Of Knights and Dogfights

by Ellie Midwood

  “Scheiße,” a quiet curse escaped his lips.

  He would never complete a turn to catch up with the twin-engine.

  He’s heading down for an attack; I’m gaining my altitude. He will surely pass me then, won’t he? He has to.

  Momentarily deciding on the course of action, Johann pulled his stick into his stomach, instantly growing light-headed; one had to pay for playing with G-forces in such a reckless manner. Only not to black out now. Squeeze your stomach as tightly as you can so that the blood doesn’t rush at once from your head to your feet and you don’t pass out in the middle of the fight. Willi was screaming something at him over the radio but Johann could barely decipher his voice through the headphones. He directed his nose straight at the nose of the descending Hurricane and opened fire, praying to all the Gods for the two aircraft not to collide. Willi’s shouts turned outright frantic but it was too late to do anything. He was so close to the Hurricane, Johann could discern the bolts on its sides; the serial number, the propeller chopping the air with a vicious roar right next to his canopy. On the brink of a terrible tragedy, he shut his eyes and held his breath. A loud bang, a twitch, and then – nothing. He’s flying. He’s alive.

  Johann opened his eyes, frantically twisting his head from one side to another to locate both the Hurricane and the damage to his own aircraft. His wing was clipped by the enemy fighter’s propeller; apart from that, he fared just fine. The Hurricane, meanwhile, went into a steep dive and soon burrowed its nose into the ground.

  “You got him!” In mere seconds, Willi’s cries turned from frantic to celebratory. “I’ll still smack you silly though, for pulling that stunt once we land, you mad Schweinhund! And mark my words, I’ll make sure to bring it up during the next dressing down I’m getting from the Geschwader commander when he calls me a reckless sort.”

  The rest of the Staffel was up in the air in no time. The attack was repelled but certainly left a bitter taste in their mouths. They weren’t safe here anymore. The balance of power had shifted – ever so slightly it seemed, but enough to leave the men brooding.

  It wasn’t, however, the British bombers that had put Johann into a deep state of foreboding today. It was the sky – hazy, darkening, as though brimming with some invisible threat.

  Wrath of Allah.

  Johann quickly dismissed the words as stupid superstitions and returned to writing his two recent victories into his Abschuss – an after-action report. A small droplet landed on his papers, smudging the words. Johann lifted his head and felt another heavy drop hit his face.

  “What the hell?” He muttered to himself, passing the back of his hand over his forehead to wipe the moisture. He called out to his crew chief, who was working on his Bf-109, “is it raining?”

  The young man, with his crisp golden hair bleached by the African sun, scrutinized the sky for some time; lowered his screwdriver and held his other hand out, palm open.

  “I’ll be damned! It is, Herr Leutnant!”

  Both exchanged uncomprehending looks. In the desert, where they struggled to get enough drinking water and showered only when the occasion presented itself, the rain seemed not only out of place but outright odd. Johann had been studying weather patterns, together with his father, since he was a child and knew far too well by now that such oddities never signified anything good. It didn’t “just rain” in a desert. And those weren’t ordinary, storm clouds to which they were accustomed in Germany. Yet, the pilots, together with crew chiefs and other Staffel personnel poured out of their tents, from under the fighters where they had been resting in rare shadow and started tearing their clothes off, mad with happiness like children.

  Despite a gnawing feeling inside, Johann found himself smiling and then laughing even, as though falling under the influence of this general mayhem. Hastily discarding his shirt, shorts, and shoes, he dashed towards his tent to grab some soap. In a few minutes, the whole Staffel gathered under the improvised shower streams pouring down off the wings and propeller blades of their aircraft, lathering themselves generously and nearly bursting with joy.

  The rain refused to cease even as darkness started to fall; only increased, if anything. Jests and elation turned into concern as pilots were trying to figure out how to keep their tents’ floors dry. The torrents began beating down onto the waterproof tarpaulin with savage force, gusts of sudden wind tearing into their unsecured ends. They dined with dry rations as it was next to impossible to prepare a traditional dinner in such conditions and ate in their respective tents as well, as the open mess with its long wooden tables was surely no longer suitable for this purpose.

