Perfect Payback, page 3
He taxied to the end of the runway, turned into the wind, and pushed the throttle forward. The timid roar of the engine increased and spurred into a howl of desperation.
Attempting to lift the plane into the air, the young airman barely had the wheels off the ground when the plane lurched downward, slamming on the airstrip, and bounced twice.
I bounced along with it, my head hitting the top of the cockpit, smashing my new fedora. Scheise. Scheise. Scheise.
He gave it more power and tried again to get airborne.
“Hail Mary, full of grace.” I mumbled and crossed myself while Hartmann yawned as though the awkward takeoff was normal.
Looking down the runway, I noticed a grove of trees no more than four hundred yards away. We weren’t going to make it over them.
Sweat beaded my forehead. I tapped my heels on the floor and gritted my teeth, looking at the pilot. Come on. Get this gooney bird into the air.
Hartmann’s expression stayed calm as a mountain lake in summer.
I grabbed the sides of my seat and squeezed so hard my knuckles cracked, my life flashing in front of me.
The growling engine barely lifted us over the trees.
The air jockey stared straight ahead, but his grin told me he’d played the biggest practical joke on me that had ever been perpetrated.
Awkwardly, I slapped his arm with the back of my hand. “You did that on purpose.”
His eyes narrowed, and his jawline locked tight as a medieval chastity belt. “Just wanted to get your day started off right.”
“Well, your plan didn’t work. I need to change my pants.” Not really. But almost.
We both laughed.
My feeling about Erich Hartmann had changed. His military career was on the rise. His flight skills were medal worthy. And his humor—well, that was yet to be decided.
Chapter 7
der 4. Januar 1937
Augsburg, Germany
Except for the infrequent air pockets that jumble my writing, the flight to Augsburg with young Hartmann could not be easier. The fog burned off early, making the view spectacular. The fast currents in the winding blue rivers take my mind off flying. Maybe Hartmann laughing each time my fedora slaps the top of the cockpit because of turbulence has cured my fear of air travel…
A little after 9:00 a.m., we approached the Bavarian Aircraft Works. I closed my journal to look at the row of BF 109 fighter planes lining the tarmac. I couldn’t take my eyes off the magnificent airframes. The crisp, sleek lines and long stout noses reminded me of a great white shark. Both were predators. Both gave me chills.
Hartmann asked me to wait in Willy Messerschmitt’s office. The chief designer of the BF 109 had a desk cluttered with aircraft designs and blueprints. The walls were covered with pictures of Hitler and other dignitaries shaking hands with Messerschmitt.
The stench of his stuffed ashtray irritated my nose. I took a seat and angled my chair away from the mound of half-smoked cigarettes.
The longer I sat waiting, the more I questioned my ability to do this job. All sorts of arrows and darts poked at my confidence. What if I couldn’t solve the fuel injection problem? What if I made it worse? What if Daimler fired me because of ineptitude? My throbbing pulse drummed in time with my laboring heart.
Several airplanes revved outside Messerschmitt’s office. The high-pitched whine conjured an image of fierce attack planes.
“Get that verdammt engineer from Daimler down here immediately.” The deep voice from down the hall captured my attention. “The fuel injection problem has got to be solved.”
Several deep breaths almost helped ease my anxiety—until the door burst open.
A man of average height stormed around the desk and plopped down across from me in a cushioned black leather chair. He grabbed a cigarette from his shirt pocket, jammed it into his mouth, and flicked a lighter several times before lighting the tobacco stick. “And who might you be?” Inhaling and exhaling a stream of smoke straight up, he watched me with eyes that could ignite a lump of coal.
I was not going to be intimidated. Leaning forward, I met his dark, emotionless gaze head-on. “I’m the man who is going to resolve the fuel injection problem in the 109.” I hoped.
Messerschmitt flipped the top of the silver lighter. Click. Click. Click. His stare seemed to go on forever.
I had a feeling most people kowtowed to this man, but I wasn’t going to be one of them. I kept my focus and refused to blink.
“What’s your name?” He lifted the cigarette to his lips and took another drag. This time he blew the smoke from the corner of his mouth, all the while flipping the lighter top. Click. Click. Click.
My stare still narrowed in on his. I tightened my jaw the way I did right before I stepped into the ring. “Hans Joachim Pepperman.” I gave him a hard look to let him know his bullying tactics wouldn’t work on me.
He leaned back in his chair, dropping both arms next to his sides, still holding onto his lighter. Click. Click. Click. “Hans Pepperman, the Olympic boxer?” A bland mask of indifference crossed his face.
I slowly nodded. “The same.”
He picked a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “Go check into the hotel. You start tomorrow at 8:00 a.m.” He grabbed a blueprint and swiveled his chair away from me in quick dismissal.
What an arrogant trottel.
Chapter 8
der 4. Januar 1937
Augsburg, Germany
The initial meeting with Messerschmitt enlightened me. His self-assured, pompous disposition is loathsome. However, his no-nonsense attitude matches mine. Maybe we are too much alike. He does not think I can correct the problem with the fuel injection system. That is all the motivation I need…
The cool, crisp winter day was a bit of a reprieve from the freezing, nasty days associated with this part of Bavaria. Even the skeleton-like fingers of the tree branches outside my hotel window seemed to push upward toward the clear, blue sky, relishing the break from the bitter weather.
