Egon and Otto stood. “Otto wishes me to join the Luftwaffe,” Egon said, and flashed a broad smile. He couldn’t help it.
“Oh, my.” Inge placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa. “But wouldn’t that take you away from here, away from home?”
Otto answered. “It would, but not for long. Initial officer and pilot training might keep him away for more time than you’d like, but after that, leave is generous and none of the bases are that far away.”
Inge’s face twisted into a topography of concern. “But . . . but what about war? Isn’t there that possibility?”
“Nein, nein, my dear,” Otto responded. “That’s why we need fine men like Egon. To keep the Wehrmacht powerful, to make certain no one will challenge us, to make sure there is no war.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Worry continued to etch her face.
“As an officer’s family,” Otto continued, “you’ll be well taken care of. Financially, medically, socially. When he becomes a senior officer, and that will happen swiftly, you’ll be able to join him. It will be a carefree existence for you and little Christa.”
“Well, it sounds wonderful,” Inge said. The fear she initially expressed seemed to drift into the background.
Egon, taking her words as approval, nodded at Otto. “Yes, I’d love to join the Luftwaffe.”
Otto flashed a broad grin in return. They performed a toast to Egon’s new career, then sat. Inge poured coffee, Christa passed around the plate of goodies, and they began a pleasant hour of conversation. The aromas of strong coffee, dark chocolate, and fresh raspberries filled the room.
Christa got restless toward the end. She stood. “May I go play with Else? She has a new dolly.”
Egon placed his coffee cup on the table. “No, I’m sorry, Christa. I’ve told you before, stay away from Else and her family. Have nothing to do with them.”
“But why? She’s my best friend.”
“Because I said so. It’s, well, an adult thing. It’s just not proper.”
Christa stomped her foot, whirled, and fled from the room in a flurry of tears.
“The children don’t understand,” Inge said.
“Sometimes I’m not sure I do,” Egon muttered.
Otto raised his forefinger to his lips. “Shh,” he said, “remember, the walls have ears.”
Egon shook his head. “This isn’t Berlin or Munich, Otto. There are no Party bosses around here, or leather-coated Gestapo lurking in the shadows.”
“Still, it’s wise to keep your thoughts to yourself. I’m not asking you to join the SS, just to become a discreet Luftwaffe officer. It’s for your own good. Understand?”
Egon nodded.
“Well, I must be going.” Otto stood. “Vielen dank for a most pleasant afternoon. You’ll receive a letter shortly regarding the details of your in-processing to the Luftwaffe, Egon. Congratulations. I’ll be so happy to have you as a brother officer.” He turned toward Inge. “So wonderful to visit with you again, my dear. We’ll do so more often in the future.” Once again he clicked his heels together and bowed slightly.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Inge said.
“Please tell Christa auf Wiedersehen for me,” Otto said. “Perhaps when she’s older she’ll understand the virtues of racial purity, of the true superiority that dwells within Aryan blood.” He retrieved his cap and moved toward the stairs.
Egon, remaining silent and wondering what exactly comprised Aryan blood, accompanied him down to the front door.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Otto said, “this Saturday Mercedes is going to be testing some of its racing automobiles on the Nurburgring. I’d love to have you and Inge accompany me to watch. Can you imagine, autos that go almost two hundred miles per hour? Would you like to go?”
“We’d love to, Otto.”
“Wonderful. I’ll pick you up around nine a.m.”
“We’ll be ready.”
Otto placed his cap on his head, adjusted it, and stepped into the sunlight. He surveyed the cloudless sky, children playing tag in the street, couples strolling hand-in-hand, bicyclists bouncing over the cobblestones, and birds fluttering from window sill to window sill. He pivoted to face Egon. “A great time to be German, yes, my friend?”
“It is indeed.”
Otto snapped erect, shot his right arm into the air in the Party salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Egon hesitated, then returned the salute, but merely nodded rather than verbally acknowledge Hitler. Otto lowered his arm, turned, and walked toward a waiting staff car.
