Viridian

July 12th, 1944

The man never asked any questions. That was what stuck in Dietrich’s mind most.

In the morning, they would come, and they would beat him, day in and day out. They’d used their fists, their heavy boots, their elbows. They’d use bats, coshes, knuckledusters, knives, thumbscrews, whatever they had. And then they would leave. And hours later, he would come.

The man.

A man wearing a British army officer’s uniform, one that sported the insignia of King George’s Commandos. The man wasn’t exactly young, but he was younger than Dietrich was, for sure.

Dietrich was a military man, and he knew this technique: beat them senseless to soften them up, and then send in the one to intimidate them. Attack the body, then attack the mind. A two-pronged assault.

But he never asked any questions.

Day after day, week in, week out. They kept Dietrich in that dark, damp cell around the clock, covered in his own filth like schwein. Everyday was the same. After the beating, it would be about an hour, maybe two, before the officer would come. He’d bring a newspaper with him. Always a newspaper, and a cup of steaming black coffee that smelled like dirt. And then he’d sit opposite Dietrich, drink his coffee and read his paper in silence. Then, after about three quarters of an hour, he’d get up, and leave. And he wouldn’t come back until the next day.

Everyday, Dietrich would think “today’s the day”.

But the officer remained silent, each and every day. Was he a figment of Dietrich’s own imagination? The rustle of his newspaper with each turned page, and the smell of his coffee the symptoms of a mind addled by agony? Dietrich didn’t believe that for a second.

Was he merely a guard? No, he didn’t believe that either. The insignia on the man’s uniform was that of a Major, a senior officer. He had a purpose, Dietrich could sense it. But what was it?

Dietrich had almost stopped caring until one day, the officer came in, and he was holding a small stack of manila file folders instead of a newspaper.

At last, Dietrich thought with relish.

The cell was full of the screech of metal on concrete as he pulled his chair from the corner into the centre of the room, like he did everyday. He sat silently and sipped his coffee before finally, at long last, he spoke.

“Good afternoon, Dietrich,” he said coolly.

Dietrich didn’t respond.

“My name is Major Frederick Hunting,” the officer said. “Do you know where you are?”

Dietrich lifted his head at this. “Du hast nichts gewonnen,” he growled in German. “Nichts kann aufhören der Endlösung.”

You’ve won nothing. And you will never stop The Final Solution.

Major Hunting smiled wryly at this. “Lass uns nicht zustimmen,” he returned serve in passable German.

Let’s agree to disagree.

Dietrich chose not to give Hunting the satisfaction of a reply. He held Hunting’s gaze and his own silence with it.

“Rest assured, the Allies have no intention of allowing your "Final Solution" to go ahead,” Hunting said firmly. “And the Fuhrer was a fool to believe that the world would stand by and simply watch the mass extermination of an entire faith.”

Dietrich couldn’t help but smirk at this. “A surprisingly spirited defense of the white man,” he remarked. “From a negro.”

Hunting didn’t appear remotely perturbed by the racial slur. “Do you know where you are, Dietrich?” he repeated.

Dietrich glanced around the cell furtively. Sunlight crept into the cell at a steep angle from the only two windows, both with iron bars instead of glass. Occasionally throughout the day, Dietrich would hear the cry of seagulls, and feel a cool summer breeze that he eventually came to realise meant he was on the coast.

“Somewhere in the South of England,” he deduced. “Devon, at a guess.”

Hunting looked impressed despite himself. “Very impressive, although not quite. You and your squad were picked up by JSOC One and brought here a little over three weeks ago. You’re currently my guest here at RAF base St Mawgan.”

So Cornwall, Dietrich said to himself. Not Devon.

“And these,” Hunting indicated the small stack of files in his hands. “Are your resumes. Or rather, that of your team. Highly-trained special operatives, working in the Fuhrer’s Sturmbrigade. Accomplished in infiltration, extraction, front-line combat. Quite possibly the four most dangerous men anywhere in the world. At least you were.”

