During the winter months, intelligence reports had indicated that the Russians had moved entire factories to the east, beyond the Ural mountains where no German bomber could reach them, and had been churning out aircraft and tanks by the thousand. No one had seriously believed the reports at the time, least of all the Wehrmacht High Command, but the pack of lies had turned out to be true, because with the spring thaw the Soviet Air. Force had begun to appear over the front in growing strength and Russian tanks, particularly armoured monsters known as T-34S, had been thrown into the battle on an unprecedented scale. Although a new German offensive in the south-east was pushing on towards the Caucasus, it was steadily losing momentum as its lines of communication became overstretched, and further north it was virtually stalemate.
God knows what the rest of 1942 will bring, mused Richter. One thing was certain: there would be no more easy victories in Russia. His tour on the eastern front had brought his score up to fifty-one enemy aircraft destroyed, all of them confirmed. It was a lot by anyone’s standard, but many Luftwaffe fighter pilots had achieved far more. The score of eighty achieved by the First World War ace, Baron Manfred von Richthofen, had already been passed by a handsome margin by the young men of a different generation.
Richter was glad he had seen the first months of the Russian campaign, not just because they had enabled him to increase his score, but because they had furnished him with valuable experience as a tactical fighter leader, flying in support of the army. He had no doubt that it would come in useful, one day. Meanwhile, he was completely honest with himself; wild horses wouldn’t drag him back to Russia. He was quite happy to be where he was, right now, even though there had been no home leave. There would be plenty of time for that later, when they had the Mediterranean business all sewn up.
They were approaching the Sicilian coast now, and the leading squadron of Messerschmitts was beginning to descend. Richter’s squadron followed suit, dropping down towards the plain on which Catania airfield stood, flanked by mountains on both sides. Visibility was perfect and the view breathtaking, the scene dominated by the great cone of Etna. The Messerschmitts passed close to the giant volcano as they positioned themselves to land. The huge mass of the mountain, nearly twenty-five miles across at its base and towering over eleven thousand feet into the sky, seemed to fill the whole horizon, and Richter felt a deep sense of awe when he considered the vast natural forces that had created it. One day, he thought, as he automatically began his approach to land, man will learn to harness forces of that magnitude, and then he will either reach the stars or destroy himself.
Despite a fairly stiff crosswind — conditions under which the Messerschmitt 109F could be very tricky to land — all twenty-eight fighters got down without mishap. They taxied to their dispersals, waddling like ungainly birds as the pilots swung the long noses from side to side in order to see forward, using the throttle in short bursts and kicking up spurts of dust.
Richter shut down his engine, unlatched the cockpit hood and swung it over to the side. He unfastened his seat and parachute harness, stretched his arms high over his head with a grunt of relief, then levered himself upright from the narrow metal box of the cockpit, stepping out on to the wing. The heat of the sun was like a physical blow.
A corporal came running up, saluted, and informed him that transport would soon be arriving to take the pilots to their respective messes, a cluster of marquees on the far side of the airfield. Richter nodded, jumped down from the wing and wandered over to join Second Lieutenant Hans Weber, who was already stretched out on some sandbags. Richter grinned. Young Hans had arrived in Russia the previous November, straight from operational training school and green as grass. Richter had taken him under his wing, and Weber had flown as his number two ever since. He had fifteen Russians to his credit, and had already shown himself to be a fighter pilot of exceptional calibre. Richter wondered how the boy would shape up against the Tommies, who were a much tougher proposition than the Soviets. It would be an interesting exercise.
Richter punched the recumbent pilot lightly in the midriff. Weber opened one eye and grinned.
‘Got any cigarettes?’ Richter asked.
Weber sat up, fished in a pocket of his flying overall and brought out a crumpled packet. They both lit up, inhaling the smoke deeply.
‘It’s like a rest camp, this is,’ Weber commented, looking about him. ‘No more lice and stinking Ivans, no more worrying about partisans taking a pot-shot at you. Just look at it — beautiful sunshine, wonderful scenery, all that lovely warm sea, gorgeous dark-haired Sicilian maidens — why, it makes my balls ache just to think about it.’
