“You’re disobeying high orders…” Vetter checked his notes with a disinterested look. “Leutnant Brandt, is it not? That will go into your personal record.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“What’s going on here?” Leitner and the rest of the Staffel were already closing behind Johann’s back.
The Luftwaffe didn’t abandon their kind, whatever the repercussions were. They stood, as though in a Staffel formation, ready to strike at a moment’s notice, only instead of precious Stukas that they ordinarily guarded, it was their Senegalese crew chief, and while they stood around him, he was going nowhere◦– over their dead bodies, he would.
“Nothing. I’m only trying to do my job and Leutnant Brandt here is obstructing my orders, Herr Hauptmann.”
“He wants to take Henry with him!” Johann declared disgustedly even though his comrades had already caught onto that.
“Also, we’re taking another crew chief, Meyer, and one of your pilots, Riedman,” Vetter proclaimed in the same calm voice after consulting his notes. “They’re both first-degree mischlinge and have no business in the Luftwaffe, just like this…” he threw a revolted glare at Henry, “…this specimen. We’re taking them all.”
“Have you completely gone off your head?!” Vetter wasn’t, by any means, lacking in height but Leitner was still towering over him and judging by his menacing look, he wouldn’t think twice about using his fists if he needed. “You aren’t taking any of the men in my charge anywhere!”
“I’m warning you, Hauptmann Leitner. You’re obstructing my orders—”
“To hell with you and your orders!” Leitner’s voice turned into a veritable roar. “No one is going anywhere while I’m in command of this Staffel! And how dare you?! How dare you come here from some office in Berlin and spew your xenophobic propaganda when we have to bury our comrades daily, when we lose them to jaundice, malaria, dysentery◦– you name it◦– we all were sick with it; when every life of our men is precious as we’re outnumbered as it is compared to the Allied forces; how dare you to come here and hold some sort of selections like you’re picking out sheep at the market?! Those aren’t animals for you; those are my men and they will go nowhere◦– orders or no orders!”
“So you’re refusing to hand them over, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Damn right, I am!”
“Fine. That will be duly recorded and immediate measures will be taken by the Main Office◦– the RSHA◦– in replacing you as the acting commander of this unit. You will be prosecuted by the People’s Court as a politically unreliable person and will most likely be stripped of your rank and title and sentenced to hard labor in Dachau◦– that’s if you’re lucky. If not, it is court-martial for you, Herr Hauptmann. Is that how you want it to be? Because of a couple of Jews and a Negro?”
Leitner eyed him in dismay for an interminably long moment. A wicked grin started to form on Vetter’s face. Suddenly, Walter Riedman stepped from behind his comrades’ backs and turned to face his leader.
“That’s all right, Herr Hauptmann. Don’t worry about me; I’ll go with them. Willi, I mean, Leutnant von Sielaff is returning soon anyway so you won’t lack any pilots.”
He couldn’t see their faces, but Johann sensed how everyone’s heart sank at that soft and obedient smile of his, his Walt, a Luftwaffe ace, Iron Cross First Class, almost thirty victories…
“Fine. If you’re taking Riedman, take me too.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he knew exactly what he was saying.
Now, it was two of them, Luftwaffe aces, standing in front of the SS. For the first time their leader hesitated, it seemed. Despite all the pretense and checking his notes to get Johann’s name right, he knew who Leutnant Brandt was. His photos were plastered all over Berlin newsstands, shaking hands with Reichsmarschall Göring, sharing a toast to victory with Feldmarschall Rommel… Unlike the rogue Berliner von Sielaff, Brandt was Germany’s sweetheart, blond, blue-eyed, smiling contagiously from every Luftwaffe poster from the cockpit of his Messerschmitt. For the first time, Vetter wasn’t so sure that bringing Germany’s sweetheart ace on charges, even though on Heydrich’s direct orders, would look good in his resume. They’d forgive him Riedman; Brandt was an entirely different case.
“Make it three instead of one.” Leitner stepped forward as well, linking ranks with Johann and Walter.
“Make it the whole Staffel, Herr Untersturmführer.” Another contemptuous jab followed as everyone joined in, face to face with the enemy. And here they thought that they were fighting the RAF. No; the RAF were fearsome opponents whom they loved to challenge but hated to see killed. They loved shooting down the aircraft but inwardly rejoiced each time a white parachute opened, bringing their British counterpart to safety. Teufel, this one was good! Good thing he survived; I sure would love to meet him again in a dogfight! That devil made me sweat; I swear! No; the enemy, the real, loathed enemy now stood before them.
“And put a Feldmarschall on top.”
Johann couldn’t believe his eyes as Rommel stood next to him, calm and collected, looking almost amused at Vetter’s suddenly paled face.
“Put the whole Afrika Korps on your list.” Rommel’s adjutant stepped forward as well. “Because we will follow our Feldmarschall whenever he goes. To hell, if needed.”
Mutiny, suddenly flashed in Johann’s mind and he grinned. The SS suddenly didn’t look so sure of themselves anymore.
“I will report this.” Untersturmführer Vetter muttered before stalking away, his men following him close on his heels.
Next to Johann, Walter cried silently. Behind Staffelkapitän Leitner’s back, the pilots were hugging Henry and each other. And among all that beautiful mayhem, Feldmarschall Rommel stood, a soft smile still glued to his handsome, kind face.
SIXTEEN
Berlin, February 1942
“Lotte, come quick! Someone’s asking for you at reception!” Mina’s enthusiasm came to an abrupt halt under a withering look from Erika, their former BDM leader.
The animosity was still fresh between the three nurses, sharp like the stench of chlorine that had penetrated the walls of the hospital itself, it seemed, poisonous and acidic. It was only natural, such a relationship between an ardent supporter of National Socialism and two reluctant BDM members, who used to fulfill their German girls’ duties under her command with nothing more than a tepid tolerance.
Erika, tall, broad-shouldered, sturdy◦– a perfect German woman◦– had sensed their resentment like a well-trained police hound when both girls were only fourteen; fresh faces in her unit. They sewed, sang the hymns and marched just fine and abided by the bare minimum that was demanded of them. Yet, Erika still sensed, deep in the pit of her stomach, a certain quality of roguishness in both, defiant silence where cheers should have been, averted eyes, full of disgust in place of adoration and many other similar instances which she would gladly report, yet had nothing concrete to grab onto, to put into words on paper.