Hunting tossed a file onto the ground at Dietrich’s feet. “Echo, dead,” he said. He tossed another file. “Bronx, dead. Marquis, dead,” he added, tossing one more. Now he only held two files in his hand. He held up one. “And you,” Hunting said plainly. “Vesper. Or rather, Captain Dietrich Julian Steiner. Alive. For now.”

Hunting dropped Dietrich’s file onto the sprawled pile of folders on the floor, then he brandished the last one. “I’ll give you three guesses who this one belongs to?”

Dietrich, again, was silent. He refused to dance to the Englishman’s tune. Hunting didn’t seem deterred by Dietrich’s silence, however, and merely tossed aside the last file. “It’s mine,” he said by way of explanation. “I thought you might like to read into me, since I’ve read into you. Get a good idea exactly who it is you’re dealing with. You see, for all intents and purposes, I am one of the senior mission controllers in King George’s Commandos. Operation Neptune was one of our most closely-guarded military secrets, and yet, you knew about it. My assignment is to find out how.“

Again, Dietrich said nothing.

“My superiors would have me resort to some…fairly grotesque methods in order to accomplish these goals,” Hunting admitted. “And if I have to, I will. But I would rather talk to you, man-to-man.”

Dietrich felt the corners of his mouth curl into a smile at the threat. His face stung with cuts and wounds and gashes, his skin was caked with dried blood and swollen bruises. “I have been here for a month,” Dietrich said darkly. “And this is the longest conversation I have had. I am no fool to trust a negro’s promises.”

Again, the insult ran off of Hunting like water. He, in fact, matched Dietrich’s cynical smile. “You can hardly blame us for our hospitality,” he said matter-of-factly. “Or rather, our lack thereof. Our troops were supposed to have unfettered access onto the French beach. That’s what Operation Neptune was all about. Instead, we were greeted by a gauntlet of barbed wire, landmines and flying machine gun bullets.”

“Are you looking for an apology?” Dietrich asked with a hint of sarcasm.

Hunting smiled again. “Save your apologies for God. I promise, you’re going to be seeing him a lot sooner than you can imagine. And if I were you, I wouldn’t expect the Father’s mercy, not for the chaos you’ve wrought, the lives you’ve taken.”

“You talk about the sanctity of life,” Dietrich pointed out. “You talk about the Father’s mercy. You’re a killer. Just like me.”

“No, not like you,” Hunting sipped at his coffee. “ For the last few years, Hitler has held France in a chokehold, and condoned the suffering of countless innocents. You kill for power, for dominance. We give our lives to alleviate it. A hundred and fifty thousand of our boys stormed the beach and died. They leapt over the sides of their ships, and died. They watched their mates get shredded into bits of blood and bone, and died. And when they fought their way up the beaches, when they’d finally cornered those gunners, you know what they said?”

Hunting snorted, like he was already laughing at the punchline of a joke even while still telling the set-up. “They said “mercy”.”

Hunting laughed out loud this time, like the very prospect was laughable. Truth be told, it was. Dietrich knew that there’d be no more mercy for any of the German gunners than there had been for any of the Allied soldiers that they’d slaughtered.

“So why am I still alive?” Dietrich asked.

“I told you,” Hunting said. “You’re alive because I need something from you. We have intelligence that Hitler has something in the works. Something big. Some kind of counter-assault. All we know about it, is a single codeword. And you’re going to tell me everything else I need to know. Tell me about “Viridian”.”

Dietrich steeled his nerve. “You ridiculous man. You really think I would ever tell you anything? You really think I would ever betray my country? No amount of pain or death could ever move me to stand with you against our glorious Reich. I’ve been ready to die for a long time, English. So get on with it. My soul is prepared.”

Major Hunting smiled a cynical smile. “One soldier to another, I respect that. But I fight this war for King and Country. I want that information. And by God, if I have to tear it from you, I will get it.”