Tumult in the Clouds

by James Goodson

  And as the hours crept by in that silent prison, I realised that if, by some miracle, I had it all to do again, I’d probably play it the same way. Even more, what regrets I had were that I hadn’t savoured life fully. I thought of exciting opportunities which I was too busy or timid to grasp and exploit. I had thought life would last forever; that I had plenty of time to do all the wonderful things I thought were possible. I was convinced that I could have done anything if only I’d put my mind to it. Every day offered the chance of a life-time. Every problem could be converted into an opportunity.

  It wasn’t just the normal ‘success’. I’d had my share of that. I was a leading ace, I’d led the leading fighter squadron. I’d knocked out the rocket plane prototype.

  Most of all I had experiences anyone could envy.

  But I still had regrets. I thought of friends and people I had known and loved. I knew that I had been too busy, too unfeeling or too afraid to show feelings to let them know how I felt. I would have given anything to have been able to reach out to my mother to tell her of my love and how my main sorrow now was the sorrow I would give her. I wanted to cry out to everyone I had known: and say, ‘Sorry!’

  I felt I should consider the meaning of life in the short time left to me, but there didn’t seem to be much sense to it. Maybe it boiled down to a game. You couldn’t know the reason for it any more than a football player can tell you why it was vital to kick an inflated leather ball between two wooden poles as many times as possible. The only thing to do is to play the game to the hilt, to throw yourself into it with all the energy and enthusiasm you possess. When you have that joyful uplift, you’re winning. When you get weary and don’t care any more, it’s time to quit.

  Come to think of it, that had been my philosophy; the approach of Aries, the sign of the ram; but I could have done so much more. I felt like Scrooge in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, endeavouring to change his life and make up for his series of omissions, if only he be granted the chance.

  But Scrooge saw the light in a dream. Looking around my cell, I knew this was no dream from which I would wake with the relief and joy of knowing I had the rest of my life in front of me. It wasn’t a dream when the stamping of the marching boots echoed through the prison and stopped outside the door of my cell. The bolts and locks crashed and the heavy door swung open. There was a sergeant and two guards, one of which was Hansen. Before we left, Hansen was ordered to relieve the guards, who had been outside my cell all night. He stepped smartly out of the detail, came to attention directly in front of me and saluted. I saluted back. Our eyes met. I was surprised to see a look of intense sorrow and sympathy. The young blue eyes were so close to tears and were trying to say so much. I felt I had to console him somehow. I smiled at him, winked, put a friendly hand on his shoulders.

  ‘Thanks!’ I said in English.

  The sergeant had been shocked into immobility. He now sprang into action. ‘Achtung!’ he yelled. ‘Marsch!’

  We marched off; the sergeant in front and the two soldiers behind with their guns in my back. A strange funeral march, I thought. Not much of a Guard of Honour, and the only mourner a young SS soldier. I tried to live up to the seriousness of the situation. I’d always been good at playing a part when in a tight spot even hamming it up a bit. There’s nothing wrong with ham as long as it’s good ham: – especially if it’s your finale.

  There was no dramatic background music, just the echo of my marching feet as we tramped through the empty corridors. Suddenly an officer appeared.

  ‘Halt!’ We halted.

  The officer called the sergeant to him and held a whispered conference.

  The sergeant came back.

  ‘Marsch!’

  We marched off again following the officer. Soon we entered an area of officers and stopped in front of an imposing door. The officer knocked.

  ‘Herein!’

  I was pushed into the large room. It was well furnished. There was a large desk. There were well-filled book shelves, carpets on the floor, paintings on the wall, including a portrait of Hitler behind the desk. In one corner was a sofa, chairs and a small table. Behind them was a drinks cabinet. In front of it with his back to me was a short figure in black uniform pouring himself a drink.

  The door closed behind me. The officer turned. I had always thought that Hollywood was guilty of caricaturing the real thing; but this Kommandant could have stepped right out of a war movie. He was a younger version of Erich von Stroheim or Conrad Veidt. From his close-cropped head to his black polished boots, and in his every gesture, he was playing the part of the typical tough SS officer. The only thing lacking was the monocle. He spoke in a high-pitched bark in an imitation of Adolf Hitler:

  ‘I have just returned from a high-level conference in Berlin. I have decided to give you five minutes.’

  I came to attention. ‘As a major in the United States Army Air Force, I demand to be handed over to the Luftwaffe as a prisoner of war.’

  ‘By what right?’

  ‘By the terms of the Geneva Convention!’

  Now his voice rose to a shriek.

  ‘You have the nerve to mention the Geneva Convention. The enemies of the Reich have broken every rule of that Convention. As for you, if you are a Terror-flieger, you are a murderer of innocent civilians, women and children. What right do you have to be treated as a soldier?’

  ‘The same right as the men of the Luftwaffe who attacked Warsaw, Rotterdam and London.’

  His eyes were blazing as he stared at me. I stared back. He strode to the door.

  ‘They only attacked military targets! You have the gall to compare yourself to German heroes! Guards!’

  He threw the door open. The guard was still standing outside. I had to play a strong card. It was now or never.

