Wolf held his shoulder which was throbbing and slowly moved along the pier, which he now assumed was abandoned. There wasn’t much to choose from. Wolf jumped into a 15-foot fishing boat, which had a good sized outboard engine. He yanked on the starting rope to the engine. The engine smoked, sputtered then died. Come on!
The white smock was tossed aside and Wolf pulled on the starter rope again. The engine seemed to catch and Wolf slowly turned the throttle. Yes! The noise from the engine grew louder, and Wolf decided that this poor example of a boat was going to get him across the Channel and back to his unit in France.
He hadn’t exactly thought how he was going to kill Zigfried Bockler and whoever else was responsible for murdering his parents. But no doubt that was going to happen, and he would take great pleasure in doing it. Whoever said revenge wasn’t sweet or satisfying was a fool.
Wolf came back to the here and now as the outboard engine died again. He pulled on the starter rope and it snapped. Damn it!
A black sedan came to a stop on the rickety pier. Wolf looked up and saw the rear door open. Winston Churchill peered down at Wolf. “You may as well swim back to France, rather than putting to sea in that tub.”
For some reason, Wolf wasn’t upset. Rather after everything that had happened to him in the last six hours, Wolf was brought back to his weekend with Winston, so many years ago. “I thought the British were a seafaring people. Evidently that isn’t correct.”
“Shall I have James fetch you an oar, or would you like a ride in my car?”
“Where are we going? Where is the RAF prisoner of war camp?”
“Yes, well that was only decided after the war commenced. All Luftwaffe pilots are to be sent to Canada. Manitoba as I recall. But I must admit the accommodations on the cruise are rather sparse.”
“Figures.”
The sergeant from the hospital and two other soldiers ran onto the pier. Their boots made a tremendous racket and one of the soldier’s boots partially busted a wooden plank. The sergeant raised his voice and pointed at Wolf. “There he is! Now don’t move Captain Kruger, or you’ll need more than a doctor.” The sergeant turned his attention to the Rolls Royce and the occupant in the rear seat, who was munching on a cigar. “I need some identification papers.” Winston only grunted.
James opened his coat, fingered a revolver and whispered to Winston, “Shall I take out my Webley?”
“That won’t be necessary... at least not at the present moment.”
The sergeant became more aggressive and stepped toward the Rolls Royce. He knocked over an oar into the water that was leaning on a piling. “Come on; hand them over. And no sudden moves.”
Winston chided the sergeant. “Sergeant, I can only conclude that you aren’t light on your feet on the dance floor. Tell me, do you trip over your shoelaces? Now that wouldn’t impress your date... mind you if you had one.”
The sergeant took two steps closer to the Rolls Royce. “Aren’t you the clever bugger. I’m taking you and the German in.” James got out of the car and the sergeant and the two soldiers looked at him with suspicion “And who may you be?”
“I’m Winston Churchill’s driver. Oh and I was his orderly in Flanders. We ducked our heads in the trenches from German machine gun bullets and kissed the mud during artillery barrages. Thank His Majesty we never ran out of brandy.”
Winston laughed, “And the croissants that a French woman, from a nearby farmhouse, gave us every week. James had a fancy for her.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Wolf motioned toward James, “James…”
“Well, it never would have worked out. I’m much too set in my ways.”
The sergeant finally came to the edge of the window. “Winston Churchill, that’s a crock.” The sergeant put down his revolver when he recognized the Prime Minister. “Doesn’t that beat all.”
The two soldiers stood there dumbfounded. One of them said to the other. “It’s him alright; I’d recognize that bulldog face anywhere.”
“Such kind words,” said Winston.
“You’re very welcome Mr. P. M.”
“Now Sergeant if you will excuse us, we will be running along... with Captain Kruger.”
“In your Rolls Royce then?”
James snickered, “That is the idea.”
The sergeant’s shoulders drooped as if he was disappointed. “What then does a bloke like me have to do to get a ride in the Rolls?”
“Shoot down five planes. Wolf if you please.”
