Arno Friedrich makes his way around the prison walls early the next morning, wondering whether the sky is actually a different shade of blue today. It has been a long night. Horst is still very ill and is still refusing to go to the infirmary. He still coughs and talks in his sleep. And Arno woke up many times in the night, disturbed by so many different dreams, as if they are all seeping out of the walls together now, like the prison walls were crumbling under their assault. There was Sergeant Gore’s dreaming of dying in blood and shit. Another dream of a child being stolen by the devil. An erotic fight with Brünnhilde. And another dream of walking in a dark forest, holding a tall man’s hand tightly, then losing him. Of being a child—alone and afraid. Sitting on a cold stone wall, like a row of tombstones. Then another dream of the prisoners of the old century, carting rocks out onto the breakwater, trying to lay a path right across the bay, piling the granite blocks up high like battlements that they hid behind when enemy soldiers attacked them with machine guns. Then he was looking up to see enemy ships gathered on the horizon, firing at them, and as the men at the battlements fell their bodies were piled onto the breakwater, as blocks of stone. And Arno was one of them. But then he was a part of a wall facing into a thin cell, looking at photographs of a corpse on the thin bunk. Herr Eckert. Herr Peter. Himself.
He woke cold and stiff and could not quite shake off that feeling of having turned into granite until he was moving around the prison walls, waiting for the sunlight to arrive and set the world to right once more.
After breakfast and roll call, Arno stands by the front gate, mingling with the other men and waiting for the guards to arrive and free them. Some of the older men have towels on their arms, ready to go down to the beach. Some have building equipment, ready to continue repairing their villages. The remainder have shovels and barrows, ready to continue work on the monument. The three groups stand slightly apart from each other, not meeting the eyes of anyone not in their own division, but all staring impatiently out beyond the gates.
Arno, standing with the bathers, looks around to see which group the Emden officers have joined. But they are not to be seen. Perhaps they have found that the internees are not the fellow countrymen they have claimed to be, he thinks.
Finally the guard emerges from the stone guardhouse and stares at the men. He is the big red-headed boy. He can see the anticipation on their faces. Their eagerness to get out of the prison. He shakes his head a little and mutters something to himself, then slowly unlocks the gates, fussing over the ancient metal key, fitting it just so, and turning it carefully. Then he steps back and lets them swing the gates open and stream out, ungrateful not to even thank him for his efforts. He shakes his head again and returns to his duties.
Arno follows the internees, letting them surge ahead of him. He stops and looks out at the wide blue ocean and shields his eyes. He turns his head slowly to take it all in and sees that the day is different already for there is a ship out there near the horizon. Probably a cargo ship from Sydney, he thinks, though it is too distant to be certain. It could be anything. He takes several deep breaths and lets the scent and taste of the land and the sea fill his senses. Feels he is again in a world that he understands.
The Emden officers emerge from the prison a short time later, escorted by a single guard. He walks some twenty paces behind them, his rifle slung over his shoulder, paying more attention to the thin cigarette he is smoking than to the four men. They stroll to the end of the headland and look down on the remains of the breakwater. Then they walk along the western side of the prison and looked down on the beach. They see the old men walking briskly on the sand and see one man swimming out far into the bay. Then they walk around the eastern wall where the men are repairing their huts.
Herr Herausgeber sees them and strides over. “Welcome to our small German village,” he says. The four officers regard the huts and backdrops curiously, waiting for Herr Herausgeber to tell them more. But instead he guides them over towards one hut and then calls for Herr Dubotzki and tells him to fetch his camera. He tells the officers he would like him to take a photograph of them.
They look at the each other, as is their habit, and Lieutenant Wolff shrugs his shoulders, and then Captain von Müller agrees. Herr Herausgeber sits them on the veranda of one of the restored facades. It is a small alpine café and they sit at a wooden table and Herr Herausgeber places empty beer steins in front of them. Lieutenant Wolff lifts the stein to his lips, pretends to drink, and then says, “This beer has gone off. It is at least twenty years old!” The other officers laugh. Herr Dubotzki returns and fusses and moves his camera around, saying he has to get the light just right. Then he asks some men to refit the backdrop that had not been rehung behind the cafe. The four officers turn in their chairs to watch two men raise up a painted scene of alpine mountains behind them, showing tree-covered slopes topped in snow.
