As though recalling, at last, the purpose of their arrival, Johann ran up two stairs at a time, in the same manner as Willi had done, this time catching a contemptuous “Luftwaffe” snort from the black-clad officer who was heading down with an air of royalty around him.
They sprinted through the vast, marble-tiled hallways, frantically searching for the reception hall; located it with the help of yet another stern-looking officer and burst into the anteroom where their fellow pilots were patiently waiting to be invited into the main hall. Out of breath, all eyes fixed on him in stupefaction, Willi broke into a huge grin and slumped into a chair next to the entrance, fanning his reddened face with his uniform cap.
“Fancy that, even with our train arriving late, we actually made it on time!” he remarked to Johann. “I told you, we should have just flown in here! Wouldn’t have to be sprinting like mad through the whole of Berlin!”
A few pilots chuckled while the others kept observing the young newcomers with the same astonished air about them. Johann had grown accustomed to such looks a long time ago; after all, both he and Willi were still boys in these battle-hardened aces’ eyes, whose first victories originated in Spain. They were busy downing enemy aircraft while Johann and Willi were still wearing their Flieger Hitlerjugend uniforms, so it wasn’t particularly surprising that these matured aces wondered what the two Pimpfe were doing among them and in dress uniforms no less.
The adjutant with the clipboard, whom they failed to notice in their rush, appeared to be the first one to come out of his trance.
“And your names are?”
“Leutnant Johannes Brandt and Leutnant Wilhelm von Sielaff,” Willi replied, forcing himself to get up and salute.
The adjutant took in Willi’s hair, in utter disarray after his sprint; his forehead covered with a thin film of sweat; turned his eyes toward Johann who didn’t look much better.
Finally, the adjutant found his voice. “There’s a men’s room further down along the hallway. Both of you, go there at once and get yourselves into a presentable state. You’re here to meet Reichsmarschall Göring himself, not some—”
His speech was interrupted by the very same Reichsmarschall, whose name he’d just mentioned as a means of intimidation, walking through the door and raising his Marshall’s baton in a welcoming salute. Everyone sprung to their feet at once, clicked their heels almost in perfect unison and raised their right arms in a salute.
Hermann Göring looked just as Johann pictured him according to the numerous portraits that he’d seen by now; almost round in his mid-section, dressed in one of his blue Luftwaffe uniforms decorated with so many awards, ribbons, and braided cords that it was painful to look at all those diamonds; round-faced and deceivingly smiling, while his sharp gaze scrutinized one ace after another. To Johann’s overwhelming surprise, the Chief of the Luftwaffe approached them first – no doubt solely due to the two comrades standing the closest to the door – and shook their hands, welcoming them back home. After greeting each pilot in the same cordial manner, he proceeded to the grand main hall, drowning in opulence, much like the Reichsmarschall himself.
“First of all, I apologize for making you wait but the Führer has his own schedule which is impossible for anyone to predict.” The timely joke was welcomed with chuckles. The atmosphere changed at once, grew lighter, easier. Even Johann relaxed a bit by Willi’s side, his hand still burning with the Reichsmarschall’s handshake. “Second, I am delighted to meet each and every single one of you personally and to have an opportunity to speak to you about your fighting experiences. Also, any comments regarding aircraft you fly are more than welcome as it will help us further improve our fighters and bombers so that you can score more victories in the name of the Fatherland. Thirdly, you are all invited to a banquet, held in your honor, as soon as we get all these formalities out of the way.”
More approving murmurs followed. Willi nudged Johann with his elbow and whispered, “Schnapps,” before Johann had a chance to shush him. To Johann’s horror, Göring pricked his ears at once.
“What was it?”
Willi introduced himself and blurted out without batting an eye, “I was just saying, I’m very much looking forward to finally having a drink, Herr Reichsmarschall. You see, in Libya where we currently serve with JG-27, it’s sort of boring; there’s nothing besides sand that gets everywhere and scorpions, which also have a nasty habit of getting into our shoes at night, so we have to hang them off tent tops before we go to sleep. The service is all right, but they really should bring some girls there, or at least install a Pilstube in the area. The Italian squadron that is stationed nearby has a bar and not just some bar but one equipped with a refrigerated unit, no less. I understand that we aren’t considered to be an important front and all that but it still would be nice to celebrate our victories with some nice cold beer and not hot water.”
Pale as death, Johann turned into a statue next to his friend, in all vividness picturing himself if not at a court-martial with Göring presiding but the penal battalion on the Eastern front, for sure; if they were lucky, that is.
“Leutnant von Sielaff, I heard rumors that you took on ten enemy aircraft at once,” Göring spoke, his eyes flashing about with mirth. “Is that true?”
“Jawohl, Herr Reichsmarschall. Naturally, I only shot down two of those ten. The third victory was, in fact, an enemy aircraft missing me and hitting his own pilot instead and the rest of the formation was either shot down by my comrades or decided to flee.”
Göring’s face was instantly split by one of the broad, signature grins of his. He promptly offered Willi his hand, palm up. “You’ll get your Staffel bar, von Sielaff. You deserve it.”
