by Jim Crossley
The von Pilsen Berlin establishment proved to be a good-sized town house. A servant met him at the door and explained that the master of the house was expected home shortly. There was very little sign of the privations which Germany had suffered in the starvation after the war and the terrible inflation of the early 1920s. The house was richly decorated with some interesting English landscapes. In the drawing room William recognised two Constables. A bloodthirsty collection of battlefield pictures adorned the hall, showing, according to the captions, various members of the von Pilsen family triumphantly trampling French, Danish and Austrian adversaries under their horses’ hooves. The servant brought in an evening paper which was full of economic gloom. Stresemann, the chancellor and Foreign Minister, who had successfully rescued the German economy and had got some way towards integrating the country back into the society of civilised nations, had died in October 1929. However, the papers were saying that the cheap credit from the US which had financed German industrial expansion was disappearing, unemployment was on the rise again, and “new political elements” – whatever they were – were looking for more radical solutions. William leafed through the papers without much interest until his host was announced.
Uncle Albricht strode into the room looking like the cat which had got the cream. He was sleek, well-groomed and expensively dressed, and he greeted his young relation very warmly in slightly laboured English. William returned his good wishes in German and implored his host that this should be their medium of communication.
“My dear, sir! How good of you to make this concession. I do wish my dear wife – she is detained at our place in Prussia you know – such an Anglophile – was here to see you. My dearest William, your father and I were the firmest friends. Do make my home your own while you are here. Unfortunately my son, Hans, is eh… abroad at present, I would have so loved you to meet him. I flatter myself that he has all the best qualities which have made our family useful to our fatherland. Now I’m afraid it is only me, your old uncle, you will be meeting here. I hope my man has attended to you well? Good, now let us have dinner and talk.”
William was immediately on his guard. From what information he had gained from letters and from talking to Mrs Wellibond, his father and Albricht were certainly not close friends, and something about this polished, over-polite and rather dominating man aroused his suspicions. However, he proved an attentive host, listening with interest to William’s news, and the dinner was excellent. Over a glass of port, his uncle asked him what he knew of German affairs. On hearing that he took little interest in politics, his host launched into an animated resumé.
“The enemy we all face is Communism. It destroys loyalty, property, decency and religion. In Germany, after the events of 1918 we narrowly avoided a Communist takeover, and of course even I have to admit that the creed has its attractions to workers who have no reason to be loyal to their state. It also appeals to – forgive me – naïve students. But it rots all noble, decent, human instincts. And there is another enemy of humanity – an element which does not share our values or our loyalties – I refer of course to the Jews. Do you have Jewish friends, William?”
William thought for a moment. He honestly didn’t know which of his friends were Jewish and which were not, so he shook his head.
“Excellent! Well, let me tell you that in England, as here, they are parasites, gnawing away at the fabric of the state and of society. Here in Germany we have recognised this perhaps before you have. As you may have heard, Walter Rathenau, the Jew who managed to become head of the giant engineering and electronics company AEG, and then to insert himself and his disloyal tribe into political circles, for example, got what he deserved.” (Walter Rathenau, a highly intelligent and loyal German Jew, who had been a minister in the wartime German government and a very effective member of the post-war administration, had been murdered by racist fanatics in 1922.) “So we have two enemies to contend with; we must defeat the Communist and the Jew. Now, I am a member of a small group of loyal Germans who believe that a solution can be found to these problems. Only this afternoon I was meeting with Herr Hitler, head of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party – the man’s a fool and a rabble rouser – but he does have a way of galvanising the workers and leading them away from Communism. If we can get him to work with us established industrialists and with the army, we will have a force which can sweep away our rotten republican government and the corruption which is destroying us… but I am sorry, I am talking too much politics. Tell me, William, how well do you remember your father?”
“Well, I was only seven when he was killed, but to me he was the kindest father imaginable.”
“Yes, yes, I can believe that, and he was a brave sailor too. I believe he won a medal, but really it is so interesting to understand a man’s motivations, is it not? Tell me, how did he feel about the war? We in Germany thought it was so tragic that our two great nations should be fighting each other. Maybe he thought the same way?”
William didn’t like the turn of the conversation. He was not going to discuss his father with this man, of whom he was instinctively suspicious. He answered evasively.
“Well, I can tell you,” continued his uncle, “people like ourselves in Germany never understood why England made war on us in 1914. We had our differences, of course, but we are of the same blood and we have the same values. The real danger to civilisation lies elsewhere, to the east, and we should have fought together against that. I think your father might have agreed. We were very close, you know, your father and I. I flatter myself that I now have some influence in German industrial circles and my work in the Chancellery gives me access to all the major political leaders, and I can assure you that never again will Germany fight against our British friends. Together we must fight the godless Communists and we must break the stranglehold of the Jew on our newspapers, the banking system, the arts and sciences. These are the poisons we must face together. But enough of politics, my young friend. Do tell me what you are planning to do with yourself while you are here.”
William talked vaguely about a possible tour of the Rhine Valley with his painting things, and the conversation turned to art, to the various galleries he should visit and to the best spots for painting.
