Summer of No Surrender

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  She was about to hurry inside when a detonation like the crack of doom rolled over the downlands and a pillar of flame leaped into the night, towering in a flickering orange and yellow fury of conflagration high above the woods, the roofs and church tower; startling an owl from the tree by their drive gate, to fly hooting past her head. Sparks cascaded above the tips of the leaping flames and the earth trembled.

  Her heart missed a beat and she choked for breath. Peter! No, it couldn't be: that ear-splitting thunder must be a bomb-load exploding.

  She turned down the volume of the radiogram, doused the drawing room lights and stood by the open french window to listen for the sound of a Hurricane's return. She had no way of distinguishing one Hurricane from another, but she had made up her mind that Peter had taken off; that he had destroyed that bomber; that he would land now.

  She saw the red and green lights at its wing tips before she heard its engine. And then, incredibly, the lights began to draw a smear across the sky, rotating slowly. She blinked. There was no doubt about this: someone up there was doing a slow roll. A victory roll. Anne was no aviator and a slow roll at night meant nothing to her: she had no notion of the difficulties and dangers of aerobatics in the dark, with no horizon and no contrast between earth and sky.

  A lot of people watching on the aerodrome, however, had a very fine appreciation of Peter Knight's skill.

  Twelve

  'Morning, Keiling. Prepared for your baptism of fire?'

  'Good morning, Herr Oberleutnant. Yes, Herr Oberleutnant.'

  'Good. But make sure it's not baptism by total immersion! No swimming in the Kanal.'

  The C.O. was damnably hearty this morning. Always a bad sign. Brendel glanced at him, then returned to his breakfast. Moody devil. You never knew what the Old Man would get up to when he was in this frame of mind. His trouble was an excess of courage. Brendel had won an Iron Cross too, but his supreme ambition was to become an ex-serviceman, not an inscription on the town war memorial. Richter was spoiling for a fight today; he knew the symptoms. Perhaps he was impatient to get this business over; there Brendel could agree with him. So, he knew, were all the others. What was the Army waiting for? Or was it the Navy who chicken-heartedly postponed an invasion, on account of unfavourable tides or some such nautical claptrap?

  This phase of the war was dragging on too long. He hoped that today would bring a really good blitz to end it. What he wanted to see now was German war material on the beaches of Sussex and Kent; and it had better be soon.

  It was too damned early for breakfast. He couldn't stomach more than a couple of cups of coffee spiked with cognac.

  He noticed that few of the others touched any food. Many of them were helping themselves from the brandy bottle. The C.O. preferred hot milk and red wine: it looked like a child's soft drink, pink in colour. A real boar-hunter's pre-dawn start to the day, Richter claimed: he was too damned jovial by half, this morning.

  Brendel knew that his Staffel Commander's mood could, and probably would, change mercurially. He was buoyant at the moment but it wouldn't take much to plunge him into gloom or, worse, anger.

  The pilots filed out to the cars waiting to take them to the airfield.

  'Come with me, young Keiling. And you, Erich; sit in front with my driver: Keiling and I will loll in the back like pashas. Eh, Manfred?'

  Keiling was no less startled than Hafner at the use of his Christian name. Even his junior comrades hadn't called him by it yet. He knew he would have to wait for acceptance until he had a few missions under his belt. The C.O.'s kindness made him feel uncomfortable.

  'May I bring Wolf with me, sir?' asked Hafner.

  'Hell! I'd forgotten about your damned dog. Yes, let him sit in front with you. But make sure he doesn't leave any hairs on my trouser legs.'

  With sudden spitefulness, Hafner, looking at Keiling, announced casually: 'I used to keep a rabbit called Manfred. I named him after von Richtofen. I was a very air-minded boy. I hoped it would give my rabbit some courage. He grew into a huge buck and the terror of all my friends' does.'

  Richter laughed loudly. 'Hear that, Manfred? Are you a buck, Leutnant Keiling? Do the little doe-mädchen tremble for you?'

  The boy was blushing and silent.

