Stuka Pilot

Wrapped in my thoughts I head for home. We land and go into the flying control building. Fridolin is not there; they tell me he has been summoned to Group H.Q. Does that mean…? I jerk myself sharply out of my depression.

“Niermann, ring up the squadron at Reichenberg and brief them for a fresh attack and fix the next rendezvous with our fighter escort.” I study the map of the situation… what is the use? Where is Fridolin all this time? I see a Storch land outside, that will be he. Shall I dash out? No, better wait in here… it seems to be very warm for this time of the year… and the day before yesterday two of my men were ambushed and shot dead by Czechs in civilian clothes… Why is Fridolin away so long? I hear the door open and somebody comes in; I force myself not to turn round. Someone coughs softly. Niermann is still speaking on the telephone… so that was not Fridolin. Niermann is having trouble getting through… it is a funny thing I notice that today my brain is registering every detail very sharply… silly little things without the least significance.

I turn round, the door opens… Fridolin. His face is haggard, we exchange glances and suddenly my throat is parched. All I can say is: “Well?”

“It’s all over… unconditional surrender!” Fridolin’s voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

The end… I feel as though I were falling into a bottomless abyss, and then in blurred confusion they fall pass before my eyes: the many comrades I have lost, the millions of soldiers who have perished on the sea and in the air and on the battlefield… the millions of victims slaughtered in their homes in Germany… the oriental hordes which will now inundate our country… Fridolin suddenly snaps out:

“Hang up that blasted telephone, Niermann. The war is over!”

“We shall decide when we stop fighting,” says Niermann.

Someone guffaws. His laughter is too loud, it is not genuine. I must do something… say something… ask a question…

“Niermann, tell the squadron at Reichenberg that a Storch is landing in an hour from now with important orders.”

Fridolin notices my helpless embarrassment and goes into details in an agitated voice.

“A retirement westward is definitely out… the English and the Americans have insisted on an unconditional surrender by the 8th of May… that is today. We are ordered to hand over everything to the Russians unconditionally by 11 to-night. But as Czechoslovakia is to be occupied by the Soviets it has been decided that all German formations shall retire as fast as possible to the West so as not to fall into Russian hands. Flying personnel are to fly home or anywhere…”

“Fridolin,” I interrupt him, “parade the wing.” I cannot sit still and listen to any more of this. But will not what you have now to do be an even greater ordeal?… What can you tell your men?… They have never yet seen you despondent, but now you are in the depths—Fridolin breaks in upon my thoughts:

“All present and correct.” I go out. My artificial limb makes it impossible for me to walk properly. The sun is shining in its full spring glory… here and there a slight haze shimmers silvery in the distance… I come to a stop in front of my men.

“Comrades!”…

I cannot go on. Here stands my 2nd Squadron, the 1st is stationed down in Austria… shall I ever set eyes on it again? And the 3rd at Prague… Where are they now, now when I want so much to see them round me… all… our dead comrades as well as the survivors of the unit…

There is an uncanny hush, the eyes of all my men are riveted upon me. I must say something.

“…after we have lost so many comrades… after so much blood has flowed at home and on the fronts… an incomprehensible fate… has denied us victory… the gallantry of our soldiers… of our whole people… has been unparalleled… the war is lost… I thank you for the loyalty with which you… in this unit… have served our country…”

I shake hands with every man in turn. None of them utters a word. The silent hand-grip shows me that they understand me. As I walk away for the last time I hear Fridolin snap the order:

“Eyes-right!”

“Eyes-right!” for the many, many comrades who sacrificed their young lives. “Eyes-right!” for the conduct of our people, for their heroism, the most splendid ever shown by a civilian population. “Eyes-right!” for the finest legacy that Germany’s dead have ever bequeathed to posterity… “Eyes-right!” for the countries of the West which they have striven to defend and which are now caught in the fatal embrace of Bolshevism…

What are we to do now? Is the war over for the “Immelmann” Wing? Could we not give the youth of Germany a reason to hold up their heads in pride again one day by some final gesture, such as crashing the whole Wing onto some G.H.Q. or other important enemy target and by such a death bringing our battle record to a significant climax? The Wing would be with me to a man, I am sure of that. I put the question to the group. The answer is no… perhaps it is the right one… there are enough dead… and perhaps we have still another mission to fulfill.