Of Knights and Dogfights

by Ellie Midwood

  “Excuse me, where are you taking us?” Willi inquired, after finally regaining his composure at least to some degree. They were already speeding away from the airport along the Berlin roads, red flags above the car’s headlights flapping frantically in the wind.

  “We’re taking you to the Bahnhof, from where you’ll take a train to the Führer’s headquarters in East Prussia,” followed a simple explanation. “He’s already expecting you for the official reception.”

  “But we wanted to see our families first! My mother is waiting for me!” Willi objected, pulling forward at once and hoping to persuade the men in the front seat to change their route.

  “With all due respect, I think that the Führer is more important than your mother, Herr Oberleutnant.”

  Willi had just opened his mouth to say something very regrettable, but Johann clasped his wrist at once, yanking on his hand like a stern parent on an unruly child. Giving his best friend, who seemed ready to burst into tears, a certain look, Johann only asked quietly if they would be allowed to make a phone call from the train station to warn their family members that they wouldn’t be coming home that night. The men in the front seat reassured then that they should have enough time for the phone call. Willi, however, still spent the rest of the way sulking near the window, with his arms crossed over his chest, positively refusing to participate in any small-talk that their hosts offered.

  Only when they were already inside the first-class car and alone, did Johann notice Willi’s red eyes. He was crying silently in the car after all; now, he openly broke into tears.

  “I haven’t seen my Mutti and my sister in over six months! I wanted to see my fiancée! And now I’ll have to drag my ass for several days across the country, then spend half of my leave in the East and then only God knows if I’ll even have time left to get married and see my family! I’m giving it all for my country as it is; is it so hard for my country to at least allow me to see my family when I want to?! I can die any day, for fuck’s sake; am I too selfish for wanting to at least look into my loved ones’ eyes before I do? Am I asking too much?!” He glared tragically at Johann.

  Johann only shook his head and pulled him into a tight embrace, stroking his best friend’s golden hair as Willi wept on his chest. Johann shared his sentiments perfectly; it’s just that the ceaseless combat missions of the last few weeks took so much out of him that he was far too numb even to cry.

  Twenty

  East Prussia

  * * *

  The train rolled eastward, towards thickening twilight. Johann threw another apprehensive glance in Willi’s direction. It took him a good couple of hours to persuade Willi to change into his dress uniform so that they both appeared presentable. Looking away with wonderful arrogance written all over his sharp, handsome face, Willi remarked coldly that he was saving the dress uniform for the meeting with his family. He suddenly reminded Johann of the old, flying school Willi; the big-shot’s son, who positively refused to drop the mask of indifference and utter disdain.

  Of course, Johann knew him better by now. There was not an ounce of genuine arrogance about Willi. Instead, it was a protective mechanism of sorts. He merely kept everyone at arm’s length because he was so different from the others – the new Germans – which the Reich was so hell-bent on raising. He was a rebel among the army of uniformed effigies. He cherished his freedom above all and was a firm believer in justice. Not the new Nazi justice that only catered to a specific class of people, but the universal justice, something that one only feels in his heart and which cannot be changed by any perverted laws. That’s why he had learned how to shoot only at the aircraft’s engine so as to cripple it and to save the pilot’s life at the same time. That’s why, after following the crash-landed fighter, he always waited for the pilot to be far away from it enough so that he could strafe the aircraft without hurting the man. That’s why, if it so happened and someone died or got captured, he considered it to be his officer’s duty to deliver a note to the fallen man’s airbase and inform his comrades of his fate. Willi was not an arrogant man at all; on the contrary, a true humanitarian, who was thrown into very inhumane conditions.

  It still hurt Johann, the very fact that his best friend had closed himself off from him, as though Johann had betrayed him in any way by his simple uniform request.

  “Wilhelm, I’m really, really tired and I can’t have you making things even worse on top of everything,” he finally said, tense with annoyance, rubbing his stinging eyes with one hand. “Be mad at me if you like; hate me if you like, but please, put on the damned uniform. I’m your superior. I’m responsible for you. Some commanding officer they will think of me being if I can’t even make my men dress according to the situation.”

