Kosokov gave the attack signal and the Chatos hammered into the formation, Lacalle leading four into the Fiats and Kosokov taking the rest against the bombers.
Bandy was lucky. The dive took him directly behind the last fighter. It was at top speed, quivering in its mottled sand-green-and-ocher camouflage, blue-black smoke crackling from its exhausts. The upper wings had three black bands on each tip, followed by a large white X. The Italian pilot, a novice probably, was concentrating on maintaining his position in formation, and Bandy's four machine guns tore holes from the engine back to the cockpit. The pilot slumped forward, and the Fiat went into a dive, flame curling from the engine.
A Savoia had broken from the formation, the right engine smoking from Kosokov's attack. The gunner in the humpbacked bomber's top began firing as Bandy closed in a diving attack from the right rear.
Like imminent danger, combat split time into two dimensions. In one, everything happened instantaneously. In the other, all of the events were indelibly recorded in slow motion. He ignored the bullets going over his head, and fired. His first burst went through the insignia on the aft fuselage, a black circle with a white chicken inside. Cockroaches, chickens, he thought, the Italians have funny ideas about heroic insignia. He pulled back on the stick and fired again, edging the four streams of bullets into the bomb bay. The Savoia blew up, and he flew through a cloud of smoke and metal.
The Chatos formed up; there were six left. He wondered how many of the Italians had gone down.
Lowe was waiting for him when he returned.
"Bandfield, we're in trouble. The word is that we've both been slated for execution."
"Jesus, great. What for and when?"
"The Russians figure we are American spies. I'm not sure when they plan to act, but we can't afford to wait around. I'm leaving the country tomorrow. You should too."
Bandfield listened, nodding. He was ready to go back for every reason but one: Hafner. Somewhere, the bastard was flying, and he wanted to nail him.
"And I have news from Henry Caldwell. He'll be in Paris during May and June, working out details for a sale of aircraft to France."
"What kind of reception will I get when I land in France?"
"They'll just shuttle you to the embassy in Paris, and you'll be smuggled home. There won't be any problems. When will you leave?"
"I'm not sure."
"Look, don't screw around. Go the next time you fly. Just peel off and head for France. Maybe I'll see you back in the States. So long."
Bandfield watched Lowe leave, wondering if he'd make it, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety well through him. Time was running out on him. Sooner or later, some Nationalist pilot was going to get in the first shot, and that would be it.
That night at the field, Lacalle bounded in, grinning widely.
"How would you like to fly an I-16, a Mosca?"
Bandfield, suspicious, hesitated to reply. This was just the sort of thing the Russians might do to put him off-guard. But he had fulfilled most of Caldwell's requests, learning about the airplanes and flying with the Russians. Flying a Mosca was the one thing he hadn't done. Besides, if he could not trust Lacalle, he could never trust anyone.
"What do I have to do?"
"Come with me tomorrow. I have permission to take one pilot and two I-16s and fly to Bilboa. They are down to their last two Chatos. We'll have to leave early in the morning, and fly directly over Nationalist territory."
Bandy hesitated. He had tried to find out where Hafner was—the only thing he could determine was that he wasn't on the same front. Maybe he was in the north.
The chances for it were admittedly slim. Kosokov had kept all intelligence reports to himself, and gave out only the minimum information at the preflight briefings. The front was hundreds of miles long—meeting Hafner in combat would be pure chance.
He felt a wild enthusiasm at the thought of leaving, of getting away from the misery that was Spain. His life had become a wretched aggregation of hours in his miserable hut and brief terrifying moments of combat. But there was a pang when he thought about deserting Lacalle when he needed him. That, with his gambler's obsession about finding Hafner, overcame his good sense.
He tried to think what Patty would be doing back in the United States. She was probably spending her last days before the flights with Amelia started again. Going with Lacalle would delay him only a few days at most. And he'd be able to indulge the pilot in him by flying yet another type, getting the information Caldwell wanted.
As he thought about it, he realized the delay was risky. But, he reasoned, why would they let him take a modern aircraft, a Mosca, if they were going to kill him? Lowe was probably wrong. His spirits soared again. Bilboa was less than an hour's flying time from France. He'd fly the Mosca to freedom. As tired as he was of the killing, as disillusioned with "the cause," he still wanted one last chance to find Hafner.
And this was it. If Hafner wasn't in the north, if their paths didn't cross, he would forget about him. He would never leave Patty again, never experience again this deep-seated loneliness and longing for her.
Lacalle was matter-of-fact. "We won't have a formal checkout. You've flown planes with retractable landing gear before, haven't you?" Bandy nodded. "This is no different—you just have to keep on the rudder on takeoff. It's hotter than the Chato, but probably less difficult than the racers you flew. And thank you for coming with me. My days with Kosokov are numbered!"
Mine, too, Bandy thought.
*
Vitoria, Spain/April 24, 1937
The entire business in Spain was crazy, but von Richthofen thought the most insane event so far was bringing this new committee form of warfare to the front. It was on Udet's orders, and Richthofen had been furious.
For his part, Bruno Hafner was happier than he had been since the palmy days of March 1936, when he had impressed his new bosses with his management skill.
Reentering combat had been like a passionate encounter with a lover from the past. He realized how pale any other stimulus was. He'd tried cocaine, when Dusty was getting so involved, and it meant nothing. He drank for the oblivion, not the pleasure, it brought. Women were the next best thing to combat, as Charlotte, and more recently Lili, had proved, but he was older and his juices were drying up. Ah, but combat! There was nothing that gave him the consummate, fulfilling sensation of the slashing dive into an enemy formation. To fasten like a bulldog onto someone's tail, to sense and savor his terror, and then, with simple pressure from the fingertips, to erase him. It was an exquisite pleasure, as good now as in 1918. In his brief time in Germany, he had met the Japanese attache, who had described the pleasures of eating blowfish, apparently a combination of delicacy, intoxication, and danger. Combat was that and more, hardly delicate, but so laced with danger overcome as to be magnificent. It was all he had remembered it to be, and more. He had scored seven times, three fighters and four of the ancient observation planes the Loyalists flew. Each time the old familiar rush of pleasure had returned, the biting sense of absolute and final control and superiority, the glowing sense of victory.
Combat changed life's ordinary wine into vintage champagne. And life in Spain was good, especially after the idiocy of Germany and the hectic self-imposed pressures of America. The Spaniards treated the Germans well, as they bloody well should have. Franco had controlled Vitoria longer than almost any other city, and had been able to provide the Condor Legion a convent—sans nuns—in which to quarter their officers. Hafner had a comfortable room, and the food was excellent. And Udet had arranged for the pilots to look at the plans of the Hughes racer, as the Focke-Wulf company had modified it, to judge its worth. He could not have asked for better treatment.
They were in Richthofen's headquarters in the Hotel Front6n. Lieutenant Josten spread the plans out on the table, big rolls of three-view drawings, smaller drawings of details, and sheets of tables showing the predicted performance.
The pilots, none of whom besides Hafner had f
lown anything hotter than their Heinkel biplanes, were ecstatic. "Look at the wide tread on the landing gear! You could land this airplane on any field and not have the gear come off." The Heinkels and even the new Messerschmitts had vicious takeoff and landing characteristics that had killed many a pilot.
Hafner tried to refrain from commenting, but could not. "And look at the armament. Two guns in the cowl, and three in each wing. The British are building eight-gun fighters, and we'd better have them, too."
Even von Richthofen became enthused. The airplane would make an excellent ground-support type. He turned and, in his clipped Prussian staccato style, said, "Lieutenant Josten, please tell General Udet that this is what should come after the Messerschmitts! I will inform General Sperrle of my opinion."
At the end of the evening, Josten sent a wire to Udet saying that the pilots approved. The following day, a copy of a wire to the Focke-Wulf aircraft company came in. It was a single word: "Proceed."