Hartmann had driven me to the Hotel Baur, my home until Daimler-Benz recalled me to Stuttgart. The old, stately stone structure impressed me. The elegance of the Baur oozed with power and wealth—its eccentric, over-the-top luxury pretentious.
I slid my journal into a drawer by the bed and unpacked the fuel injection system schematics from the bottom of my suitcase. My room was small and plain, but I had a table where I could work. I didn’t want to waste time. The sooner I solved the problem and proved my worth to Messerschmitt as a mechanical engineer, the better.
As I laid the blueprints out, the same doubt I’d felt before winning my first boxing championship latched onto me. This was my first job, and it was important to succeed. The thought of failure hung heavier than a millstone tied around my neck. I must get to work.
Time escaped me. My stomach growled. I checked my watch, surprised to find lunch was over, and I was about to miss dinner. So far, I’d found nothing that would indicate why the fuel injection system would cut out. Hopefully, a full stomach would refresh me.
Pushing back from the desk, I stretched and put on the tweed coat and cinched my tie. I rubbed the knuckle I broke before the Olympics to ease the ache.
As I approached a man and woman next to the elevator, the man greeted me. “Guten abend.”
“Guten abend,” I returned the evening greeting politely.
The lady entered the elevator first, followed by her escort, and her gaze caught mine. Dark eyes and ruby lips captivated me. Her sculptured cheek bones and short, brown hair were stunning. But it was the way she undressed me with her eyes that caught me off guard and captured my full attention.
I went to the back of the elevator and positioned myself for a better take.
The view did not disappoint. Her body curved in all the right places, her small waist and shapely calves sculptured to perfection.
Trapped in the woman’s beauty, I followed her and the man off the elevator.
As she reached the front door of the hotel, she turned her head. The slow smile she gave me had the power to stop a runaway train sprinting down a steep slope.
To say I was interested would be an understatement.
“Hans… Hans Pepperman.”
I turned toward the voice calling my name.
“How about a bier?” Eric Hartmann stood in front of the entrance to the bar.
“Sure.” I had already taken a liking to the guy, and a bier with the only person I knew in Augsburg was welcomed. “You owe me a drink after that takeoff from Stuttgart.”
My remark triggered a laugh that made Hartmann sound like an ornery teenager.
The large bar was filled with heavy wood tables and thickly padded high-back chairs, not at all like the food-stained bare tables and broken-down chairs I was used to. I didn’t feel uncomfortable, but the motif was not to my liking. Neither were the guests as they walked around me, their haughty noses peaked upward as though they were better than everyone else. If Daimler had not been covering my expenses, I could not afford one night here.
The tables were filled, so Hartmann and I took the last two seats at the bar.
“Was mochten sie trinken?” The bartender, dressed in a starched white shirt and black bow tie had slicked-back oily brown hair and a pencil-thin mustache. His deep baritone voice had a mellow, hypnotic sound reminding me of Lucifer in Dante’s Inferno.
“Two WeihenstephanWeiss biers.” Hartmann apparently hadn’t noticed the bartender’s strangeness. “Is that okay with you?”
I forced a smile. “You’re buying.”
He gave me a smug grin and nodded to the bartender who lifted his head and looked at me in a way I wasn’t sure I wanted to interpret.
When the bartender turned away, Hartmann leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “Be careful what you say and do here. The Gestapo headquarters is located on the second floor. Those people would all take a dagger for Hitler and the Third Reich. The bar area is always filled with Gestapo personnel. I’ve heard the bar lavatory is wired. I do not know if that is true or not.”
As if the bartender heard, he turned toward me, his gaze piercing with sinister calculation. Although his tongue was not forked, the tip slipped between his lips as though testing the air.
Could he be a Gestapo agent?
Hartmann knocked the bar in front of me to get my attention. “I just found out from some of the other pilots you were a boxer.”
I flexed the fingers on my right hand. “I am a boxer.”
The look on Hartmann’s face was priceless. “Are you going to hit me for scaring you this morning?”
The bartender placed two biers on napkins. The bubbly, white foam spilled over and ran down the sides of the sparkling, clean glasses.
“No.” I took a sip. The clean taste was refreshing and just what I needed. “But, if I fly with you again and you do that crazy touch-and-go takeoff, I will.” I doubled my fist and shook it at him.
He placed both hands in front of his face. “Not to worry. Not to worry.”
I waved to the bartender, hesitant to even bother the man again. “Can I order a sandwich?”
“Do you need a menu, sir?” The arrogant way he slurred sir was as phony as his mustache.
“No, I want a Rueben on pumpernickel.”
He wiped his hands on a white towel, walked to a waiter, and placed my order.
I looked at Hartmann. “How about you?”
“I’m going to enjoy a liquid meal tonight.” He finished his bier in two gulps and a loud burp. Grinning, he scratched the top of his head, reminding me of Stan Laurel in the Laurel and Hardy movies.
