Of Knights and Dogfights

by Ellie Midwood

  “This is Charlotte.”

  Willi lifted himself on one elbow at once, quickly passing his hand through a tangled mess of his gilded locks to work them into at least some sort of order. “Charlotte in Charlottenburg? Was that you, after whom it was named? Because I can certainly see why. Your name had to be immortalized.”

  A faint blush colored Charlotte’s cheeks. They made a delightful contrast; Mina, the golden girl and Charlotte, with wild curls of dark hair and steady gray eyes – fearless, inquisitive.

  With a subtle smile, Mina watched them both study each other. The pause was growing long. Willi never took his gaze off of Charlotte, yet remained oddly silent, much to his sister’s increasing wonder. Willi, the clown, with nothing to say?

  “Don’t listen to my brother.” She came to his aid, at length, grinning. “He’s a terrible flirt! Wilhelm, please, act like a gentleman. Charlotte was so looking forward to meeting a brilliant German ace; please don’t embarrass me in front of her!”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, dearest Charlotte, but you have been wickedly deceived by my no-good sister! I’m afraid a brilliant German ace Johann Brandt, who you were looking forward to meeting, is scoring his victories in Africa now. It’s only me here, Willi. I’m his wingman.”

  Gazing intently at the young man in front of her, Charlotte took a probing step forward, then another and finally sat carefully on the edge of his hospital bed, placing a magazine, with his photo on its cover, in front of Willi. “Could you sign it for me, please?”

  “I would if I had a pen.”

  “They don’t give you pens here?”

  “Not even a pencil or paper for that matter, after that last letter of mine that I sent.”

  “What was in it that was so horrible?”

  “Nothing that I can think of. It was addressed to Reichsmarschall Göring. I only asked him to allow some cognac on the premises. The Gestapo thought it to be unseemly.”

  Charlotte started laughing openly. “You wouldn’t do anything of the sort!”

  “Mina, would I do anything of the sort?” Willi arched his brow, shifting his gaze to his sister.

  She observed the two with a grin. “Yes, you would.”

  Charlotte fingered the pages of the magazine. “I somehow formed a completely different opinion of you after reading this interview.”

  “Those weren’t my answers. Minister Goebbels’s. Again, I’m terribly sorry for disappointing you.”

  “Disappointing?” Charlotte’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “No, you definitely didn’t disappoint me.”

  “Stay for thirty more minutes; I promise, I’ll do it by then.”

  “I can stay for the rest of the day.”

  Somewhere along the lines of their conversation, Mina slipped away without being noticed. Without taking his gaze off Charlotte, Willi was talking about flips and rolls, stalls and dives, desert and fighters, stars and the dustiest skies he’s ever seen. Her hands were Messerschmitts; his – Hurricanes. Here’s the blind spot. And here’s the frontal attack. Her palm, guided by his hand, was gliding above the blanket until it landed softly on the silky surface. No gear landing. I’m the master of it. If you only knew how many fighters I brought down in this manner with no fuel!

  “Show me something else!”

  “But of course! Spread your fingers wide. This is Lufbery. And this is our Schwarm. One on top of the other, you see? Move your left hand a bit further. Good. Now you can see the enemy fighters who attack your lower Schwarm and dive down on them. Just like this…”

  “Oh, how I would love to fly a fighter myself!”

  “If you bring me some civilian clothes so that I can slip out of here unnoticed, I’ll take you to the Berlin airfield and borrow one of theirs.”

  “Would you?” Wide eyes; breath caught in her chest.

  “For you, I would.”

  Silence. Long and meaningful.

  The day-shift nurse cleared her throat in the door. “Visitation hours are over.”

  Charlotte’s delicate fingers still touching his, Willi looked at the girl with such devastation that she pressed his hand tightly and solemnly promised to return the following day.

  “With paper and pen,” she whispered in his ear before placing an unexpected kiss on his cheek.

