The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  Only a week after he had arrived, Hans found himself leading a flight of three machines forming part of a formation tasked to attack British warships approaching Malta. It was to be a memorable day. The target was a large section of the British Mediterranean Fleet consisting of two battleships, seven destroyers and the aircraft carrier Illustrious herself. This was no easy target. The British had plenty of experience in fighting off Italian high-level and torpedo bombers, and several of their ships, including Illustrious, were fitted with radar. Illustrious also carried a squadron of Fulmar fighters – slow and clumsy compared to land-based single-seaters but more than a match for a dive bomber. From the first, Fliegerkorps X had luck on their side. An Italian destroyer located the British at dawn. An abortive attack was made by a pair of Italian torpedo bombers. Their weapons missed the target but they distracted some patrolling Fulmars which chased them back to Sicily. Almost simultaneously Illustrious’s radar picked up a large number of incoming aircraft. It was too late to launch more fighters. Hans looked down from his cockpit and saw the great ships like toys on the sea beneath him, white water breaking under their bows, and each sending out a pattern of ripples in her wake. This was exactly the situation they had been training for. There were forty-three Stukas in the attacking force and they formed a defensive ring over the warships. Anti-aircraft fire soared up towards them as they circled, but at twelve thousand feet they were too high for it to be effective. The obvious targets for the Stukas were the aircraft carrier and the two battleships. Some of the Stukas, each carrying two five hundred-pound bombs, would distract the defensive fire of the battleships while thirty of them, armed with the new thousand-pound weapon, would make straight for the carrier. One by one, with perfect precision, they pulled out of the circle, did a half role and plunged into a near vertical dive towards the speck on the water below. Hans saw great spouts of water erupt around the carrier as she wove and squirmed to avoid the terrible onslaught.

  Accustomed to attack from Italian high-level bombers, the British gun crews had never seen anything like this assault from directly above and carried out with such immaculate precision. Although the gunners blazed away with everything they had, the waiting aircraft in the circle saw each of their comrades pull safely out of his dive and skim away over the sea. When it was Hans’ turn, he felt the animal thrill of the chase pulsing through every fibre. As the dive commenced, he watched as the target began to grow, at first slowly, then suddenly with alarming speed as he steered straight downwards towards the flight deck. At the very last moment, he released his bomb and hauled the machine out of its dive. He was almost on the deck himself and the aircraft whizzed along the length of the carrier well below the level of the bridge structure, almost as if to land on her. “Hit!” yelled the faithful Stokmann, who saw the bomb plunge through the deck and a burst of smoke and steam spout upwards from the hole it made. Hans stayed at low level and was quickly joined by the other two aircraft of his flight. They sped home, job well done.

  Illustrious was hit six times in this attack, and struck again by high-level bombs from a Heinkel 111 as she struggled on towards Malta. Her rudder was destroyed, and she was massively damaged below decks, but she managed to steer using her engines and limped into the dockyard for urgent repairs. The action was not without losses for Fliegerkorps X, the Fulmars eventually accounting for six of the attacking aircraft.

