EAGLES OF PEENEMÜNDE
by
Vincent Formosa
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Eagles of Peenemünde
Copyright 2011 by Vincent Formosa
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
This is a novel. The characters and situations are an invention of the author and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Likewise, names, dialogue and opinions expressed are products of the authors imagination and not to be interpreted as real.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 6 - THAT WHICH IS OWED
CHAPTER 7 - UNDER FALSE COLOURS
CHAPTER 10 - THOSE THAT I GUARD
CHAPTER 11 - ONE PIECE AT A TIME
CHAPTER 13 - BUT A SHADOW OF MYSELF
CHAPTER 15 - THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
CHAPTER 16 - THOSE THAT I FIGHT
CHAPTER 17 - WHAT YOU LEAST EXPECT
CHAPTER 22 - HE THAT OUTLIVES THIS DAY
CHAPTER 23 - AS THE WORLD TURNS
CHAPTER 24 - THE GREATEST GIFT
* * * * *
Over Northern Europe
May 15 1944
The P-38 Lockheed Lightning slid through the roiled air as it scudded over the clouds just below. Sunlight sparkled as it caught the elegant curves of the fuselage and twin boom tail. Known as the fork-tailed devil, this particular P-38 was a little different from the standard fighter.
Modified for the photo reconnaissance role, the fearsome armament of four machine guns and a 20mm cannon in the nose had been replaced with three cameras. The airframe had been lightened and fitted with uprated Alison V12 engines for extra speed and the addition of drop tanks under the wings provided more range. Painted on the nose was a blue circle sporting a fair rendition of Betty Grable in a corset looking over her shoulder. Above the figure in red stencilled text was the word ‘Voyager’.
With the altimeter reading thirty five thousand feet, the pilot had little feeling of movement with the continent spread out below him. He leaned to his left and looked down to compare the terrain with the map spread across his lap. He followed a river with his finger and noted the kink as it curled west, checking it against where he thought he was. He grunted to himself as he did some rough calculations and figured he was easily thirty miles further south with Anklam ahead of him.
“Some tailwind,” he muttered to himself and changed course, angling north east to get back on track. After three and a half hours in the air, Lieutenant Robert Gray, United States Navy was regretting not wearing thicker socks. He’d lost the sensation in his toes and he tried wiggling them. Apart from that, it had been just like a training flight and he was looking forward to getting back. His suit had performed flawlessly and he hoped it would be enough to prove his project actually worked.
The Air Commodore would get his photographs and he would have an insurmountable body of evidence that would get him out from under Colonel Sullivan’s nose. He smiled to himself as he imagined what the officious prig’s reaction would be when he got back. He would be standing there, face stern, those thin bloodless lips pulled very tight indeed with a downward hook at the ends.
Gray looked at his map once more. He peered over the elongated nose of his P-38 but could still see nothing of the coast he expected to see ahead of him. The mission brief had been simple enough, hop over to Peenemünde, take some photos and then come home again. It was well within the range of his P-38 and he was confident he could fly high enough not to worry about enemy interception.
This may have been his first mission but he was also smart enough to know that overconfidence could get you killed. After talking to a lot of Photo Reconnaissance Unit (PRU) pilots, he knew you never stopped looking around the sky. It had been drummed home time and again to quarter the sky, constantly checking it for any telltale sign that someone was nearby. He fanned his fingers and peered through them up at the sun. He couldn’t see anything, but that meant little. A fighter could easily hide amongst the glare up there. Rocking the wings he looked around once more, straining in his rigid Bakelite helmet to peer backwards over the wings trailing edges.
He fingered the Jade ring his father had given him for luck through the thick material of his suit. He took reassurance from it being there. His father had worn it while flying a lot of long distance pioneering flights between the wars and always made it safely home. Hopefully, some of that good fortune would rub off on him.
Looking down, thick haze blocked his view but he could just make out little glimmers of the ground through breaks in the clouds. He glanced at his map and grumbled. According to what he could see he was now over the target area but he was damned if he was sure. Peenemünde was on the Baltic coast of Germany and the coastline should have been visible but it looked like the fickleness of central European weather was once again re-affirming its reputation.
The plane rocked from side to side slightly as he shifted in his seat and tried to stop his arse from going to sleep while he considered the options open to him. If it did not clear, he would get no photos. That left him with two choices. He could go back and report a failure which would mean somebody else having to come back to do it another day, or he could drop below the clouds until he could see something and accomplish the mission.