  Charlotte did return and once again she stayed until the very closing. Three weeks later, making use of the paper which he now had in abundance thanks to his friend, Willi was writing to Johann. On the very bottom, just above his name, he wrote a simple and terrifying, I think I love her…

  Fifteen

  Africa, 1942

  * * *

  Johann touched his Knight’s Cross with reverence as though ensuring that it was indeed there – a habit which wouldn’t leave him ever since Feldmarschall Rommel himself awarded him with it on Reichsmarschall Göring’s orders. Ordinarily, it would have been Göring himself adorning one of his aces’ neck with a coveted ribbon but the situation on the front was such that no leaves were allowed, even for such celebratory purposes.

  Rommel had just recaptured Benghazi not without the Luftwaffe’s help but the fighting both on the ground and in the air was so intense that everyone had to be present and ready to throw themselves on the battlefield. Still missing Willi sorely, Johann found that his mood had brightened a bit as soon as, together with the new pilots, fresh out of flying school, his old comrade Walter Riedman was transferred from his Geschwader in the Channel. In fact, Walter had been assigned to Staffel 3 at first, but Johann pleaded Walt’s case with his Staffelkapitän Leitner so relentlessly until he wore him out and Leitner finally agreed.

  It only took Walter one sortie to persuade his new superior of his talent. Assigned to fly as a wingman to Johann, Walter scored two victories, all without leaving his leader and while clearing his tail.

  “You should really allow him to fly as a Schwarm leader while von Sielaff is out of commission,” Johann told Leitner while both were writing their respective after-mission reports. “I know Riedman from the flying school. He has been flying since he was twelve. He used to perform aerobatics along with his father while I was only dreaming of flying. You saw his personal record – he’s an exemplary pilot. No reprimands, no negative entries… He scored twenty-eight victories while serving near the Channel. He was awarded the Iron Cross First Class—”

  “All right, all right!” Leitner cried out, at last, throwing his arms in the air in mock irritation. “Have it your way. I’ll put him as a Schwarm leader for the next sortie; just close your mouth for five minutes and let me finish this, will you?”

  Thoroughly trying to conceal his triumphant grin, Johann nodded. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann. Thank you.”

  Walter accepted Johann’s invitation to temporarily occupy Willi’s bed in their tent with visible reluctance. “It feels wrong. His things are still here…”

  “Willi wouldn’t mind,” Johann reassured his former roommate. “Like the good old times, at flying school, eh?”

  Walt grinned, his kind hazel eyes shining softly. “Yes, like the good old times. I missed you both. And Rudi too.”

  “Does he write to you?”

  “He does when he has time. I feel for the poor fellow over there in Russia.”

  “Who doesn’t now?” It was no secret that the mere thought of being sent to the Eastern Front turned any flyer cold with horror. “Even with all the malaria and snakes, I’d still take the African desert over the Russian steppe any day of the week and twice on Sunday,” Johann admitted honestly. “Besides, the field police don’t crawl around our parts as they do over there.” A vague nod in a generally easterly direction.

  “Give them time,” Walt murmured, twisting an unlit cigarette in his fingers. “They’ll make their way here someday.”

  No one could possibly know how prophetic his words would turn out to be.

  One fine, spring morning, upon their return from yet another sortie, the Staffel found their base immersed in some odd commotion, their un
expected guests’ field-gray attires standing out like a sore thumb among the Afrika Korps sand-colored uniforms. The unannounced visitors strutted around with notebooks in their hands, conferring among themselves and thoroughly ignoring their Luftwaffe counterparts.

  “What in the hell?..” Leitner’s face visibly clouded over as soon as he climbed out of his cockpit and found SS troops wandering around his base as though they owned it, probing and poking at the equipment. No one seemed to bother to salute him when he approached them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” Hauptmann Leitner spoke with contained anger in his voice. “May I inquire of the purpose of such an unexpected visit?”

  “You may.” One of the SS men – the leader, as Johann had assumed – turned sharply on his heels and glanced Leitner up and down, pursing his mouth disapprovingly at the ace’s disheveled state. They were all still dripping with sweat, sticky bangs plastered over their foreheads, dog-tired and thirsty – quite the contrary to the immaculately dressed Untersturmführer in front of them. Even his black boots still retained their shine after he had exited his car some twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes, during which Hauptmann Leitner’s group shot down five enemy planes and claimed three damaged. “I won’t give you an answer but asking is not prohibited.”

