On Glorious Wings

by Stephen Coonts

  FOR WANT OF

  A FOKKER

  FROM THE BLUE

  MAX

  by JACK D. HUNTER

  During World War I, the Imperial German Army’s highest decoration for valor was the Pour Le Merité or Blue Max. In 1964, Jack D. Hunter launched an enviable writing career with an impressive first novel about a group of German airmen striving to win these bits of tin and blue enamel, a novel that led to a great flying movie of the same name starring George Peppard.

  Let’s go flying now with the twisted hero of Hunter’s tale, Bruno Stachel, who is about to sell his soul for a chance at a Blue Max, and glory.

  The Spads had come out of nowhere, fat, stub-winged, and fast. It was the first time Stachel had directly encountered the Spad, a French machine that the British seemed to favor on occasion. He had been horribly sick that morning, and had barely been able to pull himself from his cot, even after a heavy dose of brandy. He had thrown up twice, a rare event for him, and he had avoided the mess hall, heading directly to his machine at the end of the line so as to escape the Jastaführer’s questioning eyes. Throughout the uneventful low-level Jasta run he had remained queasy and shaky, cursing himself for failing to bring along a bottle. Behind the physical upset, the anxiety and remorse had been the most severe he had ever experienced. Upon landing he had virtually run to his billet and had gulped a great quantity of white wine, pausing only to fill his flat flask with the good cognac. It had helped considerably, and, after completing his combat report and checking on the refueling of the Pfalz, he had felt somewhat human again. He and Von Klugermann had climbed away from the field on their extra at five minutes to eleven—ten minutes late.

  The five Spads had jumped them above the clouds when they had completed the southeasterly leg of their swing and were preparing to turn northeast toward Cambrai. One minute the sky had been empty; the next, the Englishmen were all around them, snapping like terriers.

  It did not take Stachel long to sense that the Tommies weren’t of the most experienced breed. They scattered their attacks, they wheeled widely on recoveries, they tended to get in the way of one another. He selected one Spad and gave it his full attention.

  The Englishman was a great one for acrobatics. As Stachel rolled the Pfalz into a Kurvensturz, eying the Spad over his top wing, the Tommy did a slow roll for no apparent reason. This enabled Stachel to close the gap with gratifying speed, and his first burst for range startled the other pilot into a ridiculous snap-roll. His second burst for effect needled through the Spad’s lower wing just abeam of the cockpit. He could see the Englishman’s white face looking backward at him. The Spad, incredibly, attempted a loop, and as it hung high on its back, Stachel fired again. This time the tracers danced around the center section and he could see pieces flying. The enemy machine never recovered from its inverted attitude, but mushed down the sky, upside down and spinning wildly, a fire flaring brightly from its engine louvers.

  Stachel took inventory.

  Von Klugermann was just putting the finishing touches to one of the Englishmen, whose machine collapsed and tumbled end-over-end toward the cloud floor. A third Spad had preceded it, a huge blob of flame whose only resemblance to an airplane came from the stubs of wings that jutted from its core. So the fat Prussian had scored twice, Stachel once. A good bit of shooting all around.

  Stachel reached into the seat cushion, assembled his siphoning gear, and drank deeply of the cognac. The remaining Spads were scurrying west, tails high.

  As they headed home, Stachel was sullenly pensive.

  The new Fokkers would arrive tomorrow. Once again he reviewed the list; Heidemann, of course, would keep one for himself, leaving four others to be distributed. Mueller would get one because, next to Heidemann, he was the Jasta’s high scorer. Braun, Mueller’s eternal chess partner, no doubt would get one because of his exceptional skill at Kette tactics—he was even contributing to a manual on the subject; a fourth would go to Huemmel, now well recovered from his illness, who was simply a good, all-round pilot with a comfortable score. The fifth—that was the puzzle. Ulrich, Fritzinger, and Schneider could be considered out of the race, as could the two new replacements, Hochschild and Nagel. That left Von Klugermann and himself. Willi’s score as of this morning stood exactly even with his own. Counting the two Spads he’d just nailed, the Prussian was now ahead by one.

