A year after the war, my publisher sent me to Stavanger, Norway, to interview Roger Two Hawks. I had full authority to negotiate a contract with him. The terms were very favorable, especially when the lack of printing facilities and distribution of that postwar period is considered. I had asked for the assignment, since I had heard so much about Roger Two Hawks. Most of the stories were incredible, even contradictory yet my informants swore to the truth of their testimonies.

So high-pitched was my curiosity, I would have quit my job and gone on my own to Norway if my publisher had refused me. And this was at a time when jobs in my field were not easy to get. Rebuilding our destroyed civilization was the foremost goal; craftsmanship in steelworking or bricklaying was more desired than facility with the pen.

Nevertheless, people were buying books, and there was a worldwide interest in the mysterious stranger, Roger Two Hawks. Everyone had heard of him, but those who had known him well were either dead or missing.

I booked passage on an old steamer that took five days to get to Stavanger. I did not even wait to check in at the hotel, since it was late evening. Instead, I asked directions, in my abominable Norwegian, to the hotel at which I knew Two Hawks was staying. I had tried to get reservations there with no success.

The taxi fare was very high, since fuel was still being rationed. We drove through many dark streets with unlit gaslights. But the front of the hotel was brightly illuminated, and the lobby was crowded with noisy and laughing guests, still happy about having lived through the war.

I asked the desk clerk for Two Hawks’ room and was told that he was in the ballroom, attending a large party given by the mayor of Stavanger.

I had no trouble locating Roger Two Hawks, since I had seen many photographs of him. He stood at one corner of the room, surrounded by men and women. I pushed my way through them and soon stood near him. He was a tall well-built man with a handsome, although aquiline, face. His hair was a dark brown; his skin was dark although not much darker than that of some of the Norwegians present. But his eyes were unexpectedly grey, as cool and grey as a winter Icelandic sky. He was holding a drink of Norland in one hand and chatting away with frequent flashings of his white teeth. His Norwegian was no better than mine, that is, fluent but heavily accented and not always grammatically acceptable. Beside him stood a beautiful blonde whom I also recognized from photographs. She was his wife.

When a short pause came in the conversation, I took the opportunity to introduce myself. He had heard of me and my visit, of course, because both my publisher and myself had corresponded with him. His voice was a deep rich baritone, very pleasant and at the same time confidence-inspiring.

He asked me how my trip was, and I told him that it was endurable. He smiled and said, “I had begun to think that your publisher had changed his mind and you weren’t coming after all. Apparently, the wireless had also broken down on your ship.”

“Everything did,” I said. “The vessel was used for coastal shipping during the war and was bombed at least four times. Some of the repairs were pretty hasty and done with shoddy materials.”

“I’m leaving Norway in two days,” he said abruptly. “That means that I can give you about a day and a half. I’ll have to tell you the story and depend on you to get it right. How’s your memory?”

“Photographic,” I replied. “Very well. But that means that neither of us will get much sleep. I’m tired, but I’d like to start as soon as possible. So...?”

“Right now. I’ll tell my wife we’re going up to my room and I’ll be a moment explaining to my host.”

Five minutes later, we were in his room. He put on a big pot of coffee while I got the contract and my pen and notebook out. Then he said, “I really don’t know why I’m doing this. Perhaps I’d like... well, never mind. The point is, I need money and this book seems to be the easiest way to get it. Yet, I may not come back to collect any royalties. It all depends on what happens at the end of my voyage.”

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. With one of the quick yet fluid motions characteristic of him, he left my side and strode across the room to a large table. On it was a globe of the world, a prewar model that did not show the change in boundaries that had taken place in the past year.

“Come here a moment,” he said. “I want to show you where my story begins.”

I rose and went to his side. He turned the globe slowly, then stopped it. With the point of a pencil, he indicated a spot on the land a little to the left of the central western shore of the Black Sea.

“Ploesti, Rumania,” he said. “That’s where I’ll begin. I could start much further back, but to do that would take time which we don’t have. If you have any questions about my story before then, you’ll have to insert them whenever you get the chance. However, I have a manuscript which outlines my life before I went on the mission against the oil-fields of Ploesti.”

“Ploesti, Rumania?” I said.

“Ploesti, the great oil-producing and refining heart of Deutschland’s new empire. The target of the 9th Air Force, based in Cyrenaica, North Africa. It took five years of war before the Americans could launch an attack against the lifeblood of Germany’s transportation and military effectiveness. Overloaded with bombs, ammunition, and gasoline, 175 four-motored bombers set out to destroy the oil tanks and refineries of Ploesti. We did not know that it was called Festung Ploesti, Fortress Ploesti, that the greatest concentration of anti-aircraft guns in Europe ringed that city. Nor would it have made much difference if we had known, except that we might not have been so shocked when we found out.

“I was first pilot on the Hiawatha; my co-pilot was Jim Andrews. He was from Birmingham, Alabama, but the fact that I was part Iroquois Indian didn’t seem to bother him any. We were the best of friends.”

He stopped, then smiled, and said, ‘By the way, you are looking at Ye Compleat Iroquoian. I have ancestors from every existing Iroquois tribe, including great-grandparents from the Iroquoian-speaking Cherokees. But my father was part Icelandic and my mother was part Scotch.”

I shrugged and said, to explain my blank look, “Can I expect to get some explanation of this from the manuscript you spoke of?”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway...”

The mission leader of the group had taken the wrong turn at Targoviste. Instead of heading for Ploesti, the Circus was going toward Bucharest. First Lieutenant Two Hawks realized the error and, like some of the other pilots, he disobeyed orders by breaking radio silence. There was no reply from the mission leader, who steadfastly kept on the wrong road. Then, far to their left, Two Hawks saw a smudge in the mist and knew that this had to be smoke from burning refineries. Other groups had gotten to the correct destination, and had released their bombs.

He looked at the lead bomber and wondered if the colonel had also seen the telltale smoke. Suddenly, the lead plane turned at right angles to the course and headed toward the smoke. Two Hawks, with the others, turned his plane in a maneuver so tightly executed that formation was maintained as strictly as before. The Hiawatha, engines straining to push at two hundred and forty-five mph, swept at only fifty feet above the ground. Sections of high green corn, alfalfa, and sheafs of wheat in gleaming stubble flashed below him. Ahead of the group, out of the smoke, the cables and elephantine bodies of barrage balloons hovered. Some were rising from the ground, and those at a high altitude were being pulled down to counter the low altitude attack.