“The count beat you to it, I’m afraid. But maybe you could come along too?”
“Doubtful,” he said, looking crestfallen. “The count won’t have time for a mid-level journalist like me. Plus, three wheels makes a tipsy cart.”
“Is that ‘three’s a crowd’ in German?”
“Precisely. What hotel are you staying at?”
“You move fast.”
Richard Fuchs grinned. “No time like the present—isn’t that what you Americans say?”
“Sure. I’m at the Adlon.”
Fuchs gave her a last dazzling smile, then crossed the tarmac and was greeted heartily by some men in long trench coats and thick spectacles.
Aubrey looked around her, not sure where to start. The scope and scale of the air base were daunting. She couldn’t remember any airfield back home being this big. They were mostly just grass airstrips with rather frazzled-looking wind direction balloons hanging from poles. Despite the size of the airfield, she knew she was home: it had the same sounds and smells she loved so much. Engines revving up, getting ready for takeoff or feathering down to a landing. The smell of grease and aviation fuel drifted past her nose.
She shielded her eyes and watched as, one by one, the fighters from that impressive inverted wing formation started to come in. The hangar nearest to her held one of them on static display. Smooth, rivet-less sides. Menacing machine guns poking out all over the place. She wandered over to it. A man in a Luftwaffe uniform was talking to a crowd of a dozen men, most of them in uniforms themselves, the flags of their countries on their shoulders: Italy, Poland, some she didn’t recognize. She joined the back of the crowd and pretended to listen, but instead she studied the plane. Its configuration was familiar… Then it hit her. This was one of the buggers that had tried to stitch her up over the German countryside.
It was an impressive plane, the last of the biplanes. A Heinkel 51, the placard in front of it said. The officer stopped talking and the crowd of onlookers and prospective buyers dispersed around the aircraft or moved off to others. Aubrey went up to the machine, grabbed hold of one of the struts supporting the wings and pulled on it.
“Very solid,” she said.
The men around her either didn’t notice her or didn’t care. A Japanese man with a camera seemed annoyed that he couldn’t get a clear shot without her in it. He bowed several times and then made a sweeping motion with his hand.
“Thing of beauty, isn’t it?” she said. “Deadly beauty.” The Japanese man started clicking his camera and ignored her. “Well, pardon me all over the place.”
Aubrey busied herself for the rest of the day checking out the planes. There were sales presentations by pilots, technical personnel and representatives from the manufacturers, all extolling the virtues of German aeronautics.
Several of the attendees asked specific questions about ceiling limits, stall rates, fuel consumption. For the older planes this information was given up freely. It was only when she attended a presentation on the Bf 109 that she heard the word ‘classified.’ It was always said with the proverbial wink and grin, and the asker of the question always went away satisfied.
The one example of the Bf 109 on static display was kept well back from the crowds. It was cordoned off with thick velvet rope befitting the king of the air. Aubrey found the aircraft beautiful and menacing. There were a half dozen soldiers standing between the gawkers and the plane. It was brand new, one of the first prototypes; the others were at high-security bases, she knew, undergoing trials. Messerschmitt, the manufacturer of the plane, had representatives there to answer questions. They were hopeful the new plane would be selected as the primary fighter of the Luftwaffe.
Aubrey studied the graceful hunter from thirty feet away and could find no faults. It was perfection in stressed aluminum, with its framed glass canopy and inverted twelve cylinders. Its lines reminded her of a shark. The black muzzles of weaponry protruded from its snout, and the exhaust pipes vented back along the fuselage.
She was staring at the future of aviation, and despite this being the weapon of a belligerent nation, the Third Reich, she found it thrilling.
“A marvellous achievement, isn’t it?” said a voice at her side. It was the count; he had come up behind her, and she felt a giddy sensation in her stomach akin to putting an airplane into a steep dive. That burring sensation in her gut she’d come to love so much.
“She looks fast.”
“She is. And deadly. Twin standard 7.62 machine guns. They want to put a twenty-millimetre cannon on it.”
“Should you be telling me this?”
“We have not hidden this. We are showing this plane to the world. We already have orders coming in from countries that want to purchase it—Spain, Finland. Perhaps even you Americans would be interested in purchasing it. I know that your air force is seriously behind in preparations.”
“Preparations for what?”
“For the future,” the count said, and smiled.
Aubrey knew what he meant. Her uncle had mentioned the inevitable war that was looming on the horizon. Nazi Germany was indeed belligerent. Hitler certainly was, and with a man like that in total control of a nation, war was a foregone conclusion.
“This is a two-seat model?” Aubrey asked.
“Yes, it’s a trainer. Would you like to go up in it?”
Her eyes widened. “Very much so.”
“I can arrange it. I can take you up personally.”
“What a thrill!”
“Aubrey, there is a reception tonight at my home. A small gathering. I would very much like you to attend.”
“Oh… I don’t know.”
“Say yes. It may be your only chance to meet Herr Reichsmarschall Goering. He is honouring me with his presence, and I know he would very much like to meet you.”
“I wouldn’t know how to talk or act at an event like that,” she said, flustered. “I’m just a country bumpkin. I’d end up embarrassing you, ruining your event. Probably not
