EAGLES OF SEPTEMBER

Its unearthly order. Enormous blood-red flags with taloned black crosses overwhelming the Olympic rings. And himself lost in the tumultuous acclamations when the noise of a hundred thousand voices became a single roar like nothing any longer human, as if an ocean wave or a storm wind would speak: Sieg Heil!

The only dissenting voice sounded when Bryan was pushed against two Australians within a crowd. Evidently weary of the praise being piled upon the German efficiency, cleanliness, punctuality, German pink-cheeked children, songs in unison and Fascist salutes, one Aussie said loudly, "What ever happened to anarchy, for God's sake?"

Bryan hid a smile as the other Australian said, "They have the best uniforms, I'll give them that. Providing you're mad keen on uniforms --" And becoming aware of Bryan just there rigged-out in RAF blue, he added, "Sorry, mate."

"Not at all," Bryan said cheerfully. "I don't much care for them myself. Comes with the aeroplane is all."

Pilot Officer Bryan Catrell, newly passed out from Cranwell, was on his first trip to the Continent.

On the morning before the opening ceremonies, he had passed a group of German tourists at the Lehrter station. They were part of a government sponsored tourist union bearing one of those titles such as could only be found in National Socialist Germany, Strength Through Joy. The tourists were all healthy young men, dressed alike in poorly fit suits, sporting matching haircuts mown close around the back and sides of their heads, and they were all carrying matching cheap suitcases as they joined the train outbound from Berlin. It struck Bryan as an oddly timed vacation with the Olympics about to begin right here. But most of them did act quite eager to be on their way.

Also prematurely gone from Berlin was the Spanish Olympic team. Spain had erupted into civil war, and all the able young Spanish men were called home. So the games began without them.

Directly the opening ceremonies were done, the American Negroes set about breaking records in the track and field events, making hay of Hitler's ideas of racial superiority.

Bryan had been pulling for Great Britain, naturally enough, but the Britons were not faring well. And, as Englishmen were counted as Aryans, English victories would have come without that soul-satisfying look of stunned outrage on the Fuhrer, so Bryan was overjoyed with the American triumphs.

It was a dreary evening, the stadium filled to capacity despite the weather, and Bryan had not been able to get a ticket. He was on the street, rain pelting the cobbles, when the loudspeaker in the linden trees above him barked, "Achtung!" and announced the result of the 200 meter. Gold and silver for the Yanks.

Bryan could not resist lording it over some Aryan. He turned to lock gazes with the first German to meet his eyes. It happened to be a young cadet in Germany's illegally organized air force. Bryan lifted a smug snide brow and gave the cadet his best imperious gloat.

The German was a dark-eyed, perfectly groomed, serious youth. His dark hair was shorn into the same buzz cut as the tourist group had worn. He returned an indifferent shrug, and brushed water droplets from his sleeves like a handsome and evil feline tending its perfect coat. He had paused under the linden tree to get himself out of the rain, not to listen to the results of the footrace.

And, in truth, Pilot Officer Catrell was not in Berlin for the athletics either. He had come to see Willy Messerschmitts new aircraft, the Bf 109, make its public debut.

Scarcely a month earlier, Bryan had witnessed the debut of Britain's own monoplane interceptor at the RAF Pageant at Hendon. Specification F.37/34, newly christened "Spitfire."

The Spitfire prototype, beautiful, pale blue, and gleaming, had split the air with a barking roar that imprinted itself on Bryans soul. Surely Spitfire was the fastest, nimblest, best fighter in the world.

Now in Berlin, Bryan would see its competition, confident that whatever the Germans trotted out would not hold a patch on the Spitfire.

Skies had been adamantly cold and soggy throughout the games. The gray ceiling lifted enough finally to allow the aeroplane to show off a few paces.

There were none of the Olympics' huge crowds at Tempelhof Airport on the afternoon of the Messerchmitts debut. Only air enthusiasts and a knot of reporters who were here as much hoping to have a word with Charles Lindbergh as to watch the German aeroplane, which they had already seen fly over the stadium at the games opening ceremonies.