  The Luftwaffe were not finished with Illustrious. Two days later Hans found himself briefed to attack her whilst she was under repair. With his two comrades, Hans took off before dawn so as to arrive over the island before the defending fighters were airborne. On schedule, they arrived at first light and had no difficulty locating Illustrious, dwarfing the other ships in the dockyard. Over the island the ack-ack was legendary for its ferocity and, as they plunged down towards their target, he saw one Stuka explode alongside him as a shell struck it, detonating one of its bombs. Undeterred, he thought he scored a hit on the flight deck. Pulling out of his dive, he wove from side to side to confuse the gunners close below him. He escaped undamaged out over the sea, closely followed by his remaining colleague. Out of range of the guns now, he went into a slow climb on a course for home. Suddenly Stokmann yelled over the intercom, “Enemy fighters behind us, closing fast. Two of them. Hurricanes!” Hans opened up to maximum power and dived for the sea, followed by the other Stuka. Glancing for a second over his shoulder, he could see the other pilot, young Oppermann, a newcomer to the squadron. Hans knew him to be a nice lad, shy and quiet but full of courage and happy to volunteer for any action going. Today he was replacing another pilot who was sick. Hans noticed that he was gradually pulling ahead of Oppermann’s machine, and that the Hurricanes had seen them and were giving chase. If he stayed alongside Oppermann, then the two Stukas could perhaps put up some resistance, using both their tail guns; if he pulled ahead, the full fury would fall on his comrade and he himself might escape over the sea. There was low cloud ahead which would give him a chance. His choice was clear: he could run for it or support his comrade. He told himself that he was of more value to Germany than this young rookie. He doubted if even both tail gun turrets would put off the enemy. He remembered that Stokmann had a wife and baby. It took him less than a second to choose to save his own skin. The gap between his machine and the other steadily increased, and he watched as the Hurricanes both closed on Oppermann; alone the poor fellow had no chance at all, a long burst of fire from the leading Hurricane and his machine cartwheeled into the sea. The second Hurricane continued the chase, but now Hans saw the cloud bank rushing towards him and he plunged into its protecting dampness. To shake off pursuit he made a violent turn, then another and hugged the sea surface, skimming back over the water towards Sicily and safety. From that day he began to despise himself as a coward.

  Coward or not, he had to fight on. During the following eight weeks, Hans flew twenty-four combat missions against shipping targets and over Malta. Illustrious was eventually patched up enough to make her escape to Egypt, but there were plenty of other targets to go for on the island. It was the end of March, with spring coming to Sicily, that he took off on yet another sortie. Once again it was a pre-dawn departure and this time the target was an RAF station in the south of the island. The Stukas had the comfort of a BF109 escort, so defending Hurricanes should not be a problem. The station was heavily defended but the bombs were dropped, cratering the runway and damaging some hangars. The German aircrews had been instructed to shoot up the buildings around the airfield before heading for home, and Hans spotted a large block a little apart from the rest which he made his target. Approaching low from the airfield, he emptied his forward guns into the front of the building and turned sharply to give Stokmann a chance to use his weapons before they flew away. As he turned, Hans noticed a huge red cross painted on the side of the building. Outside he glimpsed a row of vehicles with red crosses on their sides. Pulling away he saw smoke billowing out of the windows from a fire which must have been caused by his tracer. A hospital! Clearly marked! And he had strafed it with everything he had. Feeling utterly sick and exhausted, he wrenched the aircraft into a turn for home. He was so shaken he could not even make a proper landing. He almost hurled the aircraft down onto the grass runway, got out leaving the engine running, vomited on the grass and stalked away back to his quarters.

  Major von Kostler was a superb commanding officer: tough, professional and extremely brave; he never failed to be in the air when there was dangerous work to be done. At the same time he was an excellent and civilised leader of men, understanding their problems and praising their strengths. He was intolerant only of idleness and deliberate insubordination. Hans stood before him in his office, still pale and trembling with rage. Why had he not been told about the hospital? What sort of air force operated without proper reconnaissance and intelligence? How could he fly again after the incident with Oppermann and now the hospital? The major had seen this sort of thing many times in two world wars, and he knew how to deal wit
h it.

  “Oberleutnant, I order you to sit down and take this drink.”

  Hands trembling, Hans accepted a glass of local grappa.

  “You are angry about the hospital, I understand that,” von Kostler continued. “But let me tell you something. I have a report here on my desk from one of your colleagues, Schinder; he also made an attack on that building and he swears that it was not properly marked on the south side, from which you attacked, or on the roof. It seems that the building has only just been put to that use; it once served as a mess for NCOs. The British seem to have been careless about marking it properly. Any blame is down to them, not to you.”

  “Herr Major, thank you for that information,” replied Hans. “But I fear that I have to report to you that I consider myself unfit to fly on combat missions.” He recounted the Oppermann incident.