Gray was not prone to taking foolish risks but two things were driving him that day. First, the suit had worked perfectly under ‘mission’ conditions and he wanted to prove Sullivan wrong. Secondly, if he could make a go of this and pull it off, it might be enough to get some more high level backing for the project and get him out from under the Colonel’s feet.
Making his decision, he shoved the yoke forward, eased the throttles closed and watched the speed build up as the Lightning descended into the clouds and the altimeter wound down. Keeping the aircraft steady, he passed thirty thousand feet with the airspeed reading a little over five hundred and fifty knots indicated. He began to get the thrill he always got when flying fast. His heartbeat increased and the adrenalin began to surge. He wondered if this was what his father felt like on his long distance flights.
Passing twenty five thousand, he nosed through the cloud base and saw Peenemünde below him on the Baltic shoreline. He found a few landmarks and lined up on the installations that needed photographing. He would roll north up the coastline and finish over the airfield on the headland. Reaching down to his left he set the camera diaphragm to ‘cloudy’ then set the dial to ‘intervalometer’ and turned the master switch to on.
The cameras in the nose started running and the two hundred foot rolls of film began feeding from the loaded cartridges into two, twenty four inch split-vertical and one, six inch vertical camera. Each shot produced a nine by nine inch negative and would capture two square miles of terrain in its view. All Gray had to do was fly straight and level and keep it as steady as possible.
He glanced at the altimeter and his eyes strayed to the photograph of Lorraine tucked behind the bezel. A petite blonde in a polka dot dress smiled back at him and he reached out to touch the picture when the world came apart.
Big balls of yellow flashed overhead and he felt, rather than heard, a tremendous bang behind his seat as the canopy starred and shattered around him. Much of it carried away in the slipstream as one massive ball flashed in front of his face moving from right to left.
Gray slammed the yoke to the right, pulled back hard and shoved the throttles through their gates. The engines screamed in protest at the abuse as the superchargers wound up to full power and sucked up as much of the rarefied thin air as they could.
He looked over his shoulder as the G-forces built up and saw an aircraft right out of some kind of pulp comic book. Painted in a standard mottled green and grey Luftwaffe scheme, it had no propellers and went like a bat out of hell. It went screaming past and pulled away as if he was standing still. Obviously, it was a jet fighter, but Gray was stunned, he had never seen one so close.
He recovered Voyager from his break to the right and levelled off to assess the damage. He was dismayed by what he saw. There was a huge rent in the starboard wing and the yoke kept bucking in his hands. The oil pressure was starting to fall off in the starboard engine and it was sounding more than a little rough.
“Get a grip Robert,” he said aloud as he took stock of his situation.
His opponent was not in sight and for all he knew they could have zoomed into the clouds getting ready for another attack. He had lost a lot of his airspeed with the hard turn and was a few thousand feet below the cloud base. His only hope was to put the nose down and try to get away as fast as possible. His concern now was not whether he could complete the mission, but if he would make it home.
He shoved the yoke hard forward but cursed as it started to judder in his hands fit to bust. There was obviously something else damaged because the flutter in the control column was something fierce. Sunlight glinted off to his left and he could see the enemy jet closing in on him once more. As the range closed he realised he could not get away. He had a sick engine and lacked the manoeuvrability for an extended dogfight.
“I’m screwed,” he muttered to himself. He glanced at Lorraine’s photo to find the inrush of slipstream had sucked it out during the initial attack. Gray readied himself as the jet set up for the final pass. He counted the range down to himself; eyes fixed on the jet. He yanked the controls left, fighting her all the way, he tugged the P-38 onto her back, straining to dive vertical and reverse his course to increase the separation between himself and his attacker.
Then something incredible happened. Gray’s eyes went wide from shock as the German pilot hung the jet on its nose, kicking in rudder and firing from an unbelievable crossing angle. It was a high deflection shot that Voyager slid right into.
There were more bangs and the airframe began to come apart around him. The port engine coughed to a shattered halt, the blades of the airscrew thrashing in the air. The aluminium cowling blew into pieces as tongues of flame licked the airframe. It melted away like someone had an acetylene torch on it. Behind him, the twin tail booms began to separate and he could feel the yoke go slack as the control lines parted. The nose dipped and the Lightning took her death plunge.
