“Do you think we’ll win this war?” Willi asked out of the blue, his eyes, with long lashes, already closing from exhaustion.
Johann started and blinked a few times. “Of course we will.”
“You really think so?”
Johann had begun saying something but then receded and only stared into the grayish mist covering the windscreen.
“But how can we not? We can’t lose, can we?”
“I don’t know. Tommies’ new planes are better than ours, don’t you think?” Willi mumbled sleepily.
Johann did think that, after engaging them recently. Also, “Tommies” had Aussies, Poles, French and God knew who else on their side. Johann and Willi only had each other.
“We’ll win the war, Willi. You’ll see,” he promised with a confidence he didn’t feel.
Willi didn’t reply anything. He was already sleeping.
Bf-109F, lovingly baptized as “Franz” by the pilots, was a treat. Armed with the two top cowling-mounted machine guns and the centrally mounted cannon, it was lighter, leaner and much more maneuverable, thanks to the absence of the wing-mounted machine guns. After a couple of test dogfights, the new fighter soon became everyone’s most coveted award as most of them were still being sent to the Eastern front or to the Channel, leaving the Africa Corps with old, battered versions.
Willi though got his as a birthday present, after the Staffel conferred in secret away from him and decided to gift their favorite clown with an aircraft that he would be too ashamed to crash. Willi walked over to it, touched the bow tied to the wing, grinned at his comrades and his crew chief, who was busy painting victory bars onto the new fighter’s rudder.
“Thank you, Kameraden.” It was one of the three new fighters that the JG-27 received. Two others had been instantly snatched by both Staffelkapitän of Staffel 2 and 3 respectively. “I don’t even know what to say…”
“Say that you won’t crash it for once.” Oberleutnant Degenhardt slapped Willi’s back, regarding the new Bf-109 longingly. It was supposed to be his aircraft. On an impulse, Willi turned to him and pulled him into an embrace, out of which Degenhardt started worming himself instantly. “Stop it with the sentiments! Unseemly.”
“To hell with your ‘unseemly,’ Herr Oberleutnant! I love you!”
“Get off me, I said!”
“I owe you.”
“You owe me to keep this aircraft alive and unharmed and don’t forget to fill this rudder, too. It appears a bit too empty, with only thirty-five victories.”
“Will do, Herr Oberleutnant.” Willi happily clicked his heels.
“Happy Birthday, von Sielaff.”
Johann observed the scene with a grin. After all the trouble in which Willi had found himself with his former superiors, it was a relief to be under the command of one, with whom Willi bonded and who understood Willi’s character like only Johann probably did. Willi, with his extremely independent and freedom-loving nature, didn’t care one bit about anyone’s authority or rank. He either respected the person or he didn’t and that was the end of it. In Willi’s eyes, Degenhardt fell under the first, respected, category as Degenhardt had recognized not only the great potential in him but allowed Willi to exploit it to the fullest, entrusting his new protégé a position of a Schwarm leader, to which only Johann had been appointed before. Instead of trying to bend the rebellious youth to conform with the rules of aerial combat, their liberal Staffelkapitän allowed Willi to truly spread his wings and soon the strategy brought the expected results; Willi started scoring multiple victories a day, often acting alone and breaking all the cardinal rules of dogfighting, but who cared, if it worked◦– such was Degenhardt’s theory.
Willi was bursting with enthusiasm to get into his new fighter and the occasion presented itself already the following morning as the call came. Without bothering with taking the bow off the wing, Willi jumped inside and took off, his formation following him closely. Johann followed close by with his, and right after him◦– Oberleutnant Degenhardt with his Schwarm. The whole Staffel with all twelve aircraft was up in the air that morning, reflecting the unexpected air attack. Tired from being harassed by the German Stukas, the British had apparently decided to support their ground offensive with air attack as well and do away with several German air bases once and for all.
Drenched in sweat, Johann radioed yet another victory◦– a third one, which had come at a price; he took a few rounds into his side and was desperately hoping that the faint smoke trailing behind him wouldn’t turn into something worse.
“White Nine, your ass is on fire!” Willi’s voice came over the radio, thick with chuckles. “Go back to the base!”
“My ass is not on fire, Red Four!” Johann radioed back. “Stop trying to get rid of me because I scored more than you.”
“Oh, that’s how you want it to be, White Nine?”
“This is how it is, Red Four. Accept it, you poor excuse of a pilot!”
“Watch this, White Nine and learn!”
In front of him, Willi pulled up sharply, aiming to gain altitude to dive down onto the unsuspecting British Lufbery, no doubt.
“Show off!” His lips curled in a smile, Johann cried into the radio before locking himself onto a twin-engine which was rapidly approaching. He wouldn’t follow that mad fellow into the middle of mayhem today like he usually did; not in a smoking aircraft.
Degenhardt did though, already knowing that Willi would most certainly take out two or three fighters before dropping out of the dogfight and leaving the scattered Lufbery for the Degenhardt’s Schwarm to finish. Johann would keep busy with the twin-engine, just him and his loyal wingman, nice and easy…
“Please, don’t catch fire. Please, don’t catch fire,” Johann repeated like a prayer to the engine Gods, aiming his nose at the enemy aircraft.
Against his habit and due to the limping fighter, he shot from a safe distance, hoping that he calculated the trajectory right and his bullets would hit the enemy as soon as their ways crossed.
“Four, Red Four!” he laughed into the radio as soon as the twin-engine went into a steep dive, burning and falling apart in the air.
But another fighter was also following its course, a thick tail of smoke instantly attracting everyone’s attention.
“Who’s been hit?” Johann radioed to no one in particular as he recognized the silhouette of a Bf-109 as the second aircraft.
“Oberleutnant Degenhardt,” someone’s voice replied. A rookie, who still hadn’t learned that they should call each aircraft by its code, not the pilot’s name.
Johann breathed out in relief at the sight of an opening parachute.
“He’s all right. He’s just bailed.”
A Spitfire suddenly changed its course and headed straight at the small figure in the sky. With growing horror several pilots, Johann included, watched their Staffelkapitän being strafed by the British pilot, who turned sharply away from his victim and headed back to the enemy lines, not forgetting to add to the insult by waving his wings at the Germans.
“Did he just…” Someone choked over the R/T, unable to finish the sentence.
“It’s White Nine; I’m landing,” Johann announced at once, following the white parachute’s progress with his eyes. “Maybe he’s just injured.”
But the figure in its straps hung too limp, too lifeless against the turquoise vastness of the African sky. Johann landed just in time to catch sight of Degenhardt’s body hit the sand dune ahead of him and slide down, motionlessly and helplessly, like a rag doll. Not paying any heed to the air battle still raging above his head, Johann leaped out of his fighter and dashed towards his Staffelkapitän, his wingman following him on his heels.