“What are you doing?” asks Lieutenant Wolff.
“Creating the photograph,” says Herr Dubotzki. “It must look just right.”
“It must look just right like what?” asks Lieutenant Wolff, examining the drab-painted background behind them.
“Like Germany!” says Herr Herausgeber. “We will give you each a copy to hang on the walls of your cell, and you can imagine you were in Germany.”
The four officers look at each other again. “Make an extra print to send to the Commandant at Holsworthy then,” says Lieutenant Wolff.
“That’s good,” says Herr Dubotzki, looking at the backdrop. “Now can you all turn towards the camera.” The officers look towards him. “I can see four naval officers sitting at an outdoor cafe in the southern mountains,” he says, describing the scene he is looking at through his lens.
But the four officers, looking out past the photographer, see dark prison walls, a wide blue bay, bounded by a headland covered in thick bushland and gum trees.
“Think of Germany,” says Herr Dubotzki. “You must think of Germany or it will show in your eyes.”
The four officers squint a little as they stare out beyond the camera, but they have not yet learned the art of delusion like the internees have.
Arno emerges from the sea and looks at his watch. 9.42. He shivers and shakes the water from himself. He wishes the sun had more warmth. Then he dries himself and dresses before making his way back up to the prison. He pauses at the top of the slope to watch the internees hauling rocks up to the monument on the top of the hill. And he wonders how many years it might take before it is worn down by the forces working against it, like the breakwater.
The four Emden officers pause when they have reached the front gate again. “Where should we go now?” asks Captain von Müller. And Lieutenant Wolff points to the top of the hill. They nod and set off. Their guard pulls a long face and follows them.
Von Krupp is quick to wave to them when he sees them coming. “Guten Morgen,” he calls, before they are even within hearing distance. He waves again until the four men change their course a little and head towards him.
“This is to be our memorial to the fallen,” he says proudly, when they reach him. He points at the trench in the ground that is almost filled with stone. And he unrolls some drawings, having suddenly forgotten his well-rehearsed lines, showing what the granite monolith will look like upon its completion.
Von Müller leans in close to examine the work and smiles politely. The other three officers walk around watching the men digging and dragging rocks. Von Krupp then turns and waves his arm out over the ocean. “It is a glorious view, yes? From the front of the memorial you will only be able to see ocean. Not this accursed land and not this accursed prison.”
“Yes,” von Müller agrees. “It will be a fine view.”
“We will put the names of the fallen on tombstones around it,” von Krupp says. “Eckert and Peter.”
“How did they die?” Wolff asks him, stepping forward.
Von Krupp blinks. “Herr Peter had a bad fall and was mauled by sharks and Herr Eckert died of heart disease,” he says.
“That is really too bad,” says Wolff. And he looks down at the plans a moment. Watches the men working. Then asks, “So nobody has been shot or stabbed?”
Von Krupp narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?” He sees the men around him have slowed their working and turned a little to listen.
“And nobody has been blown to pieces?” Wolff asks.
Von Krupp tilts his head back. He thinks he knows now what the Lieutenant is getting at, for over 130 men died on the Emden when it was shelled by the Sydney. He knows that they were the officers’ close comrades who had stood beside them in battle. Wolff was reminding him that they were military men and the internees were not. “We are ready to fight for the Fatherland when it comes to it,” von Krupp says softly.
“Then why not kill the guard there?” asks Wolff, tilting his head towards the guard, who stands looking out to sea, not paying too much attention to his prisoners and their German gasbagging. Von Müller and the other three officers turn their heads a little and look out to sea too, as if they can see something way out there near the single ship on the horizon, letting von Krupp know they are not going to offer him any help, but neither will they side with Wolff against him.
Von Krupp looks from Wolff to the guard. He also sees all the internees are closely watching him. He knows he has to tread very carefully, so he licks his lips and says, “We have been keeping ourselves in readiness. Waiting for men such as yourselves to lead us. To show us how it is done.”