“Time to exit I think.”
Yanking the hoses free, he mashed a fist down on his harness buckle and the straps released immediately. Bracing his legs on the floor, he pulled himself out of the cockpit. A piece of debris smashed off his helmet dazing him.
When his head cleared, he found himself free of the tumbling aircraft. Wasting no more time, he yanked his ripcord and then waited for a heart stopping moment before he felt his nuts around his throat and the straps of the parachute dug in. He looked up to see the canopy deployed properly and then he got a chance to assess his situation. With shock he realised he was heading for the bag. Tomorrow he would just be one more statistic in the newspaper; one of our aircraft is missing.
As he descended, he picked up more details of the area. To the east was the Baltic and all along the coastline heading north was a network of rail lines and roads. Many of them cut through woods linking various buildings and complexes.
He heard a high pitched whining coming up from behind and twisted in his harness to face the sound. The jet was coming around again, this time at a more leisurely pace, keeping its distance to avoid collapsing his chute.
“I’ll be damned,” he breathed. He could see the pilot waving to him and he cheerfully waved back, grinning like an idiot before the reality of his situation settled in again. This was a far cry from the comfort of the NACA station back in the States or testing at Martlesham Heath, but then he only had himself to blame, he had volunteered for this mission after all.
Ever since his arrival in England, bureaucracy had stalled Gray. As a Navy project, he was the odd man out at an airfield run jointly by the RAF and Army Air Force to test captured enemy airplanes and a bizarre menagerie of secret equipment. Colonel Sullivan had rapidly become his nemesis, burying him in administration and imposing a number of restrictions on the project. Gray knew why of course. When officialdom had something it did not know what to do with, it was stifled until it died a natural death.
Gray did not intend to let that happen but exactly how he was going to avoid the bullet Sullivan had marked his card with was another matter. Then an RAF Air Commodore had appeared like a magic carpet and it had been a simple matter of right place, right time.
When he was not flying, Gray had been in the habit of frequenting the nearby RAF PRU airfield at Bexley to learn operational techniques he could apply to his project. After sitting quietly at the back of the Ops room for an hour, an Air Commodore had swept in carrying a briefcase. Quick strides took him straight through to the Operations Officers cubicle and he slammed the door behind him. Those with jobs to do carried on with what they were doing but everyone had half an ear and eye trained on that office.
Voices had gone up a few notches behind the glass. Then the office door wrenched open and the Air Commodore came back out, face like thunder.
“It’s not good enough Squadron Leader, not good enough by far,” his voice boomed, dominating the space around him. “We’ve got to get these photos today before a predicted bank of bad weather moves in,”
“I’m very sorry sir, but everything we have serviceable is already up. What about the Mossies at Lakendown?” suggested the harassed operations officer.
“No joy I’m afraid, they’re up too.” The Air Commodore had replied.
Gray could understand the problem. He knew a lot of the PRU Spitfires were up having heard them take off in the early hours, their Griffon engines roaring into the dawn. His natural curiosity overcame him and he sidled over to the little conference that was now taking place as the Air Commodore pointed at the Ops board. Gray then broke the primary rule, ‘never volunteer’.
He had introduced himself, explained his aircraft was rigged for PRU work and high altitude flying and could be airborne in an hour. Shrewd eyes in a weather beaten face had looked at him, squinting as he was given a once over appraisal. It had taken the Air Commodore about five seconds to decide and before he could blink, they were in Sullivan’s office, the Colonel ghost white as it was explained to him.
If looks could kill, Gray had no doubt he would have been dead very shortly afterwards but he had the upper hand and knew it. It took a few more minutes to grind Sullivan down but in the end what could he do? A senior officer was telling him to make it happen; he acquiesced.
Gray regretted his foolhardiness as he watched what was left of his cherished airplane dive for the ground, a banner of flame trailing behind it. He winced as the fuselage and engines hit the ground with a dull thud. It exploded on contact and bits spewed back into the air before coming to rest amongst the long grass that covered the surrounding area.
His eyes moved to a column of vehicles heading in his direction. He could make out trucks speeding along a road, throwing up a ton of dust behind them as they got nearer. He grimaced as he saw there was no way of avoiding being captured.
