Ghosts of the Past (3 page)

Hignite and Gernert arrived the same time as the flashlight.

Hignite spoke first. “We’re going south I presume.”

“Very perceptive Max.” Heinrich looked up from the map in front of them. “Now shut up and listen. You’re going into Switzerland, and you’re not coming back.”

Heinrich’s briefing took less than ten minutes. The flight plan was simple and the discreet destination clear-cut. At this point, neither Hignite nor Gernert had any illusions as to why they were going and what they were transporting. It was even clearer when Heinrich lifted his map, and the captain’s checklist, still lying on top of the crate next to the closed briefcase, was exposed for all of them to see.

Hignite picked it up and studied it briefly, “I’m not much of an art expert, but I’d say we’ve got enough masterpieces here to rival some of the best museums in the world.”

“I’d always heard he was quite the collector.” Gernert observed.

“Yeah, of art that belongs to everybody else.” interrupted Heinrich. “I’ve been told that he’s amassed an incredible collection by stealing, blackmail, and in most cases, murdering off anyone connected to the goods you’re about ready to fly off with. His own private assemblage of wealth, while the rest of Germany and our people are destined to suffer for years to come. Max, you had better get moving, before I lose control of my senses and blow-up that plane right here and now.”

“Dieter, I can make that plane disappear once I lift off!”

“I realize that Max, and the thought has crossed my mind, but I value the lives of my family, and my life, too. There is no doubt we would perish immediately if that plane does not make it safely to Glarus.”

“I understand Dieter. Myself and Gernert here will check out of this war and deliver the Reichmarshall’s precious cargo intact, so I can come back to visit you after this hell is over.”

At that moment two privates, slapping their hands together to stay warm, accompanied by the lieutenant, stepped in between them. Apologetically the lieutenant spoke to Heinrich, “Excuse me Herr Oberst, but we need to load the last of the cargo,
bitte.”

With an acknowledging nod from Heinrich, the two soldiers slid the briefcase to the middle of the crate, lifted them up, and made their way waddling toward the plane. Hignite turned slightly as if to look away, discretely folded up the checklist, and slipped it into the pocket of his flight jacket.

“It’s time Max.” Heinrich said with a sigh. “Here, you might need this.” He handed the flashlight to Hignite.

Hignite looked back, took the flashlight and tucked it into his flight jacket, nodded in agreement, and then turned to Gernert. “Are you ready Oberleutnant?”

“As I’ll ever be, sir.” replied Gernert.

“Please call me Max.”

“Only if you call me Rudi.”

“That I can do.”

The three of them turned and followed the trampled, wet grass to the waiting aircraft.

“Rudi if you want to get on board, I’ll give her a quick once over,” Hignite shouted as he walked to the front of the Ju-52, beginning a cursory inspection of what had been the workhorse and backbone of the Luftwaffe’s transport fleet.

With a wing span of just under 96 feet (29.25m) and a length of 62 feet (18.9m), her three BMW 132T engines were capable of handling a fully loaded weight of up to 24,000 pounds (11m030kg), and Hignite figured they were going to test that capacity tonight. He noted that this one had seen plenty of hours, but because there were no armaments, she had probably seen very little, if any, of the combat zones.

Satisfied with her external condition, Hignite waved up at Gernert, who had settled himself into the cockpit, ducked under the front engine, and walked up to Heinrich. He looked over to see the caravan of trucks, re-loaded with their human cargo, pulling away under the direction of Goering’s captain. Disappearing from whence they came as if this evening never happened.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye Dieter.”

“Good luck Max. Stay in Switzerland until this is over… it won’t be long. And be careful when you meet this Hauptmann Brewer, I don’t trust anyone affiliated with the Reichmarshall, particularly when it comes to something as clandestine as this.”

“
Danke
. You would have made a great pilot and even better wingman Dieter. I’ll watch my backside. And I’ll look forward to hoisting a beer with you very soon.”

With that, the two men shook hands, hesitated, and embraced each other as if they would never see each other again.