  The major smiled at him, unruffled. “Hans, tell me how many guns a Hurricane has?”

  “Eight, Herr Major.”

  “And how many were chasing you?”

  “Two.”

  “And how many guns could you bring to bear on them?”

  “Six, three on each aircraft.”

  “What is the top speed of a Hurricane?”

  “About three hundred and twenty miles per hour.”

  “And a Stuka?”

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  “So do you really think the two of you together had any chance against those two British machines? Be sensible, Hans, and do yourself justice. You took the decision of a mature German officer to save at least something from disaster, not to make a foolish, useless gesture. Any fool can get himself killed. And, talking about being killed. I had this cable from the Red Cross this very afternoon. Oppermann and his gunner were not killed by their crash into the sea. They were picked up and are both prisoners in Malta.”

  Hans felt the fury drain out of him. He gulped his drink and just felt unbearably tired.

  “Listen,” said the major. “You are one of the best pilots we have and an excellent comrade, but we have been working you too hard and you need a rest. It is spring here in Sicily. I order you now to take one of the squadron motorbikes and take ten days rest away from the airfield. The Italians here are friendly and welcoming and their cooking and wines are superb. If I were you, I would try Enna, in the centre of the island; it’s beautiful and peaceful. Then come back and sink some ships for us. Dismiss!”

  “Ja, Herr Major!”

  The tempestuous and violent history of Sicily has left the behind it a plethora of the most magnificent and impressive churches, castles and domestic architecture in Europe, dating from early pre-history to the recent past. The island’s beauty, the richness of its products and its strategic position, poised between Europe and Africa, have attracted conquerors and immigrants for as long as man has been able to travel. Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Spaniards have fought over Sicily and left their distinctive marks behind them alongside traces of yet more ancient civilisations. In spite of all the conquests and colonisations, the people of the island have retained their distinctive dialect, independence and character. The fields and vineyards have continued to yield their riches, and the astonishing beauty of the countryside seems to have absorbed all the human activity around it. Hans began to fall in love with the island as he puttered his way along the dusty roads and up the tortuous mountain track towards Enna, poised on its mountain and dominating the plain below. Above the city he saw the enormous bulk of the castle, the Castello di Lombardia, frowning down on the narrow streets of the town. The crowded medieval buildings jostled together, some Norman, some Aragonese and some showing evidence of Arab design. He found a small hotel which seemed quite clean and modern and deposited his few belongings in a comfortable and airy room.

  Resolving on a stroll before dinner, he walked out and down the cobbled Via Roma. There seemed to be few people about, but the sound of a bell some distance away and the murmur of human voices drifted upwards. Walking towards the sound, he came upon a strange procession wending its way slowly towards him. The procession took up the full width of the street, and Hans had to press himself into a doorway to let it pass. Men seemed to be organised into groups, each group distinctively dressed in its own extraordinary costume, hooded and with faces masked, and preceded by a banner. The sound had now ceased entirely as the procession moved slowly, deliberately, on its way. Hans saw that some of the men were carrying heavy wooden crosses and a few were flagellating themselves with whips. It was impossible not to be moved by the solemnity and dignity of the marchers. Following respectfully behind the procession were women, all dressed in black, their faces half hidden by their black scarves and headgear, eyes turned down, totally silent. Hans noticed that, sheltering in the doorway next to his, was a young woman, dressed soberly, but not hooded. She looked at the stranger and smiled shyly.

  “I see you are a stranger in the town,” she said, speaking, to Hans’ surprise, in excellent French. “Have you come to see the Good Friday procession next week?”

  “Certainly I am a stranger, but I know nothing of these processions. I was most surprised. What do they signify?”

  “These are the guildsmen of the town. These days they are mostly charitable organisations, their members process through the town during Holy Week. What you have seen is a small procession in advance of Good Friday and Easter Day. That is really something to see.”

  “Well, I feel privileged to have been here. Thank you for your explanation. I can see that there is much here in Sicily which is strange to us Germans.”

  “Oh, yes, there is plenty to see in Enna, and the country around. Before the war there were tours and guides for visitors, but now, of course, that is all over.”

  “Yes yes, very sad. We Germans never wanted war, you know. If only they had listened. I suppose I will have to find my own way around.”

  “Sir, I have lived here all my life; if you would like a guide, I can show you the town tomorrow. I am at liberty.”

  Hans was rather surprised by the offer, but it would be stupid to refuse. He had nothing else to do. He thanked her and they arranged to meet in the morning. He was not to be disappointed. In place of her sober outfit worn the previous day, Ester (that was the girl’s name) arrived in an attractive patterned dress and a fetching straw hat. She was clearly well versed on the attractions of the town and seemed well-respected by her fellow citizens. She knew who kept the keys of the duomo (which was locked up) and the crusty old custodian opened up for her quite readily; she was also greeted heartily by the gate keeper at the castle, and they climbed the towers together, Ester clambering up the rickety stairs daintily, holding her skirt against the breeze. She chattered gaily as they took in the sights and not only had a fund of amusing stories about several of the people she met but also showed a deep understanding of the history of the place.

  “You see,” she said, as they paused for a rest, “there have been, in the last fifteen hundred years or so, many conquerors of our island and all have left their mark, but nevertheless something unique has remained intact. The Arabs came here in the sixth century. They built their mosques and their minarets, but their most profound effect was in the countryside. They taught the people how to farm productively, making proper use of irrigation and building systems which survived for centuries. Then came the Normans. They were great fighters and came to dominate the island, but they liked to live in the towns and they built here the most wonderful churches and cathedrals. They were clever enough to see that the Arabs knew things about agriculture that they did not, so they left them alone to do their work, pay their taxes, of course, and even to practise their religion. They were tolerant rulers and intelligent. Under them the island prospered as it had never done before or since. Then came the Spanish. They were different: proud, narrow, cruel rulers who drove out anyone who did not accept their faith and they destroyed much of what the Normans had achieved. Nevertheless they built some glorious things, especially in the towns where you can se
e their ornate baroque streets and wonderful carving. Now of course we are a part of the united Italy, actually the first part to be freed by Garibaldi. It is too early to say what this will achieve, but as you can see we are now plunged into a war which has taken away most of our young men. We will see how it all ends.”

  “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle, it will end soon and all will be well for Italy, our Fuhrer will see to that,” broke in Hans. She looked at him quizzically.

  After a hard day’s sightseeing, Hans thought that the least he could do was to offer Ester dinner. She needed some persuasion but eventually agreed, and that evening they sat together at a table in a restaurant of her choice. In most of war-torn Europe, food was scarce and, even in Hans’ mess, monotonous German-style canned or preserved foods were the rule, but here in rural Sicily the locals made sure that whatever else happened there would be plenty of their own products for their tables. They had a magical spaghetti dish with peppers, capers and other vegetables unknown to Hans, followed by sardines on a bed of spinach and seasoned so as to make the little fish almost come to life in the mouth. They finished with a delicious dessert made primarily of local oranges but sweetened and flavoured so as to make a perfect finish to the meal. Ester had insisted that they should drink the local wine, which was drawn from an ancient barrel and served in a porcelain jug. It was astonishingly cool and refreshing with not the least hint of sharpness. Hans felt he could drink it all night and feel not a bit the worse, but its alcohol loosened his tongue and he began to talk freely to this astonishing girl. The grace and sophistication she had shown during their tour was still apparent but there was something more, a kind of feral attractiveness which radiated from her as she sat at the dimly-lit table. All uncertainties and self-doubt forgotten, somehow he wanted to impress her with his manliness, to match her beauty with his own prowess. He told her about his unit’s mission and about how proud he was to have fought in Poland, France, over England and in the Mediterranean, about the capabilities of the Stuka aircraft and the damage they were doing to British shipping, about his brave comrades and the skilled and daring leadership of the Luftwaffe. As he spoke she kept silent, and he could see that she was troubled.