May 13, 1918 — Port Sunlight, United Kingdom
Soft light filtered through the lace curtains of the small, well-kept room. Outside, the model village of Port Sunlight hummed with the quiet routine of peacetime, seemingly distant from the war that had reshaped the world. Karl Boeselager poured a second cup of tea and set it on the low wooden table just as Sergeant Rhodes stepped inside, removing his cap and giving a courteous nod.
“You’re settling in well,” Rhodes said, easing himself into the chair opposite.
“As well as a man can settle in a place he didn’t choose,” Karl replied, managing a faint smile. “De Groot left this morning. He’s on his way to Heerlen to oversee the brewery until I can join him.”
Rhodes nodded, cradling the warm cup in his scarred hands. “And your son? Peter, was it?”
“Yes, he’s holding things together in Philadelphia. He took charge when I left and will assist De Groot once he returns to the United States. He knows the business and the people.”
Rhodes raised an eyebrow. “Ever think about retiring, Boeselager? You’re not exactly a young man anymore.”
Karl let out a short laugh. “Retirement is a fine idea for those with peace of mind. I’m not there yet. I still hope that Alois and I will stand behind a brewing kettle together.”
Karl let out a quiet breath and then looked up at Rhodes. “Have you heard anything more about my wife?”
Rhodes hesitated. “I’m afraid not.”
“Have they declared her dead?”
“That will take a while. But she is presumed dead. Missing at sea for such a long time usually concludes with that assumption. I’m sorry.”
Karl nodded slowly. “It’s painful, but I’ve come to accept it.”
A silence fell between them before Rhodes spoke again. “Karl, during the interrogation, you mentioned that you didn’t know much about what Alois was doing.”
Karl looked up, weary. “I didn’t. I don’t. He was in Aachen, studying. When the war came, he disappeared. He wrote once or twice, and then nothing.”
Rhodes reached into his coat and produced a sealed envelope, which was not addressed to Karl. “Intelligence traced him. It wasn’t difficult. The Germans are meticulous with their records. We had names from intercepted prisoner interrogations, correspondence, and battlefield reports. His surname made cross-referencing easier. Then, with some help from American records before they entered the war, they confirmed his identity. Alois Boeselager is serving in the German Army. Sturmtruppen, if our sources are accurate.”
Karl looked up, puzzled. “Sturmtruppen? What are they?”
“Assault troops,” Rhodes explained. “They’re trained for infiltration and close combat. Small, fast-moving units. Their job is to break through trenches, disrupt lines, and cause chaos. It’s dangerous work—bloody, too.”
“Have you fought against these Sturmtruppen?”
Rhodes wasn’t sure how much he could tell Karl without worrying him too much. “Yes, I’ve encountered them a few times. After the Allied forces stalled the German attack in 1914, the Germans found themselves in an uncomfortable position: one of static warfare. But the German way of war is about movement. Sturmtruppen were the Germans’ answer to the stalemate.” He took a sip of the tea. “He is a sergeant. Whoever leads men into this mess is brave.”
“I rather wish he were a coward—alive and in the United States or here.” Karl ran a thumb along the edge of the envelope but didn’t open it. “So, that’s the reason I’m stuck here.”
Rhodes gave a grave nod. “Although nobody believes that you spy for the Germans, Downing somehow convinced them that you would cross the border to reconnect with your son.”
Now Karl took a sip from his cup. “I can’t deny that I would probably try that.”