April 3, 1918 — Headache. Karl Boeselager’s head felt like someone had used it for batting practice. The pain was sharp, and he wished he could hold his head, but his arms felt heavy, stiff, and numb. For a moment, he thought he was still on the ship, adrift in a nightmare, but he felt something soft beneath him. A bed. It wasn’t his cabin, and there was no gentle rocking, which he had to get used to on the SS Albany.
Muffled voices echoed somewhere nearby. Karl tried to open his eyes, but it took immense effort just to raise his eyelids a fraction. Exhaustion and consciousness wrestled. Just as he began to slip back into blackness, he caught the scent of pipe tobacco and heard footsteps approach.
“I thought he was awake?”
The voice was clipped and aristocratic.
“Yes, sir. He was moving, grunting, and mumbled something, sir,” came a reply with a Liverpudlian lilt.
Karl opened one eye. Through the fog, he saw a blurred brown shape—a uniform. British. So he was off the ship.
“Well, well. Mr. Boeselager. I didn’t expect to find you among the living.”
The man dragged a chair close. “Colonel, please.”
Karl squinted. As the fog in his brain thinned, he recognized the medals, the moustache, the polished boots. It was him.
“Dow…”
“Downing. Correct. Colonel Sir Patrick William Downing. Second son of the Earl of Downing. Currently attached to His Majesty’s Directorate of Military Intelligence. Don’t bother speaking, you’ll need your strength for the interrogation.”
Interrogation?
Karl became aware of the handcuff around his wrist, which secured him to the bed frame.
“You’re at the 1st Western General Hospital in Liverpool. Your countrymen torpedoed the SS Albany. Dozens dead. You’re one of the few who made it.”
Images returned: the sunset, the glint on the water, the explosion. The smell of smoke, the cold sea, Walther’s voice, Sue’s face.
“Sue,” Karl rasped.
Downing chuckled coldly. “Do you truly believe you’re in any position to sue the Empire? You’re a foreigner from an enemy nation. No authorization to be on our soil. A spy, most likely, who passed convoy details to your U-boat friends.”
He leaned in, face close, tone acid. “You’re lucky we dragged you out of the Channel. I would have let you drown. Not because I despise you for selling that little baseball club in Philadelphia—though I do—but because you’re German.”
Karl said nothing. He simply closed his eyes. The pain, the cold, the memories, it was all too much.
“Good,” Downing muttered, rising. He swept from the room, boots clacking.
In the corridor, Sergeant Rhodes stood waiting. He was tall and weathered, the left leg wrapped in a thick brace beneath his uniform trousers, the result of a grenade wound at Passchendaele.
“Was that truly necessary, sir?”
“He’s a bloody German, Sergeant,” Downing snapped. “He deserves no sympathy.”
“According to the file, he is a naturalized American citizen. He hasn’t lived in Germany for almost fifty years.”
Downing whirled. “Are you sympathizing with the enemy, Rhodes?”
“I am reading the file, sir. Our own liaison office marked him as ‘non-problematic.’ The Americans confirmed it. No ties to anything suspicious.”
“He’s a spy, I tell you!” Downing barked as he stormed off toward the stairwell. “I’m going for luncheon. See to it he doesn’t go anywhere. And don’t you dare speak with him!”
Rhodes waited until Downing vanished around the corner. Then he walked back and glanced at the young Private still standing inside Boeselager’s room.
“Mind if I step inside for a moment?”
“Not at all, Sergeant.”
The Private’s eyes lingered on Rhodes with quiet admiration, and his voice was uneasy. Rhodes became a legend in the British Army. He enlisted in 1900, served in the Boer War, and was among the first to deploy to France in 1914. Rhodes had been at Ypres, the Somme, and Passchendaele, his body scarred with the proof. Everyone knew how he had carried a wounded officer two hundred yards through enemy fire, only to be hit by shrapnel himself at the last moment. Officers, usually aloof and distant, held Rhodes in an unusual respect, acknowledging his courage and steadfastness even when they outranked him.
The room was dim and quiet. Karl lay unmoving, pale against the white linen. Rhodes pulled up the chair Downing had used, opened the brown folder he’d brought, and lit a cigarette.
The Bureau of Investigation file had come two days earlier by diplomatic pouch.
“Non-problematic. No ties to subversive activity. Longtime resident and businessman. Born in Germany but naturalized in Pennsylvania. No indication of espionage or political involvement. Brewery founder and former minority sports club owner. Widely regarded as loyal to the United States.”
Rhodes closed the folder.
“Just a man who lost everything at sea,” he muttered.
“Sir?” the Private asked from the door.
“Nothing,” Rhodes replied. “Do you know who you’re guarding, lad?”
“Colonel Downing said he’s a German spy.”
“Don’t believe that armchair general,” Rhodes said. “Boeselager emigrated when he was seventeen. Nearly fifty years ago. Built a life in America. Ran a brewery, married an American, and had children. One son is back in the States. The other was studying engineering in Germany when the war began. That’s probably why he came under suspicion.”
The Private nodded slowly.
“And Downing?”
“Owns the bloody baseball club Boeselager used to be part of. Tried to wrest back full control. Failed. Now he wants revenge.”
There was a groan. The men turned as Karl stirred.
“Goddamn,” Rhodes muttered. “They cuffed him on the wrong side.”
He poured a cup of water and helped Karl drink from it.
“My wife. My brother?” Karl croaked.
Rhodes hesitated. “We found your brother’s body. I’m sorry. Your wife… we haven’t yet.”
Karl closed his eyes.
“Would you mind… giving me a moment?”
Rhodes stood and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Boeselager.”
He stepped outside. The Private followed.
Downing appeared seconds later, striding back down the corridor, coat draped over one arm.
“Why are you both outside?”
“He asked for a moment.”
“I told you not to speak to him! What did you tell him?”
“That his brother is dead.” Before Downing could respond, Rhodes made a step towards him. “And I’m telling you, sir, that detaining this man is a farce. I will take this up with Central Command if I have to. He’s a civilian.”
Downing flushed. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Try me,” Rhodes replied.
Downing glared, but said nothing. He turned on his heel and walked away, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.
Rhodes exhaled, glanced at the Private, and returned to his silent vigil.
Behind the door, Karl lay still. Eyes open. Staring at nothing.