The Kingdom of the Air

by C. T. Wells

  Reile and Boelcke looked over the weapon carefully. It was perfectly clean. Loaded with five rounds—the balance of the box that the landlady had discovered. It would have been handled extensively by the man who possessed it. Reile knew the way men held weapons, finding the balance point, eyeing the scope, imagining their victory.

  Reile considered himself a practitioner of scientific investigation but in this case, it was of little use. The rifle had been wiped down so that no fingerprints were evident on the metal or timber. And even if there were such evidence, it would have to be matched to a record of fingerprints of suspects, which probably didn’t exist.

  He ordered Boelcke to wrap the rifle and bring it with them. He went downstairs and found the landlady. His interrogation began. When will the tenants be back? Where did they go? Can you give us a description?

  The woman was next to useless. She gave an unreliable description of their appearance and said she had seen work permits for the Manche Commune. She didn’t know with any certainty whether they would be back. Hence the attempt to get a new tenant and generate some much–needed income.

  Then came the sting in the tail. It was inevitable, of course, that she wanted something in return for this wealth of information. She had a son who was a prisoner–of–war; captured three months ago in the Ardennes. Was there anything he could do?

  Reile made empty promises. He had all the information he was going to get from her so she had already lost her bargaining power. And he had no intention of perverting the course of justice.

  They left quickly, the weapon in their possession, and returned to headquarters to arrange an investigation. Other Gestapo agents in Caen were detailed to watch the apartment should any of the résistance operatives return.

  Reile and Boelcke however would follow the suspects to the Cherbourg region, hunting two siblings and a friend who were farm labourers. The trouble was, summer in Normandy meant the presence of thousands of labourers for harvest. Many of them young. Many of them newly arrived from the cities in attempt to evade the Germans or just to get a full belly for an honest day’s work.

  But Reile had a strong feeling the Mauser rifle would lead to a dangerous criminal element. The Cherbourg trio were top priority. Resources would be immediately requisitioned. They would be run to ground.

  XIII

  Josef was woken by a cough. It was not the hacking bark of a sick individual, but the ‘Excuse me’ cough of a gentleman. He opened his eyes. Hauptmann Claus Langer, the staffelkapitan was standing in the doorway. Josef stirred and bolted up. ‘Heil Hitler!’

  Langer sat down astride a wooden chair. ‘Welcome home.’ He was older than his pilots, an urbane, cultured man in his mid–thirties; formerly of the Condor Legion. A veteran of Spain and of Dunkirk, Langer had ten undisputed aerial kills. More than enough to be considered an experte. His callsign was White Leader, but Langer was also known amongst the staffel as ‘The Doctor’. It was a good name. He was calm, steady–handed and precise in the way of a surgeon.

  ‘Thanks.’ Josef straightened himself.

  ‘It turns out pistols do have some use,’ Langer conceded with a smile. ‘Not just an illusion of situation control.’

  He had obviously heard the story. Josef grinned. ‘I thought about shooting myself, as you suggested, but then I thought I would rather make it back and prove to you I was right.’

  Langer chuckled. He was far too self–assured to be troubled by such a jibe. ‘Are you in any condition to fly?’

  ‘Now, Sir?’

  ‘Ja, now. Are you up to it?’

  ‘Absolutely. But I have no ...’

  ‘Follow me.’ Langer led him outside and across the field, beyond the earth revetments that protected aircraft from bombing raids on the airstrip. ‘We’ve just taken delivery of these.’ He gestured at a row of Messerschmitt fighters. ‘The latest variant.’

  Josef approached the aircraft, newly arrived from Germany. They were painted in the familiar pattern of JG–27: mottled grey camouflage with a bright yellow panel beneath the engine cowling where the air–scoop hung from fuselage and a matching bright yellow rudder—helpful little flashes of colour in identifying friend or foe in a dogfight. The planes sat on their undercarriage, pointing skyward with a kind of longing. They reminded Josef of crouching lions; ready to surge forward with spectacular power.

