Leitner’s hard breathing was his only response.
“You haven’t greeted me properly, I’m afraid. You said Good Afternoon instead of the prescribed Heil Hitler. You failed to salute me as well. That’s a minor misdemeanor but it must be reported and investigated. You aren’t setting a proper example for your men, from what I can see. Their look leaves a lot to be desired as well; this will also be reported. You can’t fight a war looking like a bunch of tramps—”
“Who do you think you are, you dummes SS Arschloch?!” Leitner’s shouting made even Johann jerk. “Coming here and talking down to me like I’m some cadet on my first term?! And how dare you accuse my men of not being dressed properly when they were roused from their beds by the call and had to jump inside their fighters without bothering putting on their parachutes because they had a base to save and comrades to help?!”
“Your language and form of address will also be reported,” the insolent Untersturmführer replied calmly before striding off with an air of unfathomable nonchalance about him. His pencil never left his notebook.
“Did you see that son of a bitch?!” Leitner turned to Johann.
“What do they want with us?” Johann only inquired quietly, a dim sense of something sinister settling in the pit of his stomach.
“I’ll be damned if I know!” Leitner was already heading to his tent, cursing and spitting as he marched. “I’m calling Feldmarschall Rommel’s headquarters!” He yelled to no one particular◦– more for show, as Johann thought, despite ground troops indeed standing in close proximity.
According to Rommel himself, who took pleasure in exchanging a good joke now and then with his Kameraden, the infantry had seemed to take a liking to the JG-27 Staffel 1’s makeshift movie theater and that was the reason for their guarding the base position with their lives. Joke or no joke, but the infantry fellows, along with their highest-ranking commanders, never declined an invitation when a new motion picture was brought by a supply truck from the North.
Either such comradery of the troops being the reason or his personal dislike of the SS, but Feldmarschall Rommel arrived within an hour, right on time before the verbal altercation between the Luftwaffe and the SS escalated to something more physical. Their immaculately dressed leader, it appeared, had enough sense to at least salute the Feldmarschall and introduce himself as SS Untersturmführer Vetter.
“Good day, Herr Untersturmführer.” Rommel brought his hand to his forehead instead of outstretching it in front of him. The SS man’s face soured a little, visibly. Watching the scene unravel from afar, Johann caught himself thinking that, as a matter of fact, he’d never seen Rommel salute anyone as the Neues Deutsches Reich demanded from its men. Their beloved Feldmarschall was a military man, an ordinary career officer who loved his soldiers and loathed politics. He wasn’t even a member of the Party◦– a fact, which perhaps earned him even more respect from the liberal Luftwaffe. None of the officers or comrades Johann knew personally spotted a Bonbon◦– a Nazi Party pin, preferring Iron Crosses to it instead. “Is there any reason why my men are complaining that you’re having some sort of an unsanctioned visit to our forsaken parts and refuse to inform them of the reasons for your presence here?”
“The visit is sanctioned, Herr Feldmarschall.” Vetter straightened out even more, as though offended by the very idea that his presence on the base was not in accordance to some order. “As for my refusal to reveal the reasons for it to your men, I’m afraid it’s a need-to-know sort of case and I’m not authorized to disclose any details. Here’s the official paper from the RSHA.”
Erwin Rommel took the paper, read it carefully and returned it to him with a soft smile. “There’s nothing specific here, only an insufferable number of words with the most ambiguous of meanings. What does ‘an SS official entrusted with this order is authorized to act according to the newest regulations which have come into effect starting with January 29, 1942’ even mean?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to explain the details to you, Herr Feldmarschall. But you may contact the Main Office directly and inquire with them; I’m certain that Obergruppenführer Heydrich or one of his subordinates will gladly explain it to you. If you don’t mind, I would like to return to fulfilling my duties here, Herr Feldmarschall.”
Vetter clicked his heels, offering him a crisp salute. Rommel once again touched the brim of his cap with his hand and watched the young man strut away with a guarded expression on his face. Staffelkapitän Leitner cursed quietly under his breath; apologized at once, to which Rommel only waved his hand dismissively.
“Let them do whatever they want. Do you have anything cold, Hauptmann?”
“Iced coffee, Herr Feldmarschall. Staffel 2 got themselves a refrigerated unit, but they were generous enough to offer all three Staffel to rotate it among the bases. This week is ours.”
“It seems, I’m in luck then, as iced coffee sounds wonderful. Ask your cooks to set the table for your men and let’s all have some. Your brave aces look like they’re falling off their feet.”
“They didn’t have a chance to have a drink after their sortie, I’m afraid. With all that verdammter Zirkus. I apologize, Herr Feldmarschall.”
“You really oughtn’t to.” A knowing grin crossed Rommel’s kind face. Trust me, I share your sentiments entirely.
Johann hurried to his tent to change into a fresh uniform, along with the rest of the Staffel. Somehow, it was unanimously decided among them that sitting down at the same table with their highly esteemed commander in such a disheveled state was an expression of utter disrespect. Where the SS man’s arrogant remarks on account of their appearance failed to produce any effect, Rommel’s mere presence propelled them into action and that was the sole difference between a true commander and an imposter trying to command.
As his tent stood almost next to the Staffelkapitän’s tent, it was Johann who was the first one to catch onto the beginning of an altercation. Shoving a tunic into his shorts, Johann grabbed his belt with holster and rushed into a blazing afternoon. One of the Senegalese infantrymen, who’d been captured a few months ago and who was permitted to remain on the base as a crew chief for he was a truly excellent mechanic, was desperately trying to prove something to the SS men. One of them was calmly poking him in the back with some sort of a stick he’d picked up, obviously in his desire to escape any sort of direct contact with the prisoner of war. To all of the Senegalese crew chief’s pleas in his accented German, he kept replying in three languages◦– French, German, and English as though driving his point across without even listening to what the man had to say. “Go to the transport aircraft. Do you understand what I’m saying? Go to the transport aircraft, now!”
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” Johann demanded, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the group.
“Something that does not concern you.”
“I beg to differ, Herren! He’s one of our crew chiefs; we’re understaffed as is and you want to take him away as well? Who’s going to fix our aircraft?”
“A white man,” followed the dispassionate reply. “Now step aside so that we can take him to our plane.”
Blood left Johann’s cheeks at once as his hands closed into fists without him noticing it. How many times in his life will he have to hear the same hateful rhetoric coming from his own countrymen? First Alf, then the Kristallnacht and that woman and her daughter on the ground, the SS troops standing over them like a pack of dogs, now◦– this Senegalese fellow? Blood pulsing wildly in his temples, Johann grabbed the crew chief’s sleeve and pulled him close, clasping his hand around the trembling man’s wrist. “You will do no such thing. You will not take him anywhere. He’s staying.”