“I do.” Johann nodded. “But not like that.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There’s a big difference. I don’t want my name to be associated with any war crimes! You know perfectly well that I’m not a war criminal! I never did anything wrong besides doing my duty before my country. I shot at the enemy aircraft just like they shot at mine. I never wronged any civilian and never abused a single prisoner of war. I will not confess to something I didn’t do.”
“But it’s a mere nothing!”
“It’s my good name and honor. The only things I have left.”
They fought with him for three more years, with pretty much the same results. Then, at the beginning of 1950, a big announcement came. Some of them would be repatriated in the course of the next few weeks.
“Your name can be on that list too.” It was the camp commandant this time, with his usual kind smile. “In case you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Johann watched the men depart longingly but never walked into the commandant’s office except for delivering the accounting books.
There was a handful of them, who remained, obstinate asses. They managed to cheer each other up by reminiscing about good old army days and by trading stories when nothing else could be traded. It was bearable for the most part, but then a rare letter would arrive and the smile on a prisoner’s face would drop slowly and morph into a death mask worse than those that Johann had seen on actual dead men’s faces.
“No, I don’t blame her, really,” the prisoner would sigh, his shoulders drooping. “Five years is a long time. And she’s a young woman, of course… That all is understandable too…”
Those “unofficial divorce letters” were much worse than starvation, than all the hardships and all the commissars put together. It had a horrible effect on all of them, for even the ones who had never gotten such dreadful mail, would start tormenting themselves with thoughts of their wives and girlfriends, left behind. Five years! Who would blame them for not waiting?
The commissars appeared to catch onto that too.
“Your wife is asking you for a divorce.” The familiar Russian waved a letter in front of Johann’s face one summer day. “Would you care to sign?”
“You’re lying. She wouldn’t leave me,” Johann replied calmly, hoping that the commissar wouldn’t see his knuckles turning white as he clasped his hands on his knee.
“She found herself a new husband,” the commissar continued, his eyes following the lines in the letter. “She says, his name is Karl, he works in the police and he’s very good with children. She’s asking you to forgive her and hopes that you won’t hold it against her. She simply had to think of her family. The children needed a provider.”
Johann didn’t reply to anything. Lies. It’s nothing but lies, he kept repeating to himself like the most ardent of prayers.
“You see what you achieved with your obstinacy, Brandt? You could have gone home anytime you wanted but you chose to be stubborn for no reason. Look where it got you! Now, you’ve lost your wife, together with your children. And all because of your pigheaded attitude.”
Johann kept staring straight ahead of himself.
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
“Can I go back to work?”
“Yes, you can go back to work.”
Without seeing anything in front of himself, he stumbled back into the accountant’s office and fell into the chair, a heap of bones and broken hopes. A new accountant sat at the table; the SS fellow had gone home to Germany two months ago.
The Gulag. Autumn 1951
* * *
The commandant moved a paper toward him in a familiar gesture.
“Sign here.”
No preamble this time.
Johann had just opened his mouth to protest when the commandant spoke calmly. “It’s your release form. You don’t want to sign that either?”
Johann stepped forward and looked at the paper. It was in Russian, but by now he spoke it well enough to understand that it was not the usual NKVD garbage. I hereby state that I was not mistreated in any way during the time of my incarceration…
Could it be true? Were they indeed releasing him?
“Sign, sign, don’t fret! It’s real.” The commandant laughed. “You’re going home, Brandt. Congratulations.”
He signed under his name and shook the commandant’s outstretched palm. Together with about fifty prisoners, he was herded into showers and then given some roughly sewn clothes – much too baggy for their emaciated forms that resembled scarecrows much more than human beings. He still didn’t believe it when an old bus took their sorry lot to a train station. He still looked for some malice in it even when the train started rolling westward, taking them further and further from the place of their imprisonment. Only when they crossed the border with Germany did it dawn on him that he was home at last… only was there anyone home waiting for him? He thought about it long and hard and decided to go to his parents’ house instead of Berlin.
