Of Knights and Dogfights

by Ellie Midwood

  “Is that what your superiors say? Throw them right into action?”

  “Well, yes, metaphorically speaking. Don’t you do the same with your newest cadets from flying school?”

  Did he? Of course not. It was the stupidest possible strategy. To his latest “reinforcements,” Johann strictly ordered them to stick to their flight leaders’ tails and let the aces do the job. Watch and learn. Your only job, as of now, is to watch and learn. Do not, under any circumstance, leave your flight leader’s tail. You’ll get shot down in seconds. Stick to them like a shadow. It’ll be hard enough to follow all of their maneuvers, without taking any independent action; you can take my word for it.

  He always took the weakest ones under his wing. After one of the newest replacement pilots abandoned his leader and headed straight to the base with two Spitfires on his tail, it was Johann who had to turn sharply, engage both aircraft and return to the fight only after making sure that the boy was safe to make it back to the airfield on his own.

  Johann’s crew chief only sighed and waved his hand as soon as Johann inquired him about the new pilot.

  “Messed his pants, vomited all over the cockpit; you name it, he did it. Send him back. Faulty manufacturing,” he joked grimly.

  The boy was already clean after the shower, to which the crew chief had sent him, but still trembled like a leaf in the wind when Johann entered the tent.

  “Am I going to be court-martialed, Herr Staffelkapitän?” Even his voice shook unmercifully.

  Johann poured him a drink, ordered him to down it. Poured another one while looking through the youngster’s personal record. Excellent marks in aerobatics, gunnery. All physical tests passed exemplary as well.

  “Was that your first real dogfight?” Johann asked him.

  “Jawohl, Herr Staffelkapitän.”

  “Terrifying, isn’t it? When they all jump on you from all sides and you don’t know where your head and where your tail is anymore, right?”

  The boy’s head shot up. “Yes… I don’t know what happened to me, Herr Staffelkapitän, I swear! I just…”

  “You just got scared. It’s normal.” Johann smiled and caught a hopeful, even though uncertain, answering smile. “Next time you’ll fly with me as my wingman. Ask anyone else here; with me, you have nothing to worry about. You’ll be absolutely safe. I’m not saying it to brag, more as a statistical fact. I have not once lost a wingman yet and you won’t be the first. Just stay glued to my tail and report all aircraft that you see in my blind spot – that’s all you need to do. Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”

  “Yes, Herr Staffelkapitän.”

  A week later, the boy scored his first independent victory.

  Circling Harald’s shoulders with his arm, Johann walked him along the grand, marble-clad hallway, hoping deep inside that his brother would never make it to six-feet. A selfish desire perhaps, but Johann would much rather prefer to teach his brother how to fly instead of standing nose to nose with him when he’d come to his base and demand to hand over one of his pilots, as Untersturmführer Vetter had done.

  Eighteen

  Africa, Summer 1942

  * * *

  Willi, once again a second-in-command after Johann’s return, hummed a tune under his breath while his loyal crew chief was helping him with his parachute. The usual cigarette stuck in his mouth, he waved at his Staffelkapitän, his eyes most certainly smiling behind the dark aviator shades.

  Johann still couldn’t believe the eagerness with which Willi had dropped the title of commander back into Johann’s lap upon the latter’s return from his tour.

  “Take it! Take it all; the paperwork, the replacement pilots, the reports – I can’t stand it anymore! I’m dying here on the ground!”

  Johann only grinned in understanding. Those weren’t empty complaints; Willi needed to fly to live. He simply couldn’t exist without his fighter and the freedom it offered him. Besides, he made a terrible Staffel commander. Having despised the rigid military discipline his entire life, Willi never made the needed transition from a comrade to a leader and preferred to lead by personal example instead of training, reprimanding, and disciplining his men. He never raised his voice at anyone and never grounded anyone, no matter what stupid stunts they pulled.

  “Johann, really?” He would only cock his brow. “That would be the most hypocritical thing for me to do, to reprimand a pilot for a reckless action. Have you ever seen me fly?”

  Johann only snorted with laughter, shook his head and gladly assumed the command over the Staffel. Let Willi fly. He belongs up there, in the endless, azure bliss.

