The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  Only after the gruelling year of training were recruits introduced to flying. Officially Germany was still banned by treaty from having any sort of air force or military aircraft, but a special arrangement with Russia enabled the country to lay the foundations of what was to become the most formidable fighting machine in history. The initial flying training was conducted at Lipetzk, close to Moscow. Here, in secret, potential flyers were taught their craft in a selection of obsolete biplanes, salvaged, somehow, from the havoc of 1918. The instructors were a small band of aces who had survived the Great War and were dedicated to the establishment of a strong new German air force.

  In this atmosphere Hans excelled. He was a natural pilot, and immediately related to the rhythm of each aircraft’s movements, its virtues, its vices and the tricks it might play on the unwary. He adored every moment he spent at the controls, especially when he was alone over the frozen Russian countryside, diving perhaps towards some unsuspecting Russian farm building, playing hide and seek among the clouds or picking a route through stormy weather back to his base. The wind whistling past the cockpit was music to him, the throb of the engine poetry. By the end of 1931 he was a superb flyer, one of the best which the system had produced. Sometimes, however, even Hans realised that this life among comrades in barracks was profoundly incomplete. Shut away in training camps and then in Russia, he had had little opportunity to develop a social life and, while singing patriotic songs with his mates was all good fun, there seemed to be an important part of life on which he was missing out. Of course, during his rare home leaves, he was idolised by girls. For them a tall, handsome aristocrat engaged on a secret mission for his country was a prize indeed, but his romances never got very far. Leaves were too short, the demands of his parents too pressing (“Oh, Hans, you must be home this weekend, I have promised that you will open the produce show in the village on Saturday”) and his experience with the other sex was too limited for him to form any intimate relationship. A certain arrogance, developed in his military training, was impressive enough to his fellow recruits and instructors, but it was not the way to any maiden’s heart. Besides, what were his prospects? He had no idea what he might do after his training was over. Officially the Luftwaffe still did not exist. There were now several hundred trained recruits, but with no air force, what could they do? Certainly they could not stay in Russia forever.

  He need not have worried about his career. As he was due to pass out of Lipetsk, he received a letter asking him to join the German national airline, Lufthansa, as a reserve pilot. The letter was less of an invitation than a command. Lufthansa was in fact a thinly veiled training ground for potential Luftwaffe flyers, and, among other projects, it operated a fleet of fast mail planes which darted about the country every day carrying priority mail. It was to this service that Hans was attached. Flying a Heinkel biplane, Hans soon learnt to cope with the hazards of all-weather flying in winter and summer through thunderstorms, ground mist, downpours of rain and fogs. If you couldn’t handle such hazards you didn’t last long with Lufthansa. After a little over a year of this life as a civilian pilot, his activities were interrupted by a peremptory demand to report again for military duties. To his astonishment, Hans was issued with an unfamiliar uniform and ushered in secret onto a train which took him across the Alps and into northern Italy. There, Goering had arranged for German airmen in disguise to train with the perfectly legal Italian air force. Delightedly they spent the summer diving at roof top level over Italian soldiers crouching in trenches, shooting at toy balloons in the sky and revelling in pretend dog fights with their comrades. This was real flying and all the Germans seized every opportunity to be in the air as long as there was light. Their machines were the sturdy little He 38 biplanes, developed in secret and already superior to most British and French fighters, agile, fast and a delight to handle, especially in the warm, clear blue sky of northern Italy.

  There were also lectures to attend. At one of them, Goering himself addressed the flyers. Already the man was becoming flabby and dissolute-looking, and insisted on dressing himself up in absurd-looking uniforms, but there was still something of the old spark. “Men of the reborn Luftwaffe!” he bellowed, “within a year the shame of 1919 which has humbled the name of Germany will be avenged. We will have strong forces of every kind, but especially our Luftwaffe. You men will be the new Teutonic Knights, the cavalry of the new Germany. One folk, one state, one leader.” Everyone cheered him to the echo. Hans had his doubts. This was the same slimy fellow who had seen endeavouring to charm his mother only a few years ago. The cheap-jack salesman who his father had secretly laughed at. Could he really be part of a regime which might renew the Fatherland?