The three days in Berlin passed pleasantly enough. Albricht was engaged every day but he had arranged for a friend of Hans, once a fellow law student, Jorgen Kressler, to show him some of the sights. Jorgen proved an amiable enough young fellow and had a comprehensive knowledge of Berlin night life. This was famously lurid at the time, with bars and clubs catering for every imaginable taste and perversion.
It was not in one of these dubious haunts, however, that William became acquainted with the true nature of German nationalist politics.
He and Jorgen were drinking some excellent beer in a bar much frequented by law students, some of whom were familiar with Jorgen and the absent Hans. It was a fine evening and the conversation was lively, with drinkers spilling out of the bar onto the pavements to enjoy the warm, fresh air. For some reason the subject under discussion had turned to the prohibition laws in the US and everyone was deploring the criminality which had come in its train. One particularly loquacious young fellow was cataloguing the murders which had been reported in Chicago the previous week. “It is a shame,” he said, “an insult to the very idea of democracy, which we all believe in, that such laws restricting human freedom can be passed in the first place, but that is nothing compared to the callous destruction of life which seems to be part of the philosophy of both the bootleggers and the police. Imagine it. Both sides carry machine guns and move about in armoured vehicles…”
As he rattled on, William noticed a small group of students gathered at a table a short distance from them. Looking a little pale and furtive, they were talking quietly amongst themselves and seemed to be on the lookout for something. Just as they started their meal it became clear what their problem was. Out of a side street burst a party of SA youths, so called
“Stormtroopers” wearing quasi military brown uniforms and armed with truncheons. Before the little party could get to its feet the thugs were upon them,
“Juden raus, Juden raus!” they yelled as they set about the defenceless party of Jewish students, kicking and beating the boys and grabbing at the girls, pulling their hair, and throwing food in their faces.
“What the hell!” cried William as he tried to intervene, but his comrades grabbed his arms and held him back.
“Leave it, leave it,” muttered Jorgen. “They are only rotten Jews and it’s nothing to do with you; you get involved and they’ll beat you up too.”
One of the Stormtroopers, a big ugly fellow with a broken nose turned towards William and leered at him as he stood with his arms pinned by his friends.
“Oh, we have a Jew lover here, do we?” he snarled. “You do well to hold him back, lads, I’d soon teach your little friend a lesson.” He raised his truncheon and thrust it gently into William’s face, brushing his nose and tapping his forehead. Then he turned and re-joined his troop. They were dragging the Jews down the street, kicking them at intervals and leaving behind a trail of blood, broken spectacles and vomit.
William slipped away from his party and stood on the pavement by himself, shivering with fury. He had never seen anything so disgusting. It was wanton, vicious, cruelty practised in the open with no provocation whatever. That was bad enough, but even worse was that somehow he couldn’t find words to say to his new-found friends. They spouted about democracy and law, then stood by while this was going on. No one thought of calling the police – they would have done nothing anyway – or of doing anything to protect the victims. What was all this about rotten Jews? What was supposed to be wrong with them? Had they no rights like other people? The rest of his party drifted off to another bar but he could not join them. He slunk miserably back to the house, feeling dirty and ashamed of what he had seen, and furious with himself for the feeble part he had played in the squalid affair.
In the morning he made up his mind. He would invent some excuse for not undertaking the little painting tour of the Rhineland which he had planned. He would go home as soon as possible. He was not able to escape, however, without a solemn lecture from Uncle Albricht on the importance of Anglo-German relations.
“I am sure that you will be able to return home now and work for a deeper understanding between our two great nations. You will see soon enough that a new Germany is about to spring from the ashes of this rotten Weimar Republic, a Germany led by men of stature and experience, worthy of standing proudly alongside your British Empire as guardians of civilisation and order in the world. That is our dream.”
William felt uncomfortable with this rather formal speech, contenting himself by mumbling a few words about not being much involved in politics, and retiring early to bed on the pretext of needing to depart by the morning boat train. His excuse for his rushed departure was a telegram received from his lawyer, Walder, requesting an immediate meeting. It was true that he had received a telegram, but he had greatly exaggerated the urgency of the request.
William and Walder had their meeting, something to do with a switch in the investment portfolio, but he had other things on his mind. He had become deeply absorbed with Hugh Wesley and his radio experiments. Hugh helped him to build his own receiver and transmitter, and he was ecstatic when he picked up his first Morse code messages from unknown “hams” far away. Hugh told him all about his work for his various clients, and how he was trying to become involved in some experiments for the Air Ministry. Once, when Hugh was late in completing a set for some trials taking place on behalf of Imperial Airways, William packed Hugh and his device onto the back of the motorbike and rushed him to the aerodrome in Lancashire where the tests would take place. While Hugh was with his client, William watched aircraft landing and taking off from the local flying school. As he was gazing at the planes, a vigorous slap on the back almost sent him head over heels. His assailant turned out to be his old school friend, Peter Downes. Peter was a few years older but had always been a friendly presence in the higher echelons of his school. “Thought it was you, William old chap!” he laughed. “What brings you to Ringwood?” In no time it transpired that Peter had recently got his pilot’s licence and was waiting for an aircraft, which he had arranged to hire for an hour’s practice, to be ready. “She’s a two-seater,” he said. “Why don’t you come for a flip?”
