Master Sergeant Maurice, “Moe,” Gallagher, the top turret gunner/engineer who’d declined to fly the Ploesti raid because of Vivian’s presence, had found himself shunned by his fellow crew mates in the wake of the mission. They’d been unable to forgive his absence, especially since the guy who’d stepped in to replace him, Tech Sergeant Bryce McGregor, had been killed in action. True, Al had offered Moe the option not to fly, but the crew viewed his choice more as abandonment than anything else.
Moe had been reassigned to an Eighth Air Force B-17 Bomb Group flying out of England. In a twist of fate, he lost his life over Schweinfurt, Germany, in an October 1943 raid that became labeled a total failure. Sixty of almost three hundred Flying Fortresses that flew the mission were blasted from the sky.
Sergeant Ned Reeser, the waist gunner who’d brought down Egon Richter’s Messerschmitt over the Ionian Sea, remained in the service after the war. He made it to Master Sergeant, then lost his life in a B-29 crash during the Korean War. Al attended his memorial service in Burkburnett, Texas.
Though Al kept the tale about Vivian Wright and Ploesti under wraps, he did relate the story to his wife. In fact, she and Vivian became friends of sorts, trading letters frequently and even a few phone calls.
After the war, Vivian tried time after time to land a job as a commercial airline pilot, but no carrier would offer her a chance. It was pointed out to her ad nauseam that she was a woman and women didn’t fly airplanes for a living. Period. End of discussion.
In a letter to Sarah, she related one interview she’d had.
“I’m sorry, honey,” the interviewer had said, “but even if you were qualified, veterans are given priority for pilot jobs.” He paused. “I would think, however, with your smile and great looks, you’d be a perfect fit in our service operations.”
“You mean as a stewardess?”
“I’d certainly love to have you serving me.”
She reached into her purse, fished out the Purple Heart Al had sent her, and slammed it onto the desk in front of the interviewer.
“I didn’t earn that, buster, because of my smile or cuteness, or by offering ‘coffee, tea, or me,’ to troops on a C-47. Screw your service operations.”
She snatched the medal from the desk and flounced out of the office, leaving the interviewer sitting with his mouth agape.
After numerous rejections, she opened her own flying school near Omaha, Nebraska, teaching both men and women—women, preferably—how to fly multi-engine aircraft.
“Someday women will be flying commercial airliners,” she wrote Sarah, “and I want the ladies I teach to be first in line for that.”
Her prediction turned out to be prescient. In 1973, several commercial carriers in the US hired female pilots for the first time.
Al never came to grips understanding Vivian’s personal life. He learned that after the war she’d married and divorced twice, but whether that stemmed from her independent and assertive nature or because she didn’t find men sexually attractive, he didn’t know. And didn’t care. He admired the woman and would always hold her in exceptionally high regard.
He knew the surviving crew members of Oregon Grinder felt the same way. In fact, they began planning a special reunion for the fortieth anniversary of the Ploesti raid in 1983, a reunion that would include and honor Vivian.
Al, in the meantime, began to think about a different kind of coming-together event.
“I want to go to Germany,” he told Sarah. “The kids are grown, we’re still in good health, and we’ve got a little money and some free time. Let’s travel.”
“To Germany?” She sat down next to him on a well-worn couch in the living room of their 1920s brick home in southeast Portland.
He nodded.
“Ulterior motive?” She knew him too well.
He nodded again.
“Let me guess. It has something to do with that German fighter pilot?”
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he said. “If he has any surviving family, I’d like them to know what really happened over the Ionian Sea thirty years ago. That Egon Richter spared the lives of seven Americans. That he is a man whose memory is worthy of honor and respect.”
“How would you find out about the family, if there is one?”
“I looked on a map. The place he mentioned where he lived, Zell, on the Mosel River, is just a few miles from an American air base, Hahn. I could write the base commander there, tell him who I am, why I’m interested in coming, and see if there might be somebody who could poke around in Zell and find out if there are any Richters living there. Especially ones named Inge or Christa. Those are the two names Egon whispered before he died.”
