Johann noted with relief that Willi appeared to be in good spirits. Together with countless letters and telegrams from everyone more or less high-ranking, a telegram from Rommel arrived, one of the first, in which he was inviting both young men to his headquarters to celebrate their upcoming award ceremony.
“Could you perhaps request it from Herr Gruppenkommandeur to send the Diamonds here so that Herr Feldmarschall awards us instead of…?” Willi motioned his head towards the portrait of the Führer – a Staffel headquarters’ mandatory wall attribute, full of barely discernable holes. Sandstorm, Johann explained to a suspicious Field Police inspector with the straightest face he could master. No need for the Feldgendarm to learn that certain aces used the portrait as target practice for their darts game when they felt particularly gay from wine or mad with fury after yet another “idiotic” directive from above, fight to the last soldier instead of surrendering your position, being just one of them.
“Don’t push your luck.” Johann chuckled, even though secretly wishing for the same thing.
Eager for the meeting with their favorite commander, they jumped into the Kübelwagen which they had requisitioned from the mechanics and headed east. Despite October professing its rights over the golden kingdom of African desert, occasional quivering heat-waves rose from the dusty road in front of them as they drove into the fading twilight. They barely spoke, yet each knew what the other was thinking. Home, the bittersweet closeness of it.
Feldmarschall Rommel stood outside his headquarters, an officer holding an open map in front of him. A bright grin warmed his face as he raised his gaze to an approaching vehicle with two smiling Luftwaffe aces in it.
“Here, gentlemen,” he announced to the officers, surrounding him, with a gesture of a hand in the direction of the two young men, who were hastily wiping dust off their faces and hair in order to put themselves into a somewhat presentable state, “are the two young men, who keep us alive by protecting us from above. Welcome your angel guardians as you should. We owe them our very lives.”
In the sea of outstretched hands and among all the back pats and greetings, Johann nearly lost sight of Willi. When he eventually found him again, his friend stood with his hand enclosed in Rommel’s, nodding enthusiastically to something that the Feldmarschall was saying.
“Hauptmann Brandt!” Rommel motioned Johann over, his eyes wrinkling mischievously. “The youngest Hauptmann in the Luftwaffe, are you not?”
“Jawohl, Herr Feldmarschall. Together with Hauptmann von Sielaff.”
“If you two young daredevils go on in the same manner, you’ll command over me in about five years,” Rommel said, clapping him jovially on his shoulder; then, suddenly serious, added, “well-deserved, my young fellows. Very well-deserved. Just don’t get yourselves killed now; that’s all I ask of you as your commander. You have your entire lives before you; don’t let this war rob them of all the joys it has to offer.”
How freely he speaks of it in front of his men! Johann blinked in wonder, sudden emotion swelling inside his chest. But how would one dare betray him and report his words? They all – the entire Afrika Korps – stared at him with pure devotion in their eyes, not fanatical and poisonous but the sort that stemmed from something far stronger than fear and constant demand of worship. Johann suddenly felt a growing desire in himself to press his head into his Feldmarschall’s shoulder and weep from sheer gratitude that there were still commanders left in that cursed-to-all-hell’s Großdeutschland, who still gave a damn about an ordinary soldier’s life.
“We would like that very much; it’s tough luck that Der Führer has just issued an order of fighting to the death instead of giving up the position,” Willi declared disgustedly.
“Der Führer should—” Rommel suddenly caught himself mid-word, swallowed the sentence he had started and glared at the map, sagging in an officer’s uncertain hands, with hatred. “I have spoken to him about it. I will again, tomorrow. The greenest rookie knows the first rule of warfare; a position which cannot be held must be given up. No one is going to die in vain, while I’m in command,” he finished, with grim resolution in his voice.
Inside the headquarters, they sat together at a modest, sturdy table surrounded by folding chairs. Simple white china was set before them, stamped with the Afrika Korps emblem; shot glasses, thoroughly washed but showing a certain degree of wear. Those were raised in toasts for victories and held in a trembling hand over a good comrade’s death, a hundred times over. What a contrast to the East Prussia headquarters, Johann commented to himself. Such beautiful simplicity, such an open atmosphere, and such a different host.
