In the end there were no words to cover six years of intimate comradery.
“See you around, Major.”
“So long, Nick.”
He waited until Nick’s plane was out of sight, and with him a part of his own life had flown away.
German girls by the thousands were trying to marry American servicemen. Many wanted it only as an avenue of escape from the nightmare of their war-ravaged world.
American boys who had never been exposed to the open and free relationship of a European woman wanted one of their very own.
It became necessary for the American authorities to institute barriers and rigid screenings to prevent a flood of bad matches.
Scott went to Colonel and Mrs. Loveless and candidly discussed Hilde’s past. Clint acted as her sponsor, engineered the papers with his own brand of deftness. His influence with General Stonebraker, the general’s personal like of Scott, plus the Falkenstein name would all help to smooth the way. Even so, there was a long winter of red tape.
Clint went to see the final authority, the chief chaplain of USAFE, and judged him to be a true man of the cloth and decided to lay it on the line.
The chaplain found it refreshing. Finding a confessed prostitute was as rare as finding a confessed Nazi. After giving Mary Magdalene as the obvious parable, he interviewed Hilde and assured her she could set a date with Major Davidson.
Clint and Judy often said they had never seen two people more in love, more grateful for the existence of the other, more willing to give of themselves, more awed by their late discovery.
Colonel Matt Beck and his vice chief, Major Scott Davidson, sat before Hiram Stonebraker. The general chewed their asses out.
Incidents of Russian buzzings and close flying were mounting. A Skymaster had been bullied out of the corridor, was pounced upon by Yak fighter planes which forced it to land on a Soviet airfield. Matt Beck wanted fighter plane escorts.
The general said he didn’t have grounds for the request. Both Intelligence and his own estimates were that the Russians were putting on a last-ditch show trying to force more landings for face-saving value.
“What have we got? Gutless wonders? Now I don’t want any more of our people scared out of the corridors!”
When Scott and Colonel Beck were alone, they summarized the situation in a short sentence. “Too many replacement crews.”
Most of the original Airlift crews had been on bombers during the war and were disciplined to hold formation in the face of flak and enemy fighters. While the Russians annoyed the old-timers, they never made them deviate from course.
The two worked on a revision of pilot rosters to keep the maximum number of old hands in every time bloc and squadron.
Next day, Scott came into Colonel Beck’s office, annoyed. Y 80 had a time bloc scheduled for the 12th and 333rd Troop Carriers that showed it to be 75 per cent new crews who had never faced a buzzing. Moreover, nine of the crews were making their first run to Berlin. Russian activity was reaching a new peak.
“I think I’d better go down to Y 80,” Scott said, “and take this bloc in and out of Berlin a couple of times.”
The colonel agreed.
Major Scott Davidson briefed them. They looked to him with a sense of relief and with an admiration given an old flyer of his caliber.
“It’s a game of trying to make you flinch,” Scott said. “They’re like yappy puppies. Don’t let them know you know they’re alive. Let’s hack time now.”
Bloc time was twenty minutes away. Scott phoned Hilde.
“Going to take a couple of runs to Berlin, today,” he said, “we’ve got to get these people steadied down.”
Hilde masked her disappointment as always. She hated him to fly, and was in knots until he returned. She knew, though, that she could never say anything about it ... now or ever.
“I’ll go to the hotel and wait for you,” she said.
“I may be late.”
“I’ll wait ... Scott ... I go to my room and I look at the ring twenty times a day. Would it be bad luck if I wore it around my neck on a chain. That way I could tuck it into my bosom so no one can see I’m wearing it.”
“Great idea. I can fish it out later.”
“Scott!”
“Then ... you can stick it through my nose.”
“I’m serious. I want so much to have it close.”
“Sure. Maybe you’d better get some use out of it before it turns green. I’ll try to phone your sister if I have time.”
“Aufwiedersehen ... I love you ...”
“Me too ...”
He detected a tremor in her voice. Just sentimental ...
Scott lined them up over Fulda. They moved into the Southern corridor. Below the ground was lush and green with the coming of spring.
The interval was established for the 110-mile run to Berlin. For twenty minutes it was clear and smooth. Soon they would be under the control of Tempelhof radars.
His copilot, a likable young redhead a few months out of flying school, was on the yoke while Scott stretched. He looked over his shoulder to the flight engineer, another youngster ... and he missed Nick’s cigar smoke.
“Big Easy Fourteen calling all craft. Three Yaks at one o’clock.”
Scott took the yoke quickly. His copilot spotted them coming straight down the line. A hundred feet above them the Russians leveled off, ducked back into the clouds.
“They’re just clowning today,” Scott said on the intercom. “This is Big Easy One to all craft. Keep your interval. This is Big Easy One calling Tempelhof Airways. Are we under your radar control, over?”
“This is Tempelhof Airways. You are coming into Radar Control. Caution. There are twelve unidentified blips around your bloc.”
Scott frowned ... twelve ...
Omar Kum Dag was a rarity in the Red Air Force. He was one of the few flyers from Ashkabad in the distant Turkman Republic. His comrades considered him reckless. Kum Dag could be counted upon to take abnormal risks. His squadron leader was worried that he had a compulsion to either kill himself or prove himself because of his yellow skin and the constant teasing of the others.
They were not pleased when Kum Dag was assigned to the mission. After all, they were ordered only to have some harmless fun with the American birds.
“Look at that stupid son of a bitch doing a victory roll,” Scott snarled as Omar Kum Dag’s Yak zoomed and spiraled right in front of him.
The copilot was pale and unnerved. Scott gritted his teeth as the Russian dived perilously close again, now wishing for the first time he had the guns and speed to go after him. Fun was fun, but only a crazy man buzzed a defenseless craft like that.
The Russian captain leading the squadron admonished Kum Dag angrily as the Yak streaked up to the clouds and circled for another pass. He was ordered to quit, but Omar Kum Dag did not hear.
He was detached by the roar, the surge, the mania to come even closer so no one would ever again doubt his courage.
“This is Tempelhof calling Big Easy One. There’s a blip on your tail ...”
Hilde’s hair fell into her eyes as she flitted about the kitchen in that sort of furor she always generated while making a meal. She talked to herself, admonished herself for the lack of seasoning in the soup.
She stopped for a moment, wiped her hands, felt through her blouse, and touched the ring that lay between her breasts. It made her happy and she began to sing ... tonight she would love him and love him and love him.
Colonel Loveless closed the kitchen door behind him.
“What on earth are you doing home, Colonel? It is only three o’clock.”
The colonel looked deathly sick and he began to tremble as an unintelligible sound came out of his throat. Hilde dropped the plates from her hand.
“No!” she screamed.
“Oh God ...” Clint moaned. “Oh God ...”