Nineteen
Eastern Front, Summer 1942
* * *
The Ju-87 bomber Staffel was quartered in a former school building, squat and wooden, one of the few surviving structures in the entire village. In one of the classrooms, freed of all the furniture by the infantry who had hacked it into firewood during winter, three dive bomber pilots played skat on a board as the fourth one watched on. From all three windows, which owed their missing glass to the same infantry company and could only be boarded up by a piece of cardboard or tarpaulin during a storm, sultry air seeped into the room, together with the victorious cries of a winning team which must have scored yet another goal. The new Staffelkapitän, who was a bit too much of a sports enthusiast for Rudi’s liking, had once again challenged a local Panzer unit to a soccer match. With his sleeping quarters arranged in the coolest, darkest corner, Rudi wiped his sweaty neck with a handkerchief and threw another look, full of infinite longing, through the window. The lake lay directly across the field and he could certainly use a splash in its fresh water, but the damned Major Breske currently occupied said field with his sportsmen and so, Rudi decided against it. For whatever odd reason, their new commanding officer thought that sports were an essential attribute of a German soldier and therefore unmercifully taunted anyone who failed to display the same attitude.
Wistful smiles chased one another on Rudi’s face as he followed the lines, written in exemplary cursive by Johann. So, Riedman had had a taste of the enemy’s welcome after all. Rudi almost broke into mirthless laughter at Johann's indignation at such unfair treatment of a POW. A couple of bruises and a broken nose was regarded as a welcome outcome for anyone who’d had the misfortune to fall into the Reds’ hand here, on the Eastern Front. Mostly, the captives ended up in much worse shape; beaten to death, stripped to their undershirts, castrated, left to freeze, and stuck into the snowdrift as a ghastly road sign. Well, that was in winter; now, the Soviets just left them lying on the ground for the dead men’s comrades to discover their disfigured bodies.
One of the skat players, “Schatz” – “sweetheart” – as everyone in the Staffel called him due to his habit of addressing every one of the same or lower rank as “Schatz,” (“Schatz, be a lamb, lay an egg on that AA for me, will you? The damned Arschloch manning it just tore off half of my rudder!”) was telling some anecdote, his usually monotone voice interrupted by a series of guffaws. Momentarily forgetting the letter in his hands, Rudi caught the end of the conversation as having something to do with Schatz’s wife.
“But that’s the entire trouble! The baby’s hair is black as a Teufel’s, and we’re both blond and have blue eyes!”
“Maybe it has something to do with Darwin’s theory,” one of his comrades remarked with an air of grave seriousness. “I remember they taught us at school that the chances that a white cow and a black bull will have an offspring, which in its turn will have a certain probability of producing an offspring of a color that would be entirely different from its parents—”
“I don’t know what they taught you at school, Gradl, but I can tell you with the most profound conviction that this has nothing to do with Darwin but everything to do with our Polish farm worker,” Schatz finished with the same impenetrable look, causing the men’s laughter to redouble.
“Are you thinking to report it?”
“So that they ship my Friede off to a KZ on race defilement charges? No, thank you.” He considered his next move with great concentration. “Besides, I don’t particularly care that she’s doing some screwing on the side while I’m here. After all, I’m doing just as much screwing here. Who knows how many Ivans will return home and beat their wives for what I had left them with? The balance of things in the universe and all that.”
“You are a damned philosopher, Schatz, aren’t you?”
“One has to be when one’s at war.” Schatz stuck his hand under his tunic and scratched himself. “Aside from that, the Polish fellow is not a bad fellow at all. One has to feel for him; a POW made to bend his back on some German’s farm.”
“He’s bending springs on your family bed, as of now; not his back.”
The company was once again in an uproar with laughter.
“And even so?” Schatz indeed appeared to be perfectly unmoved by the suggestion. “He has a will to live, to survive by any means and that takes guts. I respect him, no matter what you say. How many of ours have chosen to put a bullet in their heads instead of facing the devil?”
