Читать книгу In the Way of the Reich - Paula Astridge - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

While Udet winged his way to Habsheim in his Fokker, Hermann Goering was hanging out the side of one, flying only a few feet away from the ground with enemy snipers taking pot shots at him. His daredevil way of leaning precariously over the edge of his cockpit to take reconnaissance photographs had earned him the nickname of The Trapezist, along with a burgeoning band of medals on his chest.

With 11 kills already to his name, his eyes were firmly set on the slaughter of his next nine. He needed 20 enemy pilots down to be awarded The Blue Max. As Germany’s highest Military Order it was the medal worth fighting for, a pretty piece of blue and gold metal to hang around his neck and cement his name in history.

His aspirations, however, did not stop there, because he had Baron Manfred Von Richthofen in his sights. The Red Baron already sported the blue and gold and, as unquestioned champion of the air, was making a real show of it in his vermillion, state of the art tri-plane; his three wings and whopping ego identifying him as a bright red bulls-eye that drew both enemy and friendly fire.

Every other German pilot was duty bound to take a crack at his title. It would be the supreme accolade to topple Germany’s finest fighter pilot from his pedestal, to raise the benchmark Richthofen had set for excellence in aerial combat. So, for all the boys who flew in the blue, the Red Baron was fair game, particularly for those closest to him.

Hermann Goering was one of them. They were good friends because they had a lot in common. Not only did they share mutual memories of the same Alma Mater, The Gross Lichterfelde Military School, but they were of one mind when it came to their main passions in life: flying and hunting. Two obsessions that, in both men’s minds, were synonymous and accounted for their killer instincts in the air.

‘You know the feeling you get when a bull comes charging at you?’ Richthofen suddenly leant forward in his chair to say, his eyes fierce with excitement. ‘Well, it’s exactly the same hunting fever that grips me when I sit in a plane and see an Englishman. My heart always beats just that little bit faster when the opponent, whose face I’ve just seen, goes roaring down from 4,000 feet with a barrel load of my bullets in his tail.’

It was an admission which had the then young, fine-figured Goering raise his beer stein in salute.

‘In this, I have to admit,’ Richthofen continued, ‘that I feel no compassion for the enemy. The way I see it, I’m doing him a favour. No, more than that, I’m bestowing an honour because that’s the way I’d like to go. I can’t think of a more beautiful death than to fall in aerial combat.’

With this, Goering would normally have agreed. But having been shot down himself only a few weeks before made him a little more reticent in his opinion. Frankly, there’d been nothing honourable or the vaguest bit beautiful about it. The truth was that he was scared witless when that bullet slammed into his left thigh, nicking an artery and spurting a fountain of blood fair into his face. By the time he wiped the warm, red goo from his goggles to clear his vision, all he’d seen was the earth hurtling in circles towards him. Death was imminent and his life was flashing before him. Had he not throttled back hard in his last living moments he would not have managed to crash-land his plane, unstrap himself from its seat and leap from the burning cockpit a second before it exploded. The fuel-based blast had blown his body like a piece of shrapnel straight up into the air.

He had landed with a thud back down on solid ground where he’d lain unconscious until dawn. There, he had woken to find himself drenched in blood in the middle of a cemetery, his eyes peering through the misty morning to see a grey granite tombstone looming over him as if it were his own. It was a bone-chilling omen that gave him the impetus to drag himself to his feet, unnerving him enough to have him stumble, light-headed, to the nearest mobile medical unit.

All in all, very sobering stuff for Goering which had, at last, urged him to come round to Richthofen’s way of thinking. And that was to steer a straight course when it came to combat. On this point, Richthofen was most particular and was determined to drum as much home to his friend.

‘I draw the line between daring and stupidity, Hermann,’ he said, blithely following through on their conversation. He was unaware that Goering was in the throes of reliving his most recent, near-death experience and that his own tone, albeit well-intentioned, was a touch patronising. All he wanted to do was to make sure that Goering didn’t crash and burn with reckless flying. ‘One must not risk a brave pilot paying for his stupidity with his life.’

At these words of wisdom, Goering abandoned his beer, got to his feet and walked over to put a reassuring hand on Richthofen’s shoulder.

