The End of It, page 4
Bang!
The plane shakes. The starboard wing drops. His eye turns automatically to the wing and he swings the stick left at once in reaction to the jagged hole he sees, just as a dark shape flashes past. As the Storch turns he follows the shape as it gets smaller to his right, then behind him and then through the glass on the left and then through the windscreen in front of him as he straightens up. The shape is turning in a wide circle. Olive drab, white stars, elliptical wings, blunt nose; Thunderbolt. He’s seen them in photographs and recognition silhouettes. What’s it doing here? Coming back for him, obviously. He sees flashes from the wings and puts the stick down and to the right. He dives in a curve as the Thunderbolt rockets by above him. He reaches the trees and flies along the side of the wood just below tree top height. The Ami is turning again. Before he’s recognised it as an idea, Jochen pops the Storch up above the trees and flies on just over the tops. The Ami is turning quite a way above Jochen in order to dive on him. Jochen twists the Storch from side to side so that he can just keep the Thunderbolt in sight behind and he slows to just above the stall. He doesn’t wait to see gun flashes but opens the throttle and puts the stick over to the left. He sees the trees to his right, where he was flying only moments ago, mashed by the bullets that are missing him. He’s used up all his tricks. Now he’ll land and run for it.
He cuts the engine and drops by the side of the wood. The Storch runs only a few metres before the long grass stops it. Before he can touch his straps, he sees the Thunderbolt smash into and through the trees and disappear amongst them. There must be the sound of snapping, falling trees but it’s lost in the monstrous noise of the Thunderbolt’s engine. Then there’s silence for fifteen, twenty, thirty seconds? He’s climbing through the door when he hears a crump and a whoosh and flames shoot up from the wood. He takes a few steps but stops at the edge of the trees. He can feel the heat from where he stands.
He stares into the wood where the flames are rising, flicking from side to side with the breeze, catching branches and setting them alight, about to consume trees that have stood there since they were shoots from acorns and seeds, a hundred years or more ago, and in the middle of it a man becoming a frazzled lump of meat.
The pilot must have got himself completely lost. Compass not working? Or shot up? No sun out to guide him? There were no signs of a raid in the area. All this way across an ocean to get lost and fly way beyond his normal range, but still with the will to shoot at a Nazi pig chanced upon when desperately searching for a landmark, tracking his eyes across the landscape and then across the map on his knees, darting eyes around outside for 109s and then ahead of him; a little plane with black crosses on the wings.
What a waste! He can’t tell any relative of this man he saw his end. He has no idea who to tell. He stands there mesmerised by the scene. An ancient wood going up in flames. Tiny creatures in there scurrying for dear life. Then, twenty metres from him, pushing through the branches at the margin of the wood and staggering, a man! Brown leather flying jacket. Scorch marks down his trousers.
Jochen laughs. He waves. The man points a handgun. Still laughing, Jochen puts his hands up as the man approaches.
‘Are we going to walk to England?’ Jochen says in English. ‘Do you know the way?’
The pilot stops, looks at his gun, takes it by the barrel and offers it to Jochen. He loves it at once, a Browning automatic.
‘Can I have the belt, too?’
The man unbuckles it and passes it over.
‘More bullets?’
The man rummages in a pocket on his leg and pulls out a small box. Jochen slips it into a tunic pocket, straps on the gun belt and slides the automatic into the holster.
‘Billy the Kid!’
But the pilot isn’t ready for jokes. Jochen offers a cigarette, lights it and they smoke together.
‘How did you do that?’ the American says after a while, in fluent German.
Jochen knows the accent. ‘Are you from Berlin?’
‘My grandparents. How did you get me to do that?’
‘I was too low. You were too fast. I’ve seen it before, over the sea, over the desert. Guys just fly straight in. Can’t judge the height. The trees. Like a carpet.’
‘You’re a fighter pilot, I guess.’
Jochen nods.
‘How many have you got?’