Something bothered Egon about der Führer. There seemed a darkness about the man, a shadow that no one could peer behind. Egon could make no sense of the fact that people he’d known for years, people he’d done business with, dined and drank with, had suddenly been labeled pariahs, untouchables. Yet he knew better than to challenge that notion, for it could bring a knock on your door at midnight and perhaps a trip to Dachau. He didn’t want to go to Dachau, or any other internment facility. He wanted to fly the fastest airplanes in the world.
Besides, Otto could be right, there might be no armed conflicts. Der Führer had, in fact, resurrected Germany from the ashes of the Great War and once again permitted it to flex its national muscle. Indeed, Hitler had accomplished much, all while other countries stood aside as mute spectators, bowing to the growing might of the Third Reich. Germany had once again become a nation to be respected.
Egon smiled to himself. Yes, midnight knocks aside, it was a great time to be German.
But Otto had been wrong about the absence of war and paid for it with his life. He’d gone to his Valhalla two months ago over Bremen, Germany, his Messerschmitt fighter blasted from the sky by an American B-17 Flying Fortress.
Egon closed his eyes and pictured he and Otto as small boys, exploring the steep-sloped, vineyard-draped hills above Zell, and Otto yelling, “Follow me.” Egon always did.
But now he didn’t want to, though he knew he had no choice. His devotion to duty had already determined that.
8
Benghazi, Libya
Mid-July 1943
“Well, yes, ma’am,” Colonel Baker stammered, staring at the pilot of Winter’s Witch, “we were expecting a guy. We don’t get many lady aviators here.”
“None,” Al added. He noticed that the dozens of men who had watched the emergency landing began to gather behind her like a wolf pack.
She reached out and shook Baker’s hand, then Al’s. “I’m Vivian Wright,” she said, “a pilot with the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron. We’re called WAFS.” She brushed a sheen of sweat from her forehead.
“I’ve heard of them,” Baker said. “Welcome to Benghazi. And thanks for the Winter’s Witch. At the moment, we need every aircraft we can get our hands on. Oh, and that was some mighty nice flying you did there. Glad you got the Witch down in one piece.”
“Me, too,” Vivian said. “But first things first. Not to be indelicate, but I gotta pee. There’s no place on a B-24 a woman can do that. You got a lady’s room?”
Baker laughed. “We don’t even have men’s rooms, ma’am.”
“Vivian,” she corrected.
A small crowd had gathered to watch the conversation between Vivian and the two Army officers.
“Okay, Vivian,” Baker said. “Look, all we’ve got for toilet facilities are empty fifty-five-gallon drums sawed in half with jury-rigged seats on them. And they’re out in the open. But I’m sure Captain Lycoming here can arrange some privacy for you.”
“Sir?” Al, at a loss for words, stared at his commander.
“The lady needs some privacy, Captain. Help her out.”
“Yes, sir.” He had no idea what to do, however. He figured he must look like a dimwit standing there with his mouth agape.
Vivian stepped forward and spoke directly to Al. “I know this isn’t in your job description, Captain, but it’s kind of an emergency.”
Al closed his eyes. Jesus, n
ow I’m a lady-in-waiting. He opened his eyes and spotted a master sergeant from his bomb group in the crowd of gawking spectators.
“Sergeant Keene,” he barked, and beckoned him.
The sergeant, with a massive, goofy grin smeared over his face, trotted over to Al.
“I need some help, Sergeant. The lady here, Vivian, needs some privacy to . . . uh . . .”
“Take a leak,” Vivian said.
“I’m Ralph,” the sergeant said without waiting to be introduced.
“Vivian,” she said, and extended her hand. “Look I appreciate all the courtesy here, gentleman, but the needle on my overflow gauge has pegged.”
“I’m on it,” Ralph said, still grinning like an idiot. “Captain, why don’t you escort the lady to the ‘facilities’”—he pointed toward a row of cut-down oil drums several hundred yards away—“and I’ll scare up some blankets and poles and we’ll put together a little shelter for her.” He turned and darted off.
Al and Vivian strode across the sun-baked, hard-packed sand toward the oil drum privies.
“My nose tells me we’re headed in the right direction,” Vivian said.