Hignite backed away as the first of the wing engines coughed, sputtered and them came to life. He saluted Heinrich, turned, and climbed aboard as the roar of the second and third engines drowned out the peaceful sounds of the night.

By the time Hignite had crawled into the cockpit, strapped himself in, and pulled on his headgear, Gernert had the plane ready for take-off. Hignite took the wheel and Gernert applied the throttle as they made a slow one hundred and eighty degree turn away from the wood line out onto the open field. At that moment the captain came running up to Heinrich, as the prop wash threw a chilling blast of air against the both of them.

“Herr Oberst.” The captain yelled over the noise. “My list, the briefcase, do you have them?”

“
Nein.
If I’m not mistaken they went on board with everything else.”

“
Verdammen,
” muttered the captain.

Without any hesitation, Gernert drove the throttles forward and the Junkers bumped its way down the field and lifted off into the bright moonlit sky.

First Lieutenant Bruce Miller, USAAF, was having a hard time enjoying the beautiful moonlit evening. The majestic, snow covered mountains and valleys were all around him, bathed in a heavenly blue-white spotlight, as he navigated over them in his P-51B Mustang fighter. The object of his concern was just off his port wing. Second lieutenant Charlie Hathaway was struggling to keep himself conscious, and his chewed up P-51 in the air.

The bright moonlight highlighted the olive and black camouflage finish of his aircraft, revealing a starboard wing badly riddled with .50 caliber holes from a close encounter with a Messerschmitt Me-109 earlier in the evening. However, most obvious was the canopy on the same side that was halfway disintegrated, and the inside of the cockpit littered with Plexiglas, oil and the blood from Mr. Hathaway.

He was still in radio contact with Miller, who was doing everything in his power to keep Hathaway on target and awake. The two of them had become separated from the rest of the squadron while they had gone into action as bomber escorts over Nuremberg earlier in the evening. After Hathaway had been hit, they had drifted considerably further south than Miller wanted, but Hathaway was still flying and appeared to be alert. Miller knew they had plenty of fuel to return to base, and because of the terrain they had deviated over, and the banged-up condition his wingman was in, he knew that they had to try to make it home. Trying to ditch here or parachute out was probably suicide. Hathaway still had enough of his senses to realize that as well.

“Where are we now, Brew?” Hathaway’s voice came through the radio.

“You be comin’ ’round the mountains buddy! Try to bring her to port a couple degrees, and hold steady on the altitude.”

Hathaway had been flying half blind for the last twenty minutes and he was losing track of time. His goggles were fogging up and they were caked in blood that had splattered from the serious damage inflicted on the right side of his body.

He had taken two rounds. One had sliced through the bottom of the right thigh, exited above his knee and lodged in the instrument panel. The second entered at the right shoulder blade and stayed at home. On top of that were the multitude of Plexiglas shards from the exploding cockpit that had embedded themselves from the right elbow, up the shoulder, into the neck and side of his face.

The loss of blood was starting to take its toll, along with the limited oxygen and the icy cold air that was rushing through the gaping hole in the cockpit. Ironically, the freezing temperature had done a very good job of cauterizing the wounds and slowing the blood flow.

“It’s a beautiful night out Charlie. Stay alert and don’t you nod off on me. We’re both gonna make it back, do ya hear me?” Miller yelled into his microphone with his unmistakable, south Alabama drawl.

“If it wasn’t for the wind whistling through my ears and all the holes in my body, I’d hear you loud and clear.” Hathaway could still make out the picture of his wife and three month old son taped to the inside of the front windscreen. “But I copy. Just keep me straight and true.”

Hignite was also having a hard time enjoying the brilliant scenery unfolding beneath them. His concern was that it was so clear out. He was flying an unarmed transport in hostile skies that belonged to the allies, and there wasn’t a lick of cover if he was spotted. The movement of Gernert’s head as it searched up and down the sky through his window belied his nervousness too. They had been in the air about ten minutes and were about ready to cross the Swiss border, where they both, without acknowledging it, knew they could probably afford to relax slightly and enjoy the flight. There had been little conversation between the two other than confirmation of instrument data and heading.

