The mechanical roar of yet another Pratt & Whitney bursting to life snatched him from his reverie. He snuck a peek at his watch. Just before midnight. A little over two hours before he’d stagger from his cot to begin the longest day of his life. Maybe his last day. But he didn’t wish to dwell on that possibility.
Kalamaki, Greece
July 31, 1943
Egon Richter entered Oberstleutnant Gustav Rödel’s office where the wing commander greeted him with an earnest smile and firm handshake.
“Welcome back, Hauptmann. I trust your visit home was, well, if not enjoyable, at least rewarding.” Rödel motioned Egon to a chair. The commander plunked into his own behind his desk. The electric fan that Egon remembered from his first visit droned softly in a corner, but seemed not quite up to the task of ameliorating the heat. Beads of sweat trickled down Egon’s neck, but Rödel appeared oblivious to the sultriness, perhaps because of the time he’d already spent in Africa and Greece.
“Things are not well at home,” Egon said.
“Yes. I’ve heard that from others.”
“Food shortages, bombings, fathers and sons gobbled up by the Wehrmacht, Gestapo lurking in the shadows like child molesters.”
Rödel hung his head. “I know, I know. I wish I could tell you things were going to get better, but . . .” He allowed his sentence to trail off, but began speaking again, a touch of emotion coating his words. “Perhaps you’ve heard?”
“Sir?”
“About Hamburg.”
A knot formed in Egon’s stomach. “What about Hamburg?”
“Four days ago over seven hundred RAF bombers attacked the city. The weather had been hot and dry for most of the month, firefighting crews had been decimated by previous raids, so the town caught fire when the Brits unloaded their blockbusters. I mean homes and buildings and bridges for miles around. A firestorm, Hauptmann, a massive whirlwind of fire devoured Hamburg. Something out of the Bible. No, goddamn it, something out of hell.” His voice rose. “Asphalt melted, people were incinerated in bunkers, sucked up by the firestorm. Tens of thousands killed.”
Egon, stunned, couldn’t speak.
“And you know what else? I’m hearing rumors that the German people are starting to blame us, the Luftwaffe, for the disaster, saying we stand by and do nothing because we’re afraid to take on the Allies and their heavy bombers with our fighters.”
“I got questions about that when I was home,” Egon responded. “But if we’re failing, sir, it’s not because we’re afraid to fly against the enemy. It’s because we don’t have the manpower, we don’t have the aircraft, we don’t—”
“You and I know that, Egon, but the German people don’t. They’ve been told we’re winning this war, that that’s what their sacrifices have been for. They don’t believe the military suffers any shortages. All they know is that their homes and businesses are burning, that their families and friends are dying. Someone has to be at fault.”
“Other than our leaders.”
Rödel forced a smile and leaned forward over his desk, closer to Egon. “Which we would never say in public, of course.”
Egon smirked and clapped his hand over his mouth.
Rödel nodded and leaned back.
Egon decided to change the topic. Discussions of bombing and burning Germans had become too uncomfortable, too soul-rending.
“It’s been quiet here, I gather?” he asked.
“Yes, and that’s actually worrisome. The American bombers in North Africa haven’t mounted a raid into southern Europe for the last eleven days. That’s damned unusual. Something’s brewing.”
“What’s intelligence think?”
“Nothing we couldn’t figure out. There’s a major attack coming soon, but no one knows where.”
“Ploesti?”
“As good a guess as any. But Italy and Austria can’t be ruled out, either.”
“I’d love a chance to shoot down some furniture vans,” Egon said, using the Luftwaffe slang for Liberators.
“You’ll get that chance, I guarantee it,” Rödel said. “But let me tell you something else, if the Americans go after the refineries in Ploesti, they’re in for a massive surprise.”
Egon waited for Rödel to continue.
“Oberst Gerstenberg has something waiting for them they’d never expect. There’s a train that runs around Ploesti tugging a string of what looks like ordinary freight wagons.”
“But aren’t, I gather,” Egon interjected.
