The End of It, page 10
He stares west. Nothing. Aren’t they coming today? Then he sees a far distant glint. He flies to the left, hoping to get behind and cut off its escape route. The Mosquito comes straight on. He’ll be invisible behind. He swings to left and right to check behind himself; don’t forget basics.
The Mosquito is a little above Jochen, but he can’t coax his Gustav any higher. At two hundred metres below and behind it fills his sight and he fires. The port engine bursts into flames. Get out. He fires at once at the starboard engine. Smoke starts from it.
Get out! They won’t have long now in a wooden aeroplane. The flames from the port engine stop and the smoke from the starboard, too. Fire extinguishers. Neither propeller is turning.
The nose of the Mosquito goes down. Is he going to glide down? Or is it just too high to jump? Jochen keeps them company and checks around that no other Gustav is sidling up to blow the Mosquito apart. At six thousand he spots a flame starting again in the port engine.
Jump! Jump! Have they seen it? They must have an instrument to tell them. The plane levels off and a hatch in the side flies off. A shape tumbles out. Part of the canopy goes and a man struggles up and finally out. They fall and fall but eventually their parachutes stream and deploy and Jochen feels like singing. As they float down, he sees the Mosquito plummeting. It’s become almost invisible when there’s a flash in a field far below.
He leaves the falling men and turns away towards his next destination. He calls in and announces, ‘Mosquito down,’ and gives an approximate map reference for the wreck and its crew.
Scholz has done some work on the phone for him so when Jochen lands he asks immediately for Hauptmann Becker. The Diamonds at his throat have their usual effect and a leutnant is honoured to take him to Becker, who provides him with a kübelwagen and a driver who knows the area. Jochen gives the driver a cigarette and says he’s going to sleep. He puts the collar of his Ami jacket up against the draught between the window and the canvas hood and closes his eyes. It’s twenty-five minutes later when the driver nudges him and he wakes to the sound of their tyres on gravel. There are leafless apple trees on either side and a gentle curve to the drive. Halfway up as they pass a huge and grand oak, a substantial brick house appears, square with a mansard roof. Would there be a room for his mother up there beneath the grey tiles?
It’s only when he’s about to pull the bell that he realises it’s not even eight o’clock. It can’t be polite to call so early. But what can he do? There’s a war on. He waits and waits and has his hand on the bell to ring again when the door swings open. Hertha in slacks and a thick jumper and her hair tied up in a scarf. And her mouth wide open. Finally, she smiles.
‘You know how to make an entrance, don’t you?’ she says.
He leans forwards to kiss her cheek, but she doesn’t turn her head and so his kiss is to her lips.
‘I landed nearby. I thought I’d say hallo. Can I come in?’
‘Of course, but wait here. I’ll be straight back. There’ll be three heart attacks if I take you into the kitchen without warning.’
She leaves the door open a crack. He hears a distant shriek and a cry of ‘Jochen?’ that must be from Lilo, then scurrying feet. Hertha returns and leads him through a panelled reception hall and on into a tiled and cosily warm kitchen; a large table with cups and a breakfast cake on it and a colourfully-tiled stove in the corner.
‘I’m the only one dressed in any way decently and that’s only because I was on my way to collect the eggs and muck out the chickens before I start my shift at the local hospital.’
‘You’re as beautiful as ever.’
‘Still the silver tongue. How’s Lotte? Married yet? I haven’t had an invitation.’
He tells her about the on then off wedding. She shakes her head at him.
‘Have you come to see me, then? You didn’t write back.’
He feels like a shit again. He tells all. Her face falls a little, but she quickly bucks up.
‘I’ll have to talk to Lilo. Margarethe is her mother-in-law. Mother and I are just guests. I’ll see her now.’
She leaves him with acorn coffee and hot milk. He’s raising a large piece of cake to his mouth when the door opens. He lowers the cake and stands.
‘Frau Deichmann.’
‘Aunt Vicky, Jochen, please. How lovely to see you!’
They kiss cheeks. They talk about Berlin, his mother, his dead father and then the door opens. A large woman with a wide smile, a mid-calf navy blue skirt, a blue jumper and pearls.
