LITMIR.BIZ

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hours already and if his own plane was not in service by nightfall, when the killing began, the Major had a habit of taking the nearest one. Himmel’s plane – Katze Four – was the nearest.

      He slid the cockpit fully open and called down to the chief mechanic, ‘Have you seen Unteroffizier Pohl?’

      ‘No,’ said old Krugelheim. ‘He’s probably still talking to the Signals Officer.’

      ‘These aerials are a trial to us,’ said Christian Himmel. The old man walked under the nose to look closely at the ‘toasting fork’.

      ‘It’s the rain,’ he said. ‘If they stay dry for a few days they work perfectly. Here comes Pohl now.’

      Someone in flying overalls, yellow lifejacket and parachute harness emerged from the hut, but it wasn’t Himmel’s radar operator. For a few paces he was obscured by the tail of another Junkers 88, but as he came round it they recognized Löwenherz. On this warm day none of the other flyers were wearing flying overalls. Like Himmel most wore lightweight helmets, shirts, shorts and lifejackets. It was just like Löwenherz to be in full flying gear.

      ‘What does the bloody Staffelkapitän want?’ said old Krugelheim. As if having a faulty fuel-line on Major Redenbacher’s machine wasn’t enough trouble for one day.

      ‘Cheer up, Kugel,’ said Himmel. ‘We’ll soon find out.’ To call the grumpy old Oberfeldwebel ‘Kugel’ was a privilege earned by only the most seasoned of Kroonsdijk’s NCOs. Although it meant ‘bullet’, the pot-bellied old chief mechanic was short enough in stature to realize that it also meant ‘globe’. Kugel came close under the cockpit.

      ‘You were in his Staffel during the Kanalkampf, weren’t you, young Himmel?’

      ‘He was in mine. I took him on his first operational sortie as my wingman. He was a lively fellow in those days.’

      ‘Then the war has sobered him,’ said the old man.

      ‘It’s sobered a lot of us,’ agreed Himmel.

      ‘Huh,’ exclaimed the mechanic bitterly.

      Himmel smiled at the old Oberfeldwebel. His misanthropy was what kept these aeroplanes in such good order. The old man too had been a lively youngster once, but there are more casualties of war than the doctor ever sees. Kugel clicked his heels as Löwenherz walked past him without a word and proceeded to inspect and waggle each control surface to be sure they were unlocked and free of obstruction.

      Himmel looked down to the hatch as Löwenherz climbed up the metal ladder. The soft inner hatch opened and his head appeared level with the floor of the cockpit behind Himmel’s feet. ‘I’m flying with you instead of Pohl,’ he said. One of the ground staff passed Löwenherz’s briefcase up through the hatch.

      Himmel nodded and turned to exchange a pained glance with the chief mechanic below while Löwenherz strapped himself into the radar operator’s seat behind him. The backs of their heads almost touched, but between their seats there was a slab of steel armour. The Staffelkapitän carefully made sure that his intercom cable went down his back and was clipped to his overall. It was an inconvenience, but Löwenherz had read of several cases of aircrew being strangled by their own radio leads and it was a pet subject for his memos. Himmel hoped that he wouldn’t notice that his leads were not correctly positioned.

      ‘All set, Christian?’ fussed Kugel. ‘It’s warm today, radiator gills full out while you’re taxiing, then fully closed for take-off. Watch the cooling indicator.’ Himmel nodded. ‘Frei!’ yelled Kugel.

      ‘Frei!’ replied Himmel and pushed the button. The starter motor whined, jerking the blades. A bright blue flame escaped from the exhaust, in spite of the dampers. Then there was an ear-splitting roar. The panel vibrated and the instruments blurred. Himmel throttled back. He started the other motor and waited while the fuel- and oil-pressure needles came alive. The whole plane was rocking on its tyres now. He slid the side window closed in spite of the heat, for it was one of Löwenherz’s well-known instructions. The instrument panel and the windscreen chattered with the pulse of the motors. He pushed the throttles wide open and saw the rev counters flick around to 2,800. Even through his flying helmet the sound was piercing. The ground crew had hands clamped against their ears and their black overalls rippled in the wind. Two of them tugged the chocks away from the wheels.

