The forest passed beneath her and she breathed a sigh of relief. A quick course change to point them straight at the Belgian frontier, and then she could relax. The vacant field and the men shooting at her were left behind them as they climbed higher, passing through a bank of clouds. Then suddenly they were floating on a carpet of fluffy white cotton with the moon above to light the way. All was good in the world.
The wind whistled in through the bullet hole in the cockpit. She felt bad about that. This plane wasn’t hers. It was a loaner from the manufacturer in Warsaw. She was familiar with these European air rallies, but had never dreamed of flying in one. American airplane manufacturers had toyed with the idea of entering a team, but it had never progressed beyond whimsical ideation. And besides, if they did put a team together, it would inevitably be an all-male team.
The age of the sensational female aviatrix was quickly coming to a close. Aubrey could see the writing on the wall. The barnstormers and wing walkers had long since vanished. There were no more records to achieve; Lindbergh had conquered the Atlantic. Amelia Earhart, an acquaintance of Aubrey’s, had done the same thing as the first female. Now, the far reaches of the continents had been reached by airplane, and the age of commercial air travel was upon them. Her beloved father had quipped that, eventually, a pilot would have no more prominence in society than a bus driver. And there weren’t a lot of female bus drivers around. And if there were, no one noticed them.
She thought of him now, back on the family farm in Michigan, dealing with demons he’d brought home from the Great War. A heroic flyer in his own right, he’d returned a decorated but defeated man, the spark in his eye gone, his ambition and drive sapped by horrors experienced on the Western Front where he commanded a squadron of French-built SPAD fighters.
But he would be proud of her now, although he wouldn’t admit it, of course. Instead, he’d give her a verbal hide-tanning for being foolish enough to get hooked up in this crazy scheme to pluck a stranger out of Nazi Germany. But secretly, he would be proud of her bravery and skill.
She speculated who it was exactly she had tucked into the seat behind her. Was he a spy, a man on the run? This had all come about so quickly. One moment she was sitting in her father’s study in Michigan; the next, she’d been on a steamer bound for Europe. She’d landed in Danzig and was delivered to Warsaw with some of her former celebrity reinvigorated. The Poles had been gracious; they celebrated strong women. The German participants seemed aloof, except for one pilot named Albert whom she’d briefly talked to. He’d shown her a picture of his infant son and wife.
She had at first been anxious about the presence of Germans. She’d expected the jackboots, skull and crossbones of the SS. But these men were flyers, first and foremost. They wore the blue uniform of the newly formed Luftwaffe, Hitler’s air force.
Their planes looked fast. The Bf 109s were sleeker and more modern-looking than the other planes. But she did eventually see swastikas painted on them. That hideous design sent shivers down her spine. Like most Americans, she’d watched the newsreels in movie theatres. Most of those newsreels showed sporting events or beauty pageants, and the crowds soaked them up. Occasionally, though, they gave viewers a glimpse of what was going on in the world and who was shaping events. Like that demonic-looking man with the strange moustache who seemed to have a whole nation entranced. She’d read about the rising tensions in Europe, the ambitious leader of the Third Reich and his thoughts on racial purity. She’d read of the ever-increasing rules, harsh laws that were further marginalizing and isolating the minority population in Germany.
When she encountered these sons of the Reich on that Polish airfield, she was tempted to share her thoughts on the matter. But she remembered what she was there to do, how important it was. And her job wasn’t to win any air race. No, her real mission, now halfway complete, was of far greater importance.
Now that the plane was levelled out and heading in the right direction, she could glance back at him. He was shrouded in the dark confines of the tiny cockpit, his arms across his chest, his head lowered. A slight gurgling sound came from him; the man was fast asleep. She was astounded; they’d just been shot at. Maybe he’d been waiting in the forest a long time and was exhausted. He was now safely tucked away in the airplane, with a competent pilot at the controls. Should she take his slumber as a compliment?
But who was he? Aubrey, face it, she thought. You’ll probably never know. The man who had arranged the whole thing was a complete mystery to her. Why should this “package,” as he’d described the human being she’d just rescued from the clutches of the Nazis, be any less of an enigma?
But at least she knew the identity of that first mystery man: it was her uncle, Arthur Colins.
There was a slight bump of turbulence, enough to wake her passenger.
“Coffee here if you want it,” she called back to him. He gave a grunt of a reply, and a withered hand reached between the forward seats to retrieve the thermos.
“Danke.”
“Good thing we got out of there when we did. They were shooting at us.”
“Yes, a good thing,” the man replied.
“Who were they?”
She heard the man slurp some coffee and