Finally, the ground rushed up to meet him and he ran through the landing procedures he had been taught so long ago. Keep your legs braced together, knees slightly bent, grab the straps, look around yourself and try to judge what way you were swinging. He made a mess of things and landed heavily, the jolt of the impact taking him by surprise.
He fell backwards over a log as his legs buckled underneath him. Luckily, the ground was soft and damp so the only injury was to his dignity as he thrashed about in the mud and tough grasses. Then a strong gust of wind caught his parachute canopy and dragged him downwind, kicking and struggling to get out of his harness. His fist slammed hard against the release mechanism and the straps let go, the parachute billowing away and leaving him behind.
He lay there for a few minutes, his breath huffing and fogging his visor. Some birds wheeled overhead and he focused on them as he gathered his thoughts, mentally composing a letter to his father, telling him he was now a member of the Caterpillar Club and was headed for a prisoner of war camp. He ran the engagement through his head and his pride stung with the mess he had landed himself in.
As he brooded on what had happened he heard a screech of brakes on gravel so he sat up and looked around. Less than two hundred yards away there was a road where two trucks filled with soldiers were waiting. Some had already jumped down and were making their way towards him, picking their way across the marshland.
Accepting his fate, he rolled over onto all fours and then hauled himself up to a standing position. He took his fur lined gloves off and then released the locking ring on his helmet. He let it drop to the ground as German soldiers surrounded him.
“Hande Hoch.” The nearest one shouted, motioning with their rifle what they wanted him to do. Slowly he raised his arms and clenched them behind his head as he turned to face his captors. None of them looked pleased to see him, and he kept his attention focused on the one that told him to stick his hands up. Their rifle flicked and indicated the truck. Nodding acceptance he started walking towards it,
The whining sound was coming from behind him again and he just had time to turn his head before the jet flashed past him at high speed. He whistled through his teeth and turned to make a comment to his captors.
He barely got one word out before the brass butt of a rifle connected with his head and sent him pitching to the ground.
Gray came to with the biggest headache he could imagine. Gradually the molasses mussing his brain started to clear and the memories came flooding back. His head throbbed like a son of a bitch and he winced when he moved too fast.
He opened his eyes in surprise when a cool hand touched his face and cradled his head. Another hand dabbed at his forehead with cotton wool. What he saw astounded him. Probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen was leaning over him. Her face was creased in concern as she tended to a deep scratch on his forehead where his helmet had cut him earlier.
She had flawless pale skin, grey blue eyes and raven dark hair pulled back in a single plait framing a long face with a thin aquiline nose and full lips. He could feel her breath on his face and he could smell a faint hint of peppermint mixed in with aviation fuel, cordite and lavender.
Who is she? he wondered.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she said in good but accented English, the tone husky and dusted with cinnamon. His heart did cartwheels even while his head creased him.
“Where am I?” he mumbled, his voice deep with a Midwestern burr and a hint of Southern twang.
“The Heeresversuchsanstalt.” He quirked his head, not understanding. “Army test site,” she informed him. He nodded gently in understanding. Her eyes were guarded but showed concern for him. He wondered what her job was. Probably a nurse or something, he thought.
She sat back to admire her handy work and motioned for him to hold the pad firm to his face to help stop the bleeding. If he were lucky, the cut on his temple would leave no scar.
She stood up from his side and went round to the end of the bed. His eyes followed her, and now he could see more of her he noticed she was wearing a worn black leather jacket adorned with a set of wings on her chest.
“Who are you?” he asked, still entranced by her physical presence.
“Elise Steiner. You were unlucky. I didn’t think I’d be able to catch you earlier.”
“Catch me?” he said slowly, not quite getting what she meant.
“Up there.” She pointed to the ceiling of the room they were in. “If you hadn’t dived I doubt I’d have caught you.”
Stunned, he struggled to haul himself up. His head protested at the movement so he settled for bracing himself on locked elbows. He looked at her as she stood at the foot of his bed.
“That was you up there?” She nodded simply, her lips twitching in amusement.
“Correct. You were very fast to react. I nearly didn’t have a shot on the second pass.”
“Still got me though.” He tried a smile but his head began to pound and as he lay back with a gasp, the lights went out again.
* * * * *
Peenemünde, Detention Compound
May 17 1944
Robert Gray woke up with a thumping headache worse than the last mess party he had attended. On that occasion he had been introduced to something called ‘Bitter’ but the hangover that evening had produced was nothing compared to this. He experimentally opened an eye just a crack. Light lanced in and he winced but he kept it open until the blurry shapes began to coalesce.