Bryan had seen that too. The German plane could fly a straight line fast enough, he allowed.

Here the 109 taxied out, an all-over glossy green-gray but for the black letters D-IUDE on her side, and the red, white and black Nazi flag on her tail.

Willy Messerschmitt had designed her after the same concept as Mitchell's Spitfire. A single-seat, all-metal, stressed-skin, low wing monoplane. But this kite was German all right. Trim, angular, orderly like all the rest of it. A vicious beauty.

The Bf 109 measured twenty-eight feet and a fraction tip to tail, spanned thirty-two feet four and a half inches red light to green light, which put the aircraft within inches of the same length and span of Spitfire. The Messerschmitt presented a leaner, harder edged silhouette.

Bryan faulted it for its narrow wings. Where Spitfire's wings were broad and graceful, an aerobatic ideal, these were heavily loaded and dependent on a steep ground attitude along with slottery and flappery to lend it lift. "Gadgets," someone grunted in English.

The 109 shared with Spitfire a rather ungainly undercart, and Bryan decided he would be impressed if it got off the ground at all. But a short run and Messerschmitt's kite was up smartly. The spindly gear retracted cleanly and any hint of awkwardness vanished.

The pilot took his mount through a few tight turns. The "gadgets" worked, and the aeroplane remained sure-footed. Then he took the kite up high, stood it on its narrow, squared wingtip and stalled on purpose.

At the crest, the Jumo engines carburetor starved and quit.

An intake of breath from the spectators filled the silence the engine left behind. Bryan brought his palms together before pressed lips.

The aeroplane fell gently over its shoulder into a spin, once . . .

The engine caught again, purred.

The spin continued down, four turns, five, six . . .

Bryan held his breath, praying against a flat spin, from which there was no recovery.

Eleven, twelve . . .

Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!

The aircraft tumbled, spiral and spiral. Still it remained nose down.

Eighteen, nineteen . . .

Christ!

Flat spin? It didn't. And Bryan realized at last, It won't! Twenty spins and the 109 pulled out and began to climb back to altitude to show off the other side.

Christ!

Through all the rolls and stunts, there was no regaining control of the aircraft, because there was no losing control to begin with. The 109 recovered at will.

The vee-type engine was inverted in this kite -- leaving room on top for the Messerschmitts reason for being.

Two long grooves in the upper cowling, like nostrils in a condors beak would hold the guns.

The Messerschmitt Bf 109 had not come into being in the guise of something else, like other aircraft of the new Luftwaffe. There was no pretending this was a fast mail plane or a passenger plane. This machine was purpose built. The 109 was, beginning to end, a fighter.

Agile and wickedly fast, it executed a steep dive, leveled out on slender wings, steady as on a track It thundered past the spectators on the deck. Bryan gawked with his mouth open and did not bother to shut it.

O God.

Spitfire was not the only eagle in the sky.

The Messerschmitt climbed again into the bright spot where the sun hid behind the clouds.

Bryan looked down, blinked away the glare, and found himself facing a dark-eyed gaze.

The German cadet held his stare an expressionless moment for recognition to sink in, then slowly gave a smug smile and lifted a brow, so elegant the way he did it. It was a perfect parody of Bryan's earlier gesture of imperial gloating under the linden tree.

Bryan laughed.

The German cadet produced a gold cigarette case filled with American cigarettes. Offered one. Bryan accepted the cigarette he did not want, just so not to refuse.

He nodded thanks. "Bryan Catrell."

"Paul Ritter," said the cadet. Ritter motioned in the direction of the Olympic stadium and asked in passable English, "Do you run?"

Bryan said, "No." He shook his head slightly to indicate that he missed the point.

The Messerschmitt roared overhead. Paul Ritter seemed to smile without moving his lips.

"I fly," said Paul.

Bryan glanced upward, where superiority mattered. The hard angular shape of the war machine made a pass over the Olympiad. Bryan marked its lightning quick progress across the sky, the blot of its shadow preceding it over the gathering of people of all nations.

Bryan lowered his eyes again to meet Paul's. "So," Bryan answered,"do I."