The Dawn Patrol

by Todd Kelsey

On July, 19th, Ernst Grunen sat in the back of the Kroll Opera House in Berlin, to hear Hitler give a speech to the Reichstag. On the surface, the government leaders all seemed to be overcome with a sense of historic drama, and the tragic hero figure of Hitler, who nobly offered to end the war, but who felt compelled by a sense of duty to bring it to completion.

  Ernst gazed at the gothic splendor onstage, with the gold eagle emblem spreading its wings nearly 100 feet from end to end, two stories tall, emphasizing German history, the Fatherland, with carefully-planned light emanating out, directly and behind Adolf Hitler, and a huge Swastika nearly as tall also onstage to the right, against a blood red background, emphasizing the Nazi party.

  The cast of the Nazi opera was assembled, the government ministers and Nazi party leaders behind their desks, and others in the audience. The Nazi party drew fully upon martial music, esprit de corps, the Teutonic legends, all to inspire pride in the Fatherland, and to justify the war because that pride and honor had been injured. Even now Hitler began to drone, and Ernst listened with part of his mind, and ignored the speech with the rest of his mind, listening to the tone of Hitler’s voice rise and fall, as he raised his fist or shouted, with the particular guttural strength of the German language, the same language used in the operas of Wagner.

  Ernst remembered as a child, being delighted to come to this very Opera House to experience the cycle of four epic operas by Wagner, the Ring cycle, and then pestering his parents constantly to go to the library where he searched for translations of the Norse sagas on which the opera was based.

  Ernst’s favorite moment was the beginning of Act 3, Die Walküre, The Valkyrie, and the delightful rolling anthem of the Ride of the Valkyries. He closed his eyes and stretched his mind back to the opera, cleansing the stage before him of Hitler and the Reichstag, and replacing it with his vivid memory of the opera. He traced out the eight minutes of prelude to the third act, hearing each note, the building of various threads of accompaniment, and his heart rose with the curtain, which revealed a mountain peak where four of the eight Valkyrie sisters of Brünnhilde gathered. There they were to prepare to transport the fallen heroes to Valhalla.

  Ernst opened his eyes and his heart sank, looking out upon the Nazi party and soldiers and government leaders, knowing most were willing accomplices, and knowing some had their doubts. He felt as if he were looking at a room full of fallen heroes that would be taken to Valhalla, looking at a vast room full of people, but only seeing their skeletons. The pretense of honor was there, but he didn’t feel an actual sense of honor, as Hitler railed on against real and imagined enemies.

  He began to feel anger, as Hitler brought his speech to a close, after nearly two hours of pageantry and pride, speaking of how ridiculous and unnecessary the war had been, and the needless devastation and senseless misery it had already caused. Hitler spoke like a tragic opera figure, desecrating the genre, lamenting the destruction that would surely come if the Allies insisted in pursuing their senseless and unnecessary war.

  Ernst was aghast as he sat in the seat, his eyes opening fully to the dark twisted propaganda of the words of the speech, as Hitler fed the Reichstag exactly what they wanted to hear. He could feel his muscles tensing with a moldering inner rage, as Hitler repeated his fear that the Allies would try to characterize his humble, sincere appeal for peace, as a sign of weakness, and use it to advance their war agenda. Hitler closed with a seemingly heartfelt appeal to the British for reason, sanity and peace, stating firmly that this time, the appeal was final. Ernst knew in that moment, fully, for the first time, that the Nazi regime was insane, and that he didn’t know how to be loyal to the German people.

  During the standing ovation, after doing perfunctory Heil Hitlers, Ernst filtered out slowly through the Kroll Opera House, wondering what would become of Berlin, if England survived and if America joined the war. As he walked down the streets of Berlin, full of life, he wondered how long before London, and then Berlin, would become full of death.

  “Scheisse!” he cursed under his breath, seeing that there was a window of opportunity before the tide of war might turn, before the war would be brought back to Germany. What should he do? To even ask these questions was treason, punishable by death. But he was certain in his gut that he was not the only one beginning to ask such questions. He felt the spare box of Pervitin burning a hole in his jacket, the one he’d kept secret from everyone including himself, a powerful methamphetamine. He got the box out, looked at it, thought wildly that he should turn himself in to the Gestapo, and blame it all on his past addiction. But he was clear-headed now, and now he wanted escape. He put the box gently back into his pocket, as it lay there next to his heart.

  “Damn the Nazis to hell!” he muttered inwardly, and in spite of himself, was shocked at how much the war had changed him already.

  --

  Hermann Goering arrived at his hunting mansion and adored the decorations and the attentiveness of the servants as he came in. He made his way immediately towards his bedroom, where the extensive closets allowed him to change into new uniforms whenever he wished.

  Two servants watched him, both from Bavaria, with a mixture of awe, and fear.

  “I wonder why he changes uniforms five times a day?”

  “Who knows? The man has extravagant tastes. I’ve seen the green leather jackets, medieval peasant hats and even boar spears.”

