Eagles at War (10 page)

Josten was Galland's
Katschmarek,
his wingman, and he wanted to be liked by his leader. They'd gotten off to a rough start the very day he'd shot down his sixteenth aircraft and was tapped to fly on Galland's wing. After the decision had been made, the major had invited him to go bird shooting.

"No, thank you,
Herr Major,
I don't like to shoot birds and animals."

Feeling rebuffed, Galland had stiffened, his eyes looking Josten up and down in contempt. Then he had laughed abruptly, without humor. "Well, now, you're a real Nazi, aren't you, Josten? You just like to shoot people!"

Although they flew well together, their friendship developed slowly. There were formidable differences. Galland was an iconoclast, railing constantly against orders he considered stupid, recklessly challenging the party line to anyone, even Goering himself. His sarcastic request, "Please reequip my wing with Spitfires,
Herr Reichsmarschall,"
was already a legend in the Luftwaffe. But Galland's forty kills and Knight's Cross gave him cards that few men could play.

There is no place like combat to measure a man. It was obvious that Galland was a genius in aerial tactics, a hero as well as a patriot, and day by day he had eroded Josten's orthodox beliefs.

They had gone to supper after the alert was terminated. Later that night in Galland's quarters they had nursed the one cognac they allowed themselves before an early morning mission. Galland was only twenty-eight, but the strain of the day's missions was still as evident on his face as the marks of his oxygen mask. He sat with tunic unbuttoned, cigar constantly going, unburdening himself in a torrent of words.

"You know, Josty, Germany's been lucky so far; we're like some postal clerk that breaks the bank at a casino."

It was a challenge. "Lucky, yes, but inspired, too. We've soaked up Europe from Norway to Spain like a blotter, and Hitler hasn't made a mistake yet."

"He's made dozens, and the biggest one is Goering, no joke intended."

Josten brushed back his blond hair, looking nervously around the room, glancing at the light fixture and the bookcase. Galland smiled.

"Don't worry, we can talk. I have my radio man check this room carefully—there are no listening devices. Just watch what you say over the telephones, though; Goering has taps everywhere."

He stubbed out his cigar and lit another. "Dolfo" Galland's cigars were as much a part of him as his nose or his ears. Big, black, and deadly, with a distinctive acrid odor, they were gifts from admiring countrymen. The
Voelkischer Beobachter
had run a lead story on Galland's Knight's Cross, awarded after his thirtieth victory, and had mentioned his fondness for cigars. A week later, the mail room began to bulge with cigars from all over, so that Galland was able to select his favorites and give the rest to the men. Even his plane was equipped with a cigar holder; he smoked before a mission until he clipped his oxygen mask on. After landing, as soon as the canopy was lifted open, he lit up again.

"Your reaction is part of our problem. We don't have any trust because we are not trusted. I tell you again, so far we've been incredibly lucky." He drew at his cigar as if it were a vital source of inspiration. "Now our luck is running out. We've got the wrong fighters, the wrong bombers, and worst of all, the wrong leaders."

Josten started to speak but Galland went on.

"Look at this big bloody ditch they call the Channel, waiting to soak us up when we come back, like Rudi and Gunter today. No wonder the pilots get
Kanalkrank
—Channel sickness! If we had drop tanks we could range all over England and fight for an hour or more! We had them in Spain, why not here?"

"I don't know, Dolfo—it must be material shortages."

Galland's smoldering intensity seemed to compress him like a rubber ball, concentrating his strength and his will and at the same time threatening to release it in an explosion. His closely set black eyes burned hypnotically.

"Nonsense. They're made out of plywood and we have tons of that!"

Josten rallied. "But look how magnificently we improvise; this strip is a perfect example of our strength."

Galland snorted with contempt. "Perfect example of our weakness! We're not some gypsy raiding party, trying to steal a few cows from the Bulgarians! We've started a world war."

He took a sip of cognac, calmed himself, then leaned forward.

"And this is just the start. Do you think America will see England go down the drain? Do you think Russia will stand by and let us prepare to attack her?"

Josten said nothing.

"Germany has to get serious/build ten times as many planes, ten times better planes." He paused, then almost shouting, yelled,
"Serious
planes, not criminal short-range pea-shooters."