  Stachel thought about this for long minutes. Then, nodding once to himself, he eased back on the throttle.

  He pulled on the machine gun charge handles, threw in the clutch, then fired a brief, stuttering burst.

  Von Klugermann turned in his seat and let the Albatros fall back alongside. Stachel reached out and thumped the side of his fuselage, then pointed ahead to his engine. He repeated the gestures, but this time motioned to Von Klugermann to go on without him. The Prussian stared across at him questioningly, the wind distorting his cheeks. Stachel repeated the signals for a third time, then dropped away. He noted with satisfaction that Von Klugermann made no attempt to follow.

  When the Pfalz had sunk into the cloud blanket, Stachel pulled up and restored power. He retained his altitude just below the surface of the mist and headed toward the airdrome at full throttle. Once or twice he permitted the Pfalz to rise to the cloud surface, stalking, he smiled to himself, like a U-boat. In these fleeting intervals he could see Von Klugermann’s Albatros continuing its lonely course.

  As the Prussian’s dirty brown machine began a wide spiral, Stachel went into a fast power-glide, the sunlight surrendering to the solid gray vapor that formed beads of water on his face and rivulets on the surfaces of the Pfalz. The blind descent seemed interminable.

  He broke free eventually, but noted in sodden satisfaction that the ground mists had all but obscured the field, just as he’d hoped they would. He took another long pull from the hose, waiting, his cheeks tight with brandied numbness.

  The Albatros appeared finally, and as Stachel hung at the fringe of the overcast, he watched Von Klugermann make a tentative, exploratory circle above the lower haze. The Prussian arced around again and began a long power-glide. He had obviously elected to avoid the poplars and make his approach from the opposite end of the field. Stachel, feverishly alert, made rapid revisions to his calculations. Satisfied then, he gave the Mercedes full throttle and slanted down the sky toward the pocket of mist. When he saw Von Klugermann’s propeller slow from a hardly visible blur into a windmilling of blades, he also cut power. The Pfalz’s wires moaned with the speed of its otherwise silent plunge.

  The Albatros sank out of sight into the fog, and the Pfalz was close behind.

  Straining, Stachel could make out the shadowy outline of Von Klugermann’s machine ahead. As the haze grew thinner and ground detail appeared to float by in enlarged and wispy procession, the Albatros began to correct and ease away from the long finger of the factory chimney that reached upward through the mist to the right front. It was then, hovering directly above and to the left rear, that Stachel fed full power to the Mercedes.

  To Von Klugermann, whose open-mouthed, wild stare was clear even from the Pfalz, the sound must have been like that of an express train.

  The Albatros went into a frantic turn with full power on, its nose high. As Stachel’s machine screamed for altitude, he saw the Albatros’ wings slam into the chimney, dissolving in a ghastly tangle and sending a shower of bricks cascading through the air. Then there was a muffled explosion below, and the mist brightened with an unearthly glow.

  “Now go over this again for me, Stachel. Just what happened?” Heidemann leaned across the desk, his face stony.

  “We were jumped by five Spads above Bernes. In the fight, the enemy lost three. We—”

  “Who knocked down the Spads?”

  “I got all three of them.”

  “What was Von Klugermann doing all this time?”

  “Well, we were up to our hips in Spads. He gave a good account of himself, of course, but I was luckier in the shooting department.”


  “Then what happened?” Heidemann demanded.

  “We returned here, but on the way my machine acted up. A vapor lock, I think. I signaled Willi to go on, since there was nothing he could do and I didn’t want to risk him in the nearby air while I made a forced landing through that deep overcast.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I straightened out the trouble, then came on back here. I decided to avoid the usual approach over the trees because of the mist. As I made my final glide, Willi’s machine suddenly appeared right in front of me. I turned on full power and he did likewise. However, I guess he didn’t see the chimney and flew right into it. . . .”

  Kettering came into the office.

  “Well?”

  “Sir, the Flugmeldedienst confirms three Spads. They fell in a triangle near an antiaircraft battery at L-Twenty. But because of the overcast they couldn’t trace the action.” He looked at Stachel. “I suppose you’ll have to console yourself with another moral victory.”