  There were tents around the makeshift aerodrome, to provide somewhere for the pilots and ground crews to rest and have their meals when on duty. One of them was a field office where the adjutant and the C.O. did some of their administrative work. It was too early to bother with files and memoranda; Richter went down the line of aircraft with his Engineer Officer and a group of mechanics and armourers, pausing now and again to take a closer look at some repair or modification that one of them pointed out. This done, he sat among his pilots in their tent, watching a game of cards and furtively stealing glances at Keiling's beautiful young profile.

  Presently their first orders came and he went to the black­board which stood on one side of the high-walled tent and drew diagrams while he briefed them for the day's first raid on England. 'We are going to knock out an important fighter station south of London,' he announced with relish.

  Dawn brought release for East Malford's duty night pilots.

  Knight eschewed the smelly brown blankets that were provided in the crew room and used his own sleeping bag. He woke, as he always did, to a hand rocking his shoulder. But the touch was diffident and the face that grinned at him expressed plain admiration. In place of his batman it was his rigger who had brought him a mug of tea.

  He crawled out of his sleeping bag, drove back to the mess to shower and shave, and telephoned Anne.

  'Did I wake you up?'

  'Of course not. You aren't the only one who gets up early.'

  'I don't from choice.'

  'I thought you were going to get some sleep this morning?'

  'Don't need any. Had plenty last night. Anne...'

  'Yes?'

  'I love you just as much today.'

  'Oh, darling. Listen, where were you when that German plane crashed near here last night?'

  'Where were you?'

  'In the garden...'

  'That's no place in an air raid,' he said severely. And added swiftly: 'Whom were you with?'

  She laughed at him. 'An owl. It came out of its tree like a rocket when the plane exploded.'

  'Anyway, you shouldn't wander about out of doors when there's an air raid warning: you could easily get pranged by a chunk of shrapnel from an ack-ack shell, or a bomb splinter. You ought to know that.'

  'Don't be so crusty. I only went outside because I thought I'd hear you better coming back.'

  'How did you know I wasn't in my sack, fast asleep?'

  'Intuition.'

  'Intu-my foot. You stay inside another time.'

  'You were up, though, weren't you?'

  'Actually...yes.'

  'Did you see the plane crash?'

  'Yes. I had quite a good view of it.'

  'You shot it down!' she sounded excited.

  'What's this: more intuition?'

  'Then you did!'

  'I would have told you, if you'd let me get a word in edgeways.'

  'Pig, 'she said happily. 'I'm so proud of you. Wait a minute…' He heard her calling her mother. A moment later she went on 'Mummy says congratulations and will you come to dinner tonight? She's putting a bottle of bubbly in the fridge for you.'

  'Thank her very much.'

  'Now go and get some rest. And I love you. Terribly.'

  Rest would have to wait. Knight went to ask his Squadron Commander for permission to invite the German to the mess. Sqdn. Ldr. Maxwell, chewing his pipe, said 'All right, Peter, if you want to. Fetch him this evening.' He was thinking about the first German he had shot down, in France, nearly a year ago; a gunner in a Do. 17, in which the rest of the crew had died. He had visited him in hospital and the occasion had not been a success. The wounded air gunner was rude and angry. It was not a meeting of chivalrous foes who had fought a good, clean fight and
were now ready to shake hands. The German hated him for what he had done to his friends, who had died horribly: one tom to pieces by Maxwell's bullets, the others in flames, trapped in the wreckage.

  Maxwell recalled how he had gone from the hospital to the nearest church, although he wasn't a Catholic, and tried to pray for the three dead men: that hadn't been a success either.

  He felt that Peter Knight was wasting his time, but he had better find that out for himself.

  Flt. Sgt. Viccar and Six-gun Massey, who had also been on night readiness, went with him.

  'How are we going to talk to this bloke?' The Bishop wanted to know. 'D'you speak German, Pete?'

  Knight spoke a roughly understandable German, with slashing ungrammatical fluency and aplomb. 'I did four years of it at school, and I spent a couple of holidays in Austria and Germany, but that was a long time ago. I can get by. But he'll probably speak English.'

  Each of them was wondering what it would be like to confront a specimen of the Master Race. The enemy was always the impersonal occupant of an aeroplane, and now they were going to see him in the flesh, harmlessly grounded.