A hand was holding his head up as he stirred. A face began to sharpen up. Black hair, pale skin; he began smiling as memory kicked in with recollection.
“Hey baby,” he said with husky undertones.
“Don’t think so old boy,” a male voice responded in disgust.
His head was dumped onto the mattress and Gray snapped awake with a jolt as everything came crashing in all at once. The person who had been cradling his head was about late twenties, black hair cropped short with bushy eyebrows and a handlebar moustache. Suspicious green eyes peered at him while he finally gathered himself.
Gray swivelled his legs off the bed and onto the floor. His head was swimming less but he still had a cracker of a pain between the eyes. He ran a hand through sandy brown hair and looked around the room to get a feel for his surroundings.
He was in one corner of a wooden hut; about thirty feet long by twenty wide. There were ten bunks in the hut. A footlocker was beneath each bunk and in the centre there was a wood-fired stove standing on four ceramic tiles. A metal flue went up and through the ceiling. At the end farthest away from him were four windows currently open and letting in a strong summer breeze. The faint sound of aero engines could be heard coming from outside. The opposite wall had three tall cupboards, the doors of which were currently open and displaying a variety of blue RAF clothing.
He was passed a small hand mirror. Piercing blue eyes stared back at him. They were more bloodshot than normal but that was no surprise considering what he had just gone through. He ruefully prodded at the lurid bruise that stood out on his forehead. He stood up shakily and peered down his hawk like nose at the rest of himself. Everything was where it should be and he flexed his right arm. His shoulders ached from the parachute harness but apart from that, he seemed to be all right.
“He up yet?” asked a gruff voice.
“Oh he’s up old man, that old American libido has kicked into gear already.” A throaty laugh came across the room in response to the posh English lilt.
“And a good morning to you too,” Gray said ruefully, as he looked at his new roommates.
Two of them were lying on the bunk across from him while the man with the handlebar stood leaning against the upright of the frame. Dressed in blue shirt and trousers he was no more than five feet two inches tall but to see him; you would have thought he was ten times that height. He carried himself like a king, which was ironic considering he was just a Flying Officer. He stuck out a hand towards Gray.
“David Raiford. Good to meet you.”
“Robert Gray,” he said as he shook the proffered hand.
The one on the lower bunk put down a book he had been reading and reached out a hand without moving an inch closer. Gray stretched to reach and was rewarded with a bone crushing shake,
“I’m Paul, good to meet you cobber.” Gray was a moment placing the accent and then he noticed the darker blue of his battledress; Australian. It was hard to tell what the man was like from this angle but he seemed quite skinny, the complete opposite of Raiford altogether. He was also a bit older with a thinning mop of fine blonde hair and a nutmeg brown tan, the result of years of hard living flying in the Outback. Gray listened in amusement while Raiford filled in the blanks.
“Our delightful Australian cousin here was shot down a few months ago. His full name is Paul Shepherd and he thinks himself something of a philosopher.” Shepherd took immediate offence.
“I told you to lay off about that Raiford. Just because you don’t share my opinion doesn’t make you any more right.”
“Perish the thought old boy,” said Raiford in mock alarm and they launched into a well trodden argument which had the air of long practice. As their vaudeville act carried on its bickering, Robert turned his attention to the third man.
If Raiford and Shepherd were chalk and cheese, then this one was granite. He hopped down from the bunk and shrugged on a shirt, his muscles rippling. At least six feet tall, he had big features to go with his build. Blue eyes hid under a heavy brow decorated with reddish brown hair. He crossed the gap to sit down next to Gray. Robert felt the mattress sink under his weight as they shook hands.
“I’m Carl Danzey from Vancouver,” his voice was very soft, a direct contrast to his size, “Flying Officer with number 92 PRU.” Roberts face lit up a bit.
“From Bexley right?”
Danzey nodded slowly in caution. Gray’s face broke into a grin.
“I was only flying because all your lot were busy. I took off from Martlesham Heath. I don’t remember seeing you round the mess.”
“No, I’ve been here about six months. I got put in the bag about the end of January.”
“Where’s everybody else?”
“We’re it mate,” said Shepherd bluntly, breaking off from his argument with Raiford.
“Did the rest get moved to a prison camp?”