  Heidemann said in a warning tone: “Do you doubt Stachel’s claim, Kettering?”

  The big man’s face reddened. “Why, no, sir. But the rules—”

  “The wreckage of three Spads has been found. Leutnant Stachel claims the victories. Do you doubt his word?” His voice was flat.

  “Well, of course not, sir, but—”

  “Credit Stachel with the three Spads and send the claim forms, with my endorsement, to Kofl. At once.”

  Kettering swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  “And arrange a full military burial ceremony for Leutnant von Klugermann.”

  After Kettering had left, Stachel sat in tense silence while Heidemann studied some papers on his desk. The Jasta leader signed his name twice, then looked up, a smile in his eyes.

  “No doubt you’ve heard that the first five Fokkers arrive tonight.”

  “I admit I’ve heard the rumor.”

  “It’s no rumor. And one of them will be yours, of course.”

  Stachel barely restrained a smile. “That’s fine, sir. I wasn’t certain you’d consider me eligible. . . .”

  “Why?”

  “Well, on those tryouts I was next to last, and knowing your habit of assigning all such things in descending order of merit—”

  Heidemann laughed easily, shaking his head. “Stachel, you amuse and baffle me. You are so infernally sensitive, so wont to evaluate events in terms of your own egoism. If you had just used a little sense instead of emotion you’d have seen that I established the Fokker tryout sequence on a purely alphabetical basis.”

  Stachel was conscious of a roaring in his head.

  “And, Stachel, let me point out that, next to me, you are the best pilot in this Jasta. It would have been asinine not to assign a Fokker to you after that spectacular exhibition you gave with it. Now—you’ve had a busy day. Take a rest. But first, I suggest you go by Von Klugermann’s quarters and pull together his personal gear. I want you to compose a note to go with it when it’s sent to the family. After all, you were Willi’s friend.”

  CLEVELAND

  AIRPORT

  AUGUST 1933

  FROM TROPHY FOR

  EAGLES

  by WALTER J. BOYNE

  Walter J. Boyne is a retired Air Force colonel, a former director of the National Air and Space Museum, an aviation historian, and a superb writer. He is the author of The Smithsonian Book of Flight and an excellent history of the United States Air Force, among many other works.

  In Trophy for Eagles, the first of several historical novels set in the world of aviation between and into World War II, we meet young Frank Bandfield, born too late for World War I but determined to be the best pilot alive. The villain is German ace Bruno Hafner, who burned down Bandfield’s hangar to prevent him from beating Lindbergh to Paris. In addition to Lindbergh, Boyne’s characters hobnob with many of the legendary figures of aviation, including Howard Hughes, Jimmy Doolittle, Roscoe Turner, and Amelia Earhart.

  In the excerpt that follows, Frank Bandfield is flying in one of the lesser events of the Cleveland Air Races of 1933, trying desperately to win $15,000 to finance an aircraft factory.

  A mood as dark and gelatinous as sea-urchin soup hung over the Cleveland Institute of Aviation hangar that Stephan Dompnier had rented. His mood had been foul for the last two days. The aircraft’s engine was still acting up, and his ground crew was no help. The two surly Frenchmen spent their time yammering about the inexcusable quality of American food and the lack of drinkable wine. The magnificent cigarettes, smoked end to end, compensated somewhat, but both longed to go back to Paris.

  They were the only two sent from France with Dompnier. Pierre Nicolau was from the Caudron factory, and he knew the racer inside out. He looked like Jean Gabin, knew it, and mimicked him as much as possible in word and gesture. René Coty was from the Renault engine works, but had not yet been able to get the engine working right. A brooding Parisian with curly blue-black hair separated from his eyebrows by a slim gash of pockmarked flesh, he kept a cigarette dangling from his lips at all times. Something in his manner suggested that taking advice was not his strong suit.

  It was their glowering presence that had inhibited Stephan from asking for help earlier. Now he had no choice—he had to qualify tomorrow, and race the following day. He had asked Hadley Roget to drop by and look at the engine.

  Promptly at nine, Roget walked in, followed by Bandfield. Both men walked around the racer, admiring it, oblivious to the obvious dislike of the two mechanics.

