First, we weren’t allowed to use military aircraft for this trip for some reason stipulated by the Soviets.
Second, MI6 wanted an aircraft with some official capacity. The Queen’s Messenger service plane would be perfect as it also had diplomatic immunity when on a mission. The exchange was to be tomorrow, that is why they were desperate to find me.
Lastly, there was to be no record of who was exchanged. Apparently, we had demanded that. I had to wonder who we were getting back and why we didn’t want it known.
This incident would later cause the Service to expand to a fleet of four planes and a group of pilots.
Mr. Norman made it perfectly clear there was some danger involved. If my plane would go down in East Germany I would be held as a spy, no matter my diplomatic status. I would be held prisoner for a long time. It usually took two years or more to get people back.
I told him that I was willing to accept that risk and would do my best not to go down in East Germany.
I was given a ride to Oxford where my Greyhound plane was hangared. I went over it with a fine-tooth comb as it would be a long flight to Berlin.
In the morning I got there early and performed the preflight checks once more. Who knew what may have changed overnight?
I had just finished up when a plain black van pulled up to the plane with three people. My package and two escorts.
The prisoner looked tired but other than that in good health. His clothes were rather shabby looking. He looked like he should be riding the rails to get home.
He was thin, maybe mid-forties, greying hair, with a mild look about him. He was so nondescript it was amazing, a textbook spy.
He seemed totally disinterested in what was going on around him, just another day at the office.
The two escorts were big beefy guys. Either one of them would have been more than I could handle. They wore suits and ties but nothing could make them look like anything but guards, or maybe bouncers at a nightclub.
They both had cloth bags with them, the type you would bring your groceries home in. Since they weren’t closed at the top I could see in.
The contents were chocolate, perfumes, and whiskey. I asked about them.
The lead, at least the guard who spoke told me.
“This isn’t our first exchange at this location. We found it helps keep things smooth if we bring some gifts for the permanent guards.”
I asked, “How will this work at the bridge?”
“It will be dusk when we get there. We will be in a public works van. Traffic cones will have been set up earlier to keep the bridge clear. We will park on our side in the Wannsee District, which is American. The other side is Potsdam and the only checkpoint controlled directly by the Soviets.”
“We will escort our person to be exchanged to the center of the bridge. They will do the same from their side. There you will sign a receipt showing packages were exchanged. We take our guy and fly back here.”
“That sounds straight forward enough.”
“We have been doing this for a couple of years and it has gone smoothly every time. That is why we keep it such a secret. Once word gets out someone will try to take advantage of it.”
The guard spoke with a very educated upper-class accent. I had to revise my opinion about them being bouncers unless it was for the Palace.
I had filed my flight plan. There was to be a refueling stop in Dortmund and then we would land at Tempelhof Airport.
I was looking forward to seeing the airport which had started life as land owned by the Knights Templars and ended up as a showpiece for the Nazi’s.
It reminded me of the story about the British Air pilot who was having trouble identifying the correct taxiway. The German ground controller in a very snide manner asked if he had ever been to Tempelhof before.
The pilot replied, “Only five times in 1944, but I never landed.”
We took off on time and the flight was uneventful. There was little to no conversation. One of the guards asked the Russian if he was glad to be going home.
“Not really, but they have my family so I have no choice.”
That shut everyone up.
At Dortmund, we used the restrooms and grabbed a bite to eat while the plane was fueled. I may have been paranoid but insisted on sitting where I could see what was being done during the refueling. I even checked the fuel sumps to make certain no water had been introduced.
The lead guard, that is all I could think of him as I wasn’t given any names told me, “You seem to have the right instincts for this game. You take after your Mum.”
“You know my Mum?”
“I served with her in North Africa.”
What was Mum doing in North Africa?
“Shall I tell her someone says, “Hello?”
“Tell her James says hello.”
No, it couldn’t be, could it?”
“I will do so, and the last name?
“Stock, James Stock.”
Now I know he was pulling my leg.
“Kidding aside, who should I say Hello from?”
“Just tell her Jimmy from Morocco. She will know.”
“Okay.”
When we landed at Tempelhof we were met by a van with Berlin Public Works on its side, of course, it was in German.
We all got in the back. I was very surprised to see a gurney, along with a Doctor and the most extensive array for first aid equipment I had ever seen.
My surprise
