by T. E. Cruise
As he spoke he pointed to a sector on the Somme about fifteen miles northwest of Cappy to indicate where the action was taking place.
Dorn nudged Goldstein. “We were talking about the situation over breakfast this morning,” he whispered. “It’s very bad.”
Goldstein was amazed that Dorn was being so cordial to him. Maybe he had a friend in Dorn, after all. “But how can that be?” he whispered back. “Our troops are advancing, aren’t they?”
Dorn shrugged. “The talk is that the Herr Rittmeister has been called to the rear to advise the Herr General.”
Up on the stage Goering was rambling on. “German fighters are needed to neutralize this Allied air attack on our Schlastas. Only then can the Schlastas do their job of supplying air support to our soldiers. As J.G. 1 is closest to the action, the escort and protection sortie falls to us.”
Goldstein looked around. None of the others seemed perturbed by Goering’s use of the word “us,” as if he’d been with the Jagdgeschwader a long while.
“We will be flying at a very low altitude to stay beneath the cloud cover,” Goering said. “And, of course, to be of use to the low-flying Infantreiflieger Schlastas. There will be no room for pilot error, and, obviously, parachutes will be useless. We will also be flying past our own lines, so there is some chance of being shot down over enemy territory. Accordingly, all pilots will see to their sidearms, and be sure that their airplanes are equipped with flare guns. It is expected that any pilot downed in enemy territory will avoid capture long enough to use his flare gun to set fire to his machine. Any questions?” Goering looked around. “Very well. Pilots of Jastas 11 and 6 will be on the ready line with their airplanes for my inspection in thirty minutes. Dismissed.”
In the ready room Goldstein shrugged on his flying gear. He hesitated, then called to the orderly to bring him his sidearm. When it was handed over to him Goldstein gingerly drew the nine-millimeter Parabellum from its flap holster. The Luger was dusty, and slightly sticky. He pressed the magazine release near the trigger on the lefthand side. The magazine popped out: there were no cartridges in it. He worked the gummy toggle slide to make sure that there was no cartridge in the breech. There wasn’t. That was just as well, Goldstein thought as he peered down the Luger’s grimy, four-inch barrel. If this fouled weapon were fired it would probably blow up in his hand.
Goldstein knew that he had no time to fieldstrip and clean the weapon. He slid the Luger back into its holster, buttoned down the flap, and strapped it around his waist. He would have to hope for the best during the inspection. The fact that the pistol was useless didn’t personally bother Goldstein. He had every intention of immediately surrendering if he went down behind enemy lines. He was a flier, not an infantry soldier. If the Herr Oberleutnant had any problem with that he could just come visit Goldstein in the P.O.W. camp in order to reprimand him.
On the ready line Goldstein made sure that his flare pistol was clipped in place in his Fokker’s cockpit. He came to attention in front of his airplane as Goering appeared, swagger stick in hand, with Adjutant Bodenschatz, thirty years old and matinee-idol handsome, in tow.
Standing ramrod straight, staring straight ahead, Goldstein watched out of the corner of his eye as the Herr Oberleutnant walked the line, pausing here and there to look over an airplane, or nod to a pilot. The suspense mounted as Goering approached, but he seemed unconcerned with Goldstein; was passing him by; Goldstein was about to breathe a sigh of relief—
Goering glanced at Goldstein’s Fokker, and then stopped. “Herr Sergeant, why is there only one machine gun mounted on your airplane?” he asked ominously. “How can you expect to perform your duty of shooting down enemy machines with only one machine gun?”
“Sir, using only one gun I have shot down sixteen airplanes up to now with no great problem—”
“Quiet!” Goering snapped. He looked at the adjutant. “This man’s name?” he demanded.
“Hermann Goldstein,” Bodenschatz replied.
“Ah, yes.” Goering nodded jovially. “I thought he looked familiar. This is the young fellow who made that touching speech about winning his Blue Max.” He smiled at Goldstein. “I presume the Herr Sergeant has been set straight concerning that ludicrous notion?” When Goldstein didn’t reply, Goering’s smile faded. “I asked you a question, Herr Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sir, I have been set straight concerning that, Sir.”
