The Kingdom of the Air

by C. T. Wells

  Josef tipped his wings as though turning right, then veered left. The Spitfire hounded him and more tracer rounds whipped past the starboard wing. The British pilot had just confirmed to them both that he was still in range. Josef pleaded with the French coast and its German defences to meet him swiftly. Right now, anything to deter the fiend would help.

  Josef watched the mirror and saw bright muzzle flash along the Spit’s leading edge. Then came thuds in the head armour behind his seat. The damn Brit was scoring hits with long range deflection shots. Josef jinked and evaded a second burst but the British fighter seemed to reel him in with every desperate turn. It was only a matter of time …

  Then the Spitfire erupted in a ball of flame as Langer’s 109 swung in from behind. The staffelkapitan had just claimed another kill.

  Josef sucked oxygen through the tube. He keyed the radio transmit. ‘Thanks, boss!’

  ‘Keep your eyes open, Shaka, there’s still one out there.’

  They started climbing while heading south, giving themselves options, but they seemed to be in open sky.

  ‘All OK, White Leader?’

  ‘Still flying. Are you hit?’ Langer’s voice showed none of the strain of air–to–air combat.

  ‘I took some fire from the other Spitfire, but everything seems to be working.’ Josef tried to replay the events of the dogfight in his mind. Had they come out of the sun? They had been bounced, that was for sure. It had all been so frantic. But there was one clear recollection: Langer had placed himself in harm’s way to save him. Josef swallowed hard. Not many pilots would walk away from being bounced by a pair of Spits. But only one was dealt with. ‘Any sign of the other one?’ Josef was still flicking his eyes across the sky and mirror. He was still jumpy.

  ‘Negativ. He got some shots off at me and vanished.’

  They came in towards the Normandy coast and Josef relaxed slightly. It would be a mad Englishman who chased them all the way to their lair. This was one mission he would be pleased to put behind him. ‘You really saved me there, sir.’

  ‘Ah, I just wanted to paint another kill on my tail.’

  ‘That would be twelve. You’ll be running out of room.’

  ‘You better get a score on the board, Shaka. You’re making me look greedy.’

  Josef shook his head, trying to comprehend how close he had come to being blown out of the sky. He breathed a prayer of gratitude for Claus Langer as they flew in over the breakwater of the Cherbourg harbour. He looked down at whitecaps on the water below, an indicator that the wind was picking up. He flew over the rooftops of Cherbourg and noticed how the smoke was snatched away from the chimney pots. A cross–wind? This was confirmed by the billowing windsock that he saw moments later on his approach to the airfield. It would be a difficult landing. No, he couldn’t relax yet. Get it down on the ground first.

  Josef lowered the undercarriage and lined up on the airstrip making little corrections with the rudder pedals. Concentrating hard, he managed a tidy landing in the gusting cross–wind. He taxied to a halt, pulled off the flying helmet and threw back the canopy. Strangely, Langer’s 109 flew by overhead. Josef looked up at it and saw the problem at once. The starboard undercarriage had not come down. Maybe the Spitfire attack had damaged the mechanism. He pulled the radio headset back on and held the throat microphone in position. ‘White Leader! Starboard landing gear is not locked down!’

  ‘Viktor that. I’m going around again.’

  Josef willed White Leader’s gear to drop into place. ‘Come on,’ he urged the distant machinery, knowing his words were futile.

  Langer throttled up, circled the field and retracted the gear. He tried again to lower it. It got the same result. The port–side wheel swung down into position, but there was no movement below the starboard wing.

  Josef could picture what was happening in the cockpit. Langer would be going through the drill, furiously working the manual winding mechanism that served as a back–up for lowering the undercarriage. Josef willed it to work. It should have worked by now. He bit his lip as he saw Langer waggle the wings to try and free the jammed undercarriage by shaking it out. It was a last resort for getting the gear down.

  The headset crackled with Langer’s voice. ‘White Five, confirm. Is starboard landing gear in position.’