  Such a sardonic remark caused chuckles from the gray-clad officer’s men’s side. Leitner’s cheeks flared up with ire. “You’re on my base where I am in charge! I demand you introduce yourself properly and state the purpose of your visit. Otherwise, I’ll report you and your outrageous behavior to your superiors at once!”

  The Untersturmführer only scribbled something quickly in his notebook.

  “Staffelkapitän Hauptmann Leitner, correct?”

  Leitner’s hard breathing was his only response.

  “You haven’t greeted me properly, I’m afraid. You said Good Afternoon instead of the prescribed Heil Hitler. You failed to salute me as well. That’s a minor misdemeanor but it must be reported and investigated. You aren’t setting a proper example for your men, from what I can see. Their look leaves a lot to be desired as well; this will also be reported. You can’t fight a war looking like a bunch of tramps—”

  “Who do you think you are, you dummes SS Arschloch?!” Leitner’s shouting made even Johann jerk. “Coming here and talking down to me like I’m some cadet on my first term?! And how dare you accuse my men of not being dressed properly when they were roused from their beds by the call and had to jump inside their fighters without bothering putting on their parachutes because they had a base to save and comrades to help?!”

  “Your language and form of address will also be reported,” the insolent Untersturmführer replied calmly before striding off with an air of unfathomable nonchalance about him. His pencil never left his notebook.

  “Did you see that son of a bitch?!” Leitner turned to Johann.

  “What do they want with us?” Johann only inquired quietly, a dim sense of something sinister settling in the pit of his stomach.

  “I’ll be damned if I know!” Leitner was already heading to his tent, cursing and spitting as he marched. “I’m calling Feldmarschall Rommel’s headquarters!” He yelled to no one particular – more for show, as Johann thought, despite ground troops indeed standing in close proximity.

  According to Rommel himself, who took pleasure in exchanging a good joke now and then with his Kameraden, the infantry had seemed to take a liking to the JG-27 Staffel 1’s makeshift movie theater and that was the reason for their guarding the base position with their lives. Joke or no joke, but the infantry fellows, along with their highest-ranking commanders, never declined an invitation when a new motion picture was brought by a supply truck from the North.

  Either such comradery of the troops being the reason or his personal dislike of the SS, but Feldmarschall Rommel arrived within an hour, right on time before the verbal altercation between the Luftwaffe and the SS escalated to something more physical. Their immaculately dressed leader, it appeared, had enough sense to at least salute the Feldmarschall and introduce himself as SS Untersturmführer Vetter.

  “Good day, Herr Untersturmführer.” Rommel brought his hand to his forehead instead of outstretching it in front of him. The SS man’s face soured a little, visibly. Watching the scene unravel from afar, Johann caught himself thinking that, as a matter of fact, he’d never seen Rommel salute anyone as the Neues Deutsches Reich demanded from its men. Their beloved Feldmarschall was a military man, an ordinary career officer who loved his soldiers and loathed politics. He wasn’t even a member of the Party – a fact, which perhaps earned him even more respect from the liberal Luftwaffe. None of the officers or comrades Johann knew personally spotted a Bonbon – a Nazi Party pin, preferring Iron Crosses to it instead. “Is there any reason why my men are complaining that you’re having some sort of an unsanctioned visit to our forsaken parts and refuse to inform them of the reasons for your presence here?”

  “The visit is sanctioned, Herr Feldmarschall.” Vetter straightened out even more, as though offended by the very idea that his presence on the base was not in accordance to some order. “As for my refusal to reveal the reasons for it to your men, I’m afraid it’s a need-to-know sort of case and I’m not authorized to disclose any details. Here’s the official paper from the RSHA.”

