“Then why don’t you?”
She pulled her hands from his clasp. “Things are complicated.”
“You still love Kurt?”
“Yes.”
“And he loves you?”
She said nothing.
“I love you.”
Gabi’s face fell into hands that shook. “Oh, Arthur, I’m pregnant with Kurt’s child.”
His steps echoed along the deserted corridor, moving briskly. He opened the door, acknowledging the radio operator sitting at a desk with a casual wave. The operator passed the headset to the general, who nodded and leaned into the microphone.
“Kurt, it’s Max here.”
Kurt’s brow rose, taken aback by his lack of formality.
“Yes, General, have you news of Gabi?”
“Yes. She’s alive. She’s a POW in England.”
Kurt squared his shoulders. The weight was gone. “Thank God. Is she well?”
“I believe so. She was injured but not seriously.”
The line between the two men hissed, giving Kurt a moment to compose himself.
“My deepest gratitude to you for informing me.”
“Just stay alive, Kurt.” The general paused. “The end is upon us. Goodbye.”
The line went dead. Kurt threw the headset onto the desk and bounded out of the office, his eyes dancing with renewed hope. He would be with her again soon; he could feel it.
‘The heart of Germany has ceased to beat. The Führer is dead.’
JG 54 was based at Neuhausen. Kurt received a transmission advising the end of the war was imminent and to do what he thought best for his men. Surrender was the only course of action, but how? The Russians had a bounty on their heads and would show them no mercy. They would be better treated as POWs of the English or Americans. But what if they were handed over to the Russians? They must surrender as far away as possible from the east and the Red Army. Gabi was in England. No further deliberation was needed—he would tell his men to surrender on English soil.
May 1945
On May fifth, JG 54 assembled for the last time. Kurt eyed the row of pilots shuffling in the dirt, their spirits and uniforms tattered and dishevelled.
“We can do no more.” Kurt’s voice boomed across the yard and his men stood to attention, giving him the last of their self-respect. They had all known for years that this was how it would end. Gunter shrugged and winked at Kurt, a gesture that tempted a grin from a weary commander.
“We must surrender to the Western Allies.”
His men stood unresponsive, their shoulders drooping, their expressions blank.
Kurt eyed each one slowly. “I will fly to England. Who will come with me?”
“We have no fuel,” said Dieter.
“We have enough.”
“Where is this fuel? We ran out long ago.” Erich looked at Kurt with the eyes of a man who had never known trust, and he raised his chin and stared down his nose at his commander.
“It is in a pit behind the wash house.”
Gunter pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket into which he blew vigorously to conceal a smirk. All eyes watched as he scrunched the cloth back into his pocket. “I will fly with you to England. I hear the south is quite pretty this time of year.”
“Who else would like to see the white cliffs of Dover?” Kurt held his breath.
Dieter, Fritz, Werner and finally, Erich stepped forward. The others stood defiant—they would not desert their families.
“We will meet at 14:00 to discuss what must be done.”
They met in what remained of the last hangar. Kurt instructed the riggers to remove the bomb racks and cannons to lighten their load, leaving only a machinegun should they come under attack. A crude white cross of surrender was painted over the Balkenkreuz and Hakenkreuz emblems that marked each plane’s fuselage and tail feather. Erich refused to have his plane defaced, saying that he would not disrespect the Reich in such a way. Kurt let it go without confrontation; he cared nothing for this fool. They bid their fellow comrades farewell and in the privacy of their rooms, packed a few token mementoes with shaking hands.
The flight was a gamble on many fronts, the range of their Fw-190s only just able to cover the journey from Neuhausen to RAF Hawkinge, and with limited armoury, they would be no match should they come under attack. And what awaited them at the other end? Fear and apprehension played a brutal tune as they waited out a sleepless, unnerving night of cards and forced conversation. Come first light, the pilots would surrender and the war—for them at least—would be at an end.
Kurt opened the lid of Max’s toolbox. The little mouse climbed on top and sniffed the air.
“You’re free, General Max. I’m relieving you of your duty as mascot. Go, find yourself some mates. And remember, only hump the clean ones.”
Kurt put a slice of stale bread and a saucer of water on the floor before making his way to his plane, taking a final look at what was left of the base. It lay derelict, like much of the Fatherland. What utter madness this war had been; now for some sanity—it was time to find Gabi.
They made a sorry sight as they limped across the channel. Surrounded by a squadron of allied craft, the crippled Fw-190s completed their final sortie under a cloud of shame. They listened to Gunter’s strained voice over the radio, stammering their surrender in broken English; they followed his instruction to circle the base until clearance was given. They watched and waited for the end to come— without hope, without glory…
The base was frantic with activity, and Gabi sensed that something odd was in play. She made her way to the kitchen to find out; Cook always knew what was going on.
“They’re surrendering here, at this base!” The cook dried his hands and flung the towel over his shoulder, racing out into the yard.
Gabi stumbled after him. “Who’s surrendering?”
“Some Jerry fighters,” he shouted over his shoulder and he quickened his pace as he neared a gathering that grew as word spread. An armoured vehicle pulled up on the runway and a troop of armed soldiers took their positions, guns fixed on their targets. Gabi squinted up at a swarm of Fw-190s escorted by English and American fighters, circling the air base, waiting for clearance to land.
She recognised the insignia and sprinted onto the tarmac, straining her eyes to identify the planes, spotting Werner, Fritz and Dieter and in the distance, Gunter’s plane landing. Two planes continued to circle the base. She ran into the middle of the runway and extended her arms in a victory salute. Kurt made a low pass.
“It’s Kurt! He’s here. He’s alive,” she shouted, and she bounded about the runway in a fit of elation.
Art stood frozen — he had never seen her so happy.
“I don’t believe it—it’s Gabi.” Kurt hollered into the radio.
Nothing.
“Erich, do you copy?”
The radio hissed with venom. “She’s a traitor; she deserves what she gets.” Erich circled his prey, positioning himself for the kill.
Kurt’s eyes glowered. No! He wouldn’t dare. But Kurt had seen the evil in Erich and knew what was to come.
“Erich, don’t do it. I order you to abort. Abort now!”
He thrust the throttle to its limit, determined to ram Erich and blow him to hell.
Gabi turned to face the incoming planes, oblivious to the drama above. Her heart soared at the thought of Kurt’s embrace, and she laughed aloud with child-like glee. Her prayers had been answered, her hope restored. She followed Erich’s fighter as it banked and descended on its final approach, tailed precariously close by Kurt. She faltered; why hadn’t Eric lowered his landing gear?