Thirty minutes after takeoff, the Junkers reached its cruising altitude for the remainder of the short flight. Ritter trimmed the plane for level flight by reducing the manifold pressure of each engine and applying more pitch to the propellers for a faster cruise under lowered rpms. He leaned the mixture on each engine, checking the fuel flowmeters, looking for reduced flow without reduced rpms.
After setting the elevator, aileron, and rudder trim for level flight, Ritter settled back into the pilot's seat, opened his thermos of coffee, and prepared for a boring flight.
He'd just crossed over into Spain when a rattling noise woke him from his daydream. There it was again. He grabbed the control wheel and rotated it. A loud snapping noise caused fear to pound in his heart, and the control wheel went limp in his hand. Someone had cut the cables to elevator and ailerons—they'd most likely seared them enough to allow for takeoff before they failed.
He immediately thought of Monica. Had she told Göring of his knowledge of the satchel's contents? If so, why? She was the one who had urged him to look.
Or perhaps Göring still didn't know. It had never made sense why the American had pushed herself into Göring’s inner circle. Perhaps she was using Göring as well.
She had got the information she needed . . . and to her Ritter was just extra baggage.
Does she think she can get rid of me this easily?
Ritter knew the rules of flight—fly high enough to pick out a good landing area if necessary, know where you are at all times, and know his airplane and how to cope with in-flight problems. Loosing the elevator and ailerons was a rather high-priority problem, but nothing he couldn't handle.
He tightened the straps on his seat chute, checked all the buckles and straps, and made sure the rip-cord handle would release from its pocket.
The plane had been trimmed for level flight before the emergency. He had plenty of altitude, and if the plane continued on for just a few more minutes he would be out of the mountains and over the Spanish fields of grain, which would certainly be a better landing strip than rocks, hills, and the huge trees he was leaving behind.
As the Junker lumbered away from the hills, Ritter knew his first priority was to make a thirty- to forty-degree course correction to starboard, thus avoiding the rising hills in his current direction. The fields of golden grain were just a bit off his current path.
Good old Junta Ju had engines on both wings and one in the nose, making the turn possible—even with the damage. This type of plane climbed and descended not by the elevator, but by engine power or lack of engine power. It was possible to get Junta Ju back on the ground in one piece in a rather hard, but survivable, landing.
About five miles in the distance, right off the nose, he spotted a wide farm road intersecting two wheat fields. The road was about five to seven meters wide.
Ritter prepared the plane for an attitude landing—nose high—controlled with the right amount of flap, engine power, and trim settings of the elevator. With gentle nudging of the two wing-mounted engine throttles, he lined up the plane with the road. He slowly reduced the power of the main fuselage engine and started rolling in an elevator-up trim.
Mother Nature was on Ritter's side for once, supplying a steady ten-knot wind right onto the nose, thus slowing the landing speed by ten knots. Ritter scanned the area again, hoping the farmer owning the field had slept in this morning. The last thing he wanted was to tangle with a huge wheat reaper being towed down the road by a team of oxen. Even Junta Ju was no match for a multiton oxen team.
Ritter prepared for the final approach. He held the big plane just above the road and slowly reduced the power. The plane settled and bounced once. With no elevator to hold the nose up, it bounced again and settled into a jittery roll down the dirt farm road.
Ritter kept the plane on the road by using his still-working rudder and brake controls. A minute later, the Junker came to a halt, right on the road. The road was slightly uphill. Just on the other side of the road was a wide, dry creek filled with rocks that Ritter had seen as he was setting up the approach.
Only when Ritter had landed, and his stomach had settled, did he consider what to do next. It took less then thirty seconds for him to decide the plan of action.
If she wants me dead, let her think she has won.
He threw his traveling bag with clean uniforms and other necessities out the window. He made sure the address Göring had first given him was in his pocket. If word got back that he was dead, then Göring—or Monica—would never expect Ritter to arrive, which Ritter was glad about. Now he answered only to himself.