“With those Russki fellows? I’d put myself out of my misery before they got their hands on me.”
“But that’s precisely what I’m trying to tell you, you ignorant bumpkin!” Schatz suddenly pulled forward, his eyes flashing about in excitement. “Any pompous raven – the Prussian pride and all that crap – can shoot himself; it doesn’t take much to pull the trigger and be done with it all. But you try to live through your fear; try to survive through the pain and inhumanity; try to force yourself not to abandon all hope when all else seems lost... Now that, my dear Kamerad, is bravery.”
“He didn’t fare that poorly, your Polish farmer.”
“But he did not know how he would fare once he gave himself up, did he? Just like our former Staffelkapitän didn’t, when the Ivan was coming for him. Who knows, maybe he would have been screwing some milkmaid in Siberia right now as well, had he not done so.”
“There are no milkmaids in Siberia,” Gradl spoke with uncertainty.
“And how do you know?” Schatz tilted his head to one side, refusing to give up.
“I don’t know and hope never to find out.”
Hesitating between a smile and a scowl, Rudi recalled the day when the Staffel had lost their commander to that very fate.
They took off on a scheduled mission after meeting their fighter escort near the isolated village east of their airbase and flew in a tight formation as the day, according to the Staffeladjutant, was shit through and through and visibility was virtually zero. Forced to fly through the stormy clouds in the tightest possible formation, they took to the strenuous task of constantly minding the neighboring Stuka’s wing; if one broke away a few feet, he would lose the sight of his comrade and get lost in the clouds; if one pulled up a bit too close, he’d crash into him. Needless to say, in view of being weighed down with hundreds of kilograms of explosives, the latter prospect didn’t inspire much ease in anyone.
Rudi flew next to the flight leader, occasionally catching glimpses of his stern face through the torn cotton of grayish, rain-soaked masses. Hauptmann Haber was their eyes that day; the man, solely responsible for safely guiding the squadron to their mission and back as the dashboard and all of its indicators were barely of any use to them in such dreadful weather rendering anything around them, apart from the thunderous mass, invisible. Haber was a brilliant pilot and a first-rate officer and Rudi gladly entrusted his own fate into his hands that day, just like he did so many times before. Hauptmann Haber’s steady voice over the radio and his eyes firmly fixed on his knee-map, instilled confidence into everyone in the formation. He knew what he was doing, their Hauptmann. They’d make it back to the base that day.
“König One to König Two, come in, please.”
Rudi immediately collected himself upon hearing his commander’s voice. They must be near their aim – a bridge, heavily guarded with flak which they hadn’t been able to destroy so far. “König Two to König One. Over to you.”
“According to my calculations, we’re approaching it. Get ready to dive right after me.”
Rudi was ready, a familiar giddy feeling creeping into his lungs. He was aware that due to the clouds, their two dive bombers had a significant advantage over the ones following them; the flak simply didn’t expect them and therefore Rudi and his commanding officer would have a chance to escape the anti-aircraft weapons’ wrath before they’d break into their violent cannonade. However, their leading position also placed a grand responsibility on their Stukas; they had to drop the
ir load as accurately as they could, for the rest of the Staffel would most likely dive without using diving brakes in order to increase their speed and save themselves from the flak. Most likely, they wouldn’t bother with diving low as well and would drop their bombs wherever they fell, hoping for a fortunate outcome. Rudi and his commander couldn’t afford such a luxury.
Hauptmann’s Ju 87 dived and disappeared out of his view. Rudi followed suit and went into a steep dive as well, retracting his diving brakes as soon as his leader did the same. They were out of the clouds at last and Rudi rejoiced once he’d noticed that Hauptmann Haber was correct once again in his calculations and they were heading straight at the bridge.