  Willi expressed the desire to go at once.

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t care. Freie Jagd.” – Free hunt; accompanied by his wingman only.

  Without much argument, Johann tiredly conceded. The day promised to be quiet, with the RAF being busy bombing something in the Mediterranean, according to the reports.

  “Waste of fuel,” one of the pilots reacted to Willi’s desire to head out on a mission. The sky was uncharacteristically empty. The squadron lounged in the sun, sipped wine, played cards, and exchanged the usual banter. Johann stood precisely in-between the pastoral scene and his best friend, who was already climbing into his cockpit.

  “I’m coming with you,” Johann shouted all of a sudden, motioning for his crew chief to assist him.

  “What for? You said it yourself, most likely we’ll return empty-handed,” Willi cried back but waited nevertheless until his Staffelkapitän was in his fighter.

  Quickly shouting to Riedman to assume command in his absence, Johann closed his canopy and started his take-off roll.

  “You’re not taking a wingman, White Nine?” Willi’s voice came over the radio.

  “No need. I doubt we’ll encounter a single aircraft, Red Four.”

  “Why escorting me then?”

  Johann couldn’t quite explain it himself. Something compelled him, that’s all.

  “I could use a little exercise,” Johann replied instead.

  Willi didn’t press further.

  They flew in a rather odd, for the Luftwaffe, formation; lined up in a way that each following aircraft served as wingman to the very first. Willi cracked a joke to his wingman that he should have been proud to be escorted by Herr Staffelkapitän himself. Johann told him to mind his business and watch for the enemy – the usual verbal horseplay, with which they amused themselves daily.

  Suddenly, Riedman’s voice crackled over the radio from his temporary commanding post on the ground, announcing a formation of Hurricanes had been spotted enroute to their airfield.

  “How many?” Willi at once was all business as soon as Riedman confirmed the aircrafts’ approximate coordinates.

  “Ten.”

  “That’s three to one,” Willi said simply. “What do you say, White Nine? My rudder, for one, could use some more victory bars.”

  The odds weren’t so bad. Johann had had worse and so had Willi, who used to attack Lufbery formations all by himself. Yes, but then he had the whole Schwarm behind him to cover his back, the voice of reason sounded inside Johann’s mind. Now, it was only three of them and Johann didn’t even have a wingman. The gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach returned and started ringing a veritable alarm bell in Johann’s mind. The worst part was that he knew perfectly well that Willi would just head straight into the enemy formation by himself, even if Johann strictly prohibited him from doing so.

  “Diving attack?” Johann decided that if there were no way to get out of the fight, he’d at least plan it properly before Willi went and did something stupid that would most likely get them all killed. “That way, we’ll at least have an altitude advantage.”

  “Great minds think alike, White Nine!”

  Willi immediately went into his favorite climbing turn maneuver. His wingman and Johann followed closely behind. Maybe the odds weren’t so bad after all, Johann thought. By the time the Hurricanes came into th
e periphery of their vision, flying far below them, the Germans were so high that they’d be able to strafe at least a few of them before the RAF realized what hit them.

  Johann threw his stick left and applied left rudder as soon as Willi had done the same, followed by his wingman. All three half rolled and dived down into their targets, aiming at the most vulnerable parts; the canopy and the engine.

  “One down, White Nine!” Willi shouted.

  He didn’t really have to; Johann had seen the enemy fighter burst into flames and fall apart right in the air, followed by the second aircraft also nose-diving with a thick trail of smoke in its wake.

  “Damaged aircraft!” Willi’s wingman’s excited voice came over the radio.

  “And another one down,” Johann’s voice joined in, as his own target fell to his guns.

  Now, it was seven to three; yet those seven quickly scattered and started completing their turns to close onto the insolent enemy.

  “Scheiße,” Johann muttered as soon as three fighters at once started trailing him, duly noting the absence of the wingman. Needless to say, his rudder with a proud 60 circled with a victorious wreath, commemorating his latest highest score, made him more than a desirable target for the enemy fighters. They knew his fighter, White Nine, by many reports in which they had to put the number of the fighter who had shot them or their comrades down; it was no wonder they were out for his head as soon as they spotted it.