‘Some.’
‘More than me.’
‘How many have you got?’
‘One.’
‘More than you, then.’
Jochen puts out his hand. ‘Jochen Murville. From Berlin.’
They shake hands.
‘Sam Levine. From New York. Coney Island.’
‘Samuel. Jewish?’
Levine doesn’t answer.
There’s a truck approaching from the airfield.
‘Don’t tell them. If they ask, pick a church and say you belong to that.’
Levine offers a cigarette. Lucky Strike. Pulls out a Zippo and lights them both.
‘Here.’ He holds the Zippo out to Jochen. ‘Have this. I won’t manage to keep it long, will I?’
Jochen spots Levine’s watch. ‘You won’t keep that either.’
Levine unstraps it and passes it to Jochen.
‘I’ll bring them to New York when I visit. Afterwards,’ Jochen says and hands Levine the packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
3
Una Furtiva Lagrima
Ice has formed on the inside of the canopy along the glazing bars. Jochen slaps his thighs to get some warmth into them. The radio crackles in his ears. The sky above is a rich blue.
Lower down, cotton wool clouds sail along over the countryside. Jochen spots the vapour trails coming in from the direction of the sea just as the first black bursts of flak appear around the silver dots at the head of the trails.
He calls into his oxygen mask. ‘Heavy babies, ten o’clock. One thousand below.’
The staffel is flying northwest at nine thousand metres, twelve 109s against this American air fleet. The escorts will be up there somewhere but there’s no time to worry about them, the bombers are much more important. They fly arranged in four carefully positioned vees of three to form solid boxes of twelve. The arcs of fire of the thirteen machine guns every Flying Fortress carries interlock to create an almost impenetrable screen around each box. Box after box after box is flying into Germany.
‘Wide open!’ he calls and pushes the throttle to full as he puts down the nose, aiming at the first of the Ami boxes, at the twelve bombers flying tight together. It won’t take long at the seven hundred kilometres an hour the Gustavs are doing now. The bursts of flak around the bombers cease.
‘Thunderbolts coming down,’ a voice calls in his ears.
‘Victor, victor,’ he calls back in acknowledgement. Will they have time to attack before the escorts hit?
As he pulls the stick back to come out of the dive, he feels his weight treble and he’s squashed down into his seat. He’s flying level now, straight at the bombers. He closes the throttle a little to give him more shooting time. He’ll have only seconds. He takes the leader. Getting him might have an effect on the box. The aeroplane ahead grows and grows, a giant silver whale glinting in the sun. Tracer bullets fly past him from the Fortress’s front guns, two of the thirteen; heavy calibre, 17.9 mm. One hit is bad news, three or four will take him down. He fixes the bomber’s nose in his sight and fires from, it must be, about six hundred metres. One thousand, he counts; the tracer from the front guns stops, two thousand; the glass in the gunner’s position sparkles as it smashes, the pilot’s windscreen, too, three thousand, he counts, and stops firing to pull the stick back and to the right as the whole nose of the Ami bomber, very close now, disintegrates and the machine rears up and collides with the bomber just behind and to its right. Then he’s past and sees no more.
He climbs in a spiral. Looking down, he sees the two B17s locked together, going down in a spin until they separate. A wing falls off, a tail comes away and then parachutes begin to blossom white against the fields and woods kilometres below, one, two, three, four from the twenty men in the two machines. As his spiral continues, he loses his view.
He climbs away. A Thunderbolt flashes past tailed by a Gustav.
‘Seven, break left,’ he yells, and the Gustav turns at once, followed by the second Thunderbolt Jochen’s spotted behind it.