To him, the supreme commander of the whole Afrika Korps, they could tell everything without any reservations as they consumed their simple soldier’s dinner with a hearty appetite. Yes, the new Me-109G is a good machine but could we perhaps supply our Italian friends with it also? Their fighters are just not good and we always worry when they provide cover for us. No, only three losses this week. Yes, Riedman is doing fine but they declined his recommendation for the Knight’s Cross again. Is there anything that he, Herr Feldmarschall, could possibly do? That would be splendid; the entire Staffel would be indebted to him! Yes, the morale is high. Yes, they’re excited to get their Diamonds…
“But would be more excited to get them from your hands,” Willi blurted out in his usual direct manner.
Rommel only smiled, nodded his understanding and patted Willi’s hand in a fatherly manner, all without saying a word.
“Herr Feldmarschall, can I ask you something?” Willi pulled forward, uncharacteristically serious this time. “Why have you never joined the Party? They must have been pressing you horribly. They pressed me – still do, in fact – and I’m a nobody compared to you.”
Rommel pondered his response for some time; cut a healthy slice of liverwurst and lowered it onto Willi’s plate. Eat, my young fellow. Look at yourself, skin and bones! At length, he spoke, “Because I’m a soldier, not a politician, I suppose. Political parties come and go and soldiers, ordinary, good soldiers, that is, will always remain the same. That’s why I have always encouraged it in you and your JG in particular, to treat your captured enemies with respect. Once the enemy is out of the battle, he must be treated as your guest – that’s the way it used to be. You hadn’t even been born yet, but we were entertaining our captives in our trenches during the Great War exactly the same as you do, with your British friends, now.”
“British are very good fellows and first-class pilots,” Johann chimed in at once, agreeing wholeheartedly with the whole point. “We like having them as our guests.”
“They’re good, all right.” Willi chuckled. “One of them chased me like a dog all over the sky the other day. I was already saying my goodbyes to everyone. By the time he had almost finished with me, I was out of ammunition, almost out of fuel, soaking wet and with foam at my mouth.”
“Well, you still got him, then?” Rommel’s eyes sparkled as he shifted in his seat, expecting a good story.
Willi only shook his head with a grin. “No. Brandt cleared my tail. With the last of his ammunition.”
“My fighter was leaking glycol and I was actually ahead of von Sielaff’s fighter, heading home. He was the one escorting me when he called out the enemy to his twelve o’clock. So, he peeled off to take care of the two Spitfires.”
“The wingman went down fast,” Willi continued. “It was his flight leader who almost finished me off. He was good, the devil! You should have seen his turns – what a show! But Johann, I mean, Hauptmann Brandt, still got him. Even with a smoking fighter, ha-ha!”
“Would I ever leave you to die?” Johann regarded him warmly as well. “You’re my eternal cross to bear. I’ll just have to keep saving you until we’re both good and old.”
They returned to the base for the remainder of the week, already planning their upcoming leave. Willi kept following Johann around the base with an odd air about him, like that of a lost puppy. Finally, a
fter tip-toeing around the subject, he eventually mumbled quietly to Johann’s what is it with you? “I just got a letter from Lotte. It looks like…” He cleared his throat, blushing copiously. “It looks like I’m going to be a father soon.”
“You didn’t lose any time during your little honeymoon; did you, you dog?” Johann scooped him into an embrace and lifted his squirming friend off the ground.
“Stop screaming, you lout!” Willi was already shushing him, worming his way out of the hug. “I don’t want anyone to know yet.”
“You’re a fine fellow, you know, keeping such news to yourself!”
Willi only shook his head again. “I don’t want to jinx it.”
Johann messed Willi’s hair but promised to keep his mouth shut. Friday, they set off on their last sortie before leaving for Germany the following morning. Nothing was planned for that day; no Stukas to mind – only a bright blue sky and four aircraft, painted tan, patrolling the skies on their free hunt. Johann was the first one to spot the enemy – twelve fighters that were heading back to their base judging by the looks of it. Four heavy bombers flew underneath them.
