Читать книгу In the Way of the Reich - Paula Astridge - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

It was a lucky thing that World War I happened just in time to help them out. It was the perfect forum, the heroic Hermann believed, to start him on his road to glory. He set out on it, however, on the wrong foot when his infantry unit marched to Muelhausen, where they were stationed to fight to the death in defence of the Fatherland.

Hermann, at the age of 21, came close to doing just that; his close call with death not due to any glorious military deed, but to the ravages of disease. Excelling at Army Training Camp and proudly goose-stepping his way through Berlin’s streets in the early days of the war had earned him nothing more than a position in the cold, wet trenches on the Western Front. Within a few months of suffering the rats and repeated bouts of dysentery, he caught rheumatic fever.

He honestly didn’t know which was worse: the excruciating pain of his inflamed joints or the horror of sharing close quarters with a stream of nameless, frightened men. Just teenagers really, with mud-splattered, terrified faces who were there one day and gone the next. Hermann learnt fast not to count any of them as friends because they were all destined to be dead within days. He spent the bulk of his time lying flat on his face in the mud, so afraid and ill that he could barely move other than to throw his arms up over his head to protect himself from enemy fire. There, in his private hell, he was unable to even call out for help because the muddy, blood-soaked sludge filled his every orifice.

It was not until he was face up in a disinfected hospital bed that he was able to breathe easily again. Within its sterile surrounds, he got over his disillusion with the war and life in general the instant he struck up a conversation with the wounded soldier who shared his ward.

‘Do you think I’d have any trouble getting in?’ he asked of Bruno Loerzer, who had been sidelined from Air Training School with a minor injury.

Their shared convalescence had made them fast friends and given Loerzer the opportunity to convince Hermann to transfer from the Infantry to Germany’s Air Service. He hadn’t had to try too hard.

‘To fly is the ultimate adrenaline rush,’ Loerzer insisted. ‘For men of intelligence and social substance such as we, it is our direct link to our German Knights of old. You can’t imagine the thrill, chivalry and glamour of it all.’

Oh yes he could! For as long as Hermann could remember his aspirations had been fixed on raising himself higher than the rest of humanity so that he could look down upon it like an Olympian God. So far, scaling mountains and bettering other boys in all activities dangerous had been his only means of doing it. But now, in his adventurous imagination the heavens had opened up before him.

‘You’ve got all the necessary qualifications,’ Loerzer assured him.

Hermann turned his head stiffly on his pillow and looked at his companion with surprise. ‘I have none.’

‘But don’t you see? Nothing is required if you have courage,’ Loerzer replied with a shrug. ‘It’s all out there for those of us who’ve got the guts, dear boy. The sky’s the limit.’

These were the very same sentiments of another young man from Munich at the time. Ernst Udet, like Hermann, was doing everything in his power to make himself a part of the war’s action. Whereas Hermann had a relatively easy go of it, quickly transferring from the infantry to an Observer Training Course with the 3rd Army Air Detachment, Udet had to fight for his right to even join up with the infantry before making his excuses to transfer out of it into planes. Apparently the men afoot weren’t so keen to have him.

‘You’re too short,’ the Army Recruitment Officer said when the bright-eyed, 18 year-old Ernst put in his application. ‘You won’t be able to even see over the top of the trench to fire your rifle.’

Being barely above five foot tall had always been a sore point for Udet, but it was not about to stop him dragging the best out of life. Why should it when he had a handsome face and was so confident of his abilities? With such outstanding attributes at his disposal it would be insane for him to take no for an answer. If the system wasn’t prepared to accommodate him on the paltry issue of height restriction, then he would simply have to get around it in another way.

He had never been able to understand why being short equated to being inept, when in reality, it was quite the reverse. Although lucky and carefree by nature, he was a dogged little creature who had had to work hard to compensate for his height, forever pushing himself forward to stand out in the crowd while being utterly unfazed by walking over other people to gain a clearer perspective of the world around them. In lieu of another way to sign up for the services, he joined the 26thWurttenberg Reserve Regiment as a dispatch rider. They accepted him, not because they were any more tolerant of his size, but because he was prepared to provide his own motorcycle.

It wasn’t exactly where and how he wanted to start, but he was in and that was all that counted. From that point, he knew he could work his way around the rules: a practice with which he was well acquainted when he had never been able to abide the restrictions of red tape. His striking blue eyes had always been apt to glaze over at the petty prattling of bureaucrats with their limited insight, and he had quickly learnt that what could not be achieved with his good looks and charm could easily be done with money. Such was the course of action he took, a few months later, when he applied to the Pilot Replacement Unit.

‘You’re too young and too short,’ they said when they rejected him.

This time, however, Udet didn’t even bother to take offence or get depressed. Instead, he went straight to his father and asked:

‘Papa, would you be prepared to lend me 2000 marks to train privately as a pilot?’

