The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  “Hans,” she said at last, calling him by his first name for the first time, “what is your opinion of the treatment of minority races within your Reich?”

  He was nonplussed by the question.

  “Well,” he stammered. “The Fuhrer has indeed said some harsh things about parasites who eat away at the substance of the Reich, Jews for example, but that’s nothing to do with us flyers.”

  Ester sat very still and looked at him closely.

  “And have you wondered perhaps,” she continued, “why I introduced myself to a stranger last night and took the trouble to show him round our town?”

  She had turned pale and was staring at him, her eyes narrowing. He thought for a moment she was going to explode in the way that Sonia had years before, but she continued in an even tone.

  “I will tell you why. The elders of my community had heard that there was a German officer in the town whose job it was to find any ‘parasites’ as you called them and prepare to deal with them. I was chosen to find and question this officer as I speak French and some German, and to discover if the story was true. I can tell by your remarks that you are not him. You are far too stupid for such a mission. You are no more than a donkey doing what he is told and asking no questions. Go back to your beloved Stuka and kill some more people. That’s what you are here to do.”

  Hans dropped his glass and started to rise from the table. The outburst had terrified and astonished him and his only instinct was to get away, but she had not finished.

  “Sit down!” she commanded. “Let me tell you this. I myself am one of your ‘parasites’. My family came here with the Arabs and we prospered. We learnt to trade and to barter, to open banks, to become doctors and professors. Then the Spanish came and tried to expel us. We were too smart for them. We pretended to be Christians, “Conversos” they called us, but we were still the same faithful Jews in our hearts. Even now we control much of the commerce in the island. We know what your Fuhrer is doing to our people in Germany, in France and in Poland. We know all about the Crystal Night. I warn you, you will never drive us from this island.” Her voice rose to a scream. “Never.” She stormed out into the night.

  Hans slunk back to his hotel.

  What were his feelings towards this girl? He seemed, he thought, to have bad luck with girls, especially Italian ones. Those he liked he always seemed to upset. It had never occurred to him that Ester might have been Jewish. He had felt he could have developed a relationship with her just as he had with Angela. They had such a happy carefree day together and the meal had crowned it until the last moments. Glumly he ordered a grappa from the porter and made his way miserably to bed.

  The next morning he met Ester’s intended target. Obersturmfuhrer Feldman of the Allgemeine SS was a strikingly handsome young officer who was taking coffee in the breakfast room and looking benignly about him. He greeted Hans warmly. “Ah, so pleasant to meet another German officer so far from home. And a distinguished flyer too, I see. May I enquire the nature of your business here in Enna?” Hans told him. “Oh, so you are on a short vacation, how fortunate. I myself am here on business. We SS officers have so many duties these days, and there are so few of us.” Hans knew a little about the Allgemeine SS. Unlike the Waffen SS, they were not fighters but were employed to retain an iron grip on subject peoples and had an evil reputation. It was surprising to find one operating in Italy, an allied country, but Ester’s words had given Hans a clue as to his mission. He took an immediate disliking to his compatriot. Feldman, however, remained politeness itself. He asked Hans to tell him all he knew about the town and its inhabitants, and congratulated him on his knowledge of its history. He insisted that they should meet for dinner that evening, and offered him the use of an SS car and driver for a day’s sightseeing. Hans refused, preferring his own company and his motorbike. He spent a confusing day trying to find the remains of a Roman villa nearby, which turned out to be closed, and got himself hopelessly lost in a maze of bumpy unmade roads. He was irritated and dusty by the time he met Feldman for dinner. The Obersturmfuhrer wanted to go to the same restaurant that Hans had visited the night before, but Hans dared not show his face there after being made to look such a fool the previous evening. Instead they found a more modern establishment where they ate worse but more expensively. Again the wine flowed freely.

  Hans was poor company during the meal, replying in grumpy monosyllables to his host’s questions, but as, once again, the wine started to have its effect, he became a little more talkative. The conversation had turned to the progress of the war in North Africa.

  “You must be delighted, as a fighting man, at the progress General Rommel is starting to make in Libya, supported, of course, by your formidable Luftwaffe. It seems now that German soldiers are invincible everywhere.”

  “Yes, and Rommel impressed all of us with his bold advance in France, when he commanded 7 Panzer Division. He really understands how armoured forces and aircraft can work together.”