Goering gestured toward Goldstein’s single Spandau gun with his swagger stick. “Your airplane’s armament is totally against regulations. All the other pilots see fit to fly with standard-issue, twin machine guns.” He stepped in close to Goldstein, and used his swagger stick to tilt up Goldstein’s chin. “What’s good enough for decent, Christian, gentlemen,” Goering took his time, spitting the words into Goldstein’s face as he used the stick to lever Goldstein’s chin ever higher, “ought to be good enough for the likes of you, Herr Sergeant.”
Goldstein heard snickers of laughter up and down the line. His rage, so long bottled up, bubbled over inside of him. “Begging the Herr Firstlieutenant’s pardon,” Goldstein heard himself say, “your decent Christian gentlemen are content to fly guns. I fly airplanes.”
“Not today will you fly airplanes!” Goering exploded. “I won’t have your insolence! You’re grounded! Herr Adjutant! Make note in the official record that Herr Sergeant Hermann Goldstein had been officially reprimanded and grounded by the acting C.O. of J.G. 1. —”
“Sir, the Herr Rittmeister knows about the Herr Sergeant’s single gun,” Bodenschatz tried to protest. “The Herr Rittmeister—”
“Isn’t here!” Goering snapped. “But I am here!” He stepped back to address the entire line. “All of you better realize that I will brook no insolence! No nonsense! Things will be done exactly as I order them! Exactly by the book! Understood?”
The line was deathly silent. Goering shifted his attention back to Goldstein. “You, Herr Sergeant, are to consider yourself confined to quarters until further notice!” He waved his swagger stick as if he were flicking away an insect. “Dismissed!”
Goldstein stood where he was, too dumbfounded to move. Goering, staring at him, turned red. “I said that you were dismissed—”
Goldstein saluted, and stepped back, out of the line. He felt everyone’s eyes upon him as he briskly walked to the ready room to turn in his gear.
(Three)
Goldstein was stretched out on his cot, trying to read about the principles of aircraft design, without much success. He was still too angry concerning the way that Goering had ripped into him two hours earlier to see the words on the page.
He set his book aside, and surrendered to an elaborate fantasy dogfight in which he, with his single Spandau gun, managed to punch enough holes into Goering’s white D VII to blow the machine right out from under the screaming Herr Oberleutnant’s fat ass—
And then, Goering’s wails in Goldstein’s daydream turned into the air raid siren’s mournful howl.
Goldstein sat up, skeptical, expecting it to be a false alarm. Then he heard the roar of airplanes overhead, and the flat, kettle-drum boom of a bomb exploding. He ran to the door, but then hesitated. The Herr Oberleutnant had restricted him to quarters.
The window-rattling explosion of a second bomb decided it for him. At any moment the enemy might begin strafing the pilots’ huts. He had no intention of dying in this flimsy wooden hovel.
Outside everything was noise, smoke, and confusion. Panicked pilots and ground crews were dashing about, shouting conflicting orders at each other. Overhead, three bright orange Spads, wearing the coiled serpent insignia of the French Squadron 30, had command of the sky. Goldstein heard the distinctive chatter of the Spads’ Vickers machine guns as they strafed the field and the answering racket put out by the sleigh-mounted, water-cooled Maxim machine guns manned by the ground air-defense crews assigned to Cappy.
As Goldstein approached the hangar tents he saw one of the Spads dive toward the nearby row
s of parked fuel-tank lorries. A half-dozen sandbag emplacements of Maxim guns bordering the lorries put up crisscrossing lines of defensive fire. The fast-diving Spad shot back, tearing up a Maxim gun and its three-man crew. As the Spad roared past, it came out of its dive to release a bomb which whistled down toward the lorries.
Goldstein, like everyone else, threw himself to the ground and waited for the bomb to detonate—and then the huge fireball as the fuel-laden lorries ignited. The image of the Spad and the number painted on its tail was emblazoned in his mind: The airplane that’s killed me is number 17.
Nothing happened. The Spad’s bomb was evidently a dud.
Goldstein got to his feet, dripping mud. He saw Corporal Froehlig standing at the entranceway to one of the hangar tents and ran toward him. Froehlig was screaming orders to mechanics and ground crew to get the closest Fokkers fueled and rolled out to the ready line.