  Hadley listened to Stephan describe the problem, and what they had done to correct it. The engine would run perfectly well on the ground; as soon as he was airborne it would backfire, sometimes so badly that he wasn’t sure he’d get it around the pattern to land.

  Roget nosed around. The engine was installed so that the crankshaft lay on top, with the cylinders pointing toward the ground.

  “Inverted engine, huh? What attitude do you run it up in on the ground?”

  Stephan was annoyed by Bandfield’s presence and was trying not to show it. He said, “Ah, three-point, of course. Nicolau holds down the tail, and I check it at full power. On the ground it is fine—in the air, pouf!”

  Roget had Dompnier go through the drill; the engine sounded perfect.

  “Stephan, this time let’s run it up in a level attitude. Put a sawhorse under the tail and we’ll see what happens.”

  Bandy placed a canvas cover on the stabilizer, then piled sandbags on it, while Roget and the two mechanics tethered the Caudron to tie-downs set in the concrete.

  Dompnier started the engine. The airplane twitched and trembled, straining at the ropes. In less than sixty seconds, the engine song changed from a fluid roar and began backfiring, belching smoke and flame from the exhausts, the vibration shaking it as a terrier shakes a rat. Dompnier shut it down.

  A quiet look of triumph crossed Roget’s face, and he began pulling the cowling off. An hour later, he turned to Dompnier.

  “There’s your trouble. The oil return line is too small. When the oil pressure goes up, it can’t handle it, and back pressure from the pump dumps oil down the rocker arms. Did you notice a rise in oil pressure after you took off?”

  “Oui—from about one hundred to one-eighty. It seemed to me that high oil pressure is good, not bad.”

  “Not this time, my friend. I think we can fix this, but it will be risky. We have to run a new oil line, and bore out the inlet. If we don’t tap into anything we’ll be okay. Will you risk it?”

  Stephan shrugged. “I have no choice.”

  “Lemme take a look at the pistons, too. You might have scuffed them during the backfires.”

  In another thirty minutes they had the pistons laid out. Two were clearly marred, one so badly that it couldn’t be used again. Dompnier had spares, and the five men fell to work. By midnight, the engine was back together and Dompnier had run it up in a level position, the air-cooled Renault engine breaking the night-dampened silence of the ai
rport.

  Dompnier jumped down from the wing and embraced Hadley.

  “Thank you, and thank you, too, Bandy.”

  “You’re welcome, Stephan. We’d all better get some sleep. It’s going to be an early morning.”

  The slanting rays of the late-afternoon sun had turned the haze into an incandescent ball. The crowds were streaming away in long lines, and a weary Frank Bandfield sat with Roget, their backs braced against the Chevy’s bumper, watching a red-and-white Gee Bee Sportster practicing aerobatics across the northeast edge of the field.

  “Whose airplane is that, Hadley?”

  Roget, never idle, was cleaning spark plugs as they sat, pressing their ends into a cone-shaped tin and letting high-pressure air sandblast them clean. Squinting, he said, “Looks like Charlotte Hafner’s bird.”

  “She’s damn good. I don’t think she’s moved a yard out of the field boundaries, and she’s done everything from snap rolls to spins.”

  The tiny Gee Bee landed out of a loop, touching down just inside the field boundary. It taxied to a stop inside the wire fence surrounding the hangars Hafner had rented. The pilot got out with the log book in her hand and ran inside, while mechanics pushed the airplane into the hangar. Without apology, they brushed past Bandfield and set up a protective restraining ring of wire, threaded through steel stanchions, designed to keep onlookers out. He was a little annoyed, but stood there, grasping the wire with both hands and jingling the little red “Team Members Only” signs.

  Bandfield was waiting outside for Charlotte to emerge, but it was Patty who walked out, short hair glistening in the sun.

  “Hello, Bandy. Thanks for helping Stephan with his engine last night.”

  “Aw, you’re welcome, we were glad to do it. But I have to say you surprised me just now. I thought your mother was flying. You were really great.” He suddenly felt awkward, all hands and feet uncomfortable, that she might think he was somehow following up on their dance of two nights before.