“Yes, sir,” the private responded. “I mean no, sir. No brakes.”
“Well, I hope to hell it doesn’t end up in the Med,” Baker said. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Marrakesh, I think, sir.”
“Must be a replacement bird direct from the States, then,” Baker said. “We weren’t expecting any. Didn’t think we had enough pilots available to put anyone on a ferry mission. Everybody’s been assigned to combat units.”
“Hope the guy’s experienced enough to get the thing down and stop it before it goes in the drink,” Al said.
Baker shook his head. “Don’t count on it. Probably a rookie. At best maybe he can get it off the runway and stick it in the sand. Then all we’ll have is a plane with a busted landing gear and bent props. At worst, as you said, it’ll go for a swim. Damn. We don’t need this right now. Not when we’re trying to get every single Lib we have battleworthy.”
The two officers walked closer to the landing strip. The private returned to the ops hut. Heat waves arose from the runway in a scintillating vertical dance. The vehicles dispatched to assist the crippled plane and its crew after it got down had virtually disappeared in a shimmering mirage at the far end of the strip.
“Gonna be tough to land in these thermals,” Al said. “That Lib’s gonna be bouncing all over the place. Not what you want when you need all the runway you can grab.”
A black speck materialized on the western horizon. Then the distant mechanized growl of a four-engine bomber flooded over the encampment. More men appeared along the edges of the runway to watch the landing. Or more likely, the crash landing. At least it would provide a diversion to the boring day-to-day life at the desert air base.
The speck grew larger, materializing into a B-24. It made a straight-in approach, but obviously not to land. It roared along the length of the runway just above stall speed, the pilot likely checking out the landing strip.
“They’ve got the gear down,” Baker said.
Al knew without hydraulics the landing gear had been lowered manually. Assuming the gear had locked in place, the next challenge would be to get the Liberator down as close to the beginning of the runway as feasible. The pilot would need every inch of the landing strip he could get in hopes the plane would stop—or could be stopped—before becoming a Mediterranean submarine.
The Liberator circled out over the Med, then banked inland and set up for a landing. Al tracked the aircraft carefully, knowing the trouble it faced. The pilot made an extremely low approach, lower than Al would have ever tried, but he knew the goal was to get the Lib on the ground as near the beginning of the runway as possible.
The plane skimmed over a sand berm at the terminus of the runway. Two MPs sitting in a jeep on top of the berm dived for cover as the bomber passed over them so low it snapped off the jeep’s whip antenna.
“Holy moly,” Al said.
“Those guys will have a story to tell,” Baker said.
The B-24 flared and appeared to be doing well until a thermal caught it, lifting it upward, away from the runway. The pilot didn’t lose his cool, however. He stayed with it and hammered the craft onto the surface as the thermal’s force relented. Still, he was almost halfway down the landing strip. He’d lost valuable distance.
“Not gonna make it,” Baker said.
“He’ll be in the water,” Al added.
The massive Liberator sped down the runway at over a hundred miles per hour, a twenty-ton race car with no brakes.
“Gonna be a big splash,” one of the spectators yelled.
Suddenly, an object flew out of the open waist gunner’s window. Before anyone could comprehend what was happening, the object blossomed into a parachute, probably tethered to the waist gun mounts. The same thing happened on the other side of the aircraft.
With two parachutes fully open and twisting in the wind—in effect, drag chutes—the bomber decelerated with startling rapidity. The chutes collapsed onto the ground as the Liberator taxied to a stop well short of the end of the runway. The waiting vehicles swarmed around it.
“Wow,” Al said. “Now there’s a pilot I’d wanna fly with.”
“Let’s go see if we can sign him up for Tidal Wave,” Baker said.
The two men walked toward the B-24. Painted in the desert tan of the African-based Liberandos and Pyramiders, the name on the bomber’s nose proclaimed Winter’s Witch.
The crew exited through the bomb bay doors on the underside of the aircraft, the pilot last to leave. He removed his utility cap as he approached Lieutenant Colonel Baker and Captain Lycoming.