      Himmel took an extra look round the cockpit: flaps up, mags off, undercarriage locked, fuel full, straps fastened, oxygen ready, brakes on. The instruments were colour-coded: yellow for fuel, brown for oil and blue for air. Each of them read correctly and yet still Himmel worried. All pilots did, this was the moment of worry, once they were airborne the tenseness would ease a little.

      Himmel hooked his oxygen mask into the forehead of his helmet and pushed closed the studs of his throat mike. Löwenherz, taller than little Pohl, struggled to notch the seat back. Himmel was about to help but decided that Löwenherz was not the sort of man who liked being helped.

      ‘Pilot to radar operator,’ said Himmel self-consciously. ‘All correct?’

      ‘All correct,’ said Löwenherz.

      In his rear-view mirror Himmel saw Löwenherz fingering the radar controls.

      ‘Katze Four to Control, request permission to take off.’ The Controller told them to move off. Himmel released the brakes and the aeroplane rolled forward. Old Kugel waved him away like a swarm of flies.

      Control told him to taxi to the far side of the airfield, wait until Katze Two was airborne and then move on to the end of the runway. He moved slowly along the perimeter track and past a wrecked Junkers 34. It had been there ever since Himmel could remember and had become a landmark for the aerodrome. Three months before, a salvage gang had removed the motor, only to find that it was an ancient Bristol Jupiter instead of the German power unit they had expected. A typical Luftwaffe balls-up, thought Himmel. So now the disembowelled plane had its rusting motor displayed alongside like a museum exhibit.

      Parallel with the fence was the water-filled ditch, bright green now that summer sun had covered the surface with tiny cress plants. The dijk itself was two and a half metres higher than the aerodrome and upon it was the road to Utrecht. Its edges were neatly marked in white paint and its surface cobbled with the large stones that the Dutch call ‘children’s heads’. Military convoys buzzed upon it like angry bees and the wooden wheels of local cyclists crawled along with a bone-shaking clatter. Along the dijk road came a company of metalshod infantry. Himmel noticed the tired sweaty soldiers look his way with envy as they trudged past under the weight of full packs, blankets and rifles. They were singing, ‘In der Heimat, in der Heimat, da gibt’s ein Wiedersehen’. In the homeland we’ll meet again.

      Himmel and Löwenherz watched Kokke’s plane as he ran its engines to maximum revs and then roared along the runway climbing steadily towards the east. Then Himmel followed.

      It wasn’t one of his best take-offs, but to have Löwenherz sitting calmly behind you waiting to do the routine radar-interception test that was really the duty of meek little Unteroffizier Pohl was downright disconcerting.

      The land flashed past beneath them. The sun shone down upon Kroonsdijk so that half of each street went black with shadow. Children pointed at them, a dog fled, a horse needed comforting. Gulls went into the air like a handful of white confetti, caught the breeze and in unison swooped back towards earth. The undercarriage thumped into the nacelle. A line of laundry wriggled, cyclists stopped. A silk patch of blue lake was tacked to green countryside by the taut fishing-lines of a hundred anglers, hoping to supplement their meagre rations. The flat heathland was like purplish-brown sandpaper scratched with irregular pale footpaths. The fields and lakes grew smaller as they fell away. An empty road grew busy, reached a fishing village and ended. Boats crammed tight to crowded quays, then there was just the empty blue water of the IJsselmeer. Over it there was a haze of summer heat like smoking fat on a frying-pan.

      Control called him. ‘Katze Four steer 090 for practice air interceptions. Rendezvous at two thousand metres, grid reference: Heinz Marie nine.’

      Himmel

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