The Heinkel hit rough weather over the Baltic and Thorley spent most of the harrowing flight strapped into his seat, trying to hold back the contents of his stomach. As the plane pitched and yawed, buffeted by the high winds and lashed by icy rain, he tried his best not to think of the events in Russia.
But this was impossible.
The images and sounds came unbidden: the explosions of the artillery shells as they ripped up the camp, the decomposing bodies and the god-awful stench that clung to everything, permeating to the soul where it festered like a disease. The thoughts piled on top of one another, wave after wave, until his stomach let loose with a torrent that felt as if his entire insides were coming up through his throat. Gasping, for breath, he unsnapped his restraints and tried his best to vomit where it would be the least offensive, but this did little good. The entire cabin now reeked of bile.
Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of the Wehrmacht uniform he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, feeling his head throbbing with a dull ache that somehow made the feeling in his guts less noticeable. A trade-off. One pain for another. Too bad it didn’t expiate the deeper one.
What am I going to tell them?
What indeed? That a British regiment was massacred in a country where they should not have even been in the first place? These were the facts, but they still didn’t add up. Why had they been there? Were they there to help the Finns or the Russians? And did the Germans really kill them and plan this whole charade as a ruse?
Why were they there?
The more he asked himself that question, the more the question itself sounded like a string of nonsense syllables, like a Hindu mantra spoken over and over again to focus the mind inward toward enlightenment, the words themselves meaningless.
The door to the Heinkel’s cockpit banged opened and the Major stepped out. His face twisted into a grimace as he caught a whiff of vomit. He disappeared back inside and a minute later reemerged with a hip flask. Caught by a vicious downdraft, the plane dropped like a stone. The Major snarled and grabbed for one of the struts, as the pilot fought to pull up the Heinkel’s nose. The Jumo engines howled, and something heavy broke loose behind where Thorley sat and began banging against the bulkhead. Lightning flashed outside the plane, casting ominous shadows throughout the cabin, and the resultant thunder answered almost instantaneously. They were now in the heart of the storm and Thorley felt a knot of fear in his already beleaguered gut. The plane finally righted itself and began to climb, a moment of calm ensued, allowing the Major to reach him. Balancing himself against the bulkhead, the Major offered the flask.
Thorley shook his head, grimacing when the plane vibrated from a peal of thunder that sounded as if Thor’s hammer had torn open the heavens. “No...thanks,” he said, feeling his guts roiling.
“Take it,” the Major shouted over the noise, and thrust the flask into Thorley’s hands. “It’s tea and sugar. It will prevent dry heaves.”
Thorley felt a wave of nausea swimming up from his battered stomach and grabbed for the tin flask as a drowning man for a lifeline. He brought it to his mouth and began to swallow the syrupy brew.
“Easy,” the Major said, grabbing for the flask. “Take it slower.”
Nodding, Thorley took one more sip and returned the flask to the Major. “How much longer?”
“About two hours. The storm has the whole of the continent socked in, so we shouldn’t have any trouble from your people,” the Major said, alluding to the ubiquitous RAF.
“That’s assuming we make it through all this.”
The Major allowed himself a smile. “Johann and I have flown through far worse than this, and Johann is the best. I’d rather fly through a fucking gale than what we went through over Dover in 1940.” He paused, his jaw working as he mulled something over. It became obvious to Thorley that something was bothering the man other than a concern for his well-being. A moment later it became all-too-clear.
“What did you see down there?” the Major asked, his face a somber mask, the words almost inaudible.
Anger flared through Thorley until he remembered what these men had risked flying him in, and why. “I’m still trying to piece it all together myself.”
“They were your people, weren’t they?”
Thorley nodded, the words sticking in his throat.
The Major sighed. “I was afraid of that. It’s all fucking madness.” Rising to his feet he returned to the cockpit and Thorley spent the rest of the flight trying to keep down the tea and sugar.
Fate, or whatever it was that smiled down on them this day, decided to clear the weather ten minutes out from Lisbon and the landing went without a hitch. Grateful to get back into his own uniform, Thorley folded the German one carefully, placing it back onto the seat as he’d found it. The plane taxied to a stop and the pilot emerged from the cockpit and exited through the hatch, while the Major hung back.
“We were told on the radio that your plane is ready and waiting for you. It seems that a certain Senhor Velasquez has asked that you be informed that your original crew requested to be allowed to take you back. They are waiting with the plane.”
Thorley smiled, feeling better knowing that the oily little diplomat had kept his word. “I guess this is goodbye, then,” Thorley said, feeling awkward.
