hit the ground, but surging adrenaline shielded his mind against the pain. Shouts of alarm echoed from the darkness. Struggling to free himself from the harness, he surveyed by moonlight the small farm at the edge of the field in which he had landed. Before he could see much of anything, a man appeared out of the darkness. It was the head plowman of the farm, a man named David McLean. The Scotsman approached cautiously and asked the pilot his name. Struggling to clear his stunned brain, the pilot searched for his cover name. When it came to him, he almost laughed aloud.
Confused, he gave the man his real name instead. What the hell?
he thought. I don't even exist anymore in Germany. Heydrich saw to that.
"Are you German?" the Scotsman asked.
"Yes," the pilot answered in English.
Somewhere among the dark hills the Messerschmitt finally exploded, lighting the sky with a momentary flash.
"Are there any more with you?" the Scotsman asked nervously.
"From the plane?"
The pilot blinked, trying to take in the enormity of what he had done-and what he had been ordered to do. The cyanide capsule still lay like a viper against his chest. "No," he said firmly. "I flew alone."
The Scotsman seemed to accept this readily"I want to go to Dungavel Castle," the pilot said. Somehow, in his confusion, he could not-or would not-abandon his original mission. "I have an important message for the Duke of Hamilton," he added solemnly.
"Are you armed?" McLean's voice was tentative.
"No. I have no weapon."
The farmer simply stared. A shrill voice from the darkness finally broke the awkward silence. "What's happened?
Who's out there?"
"A German's landed!" McLean answered. "Go get some soldiers."
Thus began a strange pageant of uncertain hospitality that would last for nearly thirty hours. From the McLeans' humble living room-where the pilot was offered tea on the family's best china-to the local Home Guard hut at Busby, he continued to give the name he had offered the plowman upon landing-his own. It was obvious that no one knew what to make of him. Somehow, somewhere, something had gone wrong. The pilot had expected to land inside a cordon of intelligence officers; instead he'd been met by one confused farmer. Where were the stern-faced young operatives of mI-5? Several times he repeated his request to be taken to the Duke of Hamilton, but from the bare room at Busby he was taken by army truck to Maryhill Barracks at Glasgow.
At Maryhill, the pain of his broken ankle finally burned through his shock. When he.mentioned it to his captors, they transferred him to the military hospital at Buchanan Castle, about twenty miles south of Glasgow-It was there, nearly thirty hours after the unarmed Messerschmitt first crossed the Scottish coast, that the Duke of Hamilton finally arrived to confront the pilot.
Douglas Hamilton looked as young apd dashing as the photograph in his SS
file. The Premier Peer of Scotland, an RAF wing commander and famous aviator in his own right, Hamilton faced the tall German confidently, awaiting some explanation. The pilot stood nervously, preparing to throw himself on the mercy of the duke. Yet he hesitated.
What would happen if he did that? It was possible that there had simply been a radio malfunction, that Hess was even now carrying out his secret mission, whatever it was. Heydrich might blame him if Hess's mission failed. And then, of course, his family would die. He could probably save his family by committing suicide as ordered, but then his child would have no father. The pilot studied the duke's face.
Hamilton had met Rudolf Hess briefly at the Berlin Olympics, he knew.
What did the duke see now? Fully expecting to be thrown into chains, the pilot requested that the officer accompanying the duke withdraw from the room. When he had gone, the pilot took a step toward Hamilton, but said nothing.
The duke stared, stupefied.