  “Especially your Stukas.”

  Hans continued in a whisper, “But not such good news on other fronts, Feldman. It seems that the British know something about using air power too. You have heard about the British sinking those three cruisers in the Aegean? My God, what a disaster. I don’t think the Italian public have been told yet. A colleague called me with the news this morning.”

  “I had heard too, through SS channels. Tell me, Oberleutnant, what do you think of Italian forces? Your professional opinion please.”

  “Well, we have co-operated with them many times. I have to say that they are nowhere near as effective as we are. Their airmen certainly don’t lack courage. I have often seen their formations press home attacks after terrible losses, but they seem not to have the skills or the correct leadership. As far as I know, it is the same at sea; the British keep making their navy look pretty silly. As for their soldiers, they seem to be mostly lacking in leadership and determination.”

  “Yes, can these really be the same people as formed the Roman legions of the past? I think not. I think that the good Roman blood has been too much diluted by immigration and contact with foreigners. My own mission here is not unconnected with this matter. Of course we can never make these people into Aryans like our German folk, but we can purge some of the worst elements. Unfortunately, our allies do not seem to grasp the importance of these purification operations. Sometimes they are even obstructive to my colleagues and myself.”

  At this point they were interrupted by a fearful wailing sound from the kitchen. Two young women came rushing out, clinging to each other and weeping. “Marco! Marco!” they screamed.

  “Their brother,” whispered a tearful waiter. “They just heard of his death in Eritrea – it’s the second death in the family.”

  “Disgusting!” muttered Feldman. “Can you see German women behaving like that? Our women folk are proud to have a son or brother fall for the Fatherland.”

  Hans’ dislike for the man, which had actually waned slightly during the meal, reached a new level of intensity. He could no longer stand being in the company of such a heartless, narrow-minded bigot. He invented a stomach ache and walked home alone.

  He managed to avoid Feldman for the rest of his stay in Enna, and Ester seemed to have vanished into thin air. At least, he hoped, that would keep her out of the clutches of the SS. Hans’ days were spent on lonely treks in the mountains, and quiet evenings in obscure rural villages. He gave the Easter processions a miss.

  Certainly he was a refreshed man when he returned to the squadron, and the memory of the hospital bombing had faded into the back of his mind. He remained troubled by Ester. Had there been any deep feelings between them? Could he even have started to fall in love with her? He didn’t think so, but never had a girl left such a strong impression on him. Her humour, her serious interest in the history she was trying to explain, her lithe, animated movements and, above all, that blazing anger, those furious flashing eyes; he just couldn’t get them out of his min
d. Jew or not, she had fascinated him. He had to see her again.

  Hans flew three operations during the week of his return to the squadron, then poor weather intervened and the Stukas were stood down. One misty morning he was leaving the mess after breakfast when the battered truck which delivered vegetables to the air station stopped beside him. “Oberleutnant Hans?” The man thrust a screw of paper into his hand. The engine of the truck revved and it was gone into the mist.

  Back in his room Hans examined the paper. It was dirty and roughly torn from a notepad. The scrawl was written in some rusty-coloured material. Perhaps blood. Help me. SS lines Enna. E. Hans froze. Those bastards. God know what they would be doing to his Ester. Anyone could see that that Feldman had a cruel streak. He must get there and sort it out. Not a second to lose.

  He grabbed the motorbike, kicked it into life and thundered off into the fog.

  The SS lines were just outside the town among some abandoned farm buildings. Tents were neatly laid out in a field and there was a sinister-looking barbed wire cage overlooked by a wooden watch tower a little way away. Hans pulled rank and demanded to see the senior man present. Oberscharfuhrer Otto Glock was a huge coarse man with a shaven head and the face of a street fighter. He had a way of addressing commissioned officers which was almost a sneer, concealed under exaggerated politeness. No, he was not aware of any prisoners in the camp, the Herr Hauptmann could see for himself that the cage was empty. The Hauptmann looked tired, would he like a drink, a schnapps perhaps? Was there anyone particular he was looking for? Obersturmfuhrer Feldman? He would perhaps be in the hotel, would the Hauptmann like to telephone? Without returning the man’s salute, Hans turned on his heel and sped off to the hotel.

  Feldman was sitting on the terrace, enjoying a cigar. He waved Hans towards a chair.