Al paused, feeling emotion constrict his throat. Even after three decades, the German’s unnecessary death still distressed him.
He continued. “I don’t know if those names belonged to his wife, a daughter, a sister, or maybe even a mother. It really doesn’t matter. I just need a connection to start from.”
Al followed through with his plan to write to the base commander, and things actually went well. The Public Affairs Officer at Hahn Air Base contacted the Bürgermeister’s office in Zell and discovered that, yes, an Inge Richter, age sixty, lived in Zell. Further probing determined that Inge had indeed been Egon’s wife.
Friendly explanations and negotiations followed and resulted in a meeting being set up between Al, his wife, and Inge Richter. The translator for the gathering—since Inge spoke no English, and Al’s guidebook-German wouldn’t get him far—would be Egon’s daughter, Christa, now in her early forties and married.
Al and Sarah undertook their long journey in May 1973, flying from Portland to New York City on a United Airlines DC-8, then New York to Frankfurt on one of Lufthansa’s new wide-body 747s.
West Germany
May 1973
The trip on the autobahn from the Frankfurt Flughafen to Zell proved harrowing for someone not used to routinely driving at over one hundred miles per hour. Al quickly learned not to let the anchor drag in his rented Opel Ascona saloon, especially in the passing lane. The Mercedes and BMWs and Porsches running up his tail pipe at one hundred fifty miles per hour let him know with flashing headlights or their left-hand blinker winking to get the hell out of the way.
“Not like driving in Oregon,” he said, his heart beating like an up-tempo metronome. “Lord, I think I felt safer in my Liberator dropping bombs on these guys.”
The German countryside, green and lush with spring growth, reminded him of western Oregon. Sunshine, sharing the sky with popcorn cumulus, burned through a gauzy haze of diesel exhaust and factory emissions.
“A testament to West Germany’s industrial might, I guess,” Al noted.
“Frankfurt looked like an ultramodern metropolis,” Sarah added.
“Yeah, I suppose when you’re forced to rebuild from nothing, with a little help from your newfound friends, that’s what you get.”
Sarah stared out the window as the landscape raced by. “It’s so hard to believe the destruction and death and misery that must have prevailed here.”
“The Third Reich will never be remembered for its glory.”
They reached the Mosel Valley in mid-afternoon and checked in at the Hotel Schloss Zell, a castle-like structure that had stood in the town since the fourteenth century. They hurried to their room and, without bothering to unpack, collapsed into their bed for a long and overdue sleep.
Shortly after noon the following day, they arrived, feeling refreshed, at the home of Inge Richter for a meeting with Inge and her daughter. The meeting had been arranged through the Public Affairs Office at Hahn Air Base. Hahn sat on the Hunsrück, the high ground south of the Mosel Valley, about five miles from Zell.
Inge’s home, one of several that shared a three-story stone structure, sat near the intersection of two main roads, one paralleling the Mosel River, the other crossing the river on what appeared to be a fairly new bridge. The traffic—cars, trucks, motorcyc
les—while not heavy, appeared to be steady.
Al rang the doorbell. The door opened and an attractive blonde with an ingratiating smile greeted them. She wore a tan blouse and dark skirt and carried herself with what seemed an almost regal bearing.
“Welcome,” she said, and gestured for Al and Sarah to enter. “I’m Christa, Inge Richter’s daughter. I’m so happy to meet you.”
To Al, the sentiment seemed genuine, but he had to wonder if she really felt that way. He assumed she probably had been told by German authorities she would be meeting the pilot of the American bomber that had shot down her father during the war. She, of course, would have no knowledge about what had really happened.
Al introduced his wife and himself, and added, “We’re so pleased you agreed to see us. We’re honored by your hospitality.”
“And we by your visit,” Christa said. “Please, follow me.”
