‘Don’t forget that they pack ten American airmen inside a plane that size, whereas there’s only four of us,’ said Max.
Major Rall approached Max and his crew.
‘Good landing, Max.’
‘Uh… not really, sir. I think it’s going to take a few more attempts before I can put her down, no bounce.’
‘How are you finding her?’
‘She’s a lot less manoeuvrable than I’m used to.’
‘That’s understandable, there’s a lot more there to fly than a Heinkel or a Junkers.’
Max nodded. ‘I notice we have three more 109s.’
Rall turned round to admire the tightly packed cluster of planes. ‘Yes. They arrived only half an hour ago, flown in by the pilot who is going to lead the escort squadron, and two wingmen. Perhaps now would be a good time to affect some introductions?’
Rall turned to Hostner. ‘Go and get our new arrivals, I want Max and his boys to meet them.’ Hostner turned and headed towards the cluster of fighter planes in the corner of the hangar.
‘The flight was unchallenged?’
Max nodded. ‘We did a fifty-mile circular trip, attracted a little flak from our boys north of here, but there were no other unwanted encounters.’
‘Good. For the foreseeable future, I think the Allies are going to be too focused on Berlin to bother us too much down here.’ He smiled reassuringly.
At the sound of approaching footsteps Rall turned around to greet the fighter pilots.
The three pilots stood to attention and saluted Rall. They were still wearing their flying jackets. Rall returned the salute and then reached out a hand towards one of them.
‘Hauptman Schroder, your reputation precedes you. It’s an honour.’ Rall pumped the pilot’s hand enthusiastically. His scarred face turned crimson either from the exertion or the exhilaration.
Pieter jabbed an elbow into Max’s ribs and whispered hoarsely, ‘Why’s the Major sucking this guy’s dick so hard? He’s just a captain, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I think he’s a fighter ace. The name Schroder sounds familiar.’
Rall turned to Max and Pieter. ‘Allow me to introduce Hauptman Klaus Schroder, one of the Luftwaffe’s golden boys. He’s our highest-scoring ace. Well, I should say the highest-scoring pilot we have left.’
‘Highest-scoring ace still alive and yet to be captured, to be fair,’ Schroder added.
Rall nodded. ‘That’s true. He is also a distant relative of Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, I believe?’
Schroder smiled faintly. ‘Yes, Major.’
Max caught a glimpse of his co-pilot’s face hardening. ‘Behave yourself, Pieter,’ he whispered.
Pieter nodded reluctantly.
Rall finished with Schroder’s hand and gestured towards Max and his men. ‘This is Oberleutnant Max Kleinmann and his crew. These men will be flying the American bomber.’
Max prepared to salute the superior officer, but Schroder swiftly extended a hand. ‘Oh, you don’t want to be worrying about the rank.’ Max uncertainly reached for his hand. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Max, and I’m sure it will be a pleasure and an honour flying with you.’
Max was taken aback slightly at his enthusiastic greeting. The pilot seemed like the type of over-cheerful, confident, aristocratic fop that seemed to start in the Luftwaffe at an ill-deservedly high rank. Usually fools like that died swiftly. But this one hadn’t. With a sky so dominated by Allied fighters, that made him a good pilot. He had the refined, almost feminine, Aryan features that one would expect from his aristocratic bloodline. His brow and lashes were blond, almost white, like an albino, and framed by a fringe that flopped down like a theatre curtain over one of his eyes.
‘Hauptman,’ Max responded formally, reluctant, and too weary, to match Schroder’s jovial tone.
‘So, I’ve yet to be told by the Major here exactly what fun and games lies ahead for us, but I understand it involves this brute of a plane?’
Max nodded. ‘Yes, but I’m afraid I can’t comment on the mission until you’ve been properly briefed by Major Rall.’
Rall stepped in. ‘Max is correct, Hauptman Schroder. I would prefer to brief you and your men first before we discuss it openly out here.’
Schroder looked at Rall. ‘Of course, my apologies for getting ahead of things there, Major.’ He turned and smiled conspiratorially at Max. ‘But I’m sure whatever it is the Major has up his sleeve will be an adventure, eh?’
Max smiled, unwilling to pass comment on the mission.
The two men finished shaking hands and Schroder offered his hand enthusiastically to Pieter.
Pieter stared silently at the extended hand a moment before reluctantly offering his. ‘Hauptman,’ he said drily. Schroder barely registered the coolness of the gesture before Major Rall decided to step in.
‘Hauptman Schroder, and your men, come with me and I will introduce you to the other pilots who arrived last night… and then perhaps I think it is time for you and your new squadron to be briefed.’
Schroder and his two wingmen turned smartly and followed Rall out of the hangar into the pale light of morning.
‘What the hell was that all about, Pieter?’ asked Max.
‘I just don’t like his type. Bloody stuck-up arseholes, the lot of them.’
‘Maybe, but he’s a bloody superior officer first.’
Max could sympathise a little with him. The Luftwaffe had an appalling reputation for snobbery, preferring to pick its fighter pilots from the ranks of the aristocracy. Following the example Goring set, the Luftwaffe saw itself as the latter-day equivalent of an exclusive, members-only cavalry regiment. Pieter had joined the Luftwaffe and passed examinations that would mark him out as pilot material, but he was never going to find himself flying a fighter, not unless they ran completely out of men like Schroder.
‘Take it easy, Pieter, we’re all on the same side.’
Chapter 24
26 April 1945, an airfield south of Stuttgart
Major Rall had billeted Max and his men in one of the vacated radio rooms. The room had once housed a nerve centre of intelligence-gathering equipment and personnel. Now it was little more than a grey painted concrete box. Several tables remained, and scuff marks and scratches on their surface hinted at the machinery that had once been there.
Rall had provided some blankets and a gas heater, which they gratefully fired up in the evenings when the cold seeped through the blankets on the hard concrete floor. The men had managed to make themselves at home in the room, spreading out their blankets around the heater on the floor. On the ground beside the heater there was a growing pile of empty food tins. The Major had certainly delivered on his promise to find adequate supplies for them. They hadn’t eaten this well in months. Max decided that it was probably time they were gathered up and chucked into one of the other empty rooms. He’d get one of his boys to do it in the morning.
The overhead lights in the room had been left off; both Pieter and Hans were asleep. Stefan was still awake and sat hunched over the glowing heater with his blanket draped over his shoulders.
‘You all right, lad?’ asked Max.
‘I’m fine, sir.’
Max sighed in the darkness. ‘For God’s sake, Stef, you can call me Max like the others, you know. You’ve been with us long enough now.’
‘Sorry… Max.’
They sat in silence for a while listening to the soothing hiss of the heater.