  “Water is coming,” Willi noted with a hint of surprise in his voice, pointing at the floor, a piece of bread with a few slices of sausage on top of it, still in his hand.

  Johann dropped his sandwich and quickly started picking up their spare footwear and other belongings from the ground.

  A Staffeladjutant burst inside, squeezing a shovel. “Outside, everyone, now! Herr Staffelkapitän’s orders. And take your trench shovels!”

  Outside, the general commotion was drowned in the torrents of rain which had already started pooling under their feet. The Staffelkapitän and his adjutant had finally succeeded in herding the entire Staffel outside and were standing on top of a truck, Oberleutnant Degenhardt desperately trying to outshout the rain and hurricanic winds.

  “A message has just gone through from Staffel 2, which is south to us. They’re being flooded as well. The order from the headquarters was to secure all valuables on every possible elevated position and preserve the aircraft from getting damaged. We’re lucky since our aircraft all sit on top of the hill but we still need to dig trenches to make sure that the water doesn’t rise and get inside the engines. We’ll be left crippled if it does, so get to that digging at once! Pilots; you have exactly five minutes to grab all of your personal belongings and move them to inside your aircraft, after which I expect you to be digging right next to your crew chiefs and myself, right here. Now, get going!”

  Back in their tent, drenched to the bone and already shivering unmercifully, Johann began collecting his notes, a journal, papers and photos before thrusting a shaving set, a hairbrush and a change of clothes into his duffel bag. As soon as he noticed Willi positioning a record player under his arm, in which he also held a freshly opened bottle of cognac, he couldn’t help but demand of his friend at least some explanation.

  Unimpressed, Willi added a hookah to the already bizarre collection in his hands. “Why? He said to take all the most important stuff. Could you put my records in your bag as well? I brought some nifty new jazz from Berlin and I’ll be damned if I lose it.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “So my personal record says.”

  They pulled their heads into their shoulders and ran into the torrential downpour. Just as they were approaching their respective fighters, the lights, which Staffelkapitän Degenhardt allowed to turn on in the view of the force majeure – no Brit would attack them in such weather anyway – went out, leaving them in complete darkness.

  “What happened?” Johann shouted to no one in particular.

  “Generator must have gotten damaged,” a reply came from his right.

  Who was it? Degenhardt himself? Johann blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness just enough to make out the outlines of his Bf-109 and threw his bag on top of its wing before climbing it clumsily, slipping and sliding off the slippery metal in the process. He finally made it to the top, threw the canopy open, hurled the bag inside and shut it closed at once, leaving only a shovel for himself. The entire night they had been digging trenches, soaked and miserable, officers and rookies side by side. In the first hours of the breaking dawn, they collapsed in the same manner, huddling together on the most elevated part of their base – the hill where the aircraft stood, using the Messerschmitts as the only means of protection from the nature that had suddenly seemed set on annihilating them overnight. The tents w
ere long lost to the wind and downpour.

  The following day, yet unbeknownst to them, the British began their ground attack on Tobruk, using the weather to their advantage. Oblivious to the latest news due to the damaged radio, Staffel 1 spent those days digging more trenches to direct water streams away from the fighters and trying to survive the storm in and under their aircraft.

  “Wrath of Allah is right,” Johann mumbled as he and Willi curled inside the cockpit of his Bf-109, which offered a short respite from the rain. The cockpit wasn’t built for two by any means, but it would just have to do. They took turns with the rest of the crewmen, so at least for four hours, it was all theirs, warm and snug, familiar and comforting.

  “Do you think we’ll win this war?” Willi asked out of the blue, his eyes, with long lashes, already closing from exhaustion.

  Johann started and blinked a few times. “Of course we will.”

  “You really think so?”

  Johann had begun saying something but then receded and only stared into the grayish mist covering the windscreen.

  “But how can we not? We can’t lose, can we?”

