by C. T. Wells
Higher and higher went the 109s. The altimeters wound steadily past seven thousand metres but the Messerschmitts barely noticed the thinning atmosphere.
Langer led the staffel further into the east, where the morning sun was declaring its summer intentions. Josef kept his eyes off the glare, needing to preserve his vision. They levelled off at eight thousand metres. The horizon curved dramatically and the sky above the cockpit glass was a deep azure beyond the streaks of high–altitude cirrus. They prowled the air above the diminutive fleet below.
It was inevitable of course, the RAF response, but the veteran spotted them first. Langer calmly announced the arrival of fighter interceptors low in the sky at ten o’clock. A line of dots to the north materialised into a big wing formation, not far beneath them. Already the Stukas and 110s were breaking away to the south, well aware the British fighters could overrun them.
On Langer’s order, the staffel dropped out of the east, hoping to engage with the advantage of altitude and a backdrop of glare. Josef flipped the trigger guard off the fire button atop the control stick.
The enemy fighters were Hawker Hurricanes, a little stouter in profile than a Spit, but they were an agile, supercharged gun platform with eight machine guns.
The altimeter spun anti–clockwise as the Messerschmitts gained speed and closed in fast on the enemy. Josef gripped the stick tightly. His mouth was dry as he sucked oxygen through his tube. There must be two dozen British fighters approaching. Ahead, Langer’s 109 lined up on the centre of the formation and Josef held position above and behind. They were going into the midst of them. Off his port wing, Josef glimpsed another rotte consisting of Wolfe Schiller and Oskar Wedermeyer making a parallel attack.
The British must have spotted the 109s and now came straight at them, abandoning their chase of the Stukas. Josef stared at the enemy closing on him at several hundred kilometres an hour, but Langer was unwavering and they held their line.
Josef hurtled towards the enemy. Suddenly it felt nothing like a rugby match. All his self–assurance melted. This was not a game. If a rugby match could give you butterflies in your stomach, this stirred up a whole colony of wasps, swarming, beating, stinging. This was war.
Lights started winking along the leading edge of the enemies’ wings. Muzzle–flash. They were gunning for him.
Josef’s thumb hovered over the fire–button, careful of Langer’s position down in front of him. He watched a stream of tracer streak out from Langer’s 109 and a Hurricane disintegrated in mid–air in a bright fuel–burst that rained debris. There was no time to watch, he had to keep on station and target the enemy. But the British fighters seemed to slide away from his own sights.
Langer banked hard right away from the flaming debris of the damaged Hurricane which seemed to hang in the atmosphere. Josef did the same. They sliced through the line of Hurricanes on their wingtips.
At that moment both formations broke up. The fighters were snapping and twisting through the sky to avoid collision, then wheeling to try and be the first to get their gun sights on an enemy.
Langer traded airspeed for altitude. Josef followed him up in a steep climb, reclaiming height until they hung by their propellers. Just as they started to slip sidelong through the sky, Langer signalled the next move and they fell into a turn that would drop them back into the battle. The sky below was thick with Hurricanes and 109s.
‘You with me, White Five?’
‘With you!’
Trusting Josef to cover his rear, Langer selected another Hurricane and roared into range, firing controlled bursts as the Hurricane snaked away.
The British pilot entered an evasive, turning dive. The two 109s dropped with him, but could not turn as sharply.
Langer snapped an order and the 109s separated, ready to intercept the Hurricane on the next turn, whichever way he went. Josef went left, Langer right.
The Hurricane kept on a tight right–hander, out–turning Langer, then snapped left to break away. Josef was there when it happened and for a fleeting second the beam of the Hurricane crossed his gunsights as he opened fire. He saw his own tracer lines appearing to curve away from his point of aim because of the turn. He had missed.
The Hurricane hurtled away beneath him. Both Langer and Josef flung their planes after it and were about to give chase when tracer streaked around them.
They themselves were being hunted. They put their planes through torturous aerobatics, wrenching the airframes through the sky until suddenly it was all over. The sky was empty behind them. The Hurricanes had disengaged and were scurrying towards the English coast.
‘Do we chase?’
Langer’s voice through the headset was decisive. ‘No. There’s more where they came from and we don’t have the fuel for another contact.’
Josef checked the panel. He’d been flying by instinct for the duration of the dogfight and saw how those short minutes had cost him four thousand metres of altitude and a lot of fuel. It had cost him energy too. He was sweating from the exertion, dizzy from the aerobatics.
A new order came over the radio. ‘Regroup. We’re going back to base.’
The 109s converged from all over the sky, immediately forming up in their schwarms with the speed and discipline of a well–drilled staffel.
Langer started to check off their presence on the radio. ‘White Two?’
Jurgen Brandt’s jubilant voice cut in. ‘You’re up for a case of brandy, sir. I took down a …’
Langer silenced him. ‘Wait. White Three?’
‘With you, White Leader,’ came Schiller’s voice.
‘White Four?’ A pause. ‘White Four, confirm!’
Josef scanned the formation and saw the gap immediately.
‘Schiller!’ came Langer’s voice, ‘Where is your wingman?’
