The Vengeance of Rome (94 page)

Von Stohler was a civilised, worldly fellow with fine features and elegant manners. He was highly respected by the Spaniards. I dined with him in his private apartments while he sketched in the background of the war situation. Tomorrow, he said, I would be sent on to Zaragoza. Franco was about to make a big push against the Republicans, and my machine would be needed to fly silently overhead relaying back the enemy positions. Reassured that I could remain aloft for several hours in this way while coming and going at will, von Stohler sketched out the kind of territory I would be scouting.

‘We have tanks and aircraft at our disposal,' he told me. ‘But the Spanish generals are of the old school. They scarcely know how to use such ordnance to advantage. If you can give us Republican positions, let us know roughly what kind of armaments they possess, how well defended they are and so on, we can then deploy our fighters, heavy arms and mobile forces. Do you foresee any kind of problem with this?'

I did not. I was eager to demonstrate my one-man airship. If I did well in this theatre, I would almost certainly be allowed to expand my activities and build some of my larger machines. I could further develop my idea of flying infantry. I became very cheerful at the prospect of taking to the air again.

Shortly before I returned to my hotel von Stohler had a visitor. There came a sharp knock on his door, and two high-ranking Falange soldiers stood there saluting. Passing between these men came a short, rather stout individual in full uniform. He, too, saluted in the conventional way and held out his hand first to von Stohler and then to me. I was astonished. The soldier was Franco himself. His eyes were cautious, rather distant, above a well-trimmed Hitler moustache. In his courteous Spanish he thanked me for volunteering in the Nationalist cause. He understood that I was of Spanish extraction. I was a patriot and a hero, he said. My nation honoured me. Heroism such as mine would be rewarded. Had we not met somewhere before? The Balearics, perhaps?

I had not met him as far as I remembered. He was insistent. I agreed I had spent a little time in Minorca with some Italian friends before the War,
but I did not elaborate. When politely Stohler let me know that he and the Generalissimo had important matters to discuss, I raised my hat and left.

For some reason I felt a certain chill in my bones as I walked back to the hotel. I could not rid myself of fears for Mrs Cornelius, imprisoned on Hitler's orders. Why I associated that meeting with Franco, which had been perfectly civil, with my last moments with Hitler, when I had seen him glaring at me, I do not know. I piss in Hitler's mouth. I shit in Hitler's eyes. My whip rises and falls. Blood and excrement splatter against the sheets. Mrs Cornelius weeps behind bars. Hitler lusts for her. I shake my head to rid it of these bizarre images. Franco and Hitler had nothing in common, least of all their sexual tendencies. Even Mussolini had more in common with the Spanish dictator.

Two days later I was in Zaragoza. A cool, golden morning on a tranquil airfield. I watched my
Luftgeist
swell and strain as she was filled with hydrogen from a mobile tanker. While I would have preferred them to use helium gas, none was available to us. That rare element was a by-product of the US oil industry, and America needed it all for her own military projects. I was in no real danger, however, from the gas. Only a tracer bullet could ignite it, and nobody would use such ammunition against a machine the size of mine. I tested my harness and the controls, keeping the machine tethered for safety. Everything responded very well. We were ready for our first real flight! Even concerns for Mrs Cornelius were forgotten as I anticipated the pleasure to come.

On 16 March we heard that Barcelona had again been bombed by the Italians based in Majorca. The squadron was led by the dashing young air ace Bruno Mussolini. Evidently his father had found time to give him lessons or commissioned another airman to train him! I must admit I felt a pang of jealousy, a sense of betrayal. That honour should have been mine. The Germans, however, were critical of these raids. They saw Bruno as a typical Italian romantic, a young glory-seeker. Mussolini had achieved very little, they insisted, save to harden Republican resistance. Not long after this Bruno was removed from his squadron and recalled to Rome, some said after Hitler had telephoned Mussolini.

