Doctor Bockler pulled himself along the floor toward the front door. Pieces of glass on the floor tore through what was left of his suit pants, leaving a trail of blood. Doctor Bockler looked through the shattered door front and saw the Mosquito thundering down the Wilhelmstrasse.
It was like a surreal monster belching fire and reaching for him. But in reality, death was at his doorstep. The Frankenstein doctor who treated his test subjects like guinea pigs or rats, whose only value was to have knives stuck into them or limbs sawed off, was the same as any other coward who looked death in the face. He begged for mercy which was a trait that only moments before, he saw as a weakness.
Three of the four 50 lb rockets impacted inside the art gallery. The rear wall was blown out. The Nazi art gallery now resembled a defeated war zone. Doctor Bockler was hit by a 20 mm cannon shell that severed his right leg at the knee. The leg spun in the air and landed near his head. But he was still alive.
The human body can endure significant damage before it succumbs to the grim reaper. Specifically, if the head and vital organs are intact, the body will soldier on. The heart and kidneys don’t care if you’re missing a finger or two, or a right leg, as in Doctor Bockler’s case.
The missing right leg of the quack doctor was rather poignant since his steel saw had relieved many of his test subjects of their vital limbs. Once his experiments had been concluded, he simply would have the tortured patients exterminated by inserting a needle of chloroform into their hearts. That was a method better suited to killing a helpless or sick animal...not a human being.
So Doctor Bockler suffered for a precious few more moments, as the flames from the second rocket attack lapped up against his body. Slowly he smelled the burning flesh of what was left of his leg. No longer could he drag himself. In any case, there wasn’t anywhere to go. He was in the middle of a circle of flames that with every passing second tightened around him.
He cried when his head caught fire. Doctor Bockler’s gray hair and scalp melted from the searing inferno. He tried to turn away in a futile attempt of self-preservation. His right eye was burned. It sizzled and dripped down his blackened cheeks. Now his heart was racing, but none of his technicians from the medical center were there to record the data from the extreme paces his failing body was going thru.
He gasped for air as his lungs failed. The bone structure of his head slowed up the flames for a moment, which only prolonged the agony. Death finally came when his carotid artery burned and blood gushed out from the side of his neck. Doctor Bockler, the medical “genius” from the Frankfurt Institute for Hereditary Biology and Race Hygiene, would never salute the Fuhrer again, or stick a knife into a set of identical twins. Instead, he was on the fast track to hell.
The Mosquito pulled up and left Berlin as fast as it had arrived. The attack was so sudden that the city had little idea as to what happened. Smoke whiffed into the air from the burning shell that was 12 Wilhelmstrasse. In the coming years, Berlin would see more smoke and destruction that came from the sky.
Barely fifteen minutes later Wolf and Randolph were over open countryside and well on their way to the Luftwaffe’s modern flight testing grounds at Rechlin. The sun was going down and Wolf regained altitude and opened the throttle. Rechin was less than 100 miles from Berlin. The facility was located on the shores of the Lake Muritzsee.
The surrounding area was quaint and quiet. It was a place where Germans would go to get away from the throngs of people in Berlin. The Rechlin airfield was the technology testing center for the Luftwaffe. Every fighter and bomber brought in the Luftwaffe’s arsenal had first passed muster at the facility.
Wolf brought in the Mosquito from the north and the three reconnaissance cameras mounted on the underbelly of the wooden wonder, started taking still photographs of the area. Randolph was the first one to see the exceptionally long runway at the airfield. He immediately told Wolf, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that. The runway goes on forever. Why is that? I got the pictures... home.”
“I’m going down for a look.” Wolf took the Mosquito over the lake, turned and did a low-level fly-by of the airfield. There were anti-aircraft batteries along the edge of the airfield, but they were either unmanned or the soldiers manning them were caught watching the sunset. Parked by the hangar was a plane that no one outside of the Rechlin testing facility had ever seen.