  He had expected an angry outburst or another cold, soul-shattering stare but Willi suddenly started, glared at him tragically, and began apologizing instead.

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. It was very selfish of me. I should have thought of you. I’ll change at once. And don’t you worry, I won’t embarrass you before them all. I’ll keep my mouth shut, I promise.”

  He was indeed remarkably silent while they were sitting in the waiting room at the Führer’s headquarters. To all of Nicolaus von Below’s – Hitler’s Luftwaffe adjutant’s – questions and remarks, (probing, no doubt) he answered what von Below had expected to hear – no more, no less. Yes, good service in Libya. Yes, very good aircraft. Yes, discipline and morale are perfect. Yes, new replacement pilots are very well trained. Yes, we’re looking forward to the ultimate victory as well.

  Von Below, a tall man in his mid-thirties, with a long face and prematurely thinning hair neatly brushed back, smiled – with relief, it appeared. Willi smiled too, tight-lipped and superficially obliging. Johann could almost see him cringe from the hypocrisy of his own words. They were severely understaffed and heavily outnumbered by the enemy virtually in every air battle. The new replacement pilots hardly knew which button was there for shooting and were dying so fast that their commanders didn’t bother with remembering their names anymore. You! – A finger jabbed in a youngster’s direction – You’re flying with me today. You, – another pointed finger – are flying with Riedman. Morale, Johann didn’t even wish to mention.

  At last, upon von Below’s silent approval, they were admitted into a beautifully decorated reception room, where a few officers were also present. Several Feldmarschalls along with Reichsmarschall Göring stood a bit aside from the first group; yet, as soon as he noticed his Luftwaffe eagles, he immediately gestured for them to come over and nearly pushed them into the circle of high-ranking officials. His eyes triumphantly gleaming, Göring broke into what appeared to be a well-rehearsed propaganda speech, one of those that one could hear in a movie theater during the newsreel demonstrations. Johann was smiling politely. Willi’s expression remained impersonal and detached, much like during the good old times when his superiors would reprimand him and he would just stand there and take it without any reaction whatsoever. Say whatever you like; it’s all the same to me. I don’t hold you in any sort of esteem, so you may as well not waste your breath. Nothing of what you’re saying means anything to me because you mean nothing to me. How different Willi’s expression was when Feldmarschall Rommel spoke with him. Such genuine eagerness in his eyes; smiles, chasing one another across his glowing face; the way he pulled forward as though not to miss a single word… Johann said his silent thanks to whatever higher power there was that no one knew Willi well enough to see that difference, besides him.

  The tall doors softly groaned in the adjutants’ hands sending everyone scrambling to attention, right arms outstretched in a rigid salute. The Führer walked in. Johann pulled himself up in spite of himself, peering into his face intently. He was shorter than Johann had expected him to be. Older. Much more different from the robust, stern-faced Chancellor gazing out from the obligatory portraits in every office and home. Johann couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he had
just seen a famous actor without his make-up and trademark glamour look. Willi next to him looked equally unimpressed. When Hitler shook his hand before handing him Oak Leaves and Swords to his Knight’s Cross, Johann wondered at how soft and damp Der Führer’s palm was, how thoroughly apathetic the handshake came out. Seconds later, he found himself gazing at the open case with its silk bed and the award itself and feeling shortchanged for some inexplicable reason.

  Minutes stumbled as well-rehearsed words deliberately worked their way to an hour. Johann was growing exhausted and began stealing subtle glances at von Below’s wristwatch; conveniently, Hitler’s Luftwaffe adjutant held his arms crossed as he stood between Johann and Willi. The latter searched his pocket absent-mindedly, half-extracted his golden cigarette case, was promptly nudged by the watchful von Below’s elbow – the Führer doesn’t approve of smoking – and dropped it back into the pocket with an expression of utmost misery. He, too, stole a passing glance at von Below’s watch; he, too, couldn’t wait to escape this stifling room.