"Criminal" was the current omnibus Luftwaffe slang for anything terribly hazardous or terribly wrong.

Josten felt the time was right. "I think there's something that can be done about it. You know Bruno Hafner, of course?"

The gravel voice came back, clipped, funeral tone, pell-mell pace. "Of course, Richthofen
Geschwader, Pour le Merite,
industrialist, wounded in Spain, and perhaps a madman. I know Hafner; what about him?"

Josten spilled out the details of his visit to Cottbus, emphasizing both the production improvements and the radical weapons. Galland sat in silence absorbing what he said.

"I don't know, Josty. I'd like to believe it. But Hafner has a murky past; you've heard the rumors about his leaving America?"

"Some nonsense about killing his wife by sabotaging an airplane? You don't believe that, surely."

"Perhaps not—but he's supposed to love to kill for the pleasure of it."

"I don't give a damn about that if he has the right formula for building airplanes. If he can produce five hundred jet fighters for us next year, airplanes that could fly across the Channel, wouldn't you accept them?"

A great grin lit up Galland's face. "If he can do that, I'll personally kiss your ass in front of the chancellery on Hitler's birthday!"

"That won't be necessary. But to work with Hafner, I may need to take leave at odd times, just to keep things going. Are you willing for me to help these projects along?"

"Of course—as long as you keep me posted—and as long as you let me fly the new planes."

They toasted silently with the last of the cognac.

*

Northolt, England/September 15, 1940

Galland and Josten were crossing the French coast heading toward England as Frank Bandfield sat perspiring in the cockpit of a Hawker Hurricane fighter of the Polish Kosciuszko Squadron 303.

Bandfield was an outsider thrust upon them. Caldwell had sent him to England to follow the progress on the RAF's jet engine, and to get in some combat experience if the British would let him.

He glanced wistfully around the primitive facilities at Northolt, mentally questioning why he was there even as the hot anticipation of combat rushed through him. A tiny corporal, his uniform rank with the body odor of unbathed weeks of toil, leaned across Bandfield to strap him in.

"At least you can understand the briefing, sir, better than these bloody Poles."

In the short pre-takeoff briefing, Squadron Leader Keeler had told him that their task was simple: attack the bombers. If there were Messerschmitt fighters in the way, they would simply ignore them.

"Leave the Me's for the Spitfires, Bandfield. If we can get the bombers to jettison their bombs, we've done our main job. After that, any we shoot down are just icing on the cake."

Bandfield did not think of dogfights as being quite so tidy, but perhaps things had changed since Spain.

The young squadron leader had the face of a choirboy and the voice of an experienced commander. He had turned away abruptly, then come back and shouted, "You've had a few hours on the Hurricane, I expect?"

Bandfield said, "Yes, twenty-three," and Keeler smiled broadly, hoping that the Yank would not be a total loss. Bandfield had found the Hurricane to be a delightful airplane, with its broad thick wing, deep fuselage, and handsome lines. It was heavier on the controls than the Spitfire or the American Curtiss P-36 but the visibility from the cockpit was wonderful as the fuselage curved down from the cockpit to the spinner. The wide landing gear track made for easy landings. The only difficulty Bandfield had was in mastering the Dunlop pneumatic brakes. You had to use a lever on the control column spade grip, pulsing air as you moved the rudder pedals—a bit dicey. He'd damn near ground looped on his first taxi-out. Anyway, they obviously didn't expect too much of him, knowing that he was there to pick up experience for the Air Corps. They probably figured that, with luck, he'd get killed and maybe create some additional pro-British sentiment.

Bandfield was number two in Natty Flight, four Hurricanes sitting at the edge of a frame shack-studded grass strip on the western outskirts of London. As he plugged his radio in he could hear Squadron Leader Keeler bawling over the radio, "Come on, get your bloody fingers out, Natty Flight!"

A month ago twelve aircraft would have scrambled, three flights of four each. Attrition had cut them down, and on this, 303's third mission of the day, only four Hurricanes rolled, khaki-colored storks, kicking dust up behind them as the pilots carefully kept the measured balance between lifting the tail off and keeping the prop tips from digging in. Northolt fell rapidly behind them, disappearing into the neatly mulched greens and fading brick reds of the garden allotments surrounding suburban London. From the corner of his eye he saw at the field's edge the main road that ran from London to Oxford, a good checkpoint if he had to come back by himself.