  “Ach ja? Well someday his enjoyment of all these things may corrupt his judgment.”

  One made his voice as quiet as a whisper.

  “Is he still on morphine? I only had a small taste of what that was like after the trenches in Verdun.”

  “Yes. That is something you must never mention to anyone. You know the consequences.”

  They continued dusting and cleaning the hunting lodge, making sure all the right jewelry and medals were on display, and they marveled at the stolen art treasures that had appeared there over time. They didn’t dare ask where they have come from, and didn’t want to know.

  “Admiral Raeder is coming, ja?”

  “Ja.”

  Later Admiral Raeder arrived at the hunting lodge for a private discussion with Goering. He pretended to be impressed with Goering’s theatrical furnishings, and inwardly despised him and envied him, the designated successor to Hitler. He wondered how much of the egomania was real, and how much was feigned.

  “Admiral Raeder, thank you for coming to visit.” Said Goering, motioning for him to sit down. Goering was flushed with the atmosphere he’d created here, and longed to go out in the forest and imagine himself as a Teutonic knight, but he also realized that things in England were a significant challenge. He felt a paradox – some hesitation about invading Britain, but also confidence. He had felt himself as caretaker of Germany, the brilliant mind behind Adolf Hitler, and his ego had swelled with every country that fell before them. And now he felt a bit petulant, and annoyed that Britain had refused the overtures of peace.

  “These English sure are obstinate and bent on their own destruction, Admiral Raeder” he sighed.

  “Hitler said something to me” began Raeder, never sure whether he could trust Goering or not; he had long ago given up trying to figure the man out.

  “He said that the war has been won by us. That the reversal of the prospects of success is impossible. But you and I are less than sure.” trying to discern whether Goering was a pragmatist, now that they were faced with the prospect of trying to invade Britain.

  “Yes, and thirteen picked divisions were ordered to jumping off places on the Channel coast. The Army has plans.”

  Admiral Raeder shook his head. This is madness. The entire Kriegsmarine fleet had been either sunk or badly damaged in the successive attacks they’d made. He pounded his leg. “We are hopelessly outnumbered by the ships of the Royal Navy. How does Hitler expect us to support a land invasion!” he exclaimed.”

  “Ah, well, it comes down to the Air Force.” Goering said.

  “You’re not
in a position to cover a Channel crossing either!” Raeder exclaimed, and Goering felt his temper flare up a bit, but he was feeling benevolent. It was the same game he had played as a child with toy soldiers, except these Teutonic knights were flying in the air.

  “No, not at the moment. But do you forget, Herr Raeder, how alone England is? We can send endless waves of bombers and fighters in, and hammer them down.” he said with calm confidence. In the planning meetings, even though there had been losses, they estimated that they had a good chance of being able to wear the British down. It was not Poland, or Norway, or France.

  “They would not fold like a house of cards” muttered Admiral Raeder. “They’ve got a lot of strength left in them, and they are cornered.”

  Goering sighed, and tired of man, deciding that it had been a waste of time to invite him here. If he can’t see the war as a grand game of history, if he can’t see the fun, then so be it.

  “Well, we are agreed that sometimes the Army can seem like a set of bumbling fools, wanting to rush into an invasion without the proper support, so let us agree to hold them back from doing anything premature?”

  “Of course”. Admiral Raeder had tired of the meeting as well. “You’ll forgive me, the Fuhrer wishes to see me immediately”.

  “You’re not staying?” asked Goering, who looked almost comical to Raeder, crestfallen.

  “No, I’m sorry Hermann” he said, and left with his retainer to go back to naval headquarters.

  Goering changed into a new uniform, and somewhat distressed, somewhat excited, he finally asked a few servants to go off hunting with him. He was mildly annoyed by the frill of the uniform he had just put on; it was frayed at the edges. He left to go off in a manly adventure to hunt in the forest and breathe the clean air, but the frill on the coat kept nagging at him. He hated any fabric edge that frayed, and over the last couple of years, he had started to hate it more. He stopped in his tracks, silent, gasping inwardly.

  All the attendants immediately froze, not daring to speak, assuming that the master of the hunting lodge had sensed or seen prey. He was staring at the ground, so perhaps he had actually heard something with his keen senses.

  But Hermann Goering was shocked by the strength of his revelation, taking all of his energy to suppress it from showing outwardly.

  Is it that my mind appears to be fraying at the edges? Nonsense, I am superhuman, a perfect sample of the Aryan race. The Luftwaffe has flown to victory before, and it can be victorious again. We can fill the skies and do irreparable damage to the English.

  Two little voices debated inside his head. One said that great destruction could be brought upon England by the Nazi war machine. The other said that victory was not assured. And then he realized that he had been standing there for over a minute with the attendants waiting.

  “I thought I head something. No matter” and then he strode off, leading them deep into the forest, with the frill of his jacket continuing to fray, as they moved into thicker brambles.