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.
It's positively unnerving." Then sharply, "Is the plane ready, Berger?"
"I... I believe so, Herr@' "TO your work, then!"
"Jawohl, Herr Reichminister!" Major Berger turned and marched toward
the crewmen, who now stood uncertainly against the fuel truck, waiting
for permission to return to Aalborg. Berger unclipped his Schmeisser
with one hand as he walked.
"All finished?" he called.
, "Jawohl, Herr Major," answered the chief mechanic.
"Fine, fine. Step away from the truck, please." Berger raised the
stubby barrel of his Schmeisser.
"But ... Herr Major, what are you doing! What have we done? "
"A great service to your Fatherland," the SS man said.
"Now-step awayfrom the truck!"
The crewmen looked at each other, frozen like terrified game.
Finally it dawned on them why Major Berger was hesitating. He obviously
knew something about the volatility of aircraft fuel vapor.
Backing closer to the truck, the chief mechanic clasped his greasy hands
together in supplication.
"Please, Herr Major, I have a family-2' The dance was over. Major
Berger took three steps backward and fired a sustained burst from the
Schmeisser. Hess screamed a warning, but it was too late. Used with
skill, the Schmeisser could be a precise weapon, but Major Berger's
skill was limited. Of a twelve-round burst, only four rounds struck the
crewmen. The remainder tore through the rusted shell of the fuel truck
like it was pap@r.-, The explosion knocked Major Berger a dozen feet
from where he stood. Hess and the.captain had instinctively dived for
the concrete. Now they lay prone, shielding their eyes from the flash.
When Hess finally looked up, he saw Major Berger silhouetted against the
flames, stumbling proudly toward them through a pall of black smoke,
"How about that!" the SS man cried, looking back at the inferno. "No
evidence now!"
"Idiot!" Hess shouted. "They'll have a patrol from Aalborg here in
five minutes to investigate!"
Berger grinned. "Let me take care of them, Herr Reichminister!
The SS knows how to handle the Luftwaffe!"
Hess felt relieved; Berger was making it easy. Stupidity was something
he had no patience with. "I'm sorry, Major," he said, looking hard into
the SS man's face. "I cannot allow that."
Like a cobra hypnotizing a bird, Hess transfixed Berger with his dark,
deep-set eyes. Quite naturally, he drew a Walther automatic from the
forepouch of his flight su I it and pulled back the slide. The fat SS
man's mouth opened slowly; his hands hung limp at his sides, the
Schmeisser clipped uselessly to his belt.
"But why?" he asked quietly. "Why me?"
"Something to do with Reinhard Heydrich, I believe."
Berger's eyes grew wide; then they closed. His head sagged onto his
tunic.
"For the Fatherland," Hess said quietly. He pulled the trigger.
The captain jumped at the report of the Walther. Major Berger's body
jerked twice on the ground, then lay still.
"Take his Schmeisser and any ammunition you can find," Hess ordered.
"Check the Daimler."
"Jawohl, Herr Reichminister!"
The next few minutes were a blur of action that both men would try to
remember clearly for the rest of their lives-plundering the corpse for
ammunition, searching the car, double-checking the drop tanks of the
aircraft, donning their parachutes, firing the twin Daimler-Benz
engines, turning the plane on the old cracked concrete-both men
instinctively carrying out tasks they had rehearsed a thousand times in
their heads, the tension compounded by the knowledge that an armed
patrol might arrive from Aalborg at any moment.
Before boarding the plane, they exchanged personal effects. Hess
quickly but carefully removed the validating item
s that had been agreed
upon: three compasses, a Leica camera, his wristwatch, some photographs,
a box of strange and varied drugs, and finally the fine gold
identification chain worn by all members of Hitler's inner circle.
He handed them to the captain with a short word of explanation for each:
"Mine, my wife's, mine, my wife and son . . ." The man receiving these
items already knew their history, but he kept silent. Perhaps, he
thought, the Reichminister speaks in farewell to all the familiar things
he might lose tonight. The captain understood that feeling well.
