 3. The pilots of the third staffel sat sheepishly under their staffelkapitan's storm of outrage. Lowe repated his expectations, then wound up with a roar, "Questions?" He broke his pencil on the trestle table. The lead tip snapped off and bounced audibly on the floor in the sudden dreadful quiet. Into the long, dismayed pause, Paul blurted, "Who do I have to kill to get a Messerschmitt?" A few commiserating snorts escaped, but not one dared actually laugh. Paul was calm now, dry-eyed, his arms folded. Lowe opened his mouth and inhaled big to yell. Decided he had said everything already. He tossed his broken pencil aside, sighed, and said instead in normal voice, "When I figure that out I'll organize a raid." Grumbles of assent rippled through the gathering. Lowe said, "Dismissed. Get cleaned up for dinner. Ritter, report to the I.O." Ritter, Lt. Base of Operations, 11.4.1938 3./J88 Air witness report of victory by Fw. Bauer on 11.4.1938 (19.30) Upon completion of my bombing mission over Balaguer I became separated from my squadron and was attacked by a lone Republican Rata 20 kilometers west of Balaguer. My plane was disabled when I saw Fw. Bauer in an ME 109 dive from a higher altitude and shoot the Rata in one pass from the rear. It emitted black smoke and then caught fire. I saw it crash on the site. The pilot did not bale out. Ritter. Bullets. Heart jumped. Ripped through his wings. Airfield came up at him through a cloud of smoke. Foot moved as if to push something away. Kicked. . . . sheets. Awake and shaking. He tried to change the memory. But even waking, the images ran through the same, over and over. Sweating, Paul rolled to the side, fumbled in the dark for a cigarette on the night stand. He struck a match, caught the flame with the wavering end of the cigarette. Inhaled smoke. Now he was afraid. He decided he was not going up again, even if they got another crate together for him. He sat up in the bed, started into the dark. Had to remember where he was. With the lightning eastward advance, it was hard to keep track. One night there were living like princes, the next they were camped under tarps on the airfield like infantrymen. Now he was billeted in a farmhouse. He smelled goats milk and candle wax, his own sweat, and the musty lingering of old cigarette butts piled in the ashtray on his nightstand. He took off his night shirt. It was soaked. He threw it on the floor. He should have had less to drink. Or more. One or the other. That evening the whole squadron had driven into Saragossa. Fritz headed for the brothel, invited Paul along. "Ritter! Want to say hello to the senoritas?" Paul shook his head. "I want to say goodbye to this bottle." He stayed in the caberet, drinking. It hadn't been enough. He could not stop shaking. Everyone else was asleep. Paul watched the cigarette vibrate in his hand. The red lit end had become a glowing blur. If they see me like this, they'll ship me home. He took another drag, a quick motion. Exhaled sharply. Blinked back tears. Stared upward. He could not see the ceiling. Fine! I want to go home. Now. Right now. He sat back in the bed, pulled the feather pillow in, twisted the corner of it. Bit a fingernail. Dragged on his cigarette. Hot tears escaped from the outer corners of his eyes, ran down into his ears. He wiped them off angrily. A rustle sounded from across the black abyss between the beds. A voice in the dark. "Ritter, you all right?" Paul forced himself to relax every muscle so he would not sob as he said, "Damn cheap Spanish wine in my gut." "Well if youre going to be sick don't do it in here." Paul grunted. He reached to the nightstand, ground out the cigarette. He slid down in the bed, pulling the covers under his chin. I am not going up again. He would never see these people again, so who gave a fuck what anyone thought? He was going home in the morning, and that was that. Jolted awake at 4.00, Paul was half-dressed before he remembered that he intended to quit. He skipped breakfast. He could not eat. He boarded the bus with the others, praying the mechanics could not scrape together a replacement aircraft so he would not have to admit he could not fly. The third fighter staffel had inherited the cast-off HE 51s of the first and second staffeln when both those units had converted to Messerschmitts. But even the cast-offs were many time repaired from parts cannibalized from other HE 51s that had been eaten alive by Ratas. It was entirely possible for the unit to be short an operational craft today. Paul arrived at the airfield, stomach aquiver. He jumped down from the bus. Please let there be no plane for me. He filed into the briefing with the others, dropped his gear next to a chair. The map on the wall was cratered with pencil holes. He dragged his chair around backwards, sat astride, folded his arms across the top of the backrest, rested his chin on his wrist, and settled in to wait for the