The small platform was brimming with townsfolk, a sea of expectant faces shouting out the names of their relatives into the small crowd of newly arrived former POWs. Some simply held signs above their heads, with photographs attached. Hermann Schmitt, born 1920. Brown hair; blue eyes. Army Group Center, Company… Taken prisoner in 1943. Do you know him?
Johann pushed his way through the crowd, not recognizing a single face. Suddenly, a young man grabbed him by the sleeve and threw himself around his neck. Through a film of tears, Johann barely recognized Harald, his little brother who stood taller than him now. A young woman stood shyly behind his back, holding a little blonde girl’s hand.
“My wife, Irma. And this is Geli, our daughter.”
Johann shook the pretty brunette’s outstretched hand.
“What on earth are you doing here? I thought you’d go straight to Berlin to Mina!” Harald wouldn’t stop hugging him and patting him, relief and concern written all over his face at the sight of his brother.
Johann parted his lips as though to say something but then suddenly couldn’t speak a word.
“How is she?” He finally forced himself to utter at least something.
“She’s all right, considering. She has a good position in a bank, and Frau von Sielaff is taking care of the children.”
Johann held his breath, searching his brother’s face for clues.
“And what about Karl? Doesn’t he work?”
“Who’s Karl?” Harald seemed genuinely confused.
Johann released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding all these months.
“Is there a phone nearby? I need to make a call.”
“Over there, at the post office. It’s five minutes away.”
Johann had never been so nervous in his life, not even during the worst of the attacks, as he was now, with the black phone pressed to his ear.
“Hello?” A little voice answered, clearly belonging to a child.
For a moment, Johann didn’t know what to say.
“Hello?” The voice repeated.
Johann swallowed a lump in his throat. “Wilhelm? Is that you?”
“No, it’s Gerd. Who’s calling?”
“It’s…” Johann rubbed his face ferociously, collecting himself into something that could think rationally again. “Is your mother home?”
“No, Mama’s at work. Only my grandmother and my brother are here.”
“Could you call your grandmother to the phone, please? Tell her, it’s Johann. She’ll know.”
Silence. Then, a soft, “Papa, is that you?”
Johann slid down the wall, hiding his face in his hands, sobbing openly for the first time in years. Harald quickly burst inside and picked up the phone.
“Gerd, is that you, my little fellow? It’s your uncle, Harald. Be a good lad and call your grandmother to the phone, will you? Yes, Bubi, it was your Papa. He’s coming home soon.”
Note to the Reader
&nb
sp; Despite this novel being a work of fiction, the two central characters – Johann and Willi – are based on two actual Luftwaffe fighter aces, Erich Hartmann and Hans Joachim Marseille, respectively. The two never served together, as Marseille, nicknamed The Star of Africa for his brilliant performance during the African campaign, died before Erich Hartmann began scoring his victories on the Eastern Front. I’ve studied both extensively, for quite some time and the idea of what could have been if the two had met in real life or – even better – had a chance to serve together, wouldn’t leave me in peace until I started outlining, Of Knights and Dogfights.
Both Erich Hartmann and Jochen (as he was called by his comrades) Marseille were not only extremely gifted fighter aces but incredibly kind and liberal young men, who resented the Nazi Party and everything it stood for. Both were known for their gallant and respectful treatment of their prisoners of war and their chivalrous attitude to their downed counterparts. Many instances, described in the novel, such as them inviting their downed POWs into their tents and striking a friendship with them, or aiming exclusively at the engine in order to cripple the aircraft and leave the pilot uninjured, as well as delivering notes about the fate of captured airmen, to the enemy airbase, are based on true events. Marseille was particularly famous – or infamous – for it, trying his utmost to inform the enemy of their comrades’ fates whenever the occasion presented itself, causing the wrath of his superiors for risking his life each time he set out on such a dangerous enterprise, during which he could have easily been shot down by enemy flak.
