The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots

by Jon E. Lewis

  But I should really go see old Bergen. But I dread this visit. The old man is said to have become a depressive since he received the news of his son Otto’s crash. What can I say to console him? It is easier to fight than to stand by idly to look at the wounds wrought by the war.

  I have to go to the doctor every day. He is not very happy with the healing process. I let him talk now; it no longer touches me like it did the first time. One morning, just as I return from one of my visits, I meet Lo13 in the Hofgarten. We had known each other from the old days as youngsters know one another. We had danced together a few times and had been on picnics in company with others.

  We walk along together. In her delicately patterned silk dress she looks as though she had blossomed just this morning. When one looks at her, one can hardly believe that there can be such a thing as war. But then she tells me that she is working as an auxiliary nurse in an Army hospital. In her station lies a man with a bullet in his spine who has been dying for months. Every few weeks, his relatives make a long trip to see him, take leave of him, and he continues to live on. But he must die, so all the doctors say.

  She looks at me with surprise, as I interrupt her curtly: “Wouldn’t you rather talk about something else?”

  For a while she is offended. She pushes out her lower lip and looks like a child who just had a chocolate bar taken away from it. In front of her house we make up and make a date for an evening at the Ratskeller.

  In the afternoon I go to Bergen’s. The maid leads me into the living room where old Bergen sits behind a newspaper. He is all by himself. Hans and Claus are in the field, and his wife died a long time ago. He lets the paper sink and looks at me over his pince-nez. His face has become startlingly old and withered, his Van Dyke hangs like a snowy icicle.

  How helpless is one before the pain of another. “I wanted to . . .” I stammer . . . “because of Otto . . .”

  “Let it be, Ernst, you wanted to look up Otto once more.” He gets up and shakes my hand. “Come.”

  He opens the door and precedes me up the stairs. We stand in Otto’s room, the little mansard Otto occupied as a student.

  “So,” says old Bergen with a flitting wave of the hand, “you can see everything here.”

  Then he turns around and walks out. His footfall diminishes down the stairs. I am alone with Otto.

  In the little room, everything is as it was then. On the chest and on the book shelves stand model airplanes that Otto had built himself. They look beautiful, these models. All the types known at that time, reproduced to the most minute detail. But when they flew, they fell like stones. That was ten years ago.

  I step up to the children’s desk with the green, ink-spotted cover and fold up the top. They are still there, the composition books, the diary of the Aero Club Munich, 1909. Its members were between ten and thirteen years old. Every Wednesday there was a model building group in our attic, every Saturday a big airplane meet by the Stadtbach or the Isar. Otto’s planes were always the most beautiful, but mine, ugly sparrows though they were, flew farthest. Somehow, I had the knack. And in his neat, child’s handwriting he had noted down everything in his capacity as secretary of the club. “the aviator, Herr Ernst Udet, was awarded first prize for the successful channel crossing of his model U-11” it says there, because my type had gotten across the Isar without accident.

  Everything is so neatly placed, as though he had arranged everything before taking his final leave. There are letters, all the letters I had written to him, packed in small bundles and marked with the year they were written. On top is the last, unopened. In it, there is news that I have finally succeeded in getting him released for my staffel. The letter closes: “Hurrah, Otto!”

  There are the drawings. He always did the right half, I the left. The photographs all are there, beginning with those from earliest childhood. He has even saved the ones from the “Meet at Niederschau.” I jumped with the first glider constructed by the Aero Club and cracked up. The bird broke its beak and Willi Goetz, our chairman, informed the people of Niederschau that the ground magnetism in the area was too strong for flying. Then, group shots from the first days of dancing school loves, then the war, motorcyclists, the first flying suits, after the first victory. Under each photo the date and in neat lettering the caption in white ink. He had lived my life with me.

  There is something strange about the friendship of boys. We would have rather bitten our tongues than to admit even by a single word that we cared for each other. Only now do I see it all before me.

  I close the desk and go down the stairs. Old Bergen again sits behind his paper. He gets up and shakes my hand; there is no pressure, no warmth.

