D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

but said nothing. Thorley walked quickly toward the Luftwaffe Major, who pulled a cigarette out from an expensive-looking silver case, lighted it with a wooden match, and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes riveted on Thorley.

Square-shouldered and a little under six feet, he wore the standard issue blue-gray tunic and jodhpur breeches, along with black leather riding boots polished to a mirror gloss. His peaked cap sat at a jaunty angle, and a Knight’s Cross—with Oakleaves and Swords—dangled at his throat. A host of other important ribbons and badges decorated the left side of his tunic like a metallic smorgasbord.

The German blew out another cloud of smoke, and as Thorley drew closer, he saw dark circles under world-weary eyes set into a face sporting a day’s growth of beard and a jagged scar on one chiseled cheek.

The pilot held out his silver cigarette case. It had a diamond-encrusted Luftwaffe eagle affixed to the lid.

“Have one, they’re American,” he said in German. His tone was affable, though his eyes remained wary.

Thorley studied the man a moment before he spoke. “No, thank you,” he replied. “They give me a headache.”

The Major smiled, revealing a gold crown covering one of his molars. “That’s a shame, Herr Major. They’re quite good; and as rare as a trustworthy man these days, ja?” The man’s accent was clearly Bavarian. Though the major had done well for himself, enough to win Germany’s highest award, he was not a Heidelberg man, not one of the vanishing Junkers that still ruled the German Officer class. This major was of a new, more pragmatic breed.

Thorley heard Velasquez drive off and the Major took this as his cue. “Warm up the plane, Herr Leutnant.”

“Jawohl, Herr Major!” He climbed into the plane through the belly hatch, while the Major turned his attention back to Thorley. Behind him the Heinkel’s two Jumos fired up, idling with a deep throaty grumble.

“The letter, please.”

Thorley reached into his tunic and pulled out a single sheet of vellum, folded once, and handed it to the Major.

The contents were a simple paragraph beginning and ending with a prearranged coded phrase. The rest of it identified the bearer as one Michael Thorley. MacIlvey had penned the letter himself.

The Luftwaffe Major scanned the document, and for a fleeting moment Thorley feared he would pronounce it a forgery, ending his mission there and then. But the Major merely nodded and handed it back.

“All is in order,” he said, a sardonic grin creasing his face. “Come, time is short.”

Thorley followed the Major into the aircraft and was directed toward an empty seat. There lay the field gray uniform of a German Army officer, with the white piping and epaulettes of an Infantry Major. Back at 54 Broadway, when MacIlvey and the others had outlined the mission, Thorley had wondered about the uniform switch. Why not wear the German uniform from the beginning? The answer, when it came, made him feel like the neophyte he was. The British uniform was necessary, they said, because if for some reason the Wellington was brought down in occupied territory, he would end up in a POW camp, rather than in front of a firing squad.

Thorley had barely pulled on the boots and buttoned the tunic when the plane began its takeoff run. The Heinkel was a faster, sleeker plane than the Wellington, reaching flying speed in nearly half the time. By the time he’d seated himself and strapped in, they were at two thousand feet and climbing. Minutes later, they leveled off and the long flight to Finland commenced.

For a time, he amused himself with comparing the similarities and differences between the Wellington and the Heinkel, but that quickly proved boring—the planes were more similar than not. He tried to go over the details of his mission one last time. In minutes, his eyelids drooped and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Thorley awoke three hours later as the Heinkel began making a descent, the pressure in his inner ear building, tugging him toward consciousness like a vicious little terrier. He opened his eyes just as they hit a downdraft. It threw him against the bulkhead, slamming his shoulder into one of the stanchions. Christ, it hurt. Gritting his teeth, he rubbed it, making sure he could still move it.

He glanced out the small observation window and saw the earth moving up to meet them. A few seconds later, the wheels met the runway with a screech. Something wasn’t right, he thought, something about the light. Frowning, Thorley glanced at his watch, and realized that the position of the sun differed from the time on his watch. Could they be in Finland already?

The cockpit door opened, and the Major came through it looking fresh, as if somehow he’d managed a shower and a shave. “Did you sleep well, Herr Major?” he asked. “Would you like to stretch your legs? We have a few minutes.”

Thorley shook the last vestiges of sleep from his mind, then rubbed his own face, feeling the sharp rasp of the stubbles against his palm. “Where are we?”

“Just outside The Hague. A refueling stop. We’re halfway there.”

The Netherlands, known to some as the Low Countries.

An early casualty to Hitler’s armored Blitzkrieg, the Dutch homeland had fallen, along with Belgium and France, the year before, and was now a part of the “Greater German Reich. Lebensraum for the Master Race.” Rubbish.

Thorley swallowed his anger and followed the Major out of the plane onto the runway. The land was flat and featureless, stretching for miles in all directions. He thought he could see a farmhouse in the distance, a lone windmill its one distinguishing feature. From what he