  ‘Negativ, White Leader.’ Josef could barely speak the words.

  ‘Viktor that. I’m going to have to land without the starboard gear. Not much fuel left and I don’t want to try to come in cross–wind without power.’ For the first time ever, Josef heard tension in Langer’s voice. About a kilometre out, the 109 lined up perfectly. ‘Standby for a crash landing.’

  Josef watched the flaps go down, but Langer would still have to come in at nearly two hundred kilometres an hour to prevent a stall. Even with both wheels down you were always edgy landing a 109. And sitting atop the fuel tank always made you concentrate. Even with only dregs and vapour left, you had a heavy–duty firecraker strapped to your rear end.

  Josef stood up in the cockpit and waved urgently to the aircrew on the ground. He caught their attention and pointed to the incoming fighter. They understood at once and started running for the fire engine that sat alongside the fuel trucks on the far side of the runway.

  Langer adjusted for the cross–wind perfectly and came in with the wings level. ‘This could be a waste of a good plane.’

  ‘Easy, sir. Crew are standing by.’

  The port undercarriage kissed the grass, and for a second Josef admired the skilful flying before it all went wrong. The port wheel strut buckled, unable to take the force of the landing on its own. The 109 crashed heavily onto its belly, destroying the propeller. One wing caught the ground and the fuselage spun down the runway, passing Josef’s position going sideways. The airframe started to crumple and flames burst from the engine.

  Josef leapt off the wing of his fighter and started running towards Langer’s 109 as it came to rest, canted over to one side. From the far side of the runway, the ground crew were running in and the fire engine started rolling. Langer’s dog raced alongside them, barking sharply.

  Josef arrived, breathing hard, only to be blocked by a sheet of flame that burst from the stricken 109. He wanted to plunge in and drag Langer from the wreck, but it was impossible to push through the wall of heat. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fire ceased and the blackened and crumpled 109 was before him.

  He rushed forward and, together with an aircraft fitter working from the other side, slid back the canopy, their gloves smoking as they gripped the hot metal. As the canopy came open they gagged on the sweet reek of burning flesh.

  Langer was alive, coughing on smoke and grimacing with pain. They dragged the officer up out of the cockpit and Josef saw that his legs had been badly burnt. The fliegerhose trousers were blackened rags and the flesh beneath did not look human. Langer’s dog was whimpering and nosing around his master as they laid him on the grass.

  Stretcher bearers raced forward from the fire engine and lifted Langer onto the canvas. Langer was blinking and gasping, but no intelligible word came from his mouth. Maybe his throat was scorched by the hot smoke that had filled the cockpit. Josef flung away his gloves so he could remove Langer’s throat microphone and open up his airway.

  Within a minute, a Luftwaffe ambulance was on the scene and the medics were taking over. Langer was loaded into the van and Baron leapt in with him before it was driven away.

  ‘He’s lucky there wasn’t much fuel on board,’ said the crewman who had helped drag Langer from the plane.

  Josef nodded blankly.

  ‘Looks like the starboard wing got shot–up. Probably explains why the gear didn’t drop. I hope he makes it.’

  Josef stared at the ambulance as it vanished. The crewman was still talking, something about Langer being a fine officer, but Josef wasn’t listening. He turned back and looked at
the ruined aircraft in front of him. He clutched his head with both hands as guilt crashed down on him. It should have been him, not Langer. Langer’s plane had taken the rounds protecting him. That was why the undercarriage failed.

  It was only when Josef heard another engine that he snapped out of his stupor. Across the way, amongst the airfield’s buildings, he watched a motorcycle dispatch rider drive away from the airfield, leaving only a cloud of dust. It was the courier.

  Josef kicked the wing of the wrecked plane.

  XVII

  Giselle stretched, arching her back and enjoying the sun on her face as she paused from pulling weeds in the vegetable garden. Edouard wrenched another weed from the soil and dropped it in the pail between them. Butterflies and grasshoppers flitted around the garden. She paused to look out over the scene—a quaint farm on a summer’s day, brimming with life. But there was much to be done, so she bent to the work once again. The large plot had been rather neglected by Anton and Terese and, so far, they had only weeded one row.

