 8. Paul no sooner received his officer's commission when he "resigned" it. He reported to the Lutwaffe facility at Gatow outside Berlin where he was given civilian clothing. He was sworn to secrecy, told that he could receive mail but that he had to give his address as “Max Winkler, Berlin SW 68.” Paul did not give the address to anyone. He and the other volunteers took the night bus to Hamburg, there to board a launch in the dark which took them to a freighter anchored in a remote part of the harbor. It was an old vessel, smelling of fresh paint. The name on its hull was newly stenciled. One of its smoke stacks was positioned over no boiler and it never produced smoke. In the ship’s hold were immense crates labeled, “furniture,” but Paul could see the fins of bombs sticking out of the packing straw. The ship weighed anchor at night, steamed from the harbor, bound where where the volunteers would not be told outright until they were at sea. Once they were clear of the river mouth and rolling on the open water, a leering doctor with a harpoon administered inoculations, and an Oberst confirmed where they were going. The legionnaires were quartered below deck, the hatches kept shut, locking smells of fuel, sea water, mold, and sweat from all the other men who had ever been stowed down here on the churning sea. A cheerful bomber pilot with a deck of cards kept things bearable for Paul. The ground crews were not all volunteers and they were not all well. No one was allowed topside if another ship were anywhere on the horizon. On deck they faced the bitter winds of February on the North Sea, so cold the paraffin of the massive inoculation under the skin of Paul’s butt froze and he could knock on it. It was a long week on that heaving voyage from icy Hamburg to Seville. From Seville another train took them to the front. There, Paul saw them. Messerschmitt 109Bs. They wore camouflage colors of dull grey-green and dull dusty brown. There were no swastikas on the airplanes in Spain. Germany was one of the twenty-seven signatories to the Nonintervention Act, so officially the German airplanes were not even here. Radio Nacional declared, “There is no German Air Force in Spain. There is a Spanish Air Force, fighting Red planes and Russian and French planes piloted by mercenaries.” Still, only an idiot could be unaware that the Luftwaffe was in Spain. Everybody was in Spain. The recognition markings were not German, they were Spanish Nationalist markings. Black meatballs on the sides and wings, a black X on a white ground on the rudders. Paul would know that airplane in any guise. Those are ours. Here they are. But his transport drove past all the ME 109s to here. He climbed down from the truck at his squadron’s field and saw tired, battered bi-planes. He was back in Heinkel 51s. He exchanged glances with Fritz, who sighed, “Well, at least we’ll be fighting.” Not exactly. Germany was not the only country trying out its aircraft in someone else’s war. The Russians sent their I-15 and I-16 fighters, Chatos and Ratas the Spaniards called them. Snub-noses and Rats. The German HE 51s could not compete with the Russian fighters. It was for the Messerschmitts to reclaim the sky. The out-classed HE 51 in Paul’s Staffel were fitted with bomb racks to provide close ground support. Paul hated the bombs he carried, fiendish, jerry-rigged incendiary things. He was not dropping them on strategic targets such as harbors or factories like the real bombers did. He was dropping bombs on troops. Visions of dogfights faded into gasoline smelling ash. Paul learned that while he had been crashing his HE 51, that Hitler had annexed Austria. “It’s only right that German people should be united,” said Fritz. “If you can call what they speak German.” “Ritter, you’re such a snob.” “It’s why you love me.” Fritz, who had been lighting himself a cigarette from Paul’s, passed Paul’s burning fag back to him. “You can eat this, Ritter.” Paul had smuggled with him to Spain his gold cigarette case, and he had more silk scarves than a French whore. The silk folded up into nothing and easily fit with the rest of his things into the one cheap suitcase the legionnaires had been issued. Fritz had come to Spain full of slogans and strutting. He fit the picture, blue-eyed, blond, clean-faced, tall. But he dropped the zealous party line a day after arrival. Nobody was impressed. It was not the thing to do here, and Fritz always did the popular thing. When Paul and Fritz first arrived at their airfield, they presented themselves to the Staffelkapitan, who was bowed over his deck, getting rid of his paperwork with broad writing strokes. Fritz hoisted a Nazi salute and shouted, “Sieg heil!” He said some words regarding the glory of the Fatherland, their beloved Fuhrer and the exalted Aryan race. The Staffelkapitan lifted his own perfectly Aryan face from his writing. He scratched his brow with the end of his pen and said, “Beat it off somewhere else, would you?” He pushed aside his papers, glad for the interruption. Got up from behind the trestle table, grabbed a fleece-lined jacket and his goggles. “Come on you two. Let’s see what you look like.” Oberleutnant Johann Lowenstamm had been, from