  Knight was beginning to think that he would have done better not to suggest this jaunt. The Jerry would probably think they'd come to gloat. Was there a touch of condescension in the visit; the victor patronising the vanquished? Would the hospital staff think he had come to shew himself off? And if this German was like so many others he had met, arrogant and defiant, he would feel a great fool in front of his friends.

  Massey was curious to take a close look at captive Superman, something to write and tell the folks in Corpus Christi, Texas, about. He was fighting for something he believed in, against something he detested: now it would be embodied.

  Viccar had a professional desire to assay for himself the quality of a German airman. He had been impressed by the German Air Force's success in Poland, France and the Low Countries. He often asked himself whether there were some perceptible rare quality in these German air crews. A guardsman was instantly recognisable among other soldiers. Perhaps the Luftwaffe had the same kind of distinction: it would be interesting to see for himself.

  A group of nurses waited to welcome the three of them. They had been on duty all night, but this was a chance not to be missed: it wasn't every day that three frontline pilots came by. Viccar, swarthy and saturnine, jauntily moustached, made a date with the prettiest of them.

  The doctor who took them to the patient's room treated them with the deference he usually reserved for consultants.

  'How is he?' asked Knight.

  'He had rather a bad biff on the head, a broken ankle, a broken arm and three broken ribs. How he managed to walk at all, let alone as far as he did, I don't know. He must have a lot of guts.'

  Knight felt guilty. 'Was he wounded, Doc?'

  'A bullet through the forearm, that's all; it didn't do any permanent damage.'

  'I must be a lousy shot: I was aiming at his engines.'

  'He caused quite a stir, turning up on somebody's doorstep in East Malford.'

  'So I hear. What's his name?'

  'Leutnant Kurt von Hippel.'

  'Does he speak English?'

  'Quite well, the nurses tell me. As it happens, I did some post-graduate work in Heidelberg, so we talk German.'

  The doctor opened the door and Knight hesitated.

  Massey gave him a push. 'Go ahead, Pete. Don't be chicken.'

  The tall young German lay with one arm bandaged and the other in a cast. A bruised swelling on his forehead was partly hidden by sticking plaster over a stitched cut.

  He stared straight ahead, ignoring the four men and the nurse who accompanied them.

  Viccar and Massey looked expectantly at Knight. He cleared his throat and said 'Guten Morgen Leutnant von Hippel. Wie geht es Ihnen?'

  The head on the pillow turned and the grey eyes in the pale face looked into Knight's, reminding him of the way the rear gunner had seemed to look straight at him before he had killed him.

  'Ziemlich gut, danke.'The German's voice was steady and dispassionate.

  'Und Sie sprechen Englisch sehr gut, nicht wahr?

  'Ein wenig.'

  'That's good. We can get along faster, and my friends can understand.'

  'Please, not to speak too fast.'

  'How do you feel?' Knight repeated, wishing he could be more original.

  'How would you feel?'

  'That's a good question,' Knight said lightly. 'Looking at the pretty nurses around here, I think I'd feel rather pleased.'

  The nurse standing on the other side of the bed chuckled.

  'We have pretty nurses in Germany also.'

  'I'm sure you have. You've got a lot of pretty girls: I've been there.'

  For the first time von Hippel shewed interest. 'So, you know Germany?'

  'Not well. I've done a bit of skiing in Bavaria.'

  'My home is...' The German cut himself off. Name, rank and number only.

  'Are you in much pain, Herr Leutnant?'

  'No thank you, Herr Flying Officer. You see, I am knowing your rank.'

  'Well done. Is there anything we can do for you, or bring you?'

  'There is no need, thank you. I will be home in Germany soon.'

  This was too much for Massey. 'Someone's been fooling you: we're not planning to exchange any prisoners.'

  Von Hippel scowled. 'So, America is in the war? You are not declaring war, but you fight secretly for the English. Such honourableness.' He turned his head away.