The propless plane had two lengthy cylinders under its wing. Its fuselage was shaped like a needle. It was unlike anything that Randolph and Wolf had ever seen. It was the world’s first jet aircraft. A handful of men were working on the jet, which was officially known as the Me 262. They were surprised by the fly by and stopped what they were doing.
Alarms now went off outside the hangar and Luftwaffe personnel scattered about. Randolph exclaimed, “What the hell was that?”
“Apparently the future. I’m coming back around.”
Down below the airfield was coming online. Wolf came in for another run from a different direction and they got a dead on view of the Messerschmidt 262.
They looked at the modern fighter-bomber which was being wheeled inside the hangar. It was jaw dropping beautiful. “Look at that,” said Randolph.
The Mosquito cleared the airfield and Wolf climbed steeply. “I wonder how it flies.”
“I can tell you one thing; Winston is going to be surprised.”
“I very much doubt that.”
Randolph nodded. “If you were still in the Luftwaffe, you might have gotten a chance to fly that thing. Any regrets?”
“No.”
“Why do you love her?”
The sun dropped from the sky as the Mosquito sped toward the coast. “For the same reason you had to join the RAF, to save your family name.”
“In other words, that’s just the way it is.”
“Just the way it is.”
Harding Barrow
The pilots of 72 Squadron were filling up Harding Barrow. The estate which only a month ago had been dark and gloomy was now full of life. If that’s what you would call 18 pilots, who were barely 23 years old and who were looking for things that young men yearned for.
For his part, Lord Ashton was the perfect host. He chucked his walking cane, and day by day, he seemed to be getting stronger and perhaps younger. The pilots liked to gather on the veranda after a late dinner and talk about anything, except the pilots who didn’t come back that day. Five had been confirmed lost and presumed dead.
It would have been six, but three days earlier, Jeff Rowland who everyone thought had died two days earlier, surprisingly walked through the front door of the estate. Jeff looked at the stunned faces and said, “Someone get me a drink. I was knocked bonkers for over a day. But I did get a Me 110.”
The next night a carload of nurses from the Royal Hospital arrived for a dance. The dining room had been cleared out, and 72 Squadron danced the night away. The slow dance at the end found the pilots and the nurses holding each other close. The pilots would be flying again tomorrow... if the Luftwaffe came. But the Luftwaffe always came.
The pilots couldn’t help but wonder if tomorrow would be their last day. It wasn’t talked about, but it was in the back of everyone’s mind. The nurses thought the same thing. Was this man they had just met, ever to be seen again?
When it was over Randolph, Wolf and Madeline pulled the dining room back together. Lord Ashton walked into the dining room. He had a wondering look on his face. Randolph and Madeline saw that something must have happened. “What is it?” asked Madeline.
“I just got a call from your mother.”
“Mother,” said Madeline.
“Really,” said Randolph.
“Yes. It seems that... she wants to come home.”
Madeline’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?
Tears welled up in Lord Ashton’s eyes. “My dear, I’m surprised you would ask that. I most wholeheartedly said yes.”
Berlin
Zigfried Bockler received his Knight's Cro
ss with Swords Award in the morning and attended the funeral of his father in the afternoon. His ceremony for becoming the second ace in the Luftwaffe during the war in the West should have been a reason for celebration. Instead, it was a muffled affair that was flat.
However, the funeral was a pompous send off. The death toll from the art gallery was 19. The brazen attack at the very heart of Nazi power was more than shocking. The star of the propaganda show was Joseph Goebbels. It was his organization that had been hit, by the pinpoint raid.
He laid a wreath at the foot of Doctor Bockler’s coffin and shook the hand of Zigfried Bockler. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the young ace. He told him, “Your father’s work was very important to the Third Reich. I only hope that it will be continued after his tragic and untimely death. But he died for Germany and the Fuhrer.”
