against her legs. Feeling a sense of helpless frustration, he checked his carbine, realized that the magazine was half-empty from shooting at the door, put in a fresh magazine, and walked around the burning house to see if the fire threatened to expand. The thatch roof of the long house seemed to be an open invitation to the sparks, but so far it hadn’t caught. Coming back around, he stopped at the pile of papers and books. The housekeeper had not returned, nor had she sent any friends.
He sat down and began to go through them, practicing his German reading skills.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The airfield was a mess. The skeletons of burned airplanes stood as stark reminders of who ruled the sky. Bomb craters littered the runway and surrounding area, leaving shattered trees poking splintered fingers upwards. The hangars, machine shops, supply sheds, and barracks were all wrecked by concussion and fire. Not a single building spared.
At one end of the airfield, among a cluster of tall pines was a single remaining airplane. Thousands of the venerable Junkers Ju-52s had served the Third Reich well, but few of the airplanes were left anywhere. This three-motored airplane still remained because of the camouflage netting stretched from tree to tree, including having a few trees poke up through the center. Krohn was even more impressed when he drove closer and got a better look. The fuselage of the airplane was tucked so tightly between two birch trees that he wondered how they had avoided damaging the tail.
The three men of the aircrew sat on kitchen chairs, probably scavenged from the ruined buildings, drinking out of metal cups. Krohn pulled the car deep into the woods and got out. He felt a twinge of regret as his men unloaded the trunk of the car. The BMW had served him well and he was attached to it. He closed his eyes for a moment. How could he pine over a car to be left behind when he had burned his home, with all his books? Even his journals. He had been so rushed that he had failed to finish filling his valise. That hurt on a deep level, as if he had lost a part of himself.
“Standartenführer, I am Lieutenant Holst,” the pilot said as Krohn walked over. “We await your orders.”
“We will fly out tonight, Lieutenant.” Krohn pulled a folded map from his pocket. “You have a full load of fuel?”
“Almost full, sir. Not another drop left at this field.”
Krohn handed over the map. “We are flying to an airfield in Denmark. There will be more fuel there waiting for us. Can we make it?”
The pilot opened the map, twisted his lips in concentration. “I need to make a few calculations.”
“Very good.”
The twins carried the small amount of baggage to the airplane before returning to share coffee with the aircrew. Krohn heard them talking about the girl, who had sat down beneath a tree. The twins explained that she was their prisoner, nothing more, which pleased Krohn. The sacrifices were kept secret because not everyone, even good German airmen, were ready to understand where the real root of the Third Reich lay.
The pilot returned, offering him a cup of the coffee. Krohn sipped at it. Cheap coffee made of some root. Ever since the Allied blockade began six years ago, preventing merchant ships from coming in, the only real coffee had come from carefully preserved personal hordes.
“We can make it, sir,” the pilot said. “Having only four passengers will help a lot, but it will be tight. We have to fly at night and low to the ground, which takes more fuel.”
“Flying high is too dangerous?”
“The Americans and British completely dominate our skies. Radar will detect us and their night fighters will get us. Flying high or low is dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous nowadays,” Krohn said. “Do you have a recent report of how close the Americans are? How soon before this airfield is overrun?”
The pilot shrugged. “Last report from this morning was that they were fifteen kilometers away. We just have prayer and hope.”
“Prayer to any of the gods could be useful,” Krohn said. “How long before it’s dark and we can leave?”
“Three hours, sir.”
More chairs were found and Krohn sat apart from the other five men. He watched the girl. She was not like the other virgins, sobbing to the point that they became hysterical, thrashing about, screaming, tears flying from their faces. This girl was like a caged animal, always alert, missing nothing with those green eyes. He had no doubt that she would bolt if given the least chance. She intrigued him as no woman had for some years. She stared back at him; neither showed weakness or submission by flinching or looking away.
“Standartenführer,” Fritz called. “Men are coming.”
Krohn stood and joined the others. He counted the large group of men approaching across the airfield. Sixteen. They all wore officer uniforms, mostly the black of the SS, a few with the blue of the Luftwaffe, and one with the grey of the army. He noticed the red stripes on the trousers of the army officer, indicating that he was a general staff officer.
“Fritz, Karl, follow my lead and be prepared,” Krohn said in a low voice.
The man leading the group of officers stopped before them and the other officers clustered behind, like goslings in a gaggle of geese.
“What is your name, Standartenführer?”
Krohn looked at the man’s collar tabs. The twin leaves of an SS Oberführer, a brigadier general, outranked a simple colonel. He saluted with outstretched arm. “Standartenführer Hans Krohn, Oberführer.”
“This airplane belongs to you?”
“I have been assigned this airplane, yes.”
“I require it for myself and my staff.”
“To go where, Standartenführer?”
“We are flying to Geneva, where arrangements have been made with a monsignor in the Vatican to smuggle us to South America. You may come with us, if you wish, though I don’t believe that there will be room for your men. Maybe we can make room for your mistress.”
“Mistress?” Krohn turned to look at the virgin. She looked back straight at him, unblinking, expressionless. He knew that she understood German and was puzzled by her reaction. No fear there. He looked back to the general. “Yes, she is with me, but she is not my mistress.”
The general shrugged. “Regardless. You will hand over the airplane.”
“I have orders from Himmler himself authorizing this airplane for my own mission,” Krohn said.
“What is that mission?”
“That remains secret, Oberführer. I am sorry, but you will have to find some other means to run away.”
The general flushed. “That is insubordinate, Standartenführer. You will hand over the plane now.”
“Fritz, Karl, cover them.”
The twins obeyed, moving to each side of their own officer to have clear fields of fire, their assault rifles leveled. Krohn saw some of the officers reaching for their holsters.
“Do not move!” Krohn shouted. “Those Sturmgewehr each have thirty rounds in a magazine. Your Lugers won’t help you.”
“How dare you aim your weapons at officers of the Third Reich!” the general screamed. “You will immediately put down your weapons.”
Krohn pulled his own pistol from his holster and shot the general in the face. He fell back with arms and legs splayed. The other officers looked down at him with dumb expressions.
“You are not worthy to be an Aryan,” SS Colonel Hans von Krohn spat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“We’ve been finding these death camps the farther we push into Germany. We found another at Buchenwald and the Brits and Canadians found one at Bergen-Belsen. The Soviets have found even more. It