When they had climbed the stairway and left the hangar, Galland pointed to the Horch. “Hello! What’s that?”
“It’s my father’s car, sir,” Peter said.
“I was afraid for a moment we were having another important visitor,” Galland said. “And I’m not in the mood to entertain important visitors.”
“Grafin von Stauffenberg…Herr General—do you know Oberstleutnant von Stauffenberg?”
Galland nodded. “I heard he really caught it bad in Africa. Blinded, wasn’t he?”
“He has the sight of one eye, Herr General. I just saw him in hospital in Munich. His wife is going to come here and take the car to their place. I hope that’s all right.”
“Of course it is,” Galland said. “Just give Deitzer the details. That’s my point. Those paper pushers are really useful.”
A young sergeant was standing at attention beside a gray military Volkswagen.
“Otto,” Galland called to him. “We’re going to ride in style with Major von Wachtstein. Follow us to my quarters.”
“Jawohl, Herr General.”
[TWO]
Quarters of the General Officer Commanding
Luftwaffe Flughafen No. 103B
Augsburg, Germany
2035 16 May 1943
Hauptmann Willi Grüner was leaning against a pillar of the fence in front of the two-story masonry house provided as quarters to General Galland. He pushed himself off the wall when he saw the Horch and the Volkswagen approach. He saluted—the military, stiff-hand-to-the-brim-of-his-cap salute, not the Nazi—when he saw General Galland.
“Why are you standing on the street, Willi?” Galland called as he got out of the car. “You should have gone in.”
He punched Grüner affectionately on the arm, then led him through the gate in the fence and toward the house with his arm around his shoulder. Karlsberg and Peter followed. The door was opened by a young Luftwaffe soldier in a short, crisply starched white jacket. Galland led them all into a sitting room, and to a bar set against one wall. “Anybody hungry?” Galland asked.
No one was.
Galland went behind the bar, came up with beer and glasses, and handed them around. When they had all poured beer, he raised his. “Prosit!” he called.
They repeated the toast and sipped at their beer.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Willi Grüner said.
“I’m the Luftwaffe representative for your father’s funeral,” Peter said. “I was ordered to meet Boltitz here.”
“Boltitz? U-boat?” Willi asked.
Peter remembered that was what Willi had christened Boltitz in the bar in Berlin. He nodded.
“I don’t know what to think about U-boat,” Willi said, then went on before giving Peter a chance to reply: “Have you seen what they’re flying here?”
“I just flew one,” Peter said. “As a matter of fact, Galland made it a check ride.”
“And you passed it?” Willi asked in mock surprise.
“Go fuck yourself, Willi,” Peter said.
The room was decorated with photographs and paintings, all with a Luftwaffe connection. Peter wandered around the room, looking at them. He found one of special interest. It was a photograph of then Oberst Galland standing in front of the wing of an ME-109 with three young pilots, one of whom was Flight Sergeant Peter Wachtstein. It had been taken, he recalled, on a Polish military airfield outside Warsaw.