  “I don’t know. Tommies’ new planes are better than ours, don’t you think?” Willi mumbled sleepily.

  Johann did think that, after engaging them recently. Also, “Tommies” had Aussies, Poles, French and God knew who else on their side. Johann and Willi only had each other.

  “We’ll win the war, Willi. You’ll see,” he promised with a confidence he didn’t feel.

  Willi didn’t reply anything. He was already sleeping.

  Bf-109F, lovingly baptized as “Franz” by the pilots, was a treat. Armed with the two top cowling-mounted machine guns and the centrally mounted cannon, it was lighter, leaner and much more maneuverable, thanks to the absence of the wing-mounted machine guns. After a couple of test dogfights, the new fighter soon became everyone’s most coveted award as most of them were still being sent to the Eastern front or to the Channel, leaving the Africa Corps with old, battered versions.

  Willi though got his as a birthday present, after the Staffel conferred in secret away from him and decided to gift their favorite clown with an aircraft that he would be too ashamed to crash. Willi walked over to it, touched the bow tied to the wing, grinned at his comrades and his crew chief, who was busy painting victory bars onto the new fighter’s rudder.

  “Thank you, Kameraden.” It was one of the three new fighters that the JG-27 received. Two others had been instantly snatched by both Staffelkapitän of Staffel 2 and 3 respectively. “I don’t even know what to say…”

  “Say that you won’t crash it for once.” Oberleutnant Degenhardt slapped Willi’s back, regarding the new Bf-109 longingly. It was supposed to be his aircraft. On an impulse, Willi turned to him and pulled him into an embrace, out of which Degenhardt started worming himself instantly. “Stop it with the sentiments! Unseemly.”

  “To hell with your ‘unseemly,’ Herr Oberleutnant! I love you!”

  “Get off me, I said!”

  “I owe you.”

  “You owe me to keep this aircraft alive and unharmed and don’t forget to fill this rudder, too. It appears a bit too empty, with only thirty-five victories.”

  “Will do, Herr Oberleutnant.” Willi happily clicked his heels.

  “Happy Birthday, von Sielaff.”

  Johann observed the scene with a grin. After all the trouble in which Willi had found himself with his former superiors, it was a relief to be under the command of one, with whom Willi bonded and who understood Willi’s character like only Johann probably did. Willi, with his extremely independent and freedom-loving nature, didn’t care one bit about anyone’s authority or rank. He either respected the person or he didn’t and that was the end of it. In Willi’s eyes, Degenhardt fell under the first, respected, category as Degenhardt had recognized not only the great potential in him but allowed Willi to exploit it to the fullest, entrusting his new protégé a position of a Schwarm leader, to which only Johann had been appointed before. Instead of trying to bend the rebellious youth to conform with the rules of aerial combat, their liberal Staffelkapitän allowed Willi to truly spread his wings and soon the strategy brought the expected results; Willi started scoring multiple victories a day, often acting alone and breaking all the cardinal rules of dogfighting, but who cared, if it worked – such was Degenhardt’s theory.

  Willi was bursting with enthusiasm to get into his new fighter and the occasion presented itself already the following morning as the call came. Without bothering with taking the bow off the wing, Willi jumped inside and took off, his formation following him closely. Johann followed close by with his, and right after him – Oberleutnant Degenhardt with his Schwarm. The whole Staffel with all twelve aircraft was up in the air that morning, reflecting the unexpected air attack. Tired from being harassed by the German Stukas, the British had apparently decided to support their ground offensive with air attack as well and do away with several German air bases once and for all.

  Drenched in sweat, Johann radioed yet another victory – a third one, which had come at a price; he took a few rounds into his side and was desperately hoping that the faint smoke trailing behind him wouldn’t turn into something worse.

  “White Nine, your ass is on fire!” Willi’s voice came over the radio, thick with chuckles. “Go back to the base!”

  “My ass is not on fire, Red Four!” Johann radioed back. “Stop trying to get rid of me because I scored more than you.”

  “Oh, that’s how you want it to be, White Nine?”

