Hans threw himself into his new role as Wing Commander JG 1, desperate to shake his guilt and heartache. But he had traded one nightmare for another, flying high altitude missions over the channel against countless B-17 Flying Fortresses and P-47 Thunderbolts, watching his life flash before his eyes. It was suicide. At times, when in the thick of battle, he almost willed his own death, his nerves so frayed from tension and fear. Every day Hans saw his crew—many of them young, inadequately trained and inexperienced boys, face the full wrath of the allies—running the gauntlet and slamming into the gates of hell. He lost scores of men. No sooner would a pilot be replaced when another was lost. It was endlessly depressing.
He flew sorties as often as his duties as wing commander allowed, leading from the front as all Luftwaffe commanders were expected to do. Before a sortie, Hans would climb into his Fw-190, one foot in the cockpit, the other foot in the grave; he knew it was only a matter of time.
Thoughts of Gabi haunted him. He procrastinated in his despair—should he write to her and try to explain? But each time he put pen to paper, he was lost for words. It was hopeless; all was hopeless.
The next morning, Gabi woke to a hangover to rival the blitzkrieg. She ran herself a bath and soaked her body until the skin on her fingertips and soles was white and gnarly like that of Methuselah.
Frau Hermann knocked on the door. “Are you all right?” she asked, opening the windows in Gabi’s bedroom for airing.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” She cringed, the throbbing in her head forcing her eyebrows down as she cowered to the pain.
Frau Hermann placed fresh under-clothing and a shirt on the bed. She brushed down Gabi’s flight jacket and trousers in preparation for her return flight to Nikolskoye after lunch.
“Be sure to eat something, Gabi,” she called out before leaving the room.
Gabi placed a wet flannel over her face and sank back down into lukewarm bathwater. She hated tepid baths but couldn’t find the energy to leave so she soaked there a while longer until hunger finally motivated her to dress and find some food.
After breakfast, Gabi made her way to the drawing room. Her father was studying some papers and his eyes flittered back and forth over the words as though he did not understand. He looked up and the gloom momentarily left his face.
“So how is your head this morning? I’m looking forward to hearing another verse of Hänschen Klein.”
“Very funny. I feel like I’ve been ramming my head into a stone wall.”
The general’s lip curled, a small dimple breaking the smooth contour of his cleanly shaven cheek. He bowed his head and resumed his work.
“What’s wrong, Papa?”
He lifted his head, and she studied her father’s face; dark sacks hanging beneath red eyes.
“I can’t tell you.” His gaze fell back to the pile of papers before him.
Gabi lowered herself onto the couch, reclining slowly in sympathy with her throbbing head, dreading the thought of flying back to the base in just a few hours. She lay staring up at the ornate cornice and chandelier for a short while, studying a spider and its intricate cobweb that had somehow escaped Frau Hermann’s manic dusting regime. Random thoughts finally gave way to actuality, and Gabi broke the silence.
“We’re going to lose the war, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” It was a flat, matter-of-fact response.
“But that’s not what’s troubling you, is it?”
“No.”
Her father’s anguish was self-evident, yet she could not imagine what would be tormenting him so if it was not the war. Gabi desperately wanted to find out but could not bring herself to badger him. He would tell her when he was ready.
Tante Helga ambled into the room, oblivious to the stern look the general cast his vague sister. He was in no mood for her ramblings and motioned to Gabi to take her elsewhere.
“Come, Tante Helga. Let us go for a walk to the old oak. I need to clear my head before I fly back to Russia.”
“You can fly?”
“Yes, Tante Helga, I can fly.”
She raised her brows and nodded her approval. “Tell me, Gabi, is it true that they have trained dogs to fly in the Luftwaffe?”
“No, Tante. There are no flying dogs in the Luftwaffe.”
Gabi turned and winked at her father before escorting her aunt outside into the warmth of the late morning sun.
“I’m hungry, when is lunch?”
“Soon, Tante. Let us walk a while first.”
They meandered up the hill, arm in arm, through the long grass speckled with colour, picking crocus, daffodil and poppy flowers until they reached the oak, where they nestled under its abundant canopy. Gabi made a posy for Saxon’s grave while Tante Helga fashioned a floral head wreath and necklace with the remaining blooms.
Their conversation was arbitrary but sincere, and Gabi relished the chance to confide her inner-most feelings with another woman. She spoke of Heinz and Hans and of her heartache. The old woman’s eyes sparkled like an awakening; they had made a connection that brought clarity to her thoughts.
“Take it from a silly old woman who found out too late: you must live in hope to love again for without love, life loses all hope.”
And in that one moment, her dear, dithering aunt made more sense to Gabi than anything else she had heard since the war had begun.
“Captain, are you interested in a transfer back to Europe? They’re forecasting a lovely summer this year.”
The timid corporal kept his gaze low as if cowering before a malevolent warlord. Kurt, fighter pilot and group commander extraordinaire, had been driving them all manic on the base and the corporal, having drawn the short straw, was delegated the task of convincing Kurt to transfer elsewhere.
“What, and leave all this?” Kurt glanced out the window at the desolation of the Sahara and snorted to himself. He recalled his first week in North Africa; the stifling heat, the infinite dunes, the exotic aromas and of course the beguiling women; he loved it all, joking that he’d gladly stay until it rained. But after only a month, his fascination with the desert had lost its appeal, and Kurt now dreamed of lush green pastures and frigid Teutonic pussy.
The corporal continued nervously, eager to find a compelling argument. “There’s talk that we’ll all be pulling out soon. It’s a good time to apply for a transfer… maybe back to your old Jagdgeschwader—JG 54 needs a group commander.”
Kurt looked up, giving the scrawny subordinate his full attention. “What happened to Major Philipp?”
“Defence of the Reich orders—apparently, he transferred to the western front.”
“Do you know if Lieutenant Richter is still with JG 54?”
“Not sure. Would you like me to find out?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
Kurt’s sarcasm was lost on the corporal who shuffled some papers, moving at a snail’s pace as was the norm for this part of the world. It had been a troublesome posting for Kurt that had tested his resolve many times over, his men a lazy herd of dim-witted bootlicking no-hopers. He had even endured a month in the infirmary after an incompetent physician had removed a bullet from his chest but failed to sterilize his instruments.
Kurt shook his head at the corporal and grunted his displeasure. He stomped across the parched earth to the communications post and dictated a message regarding the status of Lieutenant Gabriele Richter to the teletype operator; the response came within minutes—Gabi was still with JG 54. Kurt scratched at his stubbled chin. What was going on there? Had Hans and Gabi split up? He returned to the administration office.
“Corporal, I’ll need the paperwork for that transfer.”