“There are dozens of antiaircraft weapons concealed in the cars. Their sides and tops are collapsible. In an instant they can transition from an innocent-looking boxcar to an antiaircraft battery.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. “It’s a flak train. Plus, Gerstenberg, the wily dog, has other surprises. Like guns concealed in haystacks, in groves of fruit trees, in water towers, church steeples. When the Americans come—not if, I know they will—they’ll never know what hit them. They have no idea how heavily defended Ploesti is.”
“Well, I hope we get a turn at them, too,” Egon said, his words hardened with determination. He hated the notion the Luftwaffe seemed to be becoming a cowardly villain in the eyes of Germans.
“We’ll get that opportunity, Hauptmann, no question. Either before the American bombers reach the target, or after—there will always be survivors to feast on.”
Egon returned to the villa in Elliniko in time for supper. George and Vasiliki had prepared a hearty Greek meal for their “boarders.” It included fresh-baked pita bread, homemade yogurt, and roasted lamb seasoned with an abundance of garlic, oregano, and black pepper, all accompanied by a bone-dry white wine called Assyrtiko. Oh how he missed the sweet Zeller Schwarze Katz.
He missed so many other things German, too: bratwurst, Leberwurst, schnitzel, Rouladen, Spätzle, but he knew even people back home didn’t enjoy those delights any longer, not in a land where potatoes and bread had become staples.
Egon poked at his lamb and sipped his wine, trying to be polite to his hosts. His appetite had been crushed under the weight of thoughts about fire bombings and starvation. The junior officers he sat with quizzed him about his trip to Zell, but he deflected their questions with vague answers and some outright lies. They obviously hadn’t heard about Hamburg, so he let that ride, too.
“Kalamaki is getting boring,” one young Messerschmitt pilot griped. “We go up every day, drill holes in the sky for an hour, then return to base. Very exciting. I want some action. Combat.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Egon cautioned. He knew the fresh-faced kids surrounding him, as eager as they seemed, lacked the training he’d had when he’d met his first enemy bomber. He told them the story of that encounter, the same one he’d told Rödel in their initial meeting, about how he’d fired on a four-engined British Lancaster from over a mile away and pissed in his pants at the same time.
The youngsters laughed. Egon smiled. He realized his tale carried no meaning to those who hadn’t yet experienced combat.
He stood and excused himself from the table, but remained for a moment and said, “Let me promise you one thing, gentlemen. Based on what Oberstleutnant Rödel told me this afternoon, you’ll be yanked from your boredom very soon. And after that, we can compare stories, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” one of them said. The others raised their wine glasses in silent response.
Egon retreated to his room where he sat in a tattered armchair and stared at a framed photograph on the wall, probably of George’s or Vasiliki’s relatives from the recent past—fishermen on an island somewhere in the Aegean Sea, he guessed.
He thought about his own little family, Inge and Christa, and the maelstrom of war into which they had been so innocently thrust. His daughter, he feared, stood to pay the heaviest price. Her carefree days of being a child had disappeared, snatched away by the terrifying wail of air raid sirens and the thunder of exploding bombs. She lived in a world where constant, gnawing hunger had replaced cookies and ca
ke. Where medical care had come to deal not with measles and mumps and scraped knees but with shrapnel wounds and missing limbs.
Instead of laughter and joy, tears and death had come to inform his daughter’s life. And he bore at least some responsibility for that, though he had no idea how to repair the damage. It would be like trying to un-break a shattered wine bottle.
All he could do, when the time came, would be to face the bombers and do his duty, to try to blunt the enemy’s relentless drive toward his homeland and family. That would be his gift to Inge and Christa, his truncated purpose in life.
He fell asleep in the soft chair, borne away by a soothing memory of green vineyards and puffy white clouds that so often adorned his beloved Mosel Valley in summertime.
The next morning, Egon sat alone in the cramped planning room at wing headquarters after a brief meeting with Oberstleutnant Rödel. Rödel had instructed him to develop a training outline for the wing’s new pilots. Six rectangular tables, several dozen wooden chairs, and four walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and shelves defined the room. Aeronautical charts and flight manuals jammed the shelving. Photographs of Luftwaffe Iron Cross recipients and a large color portrait of Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, the Reich Minister of Aviation, hung in whatever free space remained.