Wolf got out of the boat and walked toward the Rolls Royce. “I could have made it on the boat. It was going to start.”
Winston saluted the sergeant. “Carry on and mum's the word.”
The sergeant saluted back. “Sir, our lips are sealed.” Wolf got in the Rolls Royce and James closed the door. As he walked to the driver’s side of the sedan, the sergeant said, “Be warned the pier has seen better days. We don’t want to see the P.M. get his legs wet…”
The Rolls Royce backed off the pier, made a three-point turn and sped away. Inside James adjusted the rearview mirror to get a close look at Wolf. “Very good to see you... Captain.”
“And you as well. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
The billowing smoke on the horizon bore testament to the day’s attacks by the Luftwaffe. Winston said, “You made a mess of our airfields.”
“It wasn’t me. Oh, I would have, but I was put out of action.”
The Rolls Royce snaked thru the evening traffic and was mostly unnoticed. Fancy cars whether they were black Rolls Royce’s or not were very common in the business district. They could be filled with business titans or a theatre magnate like Harold Ickes or Winston Churchill, who was the best hope for the free world to stop Adolf Hitler. Winston quietly said, “I was very sorry indeed to be informed about the death tragic death of your parents.”
“You know then.”
“Yes. And it came as a shock, to all of us. I can only imagine how the news hit you.”
Wolf felt his shoulder wound again and it seemed better, but blood was still oozing from it. “It wasn’t easy. I loved them very much.”
“As they did you, my boy. As they did you.”
“Aren’t you afraid I may bolt from the car and disappear into the night?”
James spoke up. “Lad I don’t imagine you will get far in that Luftwaffe uniform. Though I must admit, it does fit you well.”
Winston chomped on a cigar. “A terrible twist of fate, both your parents being killed on the autobahn. I would have thought Herr Hitler had made that safe too.”
“Apparently not.”
“You’ll be happy to know, that Captain Randolph made it back to his squadron in one piece. In fact, he’s mustered at Biggin Hill. The airfield where you first graced your flying abilities. And Lieutenant Marsh is there as well. I understand he cursed you and Hermann Goering after this morning’s attack. You managed to wreck their runway. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“The fate of war, as you would put it.”
“In any case, Captain Randolph told us about your escapade in the Storch.”
James said, “Is it true, you were on your way to receiving honors for becoming an ace?”
“Yes. I thought I’d tidy up the situation in one swoop. Drop off Randolph and shake the hands of Hermann Goering the next day.”
James laughed, “Did you like him?”
“No.” All three of them laughed. “But I’m bound by duty and honor to my country.”
“But of course,” said James as he turned onto Whitehall, bringing them ever closer to 10 Downing Street.
Winston said, “He told all of us about it. It was rather heroic, what you did.”
“Here, here,” said James.
Wolf sat up and looked at both of them. Winston could tell that Wolf wasn’t pleased. “Us? He promised not to say anything... especially to Madeline.”
“You mean my headstrong niece, who has a habit of finishing my sen
tences for me and then will correct me for things that I didn’t say... but was going too?”
“Yes, that very one. I assume she is married now or at least engaged. That would make the most sense. The most sense.”
James readjusted the rearview mirror and turned his eyes back on the road. Oh to be young again. It never stops. The powerful tidal wave sweeps everyone in its path off their feet. Winston looked straight ahead, “You think that would be the case. But alas, Madeline lacks empathy and charm when it suits her. There are not many who can subdue a tiger by the tail as it were.”
Wolf smirked and nodded. Nothing truer has ever been said. “We all can’t be perfect.”
“Now tell me, and I say this with the utmost respect. How did the finest ace in the Luftwaffe manage to get shot down?”
“It wasn’t by the RAF if that’s what you’re thinking.” Winston was perplexed. “I was shot down by a pilot in my squadron.”
James turned around as the Rolls Royce pulled to a stop in front of 10 Downing Street. “Really.”
Winston said, “Accidents do happen.”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“Not very becoming of a Luftwaffe pilot.”