“I’ll be damned,” Baker said.
“Holy shit,” Al exclaimed.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” the pilot of Winter’s Witch said, “I know you were expecting a guy.”
Lithe but solidly built with short brown hair, a mischievous glint in her eyes, and an easy, confident smile, the pilot clearly did not fall into the male category.
7
Elliniko, Greece
Mid-July 1943
After returning from a training mission, Egon Richter lay on his bed in a tidy villa in the small town of Elliniko near Kalamaki. The villa, owned by an elderly couple, looked like most of the other homes in the village: walls of whitewashed conglomerate stone, a roof of red clay tile, and windows framed in blue with blue shutters.
The couple, George and Vasiliki Kostopoulos, cooked and laundered for Egon and three other Luftwaffe pilots, Leutnants fresh out of flight school, who billeted in the home. Each pilot had a private bedroom, but they shared a bathroom and ate together in the dining room.
George and Vasiliki went about their business quietly and without complaint, but Egon knew deep down they hated having “boarders.” He made every effort to treat them in a civil and respectful manner. Occasionally, one of the younger officers might snap at them or curtly order a task to be performed, and Egon would then remind him that while they, the Germans, were indeed the conquerors, they were also guests in someone’s home. The young flyers generally accepted the rebukes with grace.
Egon found it not difficult to be compassionate, for he knew that if, God forbid, his parents ever fell under the iron fist of an occupying force, he would want them treated with respect and kindness. His number-one priority would always be, however, to make sure that never happened, to make certain his home and family never fell to an enemy.
Despite that resolve, the fear it could happen gnawed at him day in and day out. The Third Reich remained under ceaseless assault from all sides: the Russians pushing the German Wehrmacht back from the east, the Allies preparing to invade Italy from the south, the Brits and Americans carrying out relentless bombing of the Fatherland from the west. He sensed the German dream had begun morphing into the German nightmare.
Even if that happened, he and his fellow pilots would fight until their last breaths, shooting as many Allied bombers and fighters from the sky as they could, though at times it seemed a Sisyphean exercise. An appropriate metaphor, he thought, considering their Greek base. Sisyphus—the mythological Greek condemned for eternity to push an immense boulder up a steep hill only to have it roll back down whenever it neared the top.
Egon stared at the white ceiling of his bedroom and recalled the day he’d been recruited into the Luftwaffe by his longtime friend, Otto. He and Otto had been schoolmates growing up. They’d played together, hiked together, hunted together, labored in vineyards together, even discussed their adolescent love lives with one another.
At the time, their future had appeared glorious—like a golden-hued horizon at dawn that promised a carefree day filled with successes and celebration.
On a hot September afternoon in 1938, Egon responded to a sharp rap on the front door of his home in Zell, a small town perched on the right bank of the serpentine Mosel River in west-central Germany. Egon descended the steps from the main floor of the house, an end unit of four multi-story attached homes built of field stones, to answer the knock. His six-year-old daughter
, Christa, scrambled down behind him.
A smiling Luftwaffe major, Otto Meyer, stood at the door, the autumn sunshine backlighting him as if illuminating a mythical god. He did, in fact, look magnificent in his blue-gray officer’s tunic with a silver eagle embroidered above the right breast pocket. A silver-piped peak cap, also blue-gray with a Luftwaffe eagle adorning the peak, rested at a jaunty angle on his head.
“Otto, mein Gott, how long has it been?” Egon exclaimed. They shook hands for the better part of ten seconds, a robust greeting.
“Almost three years,” Otto replied, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to echo off the stone walls of the small entrance.
“What a surprise. Come, come.” Egon gestured at the stairs.
Otto started toward them but halted abruptly. His gaze fell on Egon’s daughter. “Oh, my. Who is this? Don’t tell me it’s little Christa.” He clicked the heels of his knee-length black leather boots together and bowed ever so slightly. “Christa, you’ve become such a beautiful young lady.” He extended his hand to her.
Christa took it, blushed, and, as she’d been taught, curtsied.