  There was another speaker who was more to Hans’ taste. Ernst Udet was a hero to every German flyer. An ace pilot during the war, and a celebrated stunt flyer after it, he had been given responsibility for developing the capabilities of the nascent air force. A recent visit to America had convinced him that the dive bomber was the weapon of the future. Seated at the controls of a Curtiss fighter-bomber, he had been mesmerised by the sensation of diving vertically at his target, the aircraft practically a missile in itself, placing his bomb accurately from the lowest possible level, hauling the plane out of the dive and zooming away at maximum power. No other method of air attack was anything like so accurate, so difficult to combat or so terrifying to the enemy. In front of the young pilots, he waxed lyrical about the potential of modern dive bombers. Udet was a superb flyer and a convincing speaker, revered by any German with an interest in aviation. He concluded by telling his audience that in a short time a suitable dive bomber would be available for them to use; in the meantime, if they wanted to be the true heroes of their country, they could make some practice dives in their Heinkels.

  Hans could hardly wait to be in the air again, but when he was, he found the dive-bombing operation was not as easy as it seemed. Firstly, not having dive brakes, his aircraft would easily get out of control in a steep dive, gaining so much speed that the airframe was in danger of coming apart. Secondly, there was a grave danger of blacking out as one pulled out of the dive, and indeed of pulling up so hard that the wings were torn off the plane. One of his comrades was killed in this way on his first attempt. Eventually the unit commander had to ban dive bombing practice until more suitable machines became available.

  There was another learning experience waiting for Hans in the sunny groves and in the elegant cities of Tuscany. The Germans were in theory confined to their barracks in order to keep their presence secret, but the guards were Italian, relaxed and accommodating for the price of a little tobacco. One young flyer, Karl Lenz, actually had his own private Mercedes brought down to provide convenient local transportation. They found the locals easy going, welcoming and hospitable. Plates of delicious pasta and bowls of fruit would appear as if from nowhere. The local wines lifted the spirits and lubricated budding friendships, and late at night a glass of grappa often instilled boldness into the most timid hearts.

  Sonia lived with her family in a small, square town house built around a little central garden. The house was battered and unkempt on the outside with paint peeling off the green shutters and great lumps of plaster missing from the walls. Inside, however, there was that dash of elegance which only an Italian household can achieve. All the downstairs rooms opened onto the garden, a blaze of colour, always cool and always beautiful. Besides the profusion of flowers, there were peaches which grew on trellises up a sunny wall and a plumb tree laden with the most delicious, juicy fruit. The father of the family had been killed in 1918, and the head of the household was his widow, Maria, a quiet almost ghostly figure who seemed to spend much of her time whispering with priests or praying silently in the little church down the street. Nevertheless, the aging widow ran her house with surprising authority and efficiency. The two servants were smart and obliging, the house and garden were beautifully kept and the rooms were tidy and cared for. Sonia and her brother Marco had taken
over their father’s business which dealt in car parts and accessories. Marco handled the parts while Sonia had tapped into a new and expanding market for fashionable motoring clothing and items such as picnic baskets, trunks, rugs and maps.

  It was from Marco’s office that Hans had first spotted Sonia. Karl Lenz, his fellow pilot, was in search of a part for his Mercedes (Marco eventually got it made locally at half Mercedes’ price) and Hans had been wandering around the establishment while the two were discussing technical details. As he looked idly at some elegant leather coats especially designed for motorists, a gentle voice spoke from behind him. “And which one would Signor like to try?” Looking round, he saw the most beautiful pair of dark eyes it was possible to imagine, peering out from under a lustrous fringe of black hair. Taking a step backward, he found he was looking at a figure which seemed perfect in every way, elegant, poised, perfectly proportioned but above all brimming with life and vivacity. The eyes and mouth spoke of humour, the brown limbs of activity and the voice somehow seemed to tease at the same time as it offered service in the shop. Hans had been brought up to be trilingual, having fluent English, French and German and he had quite easily picked up enough Italian to get by, but at first he could only gaze at this beautiful creature. After a few seconds he managed some muttered reply, but Sonia, seeing his difficulty, broke effortlessly into French.

