Stunned, Gabi reached for Michael’s hands to draw him back down to his seat and restore some measure of calm. He shrugged her off but sat down on the bench, hunching his shoulders to block the surrounding stares.
“You should have applied through the Luftwaffe Women’s Auxiliary instead of playing this masquerade,” he muttered into his chest.
“It’s not a masquerade; I want to be an engineer.” She peered into seething eyes, knowing that his pride had been wounded. “But I want to be a pilot more.”
“So why didn’t you go through the Women’s Auxiliary?”
“It would have taken me nowhere. The Luftwaffe Helferinnen is nothing more than a gaggle of geese: bored housewives, lonely single women, token volunteers. I’d sooner stay here with the men and be an engineer.”
She reached out to take his hand, but he pulled back as though repulsed and Gabi knew that no apology would make things better. His final words severed their friendship for good.
“You used me, and I won’t help you anymore.” He left Gabi with one final piece of advice. “You should speak to Major Stern.”
That night, Gabi thought about what Michael had said and whether she should approach the major and risk her place in the engineering school. And what would her father do if Major Stern were to contact him? No doubt, he would order her home and tell her to forget this folly. But her father was always telling her to follow her dreams. Was it her fault that her dreams were those befitting a son, not daughter? Surely, if opportunity knocked, she should answer.
Hans leaned across a large bureau table, pointing to the flight path on a map creased and torn from over-use.
“It’ll be rough; they’re forecasting strong winds,” he said.
Otto sniffed the air and his face contorted. “Phew, what a smell. Does someone have a dead rat up their arse?”
Pinke, a female dachshund, waddled out from under the table in what appeared to be an admission of guilt.
Otto continued his whiny tone. “One dog mounts everything, the other one farts like a skunk—where did you get these dogs?”
“Why does everyone always blame the dog? Here Pinke, I know it wasn’t you,” Kurt said, bending low to give the spoiled pooch a pretzel. “Onkel Kurt had too many onions for lunch.”
“Then there’s something wrong with you, Kurt,” said Otto. “That stench can’t be healthy.”
“Did you know that the average man farts up to fourteen times a day? I reckon I only fart a little more than that. Besides, it’s not the quantity, it’s the quality…”
“Enough with the fart talk, all right.” Hans knew that Kurt had the concentration span of a squirrel and was usually tolerant of his waffling, but this was too much. They had a particularly dangerous sortie that afternoon and he needed to clarify in his own mind what had to be done, even if the others showed little interest. He continued to outline tactics, geographic and navigational information, weather forecasts and any other concerns that came to mind. The briefing dragged on far longer than Kurt’s challenged attention span could endure.
“I thought the whole point of a briefing session was to keep it brief. If we don’t get going soon, I’ll let another one go.”
Hans folded the map and returned it to its draw. “Better get going then—those farts of yours are lethal,” he said as they headed to their fighters. “We should use them against the English.”
The squadron scrambled into Bf-109 Messerschmitts and ascended into overcast skies with blustering winds and turbulence, climbing to 1,200 metres over the channel and flying in two, four-finger formations. A combat box of Spitfires came into sight, splitting the Bf-109s into pairs in preparation for the attack. They circled the enemy, marking their targets and advising their wingmen, all the while wrestling turbulence that thrashed their planes and their nerves.
“Shit, this wind’s a pain.” A moment passed before Kurt continued his broadcast. “Ah, that feels better. It’s a good thing I like the smell of my own farts—that was a beauty.”
Hans sniggered at Kurt’s boyish quip, grateful for the relief, though brief, it provided from the maddening tension of battle.
“Attack!” He shot across his target, spraying a round into the Spitfire. They applied hit and run tactics, smacking their targets hard, much like the get in and get out strategy they used on their women. Willy covered his tail, firing wildly at a plane that appeared out of nowhere and was now fixed on Hans.
“Steady on, Willy. You’ll use up all your ammo,” Hans said, worried that his trigger-happy wingman would send a round of friendly fire into his plane. Willy had a problem with impulse control and wasn’t a particularly accurate marksman, making him lethal irrespective of what side you were on.
Hans turned and banked, making a second run at the Spitfire. It looped unexpectedly, avoiding the onslaught and forcing Hans to over-shoot his prey.
“Damn, he’s good.”
He saw the Spitfire turn and as he drew closer, the plane’s nose-art took form. It was a medieval sword with the word ‘Excalibur’ in bright red, a stylish motif that Hans liked very much. In that moment where thoughts drift and focus stalls, the Tommy opened fire and Willy was blown to oblivion.
Hans watched the stricken plane descend and slam into the ocean, leaving a legacy of billowing smoke. He had failed in his duty to his wingman. Fighting the guilt that constricted his chest, Hans heaved each breath to calm his shattered nerves and soothe his vengeful conscience.
“Keep attacking. I’m going after that Tommy.”
Never had Hans felt so alive, so invincible, as when on the hunt, high on Pervitin and the thrill of the chase. He stalked the Spitfire, weaving and diving before flying into a milky abyss, bursting through the cloud and into a blank canvas. The tables had turned; the Spitfire was on the attack and Hans was now his prey, exposed and vulnerable. Ricocheting bullets tore through his engine and across his shield, and he shut his eyes and waited to feel them rip his face apart. But he felt no pain, hearing only the drone of his engine.
Hans watched Excalibur flee. He did not think for a moment to pursue his enemy; it was enough that he had survived. His confidence had taken a hit and he could not bring himself to face death again, not today. He checked his instrument panel and the damage his plane had sustained, a trail of bullet holes across his canopy and along the fuselage. “You’ve busted my balls, Excalibur. I’ll get you another day.” Hans dug into his pocket to get what he needed—just one tablet for now and all will be bearable again.
“Take a seat, Cadet Richter.”
Gabi saluted and positioned herself on the edge of a wooden chair that creaked precariously beneath her. She placed her feet squarely on the floor before easing herself fully into the seat. The office was sparse: a filing cabinet in a corner, a notepad and several acutely sharpened pencils neatly arranged on a desk. On the wall hung photos of the major with various important people; she recognised the Führer in one and Field Marshal Göring in another.
“Now, what can I do for you?” the major asked.
“Major Stern, as you know, I am studying aeronautical engineering here at Fürstenfeldbruck. I understand that the Luftwaffe is looking for fighter pilots and was wondering if I would be considered.” Gabi kept her voice low and steady, but her mind flittered with erratic thoughts; her stomach clenched like a fist before the punch. She held her breath to calm herself and waited for his reply.
Major Stern leaned back as if reflecting on the meaning of life. His blank expression gave nothing away, and he stared out the window for some time before responding.
“Perhaps… let me think.” He seemed to be enjoying Gabi’s unease, forcing her to sit there a few moments longer watching him study something outside the window, or so it appeared. The major eventually turned from the window. “Tell me, why do you want to be a fighter pilot? You do know there’s a high chance that you’ll be killed in action?”