Erich’s plane swooped and the rattle of fire swept the base. Onlookers threw themselves to the ground and the gunners released their rounds; tracking the fighters through a sky charged with ammunition. Erich’s plane stalled and listed to one side, billowing smoke trailing the stricken plane that plunged towards a field, colliding and roaring defiantly before erupting into black smoke and flames.
Art ran to Gabi. She lay face down and he turned her body, her eyes clear as they stared up at the clouds but they did not move and he knew that she saw nothing. He ran a trembling hand over her eyelids and heard the pounding of boots on the asphalt. He raised his head, taking in the figure of a man, tall and arresting.
“Kurt?”
The man did not acknowledge Art but looked down at Gabi, his face expressionless, his breathing deep and raspy like a lion after the chase.
It was over.
Art walked away—a moment alone was all he could do for them.
Kurt knelt beside Gabi, cradling her limp body in his arms, stroking her softly. His eyes swept over her face, her figure—it had been such a long time. She wore no make-up, dressed in an oversized RAF jumper and baggy trousers, her hair hanging in the same tousled, carefree way it had when he first saw her at the graduation ceremony all those years ago. How beautiful she had looked back then and how her beauty had grown over the years—beauty so profound that it left him in awe.
He looked out over the base at his fellow Jagdfliegers, huddled together, hands above their heads surrendering in shame. He saw the RAF personnel standing aghast, appalled by the scene that had just played out before them. It was a world he no longer cared for. His gaze drifted back down to the woman in his arms and he placed her hand on his cheek. It was warm and soft and his heart ached.
“I never told you that I loved you. I wanted us to get married and grow old together.” He lowered his voice to barely a whisper.
“I love you.” He kissed the scar on the palm of her hand.
“I love you.” He kissed the scar on her forehead.
“I love you.” Kurt paused, his fate now clear and inevitable.
“Did I ever tell you that swallows mate for life?”
His glacial eyes began to thaw, a single tear falling onto Gabi’s cheek. With a final kiss, Kurt withdrew his pistol from its holster and held it to his head. A heart-wrenching shudder swept over the base as the gun discharged.
The next morning, Art returned to the air-strip where Kurt’s plane still stood. He studied the line of the 190’s fuselage, the cracked canopy, the torn tail-feather, the bald tyres; maintenance had certainly not been a priority. He climbed on board and peered inside the cockpit. Like all combat craft, it was sparse and cramped; in the corner of the windscreen was a photo of Gabi.
Art removed and gazed at the image, signed ‘Zu Kurt mit Liebe.’ It was a black and white portrait, but her lips had been stained red to highlight her beautiful smile. How smart she looked in her Luftwaffe uniform. Art bit his lip to hold it still and placed the photo in his pocket, recalling her five wishes; only two had been fulfilled.
The cluster of keys chimed musically as the guard unlocked the door of the detention cell. Art walked into the confined space and eyed the row of men seated on a wooden bench along a brick wall covered with graffiti. Only one of them bothered to look up to see who had entered their cell, and he glared coldly at the figure standing before them.
“Which one of you speaks English?”
A man with a red nose looked up at Art. “I do.”
“What is your name?”
“Lieutenant Winter… Gunter Winter.”
Art eyed the man, watching him sneeze and wipe his nose into his filthy sleeve. When the man had settled, Art spoke again.
“I would like to contact General Richter. Tell me, Lieutenant Winter, do you know of any communication stations that may still be operating?”
The man stared up at the wing commander. “Do you have a cigarette?” he asked.
Art gestured to a guard who begrudging produced a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. After a few puffs, Gunter spoke. “Berlin is finished—the rats would have all deserted the nest but someone somewhere will intercept your radio transmission. Whether General Richter is still alive, well, that is another matter altogether.”
Art sent a stream of teletype transmissions across the channel advising of the deaths of Major Kurt Dorfmann and Captain Gabriele Richter and requesting instruction on the return of their bodies to Germany. A response eventually found its way back.
‘Fliegerhorst Berlin Gatow, 8th May, 6:00.’
Art made the necessary arrangements. They would rendezvous tomorrow morning at first light.
The general stood waiting beside a Red Cross lorry on the edge of the runway when the Avro Anson transporter came into view. It landed on the main strip and taxied to where the lorry stood. A hatch released and a man dressed in RAF flying gear jumped down and walked towards the figure. He saluted but the general disregarded the formal address, instead, extending his hand. It was an intense handshake that lasted longer than would normally occur between strangers.
They spoke briefly about Gabi’s last weeks, the circumstances of her tragic death, and watched in silence as the coffins were transferred from the plane into the back of the lorry.
The door slammed shut and the general shuddered. “I wanted to speak with her again.” A long pause followed. He tightened his jaw to suppress a sob. “I needed to tell her something.” But he could not speak for fear of breaking down.
“She wanted you to know that she still loved you.”
The general looked into Art’s eyes. “You know what I have done?”
“Yes. Gabi told me.”
The general wiped the tears from his eyes, his head falling forward in shame before a man who passed no judgement.
Exploding shells and gunfire could be heard on the outskirts of the city, and the two men listened to the onslaught as it rose and peaked and fell again into sporadic attack.
“The Russians will be here soon, and it will all be over. You won’t have much time to escape.”
“There’ll be enough time to do what I have to do. Escape won’t be necessary.” The general held out his hand once more and they shook. As he turned to leave, Art spoke again.
“General, there is something else I have to tell you.” He pulled a photo from his pocket.
“Go on, Wing Commander Wilson.”
Art handed the general Kurt’s photo of Gabi, his eyes fixed on the image as it passed between them. “Gabi was pregnant with Kurt’s child.”
The general stared at his daughter, tugging an earlobe that was red and swollen. He placed the photograph inside his jacket.
Art bowed his head. He had one final promise to make good. “She wanted to lie beneath the oak tree.”
“Yes, I know. God bless you. Good-bye.”
Art had fulfilled his promise. He walked back to his plane, his hands deep in trouser pockets where he felt an item that was once precious to him. He removed his hand and with an arm made good from years of cricket, threw the coin as far as he could.
The transport plane rose into a serene early morning sky, leaving behind a solitary figure on a deserted airstrip. Erratic gunfire continued along the cities fringe; the Red Army would take Berlin before noon. It was time to do what needed to be done.