Of Knights and Dogfights Page 14

“I think in Valhalla, there’s everything. And if you led a good life and died a good man, with a clean conscience, you’ll get everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And I also think, all your comrades are there to welcome you. That’s at least how I would love it to be.”

  “You make it sound very nice.”

  “Herr Oberleutnant deserves everything nice.”

  “Yes, he does. Did…”

  Johann couldn’t possibly tell how long they remained in the same mourning circle while their comrades were finishing off what was left of the British units. Most of their Staffel landed soon after. Someone had radioed the airbase, and a truck with a cross appeared on the horizon shortly. Willi and Johann helped the medics lift the body onto the truck and watched it depart, grim and forlorn.

  Someone picked up the discarded parachute and growled something hateful, glaring at the sky. Another voice joined in, muttering his sentiments on account of the British pilot’s despicable action. Soon, the whole Staffel was roaring with protest, calling for blood, for revenge – for anything just to avenge their fallen Staffelkapitän and to take the others’ lives to pay for their loss.

  “It’s not right.” Johann’s voice all but drowned in the sea of incensed shouts. “It won’t bring him back but will make you into murderers instead!”

  “They’re too mad with grief to hear you.” Willi pulled his sleeve, taking Johann away from the enraged crowd. “We’ll talk later when someone arrives from the JG headquarters to replace Herr Oberleutnant and gathers us for the meeting. It’s pointless to try and convince them now. Let’s go. Let’s see if you’re good enough to lift that smoking bird of yours into the sky with a damaged engine.”

  Johann clasped Willi’s hand, grateful for a timely joke, even though it came out as sorry and miserable as they get.

  They buried Oberleutnant Degenhardt the following morning, with full military honors. Nearly everyone from their Staffel joined in one endless eulogy, recounting and recollecting all of the brightest memories each carried within his heart after a short service under Staffelkapitän Degenhardt’s command.

  “He saved me from three Hurricanes once…”

  “He gave me leave to see my newborn son when all the leaves were canceled…”

  “He took me as his wingman and told me I had skill even when all the other commanders were ready to throw me into the infantry…”

  “It was Herr Oberleutnant who taught me how to fly. I mean, really fly; not the basics that they taught us at the flying school…”

  “Herr Oberleutnant gave me chocolate and rum and sat with me all night when I got the news that my mother died…”

  “He told the funniest jokes…”

  “He was a great commanding officer and a great comrade…”

  “He gave me his own new fighter for my birthday. And he believed in me when no one else would.” Willi lowered his head, biting his lip in order not to break down. Not that it mattered; everyone was crying at this point, starting with the victorious aces and ending with the crew chiefs and a cook.

  Willi squeezed his eyes with his fingers and only opened them when a strong arm encircled his shoulders and pulled him close. In disbelief, Willi blinked at Feldmarschall Rommel himself standing next to him, his eyes also misty with tears.

  “I had the honor to have Oberleutnant Hans Joachim Degenhardt under my command for a far too short a period of time. During the time of his service, he showed himself as an exemplary subordinate and an even more exemplary commanding officer, who never cherished anything more than the men in his charge. I, myself, witnessed on quite a few occasions how bravely he argued with the high-ranking men in the Luftwaffe in order to get the best equipment and conditions for his men to have here, in Libya. He was fearless and honest – a rare combination nowadays, unfortunately. And despite the despicable manner in which such an honorable officer was taken from us, I ask you; no, I demand of you not to repay your enemy with the same action.”

  A grumble of discontent rolled among the pilots, quieted only by the Feldmarschall’s raised hand.

  “I know you’re grieving. I know you’re outraged at such a low, despicable move. So am I. But the action of one rogue pilot can’t be set as a precedent for the rest of us to follow.”

  “But they broke the Geneva Convention!” Someone cried out. “If they say, to hell with it, then so should we! Otherwise, they will slaughter us all in the same manner, when we’re helpless and unarmed in the sky!”