  “If you want some of Otto’s things, Ernst,” he says, “take what you like. He liked you most of all his friends.”

  He turns away and begins to clean his pince-nez. I have none, and a few tears run across my face. I stand in the hallway for a while before I step out into the street.

  I was twenty-one then, and Otto was my best friend.

  In the evening I meet Lo at the Ratskeller. I wear “civvies” because I want to forget the war for an evening. But Lo feels hurt. I don’t look sufficiently heroic.

  We eat tough, stringy veal and large, bluish potatoes that look as though they were anemic and had spent too much time in the water. Only the wine has ripe sweetness and gives no indication of the war.

  An old lady comes by with roses. Lo glances sideways at the flowers. “Leave them be,” I say in a low voice, “they’re all wired anyhow.”

  But the old one has heard me; she puts down her basket and plants herself squarely in front of us.

  “This I like fine,” she shrieks in a broad Bavarian dialect and stems her arms into her hips. “Such a fine little snot sits around, all dolled up, and wants to take the bread out of the mouth of an old woman. In the trenches, that’s where you belong, young man, that much I tell you.”

  People at the neighboring tables, their attention attracted by the old lady’s clamor, are looking at us. This would be pretty embarrassing if I were a dodger but, since I’m not, it amuses me, but Lo has blushed to the roots of her hair.

  “Well,” I say, “so give me a couple of bundles.”

  The transformation is miraculous. Her ire has passed with the speed of a theater storm, and her face is suffused with sweetness and courtesy. She hastily fishes around among her bundles of roses.

  “Never mind me, young man,” she babbles on, “anyone can see you are still much too young to go out. I just let my temper run away with me. All you have to do is look to see,” she says, turning to the people at the surrounding tables, “any child can tell that this boy just celebrated his confirmation.”

  I wave her off. Lo has an ominous wrinkle between her eyebrows.

  “Just confirmed,” she snaps.

  I reach for her small, sun-tanned hand, lying on the white tablecloth.

  “You know,” I say, “just once, I would like to be alone with you, away from everything.” It is an attack straight out of the sun. She is so surprised, I can almost read the thoughts behind the round, childlike forehead.

  “We would have to drive out,” I said, “somewhere in the country. Perhaps we could go to Lake Starnberg; Gustav Otto has invited me. Perhaps we could also go farther up into the mountains. We could be free and unencumbered and enjoy nature, as though we were in another world.”

  At first she smiles, then she purses her lips.

  “But we could hardly do this. What would my parents say?”

  “Please forgive me,” I say, “but I have left my manners in the field.”

  We go. It is a humid night, and the wind rustles the treetops. We stop under a lantern, and she pats me on the arm.

  “Please don’t be angry.”

  I shrug: “Angry? No!”

  But I feel something is amiss. Out in the field, everything has changed. Things that were once important are no longer of any value. Other things as important as life itself. But ba
ck here, life has stood still. I can’t put it into words, but suddenly I feel homesick for my buddies.

  We stop at the garden gate in front of Lo’s home. She lingers, but I quickly kiss her hand quite correctly and make a fast getaway.

  On the next day I go out by myself. I’m in a rotten mood. I can’t get back to the front. When I brought up the subject, the doctor read me the riot act. But back here I feel lost. When I come home, my parents are already asleep.

  On one evening, however, all windows are still alight. I run up the stairs as the door opens and my mother stands on the jamb, her face red and shining with happiness. She is waving a piece of paper in her hand, a telegram from the group, advising that I had been awarded the Pour le Mérite.

  I am happy, really happy, even though it doesn’t come as a complete surprise. After a certain number of victories, the Pour le Mérite comes – it is almost automatic. But the real joy is that which reflects from my mother. She is beside herself and has kept everyone up to wait for me, even my little sister. She has cut a medal out of paper and now hangs it around my neck with a piece of yarn.

  My father shakes hands with me. “Congratulations, son,” he says, nothing else. But he has opened a bottle of Stein-berger Kabinett, 1884 vintage, one of the family heirlooms. This says more than words. The wine is golden yellow and flows like oil. Its fragrance permeates the entire room. We touch glasses.