‘You know, Mannie, I’d take exception to your small lecture if I weren’t so flattered by it. Your concern for me is truly touching.’

There was a practised constraint in Goering’s tone. One which he adopted whenever his pride came under attack and a courtesy observed only when addressing men of superior social rank. Men such as Richthofen, who as aristocrats, were entitled to as much.

‘But you must not worry about me, my friend,’ he continued. ‘What is untamed in my nature is balanced by my stronger grasp on self-preservation. In or out of a plane, I’m the most level-headed man I know. I have plans for my future and death is simply not on my agenda.’

It hadn’t crossed Goering’s mind that it might be on Richthofen’s. And that was because such a prospect was unthinkable when it came to the indestructible, God-like Red Baron. But suddenly on the issue of death and the future, Richthofen had fallen silent, his stone-like expression telling a startling truth: that he had had a premonition of his own fate. He was going to die … and soon.

However, not wanting to put such a thing into words, Richthofen quickly changed the subject.

‘What do you think of this young hotshot, Udet, we keep hearing about? He’s already chalked up 10 kills.’

‘So I’ve heard. But at the phenomenal speed he’s managed to do it, I’ll be doubly impressed if he manages to survive till he’s shot down 20.’

In regard to Udet, Goering’s usual good humour and magnanimity deserted him. He felt piqued and fiercely competitive about this newcomer, Udet, who was suddenly breathing down his neck in the race for The Blue Max. Easy as it was to play second fiddle to Richthofen and his aristocratic hold on all that was fine, Goering felt no such noble instinct when it came to the blue-collar ring-in, Ernst Udet.

But evidently, Richthofen was quite a fan. ‘Do you know what that young upstart’s got written on the tail of his plane?’

Goering raised a disdainful eyebrow. ‘Can’t imagine.’

‘Definitely Not You!’ Richthofen filled him in. Saying it with a certain pride in Udet for having put the bold words where his enemy could best see them. It was a dare designed to mock and further infuriate his would-be opponents. That was, in the unlikely event that any one of them should be lucky or skilled enough to have him in their sights.

‘Brave words,’ Goering put in, still not quite ready to concede that he too found them amusing. ‘But I’ll reserve my opinion of him until I’ve seen him in action.’

‘But that’s just it,’ Richthofen interrupted. ‘I have! Two days ago, young Udet saved my life.’

Stunned, Goering swung round to look at his friend. He had no idea that Richthofen’s life had come under threat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that I was ambushed. Got caught out resting on my laurels. Guilty of the very thing I’ve just been preaching to you.’

‘Well what happened?’

Goering’s words had picked up pace with concern. If the Red Baron or the legend surrounding his success were shot down at this crucial point in the war, it would be enough to make Germany lose it.

But not nearly as perturbed as his friend, Richthofen continued his account with a nonchalant shrug.

‘I’d finished my mission successfully and thought the skies were clear. So I was flying solo back to base, when out of nowhere they came at me in a pack: six of the Frenchie’s Nieuport 28s. Made short work of two of them, but with four still left on my tail what could I do? I was only one man. A dead duck! l braced myself for the final hit and was in the middle of rattling off the Lord’s Prayer when suddenly one of our boys came diving out of the sun. Shot down three of the planes in quick succession, and very graciously left the fourth to me.

I hadn’t a clue who he was. I threw him a wave of thanks as he flew past. He gave me a wing-wave goodbye and then was off. That’s when I saw the words on the back of his plane. Needless to say, I didn’t have to ask around at Headquarters for long to put a name to a license plate like that.’

‘Well thank God for Udet then,’ Goering said, nipping his petty jealousy in the bud.

At this point, he figured it was unproductive to begrudge another’s talent, as he’d be better off taking advantage of it. So instead he embraced it with a certain condescension that alluded to his own superiority: ‘The young man really deserves some sort of commendation.’

‘If I can track him down,’ Richthofen said, ‘I intend to ask him to join my Fighter Group One. I wouldn’t mind having a flyer of his calibre close at hand. That kind of skill and courage are hard to find.’