“Yes,” says Wolff cheerfully. “We might just show you one day.” And he turns and walks down to the prison. The guard turns to see if the other three officers are going to follow him. Isn’t sure whether he should go after Wolff or not. He looks back and forward between them. Captain von Müller shrugs and follows Wolff, but says to von Krupp in English as he passes him. “Yes, they will certainly see this memorial from many miles out at sea.”
After the German officers are safely back inside the prison their guard reports to the Sergeant, who quizzes him as to what the four men have done, asking for every small detail. The guard tells him about the photograph and about the visit to the headland. The Sergeant has him repeat every detail of that twice, and then sits there stroking his chin for some time. He thanks the guard and then goes to his window. He has a partial view of the internees up there on the hill, toiling away.
He then he goes to the Commandant’s office, knocks before being bid to enter, salutes the portrait of the King, and repeats the story. Telling it as he sees it. Glad to have something to deflect the Captain’s questions about providing a murder suspect. The Commandant makes notes on a pad as the Sergeant speaks and also quizzes him on several points.
Then he in turn thanks the Sergeant and dismisses him. Then he curses quietly, wondering how he will get out of having to report this to the Department of Defence.
Arno stands in the yard and looks at his watch. It is 10.55. Almost time to be at the infirmary. But he is watching the four new officers. They stand in the yard together as if not sure where to go. As if quite lost amongst the close confines of the prison. Three of the men turn and go into the hall, and one stays there, smoking a cigarette, walking around and looking up over the walls, like he is searching for something. He comes very close to Arno and looks at him quickly. Arno says, “Guten Morgen. You are a sailor from the freighter Bummsen, yes?” But the Lieutenant doesn’t even respond to his jibe—just keeps looking up over the walls.
And then Nurse Rosa comes out of the infirmary. She waves to Arno and calls, “I’ll just be a minute. You can go in and lie down and wait for me.”
Arno sees the Lieutenant’s head snap around. Sees him stare at her. Arno raises his hand slowly and calls back to her, “I’m just coming.” He grips his crutches and tries to swing very casually past the Lieutenant. Arno sees his eyes are staring at the retreating form of Nurse Rosa fixedly. He sees the sudden fire in them, smouldering like a hungry beast, and that knowledge nearly trips him up.
Arno looks at his watch. 11.47. He stands in Herr Herausgeber’s small cell, looking at all the photos on the walls and reading over some of his articles lying around on the bench top. Nurse Rosa had seemed too distracted to talk much today. There was so much he wanted to tell her. About the officers. About Horst. About the photographs he had found. But she kept returning the conversation to their practiced lines, and then finally asked him if he could be quiet today. She didn’t explain more than that, just worked away on his feet in silence.
So Arno has come to talk to Herr Herausgeber instead. He wants to ask him what he knows about some of those photos. What else he knows about Herr Peter and Herr Eckert. What else he can tell him about the Wolf Pack. He suspects that Herr Herausgeber knows enough to help him identify the killer in the camp, but is just too distracted to see it.
But Herr Herausgeber is not there.
Arno looks carefully at each photograph on the wall and tries to reconcile what he sees in each one with the men he knows. They seem so different. Black and white men on the beach or in the cellblocks. Men in the yard. Queuing for breakfast. Sitting in the alpine village. Dressed as sailors by a backdrop of a ship. Posing as women. So much fantasy. Like Herr Herausgeber’s editorials, he thinks.
Arno then wonders how people would think of them all, many years from now. He imagines people might be standing like this, examining the flat black and white people in the pictures who looked like they were carved out of the flat black and white rock walls behind them. He reaches up and runs his fingers over the many photographs there before him, and suddenly plucks one from the wall. It is the photograph of Pandora that Horst had in his cell. And Arno holds it up very close, looking carefully at the eyes and the curve of the face behind the veils. He is certain there is something very familiar to it, but unable to quite place who it is.
Then there is a noise behind him. He turns around and sees it is the Sergeant of the guards. He stares at Arno with a look of suspicion on his face, as if he knows what he is up to. As if he has come to apprehend him. But he says, “I am looking for Mister Herausgeber.”
