Suspicion marked von Till's eyes, then his lips faded to a phoney smile. "If I told you, it might upset your appetite. That, my dear Major, would make Teri exceedingly angry since she has spent half the afternoon in the kitchen overseeing tonight's dinner." He shrugged in a typical European gesture. "Some other time, perhaps, when I know you better."

Pitt spun the last swallow of scotch around in the glass and wondered what he had gotten himself into. Von Till, he decided, was either some kind of nut or a very shrewd operator.

"May I get you another drink?" asked von Till.

"Don't bother, I'll get it." Pitt finished the drink and walked over to the bar and poured another. He stared at von Till. "From what I've read about World War I aviation, the circumstances behind the death of Kurt Heibert are nebulous. According to official German records, he was shot down by the British and crashed somewhere in the Aegean Sea. However, the records fail to mention the name of Heibert's victorious opponent. They also fail to state if the body was found."

Von Till idly petted the dog. His eyes seemed lost in the past for a few moments. Finally, he said, "Kurt waged his own private war with the British back in 1918. He seldom flew against them coolly or efficiently. He handled his machine wildly and attacked their formations like a man possessed with a spastic devil. When he was in the air, he cursed and raved and pounded his fists on the edge of the cockpit until they bled. On takeoff he always revved his engine to a roaring full throttle so that his Albatros leaped off the ground like a frightened bird. And yet, when he was not on patrol and could forget the war for a few moments, he could be a man of great humor, much unlike your American conception of the German soldier."

Pitt shook his head slowly with a hint of a smile. "You must forgive me, Herr von Till, but most of my comrades-in-arms have yet to meet a German soldier who was a barrel of laughs."