“Shall we, White Nine?” Willi’s voice came over the R/T.
Johann was chewing on his lip, counting the odds, working things out in his mind. The last time this happened, the last time he had agreed to Willi’s reckless initiative, he had almost lost him. True to his word, this time Willi asked for his commander’s opinion instead of peeling away and diving for an attack without bothering to radio in. The odds weren’t that bad and he was confident that both Willi and he could easily take out four to six – maybe eight even – fighters before they realized what had hit them. The problem was that, following Reichsmarschall Göring’s advice, they took two rookies as wingmen that day, with the only task for the latter; stay glued to the tail and try your best to complete my maneuvers. So, technically speaking, it was two of them against sixteen enemy aircraft. Minus four bombers as those most likely won’t engage. That makes it twelve. Six for each.
Johann pressed the microphone button and heard his own voice echoing in the buzzing cockpit, metallic and odd. “I don’t think we should, Red Four.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because I said so.”
“You don’t think we can take them on?”
“I think it’s only two of us and twelve of them. Not the best odds from where I’m sitting.”
“Defeatist talk, Herr Staffelkapitän. Aren’t you concerned with the example you’re setting before your youngest trainees?”
“You aren’t shaming or tricking me into this latest adventure of yours.”
“I’m not shaming you into anything; I’m only thinking how mighty handsome six more bars will look on my rudder.”
“We have got to go home, Willi.” Johann suddenly wondered why on earth did he call his Red Four by his first name.
“And quit on our comrades on the ground! If we deal with these twelve, it’s twelve fewer fighters for them to battle with, while we warm our bones by the fire in Berlin! Have you not thought of that? We have just returned from our leave and we’re abandoning them again, as it is; aren’t you just a little bit ashamed to turn your back on them and think about your own skin first?”
Johann cursed under his breath. He was perfectly aware of the fact that Willi was merely baiting him, tricking him into this whole enterprise, yet the little weasel knew just the right buttons to push to dig his little claws into Johann’s conscience and use it conveniently against him. With a last furious Scheiße, he dived onto the unsuspecting enemy, already swearing to himself to give Willi the grandest dressing-down once they landed.
“That’s my Staffelkapitän!” Willi’s excited shout sounded in his headphones. “I promise, you won’t regret it! White Seven.” He addressed his wingman, “I apologize in advance. This is going to get a little more challenging than Herr Staffelkapitän and I had promised.”
“Just stay out of the way and let us know if we have anyone in our blind spots,” Johann instructed the two young replacement pilots, who still tried to do their utmost to remain stuck to their leaders’ tails.
Willi entered the Lufbery and started his usual routine while Johann shot out at the remainder of the scattering fighters from above. The two wingmen could only shout the confirmations of their leaders’ victories excitedly into their radios when suddenly, Willi’s wingman cried in horror, causing Johann to abandon his pursuit of the two Spitfires to seek out Willi’s fighter. It was smoking slightly and quickly losing altitude but the worst part was that the radio was silent.
Panicking and forgetting entirely about anything else, Johann dived down to level his fighter together with Willi’s. With a massive sigh of relief, he saw his friend gesticulating to his instrument panel, front window and shrugging helplessly. Shrapnel broke the damn thing, Johann. I can’t hear or see anything.
He was already wearing his oxygen mask due to the smoke that must have been accumulating in the cockpit, but to his further gesticulating about bailing out, Johann only shook his head.
“No, no, no; you’re too low! The parachute won’t have time to open! Crash-land her!” He started screaming in spite of the non-working radio, repeating the same message with his hands.
With his face ghostly pale, sweat dripping off his forehead, Willi was already working the latch of the canopy out, completely disregarding his commander’s signals. Sorry, Johann. Too hot. Can’t breathe. Can’t take it anymore. I’ll try my chances…
“Don’t!!!” Johann’s shout made grounded Riedman, who had the battle on the loudspeaker, press his mouth with an open hand. He held his breath, together with the rest of the Staffel; together with Willi, who was already undoing his oxygen mask and flipping the fighter onto its back to finish his jump.