“He is not here,” says Arno. “I was looking for him too.”
The Sergeant frowns, as if he is doesn’t trust what Arno has said, then says, “Tell him I want to see him.” And is gone.
Private Gunn is sitting in the guardhouse with Private Cutts-Smith. He doesn’t like his company, and even looking at that red scar across his face makes him shiver, but he knows the shift will pass soon enough. If he just keeps still and shuts up it’ll be all right. But it’s hard not to talk to another bloke right there beside you. So he’s taking his rifle apart again. Cleaning and checking each part. Reassembling it carefully. Determined not to talk too much. Not to get on Cutts-Smith’s nerves.
“Whada ya reckon of them new Huns?” he says eventually.
Private Cutts-Smith looks at him, turning the good side of his wounded face to him. “They seem a bit strange to me. Seem to keep to themselves too much. But so would I if I was dumped into this mad-house.”
Private Gunn smiles, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Private Cutts-Smith doubts it very much.
“You know what I heard?” asks Gunn.
“What?” asks Cutts-Smith.
“I heard there’s gonna be trouble about them.”
“What trouble?”
“Amongst the Huns.”
“Says who?”
“Says the Sergeant.”
Private Cutts-Smith looks at him hard, the scarred side of his face framing his glare. “What kind of trouble?”
“Don’t know rightly. Something about different factions amongst them.”
“Bull!” says Private Cutts-Smith. “They all keep together too much.”
“Well,” says Gunn, “the Sergeant has got us keeping a close eye on them. He’s even got contacts amongst them. Spies, if you like. He reckons the Huns aren’t as united and all chummy as you might think. Reckons the new blokes won’t put up with some of the rot the others are carrying on with. Reckons these officers were trouble-makers in Holsworthy. Reckons there’ll be trouble here.”
Private Cutts-Smith stares at him and thinks. Private Gunn tries to look away from the scar and looks down to his rifle again and keeps taking it apart.
“So you’re determined to be ready for ’em with your rifle all in bits again are ya?”
But Private Gunn doesn’t answer. He just keeps his head down and starts reassembling his rifle, and wishes he’d never said anything in the first place.
Lunch is mutton and tomato soup. The weary builders and workers eat without talking. They are feeling the tiredness in their arms and legs. Feeling the ache of muscles long unaccustomed to hard work. They flex their biceps and stretch their backs as they sit there. And they smile at the pleasure of it.
Herr von Krupp is again seated with the Emden officers, although he no longer tries to make conversation with them. He concentrates on his meal while Herr Schwarz leads the discussion. “We have been training,” he says to the four men. “We call it an athletics club, but we are readying ourselves for the day of action.”
“How many men?” asks Wolff, not taking his eyes from his meal.
“Twenty-two,” says Schwarz. “Strong and well-disciplined.”
“And what is this day of action you refer to?” Wolff asks, still not looking up.
Schwarz looks at Wolff and then looks around the table, as if the answer has been there before him a moment ago and has suddenly disappeared. “Why—for the day we are needed,” he says.
“Needed for what?” asks Wolff.
Schwarz looks pained. “Action,” he says.
Wolff nods. “Do you drill with guns?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you have weapons?”
“We have other things,” says Schwarz in a low voice. “And we control the camp with them.”
Now the Captain looks up. Looks genuinely interested. “But who controls you?” asks Wolff. “This aristocratic dandy here?” he gestures towards von Krupp.
Von Krupp looks back at him and glares. “That is an insult!” he says softly.
“No,” says Wolff. “This is an insult!” And he reaches over and tips von Krupp’s plate into his face.
Von Krupp leaps up and bares his teeth. “Now,” he says aloud, so that all the men in the hall can hear. “Now it is time you were taught a lesson in discipline.”
Wolff stands up and looks back at von Krupp in contempt. “Will you read me a book on it at bed time perhaps?”
Von Krupp turns to Captain Müller to see what he is going to do, but the Captain just looks up, slightly amused. It is obvious he lets Wolff run on a very long leash. Von Krupp says, “I’m sure your Captain will understand that this is just between us.” And he steps away from the bench and lifts his fists to assume a boxing stance. Wolff looks at him for a moment—like he is going to leave him standing there—and then he too steps away from the bench.