The next day, feeling a certain nervousness as well as excitement, I stood with a pair of Spanish aviators on a small airfield near the recently liberated town of Alcañiz watching as Nationalist soldiers steadied the guy ropes of my little airship so that I could be buckled into the combined airsuit and airframe and check that I had clear access to my instruments, my radio and my supply of water. The small fuel tank limited my range. I
was unarmed. The engine was controlled from handlebars rather like those on a motorbike. The ailerons were adjusted from the stirrups in which I placed my feet.

My colleagues wished me good luck. I would be up for some six hours or more and had eaten a very hearty breakfast to maintain my energy. We had another beautiful, fresh morning with clear skies in all directions. For my safety I would have preferred a rather cloudier sky, since I would easily be visible from the ground. From the ground few artillerymen would be able to get my range so I had little to fear. The Spanish flyers reassured me. Even if they spotted me and recognised my ship for what it was, the Republicans had very little in the way of fighting aircraft left and few anti-aircraft guns.

Would I have attempted that flight just for the sake of it if I had no fears for Mrs Cornelius's safety? I think I would.

A few minutes later, settled comfortably into my apparatus, I squeezed the handlebar forward, gunning my engine to life. I heard the satisfying whine of the airscrew turning behind me. By moving my legs and feet I controlled my height; with my hands I could angle the machine from side to side. The radio operator's voice came clearly through my headphones. I replied in the affirmative and, as the soldiers let go of the anchor lines, ascended a little erratically into the sky. At first the gas-filled wing responded sluggishly. Then I had the sense of weightlessness one gets from ascending in a hot-air balloon. I felt a little sick with excitement. The ground fell steadily away. Soon I had reached a height of five hundred feet and could look down at the Spanish and German soldiers waving to me as I turned in a graceful sweep to the east, following the railway line which would take me towards my destination, marked on a map-board strapped to my left forearm.

I had never in my life felt such freedom or such personal triumph! My sufferings and humiliations were forgotten. At last I was rising above all the conflicts and pain of the world, experiencing the epiphany I had longed for ever since, as a child, I had soared over the rooftops of Kiev to the amazed delight of little Esmé Loukianoff, my only sweetheart. This was my first true escape, the escape of flight!

Checking the compass strapped to my wrist just below the map-board, I kept a steady course, gradually climbing until I was safe from anything but the most precise long-range anti-aircraft fire. The plains of Aragon rolled away before me, rising towards a line of low hills. Already on the roads I saw columns of trucks and infantry, some cavalry even. I observed no other aircraft in this area but understood that German pilots had been briefed to look out for me and not shoot me down! My markings were clearly Nationalist. Following the railway line I found several trains, some waiting in sidings to move men and munitions up to the front, and used my radio to report that all was well. I was extremely impressed by Franco's war effort. I had been told the Spanish of both sides were poorly armed, but I saw no sign of this. I was involved in a sophisticated modern war, not the confused conflict I had witnessed in Ukraine so many years before.

When I was convinced I had sufficient momentum and the prevailing wind was on my side, I switched off my engine to save precious fuel and let myself drift towards the enemy lines. I tested my radio again and was pleased to hear my own operator responding from the home base. I reported that I had seen no enemy yet.

Ahead were the hills and a series of shallow valleys. As I descended to get my bearings, a whole squadron of Heinkels roared past above me, dropping down upon a long earthworks behind which I now saw the Republican troops sheltering. Machine guns rattled. The ground spurted into life as bullets hit it and light artillery returned the aircrafts' fire. This skirmish between lightly armed Spaniards and German aircraft had its inevitable result. The Republicans had no chance. They were being wiped out and, as tanks appeared, began to fall back, heading for the low hills behind them.

I hovered, knowing I would be unwise to follow, watching as the Reds were chased all the way up the shallow valley. I was witnessing a rout, and I felt almost sorry for the Republicans who were dropping in dozens. Eventually the survivors broke and fled in all directions. The planes turned and headed back towards their aerodrome, leaving me alone in the sudden silence of that cool, blue sky. I made radio contact and reported the incident. Now tanks and trucks were advancing, followed by the infantry. Aragon must soon fall to the Nationalists. Surely it would only be a matter of time before Barcelona was under siege.

