“I’m sorry that I did this to you, son. I’m sorry, Wilhelm. I’m sorry that my being a lousy, no-good father made you into a rebel who constantly needs to prove himself to everyone around. It was my mistake; not yours. I have always loved you. You don’t need to act out to prove your worth to anyone, let alone me—”
“It’s not about you!” Willi’s wrathful shout made Johann wince. “It was never about you! Stop imagining yourself the center of the universe! I’m not trying to prove myself worthy of your love or whatever it is you’re imagining that I’m doing! I’m living my life the way I want it; that’s all there is to it!”
He grabbed his belt with its holster from the table top and walked out, putting it on as he went. Johann remained standing, his gaze downcast as though in shame for the scene that he happened to witness against his will. Mina cowered behind his back, her cold fingers clasping at his hand.
“He’ll never forgive me, will he?” the General asked no one in particular, after a lengthy pause.
When the approved answers to the list of questions were hand-delivered from the Ministry of Propaganda, Willi tore them apart and handed them, in this manner, in tandem with the most charming of smiles, to the stupefied courier. “Tell your bosses, I’ll be saying what I want or I won’t be talking at all.”
Merely two hours later, Prinz-Albrechtstraße 8 had sent its greetings. Johann pleaded with the two gray-clad men, with insignias of SD on their left sleeves, to tag along as they escorted Willi from his doorstep. Reluctantly, they agreed.
Johann sat on a bench under a tremendous portrait of Der Führer and twitched his leg while Willi was talking to someone inside one of the offices, already picturing the worst. At last, Wilhelm walked out, a dispirited, brooding scowl in place of the familiar devil-may-care expression. Johann sprung to his feet, noticing sheets of paper in his friend’s hands.
“Well? What happened?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“What are these documents?”
“They aren’t documents. They’re my replies for tomorrow’s interview. He made me write them down in front of him.”
“Who’s, he?” Johann lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
“A verdammter SS Arschloch, that’s who,” Willi hissed back.
Johann could swear that Willi would pull something again in front of the reporters. Willi looked it, the same resentful expression back on his face like during the times when a superior would unjustly berate him for the things that he simply didn’t understand. But whatever that “fucking SS asshole” from Prinz-Albrechtstraße, whatever his real name and rank was, told Willi during that meeting, appeared to hold enough power◦– or threat◦– to keep the young Berliner in check.
“The most important thing that I learned during combat is to follow the rules of dogfighting and be a team player. Without your comrades in a dogfight, you’re no one. Also, it is imperative to follow your superiors’ instructions and never try to improvise, as improvisations in combat invariably lead to death. One should never think of himself during the dogfight but of his Schwarm, as only teamwork brings the needed results. Discipline and hard work should become your second nature…”
Johann listened to Willi’s strained voice. He could swear he heard helpless tears in it.
THIRTEEN
Libya, October 1941
They were back in action after a whole month of blissful furlough. Johann lay in his tent that he shared with Willi and sorely missed having Mina’s body by his side. With his hands clasped behind his head, with infinite longing, he recollected the days that they spent together and every night that they fell asleep in a tangled mess of sheets, their bare arms and legs intertwined.
“I want to have a family,” she half-said, half-asked him sheepishly one night, to which Johann only shook his head vehemently as he had done so many times before.
Not now; this wasn’t a good time. He couldn’t possibly set out on a mission and worry about not only leaving her a widow but their child an orphan as well… The very thought of it turned him cold with horror. After the war, then it will be possible. They’d win it soon; she would see.
The British were pushing towards Tobruk. Johann lay in his tent until the call came and the Schwarm took off to fight.
The sky dawned strange and ominous that day. Something was brewing on the horizon and around the base Johann kept hearing the eerie echoing of the local Arabs’ words, tense with premonition.
“Wrath of Allah is coming,” Mohammed, a bearded fellow who supplied the unit with the flavored hookah tobacco, muttered earlier that day and disappeared together with his camel.
“More like Wrath of Tommies,” Willi countered nonchalantly, toying with his new sunglasses. “How much you want to bet they’ll try and bomb the base again?”
Johann only cringed at the mention of their most recent ordeal. After a few months of their Staffel being stationed on the same improvised airfield, the fighter base was doomed to eventually become a prime target for the Allied bombers. Yet, it still left them shaken and petrified when the first bombs skirted the northern part of the base before their own flak opened its fire on the offending aircraft. Johann and Willi were playing cards in their tent, Willi smoking his hookah with the air of an Arabic sage about him when the ground convulsed and shuddered under them, sending both scrambling to their feet.
They exchanged quick looks◦– could it really be?◦– and set off running to their respective fighters without giving too much thought to the possibility of getting hit by one of the enemy bombs.
“You lead; I’ll fly as your wingman!” Willi shouted to Johann before climbing into his cockpit and sliding the canopy closed.
Johann was already taking off, his gaze fixed on the twin-engine that was heading towards the base.
“Scheiße,” a quiet curse escaped his lips.
He would never complete a turn to catch up with the twin-engine.
He’s heading down for an attack; I’m gaining my altitude. He will surely pass me then, won’t he? He has to.
Momentarily deciding on the course of action, Johann pulled his stick into his stomach, instantly growing light-headed; one had to pay for playing with G-forces in such a reckless manner. Only not to black out now. Squeeze your stomach as tightly as you can so that the blood doesn’t rush at once from your head to your feet and you don’t pass out in the middle of the fight. Willi was screaming something at him over the radio but Johann could barely decipher his voice through the headphones. He directed his nose straight at the nose of the descending Hurricane and opened fire, praying to all the Gods for the two aircraft not to collide. Willi’s shouts turned outright frantic but it was too late to do anything. He was so close to the Hurricane, Johann could discern the bolts on its sides; the serial number, the propeller chopping the air with a vicious roar right next to his canopy. On the brink of a terrible tragedy, he shut his eyes and held his breath. A loud bang, a twitch, and then◦– nothing. He’s flying. He’s alive.
Johann opened his eyes, frantically twisting his head from one side to another to locate both the Hurricane and the damage to his own aircraft. His wing was clipped by the enemy fighter’s propeller; apart from that, he fared just fine. The Hurricane, meanwhile, went into a steep dive and soon burrowed its nose into the ground.