“Round two, Kaiser Two?”
“I’m ready, Kaiser One!”
Line up with the target. Dive. Release a bomb. Recover…
But Kaiser One in front of him wasn’t gaining altitude as he should have; he only corrected his aircraft and continued his course almost parallel to the ground.
“What happened, Kaiser One?”
“He got me. Fucking Ivan got my bird. Scheiße!”
Rudi quickly lowered his landing flaps and glided down to catch up with him. Bidermann had already landed heavily on the ground, as Rudi circled over his downed aircraft, far behind enemy lines.
“Just give me a moment, Kaiser One! I’ll come down and get you!”
“Hurry up!”
Even though Bidermann didn’t add anything else, Rudi himself could already detect a few khaki-brown uniforms running towards the downed Stuka. They’re far; he still had time.
Rudi made a circle at the lowest possible altitude and began his descent, thanking the providence for Bidermann landing his Stuka in an open field. Now, just to pick him up and quickly take off…
An unmistakable burst of machine-gun fire tore through the cockpit of Rudi’s aircraft as well, splattering his window with oil.
Not the engine! A cold sweat broke out on Rudi’s temples at once, as he desperately clutched his stick, awaiting a piston seizure any moment now. Well, he still could land; now, taking off would be an entirely different matter. Rudi bit into his lip as Bidermann was waving his hands at him from the ground maniacally.
“Kaiser Two!” The Staffelkapitän’s voice shouted in his ears through the radio. “Don’t you dare land that aircraft; you hear me? Leave Kaiser One alone; he’s done for.”
“But—”
“Do you want to die?!”
That’s all that Staffelkapitän had to shout for Rudi to level his aircraft and turn his gaze away from Bidermann, who had slowly dropped his arms by his sides as he watched his only hope, in the face of his wingman, disappear into the sky. Rudi didn’t hear the manic conking of the engine as tearless sobs racked his body. For one instant, he wished that it was him who got hit by the Russians instead of Bidermann.
TWELVE
Berlin, August 1941
While Willi was running up the stairs in a very unseemly for a newly promoted Leutnant’s manner, Johann paused in front of yet another new government building (they seemed to grow like mushrooms after the rain!), taking in the details. Berlin had changed since his last visit there, with the modern architectural style prevailing everywhere. Grand tall entry doors; an imposing bronze eagle crowning the façade; crimson banners cascading down in-between the columns.
“Are you here to receive your commendations or to sightsee?” Willi cried from the top of the stairs, instantly catching a glare of disdain from the passing officer. Ignoring the look with admirable insolence, Willi not only didn’t bother to apologize and salute but started to obnoxiously tap his wristwatch, making desperate gestures to his friend standing below. “Hurry up, will you? Reichsmarschall Göring doesn’t have all day!”
As though recalling, at last, the purpose of their arrival, Johann ran up two stairs at a time, in the same manner as Willi had done, this time catching a contemptuous “Luftwaffe” snort from the black-clad officer who was heading down with an air of royalty around him.
They sprinted through the vast, marble-tiled hallways, frantically searching for the reception hall; located it with the help of yet another stern-looking officer and burst into the anteroom where their fellow pilots were patiently waiting to be invited into the main hall. Out of breath, all eyes fixed on him in stupefaction, Willi broke into a huge grin and slumped into a chair next to the entrance, fanning his reddened face with his uniform cap.
“Fancy that, even with our train arriving late, we actually made it on time!” he remarked to Johann. “I told you, we should have just flown in here! Wouldn’t have to be sprinting like mad through the whole of Berlin!”
A few pilots chuckled while the others kept observing the young newcomers with the same astonished air about them. Johann had grown accustomed to such looks a long time ago; after all, both he and Willi were still boys in these battle-hardened aces’ eyes, whose first victories originated in Spain. They were busy downing enemy aircraft while Johann and Willi were still wearing their Flieger Hitlerjugend uniforms, so it wasn’t particularly surprising that these matured aces wondered what the two Pimpfe were doing among them and in dress uniforms no less.
The adjutant with the clipboard, whom they failed to notice in their rush, appeared to be the first one to come out of his trance.
“And your names are?”
“Leutnant Johannes Brandt and Leutnant Wilhelm von Sielaff,” Willi replied, forcing himself to get up and salute.
The adjutant took in Willi’s hair, in utter disarray after his sprint; his forehead covered with a thin film of sweat; turned his eyes toward Johann who didn’t look much better.
Finally, the adjutant found his voice. “There’s a men’s room further down along the hallway. Both of you, go there at once and get yourselves into a presentable state. You’re here to meet Reichsmarschall Göring himself, not some—”
His speech was interrupted by the very same Reichsmarschall, whose name he’d just mentioned as a means of intimidation, walking through the door and raising his Marshall’s baton in a welcoming salute. Everyone sprung to their feet at once, clicked their heels almost in perfect unison and raised their right arms in a salute.
Hermann Göring looked just as Johann pictured him according to the numerous portraits that he’d seen by now; almost round in his mid-section, dressed in one of his blue Luftwaffe uniforms decorated with so many awards, ribbons, and braided cords that it was painful to look at all those diamonds; round-faced and deceivingly smiling, while his sharp gaze scrutinized one ace after another. To Johann’s overwhelming surprise, the Chief of the Luftwaffe approached them first◦– no doubt solely due to the two comrades standing the closest to the door◦– and shook their hands, welcoming them back home. After greeting each pilot in the same cordial manner, he proceeded to the grand main hall, drowning in opulence, much like the Reichsmarschall himself.
“First of all, I apologize for making you wait but the Führer has his own schedule which is impossible for anyone to predict.” The timely joke was welcomed with chuckles. The atmosphere changed at once, grew lighter, easier. Even Johann relaxed a bit by Willi’s side, his hand still burning with the Reichsmarschall’s handshake. “Second, I am delighted to meet each and every single one of you personally and to have an opportunity to speak to you about your fighting experiences. Also, any comments regarding aircraft you fly are more than welcome as it will help us further improve our fighters and bombers so that you can score more victories in the name of the Fatherland. Thirdly, you are all invited to a banquet, held in your honor, as soon as we get all these formalities out of the way.”
More approving murmurs followed. Willi nudged Johann with his elbow and whispered, “Schnapps,” before Johann had a chance to shush him. To Johann’s horror, Göring pricked his ears at once.
“What was it?”
Willi introduced himself and blurted out without batting an eye, “I was just saying, I’m very much looking forward to finally having a drink, Herr Reichsmarschall. You see, in Libya where we currently serve with JG-27, it’s sort of boring; there’s nothing besides sand that gets everywhere and scorpions, which also have a nasty habit of getting into our shoes at night, so we have to hang them off tent tops before we go to sleep. The service is all right, but they really should bring some girls there, or at least install a Pilstube in the area. The Italian squadron that is stationed nearby has a bar and not just some bar but one equipped with a refrigerated unit, no less. I understand that we aren’t considered to be an important front and all that but it still would be nice to celebrate our victories with some nice cold beer and not hot water.”