LITMIR.BIZ

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had washed and left to dry the previous night.

      When Löwenherz finished he put away the electric iron and dressed carefully. He inspected his gleaming high boots and fixed the Iron Cross and the German Cross Order to the pocket of his newly laundered tunic. He briefly checked his appearance in the mirror: the white tunic was immaculate and he slanted the white-topped cap rakishly. The bulldog came out from under the table and prepared for the walk through the woodland to the Officers’ Mess.

      ‘It’s wet outside, Bubi,’ he warned, but, like his master, the dog enjoyed walking through the fragrant grass. The rain had ceased and sunlight shone upon the wet grass. The dog sniffed each patch of it and ran across the road and cocked its leg at the slit-trench bomb shelters. Löwenherz used to scold Bubi for doing that, but since the shelters had never been used from the day they were dug he had ceased to care if the dog fouled them.

      As Löwenherz stepped out from his quarters four Dutch civilians arrived carrying mops and brooms. Behind them cycled Feldwebel Blessing, the civilian staff overseer. The Feldwebel dismounted from his bicycle when he saw Löwenherz and saluted him with precision. Blessing was a young, over-weight Bavarian with heavy features and small piercing eyes.

      ‘Good morning, Feldwebel Blessing,’ said Löwenherz. ‘There’s rust in the water supply again. The same trouble as last March, I suspect.’

      ‘It will be investigated, Herr Oberleutnant.’

      ‘Excellent, Blessing, I am confident that it will.’ Although he was unpopular, Blessing’s efficiency was a byword and his civilians kept the billets clean and shining. A few generals like Blessing in the OKW and perhaps we shouldn’t be on the defensive in the East, nor preparing Italy for an Allied invasion, thought Löwenherz. Blessing cycled energetically away towards the main barracks with Bubi barking at his rear wheel. Löwenherz walked towards the Officers’ Mess and soon the dog returned, racing after him, splashing through the puddles.

      Along the perimeter fence sat hundreds of sea-birds driven inland by the summer storm. Bubi chased them along the fence, barking and jumping high into the air. Lazily the wet white blobs stretched their wings and circuited briefly before settling back into place.

      As he neared the Officers’ Mess, Löwenherz recognized one of his pilots walking towards him through the sunspotted woodland. The boy would probably have avoided a meeting with his Staffelkapitän if he had been looking where he was going.

      Christian Himmel was a twenty-two-year-old Unteroffizier. His basic pay was one hundred marks per month plus another forty marks in Wehrsold (war pay) and seventy-five marks Fliegerzulage (flying pay). This, even allowing for income tax and contributions to Nazi funds and winter relief, still left him with more comforts than he had known in civil life and just double what his father earned as a gardener. He was a muscular boy with short untidy hair that he inexpertly trimmed himself. His face was round and his serious mouth full-lipped. ‘Angel-face’ he had been called at the camp where he had done his labour service, and the lack of wrinkles in his clear skin did make him look like one of those carved cherubs that crowd together around the altars and pulpits of the baroque churches near his Bavarian hometown.

      Himmel was shy, although no one at Kroonsdijk had less reason to be daunted by Oberleutnant von Löwenherz than he had. In July 1940 during the Kanalkampf (as the Luftwaffe named the early period of the Battle of Britain) the circumstances had been very different. Löwenherz was a young ensign newly posted to a Messerschmitt 109 squadron where Himmel was a very experienced pilot, with a Polish Lós bomber and two Spitfires to his credit and a novel reputation. It was said that Himmel had shot down more enemy aircraft than he claimed, and on at least three occasions he had been more than generous in allowing kills to be credited to others.

      Löwenherz’s first two kills – a Hurricane and a Defiant – had a considerable number of Himmel’s bullets in them, as Löwenherz was the first to admit. But Löwenherz had been Himmel’s wingman, and, as Himmel said, a good wingman should share credit for every victory. A wingman flew two hundred yards on the beam of his leader and covered him from stern or quarter attack. The leader navigated, led the attack and made the decisions. Himmel had done that well. Himmel was also a skilled mechanic. His concern for the aircraft on the Staffel amounted almost to hypochondria, an obsession that was his excuse for being shy, silent and alone. When he spoke with his ground-crew men he tried to confine the conversation solely to technical matters. Sometimes Löwenherz could almost believe that Himmel ticked and whined and roared, and made better contact with his machines than with his fellow men.

      ‘Good morning, Himmel.’

      ‘Good morning, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said the boy. There was a gust of wind and Himmel, clad in black mechanic’s overalls, shivered.

      ‘Plugs still oiling up, Christian?’

      ‘They fitted new rings but that was just a waste of labour, Herr Oberleutnant. There’s only a very slight improvement.’

      The dog made playful rushes at the Unteroffizier’s boots. Himmel pretended to punch Bubi’s head and the dog growled and made fearsome open-fanged passes at his fast-moving hands.

      ‘Kugel won’t be able to do it today. The Major has had trouble with his supercharger capsule. He’s given strict instructions that his plane must be ready this evening.’

      ‘Then Kugel will be busy,’ said Himmel.

      ‘Very, very busy,’ smiled Löwenherz, picturing the potbellied old mechanic facing the Gruppenkommandeur’s wrath.

      Löwenherz said, ‘I’ll tell him to do a run up when you land tonight. If you’re still getting a drop in revolutions I’ll tell him he must fit a new engine. How’s that, Christian?’

      ‘Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant.’

      ‘Are you going to breakfast?’

      ‘I’m not hungry. I will have coffee when it’s sent out to the dispersal. Shall I take Bubi with me?’

      Löwenherz passed Bubi’s collar and lead to Himmel. Bubi barked happily. Löwenherz watched the young NCO and the dog move out of sight through the trees. Himmel was running and the dog chased him until Himmel’s black overalls merged into the patches of shade.

      The temperature had dropped slightly in spite of the sunshine and Löwenherz noticed that the gusts of wind were coming from the direction of the HQ buildings to the northwest. The cold front had moved well past Kroonsdijk now, and the great cold air mass was steadying. When he reached the Officers’ Mess he looked at the barometer; it had risen. Everything pointed to a few days of fine summer weather.

      Löwenherz was a methodical man. He deposited his peaked cap on the cloakroom counter and picked up a copy of the Berliner Börsen-Zeitung that was set aside for him. He looked up the prices of his Daimler-Benz, Zeiss Ikon and Siemens shares. He believed in good solid companies. He’d bought a few shares of Sachs Engineering because it was owned by the father of his radar operator and, although they had done wonders until a year ago, they had now begun to stick a little. He thought he might sell. He looked at the back page for the annual reports but there was nothing of interest. Neither was the war news of any great importance. The war was at a time of hiatus. He didn’t want to fold the paper and stuff it into his pocket for it would make bulges in his newly pressed uniform jacket. So he rolled it carefully and took it with him. There were no new notices on the board. Glancing at his reflection as he passed, he smoothed his hair and opened the door of the dining-hall.

      The Mess Hall was a large sunlit room with long refectory tables and a high ceiling. At the far end there was a patriotic mural covering the entire wall. Firm-jawed soldiers and radiant girls in peasant costume and flaxen plaits marched with flags under a canopy of bomber formations. There were posters that reminded crews of the dangers of careless conversation in public places. Another depicted a gull in flight: ‘Pilots, he too is your enemy!’ A photo of a birdstrike-damaged plane was also shown. A cartoon pilot said, ‘If you are lost, climb to safety height. Don’t descend through cloud, it’s dangerous.’

      Over the serving-hatch there were listed the civilian rations

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