Unannounced, two men whom Egon had never seen around the airbase strode into the room. He knew instantly they were Black Coats, Gestapo, though in deference to the heat, neither man wore a coat. They appeared more like shopkeepers in white shirts and ties, though each wore a shoulder holster containing a nine-millimeter pistol.
The man who appeared to be in charge—a gangly individual with thick, brushed-back dark hair and a scar slashed across his cheek—introduced himself as Kriminalinspector Meyer. He took a seat across from Egon. The other man, short and stout with a shaved head and countenance that seemed a cross between a pig and a bulldog, leaned against the door frame and looked bored.
“We’re from the regional office in Athens,” Meyer said. “Consider this a courtesy call.”
Egon nodded. He knew no such thing as a “courtesy call” existed when it came to the Gestapo. They operated with unchecked authority and used intimidation and fear as their primary “motivators.”
“You’re new to Jagdgeschwader 27, Hauptmann Richter?” Meyer continued.
So they obviously know who I am. He nodded again.
“It’s okay to speak, Hauptmann,” Meyer snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“Zell on the Mosel.” They damn well know that, too.
The pig-bulldog-faced man near the door farted softly. Meyer glared at him, then responded to Egon. “Zell on the Mosel. Beautiful country, lovely wines.” He paused. “A wonderful place to raise a family, yes?”
“It is, Herr Meyer.”
“Kriminalinspector Meyer.”
“Sorry, sir. I stand corrected.”
“You’re familiar with the Party’s ‘Subversion of the War Effort’ law?”
The question seemed a strange non sequitur after the mention of Zell. That aside, although not a Party member, Egon had certainly heard of the law. It stated that any words or actions deemed by the Gestapo as “undermining military morale” could be punishable by death. Included were such things as speaking out against the Party or suggesting the Reich was losing the war.
“I’ve heard of it, yes,” Egon said. What the hell do these guys want?
“There are rumors that certain elements of your fighter wing harbor anti-Party sentiments and promote the mistaken belief the Wehrmacht is in full retreat now. It’s true there have been tactical retreats, but the overall offensive of the Reich remains powerful and unstoppable.”
Tactical retreats? These buffoons don’t realize that the Luftwaffe knows what’s happening militarily, the truth? That we got our asses kicked in North Africa and lost an entire numbered army, hundreds of thousands of men, at Stalingrad?
“I can assure you, Kriminalinspector, that the dedication of Jagdgeschwader 27 to the war effort and ultimate victory remains total. I can personally vouch that the loyalty of Oberstleutnant Rödel to the Reich is unadulterated.”
Through the only window in the room, Egon spotted a Wehrmacht truck carrying barrels of aviation fuel jouncing and rattling over the cobblestone street. He wondered idly if the petrol came from Ploesti.
Meyer, ignoring the vehicle, stared at Egon with steely eyes. “You’ve heard no one speak out against the Party, or promote misinformation on how the war is going? Even a whisper?”
Egon knew if these guys really had heard rumors of such “subversion,” there would have been arrests by now. Their visit seemed nothing more than a fishing expedition.
“I have not.”
“If you did, you would let us know, of course?”
“Of course.” I’d rather shatter a wine bottle over your fucking heads.
“Don’t take this lightly, Hauptmann. Non-reporting of subversive speech is in and of itself subversive. Punishment for treason can extend to family and friends. I’m certain you would never wish such a fate to befall your dear Inge or Christa.”
So that’s why the mention of families earlier. Anger boiled and bubbled deep within Egon. He drew a long, slow breath to control his anger. Had he not, he knew he would have knocked Meyer’s rotted teeth from his mouth with a single punch. He didn’t bother to respond to the Gestapo officer’s not-so-veiled warning.
“You heard me well, I assume?” Meyer snapped when Egon failed to speak.
