She was his only child and still a teenager, not to forget that she was also a woman and women should not fight in war. He slammed his fist down on the desk, knocking over a tumbler of malt whisky. He rarely drank scotch but had received it as a gift from Rommel, who had assured him that it was worth a try. As expected, it was not to his taste so he cared not that he had wasted some. Instead, he cursed at the stain on the Persian rug beneath his desk, calling for Inge to bring a cloth and warm water.
While the maid cleaned around him, the general brooded over his daughter and what should be done. He peered at a photo of Gabi and Saxon and his thoughts drifted to her godparents. Of course, he should speak with Albert. He was a generalfeldmarschall with the Luftwaffe and would know what to do. He made the call.
“Hello, Albert, it’s Max here.” He shifted his weight and eased back into the chair, drawing the telephone towards the edge of the desk. “Yes, it has been a while. I hope you and Liny are well?”
They chatted; small talk and niceties, vague remarks about the war. Finally, the general broached the issue.
“Albert, I have a problem. It’s Gabi; she’s joined the Luftwaffe and has been accepted as a Jagdflieger.”
A barrage of expletives overwhelmed the general’s ear.
“Yes, of course I know she’s a girl but apparently policy permits her to fly.” Again, the telephone exploded.
The general’s voice boomed back. “No, no, I don’t want her discharged. She’s determined to fly and would never forgive me.”
The line fell silent while each man pondered what should be done. Finally, Albert’s pragmatic reasoning provided the solution. Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring would have her transferred to Magdeburg Ost near Berlin where she would continue her training—indefinitely. She would not fly on any sortie or face any enemy combat.
“Yes, Albert, that sounds good. Could you also have Flight Cadet Heinz Dorfmann transferred… to keep her company?”
Gabi’s godfather saw to it that they were both stationed with JG 27 ad infinitum.
Gabi and Heinz were called to ‘active duty’ after a prolonged period of specialized training. Rostered on patrol twice a week, they spent the rest of their time playing cards, working out in the gymnasium or indulging in active duty of another kind, usually sneaking off after lunch to a disused hangar or the base stores for some clandestine coitus.
“Your father and Onkel Albert are behind this, you know,” Heinz said while fastening his trousers.
Gabi, still flushed from their lovemaking, shrugged on her shirt. “What?”
“You know… us not getting any action up there.” He pointed to the ceiling.
She buttoned her shirt and hummed in agreement. There was no point arguing otherwise. “At least we fly a few times a week.”
“They’re playing with us, Gabi. Those patronizing old…” He swallowed his next word but continued to vent. “You know, we haven’t been on a real sortie—ever!”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
They stood stubbornly eyeing each other until Heinz conceded with a dismissive wave.
“Here, I got you something.” He unfolded his fighter jacket, revealing a package that he shunted into her chest. “Happy Birthday.”
Gabi’s expression softened and she squeezed the parcel carefully.
“It’s nothing breakable. Go on—open it.”
“How did you know it was my birthday?”
“A little bird told me.”
“Papa?”
Heinz nodded and a small dimple on his cheek confirmed that all was well again between them. “Your old man’s not a bad sort.”
She recalled the only year her father had forgotten to wish her a happy birthday. She was in England at St. George’s and had turned thirteen. It was a milestone year; not only had she become a teenager, but also a woman with raging hormones and a figure to match. She had waited anxiously for a package or a telegram from her father, but nothing came. Apparently, Helmut reminded him the next day. Her father was so riddled with guilt that he presented her with a fine stallion the colour of ebony during her summer break that year.
She studied the parcel, its wrapping creased and messy, the bow looking like it had been tied by someone with two left hands. She picked at the knot, sniggering into her chest to conceal her amusement at Heinz’s woeful attempt at gift wrapping.
“Give it here.” Heinz pulled at the paper, taking no mercy and tearing it swiftly. He handed the gift to Gabi. It was a pink velvet cushion with the word Prinzessin embroidered delicately in the middle in white cotton. She ran her palm over its softness.
“It’s for your plane. Now I don’t have to listen to you whine about your sore arse anymore,” Heinz said.
Gabi’s eyes twinkled. She was so moved by his thoughtfulness that she ached inside.
“Mama did the stitching. I think she did a good job.”
Gabi ran her finger over the intricate detail. “Yes, your mother is skilled. It’s fine work.”
A paralysing screech blasted the base and Heinz and Gabi gawked at each other as if struck dumb.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Come on, let’s go!” Gabi grabbed her cushion and sprinted to her Bf-109, Heinz close on her heels. The ground crew ran in spirals, frantically helping pilots with gear and cranking the engines. She threw her cushion onto the seat and climbed in, adjusting her buckles and cap. The drone of enemy craft could be heard in the distance; they would soon be under attack.
Gabi scrambled into the sky, circling the base and anxiously scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the enemy while waiting for instruction from their squadron leader. Heinz sat on her tail, taking the defensive position.
“How’s the cushion?” he asked over the radio.
“What? We’re about to get blown out of the sky and you want to know how my arse is?”
Gabi saw the flashes of tracer bullets, a hostile plane appearing from nowhere, its trajectory aimed directly at Swallow. She banked quickly to see Heinz discharge a round into its tail, sending the Hawker Hurricane hurtling to the ground and morphing into black smoke and flames. The shock of coming so close sent a shiver through her core and a gush of warmth between her legs.
She made a pass over the airfield and flew into the path of another Hurricane, her reflexes pumping a spray of bullets directly into its belly. Gabi saw the pained expression of the English pilot before the cockpit blew. He was young, not much older than she and in that split second, Gabi knew all innocence was gone; she had blood on her hands. A ricocheting bullet startled Gabi back into action, instinctively adjusting her course to confront the enemy, adrenaline surging like nothing she had experienced before.
The attack ended as it had commenced, a shrill siren heralding the all clear. Fighters jostled for landing, their runway marred by wreckage and debris.
Heinz made his way to Gabi’s plane, exhilarated and taut like over-wound elastic. “Man, that was incredible, I almost shit my pants.”
Gabi looked down at her crotch, a dark patch marking her shame. Heinz stared at her wet trousers and Gabi was sure he would laugh at her. But he did not laugh—not even a snigger. Instead, he drew her into a sympathetic embrace and held her close and she loved him for it.
That night, she relived the attack in her dreams and woke to a troubled conscience. She was a German, and her loyalty was with her father and the Fatherland. But she was also part English and had taken the life of a man—an Englishman. How would her mother have felt about her actions? It was a moral quandary that she had given little, if any thought to, only to surface when she was least prepared. The seed of guilt and doubt had been planted, and she knew over time that it would grow.