“Stop!” calls a sudden voice from the entrance, and von Krupp turns his head to see a red-headed soldier walking in, holding his rifle out. “No fighting!” he calls.
“No,” says von Krupp to the guard, without lowering his stance. “This is the boxing match we promised you.” The guard looks at Lieutenant Wolff, keeps his eyes on him, curls his lip a little and then nods his head in assent.
Von Krupp smiles. He stands half a head higher than Wolff. He is much older, but he has seen the Emden officers have led a life of idleness in confinement, and have not worked to improve their strength daily. “You will pay dearly, for your insult,” he says. Then immediately he falls to his knees. Wolff has booted him in the shin.
“It is not fair,” shouts Schwarz pushing forward. “That is against the rules.”
“There are no rules in battle,” says Wolff, circling von Krupp as he rises, his face flushed with anger. He takes two wild swings at Wolff and then realises he is being led into a trap. If he loses his temper he will lose both the fight and his support, and he needs to win both.
He steps back two paces and then assumes a boxer’s stance again. Wolff cautiously copies him. He looks at von Krupp’s confident stance. His large fists. Knows he is facing a trained boxer. But also knows he is no fighter. He permits himself the faintest of grins as he goes in for the taller man—low and hard. Von Krupp steps back as he advances, blocks his first punch and then hits him in the face. His hand comes back tingling.
Now it is Wolff’s turn to step back. He puts the back of his hand up to his lip. Looks at it. Looks at von Krupp and spits onto the table beside von Krupp’s meal. “First blood,” he says.
Von Krupp says nothing. He keeps his guard high and advances slowly on Wolff. But Wolff stays his ground for he is where he wants to be. He waits until von Krupp is close, then he grabs a metal plate off the table and quickly slashes at von Krupp with it. It catches him sharply on one hand and splatters food across his front. Red tomato stains spread across his chest. Von Krupp feels the heat of them. Pulls his wounded fist in close.
Wolff steps in quickly now and slashes at his enemy’s face. Mustard flies off and catches the elder man in the eyes. Von Krupp throws up his hands to wipe it clear and calls out, “I cannot see.” And at the same time he tries to grab the plate from Wolff. It is a mistake. He is too slow to realise the fight is no longer a boxing match. Wolff is in very close now. Driving the plate into his jaw. Then he drops it to the floor. Grabs von Krupp. Hugs him close. Holds him in a tight embrace. Drives one knee up between von Krupp’s legs. Feels it connect with his balls. The taller man slumps and Wolff snarls into his face.
Von Krupp is looking into the hungry jaws of the naval officer, tasting the blood in his own mouth. Tasting the fear. He struggles to stand back up. Struggles violently to break free. But Wolff’s grip cannot be broken.
“That’s enough of that,” says the guard, stepping closer and motioning with his rifle. Lieutenant Wolff lets go of von Krupp and realises he has been holding him on his feet. He watches him fall to the floor amongst the remains of the meal. Wolff turns to the guard, and says loudly, “Yes, you’re right. I think everyone will agree that is quite enough.”
Horst has not been at lunch and Arno returns to their cell to seek him out. He is still rolled over in his blankets against the wall, sniffing heavily. Arno asks, “How are you feeling?” But Horst does not reply.
Arno swings over closer to him. A sickly stink rises off him. “Horst?” He asks and puts one hand out to touch his face. But it is no longer hot. It is now cold and damp. Horst sniffs some more and pulls the blanket higher, tunnelling down lower. And Arno realises he is crying, his sorrow seeping into the cell walls.
“What is wrong?” he asks. But Horst says nothing. “Horst!” Arno repeats again. “What is wrong? I will fetch doctor Hertz!”
“No,” says Horst, and slowly rolls over. Arno looks at his face. His eyes are red and bruised looking. His face puffy. And when he speaks Arno can smell the alcohol. “Don’t do that!”
Arno stands there a moment and then asks again, “What has happened?”
