by C. T. Wells
If this was all that was required to save Melitta, he would comply. He already knew the answer. He would simply play his part in this plot and swiftly exit. It was a bit–part anyway. Like Rosencrantz or Guildenstern. Although if he remembered Hamlet rightly, things didn’t turn out too well for them.
It hardly seemed a betrayal so he transferred the Walther to his left hand, picked up the pencil in his right and wrote the number down. He tucked the note back in the envelope. When would someone come and check? He wanted proof of Melitta’s safety, but he could not afford to wait around. He breathed out slowly, swirling the dust in the air. What would come of this?
‘Put the gun down.’ The voice came from above and behind. A female voice, speaking English—french accent.
Josef realised at once that someone had moved down onto the staircase from the upper level. He should have cleared it first. He had walked into a trap.
‘Put the gun down. Or I will shoot.’
Josef held the pistol loosely in his left hand—the wrong hand—without moving. He would not risk a snap–shot at an unseen adversary with his left hand. He would have to talk. ‘You won’t kill me,’ he said as calmly as possible, ‘because you need information.’
‘You don’t know how expendable you are, so put it down.’ There was a strain in the voice that only made her seem more dangerous. Josef decided to comply. Moving slowly, he placed the Walther on the millstone and turned around to face her.
She was young, maybe just a little older than himself. She wore work clothes and a cap, but the rough outfit could not conceal her feminine features. He also noticed a delicate chain and locket at her neck that seemed out of place with the farmer outfit. Her face was taut and her full lips were pressed tight in a determined bud. Wide, dark eyes watched him carefully, and in rigid hands, an automatic pistol was aimed at him.
‘I answered the question.’ Josef indicated the envelope.
She was tense, and he didn’t like jittery hands on weapons. ‘It was a loyalty test. The real question is yet to come. If you haven’t answered correctly the deal is off. You and your sister both die. Move up against the wall.’
Josef obeyed, backing up against the stone wall.
‘Put your hands on your head. And keep them there. Don’t try anything. I have associates nearby. If I shoot or yell, you will die tonight.’
Josef did as he was told. The girl with the gun came down the final steps.
She reached the floor and stood opposite him. She was thin, as most people were these days, yet her raw intensity made her seem so much more formidable than her small stature would imply. She was not a head–turner like the film stars, but she wouldn’t have needed a .45 to keep his attention. He watched her as she leant forward, reached for the envelope with a deft hand, keeping the pistol trained on his chest. Finding the note, she backed away towards the door with tiny steps and held the paper up alongside the gun so she could read it without taking her aim off him. ‘You are wrong with the number. My associates counted them last night and you are one short.’
‘No. That is correct. We lost a fighter this morning. A Messerschmitt 109. Your figure is out of date.’
For a brief instant she was taken aback, but she regained control immediately. ‘Very well. I will accept it as truth. You have answered one question to buy some trust. Now answer another to save your sister.’
Josef glared at her. ‘You’d better see that she is safe!’ He regretted it immediately. It only confirmed the control they had over him.
‘This is what I want to know.’ She watched him through narrowed eyes. ‘Aerial photography films from the airbase, where do they go when they leave the airfield?’
Josef shrugged. ‘I’m a pilot, not an analyst. How would I know?’
‘Don’t pretend you know nothing. Melitta’s life depends on what you know. You have flown photo–reconnaissance missions over England. What happens to the film?’
‘Aircrew remove the film from the camera. They hand it over to a motorcycle dispatch rider who delivers it to a Luftwaffe command centre.’ Again, he had revealed nothing that could not be observed.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just a pilot.’
‘Then you must find out. How often does the courier come to the airfield?’
‘Every day. There are things to deliver like orders, charts, reports. Even if there are not film canisters, they come.’
‘Then tomorrow you will tell me the destination before sunset. You will write it down and leave it here on the millstone.’
‘And what will you offer me in return?’ Josef locked his eyes on the girl.
