Bavaria, Germany. 1936 Winter Olympics.
The two gentlemen conversing near the ski slopes were markedly English and didn’t for the most part like the look of this new, emergent Germany with its red and black swastikas and flags everywhere. Both were wearing Bowler hats and both were dressed in Saville suits and both carried umbrellas. Both were also discussing world affairs as they continued to watch the winter sports on the ski slopes. The eldest of the two was a gentleman by the name of James Buckingham and his companion was Alan Shire. Both were junior clerks in Whitehall and both were young Tories. Both had wanted to see for themselves the state of things in this new Germany partially because they had both studied in Heidelberg during the twenties. Even back then they had sensed a certain tension in the air, a whiff of socialism perhaps.
Revolutionary action had changed the old world order. Lenin’s socialism in Russia had left their mark and even small countries like Ireland had undergone a revolutionary process and won their freedom. Both men were astute enough to recognize that their country, Great Britain, was losing its grip on their empire.
Buckingham looked at the program in his hand and caught Shire’s eye. "What’s next?"
"Military patrol?"
"Thought that was banned by the Olympic Council?"
"Hitler put pressure on them. They ceded to his wishes. Expect the Germans to do well in this one. And the Nordic countries."
"Where it originated."
"That’s correct."
"Fancy the Italians myself. They looked proficient in training."
"We’ll see. That Finnish chap Virtanen looks the business too. He’s deadly with that Kar 98K."
Buckingham scowled suddenly. "This Hitler fellow is getting a bit big for his breeches, don’t you think?"
"It will take somebody like Churchill to sort him out. Mark my words. I know they’re talking about Neville Chamberlain in the elections next year, but I doubt he’ll be up to the task. Give it a few years and we’re going to be at war. No shadow of a doubt. Versailles hurt them too much and they’ve never forgotten the humiliation. They’ll be back and they’ll be back stronger than last time. It’s just a question of time."
The two men turned their attention back to the action on the slopes. They heard the announcer give the time and score for the real German contender - Arik Wagner.
The man himself carried himself like a German. He had a certain swagger and a real air of confidence. His turquoise eyes could flash in sudden annoyance and his pale features were crowned by blond hair. He was a big man with broad muscular shoulders and thin muscular arms. He could be cynical when he wanted to be and distant to a degree.
The man who followed Wagner on the slopes could nearly have been mistaken for a German too, but he was actually a Finn and from the outset he was proving himself a fast skier. His shooting was good too and he wasn’t picking up penalty points which meant skiing a further 150 yards every time there was a miss.
Wagner knew within minutes that the newcomer had destroyed his chances of a medal and if looks could kill, Vertanen might have fallen dead on the spot. A rivalry always existed on the sports field and Wagner regarded that as a healthy thing. It was akin to the rivalry on a battlefield.
The Finn was smiling at him, but Wagner turned away. Some smiles were hard to return. The two British chaps had been watching Military Patrol with interest. "Looks like the Germans have been pipped at the post," commented Buckingham.
"And they look none too happy about it," Shire added. "Let’s hope that it is a sign of things to come."
"I’ll drink to that," Buckingham replied. "Let’s find one of those old Bavarian hostelries and have some schnapps."
Shire smiled. "Excellent idea," he agreed enthusiastically. "Just excellent."