Suddenly a voice broke into my headphones. In Spanish, I was being asked to investigate a low line of hills a little to my left where intelligence thought a division of the International Brigade was holding out. Obediently I gunned my engine. Turning my beautiful ship in a long slow dive, I felt like a huge shark making my predatory way through clear water. The little airscrew roaring behind me, my feet operating the stirrups which gave me extra lift, my hands directing me over the hills. I did not even hear the shots which struck my controls, puncturing the gasbag. How on earth had a few men with rifles managed to hit me? I cast around and saw some battlements. An old castle. A marksman hidden behind the stone walls?

The semi-rigid hull was compartmentalised. Only one section was leaking gas. I could easily get back to the aerodrome. I turned on my radio but failed to make contact. I was being jammed.

A real fear began to overcome me when I made to cut my engine off again and drift away from the enemy positions. The bar controlling the motor refused to respond. I tried everything I could to switch it off, but it still failed to answer my commands. The engine continued to roar, pushing me dangerously close to the line of hills. I was using far too much of my fuel. If I did not cut the engine quickly, I would be unable to make it back to my base under power. The best I could do was to try to gain height. Cautiously I crept up a few thousand feet where it was bitterly cold. The gas continued to escape from the hole the bullet had made, making the machine practically impossible to control.

I tried again to cut power, but the engine pounded on relentlessly. The airscrew at full throttle, I had soon overshot the hills, seeing no troops, but heading rapidly towards the coast. I was now far too deep into Republican territory, heading roughly in the direction of Tarragona and the sea, though I would run out of fuel long before I reached the Mediterranean. Any hope I might have of finding Majorca, say, and her friendly Italian-dominated skies, was baseless.

For an hour, keeping my height to avoid being shot at from below, I tried to stop the engine, but the whole thing remained jammed. Eventually the motor began to sputter and groan. My petrol was almost gone. Another few minutes and the propeller stopped. I was still airborne, but without any means of steering what had effectively become a small lopsided balloon. I was losing height as the left-hand wing, leaking hydrogen, continued to collapse.

I had no parachute, no means of unbuckling my harness without sending myself pitching straight towards the distant ground. Towns and villages sailed by below me. From my map and my compass I saw how prevailing winds would take me eventually to the sea. If I crashed into the Mediterranean at night I would have little chance of surviving but would sink with the remains of my ship. I could only hope that the wind changed again and took me back towards Zaragoza, but there seemed little chance of that.

Evening came. As it grew cooler, I began to drop slowly towards the ground. The sea was closer. The possibility of drowning was increasingly likely. I struggled in my suit, trying to discover a safe way of unhooking and unbuckling myself from the frame, but I could do nothing.

I remember a sense not so much of despair as of fatalism. I hardly saw any point in praying for survival. With my death Mrs Cornelius was free to marry again. My career as an airman was once again cut short by unfriendly Fate. God had no use for me as a flyer. I had cultivated the hubris of Icarus. I promised God that if He should save me now I would never try this experiment again. How many times now had I attempted solo flight only to be sent hurtling groundwards? Now there was even more chance of my dying. God had the common good in mind, not my personal glory! My cities would carry our children to a new security. My cities would fly. As I reconciled myself to my destiny, the fluttering wing collapsed, and I began rapidly to descend.

I was lucky. I came down at night unseen in a rocky field only a short distance from the water. Anticipating my descent, I grabbed tree limbs to slow my progress, using my flailing legs to fling my body backwards, employing the partially deflated gasbag to cushion my fall. I was badly bruised and scratched, but no bones were broken. I began hastily to unstrap myself until I was clear of the apparatus. Exhausted and demoralised, I had no idea of my bearings but knew I had to get away from the little airship as soon as possible. Its Nationalist markings identified me as one of Franco's men. Aragon was notoriously communistic. The local peasants would tear me to pieces if they knew I had been involved in the attack on their defeated forces.

Luckily I still wore a civilian shirt and trousers, stout boots and a scarf around my neck. The rest of my suit had been built into the harness. I had no money, of course. No papers. I was cold and hungry. My water was used up. I could salvage nothing.