<--Back to page one

I stared at him, puzzled by his behavior, but I did not question him or make comment. It was not my place to do so.

"You have your orders, Count," he said. With this, he turned and rejoined the Fuhrer and the other airmen. The Fuhrer glanced in my direction and quickly looked away. He was intensely interested in what had just been said, that much was obvious.

As the Reichsmarschall had reminded me, I had my orders. I left the room at once, ignoring the curious stares from the sentries. No one challenged me as I made my way outside to the motor pool. I climbed into the first staff car, started the engine and drove away.

No more than five minutes later, after a relatively pleasant drive through green countryside cluttered with anti-aircraft batteries, I reached the airfield. The guards at the gate allowed me to pass without even a cursory identity check. There were several planes visible, one a Junkers Ju-87, the famed Stuka, one of the first aircraft I had flown in this war. I could see men in the control tower, faceless shadows, watching me. I abandoned the staff car near the end of the runway and approached the waiting dive bomber. It was, as the Reichsmarschall had said, armed. Beneath its belly hung a cylindrical bomb, much larger than the 250-kilogram bomb usually carried by the Ju-87. I did not recognize the type, and wondered whether the Stuka was actually capable of carrying such an enormous payload.

I climbed into the cockpit, switched on the electricals, carried out a swift pre-flight instrument check, then turned the starter switch. The 12-cylinder Jumo engine caught immediately. Its familiar roar gave me some measure of comfort.

I reached beneath my seat, located the map, and memorized the target area. Moments later I guided the Stuka down the runway, ignoring everything except my controls and the runway directly ahead. The Stuka slowly gathered speed and momentum and the entire frame groaned in protest as I pulled back on the stick, demanding the aircraft take to the sky. It is as well that flat fields lay beyond the runway, because the Stuka stubbornly refused to rise and instead flew parallel to the ground, achieving an altitude of only fifty feet over the first five minutes of flight. I had not flown this low since I machine-gunned the endless lines of civilian refugees streaming out of Warsaw in 1939. I was flying a brick toward an unknown target -- a brick packed with high explosive that would disperse my physical being across the universe should I make the slightest error.

I concentrated on keeping the Stuka on course. This took considerable skill because the winds had increased. The sky had also turned completely black, so that day was transformed into night. I felt as if I was flying through a great storm that possessed a supernatural intelligence and was bent on stopping me from performing my duty -- a duty given to me by none other than Reichsmarschall Goering and approved by the Fuhrer himself. At that moment I remembered the object Goering had pressed into my hand. I took it from my pocket and held it before my eyes. It was an amulet. The chain was silver, beautifully worked, and from this dangled a small silver sphere of diameter two centimeters, intricately engraved with what I imagined might be writing, although I did not recognize the form or the characters.

I nearly lost control of my aircraft when the sphere opened of its own accord, the two hemispheres parting to reveal that which lay within. The sphere contained a black jewel, but this was no ordinary jewel. Within its interior blazed a tiny swastika, the glorious symbol of our Reich. It burned with a red fire that seemed, somehow, alive. I had never seen anything so beautiful before. It filled me with strength and exhilaration. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to loop the chain over my head and wear the amulet at my neck. The sphere closed again, settling itself comfortably against my chest.

Something I can only describe as warmth flowed through me, filling every part of my body. I could not explain it, nor did I have time to wonder. Directly ahead, clearly visible even at this range, was my target. I had not known what to expect to find -- a building, perhaps, inhabited by secret enemies of the Reich? Oh yes, we know of those traitors who sought to take the Fuhrer's life -- they died under slow torture, and thoroughly deserved their fate.

But my target was not a building. Flashes of lightning revealed a hole in the ground, a vast pit such as might have been made by a giant mole, if such a creature could be imagined to exist. As I flew ever closer, I began to perceive its dimensions. The pit was fully half a kilometer wide. I had no idea of its depth but instinctively sensed it plunged down into the bowels of the earth, far deeper than any opening Man had ever encountered.

I also realized that I was no longer alone.

Yes, it might have been a trick of the light, for the world about me lay in darkness, an unnatural darkness, a chilling darkness that should never have existed. Lightning continued to flash around the target, and in these brief moments of lucidity, I believe I saw something.

How does one describe the indescribable? Once upon a remote time there were supposedly reptiles that flew over the earth, great winged creatures that dominated the air in much the same way as our Luftwaffe does today.

They were there, and yet they were not there. I never actually saw them, other than as barely glimpsed shadows that vanished the instant I turned my head. But I saw the damage they inflicted upon my aircraft. They tore at my wings with their razor sharp claws, twisted my aerofoils, did everything they could to stop me from reaching that dark place from which they had risen.

Oh my Fuhrer, what terrible secrets have you disturbed that were better left sleeping? What alliance did you make with these denizens of timeless evil, that now must be broken for the sake of our Reich and our very souls? Now I knew what had opened the doors at Berghof; now I knew why even the Black Guards were so afraid.

The Stuka flew resolutely on, stoically bearing their awful assault, but I could tell from the way my aircraft handled that damage was being done. I sensed that those shadowy figments of my addled imagination wished to rip open my cockpit and tear me limb from limb, but were prevented from doing so. How, you may ask? What held their rage in check? The answer dangled around my neck -- the amulet which the Reichsmarschall had given to me just before I departed Berghof, of course. The jewel within resisted them, demanded they keep their distance. It caused them great pain and suffering, just as it gave me the strength to guide my aircraft toward the target. I have heard it said that the Buddhists look upon our swastika as the symbol that represents life. Whether they are right I cannot say, but I do know that the amulet protected me, drawing upon a power as ancient as those creatures who so desperately wished to stop me.

But, despite the amulet's protection, doubt struck me then. Perhaps an entire fleet of bombers might destroy whatever lay within that deep pit of Hell, but what could one bomb possibly do? This question insinuated itself into my consciousness, demanding an immediate answer. Was it worth my risking self-destruction to deliver such a puny weapon that would ultimately do no good at all? I decided no, that my mission was pointless and without meaning, and I gripped the stick firmly, intending to wrench the Stuka around and fly back to the airfield. But my limbs were no longer my own.

To page three -->