He puts the stick over to the right to follow the pair. The Thunderbolt is turning behind the Gustav. A big mistake. Its strength is in the dive. Jochen puts the stick left and pulls hard, following the Thunderbolt in its turn and pushing himself into his seat. The Thunderbolt slides into sight and Jochen fires, one thousand, two thousand. Bits fly off the fuselage, the wing root, and smoke starts from the Thunderbolt’s engine. More smoke, and the cockpit canopy goes. Jochen pulls a tight turn in the opposite direction to clear his tail. As he completes the turn, he sees the Thunderbolt below begin a spin and a trail of parachute becomes a deployed canopy.
‘All clear, seven,’ he calls, though he can’t see the other Gustav now.
‘Thanks, boss,’ comes through the crackle in his headphones.
He pushes the stick down and aims the Gustav at the silver giants grinding on relentlessly below.
‘Still there, Eric?’
‘Yes, boss,’ his wing-man calls. ‘All clear at present.’
‘Same again, then.’
He pulls out at the bombers’ height and bores in. He cuts the throttle a little. Tracers come at him, whip past him and then there are heavy thumps in front of him, two, three, four, it seems. His speed cuts. A trail of smoke comes past the canopy. The propeller stops. He puts the nose straight down and switches off the engine.
‘I’m hit. Breaking off.’
‘Victor, victor,’ he hears from Eric.
Nothing to see to the left or right as he goes down.
‘Break left, boss!’ He does at once, in time to see a Thunderbolt pass and Eric’s Gustav fire at it and then bank left to follow Jochen.
He puts the nose down again, wishing he had an engine, but that’s still trailing smoke. He’s at four thousand metres and puts the stick right because he’s been flying straight long enough. As he turns and the earth moves to his right, he sees a Gustav diving past with flames coming from the engine. He can’t see the number. A shape tumbles from the cockpit.
‘Eric!’ he calls, but there’s no answer. A glance up shows the boxes of silver aeroplanes flying on, though a couple of the bombers have turned back and are losing height with smoke coming from engines. A parachute has appeared where the Gustav’s pilot should be.
He banks left now and twists to see what he can behind him. It seems clear. Where is he? He won’t get home. The engine’s still smoking but isn’t burning.
Two thousand metres. Country below. A village or two. Lots of space to put down on. He doesn’t want to jump again. He banks right and then left to see behind. Nothing.
One thousand. Where to go? He looks around. Starts on the left, swings his eyes in an arc.
An airfield! He knows it. He recognises the road and the nearby wood and the buildings, the layout of the hangars. Jever. Geschwader headquarters. Pre-war. Well set up. Proper quarters. He could have a shower. But don’t count your chickens. He banks to left and right to check behind again before he lowers the under-carriage. He drops the flaps and lets the Gustav fly itself down on three points. There’s still a trail of smoke from in front and he raises the hood to get out the moment the Gustav stops.
He leaves the machine with the guys who arrive to stop the smoke, grabs a lift in the accompanying kübelwagen and goes to find a telephone.
Bubi answers.
‘I’m at Jever,’ Jochen says. ‘Who’s not back?’
‘Frohm, Woll, Geiger, Huwald, Rech and Schmidt.’
‘Geiger jumped. I saw him. Chute opened.’
‘Good.’
‘I just want to have a word with Jonny and then I’ll find some transport.’
‘I’ll come and get you.’
‘No, stay by the phone so we know who’s safe.’
Five guys gone possibly; probably seven Gustavs lost. Out of twelve that took off. At that rate, tomorrow will be their last day. How many Amis did they get? His two Fortresses and a Thunderbolt; the two Fortresses he saw trailing smoke, say that’s two more that don’t get home. That’s five for five. Equal. They need to get four or five to one; twenty, twenty-five Amis against their lost five.
They’re towing his Gustav back. He stands in the door and watches as he lights a cigarette with Levine’s zippo. What’s Levine doing now? Underground, perhaps, tunnelling out of his camp. Allied airmen do it a lot, apparently. And then get caught. Jochen admires their attitude. Captured but not surrendered.
He walks over to the guy checking his Gustav.
‘How bad?’
‘You’ll need a new engine, sir. And a propeller.’