Egon nodded his approval. “This is my old friend, Herr”—he corrected himself—“Major Otto Meyer. We’ve known each other since we were your age.”
Christa laughed, the sound a melodious complement to the balmy afternoon. “My age? You were ever that young?”
Egon grinned. “Yes, but we grew up.” He shook his forefinger in mock reproach at his daughter. “But don’t you.” He wished his daughter, the pride of his being, might forever remain unchanged: blond pigtails framing her unblemished, tanned face, white knee socks adorning her tiny legs, and a blue jumper topping a freshly ironed blouse. Best of all, she possessed a smile that could melt the winter ice on the Mosel.
“Please, Otto, come upstairs. We’ll have some coffee and cake, yes?”
“Of course. That would be wonderful.”
Egon closed the door. The aroma of late-blooming roses mixed with the vague, earthy smell of Mosel River mud flats pursued them into the house.
Otto removed his cap, rested it in the crook of his arm, and followed Egon and Christa up the stairs to the main floor—the living room, dining area, and kitchen. The windows of the home sat wide open, ushering the afternoon warmth into the often-chilly interior of the old stone building. Outside, a horse-drawn cart bearing a huge wooden vat, perhaps six feet in diameter and filled with freshly picked grapes, clattered along the cobblestone street.
“I almost forgot,” Otto said, “it’s harvest time, isn’t it?” The steep hillsides of the Mosel Valley gave sustenance to acre upon acre of some of the finest vineyards in the world, mostly Riesling.
“How could you forget? We broke our backs almost every autumn in those damned vineyards helping out.” He turned from Otto and called out to his wife, “Inge, come see who’s here. Grab a bottle of Zeller Schwarze Katz. We must toast!”
Inge peered into the living room, spotted Otto, and uttered a small cry of joy. She rushed to him, threw her arms around him, and hugged him tightly. She appeared fresh and prim. Her dark brown hair, tied up in a bun, accentuated her high cheekbones. A calf-length calico dress, bright yellow, clung to her slender figure.
“Ach, mein Gott, Otto. Mein Gott. It’s been so long. It’s wonderful to have you back.”
“I’m happy to be back, dear Inge. And to see how your lovely daughter has grown.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I think she might end up more beautiful than you.”
They all laughed while Christa looked on in apparent puzzlement.
“Sit, sit,” Egon said. “We’ll toast to your return. Will you be here long?”
“A few days.” Otto lowered his muscular frame into an overstuffed sofa, placed his hat on an arm of the couch, and brushed back his long, dark hair with a sweep of his hand. Egon had never thought him a handsome man, but he possessed a commanding, erudite presence that both men and women found attractive.
Inge brought the wine, a bottle with the iconic black cat of Zell prominent on the label. They lifted their glasses in salutation, then conversed, catching up on their lives.
“You haven’t married?” Inge asked after a while.
“No opportunity,” Otto replied. “It’s been a busy time.”
Egon nodded. He understood the rise of the Third Reich had not been without numerous challenges. “As I recall, you volunteered for the Wehrmacht in . . . when was it?”
“Thirty-three.”
“And now you fly airplanes?”
“Some of the best in the world. It’s, well, exhilarating.” He grinned, then sipped his wine. “I didn’t want to go into the army with all the damned SA goons, so I volunteered for pilot training as soon as I could. Best decision I ever made.”
“What do you fly?” Egon asked.
“It’s called the Messerschmitt Bf 109, the fastest fighter in the world.” His green eyes glistened with pride as he spoke.
“How fast?” Inge asked.
Otto shook his head. “Very fast,” was all he said. Egon understood that information must be classified. Otto shifted in his chair to look more directly at Egon. “It’s certainly faster than your steam locomotives, those iron dinosaurs.” He issued a soft chuckle.
Egon worked for the railroad, the Deutsche Reichsbahn-Gesellschaft. He understood his key management position there had so far kept him from being conscripted into the Wehrmacht or asked to “volunteer” for the SS.
“Yes,” he said, “certainly faster.”