‘I will give you a letter from Melitta in her own handwriting—an assurance. It will be here on the millstone when you return.’
Josef snorted. ‘How can you get me a letter from South Africa by tomorrow?’
‘I already have it.’
‘Then give it to me now.’
‘I don’t have it on me. Give me the information and I will give you proof that Melitta is alive and well.’
Josef considered this for a moment. It was a small thing to provide such information. ‘All right. I’ll do it. Have the letter for me tomorrow night.’
The girl moved towards the millstone and picked up the Walther. ‘I’ll keep your gun until then.’
Josef almost smiled as though he’d just seen a chess opponent put him into check. She was smart. The best kind of opponent. He closed the flap on his empty holster. ‘Right, then. Tomorrow night. The letter. The gun. One other thing. What is your name?’
‘That’s something you cannot have.’
***
From the doorway, Giselle watched Josef walk away into the twilight. A squalling wind snatched at his greatcoat. She had to admit he was a man in a difficult situation and felt a stirring of sympathy for him.
When Josef was well clear of the mill, Martin came down from the loft with the MP–18 over his shoulder. ‘Come in out of the cold.’
It was an exposed place. Of course, the windmill had been built here on the high ground because of the way it received the wind, unimpeded by the terrain. Now, though, the heavy gear mechanism in the upper section of the tower had all but locked up. The sails did not revolve. The wind had flayed at the fabric for years until only rags were left on the lattice. Martin and Edouard had struggled to jack up the windshaft and turn the great axle by one sixth of a revolution to put the sails in their signal position earlier in the day. The great arms of the mill were locked in place again and now only vibrated in the wind, shaking as though they protested their disuse.
Giselle went back inside with him. She sat down on the millstone and put her head in her hands. She could feel herself trembling.
Martin sat next to her and placed a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘You did well, Giselle. I am proud of you.’
‘Why must it be me who meets the enemy?’
‘That is what The Cardinal decreed.’
‘But why?’
‘He understands men like that. Fighter pilots. They’re all ego and libido. Only motivated by conquest. He will want to impress you. It’s as primal as that.’
Giselle rolled her eyes.
‘Come now, Giselle,’ teased Martin. ‘I thought you would find him very handsome. A fine Aryan specimen.’
‘Not completely. He has brown eyes.’
‘See? You noticed.’
‘Martin, he is an asset. That’s all. Did you hear? A motorcycle courier takes the reconnaissance film.’
‘Yes, I heard. And maybe we don’t have to wait for his answer. Perhaps I can follow the courier myself and see where the film goes.’
Giselle considered the idea for a moment. ‘Martin … I don’t want you to leave me here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Anton.’
‘Don’t worry. Edouard will
look after you if I’m not here. He’ll be falling over himself to be your bodyguard.’
***
Josef stepped inside out of the wind. The château was alive with jazz blaring from the gramophone. The party was in full swing. For a moment he just stood and watched. He was conscious of the empty gun holster on his hip. It could raise questions. It was a serious offence to lose a Luftwaffe firearm. But for now, the empty holster was concealed under his damp coat.
It wasn’t just the 109 pilots. The bad weather had grounded the Stukas as well. Several other pilots had come to the lair of JG27. They had brought with them a couple of carloads of French girls, who were receiving plenty of attention. The cellars had been unlocked for the occasion and French wine was close at hand, along with plenty of German lager.
Looking around the room, Josef could see everyone was thankful for the summer storm that had briefly grounded them. Everyone, perhaps, except Adolf Hitler, whose portrait presided over the mess with dark intensity. He would have rather had them in the air, whittling down England’s defences prior to the great invasion he had planned.
Jurgen Brandt stepped out into the foyer where Josef stood. ‘You’re missing out on some fun.’
‘I’ve been out.’
Brandt grinned. ‘There’s a contest on. Arm–wrestling. Fighter pilots versus dive bombers.’
‘I think you’re a chance.’