Wolf checked his shoulder one more time. “He’s was a Nazi pilot.”
Winston only said, “I see…”
They got out of the Rolls Royce, and the jet black door of the Prime Minister’s residence was opened by a soldier, who was on guard by the entrance. Once inside the foyer, Winston asked Wolf, “Do I have your word that the theatrics are over for the night?”
Wolf looked around the foyer and was impressed by the ornate details of the residence. “It is my duty to escape. As you did during the Boer War.”
“That was different. I was young and impulsive. But you Captain Kruger are well grounded. You have your parents to thank for that.”
Wolf sighed and his face turned sad. “I’m very tired.”
“We will talk more in the morning; perhaps everything will be clearer. Your room at least temporarily is up the stairs and the door to the right. Madeline’s is to the left.”
“Is she here?”
“Not at the moment. But I do expect her.”
Wolf looked at another guard who was on the edge of the foyer. “I assume he will be watching me.”
“You leave me no choice. Now get some rest. I’ll call for you when my physician arrives, to look at that shoulder of yours.”
Wolf left the foyer and went up the stairs. Mr. Stuart, who was in charge of security guard for the Prime Minister’s residence, watched this Luftwaffe pilot, go up the stairs. Mr. Stuart said to Winston, “I don’t approve of having a German officer staying at 10 Downing Street. Not only is it shocking, but how can I protect you with the enemy in our midst – even if he is a German officer?”
Winston chomped down on an unlit cigar. “Mr. Stuart, that isn’t just a German officer; that is Wolf Kruger an ace in the Luftwaffe and the reigning champion of the two-man Regatta on the River Thames. He was only shot down thru the treachery of a jealous pilot.”
Mr. Stuart rolled his eyes. “That makes all the difference then.”
Calais-Marck Airfield
Colonel Dunkel and his adjutant stood on a makeshift platform by the edge of the runway. The wood platform was somewhat stable, but shook in a breeze or when a Me 109 took off. But it was like everything else in the fighter business, temporary and fleeting. Planes went out on missions and only some came back. And that meant the pilots in those wayward planes were subject to the whims of the war gods.
The adjutant had a binocular to his eyes, and he searched the horizon in the direction of England looking for the yellow nose tipped planes of JAG 23. The first of the Me 109s from the morning raid on the RAF airfields in southern England started to trickle in within 70 minutes of takeoff. The Me 109 had a maximum flight duration of 90 minutes. Any plane not on the runway by then wasn’t coming back.
The count was on and the adjutant gave Colonel Dunkel a running total of the returning Me 109s, as they safely landed. Cheers went up from the waiting ground crews as the plane landed. As the precious time slipped away, like sand falling through an hourglass, the tension grew for Colonel Dunkel. This was the worst part of the job. Waiting to see who was coming back. Waiting to see who was alive and who was dead.
True, a downed pilot could have bailed over enemy territory and now was a POW. But there was no way to know if that was the case. At least not until the Red Cross were notified by the British, who they had in their prisoner of war stockade.
That could take months to find out, and in any case, that pilot was a total write off, as far as the Luftwaffe was concerned. Months of training was down the tubes, as the captured pilot was now playing checkers or sleeping his time away in captivity, instead of doing battle in the sky.
When the time had passed, the adjutant put down his binoculars. “Colonel, that’s all of them.”
Colonel Dunkel only said, “Go on.”
“Two planes were gone. One of those belongs to Captain Kruger.”
Colonel Dunkel nodded and quietly climbed down the platform. A half hour later Zigfried was in the Colonel’s office. It was just the two of them. “Be seated Captain Bockler.”
“Sir.”
“I understand you downed your fourth plane this morning.”
“Yes and I killed him. He won’t be flying against us anymore."
“No doubt”.
Zigfried sat there stone face, acting as if he had no idea what Colonel Dunkel wanted to talk to him about. “The raid was a success. We left our target at Biggin Hill in shambles. These English don’t have the stomach for war. What can you expect from peoples who are an amalgamation of the lower classes.”