We sat at the bar for several hours. Most of the conversation centered on the BF 109.
“When does the engine seem to cut out?” I asked.
Hartmann sipped a fresh wheat bier and pondered the question. “At six thousand feet and in a tight turn.”
“Does the engine stall?”
“No, it just loses power.”
I tugged my lower lip, thinking about his response. “We’ll talk some more. Right now, I have a bladder problem, and I do have an answer for that.” I stepped back from the stool and— wham—crashed into someone.
A lady made a shrill sound and fell into a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Glass shattered across the room.
I turned.
The beautiful lady from the elevator was sprawled on the floor, her porcelain face frozen in shock, her dress up to her waist.
Chapter 9
der 4. Januar 1937
Augsburg, Germany
I feel terrible about what happened at the bar tonight. People rushed to help the lady I accidentally knocked down. When I tried to apologize, the man who had been with her on the elevator pushed me away. In all the commotion, I did not even get her name. Hopefully, I will have another chance…
I took a shower, set the alarm clock, and slid under soft, white linen sheets.
At 3:45, I shot up in bed, my heart double-timing. What if the fuel injector was not the problem? My chuckle started low and soft, then crescendoed loud and hard. One of my favorite physics professors, Lars “Dr. Mouse” Wartes, always said, “Never assume a problem to be a major one. Start with a simple solution and work forward.”
I flung the covers back, found my pants, and pulled the pockets inside out. What happened to the piece of paper Hartmann gave me with his telefon number? I checked my wallet. Not there. My shirt. Where was my shirt?
It lay in a crumpled mass next to the desk.
I picked up the shirt and found the paper with the number. Dressing in the same clothes I’d worn yesterday, I ran to the elevator and slapped the down button. “Come on. Come on.”
The cables clanged, and the passenger box jolted. An eternity passed before the doors opened.
Inside the elevator, I pushed the lobby button three times, as though that would get the elevator to move faster. Jamming both hands into my pants pockets, I checked for change. None there. I felt around in my jacket pocket and pulled coins out, enough to make a call.
The elevator doors sprung open. I stepped out looking right, then left for the telefon booth. Ah, next to the bar entrance.
I ran across the lobby, opened the telefon booth door, and slammed it shut. Picking up the receiver, I dropped the coins into the slot and dialed the number.
One ring. Two. And three.
“Hartmann, answer the phone.”
He picked up on ring number four. “Erich Hartmann, guten tag.”
The way he slurred his words, I hoped it was his lisp, and he wasn’t drunk. “Erich, this is Hans.”
“Who?”
“Hans Pepperman. Meet me at the hotel.” After a short pause, I heard the squeaking coils of his box springs.
“It’s four in the morning.”
“I know what time it is. I need you to drive me to the Bavarian Aircraft Works.”
“What? Why do you want…?”
“Get over here right now, or I’ll beat you senseless.”
“I’ll be right over.” The slur disappeared.
I paced back and forth outside the Baur, the morning air cold and filled with tiny bits of sparkling ice crystals. What if I fixed the engine my first day on the job? I doubled both fists and shadow boxed—two left jabs and a knockout right cross.
A lone car approached the hotel. Had to be Hartmann. The car stopped.
I jerked open the door and plopped onto the front seat.
His shirt had so many creases it looked like he’d wadded it up before putting it on. His hair spiked in every direction. His breath smelled like the bottom of a tuna fish can.
“Rough night?” I reached over and slapped his shoulder.
He flinched, and the car almost went off the road.
“Never mind.” I shook my head. “Just get me to the Bavarian Air Works. This could be a great day.”
“Whatever you say.” He yawned, exposing me again to another blast of year-old tuna that could melt rocks.
We pulled up to the gate entrance of the aircraft works and showed our passes to the military guard.
He waved us through.
“Go to the hangar with the 109s,” I told Hartmann, “and take me to the plane you fly.”
The car slowed, and he looked at me. “What are you going to do to my plane?”
“I’m going to put a time bomb under the seat and blow it up. What do you think I’m going to do, Dummkopf? I’m going to solve the cutting-out problem at six thousand feet.”
Hartmann scratched his cheek. “My momma’s going to be mad at you if you blow up my plane.”
The young fighter pilot had a dry sense of humor. I would be his wing commander any day.
“What time do the mechanics arrive? I’ll need their help to locate some tools.”
“My guess would be around 8:00 a.m.”
“That will give me time to look over the engine schematics one more time.”
Hartmann left me to it.
One of the mechanics arrived early and helped me locate the tools to work on the D. B. 601 engine.
At 7:30, I closed the cowling on the plane, washed my hands, and headed to Messerschmitt’s office. I wanted to be outside his door when he arrived.
As he turned the corner and noticed me seated outside his office, he hesitated, maybe surprised to see me. He took the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door, tilting his head to motion me inside. “I’ll show you to your office as soon as I get some coffee.”
Pompous arsch. “I don’t need to go to my office.” My next remark would be premature, but I couldn’t resist. “I’ve solved the problem with the fuel injection system.”
He slowly set his briefcase on the floor and turned. “What did you say?” It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard me. He just didn’t believe me.
