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the personal surveillance of the driver, and Klaus at last drove away.

He was given employment in the Naval depot and spent wearisome days filling up forms

indenting for vests, singlets, jumpers, trousers and socks, Naval ratings, for the use of, in the

intervals between devastating headaches, but he never met anyone who had known him. He lived

in the Naval barracks at Hamburg where men came and went continually, but still no one said, “I

remember that fellow. He was with me in the so-and-so.”

As the summer of 1918 drew to its close and the news from the Western Front grew

steadily worse, the morale of the Navy deteriorated. Discipline became slack and finally bad,

little groups of idle men stood about and were harangued by Communist agitators, and ratings

were covertly or openly insolent to their officers. Unpleasant scenes were continually occurring,

where frayed tempers, undernourishment and despair combined to make men lose control of

themselves; on one of these occasions Klaus heard a Naval officer call a seaman “you

insubordinate dog.” At that the little door in his mind opened for an instant, and he heard himself

saying, “Look at that, you insubordinate hound,” something to do with petrol, a dump

somewhere, and men in field grey. The door closed again at once and he could remember no

more, but that must have been in the Army, not the Navy. No wonder the life here seemed

unfamiliar and no one ever knew him, he must have been a soldier, not a sailor.

Work in the depot petered out, and in October he was discharged. In pursuance of a plan

he had formed in his mind, he left Hamburg just before the rioting broke out and drifted down

towards the Western Front to look for his lost identity somewhere in the German Army. He

wandered through Hanover, Dortmund, Elberfeld, and Düsseldorf towards Aachen, sometimes

stopping several days in one place if he liked the look of it, and sometimes going on again next

morning. He stayed for nearly a fortnight at a tiny place called Haspe among the forests northeast

of Elberfeld, because there was an old lady there who said that Klaus Lehmann strongly

reminded her of her brother at about that age, and he had left a son who had been reported

missing. She did not know the son, and Klaus might, conceivably, be he. She produced a

photograph of the late Herr Rademeyer to prove her point.

“There you are,” she said. “You can see it for yourself, a child could see it. The same

forehead, the same nose, one ear sticking out more than the other, the likeness is ludicrous. You

are thinner, of course, my brother was well covered.”

Klaus looked with awe at the presentment of a portly gentleman with a stuffed

expression, and suppressed an impulse to describe him mentally as a pie-faced old sausage-

maker—after all, this might be his father—and said, “He has a kind face, kind but firm.”

“You might have known him, to say that. Of course, since he was your father you

probably did. I mean, since he was probably your father, you did. Georg was a great character,

quiet but unyielding. You will stay with me till Thursday week when his widow, your mother,

comes to visit me. She ought to know.”

So Klaus Lehmann stayed on at the white house among the trees in Haspe, and was

introduced to the local worthies, among them the old doctor, who had known Herr Rademeyer

well.

“Quiet but unyielding,” he said, when Klaus quoted this. “Obstinate, she means. Dumb

and stubborn as an army mule was Georg Rademeyer, and the more he dug his toes in, the

dumber he became. Heaven forgive me, he is now dead.”

“You do not seem to have been one of his admirers,” said Klaus, much amused.

“There was this to be said for him, he was no chatterbox. He had nothing to say and he

didn’t say it, heaven rest his soul.”

Klaus waited in Haspe for a possible parent, and was fussed over and made much of by a

possible aunt. He was well fed for the first time for years, or so it seemed, since, though beef and

mutton were almost unobtainable, there were still chickens scratching in the weedy stable-yard

and wild-looking pigs ran about in the woods. The storeroom shelves of the white house were

still full of jams, pickles and preserves, and there was wine in the cellars. Klaus would come out

on the verandah after lunch, with a pleasantly replete feeling, and sit in a warm corner in the late

sunshine with an overcoat and a book, listening to Hanna singing in the kitchen and the dry

beech leaves whispering in the hedges till he fell asleep and dreamed of things he could not recall

when he awoke. An idyllic existence, and he grew stronger and better every day, but still he

could not remember who he was.