  “Oh,” she said, “I understand. You are waiting for your friend who I saw speaking to Marco. Well my brother can never stop talking about motor cars, so what shall we talk about, you and I? Oh, don’t worry, I know who you are. It is supposed to be a secret but we all know about you German flyers at the aerodrome. Myself, I like to see some new faces. I get bored talking to the same men all the time.”

  Hans didn’t quite know how to handle this unfamiliar creature, so utterly unlike any girl he had met at home. In spite of himself, he felt nervous, almost afraid. He managed to launch into some casual talk about life on the aerodrome, the exercises they were doing, subtly encouraged by Sonia’s questions and evident interest. All too soon Karl and Marco joined them and then somehow, after a glass or two of cool white Chianti, the four drifted off to the family house where it had become known that there were to be guests for dinner and a succulent dish of lamb and vegetables was waiting for them. The Germans could not risk being too late back to camp, but before they left, Sonia took Hans aside.

  “Listen, my flyer friend,” she whispered. “I want to have a flight in one of your planes, can you arrange that?”

  “Impossible! The planes are guarded, what would my commander say?”

  The dark eyes narrowed and suddenly had a threatening, angry gleam.

  “Your commander, bah, I care nothing for commanders, I like men who can do things, make arrangements.” Then, suddenly sweet and encouraging again. “Hans, do this thing for me, I want us to be friends.”

  Hans was so captivated, so bowled over by this fascinating, domineering creature that he could only mutter that he would see if he could arrange something then the two men had to be off. Hans gazed blankly out of the car, daydreaming of what he might do with his lovely Sonia. It could hardly escape Karl’s notice that his friend was smitten with their hostess. After some probing he managed to get Hans to tell him about the request for a flight.

  “But it’s impossible! How could we ever get her into the camp, let alone into a plane?” he moaned.

  Karl was more than equal to that problem. “Idiot,” he said, swerving expertly round a buffalo cart stopped on the road. “You don’t need to get her into the camp. Land somewhere in the countryside and pick her up.”

  Stupefied as he was with love, this obvious solution had escaped Hans completely. He tried to get his friend to turn around so that he could explain to Sonia right away. Karl had a cooler head. “Let’s plan it properly first,” he said. “Then we can tell her the full story. A few days waiting will do her no harm.”

  Hans walked about in a trance for the next few days, which luckily were stormy and unfit for flying, but Karl, who knew more than a little about women, being engaged to be married to a wealthy Belgian girl, had the problem well in hand. He identified a suitable field for a furtive landing and wangled a change in the flying schedules so that he and Hans should take up a two-seater on a couple of occasions the next week to practise map reading on long cross-country flights. So far so good. The next thing was to get the message to Sonia. The two conspirators escaped from the camp one evening and presented themselves. Hans was trembling with excitement, scarcely able to speak, but he need not have been. His love was not there. Marco said that she would not be back until late that evening, but a message was left. The signal for the flight would be the aircraft doing a slow roll over the town. Fifteen minutes later the plane would be on the ground at the appointed place. There must be no delay; they would only stay on the ground for two minutes.

  Everything went like clockwork. Karl relinquished his seat and there in the cockpit in front of Hans a trim figure in black leather whooped with excitement as he performed some gentle aerobatics. By the time they had to return, Sonia had looped the loop, spun, rolled and dive bombed her own shop. A brisk wind had got up, blowing across the field in which they were to land. There was no wind sock of course, but Hans knew from the poplar trees around that it would be a tricky landing. His year with Lufthansa had given him plenty of experience of these conditions and he put the little plane down neatly amid a cloud of dust. The two climbed out, leaving the engine running. Hans pulled off his goggles and gazed at his love who was looking radiant and elated by her experience. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, turned and scampered off to her waiting car. She was away and waving merrily before Karl and Hans had started their take-off run.

