Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton
we talk about it tomorrow?’
‘Herr Oberleutnant, we can’t put off everything until tomorrow.’
‘That’s what Himmel said.’
‘Exactly.’ The swarthy Kokke stroked his short beard reflectively.
There was a click as the Operations Room clerk switched on the microphone and a hum as the circuit came alive. Under his feet Bubi awoke, snorted, yawned and nibbled at Löwenherz’s boot.
‘You should have made your bet, Kokke. I was wrong, the Tommis are early.’
Kokke didn’t answer. Löwenherz looked around the hut; no one had moved but now their bodies were tense. There were only dim red lights glowing in the Alert Hut, not enough light to read, scarcely enough to play chess. At the far end of the hut there was a huge glass aquarium; inside it tropical fish moved in slow motion. Löwenherz remembered the day it had arrived: five men and a heavy lorry. They spent three days fixing it up; it had been supplied by order of the High Command. At the time the whole Geschwader had been desperately short of cannon shells and no amount of pleading would release the aquarium lorry to fetch some.
He remembered the winter battles before Moscow, the men clad in their thin summer uniforms. One of the last air lifts into Stalingrad had brought rubber contraceptives. He remembered too the fuss they had made about salvaging the motor of the ancient wrecked Junkers before finding that it was a British engine. The whole damned Luftwaffe was being mismanaged by political favouritism and political fanaticism. The Freezing Report that Himmel had shown him was just one step away from the aquarium.
I’ll stand by Himmel, thought Löwenherz and suddenly realized he’d said it aloud. My God, he thought, that bloody aquarium!
‘Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Kokke. ‘I knew you would.’
‘I’m a fool,’ said Löwenherz, and he wondered if he could get out of it some way.
The microphone click came again and the dispatcher’s voice said, ‘Achtung! Achtung! Oberleutnant Löwenherz, Major Redenbacher and Leutnant Kokke to instant readiness. Oberfeldwebel Himmel, Leutnant Beer and Feldwebel Schramm are now at alert.’ The toneless voice ended with an electronic click.
‘Thanks,’ said Kokke as he zipped his flying overall. ‘We’ll beat them, Oberleutnant.’
‘Why do you think that?’ asked Löwenherz bitterly. They were both grabbing at their equipment and climbing over out-stretched legs as they moved to the door. Löwenherz saw his radar operator pulling on his boots and made sure that Mrosek, his observer, was also ready.
‘Put away your knitting, Klimke,’ Kokke shouted. He turned back to Löwenherz. ‘Because we are such an unlikely combination,’ said Kokke. He grinned.
Löwenherz nodded but was unconvinced. ‘Hals- und Bein-bruch!’ he said. To express the wish that a friend will break his neck and leg was said to fool the devil and bring him back safe. Kokke waved a grateful response.
‘Uniform hats,’ called Löwenherz to his crewmen Sachs and Mrosek. They both waved their folding cloth caps at him and Löwenherz responded by clasping his white-topped cap under his arm. If their aeroplane should be diverted to another airfield, the military police would make the devil of a fuss if they were hatless.
Löwenherz always insisted that his crew carried all the items that regulations demanded. Laden under a signal pistol, a garterful of flares, dinghy, lifejacket, parachute, iron rations, Pervitin tablets and a flashlight, they all hobbled to their plane.
It was cold outside and the yeasty smell of the sea was on the wind. The aeroplanes were warm and ready to go, and their crews were glad of the comparative comfort of their cockpits. Löwenherz placed his peaked cap behind his seat and made sure that his radio leads were fixed to his flying suit, exactly as regulations prescribed. Then he plugged it in and connected his oxygen tube. After that he made sure that his crew had done the same. His hands went through the sixty consecutive hand movements that they had done blindfold at training school. The green and red panel lamps came alight. The ground crews were fussing around the rudders and wheels.
He looked at his observer seated beside him: Mrosek, a nineteen-year-old Leutnant with long black hair. His pinched face and prominent incisors gave him a rodent-like appearance; a comparison endorsed by his narrow chest, small stature and wiry agility. After the cannons had been fired it was Mrosek’s job to crawl head-first into the nose to wrestle full drums on to the guns. That was difficult enough on the ground, but many times Mrosek had done it while Löwenherz had the plane in a dizzying vertical bank coming around for a second attack.
Mrosek’s father was a vineyard manager from Heidelberg. Perhaps the proximity of so much wine had helped to make his disposition cheerful. He gave Löwenherz his quick ratty grin and held up his binoculars before he could be asked if they were aboard.
‘Is everything in order?’ Löwenherz asked his radar operator formally. He twisted in his seat to look at him.
From the rear seat Sachs smiled a deferential smile and raised his thin white manicured hand. He was a nineteen-year-old Feldwebel from Hanover and, partly because of his nouveau-riche and ambitious father, he remained in awe of the noble Baron Victor von Löwenherz Grawiec and modelled himself upon his pilot’s speech, manners, walk and bravery.
Sachs the Saxon; Löwenherz wondered why there were always jokes about their capacity for hard work; it was a commendable virtue.
And that accent: ‘No, Junge. Grandfather’s ashes will not go on the mantelpiece. They will go into the hour-glass. Grandfather must work, all we Saxons must work.’
Sachs’ father had been a builder’s labourer in 1935 but when the West Wall was started he had gone into business with his brother-in-law, supplying metal clamps for poured concrete structures. By 1940 the company was listed on the Hamburg Stock Exchange. On the day of issue several Todt Organization officials were given free shares in the thriving young company. In 1941 Britain’s unwillingness to come to terms meant the beginning of the Atlantic Wall. The most extensive engineering project in the history of architecture was to deface Europe’s northern coasts. The project devoured endless tons of prestressed concrete and used countless clamps. Georg’s wrist-watch was Swiss, gold and as thin as a Pfennig. His cufflinks were jade, his shoes handmade and under his regulation NCO’s uniform his underclothes were silk. His trips into Amsterdam were made in a new sports car, except at weekends, when his father would send the chauffeur in the Mercedes with its Todt Organization pennant flying.
Georg Sachs, to his father’s great disappointment, had become a radar operator after failing to meet the requirements of the pilot’s course. He had grown to like his job and was good at it, which is why Löwenherz had chosen him from all the others on the Staffel. During the final minutes of an interception Georg knew that the aircraft was under his command. As he told his father, at the moment of the kill Baron von Löwenherz was nothing more than a machine-minder.
‘Everything is ready, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Georg Sachs.
Control came on the air.
‘Major Redenbacher to Himmelbett Station Tiger, circle beacon at 5,000 metres. Leutnant Kokke to Himmelbett Station Ermine, circle beacon at 5,000 metres. Oberleutnant Löwenherz to Himmelbett Station Gorilla, circle beacon at 5,000 metres.’
Each of the pilots acknowledged the order.
‘We’re going on to oxygen now’ said Löwenherz. Some of the crews waited until they were over 1,200 metres but Löwenherz knew that loss of night vision is one of the first symptoms of oxygen-lack.
The wreck of the old Junkers 34 was garlanded with red obstruction lights. They came past it round the perimeter track as fast as safety would allow. The ground was soft and he was careful not to cut corners. Across the aerodrome the Flying Control personnel saw his navigation lights, and as soon as he reached the end of the runway they switched the flarepath on.
‘Clear to