“That’s Swallow? The Swallow?”
“The one and only. Watch out for Major Dorfmann, though—he’ll have anyone that tries to make a move on her.”
February 1945
Berlin was bleeding.
On February third, terror bombing of the city centre started a firestorm that was to burn for four days. Thoughts of her father brought on dark feelings of hopelessness and dread.
Gabi had not seen or spoken to him since November, although he had made numerous attempts to contact her. She still hadn’t found it in her heart to forgive him. To make matters worse, Gabi was feeling sick; the smell of coffee was making her nauseous. She sat at the conference table, resting her head on her arms.
General Galland bounded into the room. “Are you ill?”
Gabi looked up and sneezed. “I’ll be fine, just a little under the weather.”
More pilots joined the group, energising the room with their lively banter.
They were Jagdveband 44, a new Me-262 squadron comprising of some of the Luftwaffe’s finest fighter aces, hand-picked by their commander, General Galland, who had recently been sacked from his staff post by Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring for his ongoing criticism of policy and tactics. High Command’s intent was clear—they hoped that the troublesome Galland would be killed in action while flying a front-line command, but Galland was a fine pilot and would not be so easily purged from their records.
Today, they were on such a mission to intercept and destroy American bombers off the coast. They discussed details and adjourned for a break before departing. Gabi made her way to the restroom again; she hadn’t stopped going all morning. Her period was late and she felt bloated and lethargic but at least this sortie would be a quick in and out affair.
They climbed to a cruising altitude of six thousand metres, leaving Gabi woozy and disoriented. She checked her mask and steadied her breathing hoping to clear the vagueness, but nausea swept over her in waves and she gulped continuously to keep her stomach contents down.
“You’re off course, Captain,” Galland said over the radio. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m good—just had a sneezing fit.” Gabi adjusted her buckles, loosening the straps to ease the pressure on her bursting bladder.
Sighting a four-box formation of B-24 bombers, they took on the attack, diving down to unload their R4M rockets. Enemy fighters were quick to respond and soon the sky was alive with fire. Gabi weaved erratically to avoid the flak, making it almost impossible for the American P-51 Mustangs to keep her in sight. But the more she manoeuvred, the more she could feel rising nausea.
Galland gave the order to return to base and in her relief, Gabi sprayed her mask with vomit, its putrid stench filling the cockpit almost immediately, and she cursed at herself and wondered how she would explain this to the maintenance crew.
First to arrive back at base, Gabi leapt from Swallow and ran to the bathroom, where she promptly removed her soiled flight gear and showered. Only then did it occur to her that she might be pregnant. But how? She couldn’t conceive. The doctor had been quite adamant that her injuries at such a young age would render her infertile. She could still see the pain in her father’s eyes the day he told her. She had been joking about having a brood of children to annoy their Opa only to be told that it could never be.
With a glimmer of hope, she dismissed the thought—at least for now. It was probably just a bout of the flu.
It was early; the sun had not yet broken the horizon and Gabi could hear her stomach rumble. She made her way to the mess, the foul chicory aroma of ersatz coffee assaulting her senses. She grimaced and scanned the room.
Kurt sat alone at a table that leaned defectively to one side, his broad shoulders hunched over an unappetizing breakfast of dried biscuits and mouldy cheese, an apple balanced precariously close to the edge. Kurt stared at the apple, seemingly lost in thoughts of that day’s activities—a drive to Dresden for a meeting and visit with family later in the evening. Sensing a presence, he looked up and into the warm smile of Gabi.
“Are you leaving soon?” he asked, slurping his hot coffee in a manner that would have had his mother reaching for a wooden spoon.
Gabi nodded and took a bite from a hard bread roll smothered in lard.
“Sit down,” he said. “Have a coffee with me.”
“No, thanks. I’ve gone off that stuff.”
Kurt watched her shuffle from side to side. “Where are you off to then?” he asked.
“Reconnaissance off the coast. Which reminds me, have you seen Peter?”
“You’re not flying with that soft-cock? You’d be safer flying with Sepp.”
“Peter needs the experience; he’s not ready for combat yet. Besides, he’s kind of cute,” she said.
“You know I’m not the jealous type.” He took her hand and softly squeezed, but she pulled it free and his brow lifted.
“What’s up? You’re as fidgety as a virgin on her honeymoon.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” The mouldy smell of wet leather tainted the air, and Gabi knew that Kurt had put on damp socks and boots again and that his feet would smell like festering meat, but she did not lecture him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Give my love to your mother and Lotti.”
“Be careful,” he said.
She lowered her voice. “I love you.”
“I know.”
It was a response she had come to expect, one that she would accept without altercation, but today Gabi wanted more. “You never say it back.”
“Say what?”
Now was the perfect time to tell him about her condition, but she could not bring herself to say the words. “Never mind, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
His eyes followed her until she was gone and a memory, long forgotten but as vivid as a field of poppies, appeared to him. It was a day when every sound could be heard, amplified in a moment of stark emotion. He saw his mother scramble down the hall, following the steps of a man she thought she knew—after all, they had been married twenty years and had raised three children together. She clung to the front door and called out to the man—“I love you”. They were words that Kurt had never heard his father say, and he held his breath and waited for his father to respond. But there would be no reply. Instead, he watched his mother fall to her knees and this man, his father, walk out of the lives.
Gabi and Peter flew over the channel travelling at high altitude, a blanket of cirrus cloud screening them from ground surveillance. They scoured the coastline of southern England, diving beneath their cover, leaving them exposed and vulnerable, if only for a few minutes, before returning back to the continent.
What they were doing was madness. The war was all but lost, this sortie merely another futile act in the Reich’s death throes. But she couldn’t say it—not to Peter in any case—he was a product of the Hitler Youth, a zealot minion who had pledged obedience to the Reich until death and would make good on such a promise.
“Nice spot for a picnic,” Gabi broadcast, hoping to relieve the tension that followed any flight over enemy lines.
Without warning, a spray of fire came down Gabi’s left side, a bullet entering the back of her shoulder and exiting the front in a spurt of red.
“Shit,” she screamed. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Indians at 10 o’clock.” Peter thrust his stick forward. “I’m coming in.” He looped to cover Gabi’s stricken plane only to be pelted from behind by ten Mosquitoes, all closing in.