World War Stories XII
"Rest in peace, though I knew you not; this is the least I could do."
A woman stood by the grave she had just finished piling with soil and snow and could not help but feel a little sorry about its state. There were no flowers, no headstone to mark it like a proper grave should―though it might be useless; she did not know the name of the person she had just buried, and since he apparently lived there by himself, who would come to mourn him?
It was, in essence, an unmarked grave, usually only reserved for perpetrators of the gravest of crimes—and especially in her homeland far away, for "enemies of the state."
Perhaps, a dark thought crossed her mind; to some, he had already committed a grave crime by saving me.
The man she buried had saved her from certain death. For what reason, she cannot tell and probably never will. But he had saved her, and this was the only way she could try to return the favor.
After planting the shovel on the ground, the woman made her way back towards the building behind her, a moderately large house made of wood, lying at the edge of the fjord, a vast expanse of woodlands close by.
That place was where she woke up when she thought she had died, only to find a dead body sprawled on his side before her.
The death was recent, as the corpse had yet to decompose.
Perhaps, by searching enough, she could find an answer. At the very least, maybe she could know her savior better; she would not feel so regretful then.
She knew just where to start, the room where she first came to. She stopped by the mirror she had ignored before and froze when someone she almost didn't recognize stared back, just as confused and terrified. She soon realized it was her.
Shaking her head, she continued walking until she found the place she'd been looking for.
Judging from the instruments filling the room, she was sure the man was a scientist and, without a doubt, someone with a profound knowledge of a KANSEN's inner workings.
However, not even going over the papers strewn around the table could shed light on his identity; they were primarily diagrams that appeared meaningless to her, while the rest were clippings from Ironblood-controlled newspapers filled with bombastic depictions of the operations in occupied Norway.
She knew better—those were not news articles; they were propaganda.
None of these are helping, she moaned as she set the papers aside. She glanced at the calendar on the wall, curious if the year was correct and if it wasn't her eyes deceiving her—it had been months since that fateful day. She wondered—if the war was still raging on or if it had ended, judging from the silence of her surroundings. She hoped it was the latter.
Tirpitz hadn't forgotten.
She could recall everything with absolute clarity as if it was only yesterday—her defeat at the hands of that aircraft carrier and the humiliation of being spared.
She remembered how the British, despite that, were relentless and so dogged in their pursuit; how her defenses failed one by one while Lancaster bombers of the Royal Air Force rained down bombs upon her; how she fought back, no matter how futile— an attempt to find one last purpose in the face of death.
Likewise, the crew of her base mounted an admirable defense, but in the end, it was all for naught. They were overpowered and beaten.
As she finally fell into the waters, she could see the bombers as they flew away, their mission accomplished; she imagined— surprisingly free of a grudge—that their crew must be celebrating, congratulating one another.
They were certainly entitled to feel proud, for they had conquered one of the most feared weapons of the Kriegsmarine—a reputation she, ironically, was never proud of. Why would she be proud of something unearned?
'Well played, gentlemen' was what she would've said if she could speak and they could hear.
Even though she was nearly unconscious, Tirpitz was still aware enough to hear the survivors' slowly fading shouts and see how the currents carried her broken body away with little trouble, the cold dulling her pain—a respite before the depths of the fjord would claim her.
'It matters not,' she thought with the last strength she had, resigned to her fate, 'soon it will be the end…agonizingly slow as it is.'
However, it seemed death was not willing to claim her yet, now that she was standing there, scarred but very much alive, and with many questions weighing her mind down, begging to be answered.
Instead of getting any answer, however, the more she thought about them, the more incessant the pressure on her head grew, and the farther the answers eluded her.
Before long, she simply decided to give up the effort―at least for now. The sudden feeling of weariness wouldn't allow for clear thinking anyway.
Reeling through the room, Tirpitz found a worn-down couch, threw herself into it, and closed her eyes; the rest is what she would need to clear her head before she went through that labyrinth once again.
Just a couple of hours before, a rather peculiar figure arrived in the village of Kåfjord, which had not seen any quiet even with the war ending.
The moment he entered the only inn in the village, he could feel the gaze of the few patrons there, suspicious at best, unwelcoming at worst. He wasn't surprised and took it well, believing they must think he was another treasure hunter seeking to claim the treasure hoard rumored to be left behind by the Ironbloods as they beat a hasty retreat.
And they were often rowdy; the villagers have all the right to be suspicious of him.