“No,” Raiford observed dryly. “Just the Germans being their jolly efficient selves.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple old man. We’ve overflown Peenemünde, so as far as the Germans are concerned we’ve seen too much. This whole area is a military district with lots of encampments and very few civilians. We’re less likely to escape here than at a Stalagluft so here we stay.” He pulled a cigarette out of a gold case and tapped it on the lid before lighting it from the stove. He blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. “Less chance of telling anyone what we’ve seen either.”
Gray thought about that. Maybe it was not so bad. Less people meant better privileges right? He made note of the record player and various magazines lying around on the bunks. He voiced that opinion to the other three to be met with snorts of derision.
“Go on thinking that chum if you like. “
“Oh lord,” commented, Raiford.
“Wait and see my friend.”
No further explanation was forthcoming so Gray picked up his leather jacket from the end of his bed, shrugged it on and found a pair of shoes that fitted from the wardrobes in the hut and went outside. Time to see what his playpen was going to be like, he thought.
The hut was inside an enclosure about thirty yards square. He found an ablutions hut separate from the accommodation building. There were barbed wire fences eight or nine feet high all the way round and circling outside was a guard armed with an MP40 sub machine pistol and a nasty looking Alsatian straining on its leash.
Beyond the wire to the northeast were a number of low-lying warehouse type structures and beyond them, the sea. He could smell it in the air. He could see the tall superstructure of a ship above the buildings so he assumed it was some kind of dockyard.
To the north, further along the shore he could make out buildings that were more substantial. Among them were hangars, cranes and concrete office blocks. A few chimneys broke up the skyline and belched smoke into the atmosphere.
West was very open but at the limits of the haze across the flat grassy plain, he could make out some tall trees. South and east was a big industrial complex, which featured more hangars, work buildings and barracks blocks. The nearest structure to his little chicken coop was a good five hundred yards away beyond a road. He began rolling possibilities through his mind.
Hauptmann Elise Steiner stood at a table with another officer in the jet project administrative block. Oberst Johannes Josten was a broad shouldered man but was nothing like the Aryan ideal. Unlike the bright blue eyed, blonde haired poster boy of Goebbels propaganda ministry, he was dark haired, dark eyed and of moody complexion. At nearly one hundred and eighty centimetres tall with a broad chest he found it a tight fit in a fighter cockpit. He wore casual pilot’s attire, a worn black leather flying jacket over a white shirt and pearl grey trousers with scuffed jackboots. The Knights Cross glittered at his throat on its black, white and red ribbon.
Elise flipped through some papers while Josten rummaged around the clothing. Grays personal effects were standard stuff; Navy ID card, a wallet with a few dollars, some English coins and a map case. The case contained a letter from his father but after a few lines, she stopped reading. It was private and she left it at that. One thing she did find interesting was the jade ring on its chain. She looked at the small emerald set into the ring, seeing the light sparkle off its facets. She was surprised the guards had not stolen it, but Grays flying suit was hardly standard and it seemed that they had left it and its contents alone.
The other items that caught her interest were his NACA ID, something he should not have brought with him and his RAF Martlesham Heath gate pass. She knew Martlesham very well by reputation. If Gray was stationed there then he was a very gifted individual. The presence of his NACA card just confirmed it, identifying him as someone with extensive flight testing experience. She looked at the ID photograph again and grinned.
Having seen him in the flesh, it was not a bad likeness but it did not capture the whole man either. Even dazed from a rifle blow, his blue eyes almost danced with energy. His sandy brown hair was longer too, probably not strictly regulation but then he had struck her as somebody who did not quite play by the rules anyway. According to the ID, he was one hundred and seventy centimetres tall and she could attest to his build, having seen his lean muscles taut under the hospital smock. She slotted the ID card back into the wallet and looked over at Josten who was struggling with the suit.
He frowned as he tried to figure out what it was. It was unlike any flying suit he had ever seen. It was quite thick and clumsy and it seemed to have some hollow pouches in the legs. In addition, he could not figure out what the hose attachment points were doing there at all. He stood back and scratched his neck, perplexed, his deep voice registering his frustration.
“Well I’ll be damned if I know what this is.”