Hafner weighed the consequences of his coup. If he judged Tank correctly, the whole matter of the Hafner and the Hughes racer plans would be forgotten. It would be a Kurt Tank design from now on. That was acceptable. The people who counted—Udet, Goering, Milch—would know the truth. Now if it was only possible to get the big bomber back on track. If he could see Hitler personally, he could probably sell the idea. But that was almost out of the question; in the last year the Fuehrer had become even more unapproachable. Perhaps when the Condor Legion returned there would be a victory parade. He would be one of the leading aces—only two men were ahead of him now—and Hitler would undoubtedly decorate them. That would be the time to spring it, before Goering or anyone else could interfere.
He held two envelopes in his hand. One was of heavy, cream-colored paper, richly embossed. It contained a personal message of congratulations from Adolf Hitler himself. The other was made of the cheap yellow-glazed ersatz paper used by every government office. It was by far the more important of the two. Udet had sent it—again, why, Hafner did not know. He was still unsure how he stood with Erni. But he had sent it, and inside, on his personal note paper, was a little combat scene. A Heinkel, with Hafner's head bulging out, was shooting at a Russian Chato biplane. Udet had not tried to do the pilot's face in the Chato—he'd covered it with a helmet and enormous goggles. But there was a little arrow from a circle in which was written: "Your old friend Bandfield." At the bottom of the letter was the message: "He's near Madrid. I'll keep you informed."
It was almost too good to be true. Good Christ, to have a chance to down Bandfield. Hafner recalled the flight to Hawaii, when he had perched in perfect attack position behind Bandfield, unable to do more than watch. Not this time! If he could catch him in the air, the American was a goner.
Hafner rubbed his hands together. If Udet could pin down where Bandfield was exactly, Hafner knew he could arrange to be transferred to that area. He wondered how good Bandfield was in the Russian plane. It might be a problem, one that he'd have to look at carefully.
Less than a hundred yards away, relieved at last to be alone, von Richthofen riffled through the neatly mounded paperwork on his desk. The meeting with Josten and Hafner had been far more productive than he'd expected. The little war in Spain was proving to be quite fruitful, even as it became routine. He looked at the schedule. On the twenty-sixth, they were scheduled to bomb Guernica. It was a short mission for the bombers from Burgos, and the Loyalist air force had just about been shot out of the sky. He might just lead this one personally.
*
Bilboa, Spain/April 25, 1937
Bandfield was continually surprised at how the sharp shock of war was so quickly worn into ordinary depressing poverty. The streets and houses of Bilboa had been bombed and shelled into shattered masses that seemed to defy reconstruction. Immediately after the bombs hit, the broken buildings stank sharply of flame, cordite, and, all too often, burned flesh. Within a few days, the odors had given way to musty wet-mattress smells, overladen with the deep, sickening dead-dog scent of decaying bodies. Tired from the shelling, the poor food, and the inevitability of surrender, the local people were sullen and unfriendly.
And Lacalle was furious with himself. He had ground-looped his Mosca landing on the polo field the Loyalists were using as their last-ditch airfield in the defense of the north. It had been in the makeshift repair shops—abandoned stables—ever since, and in the meantime, the last of the Chatos had been shot down.
By midafternoon on the twenty-sixth, Lacalle's airplane was finally repaired, just as reports began to come in that an Italian bomber, probably a Savoia-Marchetti, had bombed the Renteria bridge east of Guernica, with little damage. A few minutes later, a Heinkel He-70 had bombed the railroad tracks at Guernica, then machine-gunned the town square. The methodical Condor Legion always followed a similar pattern. If another Heinkel showed up on a reconnaissance mission—the "before" picture for intelligence purposes—it usually meant that a full-scale bombing raid would be on within the hour. Bandy decided he would follow Lacalle through the initial attack to gain the combat information Caldwell wanted on the airplane, then return. When Lacalle landed, he would make a break for France. He felt no remorse about leaving. His mission was accomplished, and he was tired of killing, tired too of the Loyalist cause, and absolutely exhausted and disgusted by the communists. War had become so totally repellent that he was ready to give up everything but his quixotic crusade to find and engage Hafner in combat.
Lacalle ran out of the operations shack. "Full-scale attack on Guernica. We just got word that three flights of Ju-52s are en route."
