies.
The four Emden officers sit forward on their chairs. Stunned. “Mein Gott!” says Lieutenant Wolff. It has clearly been a long time since he has seen women up close—and an even longer time since he has seen any women like these. The three Walküries stride around the stage and then step in close and clash their swords and spears together. Then they turn to the audience and hold their weapons aloft, as if challenging them. Then all too quickly they stride from the stage.
The drums are still rolling and the brass instruments blaring as they go—but the Emden men no longer notice the music. They sit transfixed in their chairs as if they have just seen a vision.
Then the music stops and the conductor raises his baton once again. He brings it down quickly and the strings and brass come in together. The battle march of Siegmund the hero. On cue, he strides on stage dressed in armour and carrying a sword that shines and sparkles under the stage lights. He holds it aloft as the trumpets blare out a welcome for him.
He bows to the audience, to acknowledge them, and then out of the corner of his eyes he sees a soldier sneaking up on him. A man dressed in khaki, wearing a helmet that looks like a British tin hat. The man has a spear, and wields it like it is a rifle and bayonet. He tries to stab Siegmund in the back, but Siegmund is too fast and parries it away with his sword. Then another soldier enters from the other side and also tries to stab him in the back. But he wheels and parries him too. Then a third soldier enters. Lieutenant Wolff looks across at Captain von Müller, who does not seem to mind their poetic licence with the plot. He folds his arms and smiles.
The three soldiers have Siegmund surrounded now and are pressing him closely when the trumpets blare once more. It is flight of the Walküries again. Then one of the battle maidens strides in and throws herself between Siegmund and his attackers. She parries their blows with her sword and drives them back, giving him the opportunity to recover and attack while his enemy are disorganised. He strikes one down. Then a second. Then a third. They fall at his feet and he holds his sword aloft in victory. The trumpets and horns blare.
Then Siegmund the hero turns to Brünnhilde, the Walküre who has saved him. He takes her in his arms. He presses his face close to hers and looks into her eyes. He leans forward to kiss her and the audience leans forward on their seats too, arm muscles tensing where they imagine holding her. Then the drum rolls heavily again. The horns blare an angry sound. It is the rage of Wotan, father of the gods, for Brünnhilde has broken her vows to him never to interfere in a human’s battle.
Thunder and lightning rings out from the orchestra and Brünnhilde and Siegmund are struck and fall to the ground.
A curtain falls and the orchestra sounds the roar of the gods as the strings then carry the march of time onwards. The curtains lift and Brünnhilde is lying on a pyre of rocks. Her shield is on her breasts, and she is surrounded by a ring of imitation flames. The men in the hall stare at her in wonder, seeing just how beautiful and noble she is in death. And ashamed that they had ever deserted her for the seductive charms of Pandora or Salome, each man there tonight is willing to brave those flames to waken her with a kiss. But it is Siegfried who strides onto the stage. Siegfried the son of Siegmund, dressed as a Prussian soldier, in long white trousers, tall leather boots, and wearing a tall brass and silver military helmet, who bravely walks up to the flames towards the sleeping maiden within.
But the anger of the gods will not be denied and waves of drum rolls and trumpets blares the warnings of Wotan. Yet Siegfried will defy even Wotan to reach Brünnhilde, who has sacrificed her life for him. He waves his sword about him, banishing the sounds. Then he swipes at the flames and strides through them. He is beside Brünnhilde now and looks down at her sleeping form. He lifts her shield from her. Lifts her helmet, and finds long flowing golden hair that falls about her shoulders. He lifts her breastplate and sees the soft curve of her bosom. He gently reaches out and touches it. Runs his hands along her body. Touches her face. Her neck. Her waist. The men in the audience are breathing rapidly like the soft beat of the violins. Then he leans down and kisses her. Lieutenant Wolff licks his lips and crosses his legs. Can feel the heat around his collar. The desire in his loins. The hardening between his legs. And Brünnhilde opens her eyes. She sees her hero and sits up and presses her body to his. They hold each other in a tight embrace and the curtain falls as the final triumphant chords sound.
The audience all stand, clapping and stamping their feet, louder than any thunder and lightning. Louder than the anger of the gods. Each of them ready to fly up to the heavens with Brünnhilde by their sides.
Von Krupp turns to von Müller and asks, “What do you think, Captain?”
And von Müller is lost for words. He is still applauding. Then Wolff leans across and asks, “Who was that woman? She was exquisite. I must meet her.”
“You already have,” says von Krupp with a smirk. But the officers are confused. They don’t understand.
Now the curtain rises again and the players come out to take a bow. Wolff turns back to watch them. He looks at the three maidens and fastens his eyes on Brünnhilde. She smiles back at him. He wishes he suddenly had a bouquet of flowers to jump up onto the stage with to press into her hands. To press himself into her arms. To run his hands over her body.
“She is exquisite,” he says again.
Then the players take off their helmets and wigs. Von Müller stops clapping. And Wolff’s face turns dark. He no longer sees Brünnhilde. He is staring into the face of Jacob Meyer.
Von Krupp slaps him on the shoulder. “What do you think of that?” he asks.
But Wolff knocks his hand down. “This is an insult!” he says. “You have insulted the German military with this deception. You have denigrated yourself. You have no dignity. An insult!” he shouts loud enough for all the men in the hall to hear, and then he leads the four officers out of the hall.
Private Simpson, in the guard tower, hears the applause suddenly stop. Hears a single shout of anger. Watches the four German sailors march out of the hall into the yard. Stop. Realise they must go back through the hall to reach their cellblock. Turn in consternation and wave their hands in the air.
He smiles to himself. He has seen the same look on the faces of new guards who have watched one of the internees’ concerts without being told beforehand. He shakes his head a little and smiles to himself. Poor old Fritz, he thinks mockingly. But it would have been a hell of a bigger surprise if any of those German sailors had gotten one of those beauties back to his cell for a bit of slap and tickle. That would have had them more than just stomping confusedly around the prison yard.
Sergeant Gore looks around carefully. It is dark out tonight and the air is chill. But the enemy are out there somewhere ahead of him. His guts are churning and he feels his bowels loosening. Feels the cold fingers of fear inside him, trying to claw their way out through his insides. But he won’t allow it.
He crawls forward a little on his stomach. His rifle is held close. He thinks he can see a man crouching ahead of him, but then sees it is a log. He breathes in and out quickly to still his heart. But it has little effect. He feels the churning in his guts again. The fear trying to get out his arse now.
He rolls over to the bushes and urgently drags his trousers down. It was like this at Gallipoli, he thinks. An urgent need to shit every time he faced battle. Dysentery, he’d tell his officer. Bad case of dysentery. And why should anybody doubt him? Everybody had it sooner or later. But for him it was every time they had to go over the top.
He squats in the mud and shits. Rivers of it. Shit and blood and guts all pouring out of him. He can’t believe it. He wants to scream. But doesn’t want them to hear him. It’s his cowardice emerging from him, he knows. Stinking and slithering about him. He tries to get to his feet, but slips. Falls in the filth. Tries to rise again. Falls face down. Is suddenly drowning in it. Trying to lift his arms. Trying to call for help. Then the flare goes up. And he’s illuminated there in the stink of his own cowardice as he’s surrounded by soldiers of both sides. All staring at him in disgust. Raising their rifles at him. All of them. Preferring to shoot him than to help him.
Then he sits up and shouts aloud! Grabs the blankets and throws them from the bed. Sits there a moment panting until he knows he has been dreaming.
That same dream again.