  ‘Nearly finished this row.’

  ‘Only seven to go.’ Edouard scowled. ‘And then we have to cover them with straw.’

  Clearly Edouard did not feel the same satisfaction in weeding. It was simple work. Work that left your hands and knees dirty but your spirit lifted—so different to her work as a résistance operative. That just left everything feeling dirty.

  Martin had taken the motorcycle in an attempt to track the German dispatch rider. It would be too dangerous to follow directly but, by watching a key intersection, Martin could narrow down the possible destinations for the reconnaissance film. They needed a backup plan in case Josef did not come up with the answers.

  Anton had taken the farm truck to market and Terese was busy in the house. The place seemed peaceful with only Edouard and a ragged scarecrow for company. At first, Edouard did not have much to say and Giselle didn’t mind the silence. Then, abruptly, Edouard seemed set on conversation. ‘Do you believe in Le Spectre?’

  Giselle paused for a moment, considering. Le Spectre was a pseudonym for a notorious résistance agent. A myth, perhaps. ‘I don’t know. It sounds so melodramatic. Like something from a comic strip.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the idea. To create an identity that haunts the Germans and the collaborateurs.’

  ‘If half of what is said about Le Spectre is true, he is a very cruel man.’

  ‘Again, that is what his enemies should believe. What have you heard of Le Spectre?’

  ‘Apparently he threw acid into the face of a French girl who was the mistress of a Nazi officer.’

  ‘Maybe not everything is true.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not even one person. Maybe Le Spectre is just a fear campaign.’

  ‘I think he is real.’

  ‘If he is real, he must be a tortured individual.’

  Edouard shrugged. ‘Maybe. But he is brave too, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t like to think about such savagery. In the end, I don’t think that vigilantes will be the ones who give us true liberty.’

  ‘Liberty will come at a price.’

  She looked at him, wondering what price they should be prepared to pay.

  Edouard began speaking of a new socialist state arising from liberty.

  Giselle liked talk about socialism more than Le Spectre, but a summer afternoon did not seem the time for either. ‘Tell me about other things, Edouard. Tell me about what you will do when we are free people again.’

  Edouard stopped tugging at a stubborn weed. Giselle watched him. Perhaps he was deciding if he would include her in his ideal future. ‘I would … I would …’

  She cut him off. ‘Not would, Edouard, will! It will happen. We will be free. This is not hypothetical.’

  ‘I will … not weed gardens, that’s for certain.’ He looked like he was hoping for a laugh.

  ‘Why not? This is good, honest work.’

  ‘Yes, but I want to do something that makes a mark.’

  Giselle smiled. She had given him an opportunity to include her in the future, and he had not taken it. That’s all right, she told herself, she could be patient. She was still working out her own feelings for him. At least he was a gentleman, which was much better than so many young men who seemed to think the uncertainties of wartime gave them a right to accelerate a relationship with a girl. She was amazed at how many men assumed wearing a uniform could speed things up.

  ‘How do you feel so sure we will be free again?’ asked Edouard.

  ‘Because people like you and I will not accept German occupation.’ She frowned. She had not intended to talk about the war, but somehow they kept coming back around to it.

  ‘So how will we be rid of them?’

  Giselle stood up next to the scarecrow and put an arm around its narrow shoulder. ‘We’ll scare them off, just like this fellow does. Those Nazi–crows can go flapping right back to Berlin!’

  Edouard grinned. ‘The scarecrow. That could be your codename. We have Le Spectre and now we have ... le épouvantail. Hmm. I think it sounds more evocative in English, don’t you? Beware the Scarecrow. I must say, you do look rather like a scarecrow!’

  Giselle looked down at the work clothes she wore over her thin frame. He was right, but she pouted nonetheless. ‘Edouard! That is no way to speak to a lady.’