And Horst’s face falls apart before his eyes—the skin cracks and the eyes shrivel up in pain and his mouth bursts open. He says, “I’m so miserable.”
Arno puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s the prison,” he says.
“No,” says Horst. “It’s more than that. It’s everything.” He looks down and then says, “I’m so ashamed of myself.”
“Of what?” asks Arno. But Horst doesn’t answer him directly. “What would Maria and the children think of me? I miss them so much. So much it hurts. But how can I ever be with them again?” Then he reaches under the blanket pulls up a clear unmarked bottle and drinks the few drops still remaining in it.
Arno reaches over and takes the empty bottle. “Where did you get this?” he asks, peering into it, as if it might contain some answer to what Horst is raving about, and some answers to all his unanswered questions.
But Horst shakes his head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why?” asks Arno.
“I just can’t.”
“I won’t tell anybody else. I swear it.”
“Would you swear it on your very life?” asks Horst, and turns back to the wall when Arno cannot answer that.
Arno sits there for some time and then says softly, “I wish I could take you with me when I go. I wish I could take you all with me.”
Arno stands under the southwest watchtower at dusk, watching the colour fading out of the whole world as the chill of night wraps itself about him. The darkness descends quicker, he thinks, and he looks up to see the first stars appearing, like tiny holes in the blackness. Those small lights of the heavens that steered ancient mariners across the oceans. But from inside the prison they could steer you nowhere.
He leans back against the cold granite wall, and tries to feel what is stirring within. It is something dangerous, he feels that may well help him identify the beast or creature that stalks amongst them. But then he thinks, what if he cannot actually protect everyone as he has long imagined, and all he can do is witness the deaths, his strange ability not a gift but a curse.
He turns his head a little and listens for a soft footstep above him. There is none and he realises the guard is absent this evening. He wonders where he has gone? Wonders if it has something to do with the alcohol and the Wolf Pack and the deaths and the photographs of the dead men? He is certain they are all connected in some way, and he is sure that if he could only put all the events together in a way that might make sense to him, he could still prevent more deaths.
He needs to believe that.
He leans onto his crutches and begins making his way down the wall. Then he stops and sees up as the dark shape detaches itself from the shadows in front of him. He waits for it to see him and retreat into the darkness again, but it takes several quick steps towards him and slashes with something sharp. Arno stumbles back. His crutch takes the brunt of the blow. It is a large knife, and it is stuck in the wooden support of his crutch. He struggles to hold onto the crutch as his attacker tries to pull it free and then Arno lets the crutch go, sending his attacker stumbling backwards. The man curses and regains his footing while Arno takes another step back. He tries to press himself into the wall. Watches the man come at him again. Sees he has the knife free in his hand. Is much slower this time. More careful. The blade is held back, ready for the deathblow. Then, unexpectedly, he makes a choking sound and drops the knife. It takes Arno a moment to realise that another person has him from behind. Arno hears the heavy kick of boots. A deep grunt. Then he sees his attacker fall to the ground and sees a tall figure kicking at him.
Wolff then stops and looks around furtively, then holds his hand out to Arno. “Come,” he says. “Quick. The guards will come.”
Arno bends over to pick up his crutch and has a quick glimpse of his attacker. He can see he is still moving, trying to get to his feet again. He limps off back towards the cellblock with Lieutenant Wolff. Neither speak until they are at the door to the hall. Then Wolff suddenly turns on him. “Do you know who that was who attacked you?” he asks.
“No,” says Arno. Regardless.
The Lieutenant nods. “Lucky for you I was following you, huh?”
Arno wants to ask him why he was following him. But all he says is, “Ja.”
“Okay,” says the Lieutenant. “Now you owe me big, huh?”
Again all Arno says is, “Ja.” But he had seen enough of his attacker to believe it was one of the other men of the Emden.
He has witnessed just another performance.
The concert that evening is introduced by Scheherazade. She dances to the centre of the stage and carefully unwraps a veil. She tells the audience that tonight they will witness the fall of those who had set themselves above most mortals and it is a play with a moral—as all plays should have. The orchestra strikes up a long deep chord and she announces, Wagner’s Götterdämmerung—the Twilight of the gods.
