Читать книгу Death and the Butterfly - Colin Hester - Страница 10

One

Finned—like iron sharks—the bombs slid out of the belly of the plane and into the night, coursing downward in scent of the city beneath.

They did not take long to find the ground. And to the two Luftwaffe fliers in the cockpit of the twin-engined Dornier 17, the bombs caused several small gray eruptions on the landscape beneath, at this altitude no more significant than the plops of frogs in a pond. Nor did the fliers hear any sound: not from the bombs they had unleashed nor even the endless hammering of the Daimler-Benz engines, for the two had long ago ceased hearing anything in the cockpit save each other’s voices. They were clad in leather headgear and leather jackets, and now that the bombs had registered their seemingly inconsequential puffs, the pilot frowned and returned his attention to the task of flying. The other airman had unfolded navigational charts in a cascade across his lap, and with his gloved hands in the tight confines he began to somewhat awkwardly refold them.

After a moment the pilot turned to him. His face was solemn, and he said over the roar of the engines:

“Das ist London.”¹

“Nein, Herr Major,” the navigator replied. He again unfolded the chart and lifted it slightly towards the pilot and pointed with a gloved finger to coordinates upon it, saying:

“Das sind die East End docks.”² He then pointed to the instrument panel arrayed above their heads—to the gauge marked kompass.

The pilot ignored the gauge. “Die East End docks von wegen!”³ he said. He moved the rudder slightly to the left, and the plane dipped. Below, the gray eruptions caused by the bombs had crested and now began to settle. The plane leveled, and the pilot faced straight ahead. “Strikter Befehl vom Führer persönlich: eine Bombardierung von London ist verboten.”⁴

“Es ist nicht London, Herr Major.”⁵

“Lass uns das nur hoffen, Willy, sonst wird es uns nämlich sehr viel schlimmer ergehen als den armen Engländern!”⁶

Dipping a wing once more, the pilot managed a final look at the ground below. It had quiesced—as if in its stillness it had never been disturbed.

1. This is London.

2. No, Herr Major. This is the East End docks.

3. The East-End docks my arse.

4. The Fuhrer himself has strictly forbidden the bombing of London.

5. It is not London, Herr Major.

6. Let us both hope, Willy, otherwise our fate will be far worse than that of even the wretched English!