  Suddenly he looked ashamed, his brow furrowing.

  Giselle knelt and pulled a turnip from the ground. She hefted it with a big wad of soil and flung it at Edouard, catching him on the chin. Dirt sprayed on his lips, but he grinned. She was being playful.

  He picked up the turnip and was about to hurl it back at her when she froze.

  A German military vehicle was turning into the long driveway and rumbling towards the farmhouse, dark exhaust blanketing the ground behind it. It was a camouflaged truck with huge tyres and the black cross insignia on the side panels. It could hold twenty troops.

  Edouard turned, following her gaze. His eyes widened.

  Giselle immediately thought of Martin. Had he been captured?

  ‘Come on!’ Edouard started running back towards the barn. Every instinct told her to run away from the farm buildings, but he was right. They had to get to the barn. Giselle followed him through the field, clumsy in her work boots, straining to keep up.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve been seen,’ he said between breaths as they reached the barn. They could hear the truck draw to a halt on the far side of the farmhouse. For a moment Edouard stood there and clenched and unclenched his fists, shaking, not knowing what to do.

  ‘The radio,’ Giselle said. ‘They must not find it.’

  ‘Get ready to burn everything.’

  Giselle raced up to the loft, opened the fuel tin and poured it on the hay covered floor. If it came down to it, they could set the barn ablaze in seconds. There would be no secrecy about it, but the Germans would not find the radio, the code sheets or the weapons cache. She took the box of matches and returned to Edouard.

  Edouard snapped a clip into the MP-18. ‘If they are here to arrest us, I will hold them off. If you hear shots, light up the barn and run for the trees. We’ll regroup in the woods beyond the windmill if we can.’

  She nodded her agreement and Edouard was gone, crouching low as he ran to the back porch of the farmhouse. Giselle peeped around the corner of the barn watching the farmhouse. She could not see the truck on the far side and she could only catch shadowy glimpses through the windows.

  Edouard crawled along the porch and dropped beneath one of the windows, cradling the sub–machine gun. He had his legs folded awkwardly to keep himself below the sill. Giselle could see through the window above him into the kitchen. There the rotund figure of Terese was talking with one, no, two helmeted soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders. Edouard could not see them from where he crouched.

  Giselle br
eathed a prayer. Spare us! The German soldiers were still talking with Terese. Giselle had no idea what was being said, but the interaction looked calm. Terese was nodding and wiping her hands on her apron. She was not one to get flustered. Outside, still huddled below the window, she saw Edouard cock the weapon.

  Terese moved out of view, then the back door of the farmhouse opened and she stepped out. The door had swung to the left side, concealing Edouard’s hunched figure. Terese turned right. She didn’t know Edouard was there. Didn’t know she was leading the soldiers into his line of sight. She stopped and picked up a box of cabbages from the porch and passed them to the German soldier standing in the doorway.

  Giselle shrank back from the corner of the barn. If the soldier stepped out of the house into the yard he would see Edouard. Even if Terese saw him, she might well react and give him away. Giselle drew a match from the box but it fell from her shaking hand. She plucked out another one and held it ready to strike. The barn would whoosh into flames in seconds, but she waited. They had not been discovered yet.

  Giselle held her breath as she listened to voices coming from the house. A male voice was speaking French with a thick German accent. More than ever, she detested the way the invaders mangled her language.

  ‘I see you have an orchard, too,’ the soldier said, ‘May I buy any apples?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Terese said. ‘It is not yet time. They are not ripe for picking. The trees will shed many apples before they are ripe. Next week, perhaps.’

  ‘I will pay you handsomely. How many French peasants would pay reichsmarks for your apples at the market?’ He rubbed his fingers together in the universal gesture that meant cash.

  ‘None, of course. But today I have only cabbages. Come back next week.’

  ‘And eggs? Can you supply me with eggs? They are scarce at the market.’

  ‘Some, yes. I will save them for you.’

  ‘Very well. I will see you next week.’