  ‘Do you really think Reichsmarschall Göring will thank you for taking the decision to shoot one of his most important prisoners-of-war? Because you will have to answer that question when the Luftwaffe traces me here.’

  It worked. Once again I’d played on the fear German soldiers had of higher authority.

  He stopped in the open doorway and hesitated. On the other side of the door was the guard waiting to escort me to a firing squad. On this side of the door was at least a chance of survival.

  Slowly the Kommandant closed the door.

  ‘I suppose you are going to tell me that Reichsmarschall Göring knows all about you!’

  I looked amazed. ‘But of course!’

  He snorted in disbelief but I knew he wasn’t sure. He went back to the settee, sat down, picked up his glass and took a long swig.

  ‘I’ll say this. Whoever you are, you’ve got guts!’ He was relaxing now. ‘We Germans know how to respect bravery, because we ourselves are the bravest race and the best race. That’s why our army is the bravest and the best in the world!’

  He paused. He was waiting for agreement or argument.

  ‘You agree?’ He seemed to need reassurance.

  ‘I don’t think any race has a monopoly on bravery. You can find bravery anywhere, just as you can find cowardice anywhere; but I’ve studied the history of this war and the last, and I’ve fought the Luftwaffe myself and I won’t argue with you about their bravery. They’re brave!’

  He was delighted. ‘And the best!’

  ‘Again I wouldn’t argue with you. I think our army would admit they have to have the Germans outnumbered to be sure of winning a battle.’

  ‘How about the Luftwaffe?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, they’re brave and good!’

  ‘And better than the enemy?’

  I realised I had to keep him interested – and talking. I also had to use every opportunity of impressing on his mind that I was an air force officer.

  ‘Well, in the air as on the ground, equipment and numbers are important. So it isn’t only the pilot that counts. But I’m happy to admit that some of the greatest fighter pilots are in the Luftwaffe. Many of them have thousands of missions behind them,
and hundreds of personal victories. I have nothing but the greatest respect for them. Galland, Moelders, Trautloft, Mayer, Nowotny, Hartmann – all great men!’

  The Kommandant was getting mellow, and the names impressed him.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. I took one of the chairs. ‘So you admit we’re winning the war.’

  ‘No, Herr Kommandant, I didn’t say that!’

  ‘But you admitted our German armed forces are the best in the world.’

  ‘I admitted they were brave and efficient.’

  ‘So they will win!’

  ‘No, Herr Kommandant!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because modern wars are not won by bravery or even by good soldiers. They are won by production. This war is being won on the floors of factories in the United States, England and Russia. Rommel’s Afrika Korps was great, but it was annihilated because Montgomery had overwhelming superiority in tanks, guns and aircraft. It’s the same in France to-day. Not only is the Wehrmacht outnumbered, but it can’t move during the daytime because of our bombers and fighters.’

  He rose to the bait. ‘France! Let me show you something.’

  He went to his desk, pulled open a drawer and spread out a map.

  ‘Look! The American army has gone through North-West France and then turned east again along the Loire, leaving their entire right flank exposed. Our German army will come up from the south and cut them to pieces!’

  ‘No. Patton knows what he is doing. His flank is protected by the Tactical Air Force, and he can call on the Strategic Air Force if he has to.’

  ‘An Air Force can’t protect an army!’

  ‘It can if it has air superiority. You saw how the Luftwaffe paralysed the Polish, French and Russian armies during the first offensives. They used only a few hundred aircraft. We have thousands! I’ve patrolled roads leading to the Normandy beach-head. They are choked with the wrecks of military vehicles. We told Eisenhower we could keep German reinforcements from reaching the invasion beaches, and we did. During the day time nothing can move and the nights aren’t long enough for clearing the debris, repairing the roads and getting the material through.’

  He was obviously intrigued. ‘I’ve seen the same thing in Poland. You have learned from us!’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘But why are the Americans fighting us? Why did they side with the British? Britain had already lost her war.’

  ‘It was Germany who declared war on America at the time of Pearl Harbour!’

  ‘Nonsense! America was already keeping Britain going before that and you know it. They were at war without declaring it. But why? We had no quarrel with them.’

  ‘We are defending democracy against dictatorship.’ I was very earnest and sincere.

  ‘Democracy! Nonsense!’ He used the German word, ‘Quatsch!’; it was one of his favourites. ‘You’re defending the dictator Stalin and his criminal Communist system, which he wants to impose on the entire world, including the United States. Only Germany, and now Japan, are stopping them. Only we are protecting the world from the Communist hordes. We are defending you from the greatest danger, and you are stabbing us in the back! Or do you think perhaps Russia is a democracy?’

  I was so amazed at this point of view, I found it hard to answer.

  ‘Russia may not be a democracy but neither is Nazi Germany!’

  ‘What do you mean by democracy?’

  ‘Popular government. People having the government they want.’ It sounded a little weak, and he hit it hard.