“I’d like to talk to you about that,” Otto said. He turned toward Inge. “Do you think we might have some coffee and cake now, my dear?”
Inge stood and nodded, understanding Otto wished to speak to Egon alone, at least briefly. She motioned for Christa to follow her. They disappeared into the kitchen.
Otto took another sip of wine. “So good,” he said. “There’s nothing like Schwarze Katz.” He placed his glass on a low table fronting the sofa and leaned forward, closer to Egon, who sat across from him in an armchair. “You know our military buildup is going to continue, yes?”
“I suppose. But to what end? The last thing we need is another war.”
“There will be no war, my friend. That’s exactly why we must continue to strengthen our armed forces. Look what der Führer has accomplished. All peacefully, I remind you. The Saarland has been returned to us—”
“Rightfully so,” Egon interjected, “through plebiscite.”
Otto continued. “We reclaimed the Rhineland without a shot being fired. Then with the Anschluss we reunited Austria with the German Reich.”
“Not everyone in Austria was happy with that.”
“But most were,” reprimanded Otto softly.
“And now Czechoslovakia? You don’t believe the Czechs will resist if we move on them?”
“With what? Horse-mounted cavalry and hunting rifles? I think not. Besides, it won’t come to that. Even as we speak, Herr Hitler is meeting with Chamberlain in an effort to avoid war and allow us to protect our citizens in the Sudetenland and restore order, at least there.” Otto leaned back on the sofa.
“Chamberlain?” Egon asked.
“The British prime minister, Neville Chamberlain. He and der Führer will work out a solution that doesn’t involve bombs and bullets. We know the Brits have no stomach for conflict. All will end well, my friend.”
“But when? And after Czechoslovakia, what? There seems to be saber rattling toward Poland, too. It worries me.”
“All we want in Poland is access from East Prussia through the Free City of Danzig—mostly German, I remind you—to the rest of Germany. Not an unreasonable request, I think. Our country has suffered enough under the oppression of that damned Treaty of Versailles, wouldn’t you agree?”
Egon swirled his glass of wine in a shaft of sunlight, examining the amber clarity of the liquid. “I do agree, Otto. I can’t deny I’ve felt a modicum of pride in the restoration of our national integr
ity. But we seem to be treading a fine line between capitulations and combat.”
“That’s because we are strong. No one wishes to challenge the German Wehrmacht. Certainly not the Brits. They stood aside in Austria, they’ll stand aside in Czechoslovakia. And the French? The French are more interested in their croissants and cheese.”
“What about Russia?”
“Faah.” A derisive sound from Otto. “That thug Stalin has been slaughtering his senior officer corps as if they were hogs to be butchered. He’s more worried about internal threats than anything else.”
“America, perhaps?”
“They’re perfectly comfortable in their isolationist cocoon. Oh, and do you know what their air corps consists of? Mostly biplanes, relics of the Great War.”
“So you foresee no armed hostilities?”
“Not as long as we continue to strengthen our military.” Otto again leaned toward Egon. “And that’s why we need men like you, my friend. I know you as a gentleman of integrity, intellect, and physical skills. Ha, one of the best hunters I’ve ever seen. You put even me to shame.”
A wasp buzzed into the room through one of the open windows. Egon tracked it with his eyes as it penetrated the interior of the house. He stood and followed it back toward the window where it flew in seemingly confused circles. On its third pass by the window, Egon’s hand became a blur of motion as he swatted the insect back into the outdoors.
“There,” said Otto, “reflexes like that. That’s what we want in the Luftwaffe. Come, old friend, come and fly Messerschmitts with me. It’ll be the time of your life. You’ll never regret it.”
Egon smiled. The thought of soaring like an eagle, roaring through the heavens in a machine capable of traveling hundreds of miles per hour, had sudden appeal to him, a great adventure in life offering vast new horizons.
Inge, trailed by Christa, re-entered the room. Inge carried an ornate silver coffee pot and porcelain cups on an oaken tray. Christa wobbled behind, carefully balancing a large platter of cakes and pastries.
When Heroes Flew Page 6