She drops the veil to the stage and flees as the music builds to a higher and higher pitch. And then Wotan, the highest of gods, dressed like the Emperor of Germany, strides onto the stage. His face is heavy and solemn. He addresses the audience and tells them that he has promised the goddess Freia to the giants who have built his fortress Valhalla. He would rather offer the giants gold, but the warrior Siegfried has the Rhine gold and upon his fate hangs the fate of the gods.
Then he strides off stage.
Siegfried, the tall brave Prussian soldier, now enters, holding Brünnhilde by his side. He pledges his devotion to her and tells her he must set forth to battle, but he gives her the ring of Rhine gold to wear. She places it upon her finger and waves farewell as he marches away.
Siegfried now comes into a strange world. It is a dark wood, where dark shapes flit in the background. The growls of wild beasts can be heard, but Siegfried pays them no heed, and continues on until he comes upon a German soldier. The man immediately recognises the hero and goes to great lengths to win his favour, offering him food and a place to sleep. Siegfried is greatly pleased to meet a fellow countryman and soldier, and shares his meal with him. After eating he yawns and the soldier prepares a bed for him on the ground. Siegfried thanks his new friend and lays down to sleep.
The soldier then dances around the hero, for he wants to win Brünnhilde for himself and will kill Siegfried to obtain her. But he finds he cannot kill the great hero while he is sleeping. So he rouses Siegfried to drink some broth, and as he lifts it to his lips the soldier plunges his bayonet between Siegfried’s shoulder blades. The hero falls to the ground, dying, calling Brünnhilde’s name. The soldier then throws off his uniform to reveal a khaki uniform below, and he calls his troops to his side. More men in khaki then enter and rally about him to celebrate the death of Siegfried, the only one who could prevent the fall of the gods.
The soldiers then drag the fair Brünnhilde on stage as their prisoner, manhandling her and laughing as they do. They build a large fire around Siegfried’s body and set it alight. But Siegfried’s followers have followed their leader, and several Prussian soldiers come on stage and call on the khaki-clad soldiers to prepare to fight to the death. They prepare to engage the enemy, but when they see Siegfried is dead they are filled with despair and are easily beaten.
As the pyre burns the Emperor Wotan appears in the flames, for the halls of Valhalla are also burning. The Emperor sinks beneath the flames as the khaki-clad soldiers laugh and point. Then they lift Brünnhilde to her feet, determined to have their sport with her too—but she breaks from their grip and leaps onto the pyre, determined to die with her love rather than submit to them.
With a roar of anger more khaki soldiers run on the stage. Holding their rifles before them. The inert form of Siegfried comes back to life as two soldiers grab him by the arms. Sergeant Gore is at the forefront and he demands the play be stopped. The audience rise up in their chairs. The Prussian soldiers rise up from death and level their painted wooden guns at their guards. The hall is silent. Two armies staring at each other on the verge of battle. One soldier clacks the bolt on his rifle loudly. The sound echoes around and around the hall like the absent drum roll that at this point should tell of the death of the gods.
The spell is broken and the internees lower their play weapons.
Captain Eaton sits at his desk, all too aware of the King looking over his shoulder as he opens the top-secret envelope. Whatever it is, it has been deemed too secret to send by cable, and too secret to dispatch by post. A driver had brought it to his office and would not hand it over until it had been signed for.
So he sits in his office with the door closed. Sits and studies the envelope with its top-secret stamps across it. He shoves a small knife into the envelope and slits the document open.
He reads it slowly and carefully. It has been typed on thin paper, each full-stop punctuating a hole in the document like a tiny bullet hole. The Department of Defence is advising him of the presence of a German raider operating in the Pacific Ocean—suspected by intelligence officers to be the Wolf, whose presence has been flagged by British naval intelligence after it attacked ships off South Africa. The message states, in terse language, that six US cargo ships have disappeared on route to Australia and another four have been sunk by explosions in or near Australian waters. Mines being laid by the raider are thought to be responsible. A freighter, the Cumberland, hit a mine south of Eden on the New South Wales coast, and had to be beached by its crew.
