The Swiss Courier: A Novel (35 page)

Don’t float
, he told himself as the field rose up beneath them. He deliberately touched the main wheels down close to the beginning of the lighted strip and raised the flaps to “load up” the airplane and significantly reduce the landing rollout. As the tail wheel settled, the heavy transport plane lumbered, bounced, and lurched along the field midway between the line of flare pots. The brakes squealed and hissed from compressed air.

Safely on the ground, in control, Bill taxied toward the bonfire, where a half-dozen men and one woman waved their hats in appreciation.

“Listen, we have to make this as fast as possible.” Bill tromped on the foot brakes and brought the aircraft to a full stop, then released the right brake and goosed the right engine’s throttle to swing the Junkers 180 degrees into position for an immediate getaway. “Hurry. I’ll keep the engines running. You grab Engel, then off we go.”

Gabi unbuckled her harness and seat belt. “This should only take a minute.”

“I’ll be counting the seconds.”

Gabi rushed past the seven rows of leather seats and swung open the passenger door. To save precious seconds, she left the four-rung ladder stowed and jumped to the ground, then raced toward the bonfire.

A half-dozen men scurried in her direction.

Gabi paused before them, catching her breath. “Which one is Joseph?” she gasped.

A skinny man with knots of gray hair approached her out of the darkness. “Fräulein, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Pastor Leo Keller, and this is Joseph Engel.”

A gangly young man extended his right hand. “Joseph Engel. I can’t tell you what a—”

“My pleasure too, but listen, we’ll talk once we’re in the air. We have to get over the Swiss border before dawn. One quick goodbye.”

Joseph set down his satchel and wrapped both arms around Pastor Leo in a bear hug, then quickly embraced Adalbert and his wife, Trudi.

Gabi grabbed Joseph’s arm. “Come on . . . we don’t have a minute to spare—”

Out of the corner of her eye, she detected movement in the cornfields beyond the flare line. “We better make a run for it—now!”

Joseph threw his satchel over his shoulder, and he and Gabi set off for the Junkers, less than one hundred meters away.

“Run!” cried another voice.

Gabi glanced back and gasped as she watched a German soldier ramming a rifle butt between Pastor Leo’s shoulder blades. He screamed in pain and crumbled to the ground. The other men held their arms high as the Gestapo detail surrounded them with raised rifles.

Joseph paused.

“Run as fast as you can, and don’t look back!” Gabi shoved him hard. They
had
to get on that plane . . .

The pair set off as if they were jumping out of the sprinters’ blocks at the Olympic Games. Joseph reached the Junkers first, slung in his satchel, and hauled himself inside.

Gabi pumped her arms for the final dash to the finish line. She had just another twenty meters to go when arms wrapped around her waist, and her body slammed to the dirt. Gabi’s chin knocked the ground, causing her head to snap back. Pain shot through her chest. She struggled to rise. Struggled to breathe.

“Get up!” ordered a German voice.

Gasping for air, Gabi brought herself to her knees. She turned and attempted to focus on the man before her. Narrow eyes spoke of unrequited anger. A scrunched mouth that revealed gritted teeth. And then she saw it . . . the black trench coat—
Gestapo
!

The Gestapo chief grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. Gabi shrieked as he tightened his grasp. “To the plane!” He seized her left wrist, lifting and twisting until she complied.

Joseph stood in the open doorway, transfixed like a stone monument. The Junkers’ engines suddenly increased pitch, and the plane settled against the brakes.

Gabi kicked the German’s shins, diverting his attention momentarily. “Go, Joseph! Go without me!”

“Halt!” The voice sounded in her ear. Then she felt the cold metal of the pistol against her head. “Make one move,” the Gestapo chief called to Joseph, “and she’s dead.”

Then, just as quickly as she was captured, Gabi felt herself free. She turned to see the Gestapo chief crashing to the ground. Another taller German officer lifted his fist, then cracked it flush against the right temple of his trench-coated leader. If Gabi hadn’t seen it for herself, she would have never believed it.

“Run, Fräulein!” yelled the younger Gestapo officer as he pinned his superior to the ground. The Gestapo in the black trench coat, after a moment of disorientation, shook off the blow and landed his own right fist. The older one pawed for his pistol somewhere in the dirt.