“Sorry. It’s kinda primitive out here.”
“Don’t apologize. I’ve been in plenty of Army camps. This is nothing new to me.”
“Long day?” Al asked, mainly because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. A lady aviator seemed totally foreign to him. “I understand you came in from Marrakesh.”
“About a ten-hour flight,” she said. “The guys got a couple of tubes in the plane where they can take a leak. Doesn’t work for me. I’ve learned not to drink much, especially coffee, before a long ferry, but every once in a while I just run out of storage space.” She laughed and glanced sideways at Al. “More than you wanted to know?”
“No. I just never thought about those problems before. I’ve never encountered a WAFS aviator over here.”
“That’s because we aren’t chartered to fly overseas.”
“But—”
“But here I am, right? Let’s just say that little detail was overlooked in this particular situation. Emergency, I guess. Virtually all of the Army Air Force pilots have combat or transport assignments, but I was told they needed to get this Lib to North Africa ASAP. And I was available.”
“Wow. Where’d you pick it up?”
Al caught a glimpse of Sergeant Keene and several other men bearing armloads of blankets and poles, and sprinting toward the latrine.
“At the Ford Plant in Willow Run. Then from there to Bangor, from Bangor to the Azores, from the Azores to Marrakesh, and finally on to Benghazi. As you might guess, I’m anxious to get back to the States.”
“Sorry, but I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck here for a while, Vivian. The complex is under quarantine. That means nobody leaves until after a big mission we’ve got coming up is over.”
“When’s that? Not that you can answer precisely.”
“In a week or so.”
She sighed. “Guess I’d better get used to peeing in an oil drum.”
She shot Al a quick smile. With a sun-bronzed, lightly freckled complexion and her brown hair styled neatly in a page-boy cut, she possessed, if not movie actress attractiveness, certainly the good looks of a girl-next-door prom queen.
Sergeant Keene arrived. “Miss Vivian,” he announced, “we’ll have a privacy enclosure ready for you in no time.”
He and three privates went to work, pounding stakes into the hard earth at a furious rate and draping blankets over them to form a circular shield around one of the cut-down oil drums.
Vivian began shifting her stance from one foot to the other as she waited. She also started swatting half-heartedly at the swarms of black flies buzzing around her head.
“They’re on latrine patrol,” Al said.
“My God, some are as big as B-24s.”
“Life in Africa.”
“I guess I’d better get used to it.”
“Okay, ma’am,” Sergeant Keene said, “your little cabana is—”
She burst through the blankets to the oil drum before Keene could finish his sentence.
The following evening Al spotted Vivian in the mess tent seated with several of the crew she’d flown with in Winter’s Witch. She motioned him over. A sergeant vacated a chair next to her and offered it to Al. He nodded his thanks and sat, placing his tray on the table.
“So, they found you some decent quarters, I assume?” he asked Vivian.
She laughed the easy laugh that seemed to come naturally to her. “Got my own private tent.”
Al watched as a steady parade of airmen made it a point to plot their mess-tent courses as close to Vivian as possible. The word “ogle” came to mind. The story of her skilled landing and innovative braking technique had spread rapidly among the troops, though a female of any sort constituted a newsworthy rarity in Benghazi.
“You seem a bit of a celebrity here, Vivian. Any concerns, you know, about your, uh, security?”
“I’m a curiosity wherever I go, Captain, but it’s really different here, where there are no other women at all. I guess Colonel Baker is aware of that, though. He’s got an MP passing by my tent every ten or fifteen minutes.”
She took a forkful of meat and chewed it for quite a while before swallowing it. “What is this?” she asked, reaching for a cup of water.
“Camel, I think.”
She snapped a wide-eyed glance verging on alarm at him.
“Kidding. It’s probably overcooked beef. Everything here is overcooked to try to avoid dysentery. It’s rampant.”
She sipped her water and wrinkled her nose.
“Try to stick with beer,” Al said. “The water is boiled and chlorinated.”
“Dysentery prevention, I assume.”