Richter looked at him patronizingly, although he was only a couple of years older than Weber.
‘You won’t have any balls left unless you listen to my advice,’ he said darkly. ‘You have yet to meet your first Tommies. They aren’t like the Ivans, you know. They can fly, make no mistake about that, and fight too. It’s a pretty unnerving experience, that first time you find a Spitfire on your tail.’
‘Well,’ said Weber, grinning hugely, ‘you managed to survive, so I reckon I stand an even better chance.’
Richter took a playful swipe at him. ‘Why, you cheeky young puppy,’ he laughed, ‘I’ve a good mind to —’
The roar of massed aero-engines interrupted his words, a distant sound as yet, but growing louder with every second. Both men turned their heads, peering into the southern sky, and immediately picked out a cluster of aircraft, heading towards the airfield at a fairly low altitude. Even at this range, they were easily identifiable as Junkers 87 Stukas.
The Stukas arrived overhead and went into line astern, circling the field. All except one. Trailing a thin ribbon of smoke, it came straight in to land, touching down heavily and bouncing a couple of times before rolling unsteadily across the field and stopping, its engine still turning. An ambulance and fire tender raced to meet it. Men jumped on to the Stuka’s wing, slid back the perspex hoods that covered the pilot’s cockpit and rear gunner’s position. Richter and Weber watched, shading their eyes against the fierce glare of the sun, as the two crew members were helped from the aircraft and into the waiting ambulance. The pilot seemed to be all right, but the gunner had to be carried.
The other Stukas landed, in pairs, and taxied over to the far side of the field. Gazing around, Richter noticed that Catania housed a considerable collection of aircraft. As well as the newly-arrived Messerschmitts of Fighter Wing 66, and the Stukas, he recognized Junkers 88s, a small number of three-engined Junkers 52 transports, Italian Macchi 202s and Reggianes, and a few more Italian types he was unable to identify. All of them were well dispersed around the field.
‘Looks like our transport,’ Weber remarked.
A five-ton Italian Fiat truck, snub-nosed and distinctive, was bumping towards them around the perimeter of the field. A second vehicle followed, some distance behind. Richter stubbed out his cigarette, then turned to have a brief word with the mechanics who were carrying out the post-flight inspection of his Messerschmitt. By the time he had finished, the trucks had arrived and the pilots were climbing aboard.
Richter threw his parachute and lifejacket into one of the vehicles, clambered up over the tailboard and sat down on one of the hard benches that ran the length of the truck. As the Fiat moved off, he surveyed the faces of the other pilots, faces that had become so familiar to him since he had taken over command of Fighter Wing 66’s 2nd Squadron last January.
There was little Johnny Schumacher, smoking his pipe imperturbably as usual, lost in his private thoughts. Warrant Officer Kurt Buchada, one-time boxing champion with his squashed, friendly face. Lieutenant Ernst Sommer, quiet and withdrawn except when he was drunk, when he could unearth a fund of riotous stories. Big, blond Willi Christiansen, whose father was a Norwegian and who spent all his leaves fishing, usually miles away from anywhere. Jürgen Baars, the squadron clown and the devil incarnate when it came to either women or fighting — usually a combina
tion of both. Hans Weber ... Johann Ruge ... and the others, first-rate types all of them, forming a fighting unit with a proud record.
Richter felt a sudden twinge of sadness. He had seen so many of his friends die, had come close to death himself on more than one occasion, in the embattled skies from England to the Ukraine. Franz Peters, cut off by Hurricanes from the rest of his squadron, the remains of his body scattered over the chalky soil of Kent ... Sergeant Dieter Brandtner, swallowed up by the English Channel ... even Colonel Becker, the old invincible at whose side Richter had flown and fought almost from the very beginning, lost without trace somewhere over the icy steppes.
Although he tried his best to push such thoughts from his mind, he found himself wondering how many of the boys seated around him now would still be here in six months, or even a month. The thought never entered his head that one day, one of the empty places at the messroom dining-table might be his own.