He finally gulped the air and almost laughed in relief as he yanked on the parachute’s release at once. The ground was far too close, drawing nearer and nearer. He looked up at Johann’s Bf-109, quickly obscured by the white silk of the parachute that was just spilling out of its restraints.
A few seconds later, it gently floated on top of the body that hit the ground before it could save his life.
“He’s all right, he’s all right,” sobbing, Johann kept repeating to himself, jumping out of his fighter and not even noticing his fractured arm that he had injured upon his very careless landing.
Digging wildly at the weightless, white cloud, he soon discovered what he had feared the most. Willi lay on his stomach with his arm under his head, as though sleeping. Only the pool of blood that had already started accumulating under his head and coloring the pristine silk crimson-red, confirmed his worst fears. Willi was dead.
Gently turning his friend onto his back, Johann choked on his tears at the ghastly wound on Willi’s temple. At least he died instantly. No one would ever survive having his skull crushed with such severe force. Brushing the golden locks off the fine features that finally looked at peace, Johann pressed his lips to the blood-smeared forehead, curled next to his dead friend and remained in that same position until the men from his Staffel came with the car to recover the body. Johann barely remembered the drive to the base, one thought hammering in his mind without stop; he’d killed his best friend. His fault. All of this, entirely his fault.
Twenty-Three
Eastern Front, near Stalingrad. October 1942
* * *
Johann was awoken by a violent explosion that had hurled his sleeping form out of his bed – if that perch in the dugout could have been called so. Quickly scrambling to his feet, he pressed himself against the wall, his ears still ringing from the blast. Someone was shouting frantically about getting out of that “rat trap” – a replacement pilot, a young, gangly fellow of barely eighteen. Johann knew better by now. There was no escape from all this and only the fickle hand of fate would sort them out that night, into the living and the dead, respectively.
Death was different here than in Africa. In Africa, they died he
roes, with full military honors. They got buried in coffins covered with flags and had crosses erected on top of their graves, overflowing with wreaths and palm branches. Here, they died dirty and wherever the mortar hit them. Most of the times, bomb craters became their common graves. Johann had soon grown accustomed to it.
His Gruppenkommandeur stared at him long and without comprehension when Johann had first voiced his request for a transfer to the Eastern Front.
“Are you quite mad, Brandt?” The Gruppenkommandeur asked quietly. “We send people there as a punishment.”
He was mad, yes. Mad with grief and an irrevocable sense of loss that wouldn’t let him sleep at night. Once Willi’s body was laid to rest and they wept over him as they should, Johann had refused his leave and asked for a transfer instead. He couldn’t go to Germany and look into Mina’s eyes. He couldn’t stay here either, in the same Staffel where each corner reminded him of his lost friend and which had become so very desolate and lusterless without him. Despair lay around him like a colorless shroud full of venom and guilt, intolerable, suffocating.
The Gruppenkommandeur only signed the request after Johann had thrown himself at the Lufbery during the latest of the sorties – suicidal and brazenly brave – and nearly gotten himself killed.
“I’d rather have you on the Eastern Front than not have you at all.” The Gruppenkommandeur handed the signed request over to the young man with the sharp, pale face and the eyes that had lost all of their shine. That shine had spilled down his cheeks, together with the last of the bitter tears and forever embedded itself over the simple plaque, with Hauptmann Wilhelm von Sielaff on it – the coveted Diamonds to his Knight’s Cross.
Stalingrad – his final destination – was just what the doctor had ordered. Johann arrived in his own Bf-109, with its rudder full to the brim and grinned in grim satisfaction at the sight of the desolation around. This foggy, unearthed nothingness corresponded with his soul much better than the azure sky and the golden dunes of the desert. He couldn’t stand those brilliant colors after the brightest star had fallen to its death. He wanted bomb craters and full-scale annihilation and Russia had that to offer in spades.
Of Knights and Dogfights Page 22