‘So, you’re the famous Jochen Murville I hear about all the time.’ It’s Lilo’s mother-in-law. ‘Call me Margarethe. And give me your Berlin address. Lilo has told me everything. I will write to your mother at once and you can take the letter back with you. It will be lovely to have her here. Three old ladies to keep these chits of girls in order.’
Last in, Lilo, clutching her baby to her, bright and smiling as ever but with dark-ringed eyes, exhausted from the baby probably and from worry over her husband captured at Stalingrad. Or dead. The baby, Andreas, is smiley and bonny and takes an instant liking to the diamonds. Jochen holds him and the baby’s hands are all over them. He cries when Jochen hands him back.
At Jochen’s request, Hertha takes cake and coffee out to his driver.
‘He seemed surprised,’ she says.
‘Always look after the men. The old man told me that.’
The time is getting on. He has to go. He must be there if the Amis come.
‘Oh, play us something first, Jochen,’ Lilo says, ‘I haven’t heard you for so long.’
He protests but Lilo leads him to the piano. He riffles through their music, finds something he’s played before but doesn’t know. He flicks his hands free from his cuffs and begins. He doesn’t look up and doesn’t see them gazing at him as he concentrates. It’s a wonderful piece. Well, it’s Chopin, so of course it is. He lifts his fingers after the last notes have died.
‘Beautiful, beautiful,’ Margarethe says. She’s standing at the door with the letter in her hand.
‘Yes,’ Hertha says. ‘What is it?’
‘A waltz by Chopin called Farewell.’
‘Farewell! I might have known. Chopin. Old misery guts! It’s my birthday on Saturday.’
‘Seventeen?’ Jochen says. ‘Happy birthday from Chopin.’ He plays the internationally known tune in the style of Chopin. They all laugh and applaud. ‘And from Beethoven.’ He plays it loud and thunderously. More laughter. ‘Finally, from Scott Joplin.’ He plays a ragtime version, stops, lowers the lid, stands, bows and grabs his cap.
Hertha sees him out. In the hall he kisses her.
‘Thank you so much, Hertha. You’re wonderful. And much too good for me.’
She smiles, just. ‘I am, aren’t I?’
He’s back by twelve. But no Amis. He sends Margarethe’s letter of invitation off in the official bag inside another envelope addressed to Rolf Bauer at Police HQ Berlin. They lie around, sleep, play cards. In mid-afternoon, Jochen’s Mosquito crew turn up, pilot and navigator, delivered by kübelwagen from the fields they landed in. They give them tea. Foul tea and revolting sandwiches. Jochen is embarrassed. The pilot is limping. Peter Jessop, a flight lieutenant, a DFC. From Surbiton, in London. Jochen writes down the address. The navigator is Canadian, from Ontario, another flight lieutenant, no medals. Charlie Price. He gets his address, too. He leaves them their watches. He can’t take everyone’s into safe keeping. Perhaps they’ll get lucky and no one will steal them. He packs them off for interrogation with a big grin.
‘Tell them nothing,’ he says. ‘And be careful, they’ll try to trick you.’
Later, they hear it confirmed that the Ivans have raised the siege of Leningrad. Many Germans captured, the rest in retreat. His buoyant mood pops. The guys settle into twos and threes to talk. How can he lift them? But perhaps they need to talk first. The Reich is clearly in deep shit. They need to work that out for themselves. He can’t just jolly them out of it. In fact, he shouldn’t. It’s not a dead comrade to remember and toast, it’s mad dreams going up in smoke.
He’s moving piles of paper from one side of his desk to the other when Scholz comes in. There’s a letter with a Berlin postmark. He doesn’t know the writing but when he turns the letter over, he sees the writer’s name and address. Willi! He opens it at once and reads it. Then he reads it again. He can’t believe it. Then he does believe it and he’s deeply shocked. Then he’s disgusted, revolted. Then angry. In fact, furious. Dr Hofmann! That smiling paterfamilias with the protective arm around Lotte. ‘My little girl, young man!’
6
J’attendrai
The contents of Willi’s letter reverberate in his mind. They lie there below everything and seep up into all his daily concerns. He needs to see Lotte’s father, question him. But he’s in Berlin. Jochen can’t just up and go.
