“Oh, yes. More so every day. Military service is now compulsory. Thank you for coming, Fraulein Endeavours. That is an unusual name, by the way. Is it common in America?”
“No, I don’t think so. There was a Captain Endeavours in the Revolutionary War, but we could never establish the relation.”
“Your fight against the British—you were successful. We were not so fortunate,” the corporal said, and laughed.
“You guys seem more relaxed than the others I’ve met. One of them was dressed in black.”
The smiles fell away from both men’s faces.
“Schutzstaffel,” the corporal said. “The SS. They are dangerous, Miss Endeavours.”
“Call me Aubrey.”
“Aubrey—that is a nice name, too.”
“Why are they so crotchety?” Aubrey asked.
“The SS? I don’t know what ‘crotchety’ means, but I can guess. Why are they that way? Because they are in charge.”
Aubrey smiled grimly. “Where are you taking me?”
“Southwest of the city, to Adlershof Airfield. That is where the exhibition is being held. Germany is eager to export its latest aeronautical achievements to the rest of the world. There will be buyers there from all over: Japan, Greece, South America. And of course, journalists like yourself.”
“Why am I getting the special treatment, a personal car sent just for me?”
“Because, Miss Endeavours, you are a famous pilot from America. We are honoured to have you in Germany, and Hans and I are even more honoured to be driving you.”
“Why, thank you, gents. I think we’re going to get along just swell.”
“There will be plenty of sightseeing opportunities for the delegates and journalists. We want to show Germany off to the world. And next year, we have the Olympics.”
The car paused at the main entrance to the Adlershof airfield. There were more armed soldiers; none of them seemed as friendly as the corporal and Hans. Identification was checked and orders were barked. The two airmen brought the car over to a large tent just inside the main gate.
“This is the check-in, Aubrey. You have press credentials?”
“I do. What’s the deal?”
“You’ll get in that line and be processed; we’ll meet up with you on the other side.”
“See you then.”
There were thirty people in line, all men. A couple of them noticed a woman joining their ranks and turned curiously. Most had scowls on their faces. The man who got in line immediately behind her was the only one who offered a smile.
“Forgive my colleagues, miss,” he said. “They spend so much time hunched over a typewriter they rarely get to see a pretty face.”
“I don’t think that’s it. They don’t get to see a woman’s face, pretty or otherwise, in their line of work.”
“True.” He stuck out a hand. “I am Richard Fuchs. I am a journalist with the Berliner Morgenpost.”
She shook hands with him. “Aubrey Endeavours, freelance writer. Here to write a few articles for some magazines.”
“Time Magazine?”
“Gosh, no.”
“But they should put your pretty picture on the cover.”
Little did this fellow know that she’d already graced the cover of Time after the Pulitzer race. There was a roar overhead as seven aircraft in an inverted V flew over the aerodrome.
“Wow, fantastic!” Aubrey said.
The sound of the seven fighters roaring overhead, even at a thousand feet, was deafening. The formation banked to the east and was lost from sight. The check-in line moved forward. The men around her were jabbering in all manner of languages. She picked out the odd French phrase here and there, and some Italian. No English, though.
A desk in front of her became free and Aubrey stepped forward and put on her best smile. A pimply-faced corporal checked her papers and smiled back. He was about to stamp them when an officer wearing one of those dreaded black uniforms stepped behind him and grabbed her credentials out of his hand. He was young, somewhat handsome. She could see a wisp of blonde hair up under his cap—a cap adorned with the death’s head logo. He had lightning bolts on one side of his collar, and on his sleeve was a diamond patch with SD inside of it, indicating the Sicherheitsdienst—the Nazi intelligence agency.
“Your papers are not in order,” he said in stilted yet crisp English.
“How can that be? They were just issued.”
“These forms are no longer accepted.”
“I don’t understand.”
Richard Fuchs was all checked in and had his pass in his hand. He came over to assist.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Are you colleagues?” the Nazi asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you work for the same organization?”
“No. I’m German. This is an American guest in our country Herr Hauptsturmführer—Captain.”
“That has no bearing. Our embassy in the United States made an error. They used the wrong form. We no longer accept this.”
“As of when?” Richard asked. Aubrey saw a fire start to burn in the SS officer’s eyes.
“As of last week. New forms have been issued.”
“I was in the middle of the Atlantic last week,” Aubrey said. “How would I know?”
“It makes no difference, Miss Endeavours. You will have to return to your embassy here in Berlin. Perhaps they can assist you in obtaining the correct press credentials.”
“Endeavours?” a man in a dark suit said. He had been standing off to the right of the discussion, talking with some high-ranking Luftwaffe officers. Being that he was on the other side of the tables, Aubrey assumed he was involved in running the exhibition.
The SS officer turned and saw who’d shown an interest in the American’s dilemma. He became ramrod straight and clicked the heels of his shin-high leather boots together smartly.
“Count von Villiez. I had no idea you were there.”
The man ignored the SS officer and gazed at Aubrey. He had a head of glistening, slicked-back, black hair and piercing blue eyes. His jaw was square and strong, and his upper torso spread out wide and was covered by a very well-tailored suit. She noticed several gold rings and a gold-embossed badge on his lapel with the German cross on it.
“You are Aubrey Endeavours, the American pilot?”
“Yes.”
Finally, the count turned his attention to the SS man, who was still at attention.