Al nodded and took a bite of his own meal. Odors of greasy meat mixed with cigarette smoke and a smidgen of aviation fuel wafted through the uncomfortable, overheated tent. A far cry from the Glen Island Casino, he thought.
“I hope you don’t mind hanging out with me,” Vivian said, “since I guess I’m stuck here for a while. Here’s the thing: I know you’re married, I saw the ring on your finger, but that puts me at ease. Over the past few years I’ve learned that most of you married guys are decent and safe. Not like the younger, single ones, especially the pilots, who seem compelled to show me how manly they are, if you get my gist. I’m tired of it.”
“You want me as your bodyguard?”
The easy laugh again. “Well, not so much that as just laying down a smokescreen for me. I don’t need the young studs buzzing around me. You see, I love flying. I love the adventure. But I don’t fly all over the country—I guess I can say ‘world’ now—looking for romance. That’s not me. I’ll find the right guy someday, but not in the middle of a war. And one-night stands aren’t part of my repertoire.” She paused. “So, can we be friends?”
“Friends it is,” he said. “Tell me about yourself. Vivian Wright from where? And how on earth did you get into flying?”
“Vivian Wright from Beatrice, Nebraska. Yeah, I’m a farm girl.”
Al could see it now, supple and muscular without appearing masculine. He could picture the latent power and strength in her hands and forearms. The kind of robustness needed for horsing a B-24 around. More than some guys had.
“I saw a crop duster flying over our place one day,” Vivian continued, “and said I’m gonna do that. So I did. Started out as a wing walker with some barnstormers, then went on from there. Learned how to fly. Did some crop dusting and barnstorming of my own. Then became an air racer. I flew in the Bendix Trophy Race in ’38.”
“That was the one that Jacqueline Cochran won, right?”
“Yep. You know your aviation history. Burbank to Cleveland. I wasn’t far behind her but got forced down near St. Louis by a thunderstorm. Anyhow, after the war started in Europe I went to England and flew with the Air Transport Auxiliary. Logged time in Lancasters, Halifaxes, and
even some B-17s.”
“Jesus. You’ve probably got more time in heavy bombers than I do.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is I’ve logged thousands of hours of flying time.”
Al whistled softly.
“So when the WAFS got cranked up in the States,” Vivian continued, “I came home. That was about a year ago. Now, in a few weeks, we’re going to become WASPs.”
“Wasps?”
“It’s an acronym for Women Airforce Service Pilots. The WASPs will be a combination of the WAFS and an organization called the Women’s Flying Training Detachment. By the way, you mentioned Jackie Cochran a minute ago. She’s going to be directing the WASP program.”
“Someday women will rule the world.”
She shrugged. “Not my goal. But you, what about you? How did you get vectored to aviation?”
He chuckled. “On my first airplane ride ever, the thing caught fire and crashed.”
“You’re kidding,” she exclaimed. “It caught fire? How? Where? When?”
“1933. I caught a lift in a biplane carrying a newspaper photographer over a big forest fire in northwest Oregon. I had no idea the plane’s fuselage was fabric-covered. I guess the pilot got a little too close to the fire. Some blazing embers landed on the wing and that was all she wrote. Down we went.”
“Obviously you survived and walked away from it.”
He shook his head. “I swam away from it.”
“Swam? This story gets better and better.”
He worked on chewing his own bite of overcooked meat, then continued his tale. “Well, the pilot managed to ditch the plane in a bay on the coast. I almost drowned, but an Indian fisherman just happened to be passing by in this ancient trawler—the thing looked barely seaworthy—and dragged me, the pilot, and photographer out of the water.”
“And that adventure made you want to fly? Most people probably would have run like the wind from anything to do with aviation after that.”
“It took a while, but I guess the fire—which turned out to be the biggest in the state’s history, by the way—and the crash made me decide I wanted to be master of my own fate. So after I went through ROTC at the University of Washington and could see what was happening in Europe and that a war was coming, I got into Army aviation. I decided being a flyer might be the best way to exert some sort of control, as illusionary as I found out it is, over my destiny. So that’s my flyboy secret.”
When Heroes Flew Page 7
