Eagles at War (46 page)

The departure had been spectacular—twenty-one Turbos ready, lined up to take off across the wide snow-covered field in flights of three. Newsreel cameras, absent for so long, had been there. The radar screens had been carefully checked to see that no RAF intruders were about, then a vast battery of searchlights were turned on behind the waiting Turbos so the camera crews could record the takeoff. Josten had noted how cameras had been placed at different angles—when the German audiences saw the film, they'd think there were five hundred jets taking off! He didn't mind propaganda anymore—it was all that was left to give the people.

Banking slowly back and forth, maintaining his distance behind the formations of 109s and 190s ahead of him, he savored the crisp morning. When the timing was right, he'd accelerate, and they'd all arrive over the targets at the same time. Their goal was to destroy one thousand Allied fighters on airfields in France, Belgium, and Holland in a single precision strike. It was to be a low-level attack, guns only, one pass and out for the jets, as many passes as the piston-engine pilots had stomach for. It all depended upon the intensity of the airfield flak—maybe the gunners would have hangovers, too.

Josten ran his gloved hand lovingly around the canopy railing and across the instrument panel, taking a sensual pleasure from the smoothness, the lack of vibration. What a magnificent machine! The more he flew it the more he knew what it was capable of, the more he grieved that he had not been able to bring it into production earlier. He divided his time now strictly between combat sorties and working at Augsburg on modifications. He was well aware that there was no military point in it—the German grape had been squeezed until only the skin was left. But the Turbo was so superbly responsive that it had become the means and the end itself, his only purpose. He would live for the Turbo—and die in it. It was as simple as that, for everything else worth living was denied him.

First Ulrich, and now Lyra. She was gone, God knew where. Hafner had called to tell him that Harzewalde had to be evacuated, and that he would make sure Lyra was all right. Then he called a few days later and said that she had simply vanished without a trace.

Too bad. It was a pity that she wouldn't survive the war. But Ulrich would, and maybe he'd have a full life, too, without either one of them. Perhaps it was for the best that Ulrich would be brought up by a Swedish family. It had to be better than being in Germany when the Russians arrived.

It was curious—logically he knew how he should have felt, and what he should have done. He should have been outraged, horrified. He should have flown an airplane to Stockholm, deserting if he had to, and found Ulrich. He should have flown to Berlin, searched for Lyra. He should be furious, concerned, devastated. But he felt nothing. It was too late to feel anything. Now he just had his job to do, caring for the Turbo.

The instruments flickered—one engine seemed to be losing revolutions. He checked the throttles and sighed in relief. One had crept back slightly. He adjusted the power and checked the instruments again. It was all right, the engines were running perfectly. He patted the instrument panel approvingly.

A wall of flak erupted ahead, the dotted lines of white and red antiaircraft fire curving up to grab the fighters out of the air. He saw half a dozen explosions, quick black, red, and white splotches against the dark horizon. Christ, no one had alerted the German flak outfits! No wonder they were firing—they'd never seen this many Luftwaffe planes in the air at once. Too bad.

They flashed past the German flak emplacements, edging down to hug the ground even closer. Josten's target was at the fighter field at Eindhoven in Holland, filled with fat juicy Typhoons and Spitfires. A 262 on reconnaissance, equipped with the big Rb 50/30 aerial cameras, had brought back pictures of them lined up like a holiday parade.

His thoughts, as always, swung like a pendulum between his absorption with the Turbo and the pain of losing Lyra. It would be wonderful if she had somehow made it back to Stockholm. She had contacts—perhaps they arranged for it without Hafner knowing. Perhaps she was with Ulrich right now, warm and safe.

It was time. He wiped the thoughts of Lyra away with pressure on the throttles. Twenty 262s followed him, catching up with the mass of German fighters just as they hit the field boundaries. It was a picture-perfect attack on an airfield insolent with Allied riches. There were fuel trucks everywhere, and row after row of parked aircraft, not just fighters as reported, but some medium bombers as well, a B-25, a B-26, and, lined up on parade, a row of transport planes. What a picnic!