Churchill’s War Rooms
It had been nearly a week since Wolf and Randolph had returned from the Mosquito raid in Berlin. Slowly but surely Hitler, who still considered himself to be a military genius, had approved the bombing of London. Many would say that was retaliation for the occasional pinprick RAF bombings of Berlin.
But it was much more than that. Hitler and even Goering now realized that they weren’t winning the Battle of Britain. Their losses had been higher than the RAF, but not excessively so. In the bigger picture, if the RAF weren't eliminated, Hitler wouldn’t risk a full on invasion of England. That would be rolling the dice on an operation which if it failed could ruin all that he had so far gained through his military conquests.
By turning to the strategic bombing of London, it was hoped that British morale would be compromised, and vital infrastructure would be destroyed. That included aircraft factories and other wartime industries in the surrounding area.
It was close to 10 P.M. when Wolf and Randolph were dropped off by James on the corner of Horse Guards Road and King Charles Street. The Rolls Royce pulled away, and they milled around for a bit and wondered why Winston had summoned them from Biggin Hill. The area seemed to be empty except for some nondescript government buildings and the open fields of the Horse Grounds behind them.
Two soldiers appeared seemingly out of nowhere. One of them said, “Captain Ashton and Captain Kruger, the Prime Minister is expecting you. This way please.”
They turned to the right and found a set of stairs between a row of bushes that led beneath the ground. They walked down three flights of concrete stairs. At the bottom, two more guards saluted and they entered an underground bunker. They were inside what would later become known as the Churchill War Rooms.
The complex which had been built circa 1938 was like essentially a mini-underground complex where the Prime Minister and military officials could run the war effort, without the fear of being destroyed by enemy bombs. It had individual sleeping quarters, a communications room, a small kitchen and a map-conference room.
Winston met Wolf and Randolph by the entrance to the map room. Randolph said, “So this is where you hide from time to time. It’s splendid if you were a mole.”
Winston said, “The conditions are rather spartan but no worse than what our troops face in the field. And they let me light up a cigar now and then.”
Wolf squinted his eyes. “I think I’ll stick to the skies Sir Winston. The walls are moving in already.”
“Come inside, I want to show you why you flew over Rechlin.”
Inside the map room, which of course had an oversized map of Europe on the wall, was a square table. At one end sat Major Hollenby of the SIS, which stood for Secret Intelligence Service. Major Hollenby was young, perhaps no older than 30 years of age. He stood up and shook Wolf and Randolph’s hands. “Captain Kruger and Captain Ashton, very happy to make your acquaintance. That was a bit of excellent flying you both did last week.”
Randolph smiled, “Captain Kruger piloted the Mosquito. I only navigated and fired the cannons and machine guns. They made quite a racket.”
Winston closed the door and sat at the table. “This is Major Hollenby of the SIS. He’s the one who put you up to taking the photos of the Rechlin Luftwaffe complex. I understand the pictures were quite good. Major.”
“Fine indeed.” The photos were on the table, and Major Hollenby pointed to the most important one that they were staring at. “This is the revolutionary plane that the Luftwaffe is developing. It is undergoing trials right now at Rechlin. Gentlemen, you will notice that there isn’t a propeller on it.”
Randolph couldn’t help himself, and he spoke up. “How does it fly?”
“It’s not that complicated even if it is brilliant. It’s called a jet.”
Winston lit a cigar. “Rather short and sweet. Do go on.”
“The engines on this plane which is called a Me 262 are under both wings. Air is sucked in, ignited and forced out the rear of it providing thrust. At least, that’s the theory. Our boys are working on the same technology, but the Germans are maybe two years ahead of us.”
“And that’s the problem,” said Winston. “Two years is a lifetime during a war. I’m told that the Me 262 is still 18 months away from mass production.”
“That’s correct Prime Minister, but we know they have two fully operational jets at Rechlin. And they have flown. We aren’t sure how fast the Me 262 can go, but there’s no doubt it’s at least 125 MPH faster than anything the RAF has at this point.”
