“Heinrich Maximilian Otto Falken?” The voice was clipped and each word had a sharp edge as if it were metal ringing against metal.
Otto knew he was to answer. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Height, six feet, one and a half inches?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Weight, one hundred and eighty pounds?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Born November 3, 1914?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Family name originally Von Falkenhaus? Father, Ulrich Von Falkenhaus?”
“Yes, sir.” Though he never took his eyes from the clipped grey head of the General, Otto could feel the gaze of both the civilians. His collar was hot and uncomfortable and little beads of sweat were forming over his cheekbones.
“Both parents died in your early childhood? No brothers or sisters?”
Otto swallowed. “That is correct, sir.”
“Only known relatives, two paternal uncles? One, Ludwig, killed in action on the Western Front in 1916—the other, Karl, executed for seditious behaviour in Rittenberg, 1934?”
Otto lifted a hand towards his collar; then checked the movement. “Yes, sir.”
And so it went on, question after question, in the hard, quiet, ringing voice; question after question, answer after answer. All facts, all accurate, many of them amazingly private; things which Otto could have sworn upon his life no one could know—every fact and facet and, almost, every fancy of his life. It was all there, in that file, all of him: he felt as if he were being stripped of clothing, piece by piece, in a public square. . . .
And all the time, while his eyes were fixed upon the grey head, he could feel the four eyes watching him. . . .
Unchanging, unmodulated, the hard metal voice kept on. “On this same day,” it was saying now, “you and your squadron participated in a daylight raid over the South-west Coast of England?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were escorting six Heinkel bombers? You encountered severe fighter opposition and you yourself were shot down, landing on the English Coast by parachute?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were taken prisoner and confined in a prison camp near Colchester?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were there three months and two days?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You finally effected an escape and succeeded in obtaining civilian clothes and lay hidden for two days?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now the General did look up. It was a sudden and unexpected movement, and Otto had difficulty in suppressing a start as the black, glittering eyes once more met his own. The General said:
“Falken, tell how you managed your return to Occupied France. Concisely.”
A change here. Otto did not know whether he liked it or not—but he obeyed promptly. He continued to look directly at the General, and to sit straight and stiff. He said, keeping his voice flat and toneless and without emotion:
“I hid in some woods near Colchester. I think they were game preserves. I stole food and the clothes at night. They were searching for me, but I managed to evade them. On the third night I began to move. I was trying to reach the Coast. Towards morning I found a hiding-place in some more woods. I was discovered by two men. I think they were farmers. I heard them coming and did not let them find me hiding but accosted them. I spoke in English to them. I said I was off a Swedish freighter that had been sunk. I said I was making my way to Colchester where I had relatives. They believed me and gave me directions. Later in the morning I was hiding again. I was near the sea. I heard planes and saw, very high, some bombers coming in from the sea escorted by fighters. They were ours. A fleet of Hurricanes and Spitfires went up to intercept them. I saw them climbing. There was fighting—and I saw two of our bombers come down in flames. One fell about half a mile from where I was.”
He paused for a moment, moistening with his tongue lips which were very dry. The black eyes opened a little more widely and he hurried on. He said:
“It was quite early in the morning, I think about seven. I had no watch; it had been taken from me at prison camp. I stayed where I was in hiding. Above, the fighting went on. The rest of our bombers turned back but some Messerschmitts were still engaging the English planes. Three of ours came down. I did not like it. The others turned back and followed the Heinkels. The English planes went after them—except one. This one puzzled me. It started, then came back, losing altitude. The engine sounded good and it did not seem that the plane had been hit. But it kept dropping—and eventually it landed. It landed not more than two hundred yards from where I was. The ground was bumpy and uneven but the plane did not turn over. I expected the pilot to get out—but nothing happened. I realized suddenly that he must be wounded. I had an idea. I knew that people would be coming soon, so I ran quickly to the ship. The pilot was wounded—badly: perhaps he was dead, I lifted his body out and threw it to the ground, after I’d taken off his helmet and put it on. . . .”
He hesitated. He did not want to tell the rest of the story. There had been too much said about it already—everywhere. He hoped they would let him off.
“Go on!” The metallic voice was impatient.
Otto swallowed. “I . . . I jumped into the plane. . . . I looked at the petrol gauge and found there was enough. I . . . I flew it. It was strange at first—but I was lucky in guessing the controls—and I found out how the forward guns worked. . . .” He laughed without volition, a nervous little sound; then, appalled, hurried on.
“I flew straight out across the Channel. I was lucky. It was too soon for anyone to have found out that I had stolen the plane. It was a Spitfire—very good indeed . . . and—well, sir—I landed at Number Four Field, Calais. At 9.12.”
A short, barking laugh came from the civilian on Otto’s left, the man with the black beard. It was the first sound either he or his colleague had made—and Otto, surprised, flashed a glance at him.
“Tell the whole story.” The metallic voice was hard. “I told you to be concise—but not to make omissions.”
Otto flushed. “I am sorry, sir. About ten miles from the French Coast, I saw two English planes—Hurricanes—coming towards me, about a thousand feet lower. They were probably two of the planes that pursued the bombers. They sighted me and climbed. . . . Well, I had found out about the forward guns. . . . I was very lucky. . . . I got them both. . . . After the fight, I made my way to Calais and landed as reported. That’s all, sir.”
The bald civilian muttered something, then was silent. No one else said anything. The General, his head bent again, turned back some pages in the file. Otto sat motionless.
The General looked up. “When you were escaping, in England, and these two men spoke to you: you say you addressed them in English?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You learned English as a child from this Swedish governess I mentioned before—Fräulein Harben?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You also learned Swedish?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have kept up your knowledge of these languages?”
Otto hesitated. “I think so, sir. At least, I have not forgotten them.”
“So.” The General closed the file and made a little gesture with his hand.
Immediately the bald civilian spoke—rapidly and in Swedish. He said:
“Captain, you would not be embarrassed by having to talk nothing but Swedish?”
Otto replied even before his mind had told him that here was some sort of test. He said, in Swedish:
“I do not think so, mein Herr.”
The General made a slight movement with his head—and the other civilian spoke in rapid English with a slight mid-western accent. He said:
“It was interesting, Captain Falken, to hear you say the British plane you flew was so good. Does that only apply to the fighter types?”