Gabi scampered for the Junkers as the two Gestapo officers rolled in the grass. Joseph braced himself in the door, waving his arms at her in encouragement. She dove for the doorway, landing on the edge, half inside, half dangling outside. Joseph grabbed her jacket and left arm and dragged her inside.

“Close the door!” Gabi shouted.

Joseph swiveled the door shut, but failed to latch it.

“Here, let me—” Gabi scrambled to her feet and reached around Joseph for the handle. She shoved the door open about a foot, slammed it shut, and swung the handle to
ZU
with a resounding click. Instantly, the Junkers surged ahead, throwing her and Joseph to the floor.

She lay there, drawing in breath after breath as the transport plane lurched along the bumpy field toward the ebony sky.

Bill pushed the three engines to maximum throttle. If he had his druthers—or more time—he would’ve taxied to the other end of the field and swung the plane around for a southeasterly takeoff into the wind. Instead, he was forced to take off
with
a northwesterly tailwind, meaning the Ju-52 would need a longer runway and fifteen to twenty more kph to reach takeoff speed.

With a deafening roar, the groundspeed rose rapidly. He reached over to wind the flaps, which he had set at 1/4, down even further. As the Junkers thundered through the bumpy alfalfa field, the improvised flare path came to an end—and the field made a dogleg right! A hard right rudder slewed the Ju-52 to the right—just missing a chestnut tree and causing the left wheel to lift off the ground. They teetered several seconds, but Bill didn’t reduce his takeoff speed. He couldn’t if they wanted any chance of getting out of Germany.

Trees ahead! Bill quickly glanced at his groundspeed gauge, which had inched past ninety kph . . . too slow, but it was now or never . . .

He willed her off the ground, hoping the extra flap would help. The Junkers floated for a second, then settled hard, bouncing higher—airborne for about three seconds—then hit once more.

C’mon, c’mon
.

Finally, the trimotor plane left the
terra firma
, climbing to one hundred meters—just enough to clear the oak trees lining the perimeter of the Ulrich farmstead. As he teased her up, Bill rowed through the treetops while turning to a heading of 200°, which he calculated would track them south directly toward the Dübendorf airfield.

A flushed Gabi, breathing hard, stepped inside the cockpit. “Nice work,” she gasped.

“And nice work yourself,” Bill replied, noticing Joseph standing just beyond Gabi. “Was I seeing things, or did one Gestapo officer fight off another so you could escape?”

“I’m not sure what happened out there. I’m still shaking.”

She turned toward their new passenger. “Excuse me, do you speak English, Herr Engel?” she queried in High German.

“Not learn,” he replied in English.

“Never mind,” she continued in German. “I would like to introduce you to our pilot, Captain Bill Palmer with the United States of America Army Air Corps.”

The German made a step closer in the cramped cockpit, and Bill momentarily diverted his eyes from the instrument panel and shook the proffered hand. “Excuse me for being abrupt, but I want the two of you to be on the lookout for German fighters. I’m sure we set off a three-alarm fire back there.”

Gabi translated for Joseph’s benefit.

“But our biggest concern is this—” Bill tapped his right index finger on the fuel gauge, where the needle vibrated next to the numeral 3, signifying around 300 liters of fuel. “We’re just under a quarter of a tank since I burned extra gas while we were on the ground. The longer takeoff siphoned off more fuel too.”

Gabi sat down in the copilot’s seat. “Do we have enough petrol to make it back to Switzerland?”

Bill shrugged. “You seem to be a religious person. I’d start praying. A lot.”

As the Junkers Ju-52 slipped southward in the moonlit sky, Kassler’s rage overwhelmed him. He turned the Luger around in his hand and took a step toward Becker, who was on his knees with his hands upraised.

“It was you! You were the treasonous vermin!” Kassler raised his pistol and struck Becker in the head once, then twice as he pistol-whipped the young corporal.

“I should shoot you now, but the Interrogation Room would be more appropriate—to make you suffer.” Kassler took a deep breath as he fought for control. “Wait. I have a better idea. I will personally deliver you to the Reichsführer’s office. I hear that Himmler has perfected the art of skin-peeling after finding the right technique with the Auschwitz prisoners. Get up and march!”