  ‘You don’t really think Stalin is more popular in Russia than the Führer is in Germany? Stalin and his government are hated and feared in Russia by most of the people. In Germany, the Führer is loved and revered by everybody. He was voted to power, and if there was a vote to-day he would get 100% of it. That’s more than Roosevelt or Churchill would get!’

  It had never occurred to me that there was any excuse for Hitler, but I didn’t feel I was winning the argument, so I changed tack.

  ‘Democracy has nothing to do with individual leaders. It’s government of the people, by the people, for the people.’

  ‘Quatsch!’ he shouted. ‘No country is really governed by the majority and thank God they’re not. Do you know that the majority of people in this world cannot read or write? The majority don’t eat with a knife and fork; they don’t even eat with chopsticks; they eat with their fingers. The majority of people in this world are not as far advanced as we were in the Dark Ages; most of them are still in the Stone Age or early Iron Age; and you want to entrust the leadership of the world to them! Ha! The first thing they would do would be to wipe out the intelligent minority and set civilization back two thousand years!’

  It was the first time I had heard such views expressed, so I was at a loss as to how to refute them.

  ‘So! You can’t answer that!’ He was delighted.

  ‘The people who are living and dying in your concentration camps might prefer the Stone Age.’

  It was the best I could come up with, but he had an answer.

  ‘But they are not the majority. They’re a small minority which wants to destroy the majority. They have to be restrained for the good of the majority. They have to be cut out like an infection in the body. The end justifies the means.’

  ‘Nothing justifies causing such cruelty and death to innocent people!’

  ‘What? Such tenderness from a Terror-flieger makes me sick. How much misery and death have you and your friends spread by the indiscriminate bombing of German cities. Were those women and children any less innocent? Are you any less guilty?’

  I searched for an answer.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ he asked.

  Still I had no answer.

  ‘Perhaps because you think the end justifies the means?’

  ‘You are a very clever man, Herr Kommandant, but you are wrong! There is no comparison. Victims of war are victims of those who start wars.’

  ‘We are all victims of war. That is why I am going to have you shot!’

  ‘I don’t follow your logic, Herr Kommandant. How can my death help anything? Isn’t there enough death – death which can’t be helped? My death would be murder. You are making a conscious decision to kill me. How can that help you? It can only cause you trouble!’

  ‘No, my friend, you are very clever, but it won’t work! However I have enjoyed talking to you. Sit down. Would you like a drink? This is French cognac, Rémy-Martin.’

  I sat down. ‘Thank you.’

  It was good cognac and I enjoyed it.

  ‘I see you have a box of Cuban cigars,’ I said. ‘I always think they go well with cognac, don’t you?’

  He laughed, handed me the box and took one for himself.

  ‘You’re right. I too enjoy a good cigar.’

  He struck a match, lit his cigar and threw me the match-box. I drew deeply on the cigar, savouring it, and then blew a thick, round smoke ring. Probably because I only smoked cigars and never inhaled them, I had formed the habit of blowing rings. The air was still in the room. The ring rolled across the table and settled and spread on the surface.

  The Kommandant was fascinated. ‘Do that again.’

  I laughed and blew another ring.

  ‘How do you do that?’

  It was one way to gain time, so I tried to teach him. He was an apt student. The session forged a bond between us. As he wrestled with the problem, he poured me another brandy.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘At least I’m going out in style.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You do have style. Prosit!’ and he raised his glass to me.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, Herr Kommandant, you could telephone the Luftwaffe!’

  ‘No! I have no desire to make a fool of myself in front of them. I don’t take orders from that lot.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ I was playing my last card. ‘You would be making fools of them!’

  ‘How?�
�� He was interested.

  ‘You would simply say: ‘We are, of course, aware of the fact that a high-ranking American flying officer was recently shot down. It has taken you so long to capture him, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I mobilized my command to save further waste of time. If you wish to interrogate him, he is at your disposal. If not, I shall deal with him as I see fit.’

  He continued his attempts to blow smoke rings.

  ‘Hold the smoke in your mouth longer before blowing it out,’ I said.

  It worked. He was delighted.

  Then he looked at his watch, got up, went to the telephone on his desk and barked out an order. He hung up, came back, and poured us both another brandy.

  The phone rang. He swaggered over and answered it. He repeated my suggested script almost word for word. Then all I heard was a series of ‘Ja’, ‘Jawohl’, ‘Ja’.

  He hung up and came back and sat down with his brandy and cigar.

  Neither of us spoke.

  Finally he finished off his drink and stood up.

  ‘Well, it’s been a long day – and night; so if you will excuse me.’

  He went to the door and called for my guard, then came to attention stiffly in front of me. He shook hands with me, stepped back and saluted.

  ‘Herr Major, Leb ’wohl!’

  In the doorway he turned. ‘The Luftwaffe will pick you up in about an hour.’

  I could not believe it! I dared not believe it! It seemed too miraculous to be true that I was to be allowed to live after all. It was like being born again. Everything seemed new and wonderful, and I saw it all in a new clear light. Through the window, dawn was breaking. As in a dream, I walked over and looked at the trees and fields. They would have been ordinary; now they were fabulous.

  The guards came to take me. I pointed through the window.