by Aeryn Leigh
Wonderful to see, he thought. "Higher, higher!" He walked up to the nearest guard, who saluted.
"Heil Hitler," said the guard, an SS corporal.
"Heil Hitler," said Colonel Grieg. "Leapfrog. Such a wonderful game. How I loved playing it as a young boy." He walked over to the row of prisoners and stopped the man jumping over the others. He saw the pink triangle on the man's threadbare striped tunic.
"Higher, higher, I said!" The prisoner stood there, gaunt and emaciated, then nodded. "Go on," said the colonel. The man jumped over the next crouched prisoner in line. "See, that wasn't too hard, was it." The colonel pulled out his Luger and pulled the slide. "Jump," he said again. The jumper successfully made it again.
"Ah ha!" said Colonel Grieg. "You there" he said, pointing to the man who'd just been jumped over. "Go climb on that man's back, would you?" He waved the gun. "Go on, I won't shoot you." The man stood up, bent, and hobbled over to the next man down and climbed onto his back.
He turned to the prisoner who had been jumping. "Jump you fairy." A spray of his saliva hit the prisoner’s face.
The prisoner stood there, not knowing how to comply. He couldn't have jumped the two men, not even before the concentration camp.
Colonel Grieg sighed, extended an arm, and shot him in the temple.
"Corporal," he said, "shoot them all. There's another train load due in tomorrow."
He holstered his weapon.
"Yes, Sir," said the corporal, pulling out his own gun and walking down the line, shooting each crouched prisoner in the head. No one tried to flee, or stand up.
Cowards.
The SS colonel looked at the growing line of corpses. "Vermin," he said, "utter vermin."
But we are running out of time, he thought. The war will be over before our eradication can finish. He sighed.
He turned and walked towards the Commandant's Office, as Capos arrived and dragged away the bodies to the crematorium.
I have a lot to do today, he thought, reminding himself to pick up a present for his son on the way home. Eighth birthday's only come once, and Colonel Grieg smiled. He walked in to the Commandant's Office, and began talking about increasing production output, when the telephone rang. The Commandant handed the phone over.
It was for him.
Chapter Ten
The Devil’s Bargain
The concussion flattened both Ella and Piers into the ragged, green grass. The fire crew yelled around them, firing water at the flames. They both shuffled backward a few metres, on knees and elbows, before standing up at a safe distance. Another explosion erupted behind them.
Ella turned, seeing an oil tanker pouring black, curling smoke into the air, outside Hanger II. She looked at Piers, seeing the scars reflected in Me-262 flames, the skin shiny, flat. She tried to speak, but no words came out.
"Well," said Piers, "we're alive, and the automatic throttle regulators worked."
"Any landing you can walk away from is still a good one, right?" she said, or as the British would say, she added to herself, the famous WWI poster in mind.
"Come on, let's get back to Breikhart"
He climbed back on the Kettenkrad, while Ella climbed up behind him, and they moved away. They rode in silence until they got to the two-way control radio cart. The marauding Allied fighters caused some respectable damage in their brief strafing run, but missed most of the critical infrastructure.
The same couldn't be said for the oil-tanker, and a trio of Messerschmitt Bf-109G’s that had been unfortunate to be sitting out ready for a sortie. The single propeller fighters lay in a mess, wings and fuselages either cut in half or on fire, collapsed onto the ground like so many discarded, broken toys.
Commander Breikhart was still at the radio cart, hands gesticulating as he gave orders to the men and women that came and went as he talked.
"Fire Eagle," said Breikhart, "I understand. We shall see you back at base. Use the East approach. Over."
He looked at the half-track, and at Ella and Piers. He walked up to them. "The colonel failed to catch them. Give me a lift back to HQ." Without waiting for a reply, he jumped on. Piers swung the vehicle around and headed to the building.
"I'm sorry," said Ella, over the noise.
Breikhart waved a hand away. "Those damned Americans and their drop-tanks. What incredible range they now have to come this far."