A few minutes later a silver Gipsy Moth was pulled out of the hangar. She was a neat little biplane with two open cockpits and looked eager to be off. Peter told his friend to get into the front cockpit and told him how to strap himself in on top of the parachute which doubled as a seat cushion. He then walked round the machine making a visual check on the aircraft and the undercarriage. Satisfied that all was well, he climbed into the rear cockpit and methodically moved the joystick and rudder bar, checking that the rudder, elevator and ailerons moved as they should, explaining to his passenger carefully the purpose of each control surface. William was excited and highly impressed by his friend’s serious approach to the business of flying.
“OK!” Peter called to the mechanic, who had sauntered round to the front of the aeroplane. “Sucking in, fuel on throttle closed, switches off.” He held his hand with the thumb pointing downwards out of the side of the cockpit. The mechanic turned the engine over gently three times.
“Fuel on, throttle one and a half inches open, switches on. Contact!” An upwards pointing thumb. The mechanic swung the prop once vigorously and the engine burst into life. A little puff of smoke issued from the exhaust, and in a moment the hundred horsepower four-cylinder DH Gipsy engine was idling smoothly. Peter let her warm up, checking again on the control surfaces and the instruments showing oil pressure, temperature and fuel contents. After a couple of minutes he opened the throttle wide and checked the engine revs. “Two thousand one hundred, that’s OK!” he shouted into the speaking tube. “Now I’m going to check each magneto by cutting off one at a time. Revs shouldn’t fall by more than three hundred.” The check confirmed all was OK. The airfield had a control tower, but there was no radio in the Moth so, after looking round carefully, Peter waved the chocks away and taxied to the end of the runway, the engine burbling away gently as she bumped over the grass.
William was thrilled by the whole business; he admired the smooth methodical procedure of checking and starting the machine, so different from the unstructured carelessness of driving off in a car or a motorbike. He relished the regular, healthy throb of the engine, and the purposeful elegant structure of the machine. Somehow he had got to become a part of this business.
A green from the tower, and Peter pulled onto the runway. The little plane came alive and trembled excitedly as the throttle was opened wide and she sped over the smooth grass and soared clear of the boundary fence and away into the sky. There were a few high white clouds but otherwise it was a perfect, clear day so you could see the ground spread out below like a subtly coloured map. Cars and lorries wound their way along the roads, trains, each one trailing a plume of smoke sped along neat rails, and two merchant ships were crawling up the Ship Canal. Away to the west the mud of the Mersey Estuary glistened like highly polished shoe leather in the sun. They banked and flew south and then west along the north coast of Wales. The motor beat steadily and the magnificent panorama of hills, woodland, yellow beaches, white surf, green fields and blue sea spread beneath them. Peter dived low to get a better look at a big liner – a Cunarder by the look of her – steaming majestically towards Liverpool Dock. After half an hour they turned around and flew low along the shore line, causing commotion among some dogs running on the beach, and sending a family of seals squirming and tumbling off their sandbank into the water.
Peter’s landing back at Ringwood was less than perfect. He came in too high, instinctively put the nose down and picked up so much speed that he had to gun the engine and go around again, swearing loudly into the speaking tube. The second time he got it rig
ht, and the Gipsy Moth bounced gently on the grass and taxied slowly back to its hangar.
William felt he had never experienced such intense joy and excitement, or seen anything so beautiful. He had been entranced by the flight and had fallen in love with the little aeroplane. As soon as he could he took out his pad and pencil and sketched the aircraft on the field, they were mostly Moths, but there was a Percival Gull, an old Avro and a handful of other types. Each had its own character, its own way of squatting on the ground, its own particular line of beauty. Somehow William’s pencil, so clumsy in drawing figures, managed to capture them perfectly. As soon as he got home, William checked his bank statements. Yes, he could afford a few flying lessons.
Chapter 3
Cousin Hans had an altogether more serious introduction to flying. Shortly after the interview with his father, he received his call-up papers and found himself in a basic training barracks not far from his home in East Prussia. Every German soldier, sailor or airman had to start his service with basic infantry training. This was no pushover. It tested men to the limits of their mental and physical endurance, each day presenting a new and more demanding challenge. It comprised an initial year with the Flieger Ausbildungs Regiment in which there was no smoking, no drinking, and no home leave. There were a few lectures and courses on military history and tactics, otherwise it was all demanding physical work – marching, singing, assault courses and field exercises. Physical fitness and mental toughness were everything. Unlike most armed forces of the time, German instructors taught infantry soldiers to think for themselves as well as to obey orders and the soldiers who emerged from the training process were not only physically tough, they were also self-confident and decisive. Hans, on his first leave home after basic training was a much-changed young man. Physically he had put on weight and muscle and mentally he had changed from an easy-going, likeable youth into a confident, motivated young soldier.