The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

They flew on for another half hour. Aubrey slowed the plane back to a sluggish cruising speed of three hundred kilometres an hour. It didn’t matter; the slower they flew, the longer it would take to reach land. The end result was still going to be the same. They were going to run out of fuel in the middle of the sea.

  The fuel levels seemed to drop faster as they approached one-eighth of a tank. There was no point in trying to come up with a contingency plan. Even if she could do a belly landing, the plane would quickly sink, and without life preservers or a raft, she and Hewitt would too. If hypothermia didn’t get them first.

  Then Aubrey saw something amazing in the fading light: irregular shapes on the surface of the ocean, long lines with jutting ninety-degree angles. She was looking at the sleek forms of warships on the horizon.

  “Hewitt, look.”

  “It’s the fleet! My word—it just has to be,” Hewitt said. “I read they were in the Baltic.”

  The fuel levels had dropped below one-eighth of a tank. Aubrey guessed they had a minute, maybe two, before the engine started to sputter and then stopped altogether.

  “The big one in the middle, that must be the carrier,” she said.

  “Fly along side the fleet and put her down on the water. They’ll put boats down to rescue us,” Hewitt said.

  “Nothin’ doin’. I’m going to land on that sucker. It looks big enough.”

  “Aubrey, you’re insane! You can’t do it.”

  Aubrey felt the first indication the engine was running out of fuel: a misstep in its firing, then another. They started to come regularly and faster. The whole airplane started to shudder.

  “That’s it. She’s dry,” Aubrey said just as she lined up behind the carrier. They were flying into the wind now when the engine stopped altogether. There was a wispy, eerie silence. She felt the drag of the wind, and her speed started to slow. Aubrey had glided a plane to a landing before, in Texas. That time, she hadn’t run out of fuel, though; it had been just a mechanical failure of the fuel pump. But that was Texas, great big Texas, with miles and miles of flat land. Big, beautiful wide roads and farm tracks, there for the picking. This was a piece of moving, heaving steel and wood, a football field long.

  Aubrey could see people scrambling on the wooden flight deck as she came in. She’d seen newsreels of aircraft carrier operation before, knew about the various arresting devices that carrier-borne aircraft were equipped with. She knew her Bf 109 had none of that. It was not meant to land on a floating airport. This was going to be a first, one for the record books.

  “Are you going to put the landing gear down?” Hewitt asked. He had no need to scream now that the motor was out of fuel.

  “No can do. That requires the engine.”

  “Isn’t there a hand crank or a button? Maybe it’s wired to a separate battery, just for a contingency like this.”

  “No time to figure it out. We’re going in. Hold on, Hewitt, here we go.” She dipped the nose down, picking up a bit of speed she’d lost. The plane glided almost as nicely as it flew. The carrier got larger and larger in the cockpit canopy.

  “Just keep your thumb off the machine guns,” Hewitt said.

  Aubrey laughed. She made sure the safety cap was over the red firing button as she pulled the nose up at the last second. The edge of the deck swung under the plane. There was a row of Swordfish torpedo planes to her right. With no way to lower the undercarriage, a belly landing was her only option. This saddened her; a belly landing was going to damage her nice plane. The prop would be ruined. But at least it wouldn’t wind up at the bottom of the sea.

  The plane hit, and there was a sickening skid of aluminum on the wooden flight deck. There was a crunch and grind as the plane ran over the arresting cable. She hoped it might catch the fixed rear wheel, but it did not. They slid on, past the warplanes, past the looming control tower.

  Aubrey held up her hand; there was no point trying to control the plane now. Hewitt reached forward and grabbed it. They were slowing, but not enough. The bow of the aircraft carrier was steadily approaching. Finally, the stolen fighter came to a stop just as the damaged propellor slid over the edge of the ship’s bow.

  “Wow,” Aubrey said.

  Hewitt squeezed her hand harder. “We made it, old girl. You did it.”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

  Surrounded on the deck by sailors and a few Royal Marines, suitably armed, Aubrey let Hewitt do the talking. He quickly explained their predicament, without going into the sensitive details. The men of HMS Eagle swarmed over the German fighter until some senior officers came and sent everybody back to their stations. A cable was attached to the rear of the 109 to drag it back from the edge. Aubrey gave the aircraft a last affectionate pat as she and Hewitt were led into the ship.

  They were escorted into the wardroom, where they were given tea and biscuits. They went over the whole ordeal one more time for the captain and his XO. The two seasoned salts of His Majesty’s Royal Navy looked at each other incredulously. Then they clapped Hewitt on the shoulder and said, “Well done.”

  “It was all thanks to Miss Endeavours, sir. If she wasn’t probably the world’s greatest flyer, and the bravest woman I’ve ever met, right now Herr Hitler would have me on a rack.”

  The captain remarked on what an incredible feat the landing had been, and he shook Aubrey’s hand. Then he took a small notebook and pen out of his breast pocket.

  “I’ve never done this before, but Miss Endeavours, may I have your autograph?”

  30

  Aubrey stepped down off the ocean liner’s gangplank and resisted the urge to kneel down and kiss the dirty asphalt dock. She was just thankful to be home. The crowds of people coming off the ship eventually cleared, and Aubrey had just got in the line to the New York Port Authority customs office when she heard a whistle. It was her uncle Arthur, standing next to a sleek black Buick. He waved her over. Her belongings had been left behind in Germany, no doubt the property of the Gestapo by now. But she had her father’s handgun tucked safely inside her new Louis Vuitton bag. Hewitt had taken her on a shopping spree in Paris, courtesy of British Intelligence. She’d arrived back in New York, decked out in some of the finest Parisian fashions and carrying some sleek new luggage.

  “Mr. Walton.”

  Arthur smiled. “Come on, Aubrey. Let’s get you home.”

  “What about customs?”

  “It’s all taken care of.”

  Aubrey shrugged and got into the car.

  They were far away from the dock before he spoke again. “So how was Europe?”

  “Europe was… interesting.”

  “I’ll bet. I read Purnsley’s report but we’ll need to debrief you. Seems you had quite the little adventure.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Good to be home, though?”

  “It is.”

  “Bet you’re anxious to see your father.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Just one question.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you done working for me, Aubrey? Or do you want another taste of this life?”

  “Well, Mr. Walton…” Aubrey said. She sucked in a deep breath. Her mind went back to the soaring Alps, their height matched only by the love, however brief, she’d felt for Helmut. Then she thought of him lying dead by the side of the road, and the feelings of anger and sadness she’d felt. But most of all, she thought of a brave gentleman from British Intelligence and how she would very much like to see him again.

  “…you’d better believe I do.”

  “I’m glad, Aubrey. Now let’s get you home.”

  The End

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