reconnaissance report. Smoke from the adjutant's pipe stole under his nose. His stomach churned. Someone offered him coffee. He grunted no. Any moment someone had to bark: Stand down, Ritter, you don't have an airplane. He heard the blackmen outside starting the engines, running them up, and taxying the Heinkels into position. Waves of roars mounted until the whole field bellowed with war machines. The noise tapered off as the mechanics turned off their charges and topped the tanks. The last growl sputtered to silence. Paul's Wart stepped into the ops room with a clumping tread. This was Otto Braun, whom Paul called Otto the Bear or Meister Braun. Paul lifted his head, gripped the backrest expectantly. Otto gave an ursine growl, jerked a stubby thumb over his rounded sloping shoulder, "Try to bring this one back in one piece." He lumbered out. Paul pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyelids. Goddamned efficient ground crew. Johann Lowenstamm entered like a gust swept through a flung door. He pushed his cap back from his brow with the edge of his coffee cup. His eyes met Paul's briefly with one of those quick good morning sort of nods, then he was down to business. "Gentlemen!" Paul's resignation would need to wait until the Lowe was done talking. It sat inside his chest in a great lump. He listened to the briefing, jotting notes on the back of his hand. No one who fly in an open cockpit used paper. Why he was making notes at all, he did not know. He was not going up. Reconnaissance reported a Red counterattack underway. It was back to Balaguer for the third staffel this morning. The meeting broke with a skidding back of chairs and scuffling of boots. The pilots shrugged on their fleece-lined jackets. Spring had come to Aragon, but it was still winter aloft. "Ritter." "Mein Herr?" Paul snapped to rigid attention. "How do you feel?" "I'm good, Johann." The answer was automatic. Jesus, I am an ass! Lowe's question meant, of course, had any sprains made themselves felt from yesterday's crash. Lowe was not asking after his nerves. Paul should have made up an injured back. He closed his eyes. Bullets and vapor. Death and fire. Fire and death. Lowe tapped his arm, and they went out to the field. Paul faced the Heinkel. He climbed in mechanically. Let Otto strap him in tight. He fit his feet on the rudder pedals, moved the rudder left and right. He took the stick, experienced a instant's waking nightmare, the imagined sensation of severed cables and the control column flopping uselessly back. But the cables were there and connected. The elevators moved. All the control surfaces moved freely. Paul wondered how he might jam one. But Otto, prince of mechanics, would recognize sabotage and kill him straightaway. And the aircraft itself rebuked him for the thought, like an old lover with whom he had quarreled. Here he was, the dashing knight and his mild-mannered aged mare. Just what he needed in battle, mild manners. Still it tugged, the battleworn bi-plane, honorable in its chipped coat of war paint, dutifully enduring its undignified bomb racks. It embraced him securely. Familiarity surrounded him, smells of petrol, oil, and leather. He shouted to his Wart, "Free prop!" Otto gave the white-lacqured wooden blade a spin. Paul pressed the starter. The propeller lashed through half an arc and hammered to a stop, like a sleeper's arm thrown against a sudden light in refusal to be roused. Then it caught, roaring, spun into a blur as jets of smoke and flame darted from the S-pipes. Needles flicked across black instrument faces. Paul lowered his goggles, signaled the chocks away. The Spanish workmen dragged on the ropes. Otto signaled when he was clear. Along the field the flags were lined up, marking the way. The other machines pointed into the wind, their engines racing, deafening, insistent. Paul ran his engine up. The rev counter leapt. He HE strained at its brakes. The dispatcher moved his arm up -- and down. Paul released the brake. The HE began its bumpy run across the scarred field. Brown grasses flattened away in the prop wash. A rush of elation filled him. Speed. Slapping air and exhaust smoke. His engine's clamor. He glanced across at his squadron rolling with him. Fine. I'm fine. The wires sang. Wind gathered under the planes, lifted. Sudden absence of bumps under the wheels told him he was airborne. His ship sailed upwards, swinging a little. In a moment he moved in to join his Kette. He tucked in behind Max's port wing, opposite Fritz on Max's right to form a Vee. The hazy disk of his prop disappeared entirely at speed, clearing the view. Air freshened. Colors below muted as the vista expanded. Serenity and tension balanced. His stomach had stopped fluttering sometime back there. Life was as it should be. He was flying. He could not breathe on the ground. That was the only trouble in the world. Everything, Paul thought, gets fucked up on the ground. |