‘He was there a moment ago …’
‘Is he there now?’
‘Negativ, White Leader.’
Josef, sitting high in the formation, scanned the sky around him. Off his starboard wing there was a lone aircraft heading west. It was a couple of thousand metres away. ‘This is White Five. I think I’ve spotted him, Sir. Four o’clock. Low.’
‘Good eyes, Shaka. How’s your fuel?’
‘Good, sir.’
‘Maybe his radio’s out. Keep your eyes on White Four. Get over there and signal him visually to return to base.’
‘Viktor, White Leader.’ Josef banked away from the staffel, threw open the throttle and chased after the wayward aircraft. He saw the 4 on the fuselage and confirmed it was Oskar Wedermeyer’s 109. It was drifting aimlessly at something below cruise speed, gradually descending towards the Atlantic.
It only took a couple of minutes to catch up and format on the 109 where Wedermeyer should easily see him in the mirror. Josef tried the radio, but there was no response. Yet the 109 seemed undamaged.
They were getting quite low now, and Josef was getting more worried as the altimeter wound down. Wedermeyer’s flying made no sense at all. Josef added power and sideslipped in on Wedermeyer’s port side. He was only a few metres off the other plane’s wingtip. It became immediately apparent that the cockpit glass had been shattered. Inside, Wedermeyer’s form was slumped over the controls, but he was still moving.
Josef pulled back on the stick and floated up and over the other 109, settling now on the starboard wing. From here, he could see the cockpit glass was splashed red with blood, and Wedermeyer’s head was pressed up against the glass.
They were less than a thousand metres above the waves and Josef couldn’t get Wedermeyer to respond. He tried the radio again and, running out of options, fired off a burst of 20mm shells into the empty sky ahead. Surely that was a sound that would get the attention of a pilot.
Wedermeyer raised his head slightly and looked out at Josef. He was still alive! Josef was close enough to see the pale, ex
pressionless face above a blood–drenched scarf. He signalled to Wedermeyer to pull back on the stick, but the young pilot didn’t move a muscle, just stared blankly, circulating enough blood to sustain life, but not enough to get a response.
At fifty metres above the ocean, Josef pulled away and Wedermeyer’s 109 continued ghost–flying for another moment. It hit the ocean at two hundred and fifty kilometres an hour, crumpling then cartwheeling before settling on the surface for a brief moment, a mess of twisted and torn metal. Josef circled slowly as the fuselage tipped forwards, following the weight of the twelve–cylinder Daimler–Benz down into the water. The swastika on the tail–plane slid down into the grey water like a setting sun. The plane vanished, taking Oskar Wedermeyer to his resting place in the cemetery of airmen at the bottom of the channel.
Josef had no fuel to linger at the crash site. He swung away and set a course for the French coast. Wedermeyer had still been alive, but Josef had been powerless to do anything about it. He blinked away tears of frustration and checked the compass. It was time to concentrate on flying or he too could end up on the bottom of the channel. Maybe later he could write a letter to the family or something, but for the moment he had to concentrate on optimising his engine speed and altitude for range. He had to shut out his thoughts and feelings and just function.
Sky and ocean seemed empty. The convoy was far behind and all the aircraft had dispersed. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Wedermeyer as the waves flashed by hypnotically beneath him. The white face staring at him through the blood–sprayed glass kept hovering in his vision.
Josef knew it could just as easily have been him—a corpse at the bottom of the channel. There had been moments when there were aircraft everywhere, bullets everywhere. He had not been completely in control of the situation. No–one was completely in control, not even Langer. One of those thousands of rounds that had lanced through the sky could just have easily shattered his cockpit and torn his throat open. Yet fate had chosen Wedermeyer.
Or had Wedermeyer chosen fate? He remembered Oskar’s words from the previous evening. ‘The cards have fallen’. Had the young pilot had some premonition of death? Perhaps his stupid superstition and fatalistic thinking had actually brought it on. A self–fulfilling prophecy. Or maybe it was just a random occurrence in the chaos of war. Josef shook his head trying to clear Wedermeyer from his thoughts.
He came in over the Normandy coast with scarcely any reserves of fuel, but he knew he would make it. He watched the ground, looking for signs of a crosswind. And then he saw the derelict windmill on his approach to the airfield. His mind switched channels immediately as he studied the position of the vanes. It was unmistakable. No longer locked in a Y–shape, the great axle had rotated and one of the vanes now pointed skyward. He had been signalled.
XV
The pilots of JG 27 were stood down from active duty in the middle of the afternoon. A savage low pressure system was rolling in from the Atlantic and the pilots welcomed a break from the relentless sorties. Luftwaffe Command was prepared to lose aircraft if it also meant the loss of British aircraft, but losing them to the weather was out of the question.
Jurgen Brandt led the celebrations. He had been duly awarded the brandy by Hauptmann Langer and the pilots were making the most of his largesse. The storm would give them enough time to sleep it off.
In truth, Oskar Wedermeyer had not been a popular pilot. He had been moody and reclusive. The pilots had paid their respects, but the conversation reverted to Brandt holding court on how his own superior flying had defeated a Hurricane. Langer, too, had downed an enemy aircraft—his eleventh—but he hadn’t needed to tell the story. He politely joined the celebrations for a while, commended the men on their flying, then headed off by himself.