"Well, hello, sir! What might you need? A place to sleep? Food? Drinks? Supplies? We have everything you need," said the young boy behind the counter. He was the only one who did not look remotely wary of the newcomer. Considering he's running a business, that was nothing too surprising.
"Hmm, let's start with a drink," replied the man as he walked past the others, who followed him with their eyes. He did his best not to look back like all good strangers should.
"…That accent…you are from England…? But you can speak our language…" The boy stared in wonder as the man took a seat; despite that, he wasted no time waiting for the answer and began cleaning one tall glass before filling it with beer from the tap.
"I…used to live here for a spell," the man replied with a small laugh as he received the drink. It was, without question, a cheap beer, but now he'd welcome anything that wasn't piss or poison after that long journey.
"Oh! Are you hunting for the rumored treasure too…?! I have supplies you might need if you are…" Seeing the eager smile, the man laughed again.
"No, I am not. I'm looking for something else…Oh, let me introduce myself. Christopher Hawke. Photojournalist for The Times. I'm looking for stories. Maybe after this, I'll be going out a bit and see if I could find one of that reindeer herding tribe…though I heard they lived further north, they are often seen around here."
"Good for you, lad, because that story about hidden treasure is all rubbish. Nonsense. There's no hidden treasure here, and it's good you are not wasting your time," a pipe-smoking old man sitting next to him exclaimed.
"Hey, at least these treasure hunters are helping this place, gramps! Now that pops isn't coming back, we need the money more than ever," The boy answered.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Hawke said.
The boy looked back at him again, still with that eager smile, and said, "Nah, it's okay. So… I'm guessing you might need supplies after all?"
Seeing the hopeful look, Hawke nodded.
"Yeah. My list is pretty standard…" He took out a piece of paper and, much to the boy's astonishment, placed a well-worn revolver on the counter.
"Also, I would like some 0.38/200 ammunition if you have any."
The boy scrutinized the weapon from all sides before turning to the man.
"…Are you sure you're a photojournalist…? Well, pops told me I shouldn't ask too many questions…Wait a bit; I think I have some of those lying around…" he said as he took the paper from Hawke and went to the back room.
"…Nice gun," the old man said after a look at the revolver. Hawke noticed the old man's eyes narrowing as he looked at him and felt a trickle of sweat down his forehead.
"…Ye-yeah. Is something wrong…?"
The old man turned his attention back to his half-empty glass.
"…Nah. Enfield no. 2, was it? Haven't seen one in ages. Well, guess you are not always a photojournalist, then. But I will not press you about it as long as you are not making any trouble."
Though relieved, Hawke decided it was best he did not say anything. It wasn't something he was too keen to talk about anyway.
Not long after, the boy returned with all his orders in a cart. "Well, here you go. Do you have bags or something like that? I can help with packing. For free," he offered.
"Sure," Hawke gestured at the large knapsack sitting near his feet. In no time, it was already full.
"Right, here you go," he paid the boy for the supplies and a room; he also refused the change, something the latter thanked him copiously for.
"Safe travels, sir," the boy bowed as he left.
"Hey, sir."
Hawke paused as a young man came out of the inn at the same time and called out to him.
"Yes…?"
"…I heard you are going out. Would you like to…perhaps hire our sleigh to move around faster? We can even take you to our village if you want to see our tribe."
Hawke observed the youth, who must be no older than eighteen and recognized his clothing from its distinct pattern. He was indeed part of that tribe and thus familiar with the land. He's probably a good shot, too, if the situation demands it because he had a rifle—which he recognized as a German-made Gewehr 98—with him. A hunter, just like what he needed.
"Sure. We can discuss payment along the way."
The business matter was resolved quickly, and soon they were on their way. Hawke thought he was lucky. The young man— who introduced himself as Lars—did not ask much for his service, and he had already obtained some excellent photos thanks to his suggestion. His younger sister Aste was polite and friendly—if a little chatty. She even offered him bread from her basket, which he politely declined, if only because he was starting to get motion sickness from the bumpy ride.
"Um, sir, do you mind if we make an unplanned stop? We need to deliver something. It'll be quick," Lars spoke as they fast approached a house on the edge of the fjord.
"Sure, I don't mind."
Tirpitz didn't know if it was due to her near-death experience or not, but as she found out, much to her dismay, she had become too easily alarmed. Even just a slight noise managed to jolt her awake, sweating despite the temperature.
Someone is outside, her tense brain warned her. She stumbled upon a rifle as she glanced over the room, and springing from the couch, she reached for it.
They are not going to prevail over me again, she convinced herself as she looked over the firearm. It was loaded but clearly had never been fired, even once.
"Professor…are you ho—? "The door was pushed open as someone entered the room, only to find a gun pointing at her.
Tirpitz's expression was just as dumbfounded as the girl before her, who, in her surprise, dropped the basket she was carrying, spilling baked goods on the floor.
She knew enough of the land to recognize that the girl must be from that reindeer herding tribe living further north, judging from the richly patterned blue dress she wore, along with a pair of thick deer hide boots covered with patches of snow. She wasn't the British coming back to finish what they started.
While she breathed a slight sigh of relief at that, the girl's expression already turned into one of horror.
And just as quickly, she turned tail and dashed out of the room screaming, leaving the stunned Tirpitz behind before she could say so much as a single word.
In the end, she settled on venturing out, wanting to see if the girl was leaving or if someone else was with her.
"Did you hear that...? Sounds like a girl screaming," Hawke, who was waiting outside, remarked. He reached for his revolver, ready to run inside, although he soon found it unnecessary.
"Lars, someone is there, and it's not the professor! She's got a gun!" bursting through the door, Aste rushed toward her brother, almost knocking him off the ground.
"… I'll go check," Hawke said, "and try to find this professor you are talking about."
"But it might be dangerous. She's armed," Lars protested, but Hawke simply drew the old Enfield out.
"So am I. Besides, I've seen worse things than someone with a gun. Trust me," he assured the reluctant youth. "Just watch over your sister here, and leave if I don't come back. Got it?"
Lars nodded without saying anything. He would have protested further, but his sister was clinging to him and shaking, and he admitted that taking care of her was more important.
Entering through the front door, Hawke patrolled the interior of the dimly-lit building, thinking the place was rather quaint but with a certain sense of foreboding to it; without realizing it, his hold on the Enfield's grip tightened.
"Hey! Anyone here?" He bellowed, only to be met with silence. "Hmm…how suspicious…A crook? Maybe one of those treasure hunters? Or…a ghost…?"
That last bit got him laughing a little.
"Silly ol' me. Ghosts aren't real," Hawke told himself as he turned around and froze as he found himself face-to-face with a gun barrel.
But it wasn't just inches away from death that rendered him unable to move and pale.
It was the person holding the gun.
That person was indeed a ghost. Tangible, certainly, but he cannot see her as anything but a ghost.
"An Engländer…" Tirpitz hissed, watching Hawke drop his gun as he continued to stare at her with his mouth gaping and quivering.
She recognized that revolver, having seen it before, and for a moment, she thought of simply shooting him dead, though she managed to restrain herself. After all, he was shrinking back like a cornered rat, and the standoff was one-sided in her favor.
She could just let him go; revenge was never her intention in the first place.
Just as Tirpitz was about to lower her weapon, there was a shout.
"Drop it!"
Tirpitz flinched as she heard a cocking sound coming from behind. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the girl she saw before and someone pointing his own gun at her.
Before Tirpitz could have the chance to rue her misfortune, Hawke has already regained some of his composure.
"Stop it, Lars. She's… she's not dangerous. I… I'm okay."
Lars narrowed his eyes at the remark; the fact that the woman was holding a weapon, which just minutes ago was trained at his employer, certainly did not make it very compelling. Then again, she was willing to stand down, and he figured he could do the same.
"Alright, but she better prove it by not trying anything funny," he said, slinging the gun over his shoulder.
"I…meant no harm…" Tirpitz murmured, her head hanging down. She let go of the gun, allowing it to fall to the floor. "I've never wanted to hurt anyone…"
"…Neither do I."
Tirpitz raised her head and saw Hawke looking at her, wearing an expression of guilt. A feeling she knew all too well.
"…But still…I did anyway," Hawke continued, now gazing up at the ceiling, seemingly unaware of the confusion shared by the other occupants of the room. He then turned to Tirpitz. He was smiling, but she could tell it was devoid of mirth; it was yet another thing she was too familiar with.
She didn't expect him to pinch his own cheek and promptly grimaced from the action; that was both amusing and baffling.
"So I'm not dreaming. It's...really you. Living, breathing..." Hawke paused, deciding against saying 'safe' at the last minute.
He soon found all eyes on him as he spoke. The two youths were understandably bewildered, but Tirpitz was more inscrutable.
Even then, he knew she would've figured it out by now—who he was.