  “To peace, a good peace,” says father.

  Next morning, in bed, I think of Lo. If I had my Pour le Mérite, I would make a date with her, as if nothing had happened. I jump out of bed, get dressed, and go into town.

  I go to an orders jeweler on Theatinerstrasse. The salesman shrugs his shoulders: “Pour le Mérite? – No! Insufficient demand.” Too bad. I thought I could surprise Lo. But it will be at least two weeks before the medal will reach me from my unit. Slowly I amble along the street, mechanically returning salutes to soldiers and officers passing by. There comes a naval officer; it is Wenninger, commander of a submarine. At his throat, a Pour le Mérite glistens in the sun.

  It is the inspiration of the moment. I go toward him, saluting, and ask: “Excuse me, but do you per chance happen to have a second Pour le Mérite?”

  He gives me a wide-eyed look, and I explain. He laughs loudly and embarrassingly long. No, he doesn’t have a second one, but he gives me the address of a store in Berlin where I can order one, by telegram if I so desire. I thank him, a little chagrined, and salute formally.

  Two days later, the order arrives from Berlin. It lies like a star in a red velvet case. I give Lo a call to make a date. She laughs and accepts at once. Waiting for her, I parade up and down in front of her house. Then she comes and spots the order around my neck at once. “Ernie,” she shouts, and comes hopping along like a bird trying to take off. In the middle of the street, in front of everyone, she throws here arms around my neck and kisses me.

  It is a bright, sunny, spring morning. Side by side, we walk slowly and loose-jointed toward the center of town. When soldiers pass, they salute especially sharply, and most turn around. Lo counts: Out of forty-three, twenty-seven have turned around. We walk along Theatinerstrasse, the main artery of Munich, from which life seems to radiate and where it returns. In front of the Residenz14 stands the sentry, a short reservist with bristling beard and button nose. Suddenly, with a voice of proportions unexpected from such a small chest, he shouts:

  “The Guard, fall out!”

  The men come piling out. “Fall in,” commands the officer. “Left shoulder arms! Achtung! Present arms!”

  I look around. There is no one else near. Then I remember my Pour le Mérite. I am almost past when I return the salute. It comes off a bit small, too hasty and without dignity.

  “What was that all about?” asks Lo, looking at me with big eyes.

  “God,” I say loftily, “before a Pour le Mérite, the Guard has to fall out.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Good, then we’ll try once more.”

  At first I object a little, but I finally give in. After all, I’m still not all that certain myself.

  This time we are well prepared and enter into this affair with good posture. “Guards, fall out,” shouts the sentry. At the same moment Lo hooks into my arm and, with a gracious nod, she troops the short line at my side.

  Woman’s vanity is insatiable. If she had her way, we would spend the rest of the afternoon chasing the Guard in and out. But I go on strike. The Guard detail is no toy for little girls. Lo pouts.

  They are days of blue silk. Never again did I experience such a spring. We meet every day, strolling through the English Garden, drinking tea or going to the theater. The war is far, far away.

  CRASHES AND COCKTAILS

  JOHN McGAVOCK GRIDER

  Grider, whose diary is extracted below, was an American aviator serving with the Royal Flying Corps in France, 1917–18.

  November 18th

  Cal and I went down to Stamford to spend the day and nearly died laughing. Our stomachs are still sore.

  There was a sort of straff going on that day. They had a new C.O. and he was an ex-Guards officer and had a grudge against the Huns and wanted to get on with the war. There were a lot of young English kids that had been there some time swinging the lead and he sent for them all and lined them up. He told them that there was a war on and that pilots were needed badly at the front and that they were all going solo that afternoon. They nearly fainted. Some of them had had less than two hours of air work and none of them had had more than five.

  We all went out to the airdrome to see the fun. I guess there were about thirty of them in all. The squadron was equipped with D.H. Sixes which are something like our Curtiss planes except they are slower and won’t spin no matter what you do to them.