A cameraman emerged out of nowhere and snapped a picture, which appeared on the front page of Der Adler the following morning. Overnight, Fighter Ace Wilhelm von Sielaff became a celebrity.
Berlin fell in love. Following suit, the entire Neues Deutsches Reich did so as well. Willi’s mischievous grin graced covers of Beobachter, Signal, Hitlerjugend periodicals and pretty much everything that was published in Germany during that month. Willi began receiving torrents of perfumed letters, in which women proclaimed their undying love for the young Berliner. Johann recognized quite a few names in those letters that Willi didn’t think twice about showing him.
The Ministry of Propaganda, with Dr. Goebbels in charge, immediately took notice of the new rising star’s popularity and began scheduling numerous interviews, together with celebratory tours, aimed at charming more youth into entering the Luftwaffe. It was the interviews, however, that proved to be a problem. The Propaganda Ministry representatives did manage to cut Willi’s hair to an appropriate length and even got him to sit still for quite some time in his newly tailored and pressed uniform while they took their stills of him; but what tumbled out of the young ace’s mouth in answer to the very first questions caused an immediate mask of horror to freeze on the reporters’ faces.
“Well, in a dogfight, rules don’t really matter. Out of everything that they taught us in flying school, I only practice the take-offs and landings according to their manuals. Apart from that, all those manuals didn’t really offer me any help in a real dogfight. The thing is, if we follow the rules, our enemy follows the same rules, so they know exactly what maneuver you’re going to pull in response to theirs since they’re using the same books. Now, if I act as unpredictable as I can, they can’t possibly foresee what I’m about to do and I’ll score another victory while they follow the rules. Whoever follows the rules, crashes and burns.”
One of the two plain-clothed men, who stood a bit apart from the group of reporters and observed the interview silently, straightened out a bit. Too absorbed in the chance to share his experience with the public, Willi didn’t pay any attention to their suddenly darkening faces.
“I apply the same rule to everything in my life. The rule is that there should be no rules. Every person is different and what works for one will never work for anot
her. My commanders often criticized me for my nature as a loner and my individualism but that didn’t stop me from becoming a fighter ace who was awarded by the Reichsmarschall himself. You see, I didn’t want to become this person who rewrites the book of dogfighting. I wanted to become this person who throws the book away and says, to hell with it. We don’t need any books. We don’t need manuals. We don’t need rules. Freedom, absolute and ultimate freedom is the most important thing in life and I—”
“That’s enough.” One of the plain-clothed men moved forward, raising his hand in response to Willi’s unuttered protest. “Gentlemen, collect your notes and kindly surrender them to my colleague. Tapes from tape recorders as well. Another, official,” he stressed the word with steely notes in his voice, “interview will be scheduled and you will all receive your invitations as soon as Herr Leutnant,” another hostile glare in Willi’s direction followed, “is prepared to talk.”
The two suits with Party badges – Bonbons – as they were dubbed by freethinkers like Willi, promptly herded the journalists and photographers out of the room, threw a last, dark glare at the lonely figure in his new uniform and left.
“Who the hell were they?” Willi blinked a few times before turning his head to Johann. Everyone in the JG often joked that the two fighter aces were attached at the hip and wherever one went, the other one invariably followed. Johann accompanied his friend to the interview, just as Willi had accompanied Johann to his meeting with the Flieger Hitlerjugend boys. Needless to say, Johann’s meeting went much smoother.
“The Gestapo would be my first guess.”
“I don’t remember inviting them here! And besides, what should they care about the Luftwaffe? And who made them the authority anyway, to act like they just did?!”
“Wilhelm, watch yourself, so you don’t land yourself in even more trouble.”
“What trouble are you talking about? I was only explaining the dogfighting techniques; I wasn’t saying anything anti-governmental!”
“What about the whole ‘we don’t need any rules’ proclamation?” Johann arched his brow. “And ‘freedom is the most important thing in life’?”
“It is the most important thing in life!” Willi argued, raising his voice.
“That very well may be so, but you can’t walk around and say it out loud, let alone preach it from your new pedestal like you just did.”
“I’ll say whatever I want. If they don’t like it, they can arrest me for all I care.”
Johann only shook his head in helpless resignation.
The word traveled fast along the Gestapo’s dimly lit corridors. In the shadows of the dying day, as Willi, Johann, and Mina were getting ready for one of their outings, General von Sielaff’s Mercedes pulled up at the entrance – uninvited, for the first time in years. Also for the first time, instead of a sheepish smile at the sight of his son, a guarded mask sat firmly on the General’s haggard face.
“Wilhelm, why did I get a call from a man who should not have been calling me ever?” he began, from the threshold, without any preamble.
“I don’t know. Why?” Busy fixing his new award on his neck in front of the hallway mirror, Willi didn’t even bother turning toward him.
“You’re lucky that he and I served together in the war and I saved his skin once. He said, he’d let it slide but warned me that they already talk about you and your ‘odd’ views in the office in Prinz-Albrechtstraße. That’s not the sort of attention you want, son.”
“Don’t call me that.” Willi turned sharply on his heels to face his father. “And don’t worry about me. I’m doing just fine, as you can see.”