  Fourteen hundred hours. Perhaps now? – Willi’s eyes stared at Johann with a futile hope in them. But it appeared that with the official introduction and the award ceremony out of the way, all newly-decorated heroes were granted the honor to share a lunch with their “beloved leader.” Johann braced himself for two more hours of wasted leave. Willi, much to his horror, began drinking almost as soon as they were seated at the grand, oak-wood table, weighed down with the best china and silverware, with eagles and an inevitable monogram AH branding everything.

  Von Below looked back and forth between Johann and Willi, his anxious face appearing even more haggard and pale as Willi finished his first cognac in a few liberal gulps. Then the second, shoveling food into his mouth without any reaction to the conversation around him whatsoever. After von Below nudged him slightly under the table with the tip of his boot, Willi only shot him a vindictively-nonchalant glare, his chiseled lips curling in sickly-sweet disdain. What? I’m hungry. You did invite us for lunch, didn’t you? We only wished to bid our farewells and be well on our way home by now.

  After finishing his interrogation of a Waffen-SS officer with the new Knight’s Cross on his neck, about his service in the East, Hitler suddenly turned his attention to the two Luftwaffe men.

  “So what are your plans once the war is over?”

  Before Johann could collect his thoughts and say something presentable, Willi blurted out with a shrug, “I don’t think that I’ll live that long. Now, with the Americans joining the war and positioning their forces in Egypt and Palestine, it’s only a matter of time. We’re doing our best, of course, but against the entire army one fighter ace can only do so much and we—”

  “What Oberleutnant von Sielaff is trying to say,” Johann quickly took over in a desperate attempt to save the situation, “is that we’re a bit understaffed considering the current military situation on the African Front. The fighters that we have are mostly old models which have been repaired multiple times and they’re not as good as the new aircraft that the Allies have in abundance. Also, if I could ask that someone does something about the flying school program… After it’s been shortened, the quality of the pilots that we’re getting… They simply don’t get enough training to know how to fly efficiently. Aerobatics that they learn are so minimal that they can’t keep up with their flight leaders for the most part. The fuel is also a problem, just like ammunition. Oberleutnant von Sielaff and I had learned over time how to score a victory with only fifteen to twenty rounds into the engine, but the new pilots often shoot their entire ammunition without producing any results…”

  “Yes, yes, it’ll all be taken care of.” This time it was Göring who waved him into silence much like Johann had done, with Willi, before. “We’ll have time to talk about it separately. But before we get into the technicalities, let me assure you – and our Führer – that the new aircraft are being developed now and will soon be delivered to you and you’ll see for yourselves that it’ll surpass the Allied aircraft many times over. And with fine aces like you two, I don’t believe it’ll be a problem, for you personally to train our undertrained pilots. They’ll learn by your personal example, won’t they? We had to shorten the program exactly because you always complain about being understaffed, so why don’t you teach them some aerobatics in your spare time?”

  Spare time? Johann almost asked. What spare time? Instead, he only nodded stiffly. “Wonderful idea, Herr Reichsmarschall. We will do just that.”

  “See? With your training your new pilots and with the new aircraft that we’re currently developing, we’ll achieve the ultimate victory in no time, won’t we?” A pointed look in his direction ensured that Johann replied to the old man’s liking, who sat across the table from them and regarded them with his cold, blue eyes from under a scowl.

  “Yes. We’re very much looking forward to it.” Johann faked as much enthusiasm as he could squeeze out of his exhausted self.

  Willi, meanwhile, downed yet another glass.

  For the next few days, they were tossed between different places but among pretty much the same group of people. Göring, after giving both a magisterial dressing down for saying such things in front of the Führer, forgot about their “defeatist talk” entirely a mere day later and invited both to his grand estate, Carinhall.