  “Ah! My friend, good to see you so soon. My Oberscharfuhrer telephoned to tell me that you might be heading in this direction. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Where is she? What have you done with Ester?”

  “Oh, I think you must mean the little Jewess. Yes, I can understand your interest in her. I can tell you that my men, too, found her most attractive, although she was a Jew. Of course there are laws against any relationships between good Germans and those disgusting people, but here we can, of course, overlook a little indiscretion. Well, I can tell you that we put her on a train yesterday. She should be half way to Rome by now. So let’s forget her. A drink? Brandy perhaps?”

  Normally Hans was an even-tempered fellow, avoiding arguments and violence, but there was something about the SS officer which broke through his normal self-control. Like most German fighting officers, he knew little about the death camps and the gas chambers, but the sinister doings of the SS and its minions was not entirely secret and the thought of Ester in a camp run by creatures like Feldman and Glock drove him to a form of madness. His fist smashed into the face of the Obersturmfuhrer, leaving the man scrabbling on the floor, bleeding from the mouth and trying desperately to draw his pistol. Hans was wearing heavy motorcycling boots and his first kick jerked back Feldman’s head. The man ceased to struggle and lay bleeding and moaning on the terrace. Hans turned away from his victim and was struck by a sudden panic. He charged down the hotel steps, leapt onto his machine and sped off towards the aerodrome with no idea in his head of what to do next.

  The end for Obersturmfuhrer Feldman did not come as a result of Hans’ assault. He had been stunned and had lost some teeth but was otherwise unharmed. One of the waiters saw him sprawled helpless and bleeding. He was well enough acquainted with the German’s mission and, good communist as he was, decided to put an end to it. He grabbed the man’s pistol, at the same time slitting his jugular vein with the wicked little dagger he always carried in his belt. The pistol was immediately hidden where no German would be able to find it. It came in useful later when the Allies invaded Sicily. When the SS investigation into the affair commenced, every staff member in the hotel swore that he had seen the Luftwaffe officer knock the victim over, slash his throat and then seize his pistol. They even produced a razor-sharp knife thrown into the bushes which they swore was the murder weapon. Not for nothing do the Sicilians have a reputation “managing” such affairs and keeping quiet.

  When Hans reached the base it was a hive of activity. Once again a British convoy had been detected, heading for Malta and strongly escorted. It seemed that no word of the incident at Enna had reached Hans’ squadron and he arrived just in time to listen to a rapid briefing by Major von Kostler. Struggling rapidly into his flying kit, he resolved that this must be an end to his life as a flyer and as a human being. He did not know if Feldman was dead or alive, either way his assault on him would mean death by firing squad or a long stretch in prison. He would end it now in the soldier’s way, facing the enemy of the Reich. Climbing into his machine, he watched Stokmann settle into his seat. Before his faithful gunner had tightened his straps, he shouted into the intercom, “I think there is a fault with the bomb attachment under the port wing, and I can’t get the ground crew to listen to me. Quick, go and check it yourself, Oberfeldwebel, but don’t waste time, we will start taxiing in a few seconds”. As soon as Stokmann was out of the plane, Hans opened up the engine and the Stuka moved forward, leaving its gunner yelling and waving on the grass. In the general confusion of the rushed take-off, no one in the attack formation noticed what had happened. As he led his section towards the enemy, Hans’ mind was racing. The events of the day had rendered him incapable of sober, logical thought.

  “I’ve killed that arrogant bastard, now I’m going to kill myself,” he kept muttering. Thank God, he’d left his gunner behind: he did not deserve to die. He himself planned to smash his plane into one of the enemy ships. He did not want to hear his comrades and pulled out the plug of his headset. Waggling his wings to indicate to his section that he had a communications problem, he pulled out of the formation and dived away close to the sea surface. He would come in alone, fast and low, while the others were making their bombing attack and distracting the enemy fire. He would slam his machine into the side of the biggest ship he could find and that would be an end of it all. He reached down to the switch which armed the bombs.

  For once this Luftwaffe strike was badly planned. The convoy had been reported by an Italian submarine which had sighted six large merchant ships and escorts heading east between Sardinia and Tunis. What the sub had failed to spot was the aircraft carrier Rampant steaming behind the convoy, screened by two destroyers, and a radar equipped anti-aircraft cruiser to the north. The convoy was out of range of British Malta-based fighters so Fliegerkorps X expected no opposition and decided to mount a dive bomber strike, without waiting for a fighter escort to be organised. After this decision had been taken, an Italian shadowing seaplane did spot Rampant but by then it was too late to recall the Stukas or to get any protective fighters into the air in time. The cruiser picked up the German strike force on its radar when it was still some fifty miles from the convoy, giving the carrier time to launch twelve Fleet Air Arm Sea Hurricanes.

  Sub-lieutenant Billy Reeve RNVR was not the best pilot in his squadron; in fact, he only just managed to avoid being taken off flying altogether after a succession of bad landings and getting separated from his leader during fighter sweeps on two occasions. Today, however, as he climbed away from Rampant on full throttle, he felt things would be different. He clung to the starboard wing tip of his leader, keeping as close as he dared, eyes peeled for the enemy bombers. Rampant had been well to the west of the convoy so with luck the Hurricanes would be between the evening sun and their prey. The radio crackled in Billy’s ears. The leading aircraft had spotted the Stukas, still slightly above them, in close formation. Swinging northwards so as to attack from behind, the Hurricanes deployed into a textbook attacking formation. Before they could reach the Stukas they were spotted. In these circumstances the best defensive move the Germans could make was to form into a big circle, following each other round an
d round. It would then be difficult for a fighter to pick on an individual aircraft and get on its tail. Approaching the circle would bring the attacker under fire from the rear guns of several aircraft at the same time. Undaunted, the Hurricanes charged at the defensive ring and the sky was full of zooming, shrieking aircraft.

  Billy at first stuck like a limpet to his leader, gritting his teeth and hauling on the controls with all his strength. Twice he fired a short burst from his eight machine guns but both times he knew he had missed by a mile. Also, with all these machines in a terrifying, whirling melee, he was in constant fear of hitting a friendly aircraft. Suddenly he glimpsed a machine approaching him from his port side. In a fraction of a second he had to take evasive action; he hit the rudder hard and in panic hauled back on the stick. The Hurricane reared up, forcing him down into his seat and blacking him out completely, then the plane toppled over on one wing and plunged downward, out of control. By the time Billy recovered consciousness, his machine was in a steep, uncontrollable dive, the engine racing and the whole airframe shuddering and protesting as the speed crept up towards four hundred miles per hour. Forcing himself not to panic, Billy shut off the throttle and somehow regained control of his machine. He pulled out into a shallow dive, then looked around him. Nothing. No aircraft in sight anywhere, just a thin blanket of cloud overhead and a featureless sea beneath him. Once again he had lost his leader, and this time he might be accused of chickening out of the fight deliberately. He had used up more than half his fuel and could not possibly climb again to re-join the fight even if he could find it. Trembling with shame and rage and anticipating a frosty reception, he turned south towards where he expected the convoy to be. After ten minutes he glimpsed a freighter below him and soon picked up the bulk of Rampant way off to the west. Ahead of him, low down, another machine was heading towards her, and he swung onto its tail so as to follow it in to land on deck. Pray, pray for a decent landing at least, he kept saying to himself. Then he noticed something funny about the aeroplane ahead. It had curious gull like wings and it was much bigger than a Hurricane. A Fulmar? No. A Skua perhaps? No, wrong shape. A Roc? Impossible. For God’s sake, wake up! It’s a Stuka! Making straight for the carrier. Billy shoved the throttle forward. He’d have to be quick to catch the dreaded bomber before it could drop its load. But why didn’t it try to avoid him? What was the rear gunner doing? Why the hell didn’t he tell the pilot to take evasive action? It was an easy shot, even for |Billy. Straight ahead, no deflection, he watched his bullets knock pieces off the tail plane and flicker along the fuselage. The ugly black plane banked sharply, staggered and plunged into the sea. A raft of debris floated on the surface only twenty yards from the carrier. Billy had not a second to glance at it; he was careering towards the grey bulk of Rampant at full speed. For the second time in half an hour he blacked out as he hauled back the stick so as to skim over the carrier, then he had to join the circuit of returning Hurricanes to land on deck. For once a perfect landing! The celebration on board that evening was memorable. Six Stukas for certain, maybe a couple more, but the prize victory was Billy’s, right alongside the ship so everyone could see. For the first time in his career, he was a hero to his colleagues and to the ship’s crew. What a night it was!