He left his parachute on the seat and opened the pilot's exit door. He then reached over, pushed all three throttles to the wall, and dove out the open door. Juanta Ju came to life, climbing the mild hill faster and faster. When it reached the top of the hill, the plane had nearly reached flying speed. With full throttle and full-up elevator trim, it staggered into the air as the hill fell away from beneath it.
Ritter knew it was going to be a very short last flight, but the more horrific the crash, the longer the investigators would take to realize she was a ghost ship bound for no place, with no one on board except the devil. If they even investigated. With all that happened in Spain, he questioned if they even would.
The plane gained fifty meters when one of the wings started to dip. With no pilot aboard to correct it, the bank became almost vertical. As if doing a dying dance, the plane pivoted and then plummeted nose first into the rocky creek bed. It hit with an agonizing death yell, and then the almost-full fuel tanks of high-octane aviation fuel blew, causing an explosion and fireball that rose into the sky like a beacon. Those in the Spanish countryside would assume another enemy plane had been shot down.
Ritter bent down, threw open his bag, removed his uniform, and changed into civilian clothes. He'd survived on the ground in Spain before—he’d do it again.
Ritter was dead. Ritter was alive. It was time to bail out of his life in the Luftwaffe and head for more friendly skies. But first, he had to find a way to beg, borrow, or steal a lot of money to start his new life.
He tossed his bag over his shoulder, stuck a sweet wheat straw in his mouth, and headed south.
Even though the ground was hard, and a rock or stick poked at her side through the blanket, Ramona relished being in her husband's arms. José's arm was under her, and she snuggled with her cheek to his chest. She could tell by his breathing that he was still awake. Could tell by the softness of his breaths that he, too, lay there thinking.
"Are you worried about them? Wondering if they'll make it all the way?"
"Sí," José whispered. "And what kind of reception they'll receive in Paris. Adolfo abandoned the horses and their caregivers. How will he feel to have them show up on his doorstep?"
"Not to mention the girl."
"Petra, yes." José hesitated as he said the name.
"So . . . how did she come to be with you?"
"She arrived on the front steps looking for Edelberto. She had met him in Madrid two years before. She survived the bombing in Guernica. All her family was lost. After that she didn't have anywhere to go."
"She wasn't from Guernica. I've lived there my whole life and worked in every school and hospital. I never saw her. In fact, I don't think she was a poor girl, as she tried to make us believe."
"I know. If she knew Edelberto, it makes sense she wouldn't be."
"Perhaps her parents were Fascists."
"Perhaps. Or maybe some of the wealthy from farther south. Many were rounded up and killed."
"She lied to you."
"She was lost and scared," José shot back.
"You cared for her greatly." Ramona bit her lip, surprising herself. She thought she was over that—thought she'd dealt with it. Obviously not.
"I loved her like a sister, or a daughter."
"Nothing more?"
"I have to admit. There was a special feeling there. She followed without question. She looked up to me. She trusted me."
Ramona felt the pain in her chest. The younger woman had behaved more like a wife than she had. Why had she been so foolish? Ramona felt tears coming to her eyes, and her throat constricted.
"Ramona?"
"Mmm-hm." She dared not speak for fear a sob would escape with her words.
"It is you, only you, I wish to hold in my arms. Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever."
She nodded her head, but still the accusations would not leave her mind. Why didn't you believe him? Trust him? You better than anyone should know his heart.
"Darling. The time we were apart was hard on me. But everything turned out. God worked it for our good." José's breathing slowed, and she knew he was drifting toward sleep.
A peace settled over her.
"There is a reason we are still here," José mumbled. "I trust if we are meant to leave, we will. Until then, there is a war to fight."
She sighed. "I'm not very good at fighting."
"No, but you are good at mending. And that's what they will need." José's voice grew softer as sleep threatened to overtake him.
Ramona didn't ask who "they" were. She knew many in Spain needed her help. Yet even if she had the knowledge, what good would she be with no facilities or supplies?
"Lord, I commit myself and my husband into Your hands," she whispered as she drifted off. "May we be used as vessels . . . of Your peace. To bring hope to the hopeless and healing for the injured."