In the Way of the Reich. Paula Astridge
Captain looked up from his work and regarded Udet for a long while before he spoke. ‘You are transferred to the Single-Seater Combat Command at Habsheim.’
That was it. Nothing else. No further explanation.
Stunned, Udet continued to stand at attention, not knowing whether to thank the Captain or to ask why. Why a promotion to Fighter Pilot when he had just returned from two week’s punishment for disobeying orders?
Obviously, however, the Captain was in no mood to fill him in. Instead, he turned his attention back to his paperwork and sent Udet on his way with the brusque wave of his hand. ‘Dismissed. Dismissed!’
Udet just didn’t get it. Single-seater pilot? Fighter pilot? But this was what they all dreamed of. Yet, it had been thrown at him as if it were a penalty, rather than a gift from the gods. He could not believe it was true. Standing outside his C.O.’s office, he breathed deeply to take in the good news.
‘Well, Sir Fighter Pilot,’ said the Office Orderly who came walking by with a knowing grin plastered all over his face.
Here was Udet’s source of information. Udet offered the Orderly a cigarette, which was soldier’s code for ‘please explain’. Accepting it, the Orderly put down the coffee pot he was carrying so that he could light up and tell the tale. He stepped a little closer to do it in confidence.
‘This morning the Air Staff Officer from Muelhausen called to see whether you’d returned from arrest,’ he whispered furtively. ‘The Captain reported back that against orders you’d flown off to take part in a bombing raid. ‘What, straight from arrest?’ the Staff Officer asked. ‘Directly from arrest!’ the Captain replied. He was pretty hot under the collar. Two hours later they rang through orders from Muelhausen that you were to be transferred. ‘More luck than brains!’ said the Captain, and he slammed down the phone.’
At that point, the Orderly stopped to take a breath and stub out his cigarette. Then he added. ‘But I say good luck to you, Sir Fighter Pilot.’
Such generosity of spirit, however, was not shared by Udet’s fellow flyers. It just wasn’t fair. Not only had Udet been promoted for breaking the rules and doing whatever he liked, but he was to be given a flashy new plane to get him to his even flashier new assignment at Habsheim, a shiny new Fokker with the grace of a hawk and all the mod cons to be had in 1915.
It was a bonus that Udet couldn’t resist rubbing in.
‘Always practise diligently boys. Good luck to you all!’ he called out to his old friends as he waved a flamboyant farewell and began to taxi out onto the runway.
But his cocksure smile was not returned by those who hadn’t exactly wished him well. After all, show-offs like Udet wore very thin beyond a certain point, and Udet and his promotion had just pushed them over the line.
It served him right, they all agreed, when Udet then jolted too hard on his joystick and promptly slammed his new plane straight into the hangar! Now that he’d crashed his way back onto a level playing field, those surly friends faces lit with glee:
‘And good luck to you … you son of a bitch!’
CHAPTER THREE
While Udet winged his way to Habsheim in his Fokker, Hermann Goering was hanging out the side of one, flying only a few feet away from the ground with enemy snipers taking pot shots at him. His daredevil way of leaning precariously over the edge of his cockpit to take reconnaissance photographs had earned him the nickname of The Trapezist, along with a burgeoning band of medals on his chest.
With 11 kills already to his name, his eyes were firmly set on the slaughter of his next nine. He needed 20 enemy pilots down to be awarded The Blue Max. As Germany’s highest Military Order it was the medal worth fighting for, a pretty piece of blue and gold metal to hang around his neck and cement his name in history.
His aspirations, however, did not stop there, because he had Baron Manfred Von Richthofen in his sights. The Red Baron already sported the blue and gold and, as unquestioned champion of the air, was making a real show of it in his vermillion, state of the art tri-plane; his three wings and whopping ego identifying him as a bright red bulls-eye that drew both enemy and friendly fire.
Every other German pilot was duty bound to take a crack at his title. It would be the supreme accolade to topple Germany’s finest fighter pilot from his pedestal, to raise the benchmark Richthofen had set for excellence in aerial combat. So, for all the boys who flew in the blue, the Red Baron was fair game, particularly for those closest to him.
Hermann Goering was one of them. They were good friends because they had a lot in common. Not only did they share mutual memories of the same Alma Mater, The Gross Lichterfelde Military School, but they were of one mind when it came to their main passions in life: flying and hunting. Two obsessions that, in both men’s minds, were synonymous and accounted for their killer instincts in the air.
‘You know the feeling you get when a bull comes charging at you?’ Richthofen suddenly leant forward in his chair to say, his eyes fierce with excitement. ‘Well, it’s exactly the same hunting fever that grips me when I sit in a plane and see an Englishman. My heart always beats just that little bit faster when the opponent, whose face I’ve just seen, goes roaring down from 4,000 feet with a barrel load of my bullets in his tail.’
It was an admission which had the then young, fine-figured Goering raise his beer stein in salute.
‘In this, I have to admit,’ Richthofen continued, ‘that I feel no compassion for the enemy. The way I see it, I’m doing him a favour. No, more than that, I’m bestowing an honour because that’s the way I’d like to go. I can’t think of a more beautiful death than to fall in aerial combat.’
With this, Goering would normally have agreed. But having been shot down himself only a few weeks before made him a little more reticent in his opinion. Frankly, there’d been nothing honourable or the vaguest bit beautiful about it. The truth was that he was scared witless when that bullet slammed into his left thigh, nicking an artery and spurting a fountain of blood fair into his face. By the time he wiped the warm, red goo from his goggles to clear his vision, all he’d seen was the earth hurtling in circles towards him. Death was imminent and his life was flashing before him. Had he not throttled back hard in his last living moments he would not have managed to crash-land his plane, unstrap himself from its seat and leap from the burning cockpit a second before it exploded. The fuel-based blast had blown his body like a piece of shrapnel straight up into the air.
He had landed with a thud back down on solid ground where he’d lain unconscious until dawn. There, he had woken to find himself drenched in blood in the middle of a cemetery, his eyes peering through the misty morning to see a grey granite tombstone looming over him as if it were his own. It was a bone-chilling omen that gave him the impetus to drag himself to his feet, unnerving him enough to have him stumble, light-headed, to the nearest mobile medical unit.
All in all, very sobering stuff for Goering which had, at last, urged him to come round to Richthofen’s way of thinking. And that was to steer a straight course when it came to combat. On this point, Richthofen was most particular and was determined to drum as much home to his friend.
‘I draw the line between daring and stupidity, Hermann,’ he said, blithely following through on their conversation. He was unaware that Goering was in the throes of reliving his most recent, near-death experience and that his own tone, albeit well-intentioned, was a touch patronising. All he wanted to do was to make sure that Goering didn’t crash and burn with reckless flying. ‘One must not risk a brave pilot paying for his stupidity with his life.’
At these words of wisdom, Goering abandoned his beer, got to his feet and walked over to put a reassuring hand on Richthofen’s shoulder.
‘You know, Mannie, I’d take exception to your small lecture if I weren’t so flattered by it. Your concern for me is truly touching.’
There was a practised constraint in Goering’s tone. One which he adopted whenever his pride came under attack