Ørland Main Air Station, Norway, 28th March 1942

Scheer only remembered one date in particular, and he couldn’t think of a good

reason why.

August 24th, 1940.

His commanding officer had approached him after his flight over the Channel. His

crew were in good spirits— they had sunk two merchant ships outside of Dover and

suffered no damage in return. The look on the face of the commanding officer

however— tense would be the word Scheer would use to describe it— turned his

crew silent.

“Scheer. A dispatch came this morning to inform me that your father died last week.

He was shot by a partisan in the Netherlands and died before he could be treated.”

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The officer’s head was bowed, but Scheer didn’t waste time with a reply after just a

moment of thought. “My father died in the Great War.”

Seven pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

“I am an orphan. The person you talk of was a soldier who helped me enter the

Luftwaffe. I did not know that he registered me as his son.”

The officer looked visibly uncomfortable. He flicked a folder he was holding, bringing

everyone’s attention back to him. “The people around him said that Albert Muller was

a great man, and he—“

“I know.”

Scheer looked away, noticing that the afternoon breeze that swept through the

French coast was quietly picking up. The sky was streaked with a beautiful miasma

of orange hues, streaks of blue ripping through it, like the drawings he remembered

he used to make as a child. But that was in the past, and now, even if he swelled

with regret— so was Albert.

“I know.”

The officer didn’t respond.

“Albert was a great man.” He made a gesture to his crew, their faces relieved to see

their captain back to his usual stoic self. “You don’t need to tell me that.”