Then the first two Me109s appeared. Howard had climbed, to lengthen his R/T range enough for his voice to reach the sector’s three direction-finding stations, whose bearings would give a fix on Northam’s position. He was above the two enemy aeroplanes, and as soon as he had transmitted for a fix, and switched to another channel for the sector controller to confirm that he had been heard loud and clear, Strength Ten, he attacked.
His first long burst scored several hits on the nearer 109 and it turned around and flew away. He had a tumbling, weaving skirmish with the other and it also gave up; this time, with one undercarriage leg hanging down and oil leaking from its engine.
He was waiting for a fresh pair of Spits to take over before his fuel ran low. But the first new arrival was a high speed launch; from the wrong side of the Channel. He saw the bow wave from afar, as the rescue craft came tearing out from Calais or Boulogne. He rocked his wings to draw Northam’s attention, then flew towards the boat. It began to shoot at him with its machineguns. He replied with all his weapons and it slewed to one side, heeling, then stopped.
But it had a companion and from a safe height Howard watched the Germans heave to alongside the yellow rubber dinghy and haul Northam aboard.
There was amusement rather than sympathy, and certainly no deep regret, when Howard landed and reported events. Nobody was going to miss this particular wing leader; except in the way that one misses a boil that has been lanced.
But his captors were over-confident of their security, and the French Resistance liberated him that night from the police station where he was being held. They hid him in the countryside for a week. And on the very day that his replacement reported for duty and the wing was planning a party for that evening to welcome its new - and popular - leader, Northam arrived back; to reclaim his post.
His recriminations against Howard, in private, were brief but bitter. As Howard wryly told his comrades “The bugger didn’t say a word of thanks for my having stayed with him, fixed his ditching position, scared off two One-O-Nines and half-sunk the first rescue boat.”
And now, a year later, Northam had re-entered his life: with the insinuation that anyone who flew with Howard was likely not to return from the sortie.
Nine
Thorwald was used to being spoilt. He had indulgent parents and five admiring younger siblings: two brothers and three sisters. The second brother, fourth in age, was a Luftwaffe cadet pilot and looked on him, in an increasingly Godless Germany, as some sort of a deity: but of the old pagan kind rather than the Christian.
Girls and women spoilt him. He took their admiration and spoiling for granted. He was fervent about Germany’s right to dominate Europe; and, if possible, the world. He was intent on his country’s glory because it conferred glory on him personally. He had a contagious belief in the destiny of his nation and the validity of Nazism. Alcohol and the company of pretty girls put him into an ecstasy of delight with his own life and good fortune and his destiny for greatness. Fame, he already had.
Nobody had ever told him that he was boring or that he confused Nazi treachery, brutality, persistent lying and the perversion of genetic ethnic and political facts with strength and righteousness.
Because he was susceptible to personal flattery and nationalist propaganda, he led a happy existence. Never troubled by doubts, he went serenely from day to day enjoying the society of his comrades, the exercise of his skills and the satin softness and fragrance of whatever girl happened to be his current mistress or passing conquest.
He loved sleek fighter aircraft and sleek women equally. Flying and fornicating took on a new thrill when fighting was added to spice them. Although he could not believe it possible that he would ever come to any more harm in the air, it was impossible to ignore the death and injury that removed many of his comrades from the Staffel and had been doing so for nearly three years. But the very fact that although he had been shot down, badly wounded, defeated in combat and still survived enhanced his belief in his destiny to survive through anything. The more he had suffered the more he had learned and the more invulnerable he had become. And the awareness of constantly lurking danger added vigour and sweetness to his love-making.
In Lucienne he had found an attractive and intelligent partner whose insolence and egotism matched his and whose erotic inventive artfulness and supple body enraptured him.
With the FW190 to fly, friends like Schellman and Rumpf for company, and a girl like Lucienne awaiting him every evening when he was free, all he wanted was for the war to continue just as it was.
When Schellman had suggested that he should ask the Geschwader Kommodore for the loan of a Storch so that Schellman could ease Rumpf back into the way of flying, he had said he would do even more than that: he himself would take Heinie up to practise. Heinie was too well-connected to leave to the care of his second-in-command. Heinie could put in a word - several words - in the right place - many right places - that would accelerate his Staffelkapitän’s accession to the command of a Gruppe.
The prospect of any early move up, added to his contentment with life in command of a squadron, acted like an aphrodisiac. The hours he spent with Lucienne were enriched by a new intensity of physical sensations.
Even unpleasant surprises in the air brought him excitement instead of the fear that it caused in more sensitive men.
He had acquired an almost majestic way of entering a room. On an evening a month or so after he had taken command, he walked into their favourite restaurant with his pilots with a swagger that might have passed as an imitation of Goering’s. Their girls were awaiting them at a table his Adjutant - poor little grounded Strumpf - had booked. It was a big garish place but the food was what the French called “correct” and there was a dance floor with six or seven sallow musicians of mediocre talent but ingratiating desire to please. Forced labour in Germany awaited anyone who could not justify his employment in his homeland.
There were several groups of military and naval officers, none of whom wore decorations which were as brilliant as Thorwald’s. Soon after the pilots were seated, laughing and noisy, four Army officers stalked through the entrance. They were led by a scar-faced young major in tank corps uniform wearing a Knight’s Cross with oak leaves and diamonds: one up on Thorwald in rank and decorations.
The major stood for a moment, ostensibly looking round; actually, everyone divined, showing himself off. Several of the diners fell silent and stared at him.
Rumpf said quietly to his companions “I can’t recall his name, but I have seen him in Berlin. He was wounded commanding tanks in Poland and here. The Fuehrer thinks most highly of him.”
Thorwald was not impervious to jealousy. “Can one get wounded through several centimetres of steel armour?”
His sycophants giggled. Schellman said curtly “One can be roasted ... like my brother.”
Strumpf did not look amused either. “One can’t bail out of a tank when it catches fire.”
The major’s eyes had settled on the airmen. He paused as he passed their table. He clicked his heels. He bowed. “Good evening, Lucienne.”
She gave him a cold courteous smile. “Good evening ... Herr Major.”
He turned to Thorwald. “Thorwald, isn’t it?”
Thorwald rose, followed by the other men. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“Von Lusar. I am afraid we tank men do not have our photographs in the papers as often as you fellows.” There was an implication in the tone that such notoriety was vulgar. “Please sit down. Well, things seem to be pretty easy for you nowadays, with your Focke-Wulfs that are so much superior to the Spitfires.”
“The day that flying in combat becomes easy has not yet dawned, Herr Major; and I doubt that it ever will.”
The major smiled, content at having riled Thorwald, and continued to his table.
Thorwald forced a laugh. “How did you come to know him, Lucienne?”
“He was in command of a unit here before he was promoted and transferr
ed to Rouen.”
“How well did you know him?”
Lucienne smiled. She was as enigmatic as Mona Lisa. “Nobody can ever know that type well, Juergen.”
“Is he a type?”
“You should know ... a fellow-countryman.”
She was being evasive. Anger spurted for a moment. He pictured her lying naked with the major on top of her. He could not imagine him in the nude. He saw a monstrous image of the uniformed, riding-booted figure writhing in orgasm ... his Knight’s Cross dangling between her breasts. The image was too ludicrous. He laughed.
“What’s the matter?” She reached for his hand.
He shook his head and stifled his amusement. “I hope he has no thoughts of enticing you back.”
“I am not enticeable ... besides, one cannot go back to where one has never been.”
“Oh, come on: I’m not blind, I could see the look in his eyes. Don’t deny that you were well stuffed by that chap.”
She rose quickly, dumped her napkin on the table and walked away without a word.
He did not deign to watch her depart. He flushed and, after a pause, turned to Schellman’s girl. “I don’t want to be lonely all evening. Haven’t you a friend we could invite?”
She looked embarrassed and uncertain. “What went wrong?”
“She took umbrage at a quiet remark. Now what about a partner for me?”
The girl reflected, then looked past him. “No need, she’s coming back.”
Lucienne resumed her seat and her meal.
Thorwald made no comment on her behaviour. He gave her an amused look. “Come and dance.”
She was evidently immune to defamation, as he was to mortality. Let me be decorous and pleasant for the rest of the evening, he told himself, and I’ll give her something later on that will drive that sabre-slashed Prussian right out of her mind once and for all.
But it had been an unseemly and disconcerting little episode and he regretted the capricious rudeness that had so offended her. Its reverberations troubled her as much as, to his surprise, himself: he could sense it. In some inexplicable way he felt that by his crudeness, prompted by jealousy and pride, he had done even worse than let himself down; he had put more than their affair in jeopardy. He felt, for the first time in his self-assured progress through life, the metaphorical tap of fate on his shoulder.
There were only two ways to set that right and restore his sublime self-confidence: fighting and swiving. He would dominate her tonight, and excite such cries of delight, as never before; and tomorrow he would help himself to another Spitfire to add to his score ... two, for good measure.
***
He took what he called a calculated risk: it sounded more justifiable than “taking a chance”. It was not an inaccurate description. He had told Rumpf to chart the routes overland, and the targets, of the low-level intruders during the past two months. From these pencilled lines on a map he could tell which were the preferred crossing points along the coast and where the gaps were. Now he had to decide whether to patrol along one of the most frequented ten-kilometre stretches or to lurk in wait for the enemy where the intruders most seldom came: the latter, on the theory that someone was bound to vary the pattern and hope to surprise the defenders.
He discussed it with Schellman. They agreed that the densest traffic should give them the best odds, although the Tommies would probably be more alert than if trying a new way to sneak in unseen. “Lulled into a false sense of security,” said Rumpf, putting in his two pfennigs’ worth. He was never short of a cliché.
Thorwald took one of the most experienced pilots as his Number Two. Schellman and another of them formed a second pair. Eager though he was for personal victory, Thorwald did not intend to lose a kill through the misjudgement of a tyro. Competition with his three companions would sharpen his own performance. If it was as good as it had been last night - Lucienne had writhed like a python and screamed at the climactic moments as though she were on fire - he would amaze even these, who had seen him in action so often.
