by Ward Wagher
“Everything okay, Herr Baur?” the copilot asked.
“Yes. Just a little heartburn.”
The copilot chuckled. “Not surprising the way you were putting away that breakfast.”
“A man of my constitution needs all the fuel he can get.”
The copilot returned to his scan of the instruments. He then looked out the windows and carefully watched for any possible threats. He had been selected for this task for both his exceptional flying skills and his caution. Both men were very careful.
One half hour later, they began their descent to Tempelhof. Baur looked out at the four Focke-Wulf 190 fighters flying escort and frowned. He picked up his microphone.
“Eagle Leader to Eagle Flight. Please loosen up the formation a bit.” He listened for the acknowledgements, and hung the microphone in its clip.
“A mid-air would ruin our day,” the copilot said with a smile.
“I suppose I should be thankful for the escort,” Baur said as he belched, “but they frankly worry me more than the chance encounter with a British Wellington at this time of day.”
“No argument there.”
The cabin steward poked his head into the cockpit. “Are we on approach, Sir?”
Baur nodded. “Yes. Please notify the Fuhrer we will be on the ground in about fifteen minutes.”
He looked over at the copilot. “All right, Peter, pilot's airplane.”
“Pilot's airplane,” the copilot repeated. He held his hands up to indicate he relinquished control.
Baur pulled the three throttles back and let the plane descend. He banked to line up with the runway as they encountered some mild turbulence. The Junkers wallowed and the left wing began to drop.
“Come on, you old cow!” Baur muttered as worked the control wheel to keep the wings level.
The indigestion was now a fire in his chest and the pain spread down his left arm. When they got on the ground he would definitely look for a bicarbonate of soda. This was rapidly becoming not funny.
The pain spiked, and it seemed like it had spread to his head. Instinctively he pushed the throttles forward and eased the wheel back. When faced with difficulty in the cockpit, any pilot will immediately seek altitude and speed.
“What happened?” the copilot asked. “I just had a stabbing pain in my head.”
“I don't know,” Bauer replied. “I thought we'd be wise to go around. Plus, the airplane is beginning to really misbehave.”
Bauer glanced around in surprise. Nothing outside the airplane looked familiar and he wondered how he could be become so disoriented. And, amazingly, the heartburn was gone, and he felt fine – excellent, in fact, except for being frightened. The airplane was becoming unmanageable. He struggled to roll it on to the right wing to circle the airfield.
“Help me hold the airplane, Peter,” Bauer said quickly. “We have problems.”
“Right.” The copilot helped with the controls as he looked out the side window. “We must have really drifted way off course, Herr Bauer. I do not see Tempelhof. There is an airfield below us, however.”
“No choice, Peter. We need to get this beast on to the ground before we kill the Fuhrer.”
“Mein Gott, yes!”
# # #
June 10, 1927; 11:30 AM
Galesburg, Illinois, USA
“Hey Chief, we got us a strange bird up there,” Harley Wiggins said.
“Mosh Galloway stood up behind his desk and headed for the door. “Whatever it is, it sounds different.”
The two men walked out onto the grass airfield and scanned the sky.
“Is that a Fokker?” Harley asked. “Or a Ford, maybe?”
“I don't think so. It is a tri-motor,” Galloway replied. “But, it’s a low-wing plane. I don't know what it is. Never seen anything like it.”
“He looks like he's in trouble – like he's dragging an aileron or something. Left wing.”
“I see it, Harl. I hope he can get it down okay. There's not many other places to land.”
They watched as the crippled airplane staggered around the circuit and lined up with the runway. The airplane dipped, then recovered, and then seemed to rotate around the left wing. The pilot was clearly struggling.
“It's got one of them German things on the side,” Wiggins said. “Seen'em during the war.”
“Ain't got no Krauts flying around here that I know of.”
“Guess we'll find out one way or the other purty soon.”
Galloway studied the approaching aircraft. “He's not going to make it.”
Wiggins nodded, then turned his head to the side to spit. “Nope. He's getting ready to dump it. Spect we'd better call the boss.”
“Hold up a minute, Harl. He may make it.”
“The pilot may if he flaps his arms. That bird has just plain given up.”
Just past the threshold the left wing dipped thirty degrees. The nose started to drop and both men held their breath. At the last second the pilot apparently pulled the wheel back and applied right rudder. The left engine belched smoke as the pilot gunned it. The nose rose enough for the plane to drop gracelessly on its wheels. It immediately settled into its landing roll.
Galloway managed a long low whistle. “Either that pilot is very, very good, or very, very lucky.”
“Probably both, Chief.”
“Alright let's go see who we got visiting us, and then we can call it in. I 'spect Mister Wain will want to put them up in town. That airplane isn't going anywhere soon, whatever it is.”
The two men climbed into the 1926 Dodge truck that had been extended with three rows of seats behind the driver. It started with a grind and a cough, and then they bumped over the field to where the unusual tri-motor was shutting down its engines. When they swung around to the other side of the airplane, the side door was open, and the passengers were dropping to the ground. When the truck stopped the two men stared at the group of passengers from the crippled airplane.
“You know, Chief,” Wiggins said. “We have had some unusual passengers come through here the past couple of years, but I think this beats all.”
Galloway shook his head. “Can't argue with you Harl. Come on; let's go welcome our new guests. Something makes me think they're from not anywhere near Illinois.”
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ward Wagher lives in Greenville, South Carolina with his wife. A college professor and an Information Technology professional, Wagher writes Adult Christian Fiction, and Christian Science-Fiction.
Visit Ward’s web site at www.wardwagher.com. He can be reached at [email protected]
Table of Contents
One. 5
Two. 11
Three. 19
Four. 27
Five. 35
Six. 45
Seven. 53
Eight. 61
Nine. 71
Ten. 81
Eleven. 89
Twelve. 97
Thirteen. 105
Fourteen. 115
Sixteen. 131
Seventeen. 139
Eighteen. 147
Nineteen. 155
Twenty. 163
Twenty-One. 171
Twenty-Two. 179
Twenty-Three. 187
Twenty-Four. 195
Twenty-Five. 203
Twenty-Six. 211
Twenty-Eight. 227
Twenty-Nine. 235
Thirty. 243
Thirty-One. 251
Thirty-Two. 259
Thirty-Three. 267
Thirty-Four. 275
Thirty-Five. 283
Thirty-Six. 291
Thirty-Seven. 299
Thirty-Eight. 307
Thirty-Nine. 315
Forty. 323
Forty-One. 331
Forty-Two. 337
Forty-Three. 345
Forty-Four. 353
Forty-Five. 361
Epilogue. 367
The Author. 373
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Ward Wagher, Accidental Nazi