watched Hitler lay his cap on the map table and lead his Eastern-Front generals to the far corner of the room. I wonder what went through the would-be killer’s mind as he stole over and stretched a hand to touch the Fuhrer’s hat? Perhaps he was thinking of quickly trying it on, the costume of the emperor, to see how it might change him? Or maybe it was mockery and playful subversion, with the time-bomb already concealed and primed in the hallway, ready to be smuggled onto the master’s returning plane. He tugged at the fabric but the cap didn’t move. It took both hands to lift it easily. Hitler’s cap was lined with steel, even the black peak. It was armour-plated.
I don’t worry about sniper bullets. Or time-bombs and treacherous underlings. I have no underlings. There’s no killer hiding in the trees, no ticking device to blow me to atoms. I do worry about cows sometimes. I’ve seen them on the gallop, been chased by a maddened herd in the past. So I look along the path a little. And count my blessings if the road is clear.