Oberstleutnant Rödel burst into the room, nearly knocking the Gestapo man by the door off his feet. “We both heard you, Kriminalinspector. But since we’re a combat unit actively engaged in hostilities, I must ask you to wrap up your business here and allow my squadron leader to resume his work.” Rödel stood with his hands on his hips, making sure Meyer didn’t miss the Iron Cross that dangled prominently over his Luftwaffe tunic.
Meyer glared at Rödel with disdain. “I’m here on official business.”
“So are we,” Rödel barked. “And this happens to be my castle and my rule. You’re welcome to depart knowing you’ve accomplished your mission. Believe me, Herr Meyer”—Egon assumed Rödel used the title deliberately—“we well know who the enemy is.”
Meyer stood slowly, glowering at Rödel and Egon, and lifted his right arm in a Party salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Egon stood and with Rödel returned the stiff-armed gesture. Neither said Heil Hitler.
The two Gestapo agents stalked from the room. “We’ll be back,” Meyer muttered as he left.
“Make an appointment next time,” Rödel shouted after them. “We’re fighting a war here.”
Rödel listened for the front door of the building to slam, then said softly to Egon, “Too bad we have to fight those bastards, too.”
13
Benghazi, Libya
August 1, 1943
Al, a little surprised he’d finally drifted off to sleep, found himself uncivilly awakened by jeeps racing through the encampment blowing their horns and a duty officer sticking his head into the tent and bawling, “All right, up and at ’em, you guys. Time to go to war.”
He struggled to a sitting position on his cot, bent over and shook the sand from his combat boots, examined them for scorpions, then wriggled them on. The Honky-Tonk Gal bombardier—he never could remember his name—in the cot adjacent to his had already dressed. He stood next to where Al sat and extended his hand.
“Good luck today, Pops, or should I say Daddy? Hope to see you back here tonight.”
“You will,” Al responded. “Let’s plan on grabbing a beer together.” Whistling past the graveyard.
“You got it, sir.” The guy’s voice sounded firm, but apprehension tinted his gaze. They parted with a firm handshake.
Al donned a fresh shirt, smoothed his uniform, and shuffled out into the warm, clammy darkness, heading for the briefing tent. Breakfast would follow. The
camp had come alive with men, vehicles, and lights. In the middle distance, illuminated by floodlights, ground crews swarmed around the Liberators, loading them with bombs.
Al stepped into the briefing tent, found his crew, and plunked down beside George.
“Mornin’, Rabbi.”
“Pops.”
“Ready for this?”
“Are any of us?”
Al shrugged. “We are and we aren’t.”
He looked around and didn’t spot Colonel Baker, so figured he had a few moments before the briefing started. He stood and began working his way along the row where his crew sat, shaking their hands, giving them firm pats on the back, and handing out words of encouragement. He’d never done that prior to a mission, but this raid bore gravitas and high danger unlike any they’d ever flown. These men—boys, really, all in their twenties—would always remain special to him, and he sensed they knew that when he gazed into their eyes and recognized their commitment to him and the job at hand.
They had come from all over the US, from the Northeast, the Great Plains, the Northwest, the Deep South. Kenny, the bombardier, from Atlanta, Georgia; Tech Sergeant Bryce McGregor, “Stretch,” the radio operator, from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho; Master Sergeant Maurice Gallagher, “Moe,” the engineer/top turret gunner, a farm kid from Yankton, South Dakota; Tech Sergeant Blaine Witkowski, “Stumpy,” a powerfully-built Pole from Passaic, New Jersey; Sergeant Richard Hamilton, “Chippy,” the right side waist gunner, a former riverboat deckhand from Davenport, Iowa; Staff Sergeant Billy Cummings, “Rhett,” the tail gunner, a handsome kid from Sumter, South Carolina; and Sergeant Ned Reeser, the left waist gunner, from Burkburnett, Texas. Only twenty-one, he’d earned honors as the group’s “kid.”
Al reached the end of the line. “Sorey. Where’s Sorey?” He swept his gaze over the other assembled crews of the Traveling Circus, searching for his copilot, but didn’t spot him.
When Heroes Flew Page 11