Even this strange and poignant ceremony merged into the mind-numbing
rush of fear and adrenaline that accompanied takeoff, and neither man
spoke again until they found themselves forty miles over the North Sea,
arrowing toward their target. As the plan dictated, Hess had yielded
the controls to the captain. Hess now sat in the radio operator's seat,
facing the twin tail fins of the fighter. The two men used no
names-only ranks-and limited their conversation to the mechanics of the
mission.
"Range?" the captain asked, tilting his head back toward the
rear-facing seat.
"Twelve hundred and fifty miles with the nine-hundredliter tanks," Hess
replied.
"I meant range to target."
"The island or the castle?"
"The island."
"Six hundred and seventy miles."
The captain asked no more questions for the next hour. He stared down
at the steadily darkening sea and thought of his family. Hess studied a
sheaf of papers in his lap: maps, photographs, and mini-biographies
secretly copied from SS files in the basement of the
Prinz-Albrechtstrasse. Ceaselessly, he went over each detail,
visualizing the contingencies he could face upon landing. A hundred
miles off the English coast, he began drilling the pilot in his duties.
"How much did they tell you, Hauptmann?"
"A lot. Too much, I think."
"You see the extra radio to your right?"
"You can operate it?"
"if all goes well, you have only a few things to remember.
First, the drop tanks. Whatever happens, you ditch them into the sea.
Same with the extra radio. After my time is up, of course.
Forty minutes is the time limit, remember that. Forty minutes. "
"Forty minutes I wait."
"If you have not received my message within that time, the mission has
failed. In that case@' There was a sharp intake of breath from the
pilot, quiet but audible. Hess knew what caused that sound--the
unbanishable fear of death. He felt it too. But for him it was
different. He knew the stakes of the mission, the inestimable strategic
gain that dwarfed the possible loss of two human lives. Like the man in
the pilot's seat, Hess too had a family-a wife and young son. But for a
man in his position-a man so close to the Fuhrer-such things were
luxuries one knew might be lost at any moment. For him death was simply
an obstacle to success that must be avoided at all costs. But for the
man in the pilot's chair ...
"Hauptmann?" Hess said, almost gently.
"Sir?"
"I know what frightens you now. I really do. But there are worse
things than death. Do you understand me? Far worse."
The pilot's reply was a hoarse, hollow gurgle. Hearing it, Hess decided
that empathy was not the proper motivator for this man. When he next
spoke, his voice brimmed with confidence. "Dwelling on that is of no
use whatsoever, Hauptmann. The plan is flawless. The important thing
is, have you been studying?"
"Have I been studying!" The captain was obviously relieved to be
talking about something else. "My God, some iron-assed SS
Brigadefiihrer grilled me for two days straight."
"Probably Schellenberg."
"Who?"
"Never mind, Hauptmann. Better that you don't know."
Silence filled the cockpit as the pilot's mind drifted back to the fate
that awaited him should his special passenger fail.
"Herr Reichminister?" he asked at length.
"Yes?"
"How do you rate your chances of sudcess?"
"It's not in my hands, Hauptmann, so I would be foolish to guess.
It's up to the British now." My advice is to prepare for the worst,
Hess thought bitterly. The Fuhrer's bankers have been since January.
"Just concentrate on your part of the mission," he said. "And for God's
sake, be sure to jump from a high enough altitude to destroy the plane.
It's nothing the British haven't seen before, but there's no need to
make them a present of it. Once you've gotten my message, just jump and
wait until I can get you released. It shouldn't take more than a few
days. If you don't get the message Verdammt! Hess cursed silently.
There's just no avoiding it. His next words cut with the brittle edge
of command. "If you don't get my message, Hauptmann, you know what must
be done."