Wolf knew where this was going. “What do you need?”
Major Hollenby said softly, “We need one of those jets.”
Randolph’s face turned down. You’ve got to be kidding. Say no Wolf. “With all due respect Major, that’s impossible.” Major Hollenby didn’t say anything. He grimaced, and then everyone looked at Winston.
“I’m afraid that’s not entirely correct. I was most reluctant to put this idea forth, but Major Hollenby and the SIS think it is more than plausible.”
Major Hollenby seemed a bit excited. “What we have here is a unique opportunity. As an ace and war hero, Captain Kruger will be posted to the duty that he chooses.”
“You mean you’re sending him back! Major, are you mad!”
“Calm down Captain Ashton.”
Winston said, “Randolph as you were. I’m sorry Major. Do continue.”
“As you might imagine, we have contacts and operatives inside Germany and the Luftwaffe for that matter. It’s a dirty and dangerous business. Many of our operatives have been found out and killed. So the information I’m laying out has been paid for in blood. Captain Kruger, if you were to escape from an RAF prisoner of war holding camp and make your way across the Channel in a German E-boat, you would be even more of a hero. If that happens, my contact guarantees us that you will be posted to Rechlin if you so choose. Of course, you will request to be a test pilot for the Me 262. Who better to work out the kinks in the jet, than the Luftwaffe’s finest pilot.”
Wolf said, “It may seem rather odd escaping by myself. What if they don’t believe it? My medal will be replaced by a noose.”
Winston said, “It seems that has also been taken care of by a quirk of fate that has fallen into our laps. Major, fill in the details.”
“The downed Luftwaffe fighter pilots are being held separately from the other Luftwaffe crews at Dulwich Village. The place is rapidly filling up and soon many of them will be heading to prisoner of war camps in Canada. Dulwich is rather informal. The pilots are treated, excuse me, like kings. That gets them in a good mood. And the place is bugged. The happier they are, the more they unwittingly reveal. There is a fence and guards, but we have arranged for you to spend a few days there and escape with your former wingman.”
“Hans?”
“I believe his name is Hans Meyer. He has no idea of course of our plans.”
“He’s here?”
Winston finally pulled out a cigar and lit it. “Seems he was shot down not so long ago. He didn’t get along so well without you.”
“Will he be escaping with me back to Germany?”
; “No. He will be shot trying to escape as the E-boat makes a run to pick you up. That will make the E-boat’s report to the Luftwaffe all the more convincing.”
“You can’t shoot him.”
Winston said, “Major Hollenby has assured me that Hans will be shot at close range by a pistol with a tranquilizer.”
“If all goes to plan, I’m to fly the jet to England?”
“That’s the hope,” said Major Hollenby.
Randolph turned to Winston. “Surely, too much has to go right. Beg your pardon Sir Winston, but you put Wolf in grave danger. Granted he did shoot me down, but that isn’t a reason to send him on a suicide mission.”
“I agree. Wolf, it is up to you. You don’t have to go. You have fought admirably for the RAF and England. One more thing...Major.”
“Captain Kruger, Zigfried Bockler is now an ace and has been assigned to Rechlin. He has been deemed too valuable to the Nazi Party for aerial combat. The propaganda war is important to the Third Reich.”
Randolph said, “The same person who arranged to have your parents killed. Wolf, you sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t have a choice. When does this happen?”
“Tonight.”
Randolph couldn’t believe it. “Tonight, isn’t that a little sudden, sir.”
“Our window for the operation is very short. Captain Kruger will be transferred to Dulwich Village by midnight. There you will be reunited with your wingman. You will be contacted by one or our plants inside the facility. Two days later the three of you will try to escape. A car will pick you up and take you to the coast for the rendezvous with the German E-boat. Once back in on the continent, you will be debriefed by German Intelligence. Then, a hero's welcome and your posting to Rechlin.”
Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) Page 26