Colonel Dunkel said, “Now—”
Zigfried continued to talk over Colonel Dunkel. “But I think America is worse. They have mixed the lower classes with the negroes. My father, Doctor Bockler, surely you have heard of him, has performed important work on the effects of mixing the races. I’m very proud of his work. It is because of patriots like him that we will be victorious.”
Finally, Colonel semi-slapped his hands on the top of his desk. A stack of papers became unsettled. “Captain... Please, that is most interesting. But I can assure you victory will only be ours if we clear England of the RAF. Frankly, that is all I care about. I know nothing of mixed races or the mating practices of porcupines.”
“Colonel I was only trying to enlighten you as to the position of the Nazi Party. You do support the Nazi Party?”
“Captain Bockler, I will dance a jig on this table if the Nazi Party brought me a fresh squadron of pilots to replace our losses, and a squadron of fighter planes, preferably Spitfires. As you must be aware Captain Kruger failed to come back from this morning’s raid. By the way did you see him go down?”
“No sir. I don’t know what happened to him.”
“Well, in any case, JAG 23 needs a new squadron leader. Since you are now the senior member the job is yours. I’d say congratulations, but under the circumstances with the loss of Wolf, it is better to hope for the best.”
“As you wish... sir.”
Colonel Dunkel opened a folder on his desk. “We are still close to full strength, but losing a leader with the qualities of Captain Kruger will be difficult. Captain, you have some big shoes to fill.”
“Perhaps that is so, but I will not be shot out of the sky like Captain Kruger.”
“Dismissed.”
* * *
By 9 p.m. the pilot’s lair was awash in champagne and French prostitutes. Every pilot and commissioned officer in the squadron was in attendance. The realization that two more pilots had been lost only made the ones who had found the runway more cantankerous. The fact that Wolf Kruger had been lost only added to the off color toasts and pilot’s appetite to pass around the French ladies of the night.
The non-commissioned Luftwaffe personnel spent the night drinking beer outside the pilot’s lair. Th
e officer’s club was strictly off-limits to the grease monkeys and ground crews. That was perhaps odd, considering the unassailable point that the ground crew held the champagne drinking pilot’s life in their greasy hands.
That was forgotten for the moment, and the non-commissioned men outside the pilot’s lair had to be satisfied with their beer and lack of available loose women.
Zigfried sat in the rear of the officer’s club. He watched with disgust his fellow pilot’s drink champagne from the bottle with one hand while fondling a girl with the other. If it were up to him, the prostitutes would be taken outside and shot. But these pilots were like most men, weak and full of lusty desires that clouded their vision and perhaps their duty.
Hans drank by himself at a nearby table. He was distressed from the unbelievable. Wolf Kruger, the most confident and yes best pilot in the squadron and maybe the Luftwaffe, had bought the farm. Not only was that distressing, but it also meant that anyone could be shot down...especially him.
Hans barely acknowledged Zigfried, when he pulled up a chair at his table. Zigfried said, “Why do they insist carrying on like this?”
“Why don’t you ask them? Don’t forget to give the Sieg Heil, while you do it.” Hans poured himself another glass of champagne.
“Why don’t you get yourself a whore like the others?”
Hans picked up the champagne bottle and tossed it against the wall. “I’m a potato farmer. That’s right Zigfried, a potato farmer with a girl waiting for me at home. She’s never been more than 20 kilometers away from that farm. She’s a smart girl. Now, is this when you gloat about Wolf getting shot down? I warn you to be careful; I might take offense and take up where Wolf left off.”
Zigfried calmly said, “There is nothing that can be done for Wolf. Not now.”
“Do you think he’s dead? Oh, that’s right you don’t care, but you hope he is.”
“I will let all of that pass. You’re upset, and I can see why. You were his wingman and feel responsible. But it wasn’t your fault.”
Hans looked up and wasn’t sure if it was the champagne, but Zigfried was making sense. “I did what he told me to do. That’s my friggin job.”
Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) Page 20