  Erwin Rommel took the paper, read it carefully and returned it to him with a soft smile. “There’s nothing specific here, only an insufferable number of words with the most ambiguous of meanings. What does ‘an SS official entrusted with this order is authorized to act according to the newest regulations which have come into effect starting with January 29, 1942’ even mean?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to explain the details to you, Herr Feldmarschall. But you may contact the Main Office directly and inquire with them; I’m certain that Obergruppenführer Heydrich or one of his subordinates will gladly explain it to you. If you don’t mind, I would like to return to fulfilling my duties here, Herr Feldmarschall.”

  Vetter clicked his heels, offering him a crisp salute. Rommel once again touched the brim of his cap with his hand and watched the young man strut away with a guarded expression on his face. Staffelkapitän Leitner cursed quietly under his breath; apologized at once, to which Rommel only waved his hand dismissively.

  “Let them do whatever they want. Do you have anything cold, Hauptmann?”

  “Iced coffee, Herr Feldmarschall. Staffel 2 got themselves a refrigerated unit, but they were generous enough to offer all three Staffel to rotate it among the bases. This week is ours.”

  “It seems, I’m in luck then, as iced coffee sounds wonderful. Ask your cooks to set the table for your men and let’s all have some. Your brave aces look like they’re falling off their feet.”

  “They didn’t have a chance to have a drink after their sortie, I’m afraid. With all that verdammter Zirkus. I apologize, Herr Feldmarschall.”

  “You really oughtn’t to.” A knowing grin crossed Rommel’s kind face. Trust me, I share your sentiments entirely.

  Johann hurried to his tent to change into a fresh uniform, along with the rest of the Staffel. Somehow, it was unanimously decided among them that sitting down at the same table with their highly esteemed commander in such a disheveled state was an expression of utter disrespect. Where the SS man’s arrogant remarks on account of their appearance failed to produce any effect, Rommel’s mere presence propelled them into action and that was the sole difference between a true commander and an imposter trying to command.

  As his tent stood almost next to the Staffelkapitän’s tent, it was Johann who was the first one to catch onto the beginning of an altercation. Shoving a tunic into his shorts, Johann grabbed his belt with holster and rushed into a blazing afternoon. One of the Senegalese infantrymen, who’d been captured a few months ago and who was permitted to remain on the base as a crew chief for he was a truly excellent mechanic, was desperately trying to prove something to the SS men. One of them was calml
y poking him in the back with some sort of a stick he’d picked up, obviously in his desire to escape any sort of direct contact with the prisoner of war. To all of the Senegalese crew chief’s pleas in his accented German, he kept replying in three languages – French, German, and English as though driving his point across without even listening to what the man had to say. “Go to the transport aircraft. Do you understand what I’m saying? Go to the transport aircraft, now!”

  “Excuse me, what are you doing?” Johann demanded, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the group.

  “Something that does not concern you.”

  “I beg to differ, Herren! He’s one of our crew chiefs; we’re understaffed as is and you want to take him away as well? Who’s going to fix our aircraft?”

  “A white man,” followed the dispassionate reply. “Now step aside so that we can take him to our plane.”

  Blood left Johann’s cheeks at once as his hands closed into fists without him noticing it. How many times in his life will he have to hear the same hateful rhetoric coming from his own countrymen? First Alf, then the Kristallnacht and that woman and her daughter on the ground, the SS troops standing over them like a pack of dogs, now – this Senegalese fellow? Blood pulsing wildly in his temples, Johann grabbed the crew chief’s sleeve and pulled him close, clasping his hand around the trembling man’s wrist. “You will do no such thing. You will not take him anywhere. He’s staying.”

  “You’re disobeying high orders…” Vetter checked his notes with a disinterested look. “Leutnant Brandt, is it not? That will go into your personal record.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “What’s going on here?” Leitner and the rest of the Staffel were already closing behind Johann's back.

  The Luftwaffe didn’t abandon their kind, whatever the repercussions were. They stood, as though in a Staffel formation, ready to strike at a moment’s notice, only instead of precious Stukas that they ordinarily guarded, it was their Senegalese crew chief, and while they stood around him, he was going nowhere – over their dead bodies, he would.