ONE

Augsburg, Germany – March 27, 1941

There was little activity this early afternoon at the usually busy airfield opposite the Messerschmitt factory. Most of the aircraft were confined to the ground. Only one, a single-engine fighter, remained in the air. It was circling on final approach by the time Rudolf Hess climbed aboard his powerful twin-engine Messerschmitt BF-110.

The Deputy Fuehrer of Nazi Germany placed his briefcase on the deck inside the tight-fitting cockpit and slid into the seat, waving the mechanics below to the side. Hess quickly started the engines one at a time and brought them to full operating temperature. He cracked the throttles twice.

Then, in his cumbersome and confining flying gear, he emerged from the vibrating cockpit. Stepping onto the wing, he energetically leapt to the ground. One last word to his young adjutant and Hess would be off.

He walked across to his adjutant, who was standing next to a staff car, its engine idling. Captain Karlheinz Pintsch caught a new determination about his superior as Hess handed him a sealed white envelope. Hess leaned into Pintsch's face, trying to keep his voice low yet speak above the clamor of the idling engines. The ground shuddered beneath them. There was a look of suppressed excitement and mystery in Hess's face that Pintsch couldn't help noticing.

"If I do not return within four hours, Pintsch," Hess said to his adjutant, his breath steaming in the cool air, "take for granted that I am on my way and open the envelope."

"On your way, Herr Reichsfuehrer? Where?"

"When you open the envelope, you will understand."

Hess indicated to Pintsch that they synchronize watches. Pintsch fumbled with his watch and the envelope. "Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer, of course. I will do as you say."

They saluted each other perfunctorily. Hess was obviously eager to begin the flight. Pintsch watched as Hess proudly strode across the tarmac and returned to the cockpit, where he reached up to shut the canopy. The ground crew pulled the chocks away and jogged to the grass clearing. Hess revved the fighter, then swung its ten thousand pound bulk ninety degrees to face the dispersal track. Expertly steering the aircraft to the edge of the far runway, he waited anxiously for tower clearance.

With the airplane in view across the weeded field, Pintsch heard the smooth roar. Suddenly, the camouflaged Messerschmitt was off, speeding down the runway. In a few seconds the aircraft lifted and climbed into the pale-blue sky like a gigantic metal bird.

Pintsch slowly approached the door of the staff car. He glanced at Hess's chauffeur, who looked at him inquiringly. Pintsch motioned that he didn't need him, and he drove away. Pintsch stood there in the open field, wondering where Hess was going. Another mysterious trip, accompanied by secret coded messages to Stockholm. And the letter? There wasn't a letter before. Was it another test of his loyalty to the Deputy Fuehrer? Why not just open it? But Pintsch knew he couldn't do that because what if Hess returned before the four hours was up? The consequences were much too great. He had been Hess's adjutant for only a year, before that on active service in France with the Army. To cross Hitler's right-hand man on such a sensitive matter could spell death for Pintsch at worse, another battlefront as punishment at best. Opening the letter early was out of the question.

The Messerschmitt fighter disappeared over the horizon. Pintsch turned to the operations building several hundred feet across the airfield. Hess, the man he so admired and so envied, again dominated his thoughts. Hess was loved by the people of the Fatherland and respected by most of his peers. What was Pintsch? Just an underling, someone to perform a duty for which Hess would gain the glory. Pintsch wanted to be someone special too, not the ordinary person he felt he was. He was not necessarily good looking at his age of twenty-nine, but he wasn't exactly ugly either. He was of average looks, medium height, and he did ordinary work for Hess that some over-zealous underling could easily do. He did the little things, although sometimes of great secrecy. He appreciated Hess's trust in him. But he was bored. He wanted to be a flier, and wear the dashing leather garb depicting that esteemed vocation. He had expressed such desires to fly on occasion, but hesitantly, only to be immediately quashed with a definite "No!" Pintsch couldn't budge Hess from his decision. It seemed that one star in the show was enough. Perhaps Pintsch was meant always to be an understudy.

Even if his wish had been granted, Pintsch knew he would have to go a long way to match Hess's flying skill. The Reichsfuehrer excelled in flying by instruments and in the skill of following radio directional beams. He had been a test pilot for Willy Messerschmitt. In 1934 he won the Zugspitze, the annual race around Germany's highest mountain, as well as a round-the-houses race in Italy. Hess had even taken lessons from Hans Bauer, Hitler's personal pilot, in the art of dead reckoning, an aspect of navigation which for some strange reason was significantly important to Hess.

Pintsch returned to the tarmac at six o'clock. By then a bitter cold wind was sweeping across the airfield. The dampness sliced through his greatcoat. Pintsch shivered. The sun would set soon and he hadn't left the compound the entire time. He had wolfed down something to eat at the mess, but spent most of the time walking and observing life on the base, studying the solid lines of aircraft, longing to fly. There was no sign of the Reichsfuehrer. No sign of his ground staff either. Did they not expect him to return here? Another airfield, perhaps. Pintsch felt the envelope, secure in his coat pocket. Half an hour more. Thirty minutes until the satisfaction of his nagging curiosity.

Then a familiar sound broke through his thoughts. At first it was far off, so distant that he held his breath to hear more clearly. Yes, unmistakable. The drone of an engine. No, engines. Two. Aircraft engines. Was it the Messerschmitt? The drone grew louder. Yes, a Messerschmitt. He recognized, without a doubt, the familiar hum of an ME-110 in flight. Now the airfield suddenly exploded into action. A truck squealed to a stop near Pintsch and Hess's ground crew scrambled out. The chauffeur pulled up. Then the distinct shape of the ME-110 appeared over the trees, a dark outline silhouetted against the fading light. It grew closer in sight and sound until the roar of the engines filled the air, reverberating loudly off the hangars. The airplane made a low pass over the base, then banked, and lined up on final approach. Pintsch confirmed the fuselage markings of NJ-C11 as the fighter landed and thundered its way to the ground crew. The habitual wave of the hand from the cockpit told Pintsch that the Reichsfuehrer had returned.

Hess shut the engines down and conversed with one of the men who jumped on the wing. Hess eased himself from the snug cockpit, and clambered to the ground. Together they took to the port side of the fighter. The chauffeur opened the front passenger door of the staff car and waited as Hess finished his lengthy instructions to the crew. As Hess drew near, Pintsch walked towards the fighter, his hand on the letter inside his coat, stopping so that he was between the staff car and the aircraft.

Hess met him and took the letter from Pintsch's outstretched hand. "Thank you. Send the message to Lion. Mission aborted. Don't give any reason."

"Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. As soon as I reach the administration compound."

Hess stuck the envelope inside his briefcase. He took one glance at the fighter, then he whipped off his helmet and rubbed his hand through his matted hair. With a sense of defeat, he strode towards the staff car and ordered his chauffeur to drive him home.

Copyright © 2003, Daniel Wyatt.