They walked out to the stubby little green I-16s. Lacalle punched him playfully on the arm. "At least fuel is no problem. We're the last airplanes the Republic has left in the north. We'll get the best of everything."
Bandy carefully preflighted the Mosca, aware that this would be his last combat flight. The stubby little Russian plane reminded him of Hadley's racers, small, short-winged, lethal-looking. Methodically, he checked the fuel tanks with his own dipstick. They were full. He calculated that he could fly to France with half tanks, even if he had to ditch in a field or on a beach. It would be over then.
*
Burgos, Spain/April 26, 1937
Von Richthofen had settled into the narrow cockpit of the Junkers Ju-52 when an orderly ran forward with a message. He read it and cursed. "You take it, Baumer; I've got to go back to the office."
After von Richthofen was safely out of the cockpit, Captain Werner Baumer threw up his hands. "I thought we might actually get him into combat today, and let him see what a hopeless dog this airplane is as a bomber." Baumer resented the way the high command thought the Ju-52, designed as a transport, could do any job. In the past, they had even had them going low, ground strafing, where any Spanish child could shoot at them without missing. He signaled that he was ready to start engines. On either side of him, ground-crew men dressed in dusty black coveralls went through the final checks to see that the bomb safety pins were removed, the chocks pulled, and the runway ahead clear.
Baumer saw the green flare ascend and pushed his hands forward, the movement of the three throttles adding power, while simultaneously releasing the brakes. The Junkers moved sluggishly ahead, and Baumer settled down on his hard metal seat, sensing the adrenaline coursing through him, as it always did, even on an easy mission like this. In the back, gunner Erich Tauber ran his hands over the 7.9mm MG 15 machine gun, sighting down it and making machine-gun noises with his mouth, an eighteen-year-old delighted to be at war.
*
Guernica, Spain/April 26, 1937
The heavy bell in the church tower began to peal. The Basques were crowding the streets, drivers forcing their ox wagons through the densely packed crowd of buyers and sellers. Monday was market day, rain or shine, peace or war.
On the hillside, Father Alfonso Miravittles stopped to catch his breath. His finger, still moist from the oil of extreme unction used to slip poor dying Arturo Consados through
the gates of heaven, crept down into the heel of his boot to comfort the blister. He realized what he had done and wondered if the Lord would consider it a misuse of a sacrament.
In the distance, he could see the crumbling ruins of the ancient Basque parliament building in the north end of town, now decked out with multicolored rags, washing hung out by the refugees to dry. Since the refugees had swelled the population, everything was made to serve as housing. His own work had tripled.
He began to move again, slowly. On the way to old Arturo's hut this morning, he had passed the famous Guernica oak tree. Six hundred years old, cut to a stump during the Napoleonic wars, it had flourished since, and become Guernica's symbol for Basque resistance. But this year it had come into leaf early, a sign as ominous as the trembling rumble he sensed in the air, a low guttural growling that was causing the magpies to fly in quick calling circles. He crossed himself, and hurried on.
Baumer's Ju-52 was the lead aircraft. He flew it precisely, anticipating maneuvers so that it seemed to fly as crisply as a fighter, rather than the lumbering truck it was. His observer, Lieutenant Henke, was suspended below in the archaic bombardier's position, exposed to the wind that he was busy calculating. They were flying at four thousand feet, secure in the knowledge that there would be no enemy flak or fighters.
Above the bombers, Lieutenant Adolf Galland watched the Junkers roll on. He and his fellow fighter pilots were delighted to be flying an escort mission in their Heinkel He-51s, instead of the usual dangerous attacks against ground targets. And circling above the Heinkels, unable to fly in formation with them because they were so slow, essing back and forth in easy turns in his brand-new Messerschmitt Bf 109 drafted from the test group at Rechlin, was an elated Lieutenant Colonel Bruno Hafner.
He had pulled strings to get the airplane assembled swiftly, flying the test flights himself, driving the crew overnight to get the special paint job completed. The bright red paint was totally unauthorized, as was the large white winged sword behind the cockpit. But this was wartime, and the authorities winked at the deviations from discipline that signaled high morale.
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