The Hess Cross (2 page)

The parachute suddenly collapsed. Horn quickly stood, tore off the harness, and stepped toward the spiritless chute. His right leg crumpled and he dropped heavily to the ground. He sat upright and painfully reached for his ankle.

"Who ae ye?" The yell was unnaturally loud over the still pasture. "Ae ye German?"

A winded, partially clothed farmer stood ten yards from Horn, whooping great lungfuls of air and nervously rubbing his hands. From his craggy, weatherbeaten face, Horn guessed the man was a plowman who had spent his entire life walking behind a team of horses.

As if in answer, the sound of a metallic, screeching, rending crash lashed out across the pasture. Metal tore from metal, and glass splintered violently. The grinding jumped to a high-pitched wail, which ended four seconds after it had begun. There's the crash, thought Horn, but where's the explosion?

The farmer turned from the sound to the pilot, who was trying to stand again, and said, "'Twasn't an RAF plane, was it?"

"No," Horn grunted as he cautiously tried weight on his right leg, "it was a Messerschmitt." His English was webbed with a guttural German accent.

"Where'd it come froom?" the farmer asked, glancing again toward the wreckage.

"From Germany."

"And where'd ye come froom?"

"From Germany."

"Jaysus." The plowman could not move. He was frozen by the history of this moment. A German had landed on Scottish soil. The invasion had begun.

"Where're yer goons?"

"I have no weapons. I am alone. There are no others," answered the German as he stooped to unlace his boot. "I think I have broken my ankle."

The plowman ran forward and put his arm under the pilot's to help take weight off the injured leg.

"Me 'ut's o'er there." He pointed to the small cottage barely visible in the darkness. Just as the plowman and pilot took the first arm-in-arm step, the sound of a dull, thudding explosion reached them from the remnants of Horn's fighter. Both men looked over their shoulders, to see a brilliant flame shoot up from the silhouetted wreckage and sputter and die just as suddenly. Horn smiled to himself. Now there would be very little left of his plane.

Tea was brewing when Horn and the farmer reached the house. The plowman's mother had put her white-lace doily on the lamp table and was scooping sugar into a bowl when he pushed open the door with his foot. He was utterly exhausted and used both arms in a clumsy attempt to keep weight off Horn's bad ankle. Despite the farmer's efforts, Horn winced with each slow step. The plowman hauled Horn to the best chair in the cottage, a grainy, horsehair-stuffed leather affair whose springs had long ago conformed to the bony protrusions of the peasant's thin backside. The
pilot gratefully slumped into it as the old woman brought him a cup of steaming tea. She was a little, intense woman with gray hair pulled back into a severe bun. She wore an oft-repaired night robe the same color as her hair.

"No, thank you, madam. May I have a glass of water."

It was meant to be a question, but it wasn't. The old lady knew from his first accented word that the man seldom asked for anything. His appearance reinforced this. German pilots wore blue-gray uniforms made of the poorest-quality wool. Horn wore a single-piece fine leather jumpsuit that fit him as if made by a Bond Street tailor. The supple leather of his boots was capped by a dark fur lining that ringed the boot tops. On the silken collars of his azure shirt were patches edged in twisted aluminum cord and embroidered with oak leaves.

"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.

Horn lumbered up from the deep chair, carefully keeping the weight off his right foot. He turned to Mrs. McLean and said, "I am apparently going with these gentlemen. Thank you, madam, for your kindness. You and your son"—he turned to McLean—"will be remembered."

The larger signalman put his arm under the German's and helped him out of the house. The smiling soldier followed without returning the pistol.

Archie Clark snapped the holster cover shut and said, "I moos say, the Home Guard acted bloody swift this night, wha' say?" He paused to brush unseen dust from the epaulet straps on his khaki shirt and looked to McLean for approval.

McLean yawned widely, stretched, and clasped his hands behind his neck. "Donna ferget to mention yersel' in yer report."

Ignoring the comment, Clark continued, "Migh' e'en be a promotion in this."

"Wha' does a farmer get promoted to?" McLean asked as he winked at his mother. Home Guard promotions were unheard of.

"Good na, General," Mrs. McLean said, escorting Clark to the door. "And, Archie, thank ye." She affectionately patted his shoulder as he walked out.

"Wha'll happen to him, David?" she asked as she bolted the door and turned to her son, who was thoughtfully rocking in the chair and staring at the clock.

"Oh, he'll go down to the McTavish Pub and yarn how he's just shot down three or four bombers wi' his pistol," McLean replied, anticipating his mother's hearty laugh.

Not this time. "Nae, nae, no' Archie. Be serious. Where'll they take the German?"

"Why, Mama, I do believe ye've been charmed," he said. Seeing the concern which wrinkled her eyes, he continued, "Pe'eps to the Eaglesham jail foor a time. And then into the POW camp near Glasgow."

"Foor how long?"

"A long time. At least till the end o' the war. But there's woon thing foor certain: Horn'll nae see the Duke o' Hamilton."

Douglas Douglas Hamilton, the fourteenth Duke of Hamilton, Marquess of Douglas and Clydesdale, Earl of Angus, Arran, and Lanark, eleventh Duke of Brandon, and on and on, lay on the canvas cot in the whitewashed corridor outside the fighter-command operations room at Turnhouse. Layers of regulation RAF blankets warded off the chill of the Scottish May dawn. He had lain awake most of
the night expecting the bell that had rung repeatedly during the previous four nights. Hamilton knew the alarm would sound before sunrise. Germans never did anything in fours, always in threes and fives. They would make it five in a row, and this certainty kept him awake.

For the last four successive nights the thirty-four-year-old duke had patrolled southwest Scotland in his Hurricane. The German bombing runs had been sporadic, without pattern, but with lethal effect. Glasgow and suburbs had been hit, as had the airfields on the firth. The RAF was reeling under the Luftwaffe's attacks.

Fighter squadrons impressive on command charts were in reality painfully undersupplied and undermanned. Planes were robbed to keep other planes operable. Parts were promised, but rarely arrived. Many of the Hurricanes in Hamilton's squadron were kept together with bailing wire and curses.

The pilots were chronically fatigued. A night's sleep was unheard of. Irregular catnaps, gobbled food, and a sense of duty made hazy by tension and uncountable hours in the sky kept the pilots running to their planes at the alarm bell.