Ella looked at Breikhart and shared the same thought. Until a few months back, the bombers bombing Germany day and night had no fighter protection past a certain range. The Luftwaffe could respond. But now, the bombers had long-range fighter escorts, in broad daylight, all the way to their targets, and all the way home.
This changed everything.
Ella spoke. "What can the Luftwaffe do now?" she said. Her question met silence, and all three travelled along the dirt path until they reached Headquarters.
The reports Ella typed took a long time. The words fought to come out, one by one, as she sat in the chair, trying to ignore the noisy din. The building was full of people rushing this way and that, voices fighting for attention on telephones, the Luftwaffe staff dealing with the Allied attack.
Ella hammered the Return key. Why did she always get stuck with this typewriter? Keys were struck, harder and harder as her anger rose.
Why did they have to attack her? And my plane, my beautiful plane!
She hit the Shift key so hard it jammed.
Verdammt.
I am a loyal Luftwaffe pilot. All I want to do is serve my country. She levered the metal typewriter key out with a pen. But there soon wouldn't be a Luftwaffe left, or Germany, for that matter, with those idiots in charge. Socialists. Fascists.
Her eyes widened in anger. Thwack, thwack went the keys.
The Nazi Party would destroy them all.
She ran out of paper, inserted a new page, thumped the carriage return.
But she was a loyal German. Honorary military personnel, it meant she didn't have to give the Hitler Salute.
Didn't have to, but she did. To hide.
The words were flowing fast now, the report seemingly writing itself. The Luftwaffe had given her a chance. She couldn't give up now.
Amelia.
The wave broke.
And now she was here, right now, alone. Just another woman typing a report in a crowded, smoky room.
She finished the flight report, the incident report, and the experimental data preliminary sheet, handing them to Breikhart's secretary. Almost close to sunset now. Breikhart was in a meeting with Colonel Zimmerman, not to be disturbed. He had left instructions for Ella to see him tomorrow.
She hadn't the heart to go find Piers, it felt like lead in her stomach having to go talk to him. But she had to as a friend. So, she got on her motorcycle, and rode the BMW home, this time skirting the village centre, stopping at its rustic pub.
The hotel, warm and full of cigar and cigarette smoke, seemed a haven against the chaos outside in their lives. The pub's occupants, half airbase personnel, half villagers, drank away their worries. Piers beckoned to her, sitting in a booth by the back wall. Her feet walked over the sawdust strewn wooden floor, and sat down opposite him.
"Ella," said Piers. He gestured to the barmaid for two more steins.
"Piers," said Ella, "thank you for today. So, it worked after all."
"You referring to the throttle regulators, or the maniac landing stunt?" he said, finishing his first stein. He ran a hand through his greasy hair. "We only talked about that in the hypothetical, as in the you-would-have-to-be-a-complete-loony to try using a baby tank as an in-situ landing gear." He waved off the reply, cutting her off. "Do you have any idea what attention you shone on me today? You put me on the spot, and frankly, I'm annoyed at myself." Piers took one of the new steins, and drank. "There, I've said my piece."
Ella lifted her own mug and took a deep drink. "I'm sorry."
My beautiful plane is gone.
She twirled a finger around the rim of the stein. "I was
n't thinking." At the front bar, a villager started a new medley on the piano.
"No, you weren't." He didn't say anything more, just looked at the piano player, and when she'd finished her stein, still hadn't.
“You’re not at the house much anymore. I thought we decided to keep up the impression we were happily married, now more so than ever?”
“I sleep at the base most nights now. There’s a lot to do.” The end of the sentence left hanging in the air, and Piers hoped Ella would ask why he felt that way, ten years of feeling that way, the irrational thought that she had got the better deal of their devil’s bargain to keep the Gestapo at bay, to hide the true affections of their love.
"I have to go," said Ella, getting up. She placed a few coins down on the table, and left.
"You always have to go," whispered Piers, to the empty booth.