that first meeting, Paul’s bright light in Spain. Paul was never given to hero worship. Once he had seen a man do all the things that mortal men do – eat, sleep, drink too much, piss, use the same prostitute he did – it was difficult to keep him deified. Lowe still dwelled on Mount Olympus. Lowe was always energetic, a natural leader. He was the one who made this Staffel useful, even valuable. But Lowe’s tour of duty was done. Paul had never felt a part of any group, any sense of family, until he got to Spain. It had been a fluke of nature, and it only made sense that it was to break up now. The squadron flags were out in welcome for the new Staffelkapitan. Paul was ready to hate him. He peered out from under the eaves. The sky had clouded over again. He wandered across the portico, patted the dog, lit a cigarette. He half-sat on the rail. Weather reconnaissance said there were clouds all over Spain today. There had not been much to do since morning exercise. The Nationalist forces on the ground had broken through to the Mediterranean on the 14th, leaving the Red forces divided. The bombers had gone on an independent mission to hit the Red harbor at Cartagena, too far for the fighters to provide escort. The adage, “The bomber always gets through,” was undergoing some rethinking after that sortie. Fritz dragged himself up on the rail next to Paul. “Our new Staffelkapitan arrived in Leon in a JU fifty-two transport.” “Good for him,” said Paul, squinting up where the sun should have been. “Ran into some weather. He got airsick and threw up on the plane.” Paul tossed a spent match away. “O Gott.” It would have been a ten hour flight, non-stop from Friedrichshfen with extra tanks on the plodding winging warehouse to carry it over hostile territory. A Luftwaffe commander airsick? Paul looked to Fritz suspiciously. “Joke, right?” Fritz shook his head. “Shit,” said Paul. “He should have been on our ship,” said Fritz with an evil smile. Paul gave a flat look of disgust. Some of the cooks, clerks and communications personnel had turned extraordinarily green on the freighter. And you could feel sorry for them, knowing you weren’t one of them. It was another thing for it to happen to a fighter pilot. A billow of smoke appeared beyond the first rise. Paul heard a train. Fritz nodded. “You named the wolf. Here we are.” When the train came into view Paul was surprised to see it was the Wohnzug from Saragossa, the command staff’s mobile headquarters. Everyone wondered that the Red bombers never hit the Wohnzug. It was hard enough to hide a twelve car train, let alone this one. The Wohnzug’s leaking steam connections made it smoke all the time like an Indian war party in an American western film. In winter you could see it for miles. The Wohnzug was twelve cars with an engine on either end. The sleeping cars had private compartments for the officers. NCOs were billeted two to a compartment. There were mess halls, a canteen, a kitchen car, an HQ car, and two cars for spare parts. Seeing the Wohnzug now on the move, Paul knew the staff was doing something more than delivering the new Staffelkapitan. The front had advanced again. They would all be moving to forward bases very soon. “Hope he brought the mail,” said someone. It began to rain in earnest. “There goes the sun.” The Wohnzug’s chugging slowed. It squealed to a long stop on wet rails, heaved a hiss like a sigh. Huffed a cloud of steam into the already laden air. None of the pilots of the third Staffel made a move to go out to meet it. They waited on the portico. Lowenstamm had gone to collect the new man. Everyone watched to see what he brought back. At last Lowenstamm appeared, walking across the rainy field with a slender man not much older than any of the rest of them. Under his forage cap his light brown hair was shorn close to his head all over, not just off his collar and ears. Average height, narrowly built. Moved like an athlete – more swimmer than wrestler. His eyes were bright gray, if there could be such a color. He had the wide-eyed well-intentioned eager expression of a new recruit. Not precisely what one would prefer to see in the man in charge. He looked around like a tourist. “He got airsick?” Max asked. Fritz snorted a laugh, nodding. “They say Admiral Nelson got seasick,” said Paul. “Who is Admiral Nelson?” “Was. Hero of Trafalgar, asshole.” Paul pushed off the rail. “Let’s have a look.” Fritz fell in step, and with a sideways cock of his head bid the others come too. The new man wore the same khaki uniform as everyone else in the German Condor Legion, the color of Spanish dust. Nearer, the pilots could see he was an Oberleutnant, same as Lowe. Lowe presented the pilots of the third Staffel to their new commander. The Oberleutnant acknowledged their salutes. His name was Erwin Halle. He stood like nobility, but when he opened his mouth he sounded perfectly common. A fresh bruise was purpling nicely over one bright gray eye. He explained sheepishly that he had been sitting on a crate on board the JU 52. He had not been strapped in. The plane hit an airpocket and he bounced off the overhead. O Jesus. He’s an idiot. Lowe was telling his replacement, “You many have been sent