  The closest of the two had double chevrons on the fuselage—the insignia of White Leader. This was Langer’s own plane. Evidently he had upgraded to the new model. As Josef walked around he saw more of the second aircraft. Emblazoned on the side was a bold, white five. He flicked his eyes to Langer, unable to hide a grin.

  Langer grinned back and nodded. ‘I had the crew paint it up for you as soon as I heard we had you back.’

  Josef gently traced his hand along the unblemished leading edge of the new White Five with a kind of reverence. His previous Messerschmitt had been equipped for reconnaissance missions, with the extra weight of camera gear on board. This one was pure fighter–plane. ‘What are the upgrades?’

  ‘More power. More armour behind your head. Better visibility. Less drag. At altitude you can now outrun a Spitfire and, depending on who you listen to, you can outgun it.’

  Josef nodded. The British differed from Germans in their approach to fighter armament. The Spitfire carried eight wing–mounted .303 machine guns with a high rate of fire and a lot of ammunition. Enough for fourteen seconds of continuous fire. The new 109s were equipped differently. There were only two 7.9mm machine guns in the nose of the aircraft but these were accompanied by two 20mm Oerlikon motorkanone in the wings. They carried fewer shells and fired more slowly, but one hit with the explosive rounds could down an enemy aircraft. Flying into a Spitfire head–on meant weathering a storm of rifle–calibre bullets, but it took a lot of those bullets, or a lot of luck, to cripple a Messerschmitt.

  Josef stepped back and surveyed the 109s. Perhaps they didn’t have the sleek lines of a Spitfire. The cockpit was still boxy compared to the aerodynamic bubble–canopy of the Spitfire. No, the 109 was not as beautiful as its opponent, but it was every bit as purposeful. Everything about it from the giant propeller boss to the swastika on the tail–plane said this was a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Phantastich!’ breathed Josef.

  ‘We’ve got an hour of fuel, and we need to get these ladies in trim for tomorrow. Are you ready?’

  Josef didn’t need to be asked twice. He climbed into the familiar cockpit. At first, he had found it cramped in a 109, but then he stopped thinking about sitting in a machine, and he let the plane become an extension of himself. Sliding into the cockpit now felt like sliding his hand into a silk glove. He belonged here. He was born for this.

  ***

  Moments later the two 109s roared down the runway. Josef pushed the right rudder pedal firmly to offset the torque of the motor. Twelve cylinders of raw power crammed into a tiny airframe made the 109 a ferocious climber and they left the airfield far behind in a matter of seconds. Langer entered a long, banking turn and they headed south, with Josef taking up the wingman’s position above and behind.

  At five thousand metres, they experimented with the trim settings and Josef soon had his new machine responding precisely to his touch. It flew like it was on rails.

  He kept on the same heading as Langer, but snapped off a barrel roll, grinning as the 109 obeyed his inputs perfectly and had him upright and wings level again in a heartbeat. They settled for a while, cruising south, far above the west coast of the Cotentin Peninsula. Josef watched the gauges. The new models flew sweetly, but they gobbled fuel.

  The radio crackled and Langer spoke. ‘Follow me. I want to show you something.’

  ‘I’m with you.’

  They plunged into a steep dive then flattened out above the ocean. They were low enough for Josef to see the
ripples in the water from the lead plane’s prop wash. To the west, the Atlantic stretched out towards a gold–rimmed horizon. To the east, the sandy shore flashed by at a lazy three hundred kilometres per hour.

  A triangular form emerged from the ocean ahead of them and Josef strained to see the detail. Then a smile formed under his oxygen mask as he recognised the gothic spire of Mont Saint Michel, the ancient island abbey. It was perched on a granite mound that had resisted the surging ocean throughout the ages.

  The tidal flats around the island glistened with a shallow coverage of sea water that mirrored the sky above and made the castle look like it was floating on clouds. But despite the illusion, it was splendid in its detachment; removed from all the fears and upheavals of the mainland. Josef wondered who were the privileged few living in such a place? How did they have such a place of solace when the world was at war?