  Hans was so excited that he was quite unfit to take the controls, and his companion had to fly the aircraft as well as marking up the map and inventing a log of their mission. This was his first proper girl, so exotic, so thrilling, so beautiful and he had shown her himself at his best, flying faultlessly yet adventurously, totally in command of the situation, equal to every challenge. And she had kissed him! He felt that kiss a hundred times as he lay on his bunk in the camp, waiting for the evening when a further trip into town was arranged.

  This time he borrowed a motorbike, and puttered along the dusty roads, singing to himself. Arriving at the house, he was a little disappointed to find quite a large party assembled. They were all young and seemed to be in high spirits. Marco greeted him affably and introduced him around the party. Sonia was at the centre of the group and although the conversation was in Italian, Hans could tell that she was recounting her day’s experience. He swelled with pride. When Sonia finished she turned to him and the company all applauded, but it seemed somehow that their cheers were not quite genuine. Somehow there was a mocking look on the face of several of the Italian boys in the room, and the girls giggled together at some joke which they did not share with their guest. Hans tried to say something in Italian and was rewarded with a peck on the cheek and a brimming glass. He stood there on the fringe of the crowd, watching the Italians as they flirted, quarrelled and joked together. Occasionally someone spoke to him but he felt uncomfortable and out of place among these sophisticated, elegant young people. The merry party continued for an hour or so, then the guests drifted off and Hans was left with Sonia. A little clumsily, he put an arm around her.

  “My darling Sonia…” He was roughly pushed away. The figure he saw before him was tense, furious, spitting venom.

  “Hans, my little flyer! You are only a boy, a little flying boy. Yes, I enjoyed the aeroplane, but do you really want to know something? I am five thousand lira richer for it. I had a bet with my friend Angelo – you saw him, the small dark boy with the curly hair – that I could get a flight in one of the German planes and now I have. Now, little boy, go away and do what you like, but don’t trouble me again. You know nothing, nothing. Do you think you are a man? No! You are a big blond fool who can fly aeroplanes. Not
hing more. Go now back to your camp.”

  Hans stumbled out of the house, blind with frustration and fury. He had been tricked by this girl, made a fool of, laughed at. Furiously he kicked the bike into life and roared off into the darkness, not caring where he went. The machine skidded over the cobbled streets of the town and sped in a cloud of dust down unmade roads in the countryside. It was getting dark but Hans took no notice, twisting the throttle full open and roaring past farmsteads and cattle sheds. As he reached the top of a hill, he suddenly saw a great black form before him. It was close, too close to miss. Slamming on his brakes, he laid the machine down on its side in the dust, slithering towards the obstruction, engine roaring. He felt a stab of pain in his shoulder then nothing…

  When he picked himself painfully off the road, he found the bike’s engine had somehow stopped. There was no one around, and the obstruction, whatever it was – donkey, buffalo, cow – had wandered off into the countryside. It was completely silent. He lifted the bike onto its wheels. The mudguards were bent and the headlight broken, one tyre had been torn off the rim, but there seemed to be no major damage. Gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he made out a tiny crucifix in a wayside Calvary at the summit. Blundering about in the dark, he had almost stumbled over it. Hans was a Protestant, and anyway not a religious man, but he could not help kneeling down before the crude image and mumbling a little prayer of thankfulness that he was not badly hurt. He thought about what had happened to him in the last few hours. Yes, he thought, he had a right to be angry. He had been abominably treated and abused but it was his own fault. He had been a fool and deserved to suffer for it. He had learnt a bit about life and a little about women. Sonia had had a point when she mocked his immaturity as a man. He must learn from it, put it behind him and move on. Above all, never again would he allow anyone to treat him as a fool. Never.