  “White Nine, I’ve raised two Schwarm formations!” Riedman, who always closely monitored the activity from the ground, announced. Johann still detected barely contained emotion in his voice. “They’ll be there shortly!”

  That’s all fine and well, but I’ll be down on the ground by then, Johann cursed under his breath once again. He rolled his wings perpendicular to the ground and skidded away from the projectiles, applying his all in order not to black out. Using his left rudder, Johann fired at the nearest Hurricane from an inverted diving position, praying to all the Gods that the aircraft was at least damaged. Two, he could take on easily. Three, without a wingman, was a bit out of his comfort zone.

  “I got another one, White Nine!” Willi produced his own version of a war cry but instantly broke into an elaborate string of curses. “Red Two, what the fuck?! Aren’t you supposed to watch my back? How about at least some courtesy warning?!”

  “Sorry, Red Four! I have two on my own tail!” Willi’s wingman’s frantic voice came over the radio. “I’m shot, too! I’m leaking oil!”

  Johann climbed, rolled, fired two bursts into another fighter. “What is your situation, Red Four?” He shouted, unable to see his best friend’s aircraft anymore. “Are you injured?”

  “Nah, I’m fine. The fighter is done for though.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Falling, White Nine.”

  Johann cursed, leveled the plane and started gaining altitude. “Red Two? Report your situation!”

  “I’m right behind you, White Nine, but my engine will die any second now.”

  Locating Willi’s wingman, who had glued himself to his tail now, Johann clasped his hand on top of his stick. It was two of them against four enemy fighters – undamaged and most certainly livid. Willi’s wingman’s fighter was trailing smoke. Johann quickly checked his ammunition. If he kept firing short bursts and striking his aims as he had done before, he still had a chance. If he missed at least once, he’d be done for.

  “Red Two, are you still with me?”

  “Jawohl, White Nine.”

  By the time his comrades had managed to come to his aid, Johann was on his last breath, frantically trying to outmaneuver the two remaining Hurricanes. With several rounds in his propeller, smelling leaking glycol inside the cockpit, and completely out of ammunition, he shouted for the men to cover him while he was retrieving that bastard, von Sielaff.

  Willi’s aircraft belly-landed behind the enemy lines and Johann hadn’t heard a word from his radio, which concerned him much more than the state of his own aircraft. Quickly calculating the coordinates, he headed to the desert where Willi’s fighter soon came into his view, along with an Allied military truck already heading in its direction. Having landed, Johann jumped out of his cockpit and rushed towards the damaged aircraft, half-buried in a sand dune, recognizing in horror the figure of a pilot still inside. Regularly, Willi waited for him or whoever had “the honor” of picking him up after he had crash-landed yet another aircraft, sitting nonchalantly near the plane and smoking, with an apologetic grin on his roguish face. Sorry. Yes, another one. I know. I’m the Crown Prince von Pas-de-Calais, after all, aren’t I? Or am I already an Emperor?

  “Willi!” Johann climbed on top of the dune, sliding in the sand and panting from his sprint; hoisted himself on top of the wing and started banging on the canopy that stubbornly refused to open. “Willi, get your ass up right this instant! We’ll both get captured, Willi! Come on, get up! That’s an order!”

  He didn’t notice the tears that were rolling down his cheeks as he banged his fists on the jammed canopy hoping to pry it open. The figure inside remained frighteningly motionless.

  “Willi, if it’s one of your pranks, I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself!” Johann sobbed, jabbing his elbow into the canopy’s frame.

  It finally gave in.

  “Willi!” He shook his friend’s shoulder violently. “Willi, it’s not funny…” He was crying openly, pulling his gloves off with his teeth to undo his friend’s straps. “Please, don’t do this to me… it’s not funny at all!”

  He was so light in Johann’s arms, who hardly weighed a little over a hundred and forty pounds. He seemed at peace and as though he was sleeping if it wasn’t for the blood that covered the entire right side of his face. Johann ran with the lifeless body to his fighter; cried out in desperation when the sand-colored truck appeared nearby; broke into grateful tears again when one of his men in his Bf-109 strafed the ground in front of it, guarding his Staffelkapitän and his precious cargo. Good man. No need to kill them. Just keep them away while I’m starting the engine…

  Out of some inhuman strength he managed to hoist Willi’s body into his cockpit and climbed inside, positioning his friend across his lap.