Altitude 2,000 feet. 1,500 feet. 1,000 feet… Rudi could see people running frantically towards their respective flak positions below. The infantry was throwing themselves into the trenches, turning onto their backs at once and pointing their rifles at the sky, ready to shower the enemy with their small caliber bullets.
Disregarding such a nuisance of a threat, Rudi pressed the bomb release switch on his stick as soon as his commander dropped his load. Now, both just needed to pull up with all their might and try their best not to black out.
“Great hunt, König One!” Rudi cried happily over the radio to his captain. Both of their bombs hit the target with envious precision.
Hauptmann Haber waved his wings in front of him in an odd manner, not gaining the needed altitude but remaining dangerously low to the ground.
“I took a round into my engine, I think,” his voice came over the radio, at last, strained with tension.
“Are you able to complete the turn?” Rudi swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, following his commander and refusing to abandon him despite flak shells whizzing past both their aircraft now.
Rudi watched in horror as Haber tried to bank, to level out his Stuka – to no avail. The aircraft only jerked, rattled, spattered a thin trail of smoke and started losing altitude.
“No, it’s dead. The stick is dead too. I can’t control it. I’ll try to crash land it.”
“I’ll land right after you and pick you up.” Rudi glued himself to the commander’s tail like he’d done so many times before. He’d already lost one of his comrades to the Soviets in the same exact manner; he wasn’t going to lose his Hauptmann.
“Have you gone off your head, Wiedmeyer?” Haber laughed mirthlessly over the radio. “We’re in the middle of the Soviet lines. Get out of here!”
“Herr Hauptmann—” Rudi cried out as stray shrapnel pierced the cockpit, making a veritable hole in its side. Only by some miracle, it didn’t take off his leg on its way out.
“Get out, I said! It’s an order!”
A few seconds later, Haber’s Stuka belly-landed in the middle of the field, lodging itself between two thin birch trees. Frantically searching for a spot to land, Rudi circled above him at a low altitude, already spotting a small group of Soviet infantrymen rushing towards the crippled aircraft and the pilot, who was now standing on its wing, tall and proud, with his service gun in his hand slowly reaching for his temple. Rudi quickly tore his gaze away from the ghastly scene.
“He died a hero,” Major Breske, a new replacement Staffelkapitän, spoke before the gathered squadron later. “Death is always better than surrender. He knew what fate awaited him. We all know…”
With tremendous effort, Rudi pulled himself out of the viscous spider web of memories.
“Dear Johann, Willi, and Walt,” he started his letter after placing a clean sheet of paper on his knee map-holder, using it as a makeshift desk. “I’m sorry to hear that Walt had such an unfortunate encounter with the Poles. You’re right; Poles aren’t that nice to captives, so how about you fellows exchange them for our Russkies? They’re much better behaved, I promise, ha-ha! I’m teasing, of course. We’re all terrified of falling into their hands alive. So, please tell Willi to stop it with his antics, or they’ll send him to the Eastern Front as a punishment. I really wouldn’t want to have him as an escort because he’ll just abandon me in the middle of the fight, choosing to chase some Ratas instead of minding my life. I’m teasing again. I would really love to see you all, but not here. Maybe in Berlin, during some award ceremony. Did I hear it right that you, Johann, are getting your Oak Leaves and Swords to your Knight’s Cross soon? We saw your picture in the Signal magazine, you handsome bastard! Congratulations on your hundredth victory. We’re doing fine here…”
Germany, Summer 1942
* * *
Willi kept fidgeting in his seat, not quite comfortable as the passenger of a plane that was carrying them toward Berlin. They were finally traveling together, Johann and he, after both received word that the Führer himself would be awarding them with their Oak Leaves and Swords. Despite Willi’s injury and recent grounding, he was still the second highest-scoring pilot in the whole of the Afrika Korps, with a hundred and two victories – right behind Johann with his hundred and twenty-three. Willi glanced at his best friend, who was sleeping next to him and felt a pang of guilt piercing him at once. It was because of Willi that Johann had to take a double load of work, flying dozens of missions without any breaks and days off while Willi was recovering on the ground. Johann was scoring victories, yes; but every good fighter ace knew that a drained pilot was a danger both to himself and his crew and therefore mandatory days off were always in effect in every Staffel. Johann never used his, choosing to fly all missions himself.
