XVI
[ONE]
Luftwaffe Flughafen No. 103B
Augsburg, Germany
1755 16 May 1943
When Peter von Wachtstein returned Claus von Stauffenberg to the hospital, it was half past four. At that time, he had thought the trip to Augsburg would take him less than an hour; Augsburg was only eighty kilometers or so from Munich.
He had not counted on having to pass through three road checkpoints. They were apparently intended to keep rationed foodstuffs from being moved illegally. He had no difficulty passing through them—no rural Bavarian policeman was about to subject a Horch driven by a Luftwaffe major to an intense search for a couple of chickens or three kilos of sausage—but at each one, he had to wait his turn in line until he reached the inspection point.
When he finally reached the gate to the Augsburg airfield, a Luftwaffe enlisted man, who was wearing a too-large uniform and looked as if he should be in high school, waved him to a stop. “Your identification please, Herr Major.”
Peter produced it.
“Herr Gefrieter,” the young man called, and a Luftwaffe corporal, who looked old enough to be the kid’s grandfather, stuck his head out of the guard shack. “We have Major von Wachtstein, Herr Gefrieter,” the kid said.
The ancient corporal came out of the guard shack slinging his Mauser rifle over his shoulder. He gave the Nazi salute. “Guten Abend, Herr Major,” he said with a smile. “With the Herr Major’s permission, I will stand on the running board and direct the Herr Major to Hangar IV-A.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
Hangar IV-A was across the field from the main section of the airfield. They had to drive slowly around the end of the north-south runway to reach it; Peter was afraid the old corporal might fall off the running board. When they got close to the hangar, Peter saw that it was of heavy concrete construction and built for some depth into the ground.
You can’t just push aircraft in and out of that hangar, he thought. At least not easily. I wonder if anyone ever thought of that when they designed this thing.
He tried to get a better look, but the hangar’s windowless steel doors were closed.
The corporal showed him where to park the car.
“How will you get back to the gate, Gefrieter?” Peter asked. “Or are you going to wait for me?”
“I will walk, Herr Major,” the old man said, as if the question surprised him. “There is the entrance, Herr Major. They expect you.”
“Let me see if I can get you a ride,” Peter said.
The corporal looked as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Wait here,” Peter said.
“Jawohl, Herr Major.”
Peter pushed open the door to the hangar.
Inside, behind a desk, was an Oberfeldwebel (staff sergeant), a lithe man in his mid-twenties. On the desk lay a Schmeisser submachine gun. He rose to his feet when he saw Peter.
“Major von Wachtstein?”
“Right. Sergeant, I don’t want the corporal who brought me here to die of old age or exhaustion hiking back to the gate. Can you get him a ride?”
“Yes, Sir,” the sergeant said with a smile.
“Thank you,” Peter said. “I guess you expected me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well? What’s this all about? Who am I supposed to see?”