  “I know, Willi, it’s a little uncomfortable, but we’ll be home soon,” Johann muttered softly at his friend, whose head rested on his shoulder. “You take a nap, for now, my good fellow. We’ll be home soon.”

  His hands trembled violently when he handed Willi to the crew chiefs’ and medics’ awaiting arms upon his landing.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Johann stood on the wing of his fighter, suddenly feeling dizzy and so very tired, holding his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shook as he sobbed without making a sound.

  “He’s fine. Knocked himself out landing, judging by the looks of it,” the doctor proclaimed suddenly after checking Willi’s pulse. “A nasty concussion only.”

  Johann nearly fell into Riedman’s arms, both of them laughing and crying at the same time. He was alive. His Willi was alive.

  After that incident, Willi became somewhat obsessed with death. Grounded and assigned to desk duty until he was cleared by the physician and allowed to fly again, Willi kept touching the small cut on his forehead, with stitches still in it and asking Johann if he would retrieve his body again, if needed. You know, if I die. Just don’t leave me there, please. I want to have a grave so my mother, Mina, and Lotte would know where to lay the flowers. Just don’t leave me alone in a desert, I beg of you…

  Johann would just shake his head at the “nonsense.”

  “You’re not going to die if you think with your head and don’t pull stunts like the one that you pulled that day,” Johann would reply irritably.

  Willi would nod; he knew, yes, of course, he knew. It was very stupid of him. He let his arrogance get to him. He was good and he knew it and it would be his downfall one day. He would be more careful, on his word.

  “I almost got you killed that day as well,�
� Willi would invariably mumble in conclusion. “I can only imagine how hard it would be on Mina if both of us… I promise I won’t do it again. Never.” He’d get quiet for another long moment and whisper barely audibly, “you just promise me that if I die, you’ll live, no matter what. It’ll kill her if both of us are gone to Valhalla.”

  “Will you stop it?” Johann exploded one day, unable to tolerate the morbid talk any longer. “You’ll jinx us both!”

  Willi stopped, but something changed about him nevertheless. Some inward emotion kept passing, like a dark shadow, through his golden eyes, tainting them with fear. That’s what any commander loathed to see reflected in his men’s faces. Fear. Once you lose your confidence, you’re a dead man walking and he’d be cursed if he allowed Willi back to active duty while he still saw that fear in his eyes. He’ll keep him grounded for months if needed, but he will not lose him again.

  To add to Johann’s misfortunes as a Staffelkapitän, he had Riedman to worry about as well now. On one of their latest sorties, Walter took a good beating by the enemy, lost his fighter but luckily managed to bail out before it burst into flames. Johann was already writing him off as missing in action, presumably captured, when the disheveled figure with caked blood on his swollen face was brought into his tent. Johann had barely recognized Riedman in him.

  The poor devil had been captured by the RAF squadron consisting solely of Polish volunteers and unlike their British counterparts, the Poles didn’t mind their manners when treating their prisoners of war.

  “I don’t know,” Walter managed to sob out when Johann asked him how long they had been torturing him after capture. “Several hours… I blacked out a few times. They always kicked me in the stomach to wake me up. I ran away in the middle of the night…”

  He wasn’t in that bad of a shape according to the physician and didn’t sustain any serious injuries apart from two cracked ribs, a broken nose, and quite a few purple bruises all over his face. It was his psychological state that started worrying Johann greatly even after the doctor cleared Riedman for duty. Observing a glass with water in Walt’s shaking hands and his glazed over gaze as he stared into space, Johann quickly stamped, “desk duty,” on Riedman’s papers as well. He was lacking two aces now and that was at a time when every single one counted. With Feldmarschall Rommel’s counterattack underway, they needed to push with all their might towards the Egyptian frontier, which meant more ground forces raids, which meant more Stukas, which meant more Messerschmitts required to protect the said Stukas. Johann rubbed his eyes, exhausted and positively drained. It will end someday. It will not last forever.