Later, after an excellent meal prepared by Italian cooks and washed down with liberal quantities of Marsala wine, the newly-arrived pilots, fed and rested, assembled in the open air under the shade of an awning to be briefed by the base commander at Catania, Colonel Anton Dessauer. A small, wiry man, Dessauer was one of the Luftwaffe’s leading dive-bomber pilots. He wore the Knight’s Cross, chain-smoked cheroots and was a minor volcano of nervous energy.
He delivered a hasty welcoming address, then got down to the main business without further preamble. Lighting another cheroot, he surveyed the pilots for a few seconds, as though seeking the best choice of words, then said: ‘Gentlemen, let me explain to you why you are here. Doubtless you have wondered why, at the height of the summer offensive in Russia, you were suddenly uprooted and sent to Sicily, when many of the air units which sustained the air offensive against Malta over the past few months have been transferred to the theatre you have just left.’
Richter thought that Dessauer looked slightly bitter, and knew the reason. By all accounts, the Luftwaffe units had been having a tough time in the Malta battle, and now several of the most experienced fighter and bomber groups had been stripped from II Air Corps just when the battle appeared to be on the point of being won.
‘I have to tell you,’ Dessauer went on, ‘that events in the Mediterranean Theatre have suddenly taken a new turn. At noon yesterday, 26 May, General Rommel’s Panzer Army Africa launched a new offensive against the British line at Gazala. The attack appears to be going well, and if it continues to do so we hope that our forces will be in Egypt inside a month. All this means that Malta has assumed a fresh priority, for we may assume that the British will once again use the island as a base for further attacks on our supply lines across the Mediterranean.’
Dessauer paused, flicked his half-smoked cheroot into the dust and passed a hand over his face, dislodging several flies. ‘We chased them away, gentlemen,’ he continued. ‘Oh, yes, we chased away their bombers and their destroyers and their submarines and flattened their bases, but now they’ll be back and we shall have to chase them away all over again, although this time with far fewer aircraft, which means that we shall have to fly and fight twice as hard as before. You, the fighters, must establish total air superiority over the island. The British will doubtless attempt to fly in more Spitfires very soon; you must destroy them on the ground. You must keep up the pressure relentlessly, day after day. Remember, you are just as much part of General Rommel’s great offensive as if you were providing air cover for his tanks.’
Richter was beginning to feel bored. More than that: he felt disappointed. Dessauer had, at first, given the impression of a man who would present the facts, all of them, with no embellishment, and now here he was, delivering an address which was rapidly becoming the sort of thing a Party propagandist would try to put over.
He looked around covertly at the faces of the other pilots. Some of them, the younger ones, were leaning forward on their seats, listening intently as the colonel droned on, but most, the old hands, wore expressions ranging from dull resignation to acute exasperation. They had heard it all before.
There was no flying for the new arrivals that afternoon, two groups of Fighter Wing 53 at Gerbini having been detailed to carry out bomber escort duties and offensive patrols, so the pilots, whooping like savages and in high spirits, commandeered whatever transport they could find and headed for the town of Catania. Only Johnny Schumacher and Richter stayed behind, the former to write letters and the latter to familiarize himself with the airfield and its other occupants.
Determined to find out what conditions over Malta were really like, he borrowed a motor cycle and set off across the airfield towards the Stuka squadron, whose readiness tents were pitched in the shade of a clump of gnarled trees.
Ground crews were working on the dive-bombers, one or two of which showed signs of battle damage. Richter dismounted and strolled over to one of the aircraft and inspected its fin and rudder, which had been peppered by shell fragments. As he walked round the rear fuselage, a corporal in oil-stained overalls approached him and came to attention, saluting.
‘Good afternoon, Herr Hauptmann,’ he said respectfully, his eyes taking in Richter’s decorations. ‘May I be of assistance?’
‘Are any of your officers here?’ the pilot asked.