  Feldmarschall Rommel listened quietly to the arguments until they died out on their own. Only when all the eyes were on him once again, did he speak, in the same calm and collected voice. “How many times has such a thing happened before? When would the pilots of the RAF strafe someone in the same manner? Well?”

  “It has never happened before,” Willi spoke quietly next to him.

  “Exactly. It never has. Your enemy is just as honorable a people as you are, gentlemen. Perhaps, that pilot had just lost someone during the bombing of his native town in Britain; have you thought of that? Perhaps, one of his family members had just been killed on the front. Or his best friend was shot down during a dogfight. Perhaps, he was just as mad with grief as you are right now and did a thing that he regrets now. But you, you mustn’t be ruled by your emotions as such emotions in wartime will only lead to more death and devastation. I ask you today to honor your fallen Staffelkapitän’s memory with a promise that you will make to yourselves and which you will keep throughout your service here in the Luftwaffe. I want you to promise to yourselves to fight honorably and respect the rules of warfare, like Oberleutnant Degenhardt did. I ask you to be the brave, respectable men that wouldn’t soil his good name with any dishonorable action.”

  Willi bowed his head in a silent oath. Shortly more heads lowered in the same manner as the men slowly calmed down with the help of their highest-ranking commander. Rommel was the same breed as Degenhardt; that much they knew about him. Always on the frontline, shoulder to shoulder with his men; always dust-covered and ready to offer a hand to an ordinary infantryman; always eating and drinking the same soldiers’ gruel and sharing a tent with the men in his charge – approachable and respected by every single man under his command. They swore to both of them today – to Rommel and to the late Degenhardt – that they would fight honorably and they would keep their oath while their hearts were still beating.

  Fourteen

  Libya, December 1941

  * * *

  “Rudi writes that it’s nothing new, what happened to Degenhardt and all.” Johann looked up from the letter delivered by the supplies transport and stole yet another concerned glance at Willi. Willi appeared to be napping in his folding chair under his colorful umbrella which he had traded from the same Arab who had warned them of The Wrath of Allah. It worried him, how gaunt and exhausted his friend seemed, his boyish face suddenly looking like that of an aged man. Not getting any reply, Johann cleared his throat and continued, “he says, on the Eastern Front, Soviet pilots and anti-aircraft batteries shoot down bailing pilots all the time.”

  “And here we are, complaining about our Africa,” Willi spoke slowly and with effort.

  Johann couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark shades but he knew that Willi kept them closed. Why does the fucking sun have to be so bright today? Those were the first words out of his mouth as Willi stumbled over to the improvised mess hall that morning. And that coming from the ace who had specifically trained himself to fly without relying on sunglasses or any other glare protection just like he had disciplined himself into working out daily to keep his stomach muscles hard as a rock so as not to black out due to the G-forces.

  “You should go see the doctor,” Johann suggested once again, folding Rudi’s letter in two. Nothing new was in it; it’s brutally cold. Ivans are beastly. Partisans blew up a bridge. Sabotage. Low morale. Fuel for Stukas freezes over. Food leaves much to be desired. Dysentery… Johann glimpsed a quick shudder running through Willi’s frame. “You look like you�
�re running a fever.”

  “I’m all right.” Willi waved him off, shifting in his chair as though in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. His bones must have been aching, Johann caught himself thinking. “Probably just hungover.”

  Johann silently put his canteen into Willi’s hands. Moving as though in a daze, Willi slowly brought the canteen to his mouth, opened his parched lips, and took a few sips.

  “Could you please lower that?” he muttered, motioning his head in the direction of his record player that stood on a small table behind their backs. “It’s a bit too loud.”

  Johann stood up, lowered the volume and threw another apprehensive glance at Willi’s slumped form. The Berliner only listened to his jazz at the loudest possible volume. So loud, the damned Brits must hear it on the other side, as Degenhardt once joked. Something must be terribly wrong with him if both light and noise, especially his favorite noise, bothered him so much.

  “Is this good? Or you want it lower?”