The Amis don’t come. He does paperwork. Their Gustavs are dispersed in the woods now, invisible from the air. How long will it take the Amis to work out where they are though? An airfield empty of aeroplanes every time the Mustangs fly over? They must wonder if they can all be off fighting all the time. If he were them, he’d bomb the woods. Just to be sure. A few incendiaries would do the trick.
Schaefer’s got hold of a shotgun and goes out towards dusk after the rabbits that hop about at the far end of the field. Their dinners have improved. Jochen insists the rabbits are shared around among the men too and not hogged by the pilots. A new guy arrives with a few records. A couple of Zarah Leanders, always popular, and Rina Ketty. J’attendrai. One or two protest. It’s in French. Of course, it is, Jochen says, Ketty’s French. He loves the tune and catches himself humming and whistling it. It’s so evocative. ‘I will wait.’ Just imagine it. The warmth of Gerda in his arms. Nothing to do but dance with her. All day, all night.
The Amis come. A better day. Two Thunderbolts, two Fortesses, one loss. A new guy, Koch. The one who brought the records. Poor devil. Jochen has nothing to say to his family apart from he was a nice guy. He manages to expand that when he writes. Four victories to one loss. The ratio is acceptable, but the numbers are pathetic, piffling. They won’t stop them coming like this.
Everyone has accepted the end of the fighting at Leningrad. For the first time, Jochen hears someone say that the Reich should make peace with the allies so that together they can destroy the Commies, who are the enemies of all mankind. Jochen plays and they sing after dinner, including J’attendrai, in French, which seems to have ceased to be an unpatriotic thing to do.
Lotte writes. She longs for him to come back so that they can marry. She understands entirely that he had to go that day. He is an officer, a leader. It was his duty. His note and afterwards his letter made it all so clear. It helped her get over her disappointment. What matters is that he told her he loved her. That makes everything bearable. But she longs to see him. For a moment he feels awful but immediately remembers that she has a vile inhuman monster for a father, so what does that make her? He throws the letter aside. He may never answer it.
The next morning there’s a letter from Otto; his name’s on the back. Jochen’s never been so popular. Otto’s never written before. It feels thick. God! What’s happened? He pulls it open and there’s another envelope inside. Is it…?
Jochen Murville, Luftwaffe.
No one else would write that. He turns it over. It is her! Her address is on the back! He knows where she is now! He can find her later! Afterwards. Sometime. One day. As she said. ‘One day, Jochen.’ He slides the paper knife along the fold of the envelope. Of course, there’ll be no afterwards, there’ll be no ‘one day’. He’ll be dead.
He pulls the letter out. There’s a photo there. He holds it only for an instant before dropping both photo and letter onto the desk. She gazes up at him from the desktop as beautiful as ever, smiling fit to bust, while the baby she holds in her arms with its face close to hers stares out with lovely and slightly vulnerable eyes.
He’s shocked and can’t think. Who’s baby? One of those Swedish giants? So much for ‘one day’! The phone rings. A reflex extends his arm.
‘Concentrations in sector Dora-Dora, sir.’
He turns from the desk and grabs his Ami jacket on his way out, leaving Gerda and her baby where they lie.
They’re directed to climb out towards the coast. They’re at eight thousand metres and have just spotted the distant Yank boxes when they’re bounced. Only one guy sees them.
A voice shouts, ‘Break!’
No name attached to the cry, no direction. Without thinking, Jochen pulls the stick over to the left and further back. They’ll expect a dive to escape and won’t be able to follow immediately. As he rises and turns, he sees someone jump from a blazing Gustav, no number discernible. He sees a Thunderbolt in front of him, coming down, part of a second element diving on them. He fires but the Ami has left his sights. There are more coming down; black cross shapes that swell into aeroplanes. Too many to count. They took off with fourteen in the gruppe. There must be three or four times as many Thunderbolts attacking them. They’ll be slaughtered. Is anyone there? He calls his wing-man but there’s no answer.
Now what? Get away or fight? He’s heading towards the sea. Waves are breaking white on the shore far below. He’s still climbing but he sees a Thunderbolt five hundred metres below behind a Gustav that’s weaving for all it’s worth. As he puts the nose down and pulls full boost, he glances around through the canopy as well as he can between the glazing bars. Nothing near him. The Thunderbolt grows and fills the sight. As Jochen fires and sees sparks around the wing root, the Ami breaks to the right, away from the Gustav he’s chasing. Jochen breaks left. The Ami’s been warned on the radio and whoever’s behind Jochen may expect him to follow the Thunderbolt.