  The 109s came in low, and Josef watched sea-birds flapping and beating at the water as they fled the roar of engines. But it wasn’t only birds that feared them. There were people down there too. Half a dozen of them, working in the shallows with fishing nets. They turned their pale faces skyward and saw the two fighter planes bearing down on them. They abandoned their nets and ran for the shore, splashing desperately towards the stone-walled abbey. The fishermen ran right across the glowing ring of his gun sight and Josef had a sense of total dominion over them. But if they feared him, was it not because he himself served a greater master?

  Josef stayed just off Langer’s port wing as the 109s swept past the abbey, darkening its walls with their sleek shadows. Together they orbited the gables and towers, almost standing on their wing tips to make a tight turn back towards their lair.

  There was a flicker of colour at the top of the abbey’s spire, and as Josef levelled out, he saw that it was a vast banner: a black swastika on a red field. Of course! The masterminds of the invasion would have immediately seen the settlement as a defensive strongpoint, well-placed on the Atlantic coast. So, even the folk of this commune were ruled by the Reich.

  Langer’s voice crackled through the headset. “Ja, he wants it all.”

  Josef did not reply. Had he heard correctly? He flew alongside Langer, watching the mirror, his eyes lingering on the floating castle. Again the radio barked, breaking his reverie. ‘Enough sight-seeing. Time for combat practice. Do you copy, White Five?’

  ‘Viktor, White Leader.’

  ‘When my wings span your gunsight, I’m at four hundred metres. Leave your safety on so you don’t shoot me in your enthusiasm, ja? Just tell me over the radio when you think I’m in your sights.’

  Josef knew the convergence on the wing–mounted cannons was set for four hundred metres, the perfect range to blow an enemy out of the sky with the twin Oerlikons. ‘Copy that. I’m on you now.’

  ‘It’s hunting time. Come on, Shaka, catch me if you can!’ Langer’s 109 twisted away into a steep climb and Josef tried to follow the line. But just as the reflector sight approached the lead aircraft, Langer rolled left. Josef followed, but whenever he was about to line up the guns, Langer jinked away and avoided the cross–hairs. Langer had a preternatural sense of when he was exposed, and he changed directions, forcing Josef to react and close in again and again.

  Josef stopped following Langer’s line exactly and tried to anticipate the next move. He came up from underneath and Langer pulled right. Instead of following, Josef counter–turned to the left, pulled back into a climb and rolled right. Immediately Langer’s fuselage fleetingly crossed the gunsight.

  ‘Now!’ called Josef through the microphone. ‘Got you broadside.’

  Langer laughed. ‘A lucky shot maybe, I was outside four hundred.’

  ‘Worth the shot.’

  ‘Chances are low when you’re on the beam. That’s deflection shooting. Get in behind if you can. All right, Shaka, it’s your turn. Keep heading north. I’m going to shoot your tail off.’

  The Daimler–Benz roared as it hauled Josef higher. He wrenched the airframe around the sky, trying to shake Langer. All the while, Langer kept up a calm commentary over the radio. ‘Nice, Josef. You faked right and I nearly fell for it.’

  Josef flew a Split–S, his preferred way to break off an engagement. He inverted the 109 and dove away towards the ocean. The g–loading pressed on his body as he pulled back up and rolled into level flight.

  But Langer had seen it coming and the equally matched aircraft held position through the entire manoeuvre while he kept up his coaching over the radio. ‘That’s good. Nice transition into the dive. A Spitfire won’t stay with you in a negative–g manoeuvre.’ In spite of the aerobatics, Langer’s voice was so calm he might have been a golfer discussing strokes in the clubhouse. ‘Remember, the Spits don’t have fuel–injected engines like ours, so they can cut out in the transition to a power dive. It’s a good way to outrun them. But I’m still here, Shaka. And I’m coming to get you.’

  Josef hurled the 109 into a steep turn.

  ‘Shaka, don’t get drawn into a turning chase with a Spitfire. They will turn inside your radius and you’ll have eight streams of lead up your tail. Fight them up and down. Not round and round.’

  Josef was climbing now, taking the veteran’s advice. Then he rolled out on a new heading. But Langer was still with him, pulling out of the climb and banking around for another attack. He knew there was more on his back than Claus Langer’s 109. For a short moment he had been engrossed in playing wargames with Langer. But there was no escape from Lucas and his demands. God, what would it take to save Melitta?