“We Germans prefer, auf wiedersehen.”
Thorley smiled and stuck out his hand. “Until we meet again....”
The Major took his hand and gripped it firmly. “It’s Hartmann, Klaus Hartmann. And it’s been an honor to fly with you, Herr Thorley.”
“Danke schön, Klaus. I feel the same.”
Thorley started for the hatch.
“Wait.”
Turning, he watched as Klaus unpinned a badge from his tunic and pressed it into his hands. It was a badge consisting of a silver-toned flying eagle clutching a swastika in its talons, overlaying a gilt wreath of oak and laurel leaves.
“It is our combined pilot and observer badge,” he explained. “I think you’ve earned it.”
Here was a man who’d put himself on the line for an abstraction, and would now be going back to what might mean certain death if his mission failed.
“I wish I had something to give you,” Thorley said pocketing the badge.
Klaus gave him a sober look. “You already have—hope.” Outside the plane, he found Velasquez’s Mercedes staff car waiting for him a few yards away from the Heinkel. Michael wasn’t the least bit surprised to find that Senhor Velasquez had delegated the chore of escorting him to a lower functionary. This one, a stocky man of indeterminate age and a propensity for wrinkled linen suits and garlic-flavored breath, was as taciturn as Velasquez was loquacious, for which Thorley was sincerely grateful.
A few minutes later, he was aboard the Vickers-Wellington, where he greeted Hildy and the others like long lost brothers.
“Good to see you, sir!” Hildy said, clasping his shoulders in a comradely embrace. “We’ll get you back right as rain. Göring’s given the goons the night off. The storm front has settled over the Continent, so it’ll be smooth flying all the way back to Blighty.”
They were airborne ten minutes later and headed north across the Bay of Biscay.
As tired as he was, and as disturbed as he was by what he’d seen, Thorley felt a sense of exhilaration knowing that he was going home.
He wanted nothing more than to be debriefed and to return to his wife and his safe, boring job as a translator. Let Sir Basil and the others debate the complexities of what he’d found. He was not involved; he was just the messenger.
It was dusk when they touched down in Chipping Ongar. After saying his farewells to Flight Lieutenant Mullins and the rest of the crew, he entered the blockhouse and changed back into his civilian clothes. He carefully placed his major’s uniform into a suitcase, which had been provided, and after one last look around, he left the building. Outside, as it had been in Lisbon, a car waited, the exhaust fumes like white clouds in the cool night air. Unlike Lisbon, however, Thorley found the rear of the car empty, save for a basket filled with a supper of cold chicken and a bottle of brown ale. In a way, he was relieved, for he was not relishing his appointment with MacIlvey and the others, did not want to relive those hellish moments yet again. Yet, he knew this meeting would be the last of it; that afterwards, he would be free to return to his old life.
That was the odd thing. He’d begun to think of his life prior to this mission as his “old life.” And what that meant exactly, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it meant nothing more than one more bit of growing up he’d needed to do. Then again, it might mean that going back to business as usual would be impossible. And that was what underlay his feelings of unease.
The whole of his existence had become...uncertain.
Pushing these thoughts to the back of his mind, Thorley opened the bottle of ale and took a long cool draught.
Alcohol was very likely the worst thing for him after what he’d gone through, but it felt good, and the light feeling of euphoria made him less nervous and more fatalistic about the immediate future. He pulled a leg off the chicken and gnawed on it slowly, savoring the mild flavors of sage and thyme. He didn’t realize how exhausted he was until he woke up outside 54 Broadway.
He sat up too fast, feeling the blood rushing out of his skull. “How long have we been here?” he asked the driver.
The man turned, eyeing him with profound disinterest. “Only just got here, Gov.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after eight.”
They would be up there now, waiting for him.
Stepping out of the Humber, he waited for the driver to pull away. He wondered if he should call Lillian first. He wanted to call her, needed to call her, yet duty dictated otherwise. His instructions were to return to Broadway immediately for debriefing. And he knew it would last most of the night. They would ask him to tell and retell every detail of the mission he could recall, over and over again, until they had every bloody moment of it noted down on reams of transcript.
One more night, and this will all be over.
He identified himself to the young lieutenant and was once again escorted up the stairs to the fourth floor. He found the door to the Director’s office open, the flickering light from the hearth warm and inviting.
Sir Basil was the first to see him. “Ah, Thorley, prompt as always. Do come in.”
Thorley managed a wan smile and stepped into the room. When he scanned the faces of the three men seated in front of him, he noted their outward calm. But their hard, glittering eyes betrayed their true intent. He knew then that the pleasantries were about to end.