‘I beg to inform the captain,’ the man replied, using the formal style of address, ‘that the squadron has been stood down for the afternoon and that only the duty officer is here. He is in the operations caravan. If the captain will be kind enough to accompany me —’
Richter waved a hand, interrupting him. ‘No, please don’t bother,’ he said. ‘Carry on with the good work. I’ll find the duty officer myself.’
The caravan stood at the far end of the flight line, beyond the cluster of tents, half hidden among the trees. The duty officer, a ginger-haired first lieutenant, sat on the steps, reading a magazine. He looked up, startled, as Richter’s shadow fell over him, then jumped to his feet.
‘My apologies, Herr Hauptmann,’ he began. ‘I didn’t see you coming. I was just —’
He broke off suddenly and looked in puzzlement at Richter, whose face was split by a broad grin.
‘Hello, Conrad,’ Richter said.
The other’s face cleared at once and he let out a yell.
‘Jo Richter! Christ, man, I don’t believe it! It’s been years!’
He grabbed Richter in a bear hug, then held the laughing pilot at arm’s length. ‘Well, I’m damned,’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t get over this. I was just talking about you the other day. About that time you and I and Franz Bauer came across that “Strength Through Joy” camp when we were on manoeuvres. All those beautiful blonde Hitler maidens, just dying to give it away to the Führer’s gallant soldiers! God, we were worn out for a fortnight!’
‘We were bloody lucky we didn’t get caught,’ Richter laughed. He felt his spirits uplifted tremendously. It was good to see Conrad Seliger again. The two had gone through all their training together right up to operational training stage, when Richter had been posted to fighters and Seliger to bombers, much to his disgust. After that they had lost touch completely, although their minds held memories of a host of shared experiences, both good and bad.
Seliger led his friend into the caravan, which was furnished with a trestle table, a radio set, a field telephone and a couple of wickerwork chairs. Richter stretched out in one of them while Seliger rummaged in a map locker, unearthing a half-empty bottle of schnapps and a pair of tin mugs.
‘It’s not much,’ he said, waving a hand at their surroundings, ‘but it’s home, at least for today. There’s nothing going on this afternoon, as far as we are concerned, so it’s nice and quiet.’
He filled the mugs, and they drank to old times, reminiscing over mutual escapades. At length, Richter said:
‘It’s a pity Franz Bauer isn’t with us. The old team would be complete, then.’
A shadow crossed Seliger’s face, momentarily.
‘Franz is dead,’ he said quiet
ly. ‘He didn’t make it through the OTU. We were on dive-bombing practice one morning; he was ahead of me in the dive and I saw his tail come off. He went straight in. Nothing left.’
Richter was silent for a few moments. Then he raised his mug and said: ‘Well, here’s to Bauer.’
They drank. Richter looked at Seliger and changed the subject.
‘Were you on the raid this morning?’
Seliger shook his head. ‘No, I was on duty here. In any case, my aircraft was unserviceable. The boys didn’t have too much trouble, though. One crew wounded, but they brought their Stuka back. They’ll recover.’
Richter raised an eyebrow. ‘Not too much trouble? It didn’t look that way to me, judging by the number of holes in your crates.’
Seliger laughed. ‘Oh, I assure you, Jo, this morning’s raid was a milk run, compared to most. We were in and out before they knew what was happening.’
Richter set aside his mug and leaned forward, looking his friend directly in the eyes.
‘Look, Conrad,’ he said, ‘what’s it really like over there? Come on now, straight from the horse’s mouth. No bullshit. According to Colonel Dessauer, we’re walking all over the Tommies.’
Seliger’s lip curled. ‘Oh, him,’ he said contemptuously. ‘He’s been giving you one of his celebrated pep talks, has he? Well, you don’t want to take any bloody notice of what he says. All right, so he’s had a distinguished career. I don’t deny that, and that’s why he was sent here in the first place, to bolster our morale. I don’t mind admitting, Jo, our morale was pretty bloody low at one point, in March this year. We’d been taking losses. In fact, we’re taking losses all the time. Dessauer doesn’t know the half of it, because he’s never been over there. It’s not really his fault; higher authority reckons he’s too valuable to risk his neck.’
Malta Victory Page 9