"Jawohl," the pilot murmured, hoping he sounded more confident than he
felt. He was sickeningly aware of the small, sticky cyanide capsule
taped against his chest. He wondered if he could possibly go through
with this thing that everyone but him seemed to consider simply business
as
usual. said earnestly. "You
"Listen to me, Hauptmann, " Hess know why your participation is
necessary. British Intelligence knows I am coming to England ..."
Hess kept talking, trying to fill the emptiness that would give the
pilot too much time to think. Up here, with Germany falling far behind,
the concept of duty seemed much more abstract than it did when one was
surrounded by the reinforcing order of the army and the SS.
enough time to consider his position, he might do anything.
After all, what sane man wanted to die?
"Cut your speed!" Hess ordered, his voice quickening.
"Hold at 180."
The miles had melted away before the Messerschmitt's nose. They were a
mere sixty miles off the Scottish coast.
On a clear evening like this, the RAF radar stations would begin to pick
up reflections from the fighter at any moment.
Hess tightened his parachute harness, then set aside his maps and leaned
backward.
"Stay high and clear!" he shouted to the canopy lid. "Make sure they
see us coming in!"
"Where are you going out?"
"We should make landfall over a place called Holy Island.
I'll jump there. Stay high over the mainland for a few miles, then dive
and run like hell! They'll probably scramble a whole squadron once they
realize what you're flying!"
"Jawohl, " the pilot acknowledged. "Herr Reichminister?"
"What is it?"
"Have you ever parachuted before?"
"Nein. Never."
An ironic laugh cut through the drone of the twin engines.
"What's so funny, Hauptmann?"
"I've never jumped either! That's a pretty significant fact to have
overlooked in the planning of this mission, don't you think?"
Hess permitted himself a wry smile. "Perhaps that fact was taken into
account, Hauptmann. Some people might even be counting on it."
"Oh ... my God."
"It's too late to worry about that now. We don't have the fuel to make
it back to Germany even if we wanted to!"
"What?" the pilot exclaimed. ",But the drop tanks-"
"Are empty!"
Hess finished. "Or soon will be!"
The pilot felt his stomach turn a somersault. But before he could
puzzle out his passenger's meaning, he spied land below.
"Herr Reichminister! The island! I see it!"
From sixty-five hundred feet Holy Island was a tiny speck, only
distinguishable by the small, bright ribbon separating it from the
mainland. "And ... a flare. I see a flare!"
"Green or red?" Hess asked, his face taut.
"Red!"
"The canopy, Hauptmann! Move!"
Together the two men struggled to slide back the heavy glass.
Parachuting from a Messerschmitt was not common practice-strictly an
emergency measure-and quite a few aviators had died attempting it.
"Push!" the pilot yelled.
With all their strength the two men heaved their bodies against the
transparent lid of the cockpit. Their straining muscles quivered in
agony until all at once the frame gave way and locked in the open
position. The noise in the cockpit was deafening now, the engines
roaring, the wind a screaming, living thing that struggled to pluck the
men from their tiny tube of steel. Above it all, the pilot shouted,
"We're over the gap now, Herr Reichminister! Go! Go!"
Suddenly Hess looked into his lap. Empty. He had forgotten to ditch
his papers! No sign of them in the cockpit; they must have been sucked
out the moment the canopy opened.
He prayed they had found their way down to the sea, and not to the
island below.
"Jump, Herr Reichminister!"
Hess struggled into a crouch and faced the lethal tail fins
of the Zersts'rer. The time for niceties had passed. He reached behind
him and jerked the pilot's head back.
"Hauptmann!" he shouted. "Heydrich only ordered those drop tanks
fitted to make sure you came this far! They are empty! No matter what
happens, you cannot turn back! You have no choice but to follow orders!
If I succeed, your actions really won't matter! But if I fail, you
cannot! You know the price of failure-Sippenhaft! Never forget that!
Sippenhaft binds us both! Now climb! Give me some draft!"
The Messerschmitt's nose pitched up, momentarily creating a small space