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which Goering appeared to recognize, for he paused in his stride and said to
    Becker, “That fellow there! Is that Lazarus?”
    “That is Squadron-Leader Lazarus, sir. He has been in command here since Squadron-
    Leader Fienburg left last week.”
    Goering muttered something which the tactful Becker thought it wiser not to hear, and
    walked on again. Becker dropped back a little and Lehmann joined him.
    “Look out for squalls,” muttered Becker.
    “Why?”
    “Can’t stand each other. Always squalls.”
    “Good evening, Goering,” said Lazarus from the doorstep.
    “Evening, Lazarus,” said Goering, without attempting to salute. “Got any petrol in this
    dump of yours?”
    “You will address me as ‘sir,’” said Lazarus, his long nose reddening.
    “Oh, suffering cats, they’ve started already,” said Becker under his breath.
    “I asked, sir, whether, sir, you had any petrol, sir,” said Goering impertinently.
    “What for?”
    “To put into the tanks of my machines. Not to wash in, though to be sure it gets the
    grease off,” said the Flight-Commander, staring at his superior’s rather oily complexion.
    “A painful scene,” murmured Klaus sympathetically, to which Becker only replied, “You
    wait.”
    “I have no petrol,” said Lazarus, “and if I had you would not get it. Your machines are
    grounded by order of the High Command.”
    Goering stated what he considered to be the appropriate ultimate destination of the High
    Command.
    “I cannot hear this,” said Lazarus, who had the infuriating quality of becoming cooler as
    the other became more heated. “Your agitation is understandable, Flight-Commander, though
    your expression of it is unfortunate in the extreme. The Allied Commission is expected to arrive
    here this afternoon—at any time now,” he added, glancing at his watch. “You will be good
    enough to control yourself and not give the enemy an opportunity of saying that a German
    officer does not know how to behave in defeat.”
    “You lousy pig-faced Jew,” began Goering, but the doorway was empty. “Some day,”
    promised Goering, “you shall pay for that.” He stalked in at the door, disregarding entirely his
    enthralled audience behind. “Will they meet again inside?” asked Klaus.
    “No. The skipper will go to his room, to await, with dignity, the Allied Commission.
    Goering will go to the bar, to drown his sorrows. I suppose we ought to do what we can for these
    other fellows,” said Becker, referring to Goering’s fellow pilots, who were coming up. “It is a
    bad day for them, you know.”
    “Can’t we get them away before the—the bonfire starts?” suggested Klaus, who was
    beginning to feel that he had known Becker for years.
    “Doubt if they’d go. Like all great performers, a trifle temperamental—all bar one, that
    is.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Udet. Sh, here they come.”
    About an hour later the Commission arrived, to be received with the utmost formality by
    Lazarus, while Goering and his men simmered in silence. The machines were taken over,
    receipted, entered up in triplicate, and destroyed by fire, after which the Commission went its
    way again in two staff cars and an Army lorry. Becker and Lehmann, united by the comradeship
    which arises between strangers sheltering in the same doorway from the same storm, looked at
    each other. “What happens now?”
    “Heaven knows. I can’t stand a lot more,” said Becker, who looked white and shaken.
    “Those machines—”
    “I know,” said Klaus, and took him by the elbow. “A foul sight. Come and have a drink.”
    They found the rest of the party in the bar, talking in quiet tones and covertly watching
    Goering, who was sitting by himself on a high stool with his elbows on his knees, glowering at
    everyone and drinking heavily.
    “What are you going to do now, Kaspar?” one pilot asked another.
    “Oh, go back to my bank, I suppose, that is if there’s any money left in it to count.