'Double-check the wet-points!' the pilot called.
The chief mechanic nodded, already working.
The pilot turned to Major Berger. 'I had an idea,' he said.
'Flying up.'
The SS man frowned. 'What idea?'
'I want them to grease my guns before we take off.'
'What do you mean? Lubricate them? I assure you that the weapons are
in perfect working order.'
'No, I want them to pack the barrels with grease.'
Behind Majo@ Berger, the man in the flying suit stepped sideways and
looked curiously at the pilot.
'You can't be serious,' Berger objected. He turned around.
'Tell him,' he said. But the man in the flying suit only cocked his
head to one side.
'But that's suicide!' Major Berger insisted. 'One chance encounter
with a British patrol and-' He shook his head. 'I simply cannot allow
it. If you're shot down, my career could take a very nasty turn!'
Your career is over already, the pilot thought grimly.
'Grease the guns!' he shouted to the crewmen, who, having fitted the
empty drop tanks, now anxiously pumped fuel into them. The chief
mechanic stood at the rear of the fuel truck, trying to decide which of
the two men giving orders was really in charge. He knew Major Berger
from Aalborg, but something about the tall, masked pilot hinted at a
more dangerous authority.
'You can't do that!' Major Berger protested. 'Stop that there!
I'm in command here!'
The chief mechanic shut off the fuel hose and stared at the three men at
the edge of the runway. Slowly, with great purpose, the pilot pointed a
long arm toward the crewman under the wing and shouted through his
scarf: 'You! Grease my guns! That's a direct order!'
The chief mechanic recognized the sound of authority now. He climbed
onto the fuel truck to get a grease gun from his tool box.
Major Berger laid a quivering hand on a Schmeisser machine pistol at his
belt. 'You have lost your mind, I believe,' he said softly.
'Rescind that order immediately or I'll put you under arrest!'
Glancing back toward the crewmen-who were now busy packing the
Messerschmitt's twenty-millimeter cannon with heavy black grease-the
pilot took hold of his scarf and unwrapped it slowly from his head.
When his face became visible, the SS man fell back a step, his eyes wide
in shock.
Behind him the man in the flying suit swallowed hard and turned away.
The pilot's face was dark, saturnine, with eyes set deep beneath bushy
black brows that almost met in the center. His imperious stare radiated
command. 'Remove your hand from that pistol,' he said quietly.
For several moments Major Berger stood still as stone.
Then, slowly, he let his hand fall from the Schmeisser's grip.
'Jawohl, Herr ... Herr Reichminister.'
'Now, Herr Major! And be about your business! Go!'
Suddenly Major Berger was all action,. With a pounding heart he hurried
toward the Messerschmitt, his face hot and tingling with fear.
Blood roared in his ears. He had just threatened to place the Deputy
Fuhrer of the German Reich-Rudolf Hess-under arrest! In a daze he
ordered the crewmen to speed their packing of the guns. While they
complied, he harried them about their earlier maintenance.
Were the wet-points clear? Would the wing drop tanks disengage properly
when empty?
At the edge of the runway, Hess turned to the man in the flying suit.
'Come closer,' he murmured.
The man took a tentative step forward and stood at attention.
'You understand about the guns?' Hess asked.
Slowly the man nodded assent.
'I know it's dangerous, but it's dangerous for us both.
Under certain circumstances it could make all the difference.'
Again the man nodded. He was a pilot also, and had in fact flown many
more missions than the man who had so suddenly assumed command of this
situation. He understood the logic: a plane purported to be on a
mission of peace would appear much more convincing with its guns
disabled.
But even if he hadn't understood, he was in no position to argue.
'It's been a long time, Hauptmann, ' Hess said, using the rank of
captain in place of a name.
The captain nodded. Overhead a pair of Messerschmitts roared by from
Aalborg, headed south on patrol.
'It is a great sacrifice you have made for your country, Hauptmann. You
and men like you have given up all normality so that men like myself
could prosecute the war in comparative safety. It's a great burden, is
it not?'
The captain thought fleetingly of his wife and child. He had not seen
them for over three years; now he wondered if he ever would again.
He nodded slowly.
'Once we're in the plane,' said Hess, 'I won't be able to see your face.
Let me see it now. Before.'
As the captain reached for the end of his scarf, Major Berger scurried
back to tell them the plane was almost ready.
The two pilots, enthralled in the strange play they found themselves
acting out, heard nothing. What the SS man saw when he reached them
struck him like a blow to the stomach. All his breath passed out in a
single kasp, and he knew that he stood at the brink of extinction.
Before him, two men with the same face stood together shaking hands! And
that face! Major Berger felt as if he had stumbled into a hall of
mirrors where only the dangerous people were multiplied.
The pilots gripped hands for a long moment, their eyes heavy with the
knowledge that both their lives might end tonight over foreign soil in
the cockpit of an unarmed fighter.
'My God,' Berger croaked.
Neither pilot acknowledged his presence. 'How long has it been,
Hauptmann?' Hess asked.
'Since Dessau, Herr Reichminister.'
'You look thinner.' Hess murmured, 'I still can't believe it.