He aimed carefully. The 30-mm cannons of the Turbo were slow firing, but the punch they packed did the job. He flashed down the ramp areas, shooting quickly and economically. Smashing the Spitfires gave him a savage pleasure—they'd been such a damnable threat for so long and their pilots were so arrogant. He was over the Spits in a flash, firing at the rows of Typhoons without the same vindictive glee. The Typhoons were tank-busters, easy meat for a Turbo in air combat. They burned beautifully, in the air or on the ground.

The flak troops were asleep at their post during the first half of his run; by the airfield boundary they'd begun to open up. It was all over in seconds. What was it the English were supposed to say—"a piece of cake"?

He was out of ammunition. The others in his flight of jets should be, too, if they'd followed instructions. There wasn't going to be a second pass, the Turbos were too valuable to risk, but he pulled up tight to check the damage—there were fires everywhere, probably fifty aircraft destroyed. If every other unit did as well, it would be the Great Blow, after all.

Josten climbed, then took his formation in a huge circle at nine thousand meters, checking back to see how the piston-engine fighters were doing. He saw them in great gaggles, no formation at all, just herds of planes hurtling back toward German lines. Once again a wall of flak erupted, this time Allied, and he could see planes dropping down, burning, cherry blossom comets in the sky.

Jesus Christ! The escape route led right through the flak alley set up for the V-1s! What terrible planning—to waste those beautiful aircraft like that. It was criminal!

Well, too bad. At least they weren't Turbos. It looked as though they had not lost any jets at all. Langner was still with him on his left. He tried to picture Langner's face and could not. It bothered him—they'd played a game of chess only an hour before the takeoff. He forced himself to concentrate, staring out the windscreen, trying to conjure up his face. No, he couldn't. It was the long training, the repression of feelings, the unwillingness to get involved at any human level.

Back at Hespe, he carefully checked over his own Turbo and saw to it that the other pilots inspected theirs. It was easy to pick up damage on a low-level attack—and the overworked ground crews might not notice it. The Turbo was like a thoroughbred racehorse: it had to be coddled.

A triumphant Goering declared a stand-down for the rest of the day, and there was lots of drinking and eating. Langner, jubilant, came over to congratulate him.

Josten stared at him.

"You know, I tried to picture your face when we were coming back, and I couldn't do it."

"No wonder. My face is nothing. Wasn't this a great day? As a pioneer with the Turbos, you must have enjoyed it." He cursed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth—this would get Josten started!

"They can write the epitaph of the Turbo with just three words, 'Engines and Stupidity.' " Christ, Langner thought, he's launched, and I'm pinned in this chair!

As he went on Langner slid down in the chair, appalled that he had triggered a story he'd heard a hundred times before—the turbine blades, Josten's lonely attack at Ploesti, the raid on Regensburg-Pruefening, Hitler's idiocy. Well,
he
was the idiot—he should never have said the word "Turbo" to Josten. It was a standard Kg 51 joke—never mention the Turbo to Josten.

"And then, when they started producing engines in June of 1944, we didn't have the training we needed, we . . ."

Josten droned on, eyes glittering, no longer seeing Langner, talking about all the near triumphs and the great defeats, repeating himself, telling what the situation might have been, then launching into what still needed to be done.

At some point Josten looked at the chair and shook his head. Langner was gone. In the old days a
Leutnant
would never have left while an
Oberst
was talking.

That night they were able to begin to analyze the results. The pilots were claiming eight hundred Allied planes had been destroyed or damaged. Reconnaissance photos showed that less than four hundred were definitely destroyed. Not bad for youngsters. The Luftwaffe losses were known precisely—227, more than half of them by their own flak! Criminal!

Josten went back to his quarters, anxious to be alone. One fact was obvious. The Allies would make up their losses in a week—the Luftwaffe never could.