  ‘Dakka, dakka, dakka, dakka!’

  Josef tensed. It sounded like a burst of gunfire, but it was only Langer’s voice through the radio. For just a second, Josef had lost concentration on evading the staffelkapitan, and he knew he would have been hit if Langer had had pressed the fire button instead of the radio switch.

  ‘I got you, Shaka. Too long in the turn. A Spitfire would have got you even sooner.’

  Josef sighed. He flattened out and keyed the radio. ‘You got me, sir.’

  ‘OK. Fuel’s low. Back to base.’

  ‘Viktor that.’

  It was almost evening as they approached the airfield near Cherbourg. Langer landed first and Josef turned into base leg. He swept in low over the farm and had no difficulty identifying the stone windmill. He could see that the vanes still made a Y–shape. Whoever was going to contact him had not yet set the signal.

  It always felt dangerously fast coming in to land in a 109. A rumour circulated that more of these planes had been destroyed in take–off and landing accidents than in combat. It might be talk, but Josef never took anything for granted. He concentrated hard as he came in over the grass strip, expertly touched the narrow tyres on the ground and taxied to his place in the line–up.

  The Staffelkapitan sauntered across as Josef climbed out of the cockpit. ‘How do you feel about being back in the air?’

  Josef jumped down to the ground and spoke confidently. ‘I’m ready, sir.’

  Langer looked him up and down and almost smiled. ‘You’re a good pilot, Josef.’ The Staffelkapitan was not given to flattery, so when affirmation came, it meant a lot.

  Josef grinned and they walked together towards the manor.

  ‘I wanted to fly with you today—to see if you were still sharp.’

  Josef nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’m fine. And the new 109 is really something.’

  ‘Yes, but some pilots, when they’ve been shot down, they lose their edge. For others, they get even sharper. I just wanted to know how it affected you.’

  Josef saw it now. Langer had been testing him this afternoon. He was protecting the staffel by knowing the strengths and weaknesses of every pilot. Josef looked at his officer. ‘I’m ready to fly, sir. I won’t let you down.’

  Langer clapped him on the back with his flying gloves. Josef basked in the approva
l of the veteran. He had received precious little approval from his father and Langer’s encouragement seemed to fill some deep cracks.

  Suddenly Langer paused to look closely at Josef’s mouth.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just checking your wound.’ Langer indicated the bruised and swollen lip.

  Josef stiffened, and raised a hand to the wound.

  Langer frowned for a moment, then smiled reassuringly. ‘I think it’s getting better already. Come on, let’s get something to eat. You can still eat, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Good. We’ll get a meal. And then you should have an early night. There’s a sortie planned for the morning.’

  ‘Will I be flying?’

  ‘You’ll be my wingman.’

  They entered the hall of the manor house and found their fellow pilots having a quiet evening in the adjacent lounge. No drinking was allowed the night before a dawn raid. Langer had a dog, an elegant Belgian Shepherd, which trotted across the room to nuzzle at his leg. He scratched its ears with affection and headed off towards the kitchen.

  Josef paused at the doors leading to the lounge, observing his comrades. He often felt like an outsider amongst them, and not just because he was South African. He watched the way they lived and and flew and fought, trying to make sense of it. Like an anthropologist studying the strange tribe known as Fighter Pilots with their own rituals, superstitions and diversions.

  One of the staffel, Dietrich Hofacker had been a jeweller before joining the Luftwaffe. He was always busy repairing watches, resizing rings purchased on the black market or engraving gifts for girlfriends or mementos for aviators. He had taken over an old writing desk to set up his little enterprise, raking in an impressive pile of reichsmarks from Germans stationed around Cherbourg. But it was mostly just to keep himself busy.

  The pilots didn’t like being idle. It led to circumspection which often lead to questioning or fear; being afraid was the deepest fear of all. Fear would cripple a pilot just as easily as a Browning machine gun. The pilots could not afford to be overrun by the demons of doubt that always gave chase.