Chapter Eleven
Story Time
There was a black staff car outside her cottage. It must be Colonel Zimmerman, finished from his meeting. She parked the bike, picked a few flowers to give to Amelia as an afterthought as the cooling motor pinged yards away, held them to her face and smiling, opened the front door. Ella removed her shoes, laces still tied, and walked down the hallway.
There was no smell of cooking, or of brewed coffee or tea. Her house felt foreign.
"Amelia, Victoria?" She called out as she moved into the quiet house.
"In here Mummy," yelled Amelia. Her voice came from her bedroom.
Why aren't they in the kitchen or sitting room when there's a guest? She reached the doorway, and stopped cold. In the room, sat Amelia, on SS Colonel Grieg's lap. Grieg was reading to Amelia the pulp-fiction paperback in English, then back to German. The contraband pulp-fiction paperback, just like the Nazi's burned.
He gave Ella a long, hard stare.
"Why Miss Gruder," he said, his voice toneless, cold, "I wasn't aware you were a fan of American detective stories?"
She looked around. "Where's Victoria?"
"She had to leave for Berlin, Mummy," said Amelia, sounding disappointed. "Victoria left this afternoon." She prodded the colonel in his side to continue the story.
"Yes, come join us Miss Gruder. Sit down" the colonel said. Ella moved her leaden feet over the purple rug to the gestured chair and sat.
Chapter Twelve
The Big Show
The mission briefing room was redolent with old pipe and cigarette smoke. Portraits and photos of dead and living men hung from nails on the walls. A reasonable sized space, enough to sit forty men, give or take, on the long bench style wooden seats arranged in rows, facing a projector screen which hung behind the podium. RAF police stood outside the building, armed and not smiling.
Squadron Leader John looked around for his navigator from the doorway and saw him, seated on the back row. Andrew waved, and Laurie joined him at the end of the bench.
“Sir,” said Flight-Sergeant Bloomsbury. "I have a rather nasty feeling about this."
Laurie turned his head. The briefing would start soon. "What do you mean? Surely you couldn't be talking about the half-moon tonight?"
"Some of the lads have been talking. We're going deep in tonight." Andrew stroked his chin.
"Well, we're in the shit regardless mate. We're in the shit every time we climb into one of those things," Laurie said, his eyes narrowing.
Today is the day I die, he thought.
"Attention,” said a voice from the front. The hubbub settled. They all stood. Wing Commander and Station Commander Billy Hayes came into the briefing room, a clipboard under his arm, followed by six officers, every blue uniform crisp and correct.
"Gentlemen," he said briskly, standing behind the podium. He waved his hand for them all to sit, which they did.
"As you no doubt are aware, we have been bombing Berlin for weeks now. Tonight however, we are not. Our target tonight is Nuremberg." The screen behind him and to his left showed the large map, with a large red line.
"You will be going directly there. No zig-zagging tonight, we want a full bomb load as much as possible," Hayes said as a matter of fact, as easy as popping down the shops for a bottle of milk. "The route tonight has been subject to intense debate gentlemen, but now it's settled."
Laurie looked at his navigator, Andrew's jaw wide open. He grimaced.
"Pathfinders will lead the way. Weather report indicates that the route will be overcast, which is good news." The wing commander stopped, to let the murmuring that broke out run its course, then continued.
"It is going to be a big show tonight. Seven hundred and ninety-six aircraft. Get the job done, give them hell, and get back alive. The officers here will each give you the specifics. Good hunting." He left the room, as tumultuous talk erupted, navigators and pilots trying to make sense of it, before silence, called for by the officer, fell over the room. Each of the specialised officers gave their briefings for navigation, intelligence, bombing and meteorology for the mission tonight.
And then it was over.
"Well then," said Laurie, picking his nose. "Nasty it is."
They left the briefing room to find the crew, the outside air crisp. They were in their barracks, a long wooden building full of bunks and lockers. Skippy was lying on a hessian sack in one corner, it's three sides fashioned into a rough whelping box. She was due any week now, her belly round and full. His bomber crewmen clustered around her. Thorfinn, James and Mick played cards, Thomas blew a saxophone along to the portable gramophone spinning a dance-hall record. Everyone bar Mick was brand new.