‘I’m a certainty! I have a secret weapon.’ Brandt pulled a cylinder of Pervitin from his flying jacket. He flipped one of his hero pills into his mouth and winked at Josef as he swaggered back into the smoky mess. ‘Who’s up for it, boys?’
Josef turned away. He needed to put in an appearance at the party. He needed to be part of the staffel. But first he walked to his quarters and hung up his coat and the belt and holster. He splashed water in his face from the sink and a few minutes later he returned to the mess.
The smell hit him when he entered the lounge. The air was charged with booze and sweat and cheap perfume forming a reckless cocktail. A group of uniformed men and satin–bloused women huddled around a dining table. Brandt had his sleeves rolled up and was dispatching his first challenger. His muscles rippled as drove the knuckles of his opponent into the timber. There was a roar from the fighter pilots and the peal of women’s laughter and the clink of glasses.
Brandt called for more challengers. ‘Who’s next?’
Not everyone was enthralled with Brandt’s little circus, and various corners of the room had quieter groups or couples dancing. Josef moved around the arm–wrestling crowd to find somewhere to sit down. The empty bottles of wine on the floor reminded him of his childhood home. He switched off those memories, and looked for a way to connect. People had to know he had been among them.
Wolfe Schiller waved him over to a table. Wolfe, unlike most of the pilots, was more of contemplative drunk; a philosopher with slurred speech. He had lost his wingman that day and he was discussing the taking of life with one of the Stuka pilots, a swarthy man with a moustache. Wolfe thrust a pint of lager into his hand. Josef accepted it and sat down.
The dive bomber pilot was bleary–eyed, but looking proud of himself. Wolfe introduced him, a Stuka ace from Munich. He had scored a direct hit on a freighter that day.
Josef nodded with genuine respect. He had watched the attack. It took some nerve to fly a dive bomber almost straight down at the target. The g–forces must be blinding.
‘But tell me,’ pressed Wolfe, his eyebrows gathered in sincerity as he turned back to his companion. ‘What do you feel, when you release a bomb on people below?’
The Stuka pilot hesitated, reflecting on the question. ‘I feel a little click.’
Josef and Wolfe looked at the Stuka pilot, and then Wolfe roared with laughter. ‘You feel a little click when the bomb is released!’ He slapped Josef on the shoulder. ‘Did you hear that? This man would make the Führer proud. He felt a little click!’
Josef listened to the banter for a bit longer while he finished his lager, then excused himself. He walked out of the mess, navigating around the revellers and nodding absently in farewell. He would have to try and find a way to talk to the dispatch rider in the morning.
***
By the dim light of a lantern, Giselle sat in the loft encrypting a message to England using the Hyperion code. It flowed, just like transposing a clarinet line. When it was ready, she turned on the radio and tapped out the message on the morse key: Seraphim to Cardinal. Contact Established. Information within one day.
XVI
The storm blew itself out by morning and Josef flew the first sortie of the day as Langer’s wingman. They skimmed the Cornish coast in a blatant act of provocation. There was a beach below the 109s, but no–one was out bathing or sunbaking. An empty bandstand and a brightly–painted pavilion stood where there ought to have been a roaring trade of ice cream and lemonade. The place was deserted as though rain had ruined a summer holiday. In place of beach–goers were anti–tank obstacles and rolls of barbed wire.
British Observers in concrete installations above the beaches could easily see the Messerschmitts taunting them. But the British would not be drawn. Langer’s idea was to lure fighters into the air, wasting their scarce fuel, taking them away from guarding airfields and attempting to engage them in combat.
The Luftwaffe knew they had numerical superiority and could risk their own fighters to reduce the enemy’s reserves. But the British seemed to know the real threat was in the Heinkels, Dorniers and Junkers. They were saving their interceptors for the German bombers and the two 109s from JG27 followed the coastline without opposition.