  The three R.A.F. pilots exchanged glances. This was what their reason had warned them to expect from a captured Nazi, yet when they encountered it the reality was as surprising as though they were unprepared. None of them had a suitable reservoir of words on which to draw. They were all articulate men, but for the moment they were silenced by the scorn and insolence of a wounded man whose philosophy they despised. It was ridiculous; but all of them felt, in his own way, in the wrong.

  Massey at last broke the silence. 'We're free people. That's something you wouldn't understand. An American is free to volunteer for the R.A.F. and the British are free to take him or refuse him.' Then he felt his own anger mounting and his voice rose, hardening. 'It's a personal matter: I happen to hate you Nazi sons of bitches worse than I hate rattlesnakes; so I came here to fight you; because I want to. When did you last do something you wanted to and not just because that cruddy Führer of yours told you to? We're free human beings, here, not machines or puppets...'

  The German remained staring at the wall, seemingly ignoring him. Knight interrupted Massey. 'Forget it, Six-gun. He knows, without you telling him.'

  Still not looking at them, von Hippel said 'Herr Flying Officer, I think the American a false argument makes.'

  'He is not arguing,' Viccar said. 'He's bloody telling you, mate.'

  Knight said 'I think it would be better if we change the subject: after all, we have you at something of a disadvantage.'

  The German thought about this, putting the words together in his mind. Then he turned and faced Knight.

  'You are a gentleman. I would like to know your name.'

  Knight told him.

  The German nodded stiffly. Knight thought that he must be clicking his heels too, under the blankets. 'I will use my influence for you when we occupy England.'

  There was a spontaneous roar of laughter from the nurse, the doctor and the three pilots. Frozen-faced, angry, von Hippel tried to stare them down, but they rocked with successive gusts of laughter, the tears coming to their eyes.

  Von Hippel, his fists beating on the coverlet as best they could, his face reddening, shouted 'When we occupy England, for all who have helped me I will my best do.'

  'We'll hold you to that,' Knight told him, through his mirth.

  'We are coming. You cannot stop us.'

  'We could debate that all day, but I'm afraid the doctor wouldn't allow it.' Their laughter had stopped now. 'We hope you do come: because stop you we certa
inly can. And will.'

  'You will see.'

  'We didn't come here to quarrel with you, Leutnant von Hippel. Our Commanding Officer sent us to invite you to visit our mess. We would have liked to entertain you this evening. Unfortunately…' He gestured an indication of the wounded man's injuries. 'We didn't know, you see.'

  The German pilot's eyes filled with tears and he looked away quickly. They saw his Adam's apple working as he swallowed hard. Then he said 'Excuse me. I am still...shock...shocked, jah? You understand? I thank you. My apologies to your Commanding Officer. I regret I am unable to accept. Thank you for coming to see me.' He turned his back to them.

  The doctor touched. Knight on the arm and they all filed out. Knight was the last to leave and heard his name spoken quietly. He looked back. The German had turned to face the door and looked directly at him. His right arm was raised and for a moment Knight wondered whether he was expected to shake hands. Then von Hippel sketched a salute and said 'Good luck. As we say, Hals und Beinbruch.'

  May you break your neck and your leg. The traditional German pilots' way of saying good luck, from the First World War: because it was bad luck to say 'good luck'; and good luck to offer wry wishes for disaster.

  Knight smiled at his enemy. 'For you, it has already come true. I hope you will be comfortable.'

  'We will meet again,' von Hippel called after him as Knight walked away. 'And next time, you will be my guest: in your own mess, my friend.'

  Before they left the hospital Knight gave the doctor twelve and six. 'Please take this and see he gets a bottle of Scotch.

  That'll be O.K., won't it?'

  'Unofficially. All right, I'll See he gets it.'

  'Thanks. With my compliments.'

  'If you insist. I don't think he deserves it. But it's up to you.'

  'He's not a bad type. Nothing wrong with him that a spell in prison camp won't put right.'

  Driving away, Massey commented 'A sad sack. A real sad sack. Poor guy.'

  'Yes, he'd have been a bit of a damper if he had been fit enough to come to the mess.'

  Then they went to bed for the rest of the morning and when they reported back to dispersals Blakeney-Smith told them 'You picked a good time to have your morning off; four scrambles already.'