With no flak protecting its vulnerable comrades, the Stukas spared no one that graying, foggy morning. Satisfied with the sight of the burning vehicles, Rudi waved his wings to his wingman trailing groggily after him◦– the new replacement pilot hardly slept at night, not used to the usual Soviet bombers’ lullabies. It was only when a bright red spot had come into view amid the debris◦– a crimson banner stretched over the hood of the very first truck◦– did Rudi find himself suddenly alert and tense with apprehension.
“Is that a swastika?” The radio voiced his suspicion. So, Haber saw it too. He wasn’t hallucinating after all.
Instead of answering and◦– to hell with petrol◦– Rudi made another circle, lowering to an almost ground-bound altitude. So it was. And the uniforms were far too familiar too; gray-green and not khaki-brown, strewn next to their burning vehicles like tin soldiers, shaken out of the box and left to rot there.
“Why didn’t they warn us?” Haber was almost shouting now. “Surely they had Vayas; why didn’t they shoot us a warning signal that they were our troops? And what in the hell were they doing in the American vehicles?”
Rudi didn’t know; neither did he reply anything. They flew in silence back to the base, where Rudi calmly reported to the base commander that no enemy ground troops were spotted, only their Wehrmacht infantry column had been sighted, strafed by enemy aircraft by the looks of it. Haber stared at him, pale and trembling, his eyes wide in amazement. Rudi stared back, grim and collected. Do you want to get court-martialed?
Haber confirmed Rudi’s words to the commander but spent all night sobbing softly in the cot that stood next to his and the following day crashed his Stuka into a Soviet tank instead of bombing it. Rudi yelled “How is that going to help anything?!” at the burning wreckage below and kept wiping his wet face with his gloved hand, angry at the boy but even more so at himself. It was his mistake; not Haber’s. He was the flight leader. He should have spotted the banner, which had been left there precisely for that purpose, so that their own Luftwaffe wouldn’t lay flat the landser that was fortunate to commandeer at least something that still had petrol and moved, from their Soviet counterparts. But Rudi couldn’t see clearly due to the drugs and now Haber was dead because of him. Just like tens of other Habers last morning, gunned down by his very own hand.
Mad with grief and regret, the very next morning he directed his ire at the Soviet Iron Gustavs below. They said it was next to impossible to penetrate their thick steel armor with any sort of bullets. Rudi wanted to put that theory to the test.
He gradually lowered his Stuka to level its speed with the Soviet bomber and released a bomb right on top of its canopy. The explosion came out splendid, blinding yellow and instant, blossoming into a fiery flower right beneath Rudi’s Ju-87. Only, before he had realized his mistake, the steel splinters riddled his faithful bird crippling it instantly. The engine coughed and conked; the propeller came to an abrupt stop, and the sharp smell of coolant started filling the cockpit.
“Sorry, Rossmann, my good fellow,” Rudi hoped that the radio still worked and he could still apologize to his rear-gunner before both of them would belly-land amid the Soviet troops. The damned luck had it, they were right in the middle of the battlefield. “Looks like we’re for it.”
The radio remained silent while Rudi was trying his best to steer the Stuka away from the enemy tanks. Should have directed it at one and went with honors, just like Haber had done before him, but he was heading for a clear piece of land in spite of himself, away from certain death.
“Rossmann?” Rudi shouted, ripping off his restraining belt to help his rear-gunner out. The Soviets were already running in the direction of the downed aircraft and he simply couldn’t bring himself to face them alone.
But Rossmann was dead, riddled with the same splinters that somehow spared Rudi’s life. Why that should be, he couldn’t possibly comprehend.
He sank to the ground, all the while staring at Rossmann’s bloodied face, so peaceful and almost angelic and waiting for his fate to catch up with him. In place of the running enemy, the lifeless faces of his comrades stood, with eyes gouged out, with bodies mutilated so severely that it was impossible to recognize them sometimes. His service gun still in his hand, he shriveled, shrunk as they approached him, pulling his head into his shoulders in a vain attempt to protect himself from imminent death.
The first Soviet infantryman kicked the gun out of his hand, which he couldn’t bring himself to use either on them or on himself, and dealt him a right blow on his nose. Rudi rolled himself into a ball and covered his head with his hands, releasing such a terrified, animalistic scream that his captors stopped their assault at once, seemingly stunned by it.
They spoke to each other in what seemed like amused voices, chuckling. A much lighter kick followed to his side, prompting him to get up.
“Hey, Fritz! Alles gut. Hitler kaput. Hande hoch.” Hey, Fritz! Everything’s all right. Hitler is dead. Hands up. He knew their simple vocabulary by heart now but still eyed them fearfully from under crisscrossed hands offering virtually no protection to his head.
Their leader watched him with a grin; motioned him to get up once again. Ashamed of his previous outburst, Rudi reluctantly rose to his feet, his entire body still trembling violently. They searched him and studied his papers, their voices getting more animated. One of them pointed at the Stuka’s rudder and hooked his finger through the ribbon of Rudi’s Knight’s Cross, pulling him forward like a dog by its collar to demonstrate it to the officer in charge. An unwelcome spark of hope ignited in Rudi’s chest that was still heaving wildly as the Ivans conferred among themselves. Perhaps, capturing a German ace alive was better than bringing his dead corpse to the headquarters? He wiped the blood from his lips and chin and stared at the leader tragically, a tall Russian who could have easily passed for a German with his fair looks and stature, imploring him, with his eyes, to spare his life.
The leader still seemed to be pondering something.
“Hitler◦– gut?” He finally addressed his prisoner directly.
Rudi knew that his fate depended on his answer. He shook his head slowly, spelling it out in simple terms the Soviet soldiers would understand. “Nein. Hitler ist nicht gut.”
“Stalin gut,” the leader spoke with conviction.
“Ja. Stalin ist gut.” Rudi nodded. “Sovietische Soldaten◦– gut Kameraden. Communism ist gut.”
“Communist?” The leader’s finger jabbed into his chest.
Rudi was nodding vigorously, despite tears staining his eyes. “Communist.”
He’ll be a communist; he’ll be anything they wanted him to be. He’ll agree to anything and do whatever they tell him to, just to keep his eyes and body intact even if his soul was the price to pay.
Satisfied with such arrangements, his new masters led him towards their lines, not even bothering to tie his hands.
TWENTY-SIX
Eastern Front, Fall 1943◦– Winter 1944
The sky was torn, shredded gray. The clouds hung low and heavy, contaminated with the smell of war and death in them. His face partially hidden in the thick fur collar, Johann sat, rigid and half-frozen it seemed, staring at the commotion of the transit base from behind the controller’s hut’s window. It still held by some miracle; wasn’t shattered to pieces during one of the raids and therefore the room itself could preserve some warmth, stingily offered by a small Wehrmacht-issued heating lamp that stood in the middle.