He shoved the suit over to her and she picked it up in both hands, testing the weight of it. Made from insulated, treated cloth it was thicker on the legs than it was on the upper body. It had ripped on one shoulder and she saw the glint of copper wire between the layers of insulation. This told her the suit could be heated. The idea of an acceleration suit had existed for a while and she guessed the hoses were to pressurise the bladders in the leg pouches. She carefully examined the seals around the hose attachment points in the body and the locking ring around the neck then picked up the bulky helmet and ran her hands over its smooth surface.
Made from Bakelite there was a crack on the right side, the striations spreading to the top of the crown. A rubber seal was moulded into the bottom and when she held it up against the metal locking ring on the neck of the suit that clinched it in her mind. Josten asked her what she thought.
“It’s a self contained high altitude suit,” she responded. She pointed at the helmet. “With that he wouldn’t have needed any special modifications to the airframe of his aircraft.”
“You’re sure?”
“As I can be. I worked on the high altitude bomber program for a while with Junkers so I’m familiar with that kind of equipment.”
“How does it compare?”
“With our gear? It’s far ahead of anything else I’ve ever seen.”
“Can you write me up a report on it?”
“Of course; how do you want to handle it?” she asked.
Josten ran his hands over the suit as he considered what to do. He knew her well enough to know what her reaction to his answer would be.
“This is really a state security matter Elise, regarding as it does top secret enemy equipment.” Her mouth twisted with a snarl but he carried on talking. “We’re supposed to notify the intelligence services, maybe even the SD.”
“SD,” she sneered. “Butchers.” She shivered involuntarily, wrapping her arms around herself. Josten merely nodded.
“I know your feelings.”
“Then let me talk to him,” she suggested. Josten gave her a hard stare, his eyebrow raised, surprised at her suggestion.
“You? You honestly think he’ll talk to you?”
“Can it hurt to try?” she asked; her voice light and teasing. “I did shoot him down.” She smiled broadly in good humour.
He stepped back and leaned against a filing cabinet. Fishing in a back pocket, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and tapped the pack against his hand. Pulling one out, he stuck it between his lips and then struck a match, eyeing her over the flame as he did so.
“Suppose, just suppose, you were to try this, how would you do it?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. She picked the ring up off the table and held it up so he could see it. “I could always give him this back; take him for a walk outside the wire.”
Josten took a long pull on the cigarette, feeling the heat coursing into him, the rich burning feeling spreading across his chest. As he blew the smoke out, he stared up at the ceiling and then glanced at the suit again. The Luftwaffe had nothing like it and they needed it. Procedure said this should be reported immediately but maybe it was just worth trying things their own way first. He lit another cigarette from the stub of the other.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way, but take a sentry with you. The last thing I want is him attempting to escape.”
Josten tapped some ash off the end of his cigarette and then pointed it at her, using it for emphasis.
“And be careful, gossip goes further than you think.”
That remark dampened her mood a little and she frowned as she fingered the sleeve of the suit.
“What do you suggest?” she asked.
“Try talking to him and see what happens. You never know.” He shrugged. “If not, how about tonight? The mess dinner is a relaxed atmosphere. You know everybody will be talking shop. Let’s lull him into volunteering something and see where it goes from there?”
He stubbed the cigarette out in the desk ashtray and looked at Elise, his voice every inch the stern parent.
“But in the meantime I want you to write up a report on the suit. I warn you now; you don’t have much time before I’ve got to report this up the line.”
“All right.” She saluted him and left the room. Josten hoped he had not just made a colossal mistake.
Later that day, Gray was in the hut playing a not-so-friendly game of poker. To start with, things had been civilised, but when you were playing for notional amounts of money the state of the betting had begun to get out of hand. Being an aggressive Australian, Shepherd had been quick to up the stakes to deliberately rub Raiford up the wrong way. True to form, the prim and proper Englishmen had bitten on the bait, goaded into betting bizarre amounts in his attempt to get one over on his Aussie antagonist.
Danzey threw in his cards with disgust, saying there was little enjoyment to be had when some people were intent on spoiling things. Gray had smiled in good humour but wondered to himself how long it would be before there was going to be a murder in the hut. The way Raiford and Shepherd went at it seemed to indicate a permanent state of war and Robert did not relish being in the middle of hostilities. Finally, Shepherd made an outrageous bet and Raiford lost his patience, throwing the cards at the amused Australian and leaving the hut in a monumental huff. Shepherd sat beaming like a Cheshire Cat.
“One of these days you’ll go too far,” Gray warned, waving an admonishing finger. Shepherd disagreed.