At the time appointed Frau Rademeyer came and dispelled the illusion of peace.

“Nonsense, Ludmilla! The young man is no more like Georg than he’s like the Shah of

Persia, and he’s even less like my Moritz. You must be in your dotage, Ludmilla.”

“Nonsense yourself,” said the old lady stoutly. “There is a strong resemblance.”

“Besides, Moritz had scars on his left knee ever since he fell against the staircase

window. Young man, show me your left knee.”

“I fear I am not the Herr Moritz Rademeyer,” said Klaus, pulling up his trouser-leg.

“Quite unblemished, as you see. Well, I must go on looking, that’s all—For pity’s sake, Fräulein

Rademeyer!”

For the gallant old woman had crumbled into a heap in her chair and burst into tears.

“I wanted him for my nephew,” she wailed. “I am so much alone.”

“Let’s pretend I am,” suggested Klaus, and kissed her hand. “It will be just as nice.”

“You are a fool, Ludmilla, to let yourself be imposed upon by some good-for-nothing

from no one knows where, but what can one expect from an old maid but folly?”

“Leave my house, Mathilde! I will not be insulted!”

“I shall be only too pleased—” began Frau Rademeyer, rising from her chair, but at that

moment the servant Hanna burst into the room.

“Oh, Fräulein! Oh, Herr Lehmann! The postman has been and he says the war is over!”

“Control yourself, Hanna,” said her mistress. “Go and fetch old Theodor with his truck

for the luggage, the Frau Rademeyer is leaving us.”

“But,
gnädige Fräulein
, the war—”

“Hanna!”

Hanna went, and so did Frau Rademeyer.

Klaus stayed on for a few days, but the news had made him fidgety. Somewhere out

there, beyond these prison-walls of pines, great events were stirring, and he in this backwater—

“I must go,” he said. “I will come back, but I must go and see what is happening. Perhaps

I shall find myself, and I’ll come back to tell you I’m no longer a good-for-nothing from nobody

knows where.”

“If you quote that vixen to me,” said Fräulein Rademeyer, “I will throw the inkpot at you.

Yes, go, my dear boy, but do not be away too long.”

Klaus Lehmann reached Aachen in time to see the German Army coming home. There

were triumphal arches across the streets and the people tried to cheer, but the soldiers dragged

their feet and walked dispiritedly along, sometimes not even in step, tired, shabby, defeated.

They fell out as the evening came on, and people took them into their houses to sleep, the inns

also were full of them, and Klaus went about trying to make them talk. They talked willingly

enough, but not about the war, that was too recent and too hopeless, they spoke only of their

homes and the quickest way to get there, and grumbled about their bad boots and the food, the

weather and the mud. Still no one recognized Klaus out of all those thousands, nor did the Army

customs and the Army slang awaken any response in his mind, he felt no more at home there

than he did in the Navy. “I must have belonged to one or the other, surely,” he said to himself,

“unless I was in the Air Force. Perhaps that was it, and I made a forced landing in the sea, and

that’s how I came to swim ashore. It’s a reasonable solution. I will go and look for the Air Force

—what’s left of it.”

3

Klaus Lehmann went by stages from Aachen to Darmstadt. He passed through Cologne

on the 13th of December, 1918, that was the day the British troops marched in. No German

would care to see the Army of Occupation come in, and Lehmann’s heart was as heavy as any

other man’s as the Leinsters’ pipes sounded in the Cathedral Square.

At Darmstadt aerodrome he found a number of German war planes waiting to be

surrendered for demolition, but very few men about, only just enough for a maintenance party,

and to hand over to the British with sufficient ceremony. Klaus drifted on to the aerodrome and

leaned against the corner of one of the sheds, looking gloomily at nothing in particular, since that

seemed to be the only occupation of such men as were to be seen. Presently he was observed—

one of a group of mechanics, after obvious discussion about him, went into a building which

looked like an officers’ mess, presumably to report. In due course a long, thin officer emerged,

and walked towards him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Klaus with perfect truth.