  The first one to take off was a bit uneasy and an instructor had to taxi out for him. He ran all the way across the field, and it was a big one, and then pulled the stick right back into his stomach. The Six went straight up nose first and stalled and hung on its propeller. Then it did a tail slide right back into the ground.

  The next one did better. He got off and zig-zagged a bit but instead of making a circuit he kept straight on. His instructor remarked that he would probably land in Scotland, because he didn’t know how to turn.

  Another one got off fairly well and came around for his landing. He leveled off and made a beautiful landing – a hundred feet above the ground. He pancaked beautifully and shoved his wheels up thru the lower wings. But the plane had a four-bladed prop on it and it broke off even all around. So the pupil was able to taxi on into the hangar as both wheels had come up the same distance. He was very much pleased with himself and cut off the engine and took off his goggles and stood up and started to jump down to the ground which he thought was about five feet below him. Then he looked down and saw the ground right under his seat. He certainly was shocked.

  Another took off fine but he had never been taught to land and he was a bit uncertain about that operation. He had the general idea all right but he forgot to cut off his motor. He did a continuous series of dives and zooms. A couple of instructors sang a dirge for him:

  The young aviator lay dying, and as ’neath the wreckage he lay

  To the Ak Emmas around him assembled, these last parting words did he say:

  “Take the cylinder out of my kidney, the connecting rod out of my brain,

  From the small of my back take the crankshaft, and assemble the engine again!”

  There were a lot more verses but I can’t remember them.

  We thought sure he was gone but he got out of it all right and made a fairly decent landing but not where he had expected.

  The next one didn’t know much about landing either. He came in too fast and didn’t make the slightest attempt to level off. The result was a tremendous bounce that sent him up a hundred feet. He used his head and put his motor on and went around again. He did that eight times an
d finally smashed the undercarriage so that next time he couldn’t bounce. Then he turned over on his back. The C.O. congratulated him and told him he would probably make a good observer.

  They finally all got off and not a one of them got killed. I don’t see why not tho. Only one of them got hurt and that was when one landed on top of the other one. The one in the bottom plane got a broken arm. I got quite a thrill out of that.

  May 13th

  The great McCudden, now Major McCudden, V.C., D.S.O., M.C, E.T.C.,15 just back from the front to get decorated again, came into Murray’s last night for dinner and, oh, boy, what a riot he caused. All the officers went over to his table to congratulate him and the women – well, they fought to get at him just like they do at a bargain counter back home. He’s the hottest thing we have now – 54 Huns, five more than Bishop16 and he’s just gotten the V.C. and a bar to his D.S.O. He held a regular levee. I think there are only five airmen living that have the V.C. The first thing you have to do to get it is to get killed.

  The girl with him thought she was the Queen of Sheba. She started to pretend she didn’t know us. I should have reminded her where we met but I didn’t. I saved her life once.

  Well, I’m not jealous. I’m going to hot myself some day.

  I’m either coming out of the war a big man or in a wooden kimono. I know I can fight, I know I can fly, and I ought to be able to shoot straight. If I can just learn to do all three things at once, they can’t stop me. And Bishop is going to teach me to do that. I’ve got to make a name for myself, even if they have to prefix “late” to it.

  May 14th

  All aboard for France. Our orders have come thru and we leave next Wednesday.

  A ferry pilot brought over my new machine day before yesterday and smashed it all to pieces landing. He got tangled up in the wires coming in. So I decided I’d fetch my own service machine and got Springs to fly me over to Brooklands in an Avro yesterday and I flew it back. It certainly is a beauty. I like these 180 Viper Hispanos made by Wolsey much better than the 220 Peugeots. Brooklands used to be an automobile race track but is now the depot and test park for the R.F.C. I saw some of the new experimental planes down there. One was the Snipe, which has the 200 Bentley motor and is going to take the place of the Camel at the front. Another was the Snark which has the big A.B.C. air-cooled radial. It has a wonderful performance but I understand there’s some hitch about it. The Salamander and the Hippo and the Bulldog were all there too. The Hippo is a sort of two-seater Dolphin.