  “It’s good. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Feeling infinitely guilty, Johann headed straight to the tent occupied by the new Staffelkapitän, Hauptmann Leitner. Not much older than Degenhardt, he thankfully was almost just as liberal and open in his views and right after his arrival managed to organize a makeshift movie theater for the men to distract themselves in the evenings. The theatre itself was a simple affair; an ordinary tent with the floor dug out at an incline so that everyone could get a clear view of the “screen” – a white sheet stretched across the back wall of the tent. Yet, for the pilots and their crew chiefs, even such a small gesture bore an immense significance – a tiny sliver of normality in a world that had gone mad. Even Willi, who kept his guard after Degenhardt’s death and was somewhat wary of the new commanding officer, was soon won over by this dark-haired, green-eyed man who easily could put the SS to shame with his height of being well over six-feet tall.

  “What is that atrocious music that you’re blasting that even my Gruppenkommandeur himself heard over the phone? Jazz?”

  Willi only pursed his lips into a contemptuous line. Johann knew all too well that look on his face, those flashing amber eyes narrowed into slits; Willi was ready for battle. “Yes, why? Not to your liking, Herr Hauptmann?”

  “Not really.” An interminable pause followed, during which the offending music kept blasting, until Leitner finally uttered, “now swing, that’s music.”

  Taken off guard, Willi blinked a few times uncomprehendingly while Leitner sat there with the straightest face that had always appeared to sport a five o’clock shadow. Unlike Johann and Willi, who hardly had to shave twice a week, their new CO belonged to the type of men who started sporting facial hair a mere few hours after even the most thorough shave.

  “Swing? I have some swing here too.” Willi was already going through his extensive collection of records, thoroughly trying to look unfazed until both men finally burst into laughter. The ice was broken there and then.

  Johann recalled the episode while he paused in front of Leitner’s tent, weighing his options. As always, common sense prevailed and he forced himself to walk inside despite the gnawing feeling of doing something utterly shameful still squirming inside of him.

  “Herr Hauptmann? Do you have a minute? Oh… I apologize.” Only after his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the inside, after the blinding sun, did Johann notice that his Staffelkapitän was on the phone. Judging by his expression, the conversation wasn’t the most pleasant of ones.

  Leitner still motioned for Johann to sit across the desk from him while he was scribbling something down on the paper in front of him, consulting the map from time to time.

  After an innumerable number of Jawohls and irritated sighs, Leitner finally put the receiver down and rubbed his eyes, his mouth forming a hard, bitter line.

  “Tactical retreat ordered for all three Gruppen of JG-27 for tomorrow,” he spoke, at last, blowing his cheeks out. “Gazala has just been abandoned. Derna as well. We’re moving together with the rest of the Afrika Korps further west. Take my Staffeladjutant; go together and make a list of every transport and aircraft on the base that isn’t transportable, will you? We’ll need to destroy them overnight.”

  Johann rose slowly to his feet and saluted mechanically. He felt for a moment as though someone had stabbed him in the stomach. Rommel himself was just here. They were scoring victories daily. And now, tactical retreat? He wanted to protest, demand some explanation as though that shameful retreat was the new Staffelkapitän’s doing and not some higher-up’s; instead, he only mumbled a quiet, “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann” and started for the exit, still trying to comprehend what had just happened. Were they indeed losing? No. Impossible. It couldn’t be. Or could it?

  “Brandt!”

  He turned on his heel at the sound of Leitner’s voice.

  “Yes, Herr Hauptmann?”

  “What did you want?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When you just walked in, you asked me if I had a minute. What is it that you wanted?”

  Johann had suddenly recalled the reason why he had come here in the first place. “It’s Willi, Herr Hauptmann. I mean, Leutnant von Sielaff. He’s very sick and needs to see the physician but he won’t go without a superior’s order – he doesn’t like doctors. Could you perhaps order him to go see our medic? And please, ground him for now; he’s really in bad shape and can’t possibly fly…”

  “Of course. Give him my orders while you’re out there, making that list.”

