“I said, who were those guys with guns—Nazis?”
No reply.
Aubrey was more than a little perturbed. After all, it was her neck on the line. That bullet could easily have hit her. There had never been any mention of guys with guns. The adrenaline rush of the clandestine landing and hurried takeoff under fire was waning, and now she had time to reflect. What was it all for? She’d asked Uncle Arthur for some details, but he had politely but firmly told her that she had no need to know.
When her uncle had first come to her with his proposition, she’d hardly been able to believe it. She would be entered into the rally, a guest of the Polish government. The Poles knew of her exploits. She would be given a plane to fly. But any offer of a mechanic to fly with her, which was standard, should be politely refused, Arthur told her. She would fly alone.
The two of them had sent her father to bed and then pored over a map of western Germany. Landmarks were identified, instructions given. Arthur had made her repeat them over and over: Fly west from Bonn for two hours up the Rhine River. At the Edelweiss Bridge follow the eastern tributary for another hour. Find the town with the Gothic dome in the centre and then turn northward. Look for the two hills like giant burial mounds in the distance: she couldn’t miss them. The field would be right in front of her.
He’d explained the signal lights and how they were arranged: three lights in an inverted L if everything was fine. Three lights in a straight line if all was not well. Somebody might have a gun to the man’s head. Aubrey asked why? What had he done? Her uncle did not answer.
None of the material Arthur had shown her could travel with her. He didn’t have to tell her why; this was spy stuff. It confirmed for her that Uncle Arthur was involved in espionage. Her father, in one of his lighter drinking moments, before the screaming night terrors, had mentioned that Arthur worked for G2, Army Intelligence, during the war. And that he’d never really left it after the Armistice.
The drone of the aircraft and twelve hours of flying began to take its toll. Aubrey had forgotten what it was like to fly long distances alone. No one to engage in conversation to keep the senses alert. She looked down at the thermos. Why not? She needed fuel as well. With one hand she spun the cap off the thermos and put it between her thighs. There was a bit more turbulence than in a flat spot of smooth flying. She poured some coffee.
The thudding sound of machine guns and the lines of tracer that tore into the aircraft jolted her from the task, and hot coffee spilled onto her thighs. She winced as the fighters that had just shot at her flew by. They dove in front of her, banked to the left and started to rise.
Aubrey threw the thermos into the footwell of the cockpit, cranked the yoke to the right and dove. The whistling sound from the punctured fuselage was louder now, and she found the controls slightly sluggish. A quick glance to the right and she saw a stitch-line of bullet holes in the cockpit.
She whipped her head around crazily, looking for the two fighters. She had seen ones like them when she’d refuelled at Tempelhof Airport outside of Berlin. Heinkel 51s, the latest fighter planes of the Third Reich. Menacingly efficient biplanes with large, narrow bodies and Art Deco styling. The top wings pressed tight over the cockpit. The muzzles of twin machine guns visible. They had looked like hawks on that runway, waiting to take off after prey.
And now the hawks were here, and she was the prey.
Aubrey pushed the yoke forward and banked over to the left. She dove for the clouds; the pillowy blanket rushed up at her. There was more firing; the Heinkels had speed and obvious firepower, but her civilian plane had agility. This was one contest she was not prepared for, but it was the one contest she had to win.
Aubrey spiralled the aircraft downwards and was engulfed in whiteness. The windscreen was slick with water in an instant. She heard the man behind her gasp once. She pulled back on the yoke just as she punched through the bottom of the clouds. The German countryside was rushing up at her. Or was it already Belgian dirt she was about to embrace? The thoughts of crashing again were planted firmly in her mind. She summoned superhuman strength to regain control of the aircraft and pulled it back up level, just two hundred feet from the ground. She looked around wildly, but the confines of the enclosed cockpit robbed her of vision. Where were the Heinkels?
Aubrey brought the plane closer to the ground and heard the passenger shout something in German. She had no time discuss her tactics with him. She was going to suck the contours of the land and try to vanish in them. The plane was painted a dark blue on top, and she hoped it would help her blend in.
No such luck: her plane shuddered as the heavy rounds impacted its skin, and she heard something snap and pop on her starboard side. The engine shuddered, and she pulled the yoke back to gain height. She barrel-rolled and swung around in a one-eighty, and then saw the second plane coming at her. He’d overshot, and tracer rounds reached out, searching for her. They went harmlessly past and kicked up soil in a farmer’s field.
Aubrey kept the plane in a tight turn, scrambling for altitude while avoiding stall speed. The engine groaned and sputtered under this manoeuvre and she was forced to level off to regain speed. She spotted the two black shapes of the Heinkels out in front of her and turned