The episode with the SS and the Staffel’s Senegalese crew chief, Henry, even though dramatized, is also based on true fact. After his Corps took one Senegalese soldier prisoner, Marseille virtually “adopted” him and the two became the closest of friends, which also caused the disapproval of Berlin and the Office of Race.
Johann’s capture and further incarceration in the Soviet Gulag and the treatment he had to endure is based on Erich Hartmann’s incarceration and his recollections of the Soviet POW camps and the NKVD commissars.
Flying techniques and dogfights described in the novel are also based on both fighter aces’ service records. If you would like to continue with further reading or have any questions concerning the authenticity of certain events, feel free to contact the author – I’m always more than happy to provide my readers with useful links or further reading material.
* * *
Erich Hartmann
* * *
Erich Alfred Hartmann (19 April, 1922 – 20 September, 1993), nicknamed “Bubi” (“The Kid”) by his German comrades and the “Black Devil” by his Soviet adversaries, was a German fighter pilot during World War II and the most successful fighter ace in the history of aerial warfare. He flew 1,404 combat missions and participated in aerial combat on 825 separate occasions. He was credited with shooting down 352 Allied aircraft – 345 Soviet and 7 American – while serving with the Luftwaffe. During the course of his career, Hartmann was forced to crash-land his fighter fourteen times due to damage received from flying parts of enemy aircraft he had just shot down, or from mechanical failure. He was never shot down or forced to land due to enemy fire.
Hartmann scored his 352nd and last aerial victory at midday on May 8th 1945, just hours before the war ended. Along with the remainder of JG 52, he surrendered to United States Army forces and was turned over to the Red Army. In an attempt to pressure him into service with the Soviet-friendly East German Volksarmee, he was tried on fabricated charges of war crimes and convicted; his conviction was posthumously voided by a Russian court as a malicious prosecution. He was sentenced to 25 years of hard labor and spent 10 years in various Soviet prison camps and gulags until he was released in 1955.
In 1956, Hartmann joined the newly established West German Air Force in the Bundeswehr and became the first Geschwaderkommodore of Jagdgeschwader 71 “Richthofen”. In his later years, after his military career had ended, he became a civilian flight instructor. He died on 20 September 1993 aged 71.
* * *
Hans Joachim Marseille
* * *
Hans-Joachim Walter Rudolf Siegfried Marseille (13 December 1919 – 30 September 1942) was a German fighter pilot during World War II. A flying ace, he is noted for his aerial battles during the North African Campaign. All but seven of his 158 claimed victories were against the British Desert Air Force over North Africa. No other pilot claimed as many Western Allied aircraft as Marseille.
Marseille joined the Luftwaffe in 1938. At the age of 20, he participated in the Battle of Britain, without notable success. As a result of poor discipline, he was transferred to another unit (JG 27), which relocated to North Africa in April 1941.
He reached the zenith of his career on September 1st, 1942, when during the course of three combat sorties he claimed seventeen Allied aircraft. For this, he received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, with Oak Leaves, Swords, and Diamonds. A month later, Marseille was killed in a flying accident after his aircraft suffered engine failure.
About the Author
* * *
Ellie Midwood is an award-winning, best-selling historical fiction writer. She's a health-obsessed yoga enthusiast, a neat freak, an adventurer, Nazi Germany history expert, polyglot, philosopher, a proud Jew, and a doggie mama.
Ellie lives in New York with her fiancé and their Chihuahua named Shark Bait.
* * *
Readers' Favorite - winner in the Historical fiction category (2016) - "The Girl from Berlin: Standartenführer's Wife"
* * *
Readers' Favorite - winner in the Historical fiction category (2016) - "The Austrian" (honorable mention)
* * *
New Apple - 2016 Award for Excellence in Independent Publishing - "The Austrian" (official selection)
* * *
Readers' Favorite - winner in the Historical fiction category (2017) - "Emilia"
* * *
Readers' Favorite - winner in the Historical fiction category (2018) - "A Motherland's Daughter, A Fatherland's Son"
Of Knights and Dogfights Page 31