Necker and a party of officers, Muller among them, were waiting on the apron outside, a Luftwaffe guard drawn up. The major came across, a slightly nervous smile on his face, followed by Muller. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.” He offered a cigarette from a silver case. “A tremendous shock for us all, the field marshal coming in out of the blue like this, but not to you, I think.”
Martineau saw it all then. They thought there was some connection between his own unexplained presence in the island and Rommel’s unexpected visit. “Really? I can’t imagine what you mean, my dear Necker.”
Necker glanced at Muller in exasperation. It was obvious that neither of them believed him, which was fine and suited his situation perfectly. He walked a few yards away and stood, hands behind his back, examining the airport. There were seven blister hangars, obviously constructed by the Luftwaffe. The doors to one of them stood open revealing the three engines and distinctive corrugated metal fuselage of a JU52, the Junkers transport plane that was the workhorse of the German Army. There was no sign of any other aircraft.
“He still persists in playing the man of mystery,” Necker said to Muller out of the side of his mouth.
Martineau rejoined them. “The Luftwaffe doesnt seem to have much to offer.”
“Unfortunately not. The enemy has an overwhelming superiority in the air in this region.”
Martineau nodded toward the far blister hangar. “What’s the JU52 doing there?”
“That’s the mail plane. He makes the run once a week, just the pilot and a crewman. Always under cover of darkness. They came in last night.”
“And fly out again?”
“Tomorrow night.”
There was the sound of an airplane engine in the distance. As they turned, the Storch came in across St. Ouen’s Bay and made a perfect landing. Konrad Hofer put a hand on Baum’s for a moment in reassurance as the pilot, Oberleutnant Sorsa, taxied toward the waiting officers. Baum turned to nod briefly at Hofer, then adjusted the brim of his cap and tightened his gloves. Showtime, Heini, he told himself, so let’s give a performance.
Sorsa lifted the door and Hofer got out, then turned to help Baum, who unbuttoned his old leather coat revealing the Blue Max and the Knight’s Cross at his throat. Felix Necker advanced to meet him and gave him a punctilious military salute, one soldier to another. “Field Marshal. A great honor.”
Baum negligently touched the peak of his cap with his field marshal’s baton. “You are?”
“Felix Necker, sir. I’m temporarily in command. Colonel Heine has gone to Guernsey for the weekend. A conference with General von Schmettow.”
“Yes, I know about that.”
“If only we’d been aware that you were coming,” Necker went on.
“Well, you weren’t. Konrad Hofer, my aide. Now then, who have we here?”
Necker introduced the officers, starting with Martineau. “Standartenfuhrer Vogel, who I think you may know.”
“No,” Martineau said. “I have never had the pleasure of meeting the field marshal before.”
Rommel’s dislike was plain for everyone to see. He passed on, greeting Muller and the other officers and then inspecting the guard of honor. Afterward, he simply took off, walking toward the nearest flak gun, everyone trailing after him. He spoke to the gun crew, then cut across the grass to a hangar where Luftwaffe ground crew waited rigidly at attention.
Finally he turned and walked back toward the airport buildings, looking up at the sky. “Fine weather. Will it stay like this?”
“The forecast is good, Herr Field Marshal,” Necker told him.
“Excellent. I want to see everything. You understand? I’ll be returning tomorrow, probably in the evening, so we’ll need a suitable billet for tonight. However, that can wait until later.”
“The officers of the Luftwaffe mess have had a light luncheon prepared, Heir Field Marshal. It would be a great honor if you would consent to join them.”
“Certainly, Major, but afterward, work. IVe a lot to see. So, where do we go?”
The officers’ mess was upstairs in what had been the restaurant before the war. There was a buffet of salad, roast chicken and tinned ham, served rather self-consciously by young Luftwaffe boys in white coats acting as waiters. The officers hung eagerly on the field marshal’s every word, conscious of their proximity to greatness. Baum, a glass of champagne in his hand, was more than enjoying himself. It was as if he were somewhere else looking in, observing. One thing was certain. He was good.