General von Sielaff looked at the finger that his son jabbed into his Gold Cross, put into his hands by Göring himself and then back at Willi’s hard, amber eyes. At length, he spoke, his voice slowly gathering conviction.
“I’m sorry that I did this to you, son. I’m sorry, Wilhelm. I’m sorry that my being a lousy, no-good father made you into a rebel who constantly needs to prove himself to everyone around. It was my mistake; not yours. I have always loved you. You don’t need to act out to prove your worth to anyone, let alone me—”
“It’s not about you!” Willi’s wrathful shout made Johann wince. “It was never about you! Stop imagining yourself the center of the universe! I’m not trying to prove myself worthy of your love or whatever it is you’re imagining that I’m doing! I’m living my life the way I want it; that’s all there is to it!”
He grabbed his belt with its holster from the table top and walked out, putting it on as he went. Johann remained standing, his gaze downcast as though in shame for the scene that he happened to witness against his will. Mina cowered behind his back, her cold fingers clasping at his hand.
“He’ll never forgive me, will he?” the General asked no one in particular, after a lengthy pause.
When the approved answers to the list of questions were hand-delivered from the Ministry of Propaganda, Willi tore them apart and handed them, in this manner, in tandem with the most charming of smiles, to the stupefied courier. “Tell your bosses, I’ll be saying what I want or I won’t be talking at all.”
Merely two hours later, Prinz-Albrechtstraße 8 had sent its greetings. Johann pleaded with the two gray-clad men, with insignias of SD on their left sleeves, to tag along as they escorted Willi from his doorstep. Reluctantly, they agreed.
Johann sat on a bench under a tremendous portrait of Der Führer and twitched his leg while Willi was talking to someone inside one of the offices, already picturing the worst. At last, Wilhelm walked out, a dispirited, brooding scowl in place of the familiar devil-may-care expression. Johann sprung to his feet, noticing sheets of paper in his friend’s hands.
“Well? What happened?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“What are these documents?”
“They aren’t documents. They’re my replies for tomorrow’s interview. He made me write them down in front of him.”
“Who’s, he?” Johann lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
“A verdammter SS Arschloch, that’s who,” Willi hissed back.
Johann could swear that Willi would pull something again in front of the reporters. Willi looked it, the same resentful expression back on his face like during the times when a superior would unjustly berate him for the things that he simply didn’t understand. But whatever that “fucking SS asshole” from Prinz-Albrechtstraße, whatever his real name and rank was, told Willi during that meeting, appeared to hold enough power – or threat – to keep the young Berliner in check.
“The most important thing that I learned during combat is to follow the rules of dogfighting and be a team player. Without your comrades in a dogfight, you’re no one. Also, it is imperative to follow your superiors’ instructions and never try to improvise, as improvisations in combat invariably lead to death. One should never think of himself during the dogfight but of his Schwarm, as only teamwork brings the needed results. Discipline and hard work should become your second nature…”
Johann listened to Willi’s strained voice. He could swear he heard helpless tears in it.
Thirteen
Libya, October 1941
* * *
They were back in action after a whole month of blissful furlough. Johann lay in his tent that he shared with Willi and sorely missed having Mina’s body by his side. With his hands clasped behind his head, with infinite longing, he recollected the days that they spent together and every night that they fell asleep in a tangled mess of sheets, their bare arms and legs intertwined.
“I want to have a family,” she half-said, half-asked him sheepishly one night, to which Johann only shook his head vehemently as he had done so many times before.
Not now; this wasn’t a good time. He couldn’t possibly set out on a mission and worry about not only leaving her a widow but their child an orphan as well… The very thought of it turned him co
ld with horror. After the war, then it will be possible. They’d win it soon; she would see.
The British were pushing towards Tobruk. Johann lay in his tent until the call came and the Schwarm took off to fight.
The sky dawned strange and ominous that day. Something was brewing on the horizon and around the base Johann kept hearing the eerie echoing of the local Arabs’ words, tense with premonition.
“Wrath of Allah is coming,” Mohammed, a bearded fellow who supplied the unit with the flavored hookah tobacco, muttered earlier that day and disappeared together with his camel.
“More like Wrath of Tommies,” Willi countered nonchalantly, toying with his new sunglasses. “How much you want to bet they’ll try and bomb the base again?”
Johann only cringed at the mention of their most recent ordeal. After a few months of their Staffel being stationed on the same improvised airfield, the fighter base was doomed to eventually become a prime target for the Allied bombers. Yet, it still left them shaken and petrified when the first bombs skirted the northern part of the base before their own flak opened its fire on the offending aircraft. Johann and Willi were playing cards in their tent, Willi smoking his hookah with the air of an Arabic sage about him when the ground convulsed and shuddered under them, sending both scrambling to their feet.
They exchanged quick looks – could it really be? – and set off running to their respective fighters without giving too much thought to the possibility of getting hit by one of the enemy bombs.
“You lead; I’ll fly as your wingman!” Willi shouted to Johann before climbing into his cockpit and sliding the canopy closed.
Johann was already taking off, his gaze fixed on the twin-engine that was heading towards the base.
Of Knights and Dogfights Page 12