The ship is believed to be using fake funnels and demountable decking to change its appearance.
The Department of Defence is trying to control wild speculation in the newspapers by blaming the loss of vessels on German-born terrorists who it claims are working in Australian naval yards, and planting bombs on ships. This has led to major anti-German sentiment in newspapers, and growing anti-German sentiment amongst the public. Sometimes extreme.
Then the point of the top-secret message. Military intelligence is concerned that German militia or civilians in captivity could be signalling the raider, and providing information on allied shipping. As such, extra vigilance needed to be adopted towards any such enemy aliens in captivity, while the Department of Defence assessed how best to control the situation.
Captain Eaton folds the message and slips it back into the envelope. Control the situation! That doesn’t fill him with confidence. He suspects that the Government’s propaganda efforts would lead to them losing control of the situation. It doesn’t seem particularly feasible that any of the internees in his care are in touch with a mystery raider. But it does seem feasible that the anti-German sentiment they are fostering will put all the men under his care at risk.
If so, the solid stone walls of the old prison may prove more use to him in keeping the angry locals out than keeping the internees in.
Arno feels this dream vividly, like he is not just sharing it or watching it, but is actually in it. The dreamer is Herr von Krupp, and he and Arno are in a dark place. There are shadow and skeleton branches all about them. They are afraid. He can feel the older man’s terror. Something is chasing them and they are looking for shelter. They hear a wild howl and spin on the spot. It seems to be coming from all sides at once. They must flee.
Their feet stumble as they try to make their way through the darkness, trying to find a path, trying to find some light. And then, up ahead, they see a break in the trees and brambles. They emerge into a clearing. And recognise it at once. They are at the forest’s edge over-looking the prison. There is a rustling at their feet. Maybe a snake. Or maybe a giant spider. They step out of the forest and run again. Arno’s crutches swing wildly as he tries to race on. Then that howl again, a little closer. They run faster now, still stumbling, but not falling over, thank God. They need to reach the safety of those stone walls ahead of them.
They run right up to the gates and shout out to the guards inside to open them and let them in. But there is no sign of anybody. No lights on inside the prison. Nobody at the guard’s quarters outside the walls. They grab the heavy barred gates and push and pull on them, trying to get them open.
Then the howl. Very close. A sound of panting. They don’t even turn their heads for the heavy gate is starting to move. So very slowly edging open. They push harder. Can feel their blood pounding so heavily that it hurts behind their eyeballs. They will push until their bodies break from the effort of it, but finally the gate is open enough to squeeze through.
Then they turn to try and push it closed again. It seems heavier. They strain until they feel the bones of their backs click. It is not shut fully, but it will be enough. Surely. Then there is a loud roar and a crash as the dark creature outside, the beast without, throws itself against the gate. It howls in rage and hunger and they step back away from the gate. They turn and run further into the prison, into the darkest corner they can find by the wall. They press themselves against the stone there and feel the coldness of it against their bodies. Feel their fearful sweat turn chill on their skin.
They close their eyes and listen for the beast. It has gone quiet. Perhaps circling around the walls trying to find another way in. Perhaps looking for faults or cracks in the old stone walls that it can use to climb them.
They open their eyes again and feel their hearts slowing. Feeling they are safe for the moment. They look about and wonder where all the other internees are. But the prison looks empty. Like they have arrived in a different era. Or moved into a different world, where they do not live in the prison.
But then they feel something stirring beside them. They feel the very walls starting to throb and come to life. And to their horror they see the beast pushing itself out of the stone walls, where it has perhaps lived all the time, a product of their boredom and fear and anger and desperation. And slowly it detaches itself and stands before them. It looks like Herr von Krupp, but larger. The face is distorted into a long muzzle with long sharp teeth. And the hands are huge claws. Each talon the size of a bayonet. The creature looks at them and howls, so close it stops their hearts beating. Then it reaches out one large claw and sinks its talons into the flesh of their necks.
Their blood-choked screams join the beast’s howl, echoing around and around the dark walls of their prison—until the dream fades away to nothing. Absolutely nothing.