His father hesitated. That was a lot of money for a man of his blue-collar means. But just one look at his son’s avid face had him dig down deep into the pockets of his overalls. There was no doubt in his mind that Ernst would succeed at whatever he set out to do. For as long as he could remember, his son had been set on flying machines. From building his model planes in the backyard to spending every spare moment of his childhood lingering around The Otto Flying Machine Works. There he stood for hours on end watching the wood, wire and canvas planes being built, casting his eyes skyward with mouth wide open to marvel as they soared and swooped over the airfield.

What’s more, at the age of fourteen Ernst helped to found The Munich Aero Club. Suffice to say, the writing was on the wall in regard to his future. But it was three years later, in 1913, that the deal was clinched:

‘I say, young Udet, would you like me to take you up?’ one of the freshly trained pilots asked. He added to the thrill of his invitation with a debonair flick of his scarf around his neck as he adjusted his goggles.

He had seen 17 year-old Udet a hundred times before hanging around the workshop with a look of lip-licking envy on his face. Why not humour the lad? After all, he was in the throes of flaunting his new flying talent and was up for a bit of hero-worship. He figured a few death rolls and dives should set the kid straight. And it had. Just that one joy-flight in the Taube Monoplane and the die was cast. Udet had not thought of anything since. And his father knew better than to even try to deprive him of his calling in life.

‘I’ll give you the money, but you must promise me not to get killed.’

‘Me? Get killed? Not a chance,’ Udet replied with a conviction that was just as consoling as the heartfelt hug he gave his father in receipt of the money.

So, in 1915, he had his civilian flying license in hand, and despite the fact that he was still too young and too short, the German Air Service welcomed him with open arms.

‘You’ve been assigned to Flyer Division 206, Udet,’ the Commander of Darmstadt Pilot Cadets informed him. ‘Twoseater Artillery Observation Unit. No need to panic. You’ll be going out strictly on Observer Missions, so you’re not likely to get your bum kicked. Gentleman’s agreement, you know, between the enemy and us. No shooting down unarmed craft.’

‘I’m not panicking,’ 19 year-old Udet replied with the bravado of a man who had not yet seen war and had never come within miles of watching another man die, let alone the fear of doing so himself.

That reality hit him for the first time in late1915 just before he was transferred to Habsheim Single-Seater Combat Command. Having already been awarded the Iron Cross (Second Class), for meritorious service, he was suddenly promoted to the prestigious rank of Fighter Pilot.

It was an honour which came as a complete surprise given that it followed shortly after Udet had been arrested for reckless flying. His piece of unnecessary, wartime showmanship had not only endangered the life of his fellow flyer and Observer, Lieutenant Justinius, but had destroyed an expensive government-owned plane.

Under the not-so-commendable circumstances, Udet supposed it understandable that none of his comrades visited him in the military prison. But what wasn’t clear was why they continued to cold-shoulder him when he returned, full of renewed vim and vigour, to the Air Base. After his two week sojourn behind bars every one of them literally turned their back on him, leaving him to stand alone in the middle of the airfield. It was an insult which would have been thoroughly humiliating had an urgent call to arms not glossed over the incident and forced his fellow pilots to scramble for their planes.

‘Would you be my pilot?’ the new Observer, Lieutenant Hartmann, raced across the airfield to ask him. Still in the process of putting on his leather flight jacket, Hartmann grabbed hold of Udet’s arm and blurted out an urgent explanation.

‘I’m sorry. You appear to be the only pilot available. I’ve just been transferred to this squadron and I don’t know anyone here.’

For a split second, Udet hesitated. He had been instructed to report to his Commanding Officer the minute he got back to Base. Until informed otherwise, he was grounded. But this was an emergency and he had never taken too kindly to having his wings clipped.

‘Well, you know me now. Come on, let’s go,’ he replied, snapping back into action. They both leapt into the only plane left on the tarmac.

‘This old duck will have to do,’ Udet yelled out over the sound of the propeller spinning into motion. ‘Let’s hope she’s got enough left in her to get us off the ground.’

As it turned out, she had enough pluck to survive the ensuring aerial dogfight and to go that one mile more to drop a few bombs over the city of Montreux.

Hartmann, of course, was an unknown entity. But who was Udet to question his methods when he was the only one prepared to share a plane and to fight at his side? The problem was that he had a new way of dropping the bombs from his Observer cockpit. Instead of throwing them overboard, he opened a small hatch beneath his seat and simply dropped them out of the bottom of the plane. It was an unorthodox method that instantly got Udet’s seal of approval when it scored a series of direct hits.