As Goldstein reached Froehlig he saw the adjutant, Herr Oberleutnant Bodenschatz, approaching. The adjutant was riding as the passenger in a motorcycle sidecar on which was mounted a shoulder-stock, drum-fed, Parabellum light machine gun. Bodenschatz was hopping out of the car almost before the cycle driver had skidded to a halt, spraying mud.
“What’s going on?” Goldstein yelled over the noise of the Spads, shouting men, and ground defense machine gun fire.
Froehlig looked furious. “The Herr Oberleutnant Goering neglected to issue orders for a squad to be prepared for air-defense of the field.”
“An understandable oversight,” Bodenschatz cut in, loyally attempting to defend a fellow officer. “With the weather so poor the Herr Oberleutnant didn’t believe Allied fighters would attempt the venture.”
“As the Herr Adjutant wishes,” Froehlig murmured. “But now it’ll be at least ten minutes before we can get anything in the air.”
“But my Fokker’s still on the ready line—” Goldstein exclaimed. He stared at his airplane. “My God, the propeller’s turning! Who started the engine?”
“I did,” Corporal Froehlig said. “I ordered the crew to start her up as soon as the siren sounded.”
“Then why isn’t she in the air?” Goldstein asked, exasperated.
Corporal Froehlig looked away. “The Herr Adjutant will explain.”
“Explain what?” Goldstein demanded impatiently.
“No one will fly your machine,” Bodenschatz said, looking embarrassed.
“Because it has only one gun?” Goldstein asked in disbelief.
Bodenschatz shook his head. “Because the others consider it unlucky… and unclean.” His voice trailed off. “—because you’re a Jew.”
Goldstein shuddered, disgusted. These fools can no longer humiliate me, he thought. They can only humiliate themselves. “Then I’ll fly it,” he said, turning away.
Bodenschatz stopped him. “You’ve been grounded.”
Goldstein saw that Spad No. 17 was coming around for another try at the fuel lorries, while the other two flew top cover to protect their companion against an ambush from a returning German patrol. “Begging the Herr Adjutant’s pardon,” Goldstein replied. “But we’ll all be dead if we don’t get a plane in the air to at least distract the enemy.”
“But those Spads will be on you as soon as they see you rolling,” Froehlig objected. “You’ll be shot up before you leave the ground.”
Goldstein looked at Bodenschatz. “Sir, will you help?”
“But how can I?”
“Your motorcycle sidecar, Sir. It has a machine gun. If you were to ride alongside my Fokker, affording me covering fire until I was airborne?…”
Bodenschatz’s dark eyes lit up. He grinned and quickly nodded. “Herr Sergeant, I’ll be beside you when you need me.”
Goldstein ran toward his airplane, with Froehlig keeping up beside him. “Your helmet and goggles—” the corporal began.
“No time for them,” Goldstein muttered.
“The windchill,” Froehlig protested.
“Heiner, look on the bright side. It’s going to be three against one, assuming I can even take off. I’ll probably be dead before I feel any discomfort.”
As they reached the idling airplane Froehlig reached out to grasp Goldstein’s arm. “Good luck, Hermann.”
“Thanks, my friend,” Goldstein smiled, and then he was hoisting himself into the cockpit. He quickly buckled himself into his seat as Froehlig pulled the chocks from the wheels. As the Fokker began to roll Goldstein slapped open the throttle and steered for open ground.
Goldstein, squinting against the engine exhaust smoke, looked up over his shoulder. The Fokker was bouncing and jolting its way along the rutted field. The Spads would spot him any second now.
He saw Spad No. 17 break off strafing the fuel lorries, luckily, before any of the Spad’s bullets could ignite the petro. The Spad came around onto Goldstein’s tail, with the other two stacked above it, still acting as lookouts as they patiently waited their turn to shoot German fish in a barrel.
Goldstein smiled grimly. At least he’d succeeded in drawing the enemy away from the vulnerable fuel deposit and the hangar tents. He didn’t think the Frenchies could resist his decoy maneuver. Blowing up fuel lorries or parked airplanes was important work, but destroying a piloted airplane, even if it was still on the ground, would count as a kill on a pilot’s record.