“What is your name?”

“Lehmann.”

“Rank?”

“I have no rank now,” said Klaus with mournful resignation.

Several regiments of the German Army had mutinied and torn the badges of rank from

their officers’ uniforms. The flying man jumped to the conclusion that Klaus’ case was one of

those which called for tact, so he introduced himself in the correct manner. “Flug-Leutnant

Becker, sir,” he said, saluting.

Klaus returned the salute casually. “Anything happening here?”

“No, sir, nothing. What should happen? We are waiting for the Allied Commission to

come and burn the planes.”

“Of course, of course. I cannot think why they do not take them over instead of

destroying such valuable machines.”

“They have so many already that they don’t know what to do with them,” said Becker

bitterly. “Why should they bother with ours? Will you not come along to the mess, sir?”

“Thank you. Any news?”

“No, none. Only Goering’s escapade. Of course, you have heard about that, sir.”

“Richthoven’s successor. No, what’s he doing?”

“Refuses to be demobilized or to surrender his machines in spite of orders from High

Command. I don’t know where they are now.”

“Good,” said Klaus judicially. “A little more of that spirit and we should not have lost the

war.”

“There was plenty of that sort of spirit,” said the flying man reproachfully. “It was motor

spirit we were short of. Many machines were grounded because there was nothing to put in their

tanks.”

“I know, I know. Your morale was excellent,” said Lehmann hastily. “When I said that I

was thinking of other branches.”

The Flight-Lieutenant thought it advisable to preserve a sympathetic silence. The two

men had just reached the doorway of the mess when they heard the distant roar of aeroplanes

approaching, and turned to look in the direction from which it came. “The victorious Allies, I

presume.”

“No, sir, ours! They must be Goering’s lot,” said Becker excitedly. Five planes drew

nearer as they spoke, circled the aerodrome, touched down and taxied up to the sheds. “Excuse

me, sir,” said the Flight-Lieutenant, and sprinted towards them while Lehmann followed more

slowly in time to hear a man in the leading machine shouting, “Got any petrol?”

“No, sir, none,” yelled Becker in reply, at which the new-comer signalled with his arms

to the other four pilots, they all switched off their engines and quiet descended again on the

aerodrome. The men climbed out of their machines and their leader strolled with Becker across

the grass towards Lehmann. He was a big man with a booming voice, and Klaus distinctly heard

him say, “Who the devil’s that? One of the demolition squad?”

Becker apparently gave some satisfactory explanation, for when they met the stranger

was cordial. Becker introduced them.

“How d’you do?” said Goering, shaking hands. “Met you before somewhere, haven’t I?”

Klaus’ heart leaped up, but all he said was, “It is possible,” in guarded tones. He was not,

of course, prepared to tell complete strangers about his troubles, but Goering disregarded the

reserve which Becker had respected.

“What were you in?”

Lehmann felt a little annoyed. The question was natural enough, but it was a sore point

with him. “Oh, I just made myself useful here and there,” he said.

Goering stared, then an idea struck him. “Oh, I see! Intelligence, eh? Do you still have to

be so hush-hush about it now it’s all done with?”

“Is it?” said Klaus, and left it at that.

Goering looked at him with something approaching respect; as for Becker, his round eyes

and awestruck expression were almost comic. “Well, well,” said the Flight-Commander, “I know

you fellows did awfully good work. I couldn’t do it. Give me action.” He glanced over his

shoulder at the motionless aeroplanes, his face darkened and he relapsed into silence. As for

Klaus Lehmann, his brain was busy. It seemed there was no need to tell people things about

one’s self; if one just preserved an enigmatic silence, people would always find an explanation

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