The Hurricanes climbed hard, gray-black streams pouring back from the exhaust stacks and staining the camouflaged fuselage sides. The fires from last night's raid had largely been contained by London's exhausted fire companies, but this morning the Luftwaffe had returned. Flames and smoke grew from the dock area in huge tiered stalagmites that ran together at the top, a long greasy gray string against the teal-blue sky.

The myriad cries of the ground-to-air radio chatter formed a chaotic stream: "Operations calling, operations calling, Beta squadron scramble, hello Long Mike, hello Rugby Leader," a thousand directions, questions, and sometimes salty observations, all done in accents ranging from cockney to Oxbridge to Australian. The controlled panic was at first a jumble to Bandfield, but he was beginning to be able to sort it out as he glued himself to Keeler's wing. When he got to the scene of the battle he'd know what to do. He had done it often enough in Spain, against the same enemy.

Keeler led them in a curving climb at 170 mph, flying in two tight elements. The Hurricane was fun, a study in contrasts. Modern-looking, its performance suffered because the propeller was just a big wooden club, no different in principle from props used in the Great War. Top speed was supposed to be about 320 mph; yesterday Bandfield had not been able to nudge his past 300 mph in level flight. The obsolete propeller was just another one of England's pennywise economies that had cost them bitterly on the continent. Engine power was everything in modern combat; without it no airframe was worth anything. That's why the sheer power of the jet was going to be so important.

The other two planes stayed glued to him and Keeler. He had met the pilots at the bar the night before. They were older men, majors in their own air force, but like all the gallant Poles in the RAF, they had to start with the most junior commissioned rank, pilot officers, because of some stupid bureaucratic concern about seniority. One—Bandfield thought his name was Pisarek—spoke English fairly well and had that very morning taught him rather more about Kosciuszko's role in the American Revolution than he had wished to know.

Bandfield concentrated on keeping his position, close in on Keeler's wing. It was a bad formation for combat; they should be more strung out, letting all four pairs of eyes comb the sky rather than depending upon just Keeler and Pisarek.

He smiled to himself, "There I go again—I'm here to learn, not to teach." But he recalled his last combat flight, in Spain, in 1937, and how he and his old comrade Lacalle had flown farther apart, able to fly formation easily and still scan for the enemy. It was at times like this when he wanted to believe in an afterlife, to think that Lacalle was somehow looking down at him, preparing to take care of him, just as he had in the old days.

*

Above the English Channel/September 15, 1940

Josten squinted into the bright blue afternoon sky, searching for the little dots that would appear from nowhere and try to kill him. His eyes traversed the horizon from north of London toward Land's End, noting the changing striations of color above the cliffs' chalky smear. The variegated countryside was tan and dull green to the north, growing stripe by stripe to a viridian brightness in the far south. While he and his comrades had fought their long battle, summer had drained June's bursting green glow to the sere tans that forecast an early winter. With luck, perhaps a peaceful early winter.

The Royal Air Force could not hold out much longer according to the intelligence reports, straight from "Beppo" Schmid at Luftwaffe Headquarters. Schmid, whose unremitting optimism had destroyed his credibility weeks ago, had again pronounced that the poor "chaps" flying the vulnerable Hurricanes and the nasty Spitfires had been worn down to a pitiful handful.

And yesterday the RAF attacks on the bombers had been poorly coordinated and not pressed home, perhaps a sign that they were indeed losing their nerve. Josten eased out his right foot from the retaining strap of the rudder bar and stamped it upon the cold metal cockpit floor of his Messerschmitt, muttering, "Wishful thinking."

Below them, in an aerial staircase stacked up and back from twenty thousand feet, flew 150 bombers, mostly Heinkel He Ills with a few Dornier Do 17s mixed in. The bomber pilots were obviously tired, letting their prescribed tight mutual defense formations straggle into lengthening oblong ovals. Wearily courageous, they plodded implacably toward an already burning London.