Josef took the opportunity to make himself scarce soon after they had been stood down. Ever since landing after the morning sortie, he had been anxious to get out to the windmill. It had taken hours before he had permission to leave the base.
While they had been waiting for further orders throughout the day he had carefully cleaned and oiled the Walther. He had also spent some time in the map room poring over the charts of southern England and retracing his route over the previous days. By using the landmarks he recalled, including the viaduct and the saw–tooth hills he had seen, he was able to locate with some certainty the estate occupied by Lucas. He was satisfied to have worked it out. He needed any leverage he could get in dealing with Lucas. Knowing where your enemy slept had been an advantage since ancient times.
He set off at about four–thirty, wearing a woollen greatcoat against the inclement weather. It would take half an hour to walk to the windmill where he would be expecting an envelope containing a question. He would do what had to be done for Melitta.
He was thinking of his sister as he strode along the country lane, and he didn’t notice Claus Langer until he was almost on top of him. The officer was walking his dog and he looked up affably at his wingman.
‘Out for a walk, Josef?’
Josef’s throat was suddenly dry. Seeing Langer made him feel like a traitor. ‘Ah, yes … just wanted to clear my head a bit, you know.’
The Belgian Shepherd started sniffing around Josef’s feet. Its ears were up and the dark eyes were studying him.
‘What’s up, Baron? You know Josef. He’s my wingman. And a fine one at that!’
‘Thank you, sir. Congratulations, by the way, on getting that Hurricane.’
‘Yes, well, not a great day all things considered, but acceptable. If we keep whittling down their air force we will win in the end.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The dog pawed at Josef’s feet.
‘Down, Baron! What is the matter with you?’ Langer grasped the dog by the collar and pulled it away. ‘It’s good to see you out for a walk, Josef. Everyone has their own way of dealing with combat. Some of them …’ He waved a hand towards the airfield. ‘… will drink themselves stupid. But I recommend a long walk. Just keep an eye on the weather, though.’ He indicated a dark gathering of cloud on the horizon. Rain was dragging streaks of grey down from the leaden sky.
‘Yes, sir. I’ve got my coat.’
‘Very well. Enjoy the fresh air.’
‘You too, sir.’
Langer turned back towards the airfield, tugging at the leash. The hound came to heel, but it twisted and craned to look at Josef as though it could smell treason.
Josef turned away and walked on down the lane trying to forget the dog. It meant nothing. Knew nothing. It was just a curious dog. Hadn’t Wedermeyer read too much meaning into his stupid house of cards? He hated the idea of getting superstitious. It was a fighter pilot’s disease.
He strode along the lane until he reached a fence of stacked field stone covered in lichen that bordered the windmill’s field. Further ahead was the farmhouse and other buildings, but he didn’t need to go near them if he cut straight across from the lane. He swung his legs over the fence and started up a gentle, grassy slope.
He studied the farm property as he walked. It was quaint in comparison to the rugged, parched property where he had grown up in South Africa. The fields here were an undulating patchwork separated by hedgerows and stone fences.
There was no–one to be seen, but a thread of smoke rose up into the darkening sky from the farmhouse. It was definitely inhabited. Whether the people down there had anything to do with the message at the windmill was another question.
He paused about fifty metres away from the windmill and examined the area more closely. The approach was exposed. If someone was watching—from a hedgerow, or from up in the mill itself—he would have been seen by now. He was expecting it to be a dead drop, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was someone about. He looked around him, but there was no–one to be seen. There was nothing for it but to walk on.
Josef approached the mill cautiously and drew the Walther from
the holster, as he kept scanning the surrounds. In the stone wall of the mill there was a timber door. The top hinge had pulled out of the rotting frame, so it hung askance. The corner of the door had scratched an arc into the soil, suggesting someone had recently used it. Josef dragged the door open, disturbing some nesting sparrows. They darted away.
He took the safety off the Walther.
Inside, it was a large, circular space. Pale, diagonal shafts of daylight from high windows split the dim interior and lit countless motes of dust floating in the disused space. Had they been stirred by some recent visitor?
His eyes flicked left and right. It seemed deserted. He stepped through the doorway with the Walther at the ready. The ground level contained a decrepit staircase climbing around the wall to the upper level that must have housed the giant axle and differential that operated the mill. There was an ancient bed stone in the centre of the mill’s floor but the mechanism that had once ground grain was broken and lay in pieces of grey timber and rusted iron scattered around the walls.
An envelope sat in the centre of the millstone. Fresh, crisp paper. Pure white and out of place amongst the dusty stonework and debris. Josef looked at the envelope for a moment. What would they demand of him?
He opened the envelope with one hand so he could keep holding the Walther. It contained a piece of notepaper and a shortened pencil. He unfolded the note and read a short message written in English:
How many Jagdgeschwader 27 aircraft are stationed at Cherbourg?
Josef scowled. Was that it? Was that all they wanted to know? Surely, anyone who really wanted to know that would have simply stood near the airfield and counted them.
