'He isn't going to,' Jaeger replied. 'He's landing – he's got guts…'
'He's a maniac!' Stoerner stared ahead. 'He hasn't the time…'
'Don't count on it. I'm going back. Send me out of the aircraft first. Then Schmidt and the rest.'
'You want to be brave? Be brave…'
Stoerner made a gesture as much as to say you wish to commit suicide it's OK by me. The gesture was wasted. Jaeger had left the cabin. This time he did not return to his seat. He waved to Schmidt to join him and stood by the drop controller.
The red light was on. Jaeger attached his snap catch to the overhead wire as the door was opened. A blast of chilly air dispersed the sweat-laden atmosphere inside the fuselage within seconds. Schmidt attached his own snap catch.
'Trouble?' he asked, his mouth close to Jaeger's ear.
'The British are taking Lindsay out. At this very moment a Dakota is landing on top of the plateau. It will all hinge on minutes. When we hit the ground shoot up the Dakota – stop it taking off. That's the first priority.'
As he spoke Jaeger double-checked his machine- pistol. Satisfied that it was in working order, he took off the magazine and thrust the weapon, butt first, into the breast of his jacket.
There was a stirring of systematic activity inside the aircraft as men made their way to join the queue.
The usual mix of relief and apprehension on their faces, Jaeger noted. Relief that the waiting period was over. Apprehension as to what was going to greet them on the plateau – if their 'chutes opened. Stoerner had earlier told Jaeger that over half of them had only made one practice drop. Germany was running out of time – and trained men. Jaeger waited for the green light.
'A bee's bum it is,' Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith said cheerfully as the plateau rushed up to meet them.
'God! They were told the minimum length,' Conway gasped.
The landing wheels touched down, bumped, the wingtips hardly wobbled. Murray-Smith slowed the machine at the extreme limits of safety. He pouched his lower lip, a sign of intense concentration as the Dakota swept on towards the northern rim where the plateau fell into eternity.
He had almost stopped when he performed a manoeuvre that almost gave Conway a nervous breakdown. He circled the machine through one hundred and eighty degrees, ending up on the airstrip – facing south, ready for immediate take-off. Against all regulations he did not switch off the engines.
'Open the cargo door,' he snapped at Conway. 'We've got to get this gang of Wogs moving.'
He opened the cabin door and jumped to the ground, an absurdly small figure among the Partisans crowding towards him. He spotted the man limping forward with a stick, the stained and worn RAF jacket, the smashing blonde by his side.
'Lindsay?'
'Yes. I…'
'Which wallah is in charge of this show?'
'Heljec here. Paco can interpret for you…'
'No time for flaming interpreters. They'll understand me. Just watch…'
They won't let me board the plane till they have the guns and ammo…'
'Won't they, by God! We'll see about that…'
He ran to the cargo door where Conway had already lowered several wooden boxes with rope handles into the hands of the waiting Partisans. Flicking open the catches on one box, he threw back the lid, gathered up a random collection of sten guns and thrust them into Heljec's arms. Grabbing hold of Lindsay with one hand he gestured into the aircraft with a stabbing thumb, talking non-stop to Heljec.
'You've got your bloody guns! I've risked my life to bring you this frigging lot! Lindsay goes aboard now! In case you haven't noticed, you've got visitors – not the sort I'd ask to my mess…'
He was miming madly. Pointing to the aircraft. Making more stabbing gestures towards the Luftwaffe armada which was almost on top of the plateau, shouting at Heljec as though he were dressing down some useless mechanic.
It was comic, if the situation hadn't been so desperate. The small man standing up to the six foot two Heljec. And he had been right, he needed no interpreter. Heljec stared at him in amazement, then began distributing the sten guns and magazines.
'Well, get aboard, for Christ's sake!' Murray-Smith told Lindsay. 'Conway, give him a hand – he's got a gammy leg. Expect me to do every flaming thing? As usual…'
The exchange took place very rapidly. The cargo hold was emptied. Lindsay was hauled aboard, Conway helping from above, Hartmann from below. Next the German hoisted Paco aboard and Reader climbed inside by himself.
'What about Hartmann?' Paco snapped.
She reached down and helped him inside. Conway closed the door as Murray-Smith appeared from the direction of the cabin. His manner was abrupt and urgent.
'Come on through here! We've got seats. This isn't one of those Yank Liberators where you roll about like peas out of a pod. Sit down in the bloody seats! Strap yourselves in with the bloody belts! This is going to be a rough take-off – a very rough take-off. Turbulence won't be the word for it…'
'And turbulence isn't the word for you, mate,' Reader said as he sagged into a seat.
He was talking into a void. Murray-Smith was already back in his cabin, seated behind the controls. He peered out at the umbrella-like objects blossoming above in increasing numbers.
'Here they come, Conway. Whole flaming army of them. Time we used our return ticket…'
The Dakota seemed to commence take-off with incredible slowness as Paco watched from her window seat. They were crawling when she saw the first German land, roll over, detach himself from his harness and crouch, aiming his machine-pistol.
'Oh, my God, Lindsay…!'
She clearly recognized Jaeger. He was aiming the muzzle of his weapon at the pilot's cabin. More paratroopers landed. Heljec, armed with one of the new stens, rose up from behind a rock and fired half a magazine in one lethal burst.
Jaeger was pushed forward by the shock of the bullets, his face distorted with agony. What does a man think in his last moments? Dear Magda, We've had a marvellous life… He was dead before his body hit the ground. Paco felt physically sick. A vivid image came into her mind. The Four Seasons Hotel in Munich. Dining with Jaeger, so smart in his uniform, so courteous, so… Oh, hell!
The aircraft picked up speed as Murray-Smith, looking neither to right nor left, headed for take-off. He could hear above the engines the rattle of machine-pistol fire, the spatter of bullets entering the fuselage, the crack! of grenades detonating. He ignored it all.
Lindsay saw the so familiar figure of gentle Dr Macek rise up behind a rock, holding something as though about to hurl it. A burst of rapid fire threw him backwards out of sight. Lindsay had no doubt Macek had just died.
'They just got Macek: he said to Paco who was sitting beside him. 'Poor sod…'
'Christ, what is it all about?'
'I've been wondering that ever since I first flew to Berchtesgaden,' Lindsay replied.
After months of pain, endless trudging and ever- present fear in the winter of the Balkans, their first sight of North Africa was unforgettable. Peering from the windows of the Dakota, the warm ochre of the flat Libyan desert spread out to the horizon.
Still over the intense blue of the Med, they saw the white ribbon of surf separating sea from shore. The plane began its descent. Ten minutes later Murray-Smith touched down at Benina. The door was opened by Conway and glorious heat flooded inside the machine.
'Half an hour's wait here while we refuel,' Conway told them. 'You have to disembark so you can stretch your legs but don't wander out of sight of the plane. Dr Macleod is waiting for anyone who requires medical attention…'
'I'd like to thank the pilot,' said Lindsay. 'Wouldn't advise that, Wing Commander, if I may say so. He's a bit of a character, is Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith. Never can tell how he's going to react. In any case, a fresh pilot is taking you on to your final destination.'