  “Good thing he likes parading us before his friends, like dogs,” Willi remarked drunkenly one evening, winking at Johann when they were alone in the guest room that they shared. “Or we’d be long sent to the Eastern Front.”

  “Because of you and your mouth!”

  “Why? I miss Wiedmeyer. And it’s hot in Africa. I don’t mind changing the Front…” The last words he mumbled, already falling asleep.

  Johann quickly learned from Göring what to say and what not to say in front of his guests; Willi drank and the more he drank, the more his rebellious side reared its head, much to Johann’s horror. Also, Willi soon discovered that he couldn’t stand Minister of Propaganda Goebbels and was doing everything he possibly could to annoy both him and his wife, Magda. With Hitler, he was still superficially polite but noted to Johann nevertheless that “the old man looked like he had lost his marbles sometime around 1939.” Despite all, Hitler seemed to take great interest in Oberleutnant von Sielaff, for he was, in his eyes, a true ideal for the German youth. Young, exceedingly handsome, brilliantly courageous – the fighter ace was a poster child of the new Germany. Johann had just breathed out in relief when the Führer finally forgave Willi his previous “defeatist talk” and even warmed up to him enough to ask him to play something on the piano when that poster child went and started some cheerful jazz tune instead of the solemn and war-themed Wagner.

  Well, Wiedmeyer, your wish about having us serving with you on the Eastern Front has just come true, Johann noted to himself in resignation.

  Hitler rose from his cushioned seat and left the room without a word. The Goebbels’ family ran after him, followed by the rest of the minions. Only the same Waffen-SS officer, whom they first met at the award ceremony, remained in the room. Johann had just noticed him, humming under his breath with a blissful smile on his face. The young man also started snapping his fingers in rhythm with the music.

  Tapping his heel on the parquet floor, the young fellow grinned to Johann’s stunned look and shrugged with nonchalance. “My mother is American. I love Benny Goodman.”

  Willi sang in his beautiful voice to his two-man audience and for those few minutes, a hope ignited in Johann’s soul that maybe not all had been lost yet.

  Their leave had been prolonged, much to their surprise, but the catch – of course, there was always a catch – was that it would turn into a virtual tour around the country, where they’d speak at schools, Hitlerjugend meetings, and even factories in which they produced aircraft parts. They were filmed on every step and interviewed on a daily basis. The evenings with the highest-ranking hierarchy continued despite Willi’s latest stunt, much to the latter’s dis
pleasure. He kept provoking everyone intently; they soon learned to ignore him entirely.

  “Ach, what do you expect? Von Sielaff’s son. Von Sielaff senior was no better when he was his age,” the ‘old guard’ would say and wave their hand dismissively. Let him be. The boy is brilliant and that’s what’s important. Jazz and all that western mentality? He’ll outgrow it. The father did, after all. They all do in the end.

  Johann almost grew used to the surrealism of such a position of things when Reichsführer Himmler made an unexpected appearance during one such soiree. Göring kept muttering about, “which idiot invited the black plague to his house,” and made a face when someone informed him that it was the Führer who did. Thankfully, Himmler and his officers kept to themselves and didn’t bother much with the rest of the guests. However, they didn’t bother softening their tones either, while discussing the latest affairs.

  “Estonia is entirely Jew-free; surely we can achieve the same results in other Baltic states…”

  “It’s the logistics, that’s the main problem now. The trains are filled to the brim but we can’t…”

  “The Kommandant of Treblinka has just presented remarkable results. Over two hundred thousand liquidated in a matter of just a few months…”

  “Those ovens need to be installed in every camp. We still have far too many facilities where they have to burn the bodies outside, in the open. It’s almost stone-age if you ask me…”

  “What about the Minsk ghetto? Are they clearing it out yet?”

  Willi kept staring at Johann without saying a word. Johann kept staring at Willi, afraid to move.

  “This is where your friend Alf has disappeared,” Willi said once they were driving home in Willi’s car. “Some ghetto. Then camp. Then they burned him.”