“You needn’t lecture me,” Liebs said abruptly. “Have you ever wanted for shells? I do my job and keep my machines clean. But this could be bad luck, you know.”
Statz turned away from Liebs. “It’s nonsense,” he said. But he found the talk disturbing.
“For you and me, yes. For others, I’m not so sure.”
“You’d better not let the officers hear about this.”
Liebs snorted. “What would I tell them? The ghost of a sailor is wandering the ship? Better I keep my mouth shut and come face-to-face with Kuhn. But the others call it bad luck, Statz. You know that.”
“Bad luck?” Statz said. “On this ship? Nothing can harm her, Liebs. Nothing can sink her.”
“Fine,” Liebs said, ending the conversation. “For my part, I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in high-explosive and armor-piercing and big guns that sink enemy ships. I believe in cordite and steel, Statz, and the Kreigsmarine.”
“That is all you should believe in, Liebs,” Statz said. “Trust to those things and German optics and we need not fear ghosts, the devil, or the Royal Navy.”
The twin-engine Heinkle 111H settled nicely in a cloud while the observer crawled forward into the bombardier’s position. He could see nothing of course through the Plexiglas panels except the wispy shroud of gray cloud that protected the German aircraft from the British far below.
The Heinkle was a medium bomber, a very fast aircraft that swooped in quickly and dropped its small but respectable load of bombs on the enemy, and then fled. This Heinkle 111H, with red propeller hub covers and a large yellow A painted aft was not over Scapa Flow to bomb or even to be seen. Its crew had been given specific instructions and as the pilot ordered his crew to get ready, the Heinkle fell like a stone out of the thick clouds and into the open skies of the Flow, twelve thousand feet below them.
Flak started almost immediately, dirty clouds that exploded all around the Heinkle 111H. The pilot, a veteran of Spain, Poland, and France, cursed softly as he maneuvered the aircraft across the sky, trying to throw off the antiaircraft gunners’ aim. They were persistent though and anxious to kill him.
“Do you see anything?” the pilot asked through his intercom, the tension he felt obvious in his voice.
“Nothing,” the observer said calmly, “there’s too much cloud cover. We must go lower.”
“Lower,” the pilot muttered fiercely. “Lower. Lower. We must always go lower.” He had lost his nerves long before, but he was a veteran and proud so that he would not admit to himself or anyone else that his hands trembled too much and he felt as if he were going to fill his oxygen mask with puke every time he heard the Junkers JUmo 211F-2 engines turn over.
Speed was their only salvation. They had seven 7.92mm machine guns that protruded from the fuselage like stingers, but it was the 1,350 horsepower generated by each engine that was what the pilot counted on.
He eased the Heinkle down two thousand feet, feeling slight satisfaction that the antiaircraft gunners would have to adjust their aim, trying to locate the intruder again. Their instructions had been simple. They were to radio back one of two words depending on the situation that they observed in Scapa Flow. That was it; the entire mission centered on what the enemy was doing far below and the word that was selected for transmission.
The pilot had flown missions before when he did not drop bombs or strafe the enemy. After years in Spain, Poland, and France, one becomes used to carrying out orders that do not make sense, with unquestioning loyalty. Regardless of the fear.
“Lower,” the observer said.
“I gave you lower,” the pilot snapped. “Do you want me to land?”
“I can’t see,” the observer said. “The clouds aren’t as heavy but I still can’t be sure. I want to be sure. You want to be sure, don’t you?”
“Lower,” the pilot said angrily, and pushed the wheel down, keeping his eye on the altimeter. He kicked the left rudder and banked slightly, thinking that he’d fly a figure-eight as he descended and leveled out, giving that idiot of an observer time to see everything that he wanted to see.
“I’ve got it,” the observer said excitedly. “I can see them now. One. Three battleships. Looks like three cruisers. Many destroyers. Many.” The man paused and the pilot waited. He had stopped breathing and it seemed that his heart had stopped and he knew that the radio operator and gunner were waiting for that one word as well.
“Dresden,” the observer said.
There it was.
“Are you sure?” the pilot asked.
“Yes. Dresden. Dresden. Send the message.”
“You heard him,” the pilot said to the radio operator. “Send it.”
As the operator tapped out the word Dresden in code on his Fu-10 radio, the pilot pulled heavily on the wheel, pushed the throttles forward, and as the aircraft gained speed, settled into his seat, a little more relaxed than he was before.
Below him was the Royal Navy, but it couldn’t reach him anymore, and somewhere out there was the Royal Air Force, but his Heinkle 111 H was fast enough, with some skill and luck, to outrun them. There was always the danger of mechanical failure, but his ground crew was superb so the pilot never gave that possibility much thought.
Dresden. They were to transmit that word, they were told by the squadron commander, if they observed the British Home Fleet on the move. They were to be absolutely sure that the enemy fleet was moving. Beyond a doubt. But if the fleet was static; if the vessels were moored and there were no smoke plumes hanging lazily above them, then they were to transmit the word Belgrade.
The pilot had no idea of the importance of either word and as far as he was concerned his radio operator had just informed high command of some disastrous news. Or it was the best possible news and those martinets who traveled by long gray, Mercedes-Benzes and stuffed their oversized bodies in ribbon-covered uniforms might be dancing with joy.
He didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he cared about was that he had survived Spain, Poland, and France, and perhaps he would survive England as well.
The pilot adjusted the fuel mix as the observer made his way up from the nose and sat on the narrow step next to him.
“I wonder what it means,” the observer said. The pilot said: “I don’t know,” but he said it in such a way that he didn’t care very much one way or the other what word was sent — that he was above such things — that his attention was on nothing except flying the aircraft. He was a professional after all.
“It must mean something to someone,” the observer said. “Why else would they send us out here?”
This time the pilot reinforced his superiority by saying nothing. He sat calmly, eyes scanning the instrument panel, then the sky ahead and above him, then the small mirrors that let him see aft. He listened to the engines with a professional air, careful to keep at least a portion of his arrogance concealed so he did not overplay his hand, and glanced at the magnetic compass.
He did all of these things because he wanted to bury the fear that so recently before had nearly consumed him. He could not permit the observer to see it, because then the squadron would know and the pilot could not accept that. So, now that his hands did not shake, and his mouth was no longer dry, and he did not have to fear that his voice would tremble uncontrollably, he wondered along with the observer.
Why did high command risk the lives of a Heinkle 111H crew for the sake of one word?
Doenitz stood on one side of the plotting table sipping a cup of tea and watching the young lieutenant approach Raeder. He held a message in his hand and he stopped a respectful distance from the grand admiral, waiting for Raeder to acknowledge his presence. The grand admiral was heavily engaged in a conversation over something or other with someone from Jodl’s staff. Whoever it was and whatever was being discussed would be reported directly to General Jodl, who would then rush immediately to whisper the results of the conversation in Hitler’s ear. That was why Jodl existed, why Hitler kept him close by, and why most professional soldiers and sailors found it distasteful to speak with the man.