Beneath Still Waters. Alex Archer
but the higher-ups had other plans. As soon as they were loaded, the order came for them to get underway.
Brandt sighed. Even with the future of the Reich at stake, high command still wasn’t thinking straight.
He climbed into the cockpit, stashing the satchel Hitler had given him under his seat, which was the only place big enough in the cockpit to hold it. He strapped himself in and began going through the preflight check, making sure that all of the instruments were working and the controls were responding properly before they left the mechanics behind for good. Behind him he could hear Adler testing the movement of the guns.
They took off moments later, with Brandt in the front of the cockpit in the pilot’s seat and Adler in the rear manning the 13 mm machine guns, leaving the nose gunner–bombardier position empty. Brandt hoped they weren’t going to regret that decision later.
The men’s seats were literally back-to-back, so they could pass instructions and information to each other simply by shouting over their shoulders, but there was an internal intercom system available, as well. As Brandt took the plane into a vertical climb to give them some altitude, he heard Adler shout, “For the glory of the Reich!” but chose not to reply. He wasn’t doing this for the Reich, after all. He just wanted to get out of Germany alive.
Once in the air, he turned the aircraft to the south and began to follow the route Hitler had shown him on the map, flying from Potsdam to Nuremberg before turning east to cross the Swiss Alps near Salzburg. Once over the Alps they would make their way through Austria and into Hungary, continuing from there down to Romania and then out over the Black Sea.
The extra weight from the cargo made the aircraft sluggish and slow to respond to Brandt’s commands, just as he’d suspected it would. He made a few preliminary maneuvers, getting a feel for the way the aircraft responded so that he would know what he could and couldn’t do in an emergency. The plane moved about the sky with all the finesse of a brick, which was going to make matters rather difficult if they encountered enemy aircraft, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it at this point.
It is what it is, he thought stoically.
They had been in the air for just over an hour and had started crossing the Austrian Alps when things went south.
Brandt glanced at the topographical map in his lap, making certain that he knew exactly where he was in relation to the peaks below him, and when he looked up again a pair of American P51 Mustang attack fighters were diving out of the sun to his right. He never would have seen them if the second aircraft hadn’t made the mistake of changing its angle of attack too early, allowing the sun to glint off the steel edge of the wings.
It wasn’t much, but Brandt was a veteran pilot who had survived more than a hundred missions over the past few years, and that was more than most. Without hesitation he shoved the yoke forward and threw the Junkers into a desperate dive.
The Mustangs were faster and more maneuverable than his aircraft on a good day, never mind when it was loaded with crates of gold. His only hope of survival was to get down amid the mountain peaks and hope that the American pilots didn’t have the nerve to follow.
Given what he’d heard about Mustang pilots, he didn’t think that was very likely, but he wasn’t about to sit back and let them blow him out of the sky either.
“Hang on!” he shouted to Adler as the plane turned over and headed toward the earth in a screaming dive.
Brandt had his hands full keeping control of the aircraft, so didn’t dare look over his shoulder in an effort to locate the enemy planes. As it turned out, he didn’t need to; the thunder of the guns from behind him as Adler opened up let him know that the Mustangs were following them down.
Bullets began stitching their way across the port wing in response, leaving half-dollar-sized holes in their wake, but thankfully they didn’t appear to have damaged anything important as the plane kept flying. Brandt threw the aircraft into evasive maneuvers, twisting about the sky as he sought to escape his attackers. A narrow mountain pass loomed ahead of him and he aimed directly for it, pulling up out of the dive at the last second and soaring between the two peaks at dangerous speed.
Behind him, the Mustangs followed.
The next few moments were some of the most hair-raising he’d ever experienced in his career as a fighter pilot. He tossed his aircraft all over the sky, despite its heavy load, doing everything he could to throw the Americans off his tail. He clung to the mountains where and when he could, trying to get his pursuers to make a mistake as they twisted through the air, hoping against hope that one if not both of them would slam into the nearby peaks and leave him and his charge in peace to continue their mission.
It was wishful thinking and, like most wishes, didn’t come true. The Mustangs stayed behind him the whole way, firing at his aircraft when the opportunity presented itself and content to stick with him when it didn’t. Bit by bit their machine-gun fire began to whittle away at the frame of his aircraft.
At some point one of them was going to get lucky, hit the fuel tanks or aileron controls or even the ammunition that was stored aboard for the forward and aft machine guns, and it would be all over. There would be nothing left of him and Major Adler but a smear on the landscape.
He had to do something, but what?
The solution, when it came to him, was surprisingly simple and, dare he say it, rather elegant.
He’d spent all this time and fuel trying to get away from the Mustangs. What if he got in close instead? The only shots that had been fired had come from the rear of his aircraft, and he would bet that the pilots of the American aircraft were convinced by now that the forward weapons were inoperable. Add to that the fact that all he’d done was run, and it was a good bet that the Americans thought him little more than a sitting duck. They wouldn’t expect him to suddenly turn and bring the battle to them. If he could catch even one of them napping, he could even up the odds a little.
It was worth a try.
He quickly explained to Adler what he was going to do.
“Are you insane?” the major cried on hearing the plan, to which Brandt replied that he might very well be. It didn’t matter, though, because they were going to try it whether Adler liked it or not.
He kept running, waiting for the right moment.
It came sooner than he expected.
Ahead of him loomed another cluster of rising peaks, with a narrow pass between two of them. It was just the kind of terrain he’d been using for the past several minutes to try to shake his pursuers. If the American pilots were as good as he thought they were, they would be expecting him to make for that pass like a rabbit for its warren.
Brandt intended to disappoint them.
Instead of diving for the space between the peaks, Brandt pulled back on the stick, sending the Junkers into a steep climb as if he intended to loop the plane in a big circle to try to get behind the mountains. The maneuver might have been worthwhile if he’d been flying one of the newer fighters such as a Focke-Wulf or a Messerschmitt, but in an overloaded night bomber like the Junkers he might as well have been standing still.
Behind him, the faster and more agile Mustangs moved to intercept.
This was the crucial moment. If the Americans caught him before he managed to roll out again, he would be moving perpendicular to their line of travel and would present nearly the entire surface of his aircraft to their guns. He didn’t want that to happen.
“Hold on!” he shouted as the plane reached the apex of its climb. He completed the classic Immelman Turn maneuver by rolling out at the top and rushing back in the direction he’d just come from.
One of the Mustangs was caught rushing toward him, trying to get into the very position he’d been worried about, and made the mistake of hesitating for a split second as he realized the two planes were now flying directly toward each other at impressive speeds.
Brandt didn’t make the same error. He began firing