But suddenly Hartmann turned round and looked at him in horror. Unable to make himself heard above the roar of the engine, he pointed down, frantically jabbing his index finger in the direction of the hatch. A bomb had slipped away from him and got stuck in the undercarriage. The slightest shock would set it off. If it exploded they’d be blown to smithereens.
It was a new and terrifying experience which had Udet carefully bank the plane to the left to dislodge the device. But the bomb simply matched the motion and clung to the craft. So back he banked to the right, but the bomb was determined to follow suit. In the meantime, Hartmann was on his knees at the bottom of the cockpit with his leg thrust through the hatch madly angling for the axle, but he was an inch short of kicking the bomb loose.
‘No more reckless flying!’ were the words ricocheting round in Udet’s head. It was the directive he had been given by both his C. O. and the Military Court. Yet, as a last resort, what choice did he have but to go into a steep dive? It was a dangerous manoeuvre in any plane, but he had the added disadvantage of doing it in an old crate that was about to come apart at the seams.
However, to pause and ponder at such a pivotal moment was even more dangerous than the prospect of stalling the plane. So he went ahead, flying perpendicular to the earth, hovering in the heavens in breath-stopping anticipation which suddenly ended with a ‘click’. It was the blessed sound of release which had the bomb finally fall free and whistle its way to the ground – there to impact and kick up a cloud of billowing black dirt and smoke.
‘Well, I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance,’ Hartmann said with a handshake when they landed and clambered out of their plane.
‘Yes, let’s do it again someday, shall we?’
Udet’s response had come with a nervous laugh, a moment of near-death levity, which didn’t last long.
‘You’re to report to the C. O. at once Udet.’
The aircraft mechanic who voiced the breathless, intimidating order had raced across the airfield to issue it. The speed at which he’d done so, together with the clipped edge to his tone, told Udet that he was in big trouble, yet again. But never one to back away from a fight, he was quick to report to Headquarters and to stand front and centre of the Captain’s desk.
‘PFC Udet returning from arrest, Sir,’ he said, as he clicked his heels, saluted and braced himself for the reprimand to come.
The Captain looked up from his work and regarded Udet for a long while before he spoke. ‘You are transferred to the Single-Seater Combat Command at Habsheim.’
That was it. Nothing else. No further explanation.
Stunned, Udet continued to stand at attention, not knowing whether to thank the Captain or to ask why. Why a promotion to Fighter Pilot when he had just returned from two week’s punishment for disobeying orders?
Obviously, however, the Captain was in no mood to fill him in. Instead, he turned his attention back to his paperwork and sent Udet on his way with the brusque wave of his hand. ‘Dismissed. Dismissed!’
Udet just didn’t get it. Single-seater pilot? Fighter pilot? But this was what they all dreamed of. Yet, it had been thrown at him as if it were a penalty, rather than a gift from the gods. He could not believe it was true. Standing outside his C.O.’s office, he breathed deeply to take in the good news.
‘Well, Sir Fighter Pilot,’ said the Office Orderly who came walking by with a knowing grin plastered all over his face.
Here was Udet’s source of information. Udet offered the Orderly a cigarette, which was soldier’s code for ‘please explain’. Accepting it, the Orderly put down the coffee pot he was carrying so that he could light up and tell the tale. He stepped a little closer to do it in confidence.
‘This morning the Air Staff Officer from Muelhausen called to see whether you’d returned from arrest,’ he whispered furtively. ‘The Captain reported back that against orders you’d flown off to take part in a bombing raid. ‘What, straight from arrest?’ the Staff Officer asked. ‘Directly from arrest!’ the Captain replied. He was pretty hot under the collar. Two hours later they rang through orders from Muelhausen that you were to be transferred. ‘More luck than brains!’ said the Captain, and he slammed down the phone.’
At that point, the Orderly stopped to take a breath and stub out his cigarette. Then he added. ‘But I say good luck to you, Sir Fighter Pilot.’
Such generosity of spirit, however, was not shared by Udet’s fellow flyers. It just wasn’t fair. Not only had Udet been promoted for breaking the rules and doing whatever he liked, but he was to be given a flashy new plane to get him to his even flashier new assignment at Habsheim, a shiny new Fokker with the grace of a hawk and all the mod cons to be had in 1915.
It was a bonus that Udet couldn’t resist rubbing in.
‘Always practise diligently boys. Good luck to you all!’ he called out to his old friends as he waved a flamboyant farewell and began to taxi out onto the runway.
But his cocksure smile was not returned by those who hadn’t exactly wished him well. After all, show-offs like Udet wore very thin beyond a certain point, and Udet and his promotion had just pushed them over the line.
It served him right, they all agreed, when Udet then jolted too hard on his joystick and promptly slammed his new plane straight into the hangar! Now that he’d crashed his way back onto a level playing field, those surly friends faces lit with glee:
‘And good luck to you … you son of a bitch!’
CHAPTER THREE
While Udet winged his way to Habsheim in his Fokker, Hermann Goering was hanging out the side of one, flying only a few feet away from the ground with enemy snipers taking pot shots at him. His daredevil way of leaning precariously over the edge of his cockpit to take reconnaissance photographs had earned him the nickname of The Trapezist, along with a burgeoning band of medals on his chest.
With 11 kills already to his name, his eyes were firmly set on the slaughter of his next nine. He needed 20 enemy pilots down to be awarded The Blue Max. As Germany’s highest Military Order it was the medal worth fighting for, a pretty piece of blue and gold metal to hang around his neck and cement his name in history.
His aspirations, however, did not stop there, because he had Baron Manfred Von Richthofen in his sights. The Red Baron already sported the blue and gold and, as unquestioned champion of the air, was making a real show of it in his vermillion, state of the art tri-plane; his three wings and whopping ego identifying him as a bright red bulls-eye that drew both enemy and friendly fire.
Every other German pilot was duty bound to take a crack at his title. It would be the supreme accolade to topple Germany’s finest fighter pilot from his pedestal, to raise the benchmark Richthofen had set for excellence in aerial combat. So, for all the boys who flew in the blue, the Red Baron was fair game, particularly for those closest to him.
Hermann Goering was one of them. They were good friends because they had a lot in common. Not only did they share mutual memories of the same Alma Mater, The Gross Lichterfelde Military School, but they were of one mind when it came to their main passions in life: flying and hunting. Two obsessions that, in both men’s minds, were synonymous and accounted for their killer instincts in the air.
‘You know the feeling