Trailing Christa, they mounted the stone stairs of the house up to the living room, dining area, and kitchen on the second floor. The windows of the home sat open, ushering in the warmth of the spring afternoon. A soft breeze bearing an amalgam of vehicle exhaust and lilacs rippled their lace curtains in lazy undulations. Occasionally, the muted growl of the traffic outside rode the zephyrs into the house.
“My mother has lived here since before the war,” Christa explained. She ushered Al and Sarah into the living room.
A woman arose from an armchair in the corner of the room.
“This is my mother, Inge,” Christa said. “Mutter, das sind Al und Sarah Lycoming aus Amerika.”
Keeping things formal but friendly, they shook hands.
Al could see that Inge had likely been beautiful once, but time and war had taken an obvious toll. More furrows and creases than might be expected for someone near sixty lined her face, and she stooped slightly when she stood.
“Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Al said.
Christa translated for her mother, who nodded her acknowledgement.
Only then did Al notice a fifth person in the room, a man sitting in a dimly lit corner. He stood and walked to Al and Sarah. He appeared to be in his fifties and carried himself with the bearing of a military man. His piercing dark eyes suggested an alert and curious nature, and immediately reminded Al of many of the senior officers he had known in the Army Air Force. The man smiled warmly and extended his hand.
“Gustav Rödel,” he said in German-accented English. “I know you weren’t expecting to meet with anyone other than Inge and Christa, but they were kind enough to invite me when they learned who you were.”
Though puzzled by his presence, Al gripped the man’s hand. “You mean the American who”—he struggled to find the right words— “was with Egon at the end?”
“I was Hauptmann Richter’s wing commander when he flew his final mission out of Kalamaki Air Base in Greece.”
Al stared. Shit. He’d wanted this meeting to be private, to tell Egon’s wife and daughter how Egon had really died, how he’d spared American lives. Now he didn’t feel comfortable doing that. Even with the war now relegated to history books, he didn’t know if this man, Gustav, still harbored Nazi sympathies or not. If he did, it could still prove dangerous for Inge and Christa.
“I see,” Al said, hesitant to say more.
Gustav studied him, apparently trying to figure out the reason for Al’s reluctance to be more open.
Christa seemed to sense it, too, but took a stab at what might have triggered it. “You’re concerned, aren’t you, that Herr Rödel might still hold certain, how shall I say it, political views?”
“I’m a bit apprehensive, yes.”
“Then I should tell you that Herr Rödel could also be addressed as Brigadegeneral Rödel. He worked with NATO and recently retired from the West German Air Force.”
Brigadier General? West German Air Force? Al relaxed a bit. If the man had held a position like that, it would mean the Allies had vetted him thoroughly.
“Honored to meet you, sir. I’m sorry if my concern seemed a bit transparent.” Still, you never know . . . Al’s disdain for Nazis ran deep. Death camps and the loss of tens of millions of lives could do that.
“I understand,” Gustav said. “If I were in your shoes, I would harbor the same concerns.” He paced to one of the windows, hands locked behind his back, and stared out through the jiggling curtains into the spring afternoon and the traffic in the intersection below. He seemed lost in thought, or perhaps remembrances.
Without turning, he said, “You probably wonder if I was one of those, what Americans call Nazis, a member of the National Socialist German Workers' Party. We referred to it merely as ‘the Party,’ by the way.” He turned to face Al. “Well, allow me to tell you a story.” He returned to his seat.
Christa gestured for Al and Sarah to sit, also.
“Please,” she said, pointing at a low table in front of the couch, “help yourself.” Cups, a steaming porcelain coffee pot painted in Edelweiss, and a delicious-looking assortment of pastries and cookies rested on the table.
Gustav waited to begin telling his story until everyone had poured a cup of coffee and retrieved something to nibble on.
“It’s not something that’s talked about much,” he began, his voice soft, “but in early 1945, within the Luftwaffe, there was something that became known as ‘the Fighter Pilots Mutiny.’”
Al set his coffee down and sat up straight, listening carefully.
“A group of senior fighter pilots, myself included, confronted Reichsmarschall Göring over his conduct of the war.”
Al interrupted and turned to Sarah. “Hermann Göring was commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe and second in command to Adolf Hitler.”
Gustav nodded his agreement, then continued. “By 1944, we knew the air war over Europe was lost. Göring blamed us, the fighter pilots, for that. The truth was, we’d not been given any new aircraft or updated weapons for quite some time. For instance, the new Messerschmitt Me 262s, the jets, were being sent to bomber forces, of all things.
“A group of us under the direction of General Adolf Galland, the chief of fighter pilots, decided to challenge Göring directly, face-to-face, and call him out.” Gustav paused and cleared his throat. “In truth, there were some of us who thought stronger measures were required, but we also realized that if Göring were to be, well, eliminated, there would likely be someone else in the Party hierarchy just as militant and inept who would replace him.”
Gustav paused, took a swallow of coffee, then continued.
“The encounter did not go well. Göring had been forewarned. We offered him a typed list of ‘Points of Discussion,’ hoping we could have a civil back-and-forth with him. We should have known better.
“Göring flew into an irrational rage, red-faced, cursing, spittle flying from his mouth, and accused us of treason. He swept our ‘Points of Discussion’ onto the floor and shouted, ‘Galland will be shot first to set the example.’ At that point, we assumed we all were condemned men.
“In the end, we obviously weren’t executed, but most of us were banished to relatively minor jobs. The worst thing was, as we departed the confrontation with Göring, we knew with certainty that Germany was doomed.”
Gustav fell silent and seemed to stare into blankness. Al realized why he had told the story. Gustav Rödel clearly held no love for the Nazi Party.
“Thank you for your candor, sir,” he said. “I guess it’s my turn now. I want to tell you what really happened thirty years ago over the Ionian Sea, and why I love Egon Richter like a brother. He’s the only reason I am able to be here today.”
The three Germans in the room traded glances with one another, probably wondering what they were about to hear.
Al told his story, leaving out no details, even the one about carrying a female copilot into battle. His small audience remained in rapt attention, the only sounds interrupting him floating in from outside—the occasional beep of a horn or throaty roar of an accelerating mot
orcycle.
As he neared the end of his account, spelling out how Egon had spared Oregon Grinder and her crew, a glint of what seemed admiration flickered in Gustav’s eyes. Wonderment shone on the faces of Inge and Christa.
But tears flowed down their cheeks, too, and Inge broke into soft sobs as Al explained the circumstances of Egon’s death. Gustav appeared stunned and could only shake his head in what seemed sorrow and incredulity.
“Thank you, Herr Lycoming,” Christa said, dabbing at her tears with a tissue. “Thank you for coming all this way to tell me about my father. It gives me new appreciation for what he did and who he was. He’ll forever remain larger than life for me.”
Al responded. “He was an honorable man, and I consider it my privilege to have met him, though it was only for a brief moment, and only at the end of his life. I’m so sorry.”
“Danke, danke, danke,” Inge said as her sobbing subsided. Christa went to her mother and embraced her. Then Inge stood and said, “Wir feiern das Leben meines Mannes.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
“She wants to celebrate Egon’s life,” Christa translated.
As they waited, Gustav spoke. “You know, one thing I always emphasized to the pilots under my command is that you never, under any circumstances, shoot a man in a parachute. Once a battle is over, it’s over. I think Egon stretched that edict to its maximum. He decided that for your bomber, the battle was over. He knew it was for him, too. Why shed more blood on either side? In the end, it wouldn’t have won or lost the war.”
“Thank you, General,” Al said, “for teaching your men compassion and integrity. Perhaps if there had been more like you in the Wehrmacht, there wouldn’t have been a war.”
“There were many who harbored similar thoughts. But the key was we should have asserted ourselves much earlier.”
“Yes, but I suppose you couldn’t see the future.”
“Sometimes you don’t have to see it, but only know the character of the men leading you there.”
When Heroes Flew Page 23