Goldstein waited for the last possible moment before turning his Fokker into the wind, so abruptly that his triplane’s wing skid scraped the ground. The Spads overshot him. He heard their Vickers guns, and saw their rounds kicking up mud, but no bullets hit his airplane. Goldstein had his throttle wide open, the Fokker was rattling along fit to jar the teeth out of his head, but it would still be another minute before he would be going fast enough to get airborne.
The Spad pilots would know that as well, just as they’d know that now he had to remain on a straight course if he wanted to reach takeoff velocity. All the Spads had to do was get behind him and use their machine guns to nail him down.
Goldstein again peered over his shoulder. The Spads were closing in. He saw orange fire licking out from the barrels of No. 17’s twin Vickers. The mud was erupting in molten spurts all around his Fokker. He hunched down in his seat and waited to get shot. Where the hell was Bodenschatz?—
Thanks to his own engine making such a racket, Goldstein didn’t hear the motorcycle until it had pulled up alongside his airplane. Bodenschatz jauntily waved and then hunched over his sidecar’s Parabellum and began firing short bursts up at the offending Spad.
Goldstein never expected Bodenschatz to do any damage; all he’d wanted was for the adjutant’s gun to buy him a little breathing space. Goldstein watched what was happening in his rearview mirror and couldn’t have been more shocked when Spad 17 began spewing black smoke, the thick oily clouds effectively shrouding his Fokker, preventing the other Spads from accurately returning fire.
Goldstein heard Bodenschatz bellow, “Good God, I’ve got a kill!” He watched in his mirror as Spad 17 banked steeply onto its side and then nosedived, its prop biting into the mud. The Spad erupted in thunder and flames as its momentum cartwheeled it end over end across the field. There was no way the Spad’s pilot could have survived that, Goldstein thought as Bodenschatz’s driver, panicked by the shooting flames, veered off.
He pulled back on his stick, and the Fokker responded. He glimpsed Bodenschatz behind his smoking machine gun, his fists held aloft in triumph, and then the motorcycle and sidecar dropped away. Goldstein was airborne.
As soon as he had enough altitude not to scrape his tail, Goldstein hauled up the Fokker’s nose, putting his machine through a severely tight Immelman loop. He heard his Fokker’s struts groan in protest and knew that he was risking tearing the fragile, three-tiered, wood and canvas wings right off his machine, but he held to the aerobatic maneuver, up and over and right into the surprised faces of the two Spads. Like jousting knights, the three planes converged upon each other. Goldstein fired a burst from his Spandau gun
point-blank into the prop of the nearest Spad, even as his opponents’ Vickers tore holes in his own engine cowling. Then he was past the two Spads, and fighting for altitude.
Goldstein knew that the Spads were equipped with Hispano-Suiza in-line engines that put out 220 horsepower as compared to his engine’s puny 110. It was a given that the Spads could fly rings around any Fokker triplane, but Goldstein’s Fokker was a stripped-down machine, carrying only one gun, and he himself was a pilot who, like a jockey, had disciplined his body to go without so as to be as light as possible.
The Spads at the field’s far end would climb higher and faster than his Fokker, but all three airplanes would have to stop climbing prematurely to avoid entering the heavy cloud cover that canopied the sky. Goldstein hoped the Spads’ pilots would overestimate their altitude advantage when they began their attack dive. If they did so, their superior speed, relatively low altitude, and proximity would not allow the French pilots the time to correct their misjudgment.
The wind tore at Goldstein, almost blinding his unprotected eyes as he came around in a steeply banking turn toward his two adversaries. The Spads had come around as well. They were hurtling toward him head on at top speed. As he’d hoped, the French pilots had underestimated his modified Fokker’s climbing ability. They’d figured he’d be lower than he was, so their angle of descent was too steep for them to use their own guns.
As they crossed Goldstein’s path, well forward of him, he put a burst into the nearest Spad, plowing a 7.92-millimeter furrow along its fuselage from nose to tail.
The Spad he’d shot up went into a tailspin, just pulling out in time. Goldstein watched the bullet-pocked airplane skirt Cappy field in a wide bank and then head for home. The other Spad was turning tail and running off as well. Goldstein didn’t understand what was going on until he saw Jastas 11 and 6, in stacked Vee formation, coming home.