“Do you have anybody back home that’s going to miss you?” Hignite broke the tense silence. “Any family or loved ones I mean.”

“My parents are dead, they were both killed in a raid on Augsberg, and my brother has been a P.O.W. for over a year. Not to mention, you would have to be crazy to try to marry a girl in the middle of a war. Hell, that’s if I could find one,” sighed Gernert.

“I’m sorry about your parents. But since we’re about to go missing in action, it’s a good thing nobody’s going to lose any sleep over us.”

“That sounds like you’re without family as well.” Gernert inquired.

“My family wised up and got out of Germany in ’39. They immigrated to America shortly thereafter. How’s that for coincidences. I’m fighting against the very country my parents now call home.”

“Do they know you’re alive?”

“As of November of ’44. That was the last time I got mail out. We were… uh oh we’ve got company, four o’clock low.”

As Gernert leaned over and stretched his neck to look out the right-hand window, the silhouettes of two American-made P-51 Mustangs against the snow-covered mountains were clearly visible roughly 500 feet below. They had just come through an adjoining pass and they were flying into the oncoming valley at a forty-five degree angle toward the Ju-52.

The faint reflection of the aircraft caught Miller’s eye almost immediately as it emerged from the adjacent valley. He had not had an opportunity to engage one, but he was quite familiar with the three engine outline of the German Ju-52 Junkers aircraft. This was very much an unwelcome surprise. Nevertheless, it presented a sitting duck at exactly the moment that revenge was in Miller’s heart.

“Damn Charlie, we got a bogie at two o’clock high. Looks like a Junker out for a midnight spin.” Miller yelled into the radio, scanning the sky all around the enemy intruder. Doesn’t look like he has company either.”

“Do what you have to do Brew, just point me in the right direction and go,” came the reply.

Miller hesitated as he looked down the valley and considered the consequences of leaving Hathaway on his own to go hunting.

Hignite was already pulling up and away as he started to formulate a strategy to avoid the two American fighters.
There
are
no
clouds,
the
damn
Mustang
has
twice
the
speed
of
this
clunker,
there
are
two
of
them
and
one
of
us,
and
we
don’t
have
a
single
ounce
of
armament
on
board.

“We’re in big trouble, Rudi. I had hoped we would not run into anybody this far south, much less this low. Any thoughts?”

The Junker was elevating quickly as Hignite was making for the top of the first mountain ridge to the south.

“You’re headed south, that’s a good start! We can’t outrun them and we definitely can’t engage them. Gernert hesitated and then quickly added, “I would suggest we head for the deck.”

“I concur! We’re better off getting low enough to make their speed a liability in these valley walls. If I can turn in and out of these ruts, maybe we can cut down on their straight-line advantage. Hang on!” Hignite had reached the peak and immediately dove hard down the slope into the next valley.

Miller didn’t have much time to ponder the situation. The Junker was starting evasive action, with what looked to be an attempt to jump to the next valley.

“Charlie, I need ya to elevate a couple hundred feet and stay on your line. The valley is widenin’ out. I’m gonna go visit our friend. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Stay in contact and holler if you can’t see what your doin’.”

“I’m okay! Good hunting Brew.”

Miller’s P-51 was in a hard left turn climbing up and over the same southern ridge at full throttle. At roughly 380 miles per hour she was diving down the valley hard overtaking quickly the weighted down Junker who was also rattling under a maximum speed that was just over half of the American predator.

The pilot was good thought Miller. He was as low as he could get and he was seesawing back and forth as best he could in that boat. It looked heavy. Miller gained ground from behind, he thumbed the trigger to his weapons, and the four wing-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine guns exploded shells toward the weaving Junker. The lumbering transport pulled hard left and snaked into a contiguous ravine as the last of the Mustang’s burst slammed harmlessly into a rocky outcropping. Miller could not make the same turn at his speed, so he pulled up and made an ascending left hand turn until he was over the same ravine. The Junker was running straight down the line of a large stream below, and Miller plunged into the narrow gorge at a thirty-degree angle from above.