"...You… you're one of them," Tirpitz hissed, glancing at the gun on the floor and then back at Hawke. She almost regretted allowing herself to lose it.
Hawke nodded. She wasn't accusing him—it was the truth, and he wouldn't deny her. That Lars was now eyeing him with the same suspicion he had for Tirpitz didn't go unnoticed, and he wasn't surprised.
"Them…who? Who are you?" Lars gripped hard on his rifle as he cast a sharp look at Hawke. When he overheard his conversation with the old man in Kåfjord earlier, he didn't think much about it. But that old man was right. This man who hired him—he was no ordinary photojournalist. Whatever connection he had with that unusual woman was beyond his understanding. He didn't like the idea of demanding an explanation after he got paid, but he couldn't afford to let his guard down, especially since there were still no signs of the person they were looking for.
"I… let's sit down first," Hawke sighed and went to the couch. If he had to regain their trust, then he might as well reveal everything. Aste and Lars looked at each other before shaking their heads, choosing to remain where they were like Tirpitz did.
"Should I…start a fire?" Aste murmured, and Hawke nodded. The room had grown cold—from the dusk and the lingering uneasy atmosphere.
Having received the approval, the girl went to the fireplace, finding out that it had unlit firewood and kindling. She removed some matches from her pocket, and soon the fireplace glowed warmly. Satisfied, she returned to her brother's side.
"…Okay, I guess you deserve to know. I might not look like it, but I fought in the war. And I also fought in this country," Hawke began, noticing Tirpitz's slight flinching at the mention of the conflict that was.
"So that's why you know how to speak Norwegian," Lars remarked, motioning for Hawke to continue when he nodded.
"And…this woman…is a victim of that war," Hawke paused as he turned to Tirpitz, who had seemingly, unconsciously, backed away a little.
The weight of the surprise had robbed Tirpitz of every word she had wanted to say. Nobody had ever called her a victim, much less an enemy. Not even her superiors would lament her loss. They would consider losing her a grave misfortune because they saw her as a significant asset—but nobody would mourn her as a person.
"Victim…?" Lars inquired again—this time with a considerably greater degree of doubt. That woman had something otherworldly about her, not just because of her unusual appearance. He could hardly believe she was a victim. In any case, she seemed to be just as skeptical as he was over the claim.
Hawke let out a bitter laugh, his head hung down.
"Yes. I helped kill her. Or at least, that's what I thought. To my joy, I was wrong."
"…Enough of this nonsense, Engländer. Just tell them the truth—that I'm a weapon of war."
Hawke looked at Tirpitz. Everything about her—from the voice she barely raised to her gaze, piercing him like icicles as she looked back—had the uneasy, troubling air becoming oppressive, and not even the brightly burning fire could quell the growing cold now. The siblings were silent as they clung to each other, knowing not what to do, or if they should be, for that matter.
"But you didn't choose to be one, unlike me. I chose to fight for revenge, and now I regret it."
"Revenge…?"
Hawke sighed and breathed. They did little to subdue the pain of remembrance, and he had to fight back the tears. But he carried on, knowing this could well be the chance to be rid of it forever.
"My father…he was part of the Merchant Navy…and that got him killed by the U-boats. So I enlisted with the Royal Air Force…to get back at the Germans. Eventually, I became part of the Bomber Command. Did you know? I had to man the bombsights. I was the one who decided where to rain death. Hamburg was the worst...and as if retribution, so many of us died, too. But I persevered…I tried to—until that day when we were ordered to bring down a certain German weapon, the bane of allied convoys, in Norway. I had never been so surprised that my target was a KANSEN. I've never met any before. But I did what I had to. We dropped countless tallboys on her and her base until seemingly none remained. And then, when the smoke had cleared…as my fellow crew cheered, I looked down my bombsight once again and saw...you, seemingly looking back straight at me, before you went into that watery grave along with your crew. I cannot sleep that night, the night after, and the night after that, haunted by that and the long-held guilt I can no longer repress."
He kept on trembling even when he felt a hand, pale and lined with traces of old wounds he helped cause.
"… I'm truly sorry for your father…for what my country did," Tirpitz whispered, and Hawke looked up to meet her reluctant yet sympathetic gaze. The genuine, sincere sentiment clashed horribly with everything else about her, yet it helped him to believe— that she was just as human as he, and now he could say what he had wanted to say all these years, no matter how unlikely he could.
"It's in the past…keeping grudges will not do us any good…so…will you…forgive me too?" Her nervous, lopsided smile and eventual nod told him everything he had sought and needed.