Kassler, with gun drawn, walked behind Becker toward the dying embers of the bonfire. Five underground members stood with their hands on their heads under the guard of the Gestapo contingent. As the men locked eyes with Becker, Kassler realized this personal aide had been in cahoots with these farmers all along. He would not wait for Himmler—nor could he wait.

“Halt!” Kassler walked around Becker, who froze in his step. “Everybody—kneel on the ground! Right here!”

With hands raised, Pastor Leo and the others approached Becker, and the six fell to their knees.

“How did you all work together?” Kassler demanded.

No one said a word.

“Were you responsible for intercepting Engel?”

Again, Kassler was greeted with silence.

“What’s the matter, Becker? You lost your tongue?”

The corporal cleared his throat, and once more his Adam’s apple bobbled. “Once I talk, you’ll shoot me. I saw you do this a hundred—”

Kassler’s nostrils flared in anger. “Do not address me in that manner!” He approached the kneeling Becker until he stood two meters away and pointed his Luger directly into the corporal’s face. “My instincts tell me that I should kick your scrawny butt all the way to Heidelberg and wring every last bit of information out of you before putting you on a train to Berlin, but I don’t care. You betrayed me, and the sentence I impose upon you is death. The rest of you”—the Gestapo chief waved his gun at Pastor Leo, his brother, sister-in-law and the others—“are next.”

Kassler squared his shoulders and steadied his pistol to eye level.
“Auf Wiedersehen
, Corporal Becker.
Eins
—” Kassler’s hand remained rock still.

The clicking sound of a half-dozen bolt-action rifles diverted Kassler’s attention momentarily. His mouth opened in surprise as he turned and saw the guns of the other Gestapo soldiers turned on him. And as he glanced at their faces, he knew they were not Gestapo at all . . .

Then several volleys shattered the tension.

Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler, his skull and upper torso fractured by copper-jacketed projectiles, fell backward into the field, arms akimbo. A gusher of blood ran down his face, and starburst-like entrance wounds filled his black trench coat.

Becker hustled over, beating his friends from the underground church—the ones he recruited that evening to be part of his Gestapo detail—to see what happened. “He’s dead— look at the eyes.”

Pastor Leo worked his way past the scrum and reached for Kassler’s left wrist. He pressed on the radial artery for thirty seconds before letting the limp arm fall to the ground.

“Brother Benjamin is right. It’s Judgment Day for this monster.”

Remember, the plane doesn’t know it’s dark outside
.

Bill Palmer spun the pilot’s proverb around in his mind like the ever-spinning propellers as he concentrated on piloting the Junkers Ju-52 through the black void beyond the Plexiglas windscreen. He stifled a yawn, knowing he would need all his faculties to return them safely to the ground—wherever that happened to be.

What kept him alert was the amount of fuel—or lack thereof—remaining in the plane’s wing tanks. Fuel gauges were notoriously unreliable, but that thought did little to assuage Bill’s concern with the fuel needle’s steady march toward 0—or 0 x 100 liters. Time to make contingency plans.

“What did Mr. Dulles say about the radio?” Bill asked.

Gabi glanced over at the bulky radio box that she had set down next to the center console. “He said that it has a special frequency to reach him directly. The closer we are to Switzerland, the more likely we can establish radio contact. I couldn’t drum them up ten minutes ago. How much longer do we have?”

“A good hour to touchdown in Dübendorf. We should see the Rhine in forty-five minutes if the prevailing winds hold.” Bill looked over his right shoulder at Joseph Engel, who stood in the cockpit doorway with a pensive look on his face. Bill knew their German passenger would really have something to worry about if he realized they had no more than forty- five minutes of fuel, according to his reckoning. No way they would be landing the Iron Annie in Dübendorf today. Bill was shooting for any Swiss farm field south of the Rhine.

They told him in flight school that flying was the second greatest thrill known to mankind—and a safe landing was the first. Despite the chill in the cockpit, Bill felt damp patches forming under his armpits as he scanned the instrument panel one more time. The altimeter hovered around 1,500 meters—close to 5,000 feet off the deck. They needed the elevation since the Schwarzwald—the famous Black Forest— was coming up.