“Naah, his posh ethics wouldn’t allow it. He’d be demeaning himself by stooping to my level mate.” He winked at Gray. “I can play his nibs like a mandolin to any tune I like.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Gathering his jacket, he went outside for a walk. Now the throb in his head had worn off he was able to enjoy the day more. By his reckoning, it was about mid-afternoon but it was hard to tell without his watch. He hoped some more of his things would be returned to him at some point. While he was walking round the wire, he stopped and patted his pockets. His father’s ring, gone! His mind raced trying to remember where it had been last. He cursed when he remembered it had been under his flight suit. They must have taken it off him in the hospital.
“Looking for this?” asked a female voice. He whirled around, his face a picture of surprise and shock. A fine pale hand held the ring on its chain towards him on the other side of the fence.
“My god, I thought I dreamed it all.” He locked eyes with the angel vision that had hovered in the periphery of his imagination since the hospital. She stood there, tall and lithe in leather flying jacket, jackboots and pearl grey pants. Her peaked cap was tucked under her arm and her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders.
“You’re too kind Herr Gray.” She motioned to the gate. “Care for a walk?” He shrugged a disinterested okay and then almost skipped his way there, totally missing the nudges and winks from Danzey and Raiford who sat on the steps to the hut, sticking to the shade.
She stood well back from the gate, hands tucked behind her back with another soldier standing a few yards away, rifle at the ready. Her face was neutral but her eyes were creased in good humour.
The guard opened the gate and motioned for Gray to come forwards. Before he took two steps, he was pulled to a halt to be searched. He did as he was told and waited patiently while he was frisked.
Finally let out to play, he walked over to her, unsure exactly how to address or greet her. Amused at his uncertainty, mouth quirking into a smile, she took pity on him and held out the ring on its chain. He took it in his hands, gave it a quick check to see it was okay and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He nodded a thank you.
“Gut.” She began walking west, away from the encampment and the buildings behind them. Gray took some deep breaths. The air seemed fresher this side of the fence even though he knew it was a nonsense to think so. As they walked side by side, he sneaked a few glances at her, ignoring the presence of the guard a few yards behind.
In profile, she was just as stunning as his memory told him she was. He guessed she was about mid-twenties but admitted he could be wrong; her eyes betrayed a depth of experience not in keeping with her face. The fact she had shot him down also meant she was no wilting flower to be toyed with; there was a strong core under that beauty he needed to be careful of.
She noticed him stealing a look at her and her lips quirked in amusement. A clever man to be certain and a little bit cautious too; she would have to be careful if she was going to draw any useful information out of him. They carried on walking for some way before she spoke again and her voice was just as his befuddled mind remembered.
“You are in the Navy, yes?” He nodded; it was an obvious question, which had an equally obvious answer, his dog tag would have shown her that.
“That’s right and I’ve never served a day at sea. I get seasick.”
She laughed.
“You were diving when I came upon you. Was there a problem with your aircraft?”
He stopped and looked at the sky. His move caught her unawares and she turned to face him. His eyes were scrunched up against the low afternoon sun as he held up a hand to shield his face. That cloudbank was still in place so it looked like the weathermen had it right. Days of uninterrupted cloud had been the prediction.
He used the pause to figure out how much he dared say. Name, rank and serial number; that is what they told you to say during training. No one had told him what to do when the person asking the questions was a raven-haired beauty in a flying jacket. Hit her with some Southern charm.
“No problem darlin’. I was just out for a sight-seeing tour and thought I’d see where I was.”
Her head cocked to the side as she sorted through his meaning. She shook her head in mild irritation. He was not playing along. She thought about what would draw him out. He’s a pilot like you, she told herself, appeal to his ego.
“Come, come Lieutenant. Surely there is no harm discussing our first encounter? I was impressed by your reactions during that first attack.”
He smiled at the compliment and then blushed slightly at the remark he had made. What harm would it do? They could hardly pick over his airplane for information. There was little to tell beyond that he was flying over Peenemünde on a reconnaissance mission. He shrugged and looked towards the horizon, squinting in the sunlight.
“No, I didn’t have a problem. I had to dive under the cloudbank to get what I came for. I’ll admit you surprised me. I didn’t think anyone would be able to catch me at that point.” His mind flicked back to the moment when he had felt the thump of the first cannon shells coming in, impacting the airframe.