In loose formation, abreast, and very near the ground, they skimmed across the early morning countryside two kilometres inside the coast, at economical cruising speed. Thorwald surveyed it with proprietorial satisfaction. By the time this war was over, the German Empire would stretch from the remotest part of Russia to the so-called English Channel: the German Channel, as it would become. Germany’s dominions would reach from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. She might allow Sweden and Switzerland to stay neutral, but the rest of Europe, except Fascist Italy and Spain, would be under German rule.
What a base that would be from which to conquer the rest of the world: apart from the Asian countries that would be conceded to their admirable ally, Japan. In five years’ time, the Fuehrer would ensure that every Jewish man, woman and child in the world had been exterminated. And he would know how to deal with the problems of over-population and famine in India and Africa: selective extermination would reduce their multitudes by half ... or more.
Germany might, of course, have to invade America jointly with the Japanese, one assaulting each coast. America would collapse very quickly, weakened and corrupted by all those Jewish immigrants who had been there for generations. What fun that would be, stripping them of their ill-gotten wealth, herding them into concentration camps.
What a future to look forward to! Meanwhile, there were the damned British to finish off ... and he was here, at twenty metres above the conquered fields and woods, to make yet another contribution to their defeat.
Schellman’s voice on the radio broke into his pleasant contemplations. “Red Indians on the right, beyond the bridge.”
Irritation replaced smug national pride. Schellman’s exceptional eyesight had beaten him to it. The bridge was conspicuous, a high suspension carrying railway lines across a wide river. Thorwald looked past it and saw four darting shapes scudding eastward.
“Battle formation ... climbing.”
The two pairs moved closer together, each wing man forty metres higher than his leader.
The Spitfires showed no sign of awareness of the 190s.
Where were they going? There were several possible targets. Would they change direction? A pity they weren’t Hurricane fighter-bombers ... easy meat, with their much lower speed ... but shooting down a Spitfire was much more prestigious than adding a Hurricane to his score ...
Tracer from 20 mm flak was scorching up at the enemy ... damn those gunners ... we’ll have to hold off in case they hit hus ...
But the Spitfires were quickly out of the gunners’ view.
And they are turning ... are they? Yes ... yes, here they come ... is this their run in to the target, or have they seen us?
Thorwald’s thoughts were moving in a swift agreeable stream: surmising, anticipating, bent on outwitting his opponents. He was absorbed in the practice of his trade. Fear was absent. He was in the grip of the same brand of elation that must have enthralled Michelangelo with the realisation of his genius while he painted the Sistine Chapel, Goethe when he was in full creative flow, Caesar as he deployed his legions for a certain victory.
He felt that he had more than the controls of a devastating fighting machine at the dictates of his hands and feet: he held, surely, the very levers of power. He was an instrument of his country’s glory, and the Devil take the enemy now wheeling towards him.
It was as though his guns began to fire of their own volition, so natural was his every action after long practice. He was, for an infinitesimal fraction of time, startled by the eruption of vari-coloured streams carrying death and destruction that leaped from the aircraft’s wings and nose.
He was more startled for a longer slice of time when an equally destructive and bright-hued rain of lead hammered holes in the tip of his starboard wing, glanced of his bullet-proof windscreen and punched more holes in the metal a few inches in front of him.
The leading Spitfire had shifted out of his cone of fire by a harsh application of its rudder w
hile its wings stayed almost perfectly level. It must also have accelerated: it was suddenly much closer than he had estimated. In turn, he skidded aside. A second Spitfire began to shoot holes in his port side. He banked towards it.
The fight was confusing him. The Spitfires had changed their tactics. He could not make out quite what it was, but the pattern of their movements was confounding all he had learned and all that he had been anticipating.
A puff of dark smoke wreathed from his engine. Sparks came out of his exhaust. The Messerschmitt began to vibrate. He expected to see flames and turned his attention from the battle to the scenery. He had to find somewhere to land. The purring of the engine had become a throb punctuated by a spluttering cough that was accompanied by a gout of smoke.
He was low enough to recognise a small satellite airfield despite its camouflage. He had once landed there, short of fuel. There were no other aircraft in sight: the Staffel here was on night operations. He called on the emergency channel. His radio crackled and whined, but a voice answered. He selected “undercarriage down” and held his breath until the green lights came on. A belly landing would not have amused him.
His wheels brushed the grass and his engine died with a final growl and cloud of oily smoke.
He stayed in his cockpit, feeling nausea, and did not start to unbuckle his straps until a mechanic was already standing on his wing. What a damned disgrace! But at least they had foiled the Spitfires’ intention. The Tommies had used too much ammunition to be able to carry out a strafe.
Ten
There was still one more reason why Howard had learned to be chary of Northam.
After the then wing leader’s return from brief captivity, it had taken him a month to resume addressing Howard by his nickname; and then only when he could not avoid speaking to him at all. Howard had the prickly sensation between his shoulder blades that accompanied a suspicion of being under constant hostile scrutiny. He was sure that Northam was waiting for an opportunity to humiliate him or at least make a fool of him. He hoped that nothing worse was in the wing commander’s mind.
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