here under false pretenses. They probably told you you would be heading a fighter squadron. Your train passed the airfield. Those were the fighters.” Paul watched the new man’s face for disappointment. Erwin Halle did not flinch. “Yes, I knew that.” Lowe nodded to say good. Halle looked up at the sky as it was raining on them. “No one warned me about the weather.” He hunched under his collar. “Not what I expected. I should have stayed home.” A voice behind him, very softly, said, “There’s the train.” Oberleutnant Erwin Halle heard it, turned. “I was joking.” He met Paul’s opaque dark eyes, realized. “You weren’t.” Paul’s steady gaze confirmed this. “I see.” Halle turned back to Lowenstamm. Paul expected to hear about his insubordination, but Halle only said, “I didn’t expect it to be this cold.” Paul was not sure if he were talking about the weather. Lowe ushered him indoors, poured something to warm him up. “It’s a different kind of fighting than anything you’ve trained for,” Lowe told him, handing him a glass of cognac. “We’ve had to modify tactics.” Halle moved forward in his chair, attentive. “They told me you were innovative.” “The Messerschmitts need to escort us over the line. It’s embarrassing to our boys. We can devastate an enemy defensive position, but caught alone in the air, we’re easy meat. Paul brought his kite back a few days ago with his elevator cable shot away, his struts loose, and nick in the prop. He managed to land it. In a manner of speaking.” “Did he walk? “He’s right there.” Lowe nodded to indicate which was Paul. Halle said nothing. “We routed the International Brigade last month. My boys’ carpet bombing was credited with the victory. Still there isn’t one of them who wouldn’t sell his mother for a Messerschmitt.” Max broke in with what he thought was a Spanish accent, “I already did Senor. I got one hundred pesetas for her.” “And another thing. Most of them don’t think much of our Spanish allies. Try to keep that kind of talk in line.” Lowe spared a warning glower for Max. Officially the Germans talked of their brave friends, the Spanish Nationalists and the Italians. In private the Condor Legion was not fond of their hosts. And as for their Italian allies, they were fond of quoting Franco: “Who asked for them?” Halle glanced around, noticing no one in helmets. No helmets in sight. “It’s so quiet. How far are we from the front?” “Too far. Don’t get comfortable here. We’ll be moving up shortly.” Halle looked relieved. “I was afraid I’d missed the war.” “No. We saved some for you. At the moment the Red forces are divided. We’ll launch a new offensive when someone decides which half to pursue.” A disgruntled edge had slipped into his voice. Lowe hated delays. “North toward France,” said Halle decisively. “That’s where most of the Reds’ supplies and foreign troops are coming in.” Lowe nodded. The newcomer had done his homework. “I wish you were in charge. The Red northern command is in disarray. We could mop them up within days. Trouble is Franco wants Madrid. South. And nobody can talk him out of it. He’s the Fuhrer.” The door opened. A mechanic stepped in, saw he was interrupting, started to retreat, but Lowe beckoned. “What is it?” The Wart saluted abruptly, and said to Halle, “Herr Oberleutnant, do you want a mouse on your crate?” Halle turned to Lowe. “Mouse?” Lowe cleared his throat. “The men have developed some . . . heraldry for their airplanes.” At home, the Messerschmitts of Jagdgeschwader 132 “Richthofen,” had been graced with a unit badge – A red script letter “R” emblazoned on a white heraldic shield. In Spain, the men of J/88 devised their own badges. “The first Staffel has a Holzauge.” Wood Eye -- what the Americans would call a dead eye. He was a cartoon figure, his eyes peeled skyward. “The second Staffel has a top hat. And here in the third Staffel, we’ve got Mickey Mouse. Don’t ask. He was on the planes when I got here.” The mechanic waited, paintbrush in hand. The pilots held their breath. The emblems were decidedly non-regulation. Mickey Mouse was not exactly in the same league as the lofty Richthofen escutcheon. A new commander with his hair scalped that short was not going to want a cartoon on his squadron’s aircraft. Halle looked to the Wart. “Go ahead.” There was an audible letting out of breaths. “Oh good,” Fritz muttered in Paul’s ear. “He’s not going to be a bastard about things.” Paul met Fritz’s eyes. I am. “And the red lion?” Halle asked. “I saw that on one of the Heinkels.” “That’s my plane,” said Lowe. “I don’t know where that came from either. He just appeared on my crate one day, and he stayed.” Someone artistic had done the deed. Lowe’s rampant red lion badge was regally ferocious. “Something else the men do here,” Lowe told Halle. “They keep tally of their kills on their rudder stems. I don’t know whose idea it was. Someone started painting a white bar for each victory.” Halle nrrowed his gray eyes as if trying to recall an image – probably the HE 51s he’d seen on his way here, whose rudder stems were woefully bare of any white bars. “It was no one in our Staffel,” Lowe added ruefully. Nobody counted the infantrymen you strafed in the road. You tried to forget those. |