Kurt leaned towards her. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I mean, I didn’t force myself on you or anything like that?”
“No, Kurt. You didn’t hurt me.” She watched as he tugged at his earlobe as if trying to rid himself of something. “Please, Kurt, don’t tell anyone. No one else needs to know.”
“I’ll tell no one, I promise.”
JG 54 relocated to the east in preparation for what some generals called the beginning of the end for Germany. Only a madman would dare attack Russia, Hitler’s generals would joke. But when Hitler declared war on Russia, nobody laughed.
Operation Barbarossa was a military crusade of epic proportions, the perfect campaign for Hans to distinguish himself as an outstanding leader and expert in aerial combat. His victory tally escalated and on August twenty-fourth, he became the thirty-third recipient of the Oak Leaves to the Knight’s Cross medal, presented by the Führer himself. Kurt’s efforts were also recognized, and he was promoted to First Lieutenant.
The months passed and camaraderie grew. Hans, Kurt and Gabi were inseparable, relying on each other for companionship and some measure of sanity. There were stressful times where periods of intense fighting were often followed by interludes of extreme boredom. They would play cards and drink until late at night, whiling away the hours of tedium when the war seemed to stop—at least for them. Gabi would curl up and sleep on a sofa with Minke and Pinke nestled up against her, too tired to continue playing cards but unwilling to go to bed should she miss out on anything. On some nights, Hans would dust off his squeeze-box and play folk songs accompanied by a howling Minke and Gabi and Kurt would clear the floor of furniture and dance to whatever Hans played.
Both Kurt and Hans watched over Gabi like big brothers, Hans reporting back to the general every other week as requested, reassuring him that Gabi was safe and well looked after. Gabi still referred to Erich as the ‘farmer-boy’ and the nickname caught on and stuck to him like a wart. In return, Erich would find ways to harass Gabi, making false accusations and undermining her authority behind her back, deliberately goading her into verbal stoushes that always ended the same way.
“Let it go, Erich, you’re no match for Gabi,” Kurt would say. “She’s got more brains in her little finger than you’ve got in your head, dick and balls combined.”
She shared a warm, unabashed rapport with her fellow pilots and would speak openly on all manner of topics, often shocking them with her honesty and candour. Only Hans distanced himself from such conversations, most likely because he was their commander and respect demanded a degree of formality and reservedness. But he was also an introvert by nature and rarely delved into the private lives of others and certainly never spoke of his own family or upbringing.
On the 22 October, JG 54 Group 1 transferred to Krasnowardeisk in Russia for an indefinite period. Located just twenty-eight miles south of Leningrad, it was nothing more than an inhospitable hellhole loathed by all, especially during the bitterly cold winter months.
They flew almost every day, with two or three sorties on some days. A steady stream of new pilots came to replace those killed or missing in action. Although danger never left them, Gabi felt safe under the watchful eyes of her two guardians. Her victory count was growing steadily and she was now classed as an ‘Ace’.
But there were times when Gabi despised her duty as a fighter pilot; times when they were ordered to fly over enemy villages and release their bombs on civilian targets. Wehrmacht Intelligence would claim resistance from town folk warranted such action but Gabi did not accept this and would deliberately miss her target. Erich, however, took great delight in dropping his bombs on the local church, hospital or school. She argued with Erich when they returned to base but such debates were dangerous.
“Do you want the Gestapo to drag you off to some concentration camp or firing squad?” Kurt warned Gabi one day when he found her arguing with Erich in the middle of a crowded dining room. “Just keep that mouth of yours shut, hard as I know that is for you.”
The war was taking on new meaning for Gabi, challenging her morals and conscience almost every day…
It was on such a day and JG 54 was engaged in a fearsome stoush over Russian lines. A parachute’s canopy burst open like the mainsail of a ship that had just caught a gale, a crippled Ivan was staring death in the face, his plane crashing to earth in a smoke ball that blackened the sky, the explosion sending shockwaves that jolted nearby aircraft. But he had bailed from the stricken plane and was floating down with the breeze to home soil and safety.
A Bf-109 screeched past, firing directly into the parachute. Gabi looked on in revulsion—such tactics were deplorable. She watched as the lifeless Russian struck the ground before searching the skies for the culprit. Her gut sank into a hole of moral discord. Lieutenant Philipp—her mentor, her hero—had fired at a defenceless man.
Later that evening while dining in the officer’s mess, Gabi sat quietly toying with her food. Kurt took a seat beside her and commenced his feeding frenzy. His plate was piled with a generous helping of potatoes, sauerkraut and schweinshaxe seized from a stockpile of local produce and reserved for the mouths of Nazi officers. He glanced at her, aware that something was wrong.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing. I guess I’m just sick of these conditions.”
“You’re not getting cabin fever, are you?”
Hans joined them at the table. “Check out this banquet. I can’t remember the last time I had ham hock.” Hans too had a plate heaped with enough food to feed a Russian family for a week.
Kurt sniggered and continued eating with an unyielding appetite, lifting his gaze from his plate only long enough to wash his meal down with a swig of beer. Gabi left the table and cleared her plate and utensils without saying a word, returning them to the dish-pit before heading to her quarters.
Hans removed a piece of elasticised pork skin from his mouth and placed it on the rim of his plate. “What’s up with her?”
Kurt shrugged. “I’ll be damned if I know. Maybe it’s her time.”
Hans grimaced. “Please, not while I’m eating.”
They finished their meal and spent the rest of the evening playing cards and discussing the merits of bachelorhood.
Gabi scratched the scar on her palm, her mind racing for plausible excuses for Hans’s act of cowardice, none of them convincing. Should she confront him? What would that achieve? No, she was better off letting it go; it was what it was and nothing could change what happened. She undressed and climbed into bed with Pinke, forcing her thoughts to other matters but finding it impossible to dwell on anything for any length of time.
The following morning, Gabi rose early to work herself out in the gymnasium. Kurt had just finished his morning routine and was returning some weights to their rack.
“How are you this morning?” he asked.
“I had a good night’s sleep, thanks for asking,” she lied.
Her voice was sharp, detached, and Kurt knew that something still troubled her.
“What’s your problem?”
Gabi was no mood for ethical debate—especially not this early in the morning—but she succumbed to her conscience.
“He shot at a parachute.”
Kurt spoke to Hans immediately after discovering the source of Gabi’s foul mood. Hans now stood before her, alone in the gymnasium where she had withdrawn for most of the morning.
“It upsets you that I killed an Ivan?” he asked.
“It’s how he died that upsets me—like shooting a rabbit in an open field. I thought we had more honour than that.”