***

Chapter 13

Dayton, Ohio/February 14, 1945

Patty Bandfield heard his footsteps and switched off the bedside radio. "When a Girl Marries" was a private vice, one of the few things she refused to share with the wild ball of energy now pounding up the stairs. He moved as always, a whirlwind bounding off walls, lunging ahead full speed as if someone might be passing him on the way to the top of the stairs. The war had not changed him much physically. Recently, though, he had become a totally different man psychologically, far more introspective. As much as she'd loved him before, she loved him more now—and liked him even better.

"Bandy, you'll never grow up. At least I hope not. But Charlotte's due back from her piano lesson any minute, and Hadley's taken to coming home at odd hours."

"So I'm stuck with the secret bumps in the night, if I'm lucky?"

"If you're lucky. Anyway, you're not serious. I can tell when you're really feeling sexy—now you're just playing the old hotshot pilot role." She pursed her lips and said, "You've either found a used car you want to buy, or Caldwell's setting you up to send you off again."

He shrugged and smiled warily.

"Don't you ever get tired of him running you around?"

He turned serious. "I didn't even think about it until I came back from Guadalcanal. And it didn't really bother me until Jim Lee got promoted to colonel. I finally figured out that I was getting lots of good jobs—and other guys were getting promoted. Bouncing around from one outfit to another is interesting, but it doesn't help your career."

"You don't have a career—you just go where Caldwell tells you to go. What's bothering you?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed. "I might as well tell you. I got a call from that Chaudet guy who interviewed me out in Burbank. Remember, he's with the Truman Committee?"

"Vaguely. What did he want?"

"Well, he's working with the Justice Department now. He went out on a limb for me—told me that they are looking at my role in the McNaughton mess."

She was silent and he went on. "From where I'm sitting, it looks like Lee and Caldwell might both go to jail."

"What are they after you for? You had nothing to do with it."

"No, but I didn't volunteer anything either. Chaudet said that there was some talk about 'obstruction of justice.' Can you imagine that? That's why I'm glad Caldwell's sending me out of the country—they'll stay off my back until I get back, I hope, and by then who knows what will happen."

So this was the cause of the changes in him. Once he'd been eager to go into combat, as if he had a compulsion to put himself in harm's way. He'd been outspoken, impatient, always charging. Now, torn by conflicting ideals, he was often depressed and certainly far more reflective than he'd ever been. She had thought—hoped—that it was just maturity, having to do with what he'd seen and done in the war. It wasn't—it was this Caldwell mess.

"Well, if they're talking about 'obstruction of justice' by you, that must mean they're preparing a case against Henry."

"Yeah, they sure are. He has an old buddy in the Judge Advocate General's office who risked a court martial to bootleg an abstract for him. They've got a charge sheet a mile long, ranging from conflict of interest to taking bribes to misuse of government aircraft. It looks as if they're trying to build a big case, to prove to Congress that the Army will clean up its own act."

"Is he guilty?"

"Not on the bribery charges—he was set up. But he did use government planes to fly down to Nashville to see Elsie. And I sometimes wonder if there isn't some truth to the conflict of interest—he was mesmerized by Elsie, and he let Troy talk him into things he wouldn't have done otherwise."

Patty threw her arms around his shoulders as he said bitterly, "There's a lot of jealousy out there. Caldwell is the only guy on the procurement side to make three star general, and there are lots of people who'd like to see him humbled. And he's been rough when he needed to be, made a lot of enemies."

"Well, what's he got in store for you this time?"

During the early years of the war, Bandfield had religiously observed the protocols of military security with Patty. But mid-way, in 1943, when the problems with the long-range fighter and the McNaughton jets had become overwhelming, he'd begun confiding in her. He was violating security regulations, but it helped him and the war effort. And Patty was too wise ever to trip up.

"This one should be a lot of fun, and not too dangerous. I'm supposed to organize a team of top-notch pilots, guys who can fly strange new airplanes without any check-out, and then follow our troops as they overrun Germany, snatching up German airplanes, equipment, scientists, data, whatever we can get. It's going to be a race with the British and the Russians. My part's called 'Operation Lusty'—great name, eh?"