And by brand new, Laurie meant anyone who hadn’t survived half-a-dozen sorties with him, at least. Why get to know new recruits, when their life expectancy was so shit?
Tonight would be number six for them, and both Mick and Laurie were as surprised as each other, that the new crew had held.
"Oh, hello you two," said Thorfinn, looking up at them. He held three aces. Mission crews going out on a sortie received bacon and eggs for one last meal before they flew. If he won this hand, he got another rasher off the other two.
"Seven hours of flight-time," said Andrew to them all, "and we're hitting Nuremberg I'm afraid." Thomas stopped playing, and stopped the gramophone. Andrew pulled up a chair next to Skippy, and patted her. "It's going to be tough I'm sure you can imagine."
"It will be tough," said Laurie, "but I have faith in each one of you. Even if we are as they say, right in the crapper."
They all smiled.
"Okay lads, let's get to the Mess Hall for our dinner." Laurie crouched beside Skippy. The dog wagged her tail, as Laurie ruffled the soft fur on her head, giving it a good rub, and wiped some muck away from the corner of its eyes.
Mick dealt the last round of cards. C'mon, a full house... and no. Bust. James folded.
Thorfinn whooped with joy. "Bacon!"
Chapter Thirteen
Hade’s Express
The sun began to set as later they assembled out on the grass fields next to the runway next to the twenty-five bombers, the full squadron roster disembarking from the shuttle bus in their bulky flying kits over their Royal Blue uniforms. Long shadows stretched out from all the aircraft, men, and support equipment. The sky was free of clouds, in hues of orange, reds, and yellows.
The scene was as pretty as a painting, thought Laurie. If only it would stay like that forever.
Their brown bomber stood before them, it's tall lettering on one side, WN-H, hidden in the shade.
H for Hade’s. The Avro Lancaster Mark III, powered by four Rolls-Royce Merlin V-12 engines, sat there, fuel and bombs loaded. It stank of aviation fuel and oil.
The six men gathered around their pilot, Laurie handing out their flying rations and escape kits to each of them, and one by one, after signing the Numbered Form-700, they climbed up the small ladder underneath the bomber's tail section of the fuselage and settled into their assigned stations.
Laurie was last to climb on-board, but before he did so, made a quick circuit of the bomber.
He walked clockwise, running a hand along the sooty black underside as he went, stopping momentarily at the bomber's front nose art, looking at twenty-three frothing beer mugs stencilled on the side, successful mission notches.
The new crate was holding up.
Painted on the nose, a kangaroo with joey rode a toy steam train, holding the Eureka Flag, and next to it, in red-outlined cursive writing, the words Hade's Express.
My bomber.
A letter of reprimand from Commander Hayes, adding to his already thick military file, for inappropriate mural art, still made him smile. The memory of the wing commander's right eye twitching made it all worthwhile. Even better than getting his first LMF warning for that raid over Berlin in '42, daring to shepherd another plane full of rookies that strayed off course on the mission route, back onto the target, dropping their respective bombloads then escorting the Stirling all the way home to Cardiff.
We still hit the target area. Wanker.
Their mums still sent him Christmas cards.
Laurie's final stop was the rear of the aircraft, where, without delay, he dropped his fly and urinated on the tail wheel of the aircraft. It felt good. Been holding onto that for a while. Good for the lemon trees, good luck for the aircraft.
Superstitious down to the bone, and now strangely satisfied, he climbed up the ladder.
Squadron Leader Laurie John walked bent-over through the metal fuselage, readjusting his privates beneath the bulky layers, and upon reaching the flight deck, settled into the cockpit, tugging the harness over his torso. Tom stood in the well next to him, ready to help with throttle adjustment with take-off, and gave him the thumbs up. Laurie looked left and right, and started each of the engines in turn, great clouds of white-grey smoke belching from the exhaust stacks, running them up, to check them. Hade's Express vibrated and then settled as all four engines idled.