But suddenly Hartmann turned round and looked at him in horror. Unable to make himself heard above the roar of the engine, he pointed down, frantically jabbing his index finger in the direction of the hatch. A bomb had slipped away from him and got stuck in the undercarriage. The slightest shock would set it off. If it exploded they’d be blown to smithereens.

It was a new and terrifying experience which had Udet carefully bank the plane to the left to dislodge the device. But the bomb simply matched the motion and clung to the craft. So back he banked to the right, but the bomb was determined to follow suit. In the meantime, Hartmann was on his knees at the bottom of the cockpit with his leg thrust through the hatch madly angling for the axle, but he was an inch short of kicking the bomb loose.

‘No more reckless flying!’ were the words ricocheting round in Udet’s head. It was the directive he had been given by both his C. O. and the Military Court. Yet, as a last resort, what choice did he have but to go into a steep dive? It was a dangerous manoeuvre in any plane, but he had the added disadvantage of doing it in an old crate that was about to come apart at the seams.

However, to pause and ponder at such a pivotal moment was even more dangerous than the prospect of stalling the plane. So he went ahead, flying perpendicular to the earth, hovering in the heavens in breath-stopping anticipation which suddenly ended with a ‘click’. It was the blessed sound of release which had the bomb finally fall free and whistle its way to the ground – there to impact and kick up a cloud of billowing black dirt and smoke.

‘Well, I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance,’ Hartmann said with a handshake when they landed and clambered out of their plane.

‘Yes, let’s do it again someday, shall we?’

Udet’s response had come with a nervous laugh, a moment of near-death levity, which didn’t last long.

‘You’re to report to the C. O. at once Udet.’

The aircraft mechanic who voiced the breathless, intimidating order had raced across the airfield to issue it. The speed at which he’d done so, together with the clipped edge to his tone, told Udet that he was in big trouble, yet again. But never one to back away from a fight, he was quick to report to Headquarters and to stand front and centre of the Captain’s desk.

‘PFC Udet returning from arrest, Sir,’ he said, as he clicked his heels, saluted and braced himself for the reprimand to come.

The Captain looked up from his work and regarded Udet for a long while before he spoke. ‘You are transferred to the Single-Seater Combat Command at Habsheim.’

That was it. Nothing else. No further explanation.

Stunned, Udet continued to stand at attention, not knowing whether to thank the Captain or to ask why. Why a promotion to Fighter Pilot when he had just returned from two week’s punishment for disobeying orders?

Obviously, however, the Captain was in no mood to fill him in. Instead, he turned his attention back to his paperwork and sent Udet on his way with the brusque wave of his hand. ‘Dismissed. Dismissed!’

Udet just didn’t get it. Single-seater pilot? Fighter pilot? But this was what they all dreamed of. Yet, it had been thrown at him as if it were a penalty, rather than a gift from the gods. He could not believe it was true. Standing outside his C.O.’s office, he breathed deeply to take in the good news.

‘Well, Sir Fighter Pilot,’ said the Office Orderly who came walking by with a knowing grin plastered all over his face.

Here was Udet’s source of information. Udet offered the Orderly a cigarette, which was soldier’s code for ‘please explain’. Accepting it, the Orderly put down the coffee pot he was carrying so that he could light up and tell the tale. He stepped a little closer to do it in confidence.

‘This morning the Air Staff Officer from Muelhausen called to see whether you’d returned from arrest,’ he whispered furtively. ‘The Captain reported back that against orders you’d flown off to take part in a bombing raid. ‘What, straight from arrest?’ the Staff Officer asked. ‘Directly from arrest!’ the Captain replied. He was pretty hot under the collar. Two hours later they rang through orders from Muelhausen that you were to be transferred. ‘More luck than brains!’ said the Captain, and he slammed down the phone.’

At that point, the Orderly stopped to take a breath and stub out his cigarette. Then he added. ‘But I say good luck to you, Sir Fighter Pilot.’

Such generosity of spirit, however, was not shared by Udet’s fellow flyers. It just wasn’t fair. Not only had Udet been promoted for breaking the rules and doing whatever he liked, but he was to be given a flashy new plane to get him to his even flashier new assignment at Habsheim, a shiny new Fokker with the grace of a hawk and all the mod cons to be had in 1915.

It was a bonus that Udet couldn’t resist rubbing in.

‘Always practise diligently boys. Good luck to you all!’ he called out to his old friends as he waved a flamboyant farewell and began to taxi out onto the runway.

But his cocksure smile was not returned by those who hadn’t exactly wished him well. After all, show-offs like Udet wore very thin beyond a certain point, and Udet and his promotion had just pushed them over the line.

It served him right, they all agreed, when Udet then jolted too hard on his joystick and promptly slammed his new plane straight into the hangar! Now that he’d crashed his way back onto a level playing field, those surly friends faces lit with glee:

‘And good luck to you … you son of a bitch!’