  It was no wonder that Willi was none too thrilled with the prospect of spending the rest of the day in the makeshift infirmary and even grumbled something to the effect that Johann was purposely trying to sabotage his career so that he, Johann, could score more victories while he, Willi, was bedridden and probed by that doctor in all possible ways. If Johann didn’t know Willi well enough to recognize an attempt at jesting behind his fever-induced lethargic state, he would have thought that his best friend was truly mad at him.

  “Just looking out for you.” He escorted Willi all the way to the medic’s tent, fearing his fainting from the heat and dehydration midway. It had happened to healthier men in this climate; Willi was not only sick but weighed barely a hundred and ten pounds, reduced to a miserable state by daily exhausting dogfights, terrible food, and water which looked suspicious even after it was boiled by the cook prior to offering it to the Staffel.

  “You always look out for everyone. For me, for Rudi, for Walt, for your brother Harald, for my sister, for your friend Alf,” Willi murmured and then added with sudden fondness in his voice, “you’re a good friend, Johann.”

  “Well, you’re not too bad yourself.” Johann pretended not to be affected profoundly by Willi’s words. “Now, go inside and stay put there. We need you healthy tomorrow to fly your new fighter to a new base.”

  “I told you we would lose this war.”

  “We haven’t lost anything yet, you pitiful alarmist. It’s a strategic retreat only.”

  “Right. With the United States now involved, it’s only a matter of time before those strategic retreats of yours turn into full-blown devastation.”

  Johann came to an abrupt halt in front of the medic’s tent’s entrance. “You are running a fever. You’re talking absolute rubbish.”

  Willi examined him in silence before breaking into a mild grin. “Don’t report me, will you?” He teased, only the words came out suddenly harsh, serious. “I know the drill. Sieg Heil, little soldier! No defeatism among the Luftwaffe ranks. Death in the name of the Fatherland and all.”

  “Just don’t say anything stupid in front of the doctor, you miserable clown!” Johann was suddenly furious. He didn’t mention Willi’s latest encounter with the Gestapo and his visit to their headquarters; only stared at him with a warning.

  Solemnly nodding, Willi outstretched his right arm in a mock salute, seconds before collapsing into friend’s arms.

&
nbsp; The borough of Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf, Berlin. February 1942

  * * *

  Willi squinted at the sunlight penetrating the shutters, just now snapped open by the nurse and turned to the other side. It’d been over two months since he’d been diagnosed with jaundice – a disease that had nearly killed him, according to the local big-shot doctor, along with a series of other diseases, including malaria and dysentery.

  “If a formation of six Spitfires couldn’t kill me, no illness would,” he tried to joke with the physician.

  The physician didn’t appear to possess a sense of humor and restricted him from returning to the base until he’d made a full recovery. In addition to stuffing him with all sorts of pills, the hospital staff nearly force-fed him, refusing to leave him alone until he’d finish everything that had been put in front of him. Willi hated it there.

  His mother visited him almost daily. Mina only on weekends, when she was free from her classes. Willi still couldn’t quite take it in, why on earth had his sister decided to become a Red Cross nurse when she could have stayed home and enjoyed a semblance of normal life in Berlin.

  “You have a job; Johann has a job. I want to have a job too, something to look forward to every day. I want to help people; be needed. Otherwise, I’ll go mad waiting for you two to win your damned war!” Such was Mina’s simple, yet emphatic, explanation.

  He would have long gone mad with boredom had it not been for those visits and the torrents of letters that he kept receiving daily.

  “You certainly have a lot of female admirers,” Mina noted half-jestingly as she turned one of the perfumed letters in her hand.

  “I would have much rather preferred those admirers to appear here in person. I have the most profound conviction that it would benefit my recovery immensely.”

  “I highly doubt it.” Mina bared her beautiful teeth in a mocking sneer, yet appeared at Willi’s bedside, with a friend in tow, the following day.