“Who ae ye?” The plowman managed to blurt out the question through great quaffs of air. He had fallen into the wooden rocking chair near the fireplace, and his gasping efforts to catch his breath spastically rocked the chair.
“I am Captain Alfred Horn of the Luftwaffe.”
When the pilot failed to contribute more information, the farmer awkwardly volunteered, “Weel, I’m David McLean, and this here’s me mother.”
The pilot nodded. “I must see the Duke of Hamilton immediately. Tonight.”
“The Duke o’ Hamilton? Now, why would a fighter pilot be wantin’ to see the duke?” McLean asked. He knew whatever answer he got would only be partially true at best. Horn may have come in a Messerschmitt, but he was no fighter pilot. He was too old. Must be forty-five or forty-six. And fighter pilots of all countries were short, thin men who could fit into cramped cockpits. Large men were made waist gunners on bombers. McLean had seen several downed German fighter pilots being paraded near the Glasgow city hall by their Home Guard captors when he was in town three weeks ago. Without their planes wrapped around them, they were nothing. Horn was big, over a head taller than the farmer. And heavy. After half-carrying the German across two fields, McLean could testify to that.
McLean’s glance dropped to the thin gold wristwatch on Horn’s left hand. The farmer had seen only a few watches as expensive as this, and they were all worn by Members of Parliament touring the county, reluctantly extending their dainty hands to farmers to demonstrate they were humble enough to be elected again. In Lanark County they usually weren’t.
The McLeans sensed there was more to the German than the trappings. Horn projected commanding competence, an aura of dignified, noble ability. It was an element which so rarely entered their peasant lives that it was not defined or understood but was overwhelmingly impressed upon them. The man was of the social stratum that transcended national boundaries and was as inaccessible to the McLeans as a foreign country.
It was his eyes. Almost hidden behind overpowering thick black eyebrows which grew together over the bridge of his nose, the eyes missed nothing. They were sharp and unrelenting. Never did they slip out of focus, clouded by a fatigue or a passing reverie. They contacted, analyzed, accepted or rejected, and flashed to another subject. The eyes, more than the leather boots or the gold watch, were the indicia of Horn’s station.
“I have a message for the duke. I must speak to him tonight. How far is his home?” Horn asked, speaking slowly, molding the words with his German accent.
“Weel, ’tis aboot twelve miles or so froom here. But ’tis unlikely ye’ll be seein’ the duke tonight. ’Tis past…” McLean glanced at the wall clock and saw that the pendulum hung lifeless behind the beveled lead glass. This was the cap to an already bizarre evening. He had lived in the cottage all his life, and this was the first time the pendulum had stopped. “It moos be ten-thirty or so.”
Horn’s wristwatch sparked reflected light from the ceiling bulb. “Oh, no,” he said, “it is nine-thirty. I set this watch before I left Augsburg.”
“Ye ferget,” McLean said, a small smile coming to his craggy face, “Scotland is on Dooble Soommer Time. We use the extra hour o’ light each day to load the antiaircraft goons.”
The little victory was not savored long.
“That must be why the British gunners are doing such a good job protecting London from our nightly bombings, nicht wahr?” Horn asked, but as soon as he saw McLean’s face drop and, perhaps more importantly, the old lady pick up a pair of scissors from the mantel, he quickly added, “That was ungracious of me. Please accept my apology. My flight tonight is an act of peace, not of war. Here, look at my son I left behind.”
Horn fumbled into his jumpsuit and extracted a billfold. “This is Wolf. He is four.” Horn paused and added softly, “I don’t know when I’ll see him again.”
The aristocracy and authority fell away from Horn’s voice as he spoke of his son. The photograph showed Horn dressed in slacks and a white shirt, kneeling next to a small dark-haired boy. Both were smiling, enjoying the moment. McLean knew the pilot would not see his son again until after the war was over.
The cottage front door shuddered from the force of a beating meant to be a knock.
“Open up, McLean. There’s a kroot ’idin’ aroon’ ’ere.”
McLean recognized the high-pitched voice of Archie Clark, the local Home Guard. The thudding came again. “McLean. Open up.”
“Jaysus,” McLean said as he leaned to the side of his chair, flicked the door handle, and slumped again back into his seat. He didn’t look up as Clark burst into the room, waving his World War I Webley pistol wildly.
“McLean,” Clark yelled, oblivious of the closeness of the small room, “there’s a kroot ’idin’ oot aroon’ ’ere, and…” He saw Horn and froze, speechless.
Horn pointed to the closet door and with his deep German accent said, “You might look in that closet.”
Clark’s head thrust forward as if to get a better look at the German officer. The paralysis vanished. He jerked the heavy pistol at Horn and shouted, “’Ands oop. Get those ’ands oop.”
Startled by Clark’s sudden recovery, Mrs. McLean raised her hands above her head.
“God’s teeth, poot the bloomin’ goon away, Archie,” McLean said. “Last time ye ’ad it oot, ye shot woon o’ Widow Hightower’s goats in the arse.”
Clark was quickly reassured by McLean’s sardonic command. He knew from their long friendship it was a tone McLean used only among friends and in controlled situations. But who was the big man sitting in McLean’s chair? He was dressed in a pilot’s jumpsuit, yet he was too old. From the twigs clinging to the fur on his boots, Clark guessed the pilot had crawled to McLean’s doorstep. Clark’s confused thoughts were disrupted by bootsteps on the cobblestone walkway.
Two soldiers loudly stomped through the open door. The distinctive blue-and-white flashes on their shirt sleeves marked them as signalers from the Royal Signal Corps, probably posted to Eaglesham. Both were clean-shaven and wore newly pressed uniforms. They had no doubt been called in from Saturday-night plans to aid in the search. Except for size, the two looked remarkably similar, and neither was in good humor.
“So, ano’er woon shot doon, eh? Ye’re a wee bit astray, me friend,” the shorter one said, not expecting the German to understand.
“Yes,” said Horn, “I was ordered to bomb the signal station near here but could not find it, so I began looking for the nearest church to drop my payload. We never waste a bomb.”
David McLean laughed, and was joined by his mother and Archie Clark, who holstered his pistol. The soldier went red in the face and his eyes hardened. He grabbed Clark’s pistol and pointed it at Horn’s head. The German’s smile vanished. He saw the veins stick out on the signaler’s neck and the corners of his mouth turn down. Unlike Clark, this was a man who didn’t point a gun unless he was seriously considering using it. Horn slowly raised his hands.
“Easy,” he said softly. “I am unarmed and I am here on official business and must see the Duke of Hamilton tonight. I will go with you to his home.”
Horn put the right amount of obsequiousness into his voice, to satisfy the signalman, who slackened the pressure on the trigger but did not lower the Webley. The malevolent smile returned.