  “This is how it is, Red Four. Accept it, you poor excuse of a pilot!”

  “Watch this, White Nine and learn!”

  In front of him, Willi pulled up sharply, aiming to gain altitude to dive down onto the unsuspecting British Lufbery, no doubt.

  “Show off!” His lips curled in a smile, Johann cried into the radio before locking himself onto a twin-engine which was rapidly approaching. He wouldn’t follow that mad fellow into the middle of mayhem today like he usually did; not in a smoking aircraft.

  Degenhardt did though, already knowing that Willi would most certainly take out two or three fighters before dropping out of the dogfight and leaving the scattered Lufbery for the Degenhardt’s Schwarm to finish. Johann would keep busy with the twin-engine, just him and his loyal wingman, nice and easy…

  “Please, don’t catch fire. Please, don’t catch fire,” Johann repeated like a prayer to the engine Gods, aiming his nose at the enemy aircraft.

  Against his habit and due to the limping fighter, he shot from a safe distance, hoping that he calculated the trajectory right and his bullets would hit the enemy as soon as their ways crossed.

  “Four, Red Four!” he laughed into the radio as soon as the twin-engine went into a steep dive, burning and falling apart in the air.

  But another fighter was also following its course, a thick tail of smoke instantly attracting everyone’s attention.

  “Who’s been hit?” Johann radioed to no one in particular as he recognized the silhouette of a Bf-109 as the second aircraft.

  “Oberleutnant Degenhardt,” someone’s voice replied. A rookie, who still hadn’t learned that they should call each aircraft by its code, not the pilot’s name.

  Johann breathed out in relief at the sight of an opening parachute.

  “He’s all right. He’s just bailed.”

  A Spitfire suddenly changed its course and headed straight at the small figure in the sky. With growing horror several pilots, Johann included, watched their Staffelkapitän being strafed by the British pilot, who turned sharply away from his victim and headed back to the enemy lines, not forgetting to add to the insult by waving his wings at the Germans.

  “Did he just…” Someone choked over the R/T, unable to finish the sentence.

  “It’s White Nine; I’m landing,” Johann announced at once, following the white parachute’s progress with his eyes. “Maybe he’s just injured.”

  But t
he figure in its straps hung too limp, too lifeless against the turquoise vastness of the African sky. Johann landed just in time to catch sight of Degenhardt’s body hit the sand dune ahead of him and slide down, motionlessly and helplessly, like a rag doll. Not paying any heed to the air battle still raging above his head, Johann leaped out of his fighter and dashed towards his Staffelkapitän, his wingman following him on his heels.

  “Herr Oberleutnant!” Johann called to Degenhardt, working to untangle his commanding officer from the cocoon of the parachute that had started to take on a crimson shade where it had come in contact with the body. “Herr Oberleutnant…”

  Johann sank heavily to the ground with his gaze riveted to Degenhardt’s chest, riddled with bullets. On Degenhardt’s noble, youthful face a bare outline of a smile was still imprinted, as though he was glad to die a hero’s death doing what he loved doing the most – flying. Johann sniffled quietly; wiped his wet cheek with his shoulder.

  “Johann!”

  Willi’s shout, like a cry of pain, came from behind his back. Johann turned around with a helpless look around him. He saw that his wingman also cried silently, standing two steps away. Willi was already climbing out of his cockpit and running towards them, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

  “Is he—” Willi came to an abrupt halt at the sight of his Staffelkapitän’s body.

  “He died instantly,” Johann said softly. “I don’t think he suffered.”

  Willi lowered next to the body, took Degenhardt’s head in his hands and cradled it on his lap.

  “Herr Oberleutnant is probably already in Valhalla. Asking someone in charge for the fastest fighter they have,” he started quietly, not even bothering with wiping the tears that rolled down his dust-caked cheeks. “And tomorrow, they will award him with the biggest Cross they have. With diamonds.”

  “You think there are diamonds in Valhalla?” Their eyes met. In Willi’s, Johann saw a wild protest against such a senseless death, a desperate appeal for consolation.