As he turns, he sees a Thunderbolt behind a Gustav behind a Thunderbolt. He puts his nose down to the right and then left to straighten up behind the Thunderbolt. It fills his sights. He fires. The Gustav loses speed from the recoil as he does so. He sees sparks all over the tail, then the cockpit, and the Ami goes into a spin towards the grey sea below.
He banks and the sea is to his left now, the sky to his right. But too late. The starboard wing shakes as rounds hit it. He cuts the throttle and pulls a tighter turn. A Thunderbolt flashes past and is gone. He’s at five thousand now and way out to sea. Too far out. He straightens up, pulls full boost and puts his nose down towards the coast and the line of white breakers far ahead.
Three tremendous bangs shake the Gustav and the engine bursts into flame in front of him. He drops the flaps and fires his guns. The straps dig deep into his shoulders as the flaps and the recoil from the guns decelerate the Gustav instantly. A Thunderbolt shoots past him and flies into his sights. He fires and keeps his thumb down. The Ami takes hits all over; the fuselage, the wings, the cockpit, the engine, which starts to burn. Jochen’s cockpit is full of smoke, and flames are starting around his feet. He’s over the sea but he’s got to go. Leads out of the helmet, straps undone and a climb into the slipstream over the side of the cockpit this time.
He dives forwards and down to avoid the tail that did him so much damage in the desert. When he sees the Gustav far away from him and falling to the sea nose first, he pulls the cord. Nothing for a moment and then a tremendous jerk sets him right way up and he’s floating over that bleak sludge-coloured sea that, in fact, he’s falling towards quite rapidly.
How cold? How long has he got? He was in the English Channel for an hour but that was in September when the water had had a summer to warm up. Now it’s just March and the Baltic has had a winter to cool down. He should have married Lotte, his pension would come through in a couple of weeks and she’d be a highly eligible and desirable widow.
He’ll have minutes, he decides, once he hits the water. He looks all around below and sees another parachute floating on the water three or four hundred metres away. The Yank? In the other direction he sees… is that another parachute? No! A sail! A sail? How far? Five or six hundred metres? How long to sail that far? That’s supposing they’ve looked up and aren’t concentrating on their nets. But surely, they’ll have heard the engines, the shooting?
The sea is rising rapidly towards him. The drill is to press the quick release and slide out of the parachute just before he hits the water. Some hopes. The sea is freezing as he plunges in and the shock of it snatches his breath from him as he goes under. Still under, he manages the quick release. The cold is already eating into him. He struggles out of the straps and as his life jacket pulls him to the surface, he makes sure he’s entirely clear of the straps and the parachute that could drown him if a wave tumbled it under and down. He splutters and gasps as he spits out most of the water he’s swallowed.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ he can eventually shout out against the cold. Icy water slops over his head every few seconds. He glances at his watch.
The life jacket keeps him on his back, looking at the sky, an uneven sunless grey. When he rises on the crest of a wave, he can see the boat. When he’s in a trough, it disappears and the grey water looms high all around him, lowering and threatening, as if anticipating and planning how best to kill him. Freeze him or drown him? Each time it reappears, the boat has its prow towards him, sailing, it must be, because there’s no longer fuel for an engine. Surely, they’ve seen him? Two guys probably, like Uwe and Herbert, who took Gerda to Sweden. She’s right to have abandoned hope of him. Right to have found a fine blond Swedish guy to make babies with. What else was she to do over there all by herself? He’s recovered from his shock at the picture. Now he’s about to die, he’s happy for her. It was the surprise of seeing it without warning that made him so ungenerous. And he couldn’t do anything for her now anyway. He can’t do anything for anyone, not even himself. If that boat misses him, he’ll die here. Be washed up somewhere eventually; a corpse on a beach. Him and that other guy over there, who must be bobbing up and down just like Jochen. His mother will hear at last, ending that horrible missing in action period; weeks, months. He’ll be unrecognisable. Bloated, face eaten by fish; a horror for whoever rolls him over on the sand. They’ll have his ID tags, though. They’ll know him.