“And who will I send as a mission leader when you, Riedman, and I are all on the ground? A replacement pilot fresh out of flying school?” he would only say and get into his leather pilot’s jacket, which by now hung miserably on his thin, exhausted frame.
“I feel just fine. I can fly,” Willi would interject only to catch a glare from his Staffelkapitän.
“Get up. About face.” Johann would command. Willi would turn sharply on his heel. “Turn to the other side. Bend down. Look up. About face.”
At this point, Willi would invariably lose his balance and grab the edge of Johann’s desk to steady himself.
“You can’t fly yet, Willi. You still haven’t recovered from your concussion,” Johann would sigh and shake his head with a kind, bone-weary grin. “You’ll only kill yourself.”
Now, looking at Johann’s sunken cheeks and two lines that had settled permanently over the bridge of his nose, Willi was inwardly glad that both had caught a chance at a temporary respite in the form of a short leave. I’ll get better and Johann will catch up on his sleep at last.
Willi gazed out of the illuminator blankly without seeing anything. The Führer, together with the award, was the furthest thing from his mind as of now. Whom he really couldn’t wait to see, was his mother and his sister. And Lotte. His Lotte. Making use of their joined leave, Willi came up with the idea of marrying his fiancée while both Johann and he were in Berlin. He voiced it somewhere over the Mediterranean as they were heading towards Naples. Johann only grinned and nodded sleepily to Willi’s, “will you be my best man?” and closed his eyes again, falling into a deep and dreamless slumber. Willi kept fidgeting because he wasn’t so sure about how Charlotte, herself, would react to the idea. Yes, he wanted to marry her after the war was over but now, he all of a sudden wasn’t so confident that they were going to win it, or if he would make it back alive to her.
He touched the fresh scar on his forehead self-consciously. It was healing nicely.
“What?” Johann snapped his eyes open and sat up at once – a military habit – as soon as Willi touched his shoulder. “Are we home yet?”
“Yes. Look at all that circus on the ground, though!”
Johann leaned over him to get a better look from the illuminator. Indeed, Berlin’s Tempelhof Airport’s entrance was swamped with people, who stormed the plane with a fervor worthy of SA Stormtroopers, as soon as it finished its taxiing and lowered the trap.
“Must be someone famous traveling with us,” Willi whispered excitedly in Johann’s ear, alread
y circling the interior of the plane with his eyes. “And we didn’t even notice!”
“Yes, some movie star who can’t wait to meet you,” Johann mocked him kind-heartedly and got up from his seat to retrieve his travel bag.
There were no movie stars on board; they realized it as soon as they stepped onto the stairs and instantly found themselves surrounded by a wild crowd of reporters and even a film crew, all of whom kept snapping their cameras at the two stunned fighter aces, who froze in their tracks quite unable to comprehend what exactly was happening.
“Welcome to Berlin, Oberleutnant Brandt and von Sielaff!”
“Our heroes!”
“The country is so proud of you!”
“Our Knights!”
Among the shouts and waving arms, urging them to smile at yet another camera, Johann turned his face, flushed with embarrassment, to Willi and muttered in utter disbelief, “are they here for us?”
“I assume so.” Willi reluctantly waved at the people with the video camera – the Propaganda Ministry, most certainly, with their never-ending documentaries – and offered them a somewhat bashful smile.
At once, they were picked up and almost manhandled into a car by the two official-looking men, who introduced themselves as chiefs of the Luftwaffe staff at the Führer’s headquarters, or whoever the hell they were – Willi had instantly forgotten their titles (and names) with all that mayhem around them.
Of Knights and Dogfights Page 19