In the corridors of the German Air Ministry in Berlin, Operation Hermann was labelled as a huge success, and gave fuel to the enemy’s struggling propaganda machine. But among the operational squadrons, there grew the conviction that the New Year’s Day raid had been the Luftwaffe’s swan-song, and that never again would the Germans be in a position to challenge the Allied air forces in strength.
*
In view of the situation, Yeoman had succeeded in postponing his departure on leave by ten days; longer than that, the group commander would not allow him. Nevertheless, it was clear that until aircraft reinforcements could be flown out from England, the handful of Tempests and Spitfires that had escaped the big attack would have to sustain the Allied air offensive — and that meant twice the amount of work for everyone involved.
During the first week of the New Year, the pilots of the Eindhoven Wing flew a minimum of two sorties a day, whenever the weather permitted, all of them low-level attacks on enemy transport and communications. In that week, the Wing lost seven aircraft and four pilots.
The mess at Eindhoven reassumed its former gloomy aspect. There were no social gatherings in the bar, and very little drinking by individuals. A pilot, his face betraying extreme fatigue, might wander in and swallow a hasty half-pint of beer before collapsing on his bed, but that was all. It was a situation that could not last for much longer.
Fortunately, the weather intervened. On the morning of 8 January it started to snow again, the blizzards accompanied by strong winds and abysmal temperatures. On both sides of the front, the struggle now was not so much to stay alive, as to stay warm.
At Rheine, its runways completely snowbound, Richter shuddered to think of the plight of the front-line soldiers, especially those on the crumbling eastern front. His adjutant, Hasso von Gleiwitz, had shown him a letter he had received from his brother, fighting somewhere in East Prussia; one paragraph stood out in Richter’s mind, making his flesh crawl:
‘If you actually saw me you would raise your hands in dismay. I am ragged and filthy. I have had the same underwear on for five weeks ... if one doesn’t get lice it’s a miracle. If only the war were over soon; it has lasted long enough already.’
Too long, Richter thought. Best to end it now, in the misery of winter, so that with the coming of spring and its warmth we shall have fresh heart to start rebuilding out of the ruins we have created. Then, more realistically, he knew that the coming of spring would bring only more offensives, more slaughter, which would end only when Germany was a sea of ashes from frontier to frontier.
Johnny Schumacher came to see him one day, his face ashen and his hand trembling. In his hand he held a telegram; it was from his mother. He thrust it out for Richter to read, and the latter gave a gasp of astonishment.
Schumacher’s father had been arrested.
It took Richter and his adjutant nearly two days of intensive enquiries before they could tell the distraught Schumacher why it had happened. His father had been arrested by the Gestapo for harbouring a Jew, a former schoolteacher.
‘But I knew that old man,’ Schumacher protested in bewilderment. ‘He was gentle, and kind — a friend of my father’s for many years. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.’
Richter stared at him and said nothing. They both knew that in such cases it was useless to protest.
Three days later came the news that Schumacher’s father had died ‘of a heart attack, while in police custody’. And shortly afterwards, an order arrived instructing Schumacher to report immediately to Gestapo HQ in Berlin. It was, the order said, merely a formality; his mother had been held for questioning, and his signature was needed for her release.
Richter tried to reassure him, but there was little he could do to lift his friend’s deep depression. Wordlessly, Schumacher went off to his room, ostensibly to pack a bag.
An hour later, Richter was sitting in his office, moodily studying the latest situation reports, when he was startled by the sudden roar of an aero-engine. He got up and crossed quickly to the window; outside, flurries of snow swirled down through a thick mist.
He was just in time to see the vague shape of a Focke-Wulf, taking off into the murk. Furiously, he summoned von Gleiwitz from the outer office.
‘Find out who that is,’ he ordered. ‘No one has been authorized to fly today. I want that aircraft back immediately, before the pilot breaks his neck!’
He turned back to the window, frowning, and heard his adjutant speaking rapidly on the telephone. Suddenly, von Gleiwitz’s voice was drowned by the prolonged screech of an aircraft diving under full power.
Richter never saw the Focke-Wulf plummet out of the clouds. But he could not escape seeing the brilliant flash of the explosion, over on the far side of the airfield, or the dark smoke that burgeoned up into the foggy sky.
*
The coffin lay on the frozen ground beside the open grave in Rheine’s little cemetery. The officers of Jagdgeschwader 66 stood with bowed heads as the chaplain read the funeral service. A watery sun shone down on the scene.
The chaplain ceased his murmuring, and Richter stepped forward. Looking straight ahead, as though surveying the rooks in the distant, barren tree-tops, he said:
‘Major Schumacher was my friend. He was also a warrior in the finest traditions of Germany. Together, we fought long and bitter campaigns, and never once did he falter in his duty or his determination.’ For the first time, he looked directly at the assembled officers, who stared woodenly in front of them. ‘A few days ago, Major Schumacher received the tragic news that his father had died in the hands of the Gestapo.’
Behind Richter, Hasso von Gleiwitz stiffened, his eyes fearful; it was not good to say such things.
‘However,’ Richter continued, ‘I do not wish it to be thought that this had any bearing on today’s unhappy events. On his last flight, Major Schumacher was carrying out a weather check, which I personally authorized. His death was an accident.’
There was a noticeable flicker of true understanding in the eyes of several of the assembled officers, and Richter nodded slowly. It was good that they should understand.
There remained one last act to be performed. Reaching down, Richter removed the Nazi flag, with its large black swastika, that was draped over Schumacher’s coffin, and reached out his hand to von Gleiwitz. The adjutant passed him another flag, reverently folded; it was the flag of Imperial Germany, and no crooked cross defaced it.
Gently, Richter unfurled it and spread it over the remains of his friend. Then he straightened up, saluted, and signalled to the firing party to carry on.
The salutes crashed out, sending the rooks wheeling and cawing in startled panic. The coffin was lowered into the grave and Richter, his heart leaden, heard the dull thud as clods of frozen earth fell upon it. He turned and strode away, followed by his officers. As he walked on, the swastika flag slipped gradually from his hand, as though by accident, and lay crumpled in the snow. No one bothered to pick it up.
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Tempest Squadron Page 15