Willi bowed his head in a silent oath. Shortly more heads lowered in the same manner as the men slowly calmed down with the help of their highest-ranking commander. Rommel was the same breed as Degenhardt; that much they knew about him. Always on the frontline, shoulder to shoulder with his men; always dust-covered and ready to offer a hand to an ordinary infantryman; always eating and drinking the same soldiers’ gruel and sharing a tent with the men in his charge◦– approachable and respected by every single man under his command. They swore to both of them today◦– to Rommel and to the late Degenhardt◦– that they would fight honorably and they would keep their oath while their hearts were still beating.
FOURTEEN
Libya, December 1941
“Rudi writes that it’s nothing new, what happened to Degenhardt and all.” Johann looked up from the letter delivered by the supplies transport and stole yet another concerned glance at Willi. Willi appeared to be napping in his folding chair under his colorful umbrella which he had traded from the same Arab who had warned them of The Wrath of Allah. It worried him, how gaunt and exhausted his friend seemed, his boyish face suddenly looking like that of an aged man. Not getting any reply, Johann cleared his throat and continued, “he says, on the Eastern Front, Soviet pilots and anti-aircraft batteries shoot down bailing pilots all the time.”
“And here we are, complaining about our Africa,” Willi spoke slowly and with effort.
Johann couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark shades but he knew that Willi kept them closed. Why does the fucking sun have to be so bright today? Those were the first words out of his mouth as Willi stumbled over to the improvised mess hall that morning. And that coming from the ace who had specifically trained himself to fly without relying on sunglasses or any other glare protection just like he had disciplined himself into working out daily to keep his stomach muscles hard as a rock so as not to black out due to the G-forces.
“You should go see the doctor,” Johann suggested once again, folding Rudi’s letter in two. Nothing new was in it; it’s brutally cold. Ivans are beastly. Partisans blew up a bridge. Sabotage. Low morale. Fuel for Stukas freezes over. Food leaves much to be desired. Dysentery… Johann glimpsed a quick shudder running through Willi’s frame. “You look like you’re running a fever.”
“I’m all right.” Willi waved him off, shifting in his chair as though in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. His bones must have been aching, Johann caught himself thinking. “Probably just hungover.”
Johann silently put his canteen into Willi’s hands. Moving as though in a daze, Willi slowly brought the canteen to his mouth, opened his parched lips, and took a few sips.
“Could you please lower that?” he muttered, motioning his head in the direction of his record player that stood on a small table behind their backs. “It’s a bit too loud.”
Johann stood up, lowered the volume and threw another apprehensive glance at Willi’s slumped form. The Berliner only listened to his jazz at the loudest possible volume. So loud, the damned Brits must hear it on the other side, as Degenhardt once joked. Something must be terribly wrong with him if both light and noise, especially his favorite noise, bothered him so much.
“Is this good? Or you want it lower?”
“It’s good. Thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Feeling infinitely guilty, Johann headed straight to the tent occupied by the new Staffelkapitän, Hauptmann Leitner. Not much older than Degenhardt, he thankfully was almost just as liberal and open in his views and right after his arrival managed to organize a makeshift movie theater for the men to distract themselves in the evenings. The theatre itself was a simple affair; an ordinary tent with the floor dug out at an incline so that everyone could get a clear view of the “screen”◦– a white sheet stretched across the back wall of the tent. Yet, for the pilots and their crew chiefs, even such a small gesture bore an immense significance◦– a tiny sliver of normality in a world that had gone mad. Even Willi, who kept his guard after Degenhardt’s death and was somewhat wary of the new commanding officer, was soon won over by this dark-haired, green-eyed man who easily could put the SS to shame with his height of being well over six-feet tall.
“What is that atrocious music that you’re blasting that even my Gruppenkommandeur himself heard over the phone? Jazz?”
Willi only pursed his lips into a contemptuous line. Johann knew all too well that look on his face, those flashing amber eyes narrowed into slits; Willi was ready for battle. “Yes, why? Not to your liking, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Not really.” An interminable pause followed, during which the offending music kept blasting, until Leitner finally uttered, “now swing, that’s music.”
Taken off guard, Willi blinked a few times uncomprehendingly while Leitner sat there with the straightest face that had always appeared to sport a five o’clock shadow. Unlike Johann and Willi, who hardly had to shave twice a week, their new CO belonged to the type of men who started sporting facial hair a mere few hours after even the most thorough shave.
“Swing? I have some swing here too.” Willi was already going through his extensive collection of records, thoroughly trying to look unfazed until both men finally burst into laughter. The ice was broken there and then.
Johann recalled the episode while he paused in front of Leitner’s tent, weighing his options. As always, common sense prevailed and he forced himself to walk inside despite the gnawing feeling of doing something utterly shameful still squirming inside of him.
“Herr Hauptmann? Do you have a minute? Oh… I apologize.” Only after his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the inside, after the blinding sun, did Johann notice that his Staffelkapitän was on the phone. Judging by his expression, the conversation wasn’t the most pleasant of ones.
Leitner still motioned for Johann to sit across the desk from him while he was scribbling something down on the paper in front of him, consulting the map from time to time.
After an innumerable number of Jawohls and irritated sighs, Leitner finally put the receiver down and rubbed his eyes, his mouth forming a hard, bitter line.
“Tactical retreat ordered for all three Gruppen of JG-27 for tomorrow,” he spoke, at last, blowing his cheeks out. “Gazala has just been abandoned. Derna as well. We’re moving together with the rest of the Afrika Korps further west. Take my Staffeladjutant; go together and make a list of every transport and aircraft on the base that isn’t transportable, will you? We’ll need to destroy them overnight.”
Johann rose slowly to his feet and saluted mechanically. He felt for a moment as though someone had stabbed him in the stomach. Rommel himself was just here. They were scoring victories daily. And now, tactical retreat? He wanted to protest, demand some explanation as though that shameful retreat was the new Staffelkapitän’s doing and not some higher-up’s; instead, he only mumbled a quiet, “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann” and started for the exit, still trying to comprehend what had just happened. Were they indeed losing? No. Impossible. It couldn’t be. Or could it?