Off to starboard, Josef could see more Tommies in their soupbowl helmets scurrying about a sandbagged observation post. Seeing no flak guns, they danced their Messerschmitts in over the land and passed low over the English soldiers. Langer had made it clear they would not strafe enemy on the ground. Their ammunition was to be held for air targets. British fighters were the prize.
They hedge–hopped along the coast for a couple more minutes then peeled away from the shore when they were down to half fuel; enough for a channel crossing with a large safety margin. Another rotte from JG27 would take over the mission objective of raising the ire of the RAF.
They climbed to three thousand metres for the crossing, still scanning the sky relentlessly. Aircraft from both sides could get bounced at any time, and sometimes pilots were taken down before they even knew about the attack.
A few minutes later, Langer’s voice came through the headset. ‘Shaka, have a look at sea level. Eleven o’clock.’
Josef dropped the nose of the 109 to get a better look. The veteran had indeed picked up something of interest. Amongst the grey swell was a patch of bright green water. Downed Luftwaffe airmen used dye–bombs to alert air–sea rescue to their position. Josef thought of Wedermeyer for a moment, but it was impossible he could have survived. Yet, there were pilots going down in the channel every day, so maybe there was another one of their comrades down there.
‘I’ll check it out. You keep a look out upstairs.’
‘Viktor, White Leader.’
Langer’s 109 dived to sea level and Josef flew a banking figure–8 to guard him from above. He craned his neck to observe from the cramped cockpit. Langer was flying low and slow over the discoloured water, no doubt looking for the bright yellow of a life preserver or the white silk of a parachute. ‘See anyone down there?’
‘Not yet. I’ll report the position to Cherbourg. They can get a seaplane out here.’ He flew another circuit of the place marked by the signal dye. ‘Of course, the RAF could be getting nasty and setting a …’
Tracer suddenly lanced past Josef’s canopy confirming the thought. A trap. Josef swore as he instinctively wrenched the 109 away from the gunfire. His mirror was filled with the glare of the morning sun, but he twisted around and glimpsed the unmistakable profile
of two Supermarine Spitfires sweeping in behind.
‘What is it?’ called Langer.
‘We’ve been bounced. Two Spitfires on my six. Got to move.’ He was lucky they had fired too soon. Josef plunged his aircraft into a dive, hoping the 109 really could outperform the Spitfires in a vertical escape. He would have been thrown through the canopy if not for the harness. The first of the Spitfires overflew him, but the other was riding his exhaust trail.
Josef’s eyes flicked between instruments and the cockpit glass. There was nothing but ocean rushing up at him. The air speed indicator was climbing rapidly and the altitimeter whirled anti–clockwise as he plunged towards the sea. He felt the pressure build in his face as blood vessels engorged due to the negative g–force. He dragged his eyes onto the mirror to see if he was pulling away from the Spitfire but his vision reddened and warped and he could not get a fix on his pursuer. His head pounded and he felt his eyeballs were about to burst out of his skull as the 109 accelerated downwards at the limits of the airframe. One thought penetrated the blur of waves and spinning instruments; he was running out of sky.
Josef held the dive another couple of seconds, knowing he should be outrunning the Spitfire with every vertical metre. Finally, he heaved back on the stick at less than five hundred metres. The 109’s controls were heavy at the best of times. In such an extreme altitude he had to use his whole body to make it respond. The 109 flexed and shuddered and finally pulled out with the waves rushing by just below.
Josef blinked hard, willing his eyes to focus again. He checked the mirror, but it was a field modification to the standard 109 and it vibrated so much it was almost no use. He craned his neck to look back, left and right.
He sensed the Spitfire was still back there somewhere with its eight .303 machine guns. The pilot’s thumb would be hovering over the fire button, ready to shred him.
Josef checked the compass and swung south, not having the fuel to try and flee in any other direction.
In the mirror there was a flicker of dark plane against white sky. The Spitfire was still there, up for a chase. With nothing but ocean beneath, it was going to become a contest of weaving—a contest a Spitfire ought to win at sea level.