‘I’ll speak to Oberst Beck,’ Jochen says.
‘I don’t think he’s back yet, sir.’
Jochen finds the office that says Geschwader Commander on the door. Dark green polished lino floor, dark polished desk, chairs, the Führer on the wall and Fatty next to him.
He sits and stares out of the window, seeing nothing. His staffel should be all down and refuelling, rearming, getting ready to hit the boxes again on their way back. Instead, half are missing and he’s in the wrong place with no aeroplane. What a mess!
As usual recently, when he’s been despondent his mind drifts on to Lotte. Why does he keep putting it off? He should just tell her. He knows that. Hertha knew it, too. She told him he was a bastard. She told him to tell Lotte. If he was this indecisive in the air, he’d be dead. In the air you have to act. There’s no time for thought. Dive in, guns firing. He must end it now! He must! But he hasn’t got a reason that anyone he likes would really acknowledge. Some might agree it’s a shame Lotte’s a Nazi. But it’s what you get these days. What can you expect? Years in the League of German Girls turns you into a Nazi. It’s what the organisation is for. It’s inevitable. Except the Hitler Youth failed with him.
What would his mother say? She isn’t a Nazi. She helped him when he got Gerda to Sweden. But she thinks Lotte’s a splendid young woman.
‘Don’t break her heart,’ she’d said to him. And Lotte’s heart will break when he tells her. He’s taken her along on the ride. She believes she’s part of his meteoric rise and, without kidding himself, that is truly the only correct description of his success: he’s won every medal that the Reich has on offer; he attends parties at the Goebbels’, he’s had dinner with Fatty, private chinwags with Hitler.
It will break her heart all right.
What heart though? Has she got one? She believes all that repulsive garbage about Jews. How can she have a heart? But if he can dismiss her feelings like that, just with that thought, what kind of heart does he have? He’ll be as bad as any Nazi.
But he can’t have a life with her! He couldn’t bear it, knowing she thinks like that. And pretty soon she wouldn’t be able to bear him either. It would be one of those dreadful loveless marriages: two people tied together when they want to be separate, each barely able to tolerate the other’s presence.
How will she react when he tells her, though? It will be awful. A tearful, possibly hysterical scene. And where will he tell her? Not when they’re out somewhere. Not in public. She must be at home. They must be at her house. The house her father got from a Jew when he took the Jew’s job.
Perhaps he could try the idea he had the other day. Could he? Why not? No. It’s the coward’s way. Well? That’s him, obviously. No. But why not?
He focuses at the sound of a distant Gustav. Wheels down, it passes the window. Then another comes. He picks up Jonny’s phone and asks for his airfield. Bubi answers again.
‘Frohm and Rech are dead,’ Bubi says. ‘Huwald saw them go in. He’s down at Twente.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Holland. Machine’s OK, he’s refuelling.’
‘Any luck?’
‘He got a Thunderbolt.’
‘What about you?’ Jochen says.
‘A Fortress. It blew up. Horrible.’
‘That’s seven we got then.’
‘Just a minute,’ Bubi says and Jochen hears the phone put down, hears Bubi’s voice, indecipherable at a distance, then clear in his ear again. ‘Woll’s back. He got a Fortress but Schmidt jumped.’
‘Thanks, Bubi. Can you get off again?’
‘Yeah. We’ve got five serviceable Gustavs. We’ll be ready.’
That’s eight they got then and only two dead. That’s four to one. And only four Gustavs lost. But only six Fortresses gone from all those boxes still flying over Germany.
He stands up as Jonny comes in. Massive, tough, exhausted looking, bags under the eyes, but a smile. Or is it a grimace? Probably still thinking of the day Jochen tried to kill him in the desert.
‘Jochen.’
‘Jonny.’
‘Need a ride home?’
‘I do. My Gustav needs fixing, too.’
‘Tomorrow. We’ll send it back purring.’
