“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?”
Again, though now definitely conscious of the ‘test’ feeling, Otto replied promptly.
“I am not aware concerning the others,” he said carefully. “Not from a pilot-angle.”
For the first time, the General gave overt evidence that he knew the civilians were in the room. He looked from one to the other.
“Well, gentlemen?” he said.
The bald man answered first. “It seems very good, General. There is an accent—but, strangely, it sounds like a Danish one.”
“Not bad for the purpose,” said the man with the beard, in a curiously high-pitched voice. “An educated Swede talking English laboriously learned. The usual mistakes in syntax. No trace of German accent.”
Otto wanted to look at the men as they spoke. But he thought better of it and kept his eyes fixed upon the cold, regular, emotionless features of the General. The black, polished eyes were downcast now, as if in thought.
There was another silence. It was broken only when the General moved, stretching out a hand for the nearest of the telephones upon his desk. He took off the receiver and pressed a button set in the stand and spoke almost immediately. His fifth word astounded Otto by its implication.