Peter Redenbacher put on his jacket and buttoned it. He was thirty-three years old: elderly by fighter-pilot standards. He commanded Löwenherz’s Staffel of ten aircraft plus two other Staffeln that shared Kroonsdijk. He was an impressive man in spite of his battle-scarred appearance. His shortness of stature and some false teeth were common among those who had grown up in the blockaded Germany of the First World War. His powerful arms were an inheritance from his furnace-worker father in Essen, and his clear blue eyes and full-lipped mouth from his hardworking Mutti. The thick muscular legs were developed in his teens by sixty-eight-kilometre weekend cycle rides to a DLV gliding club. Most weekends he had come no nearer to a flight than hauling the winch, positioning the club’s sole glider or helping to build a second one. The small scar visible under his closely cropped blond hair dated from a heavy landing at Wasserkuppe, on the bare high plateau of the Rhön. That year he had won a minor prize in the National Gliding Championships. The permanently arched little finger on his left hand had come under a Communist boot after holding a Nazi standard aloft in Essen in 1927. The sustained hatred that made him a killer was born in March 1923 when he saw a French officer of the occupying army strike his father and uncle for not removing their hats as a military funeral passed. The cold confident gaze dated from 1934 when he was one of twenty chosen from four thousand applicants to go to the Deutsche Verkehrsfliegerschule at Brunswick. This airline pilots’ school was a secret training centre for the Nazi Air Force. When the Luftwaffe was officially born in 1935 Peter Redenbacher was stunting a Bücker Jungmann biplane above the heads of Hitler, Göring, the foreign Press and a deliriously happy German crowd. His forearm scarred badly because there was no doctor in the Spanish village of San Antonio when a Republican Rata shot his He51 down in flames there in November 1936. He landed by parachute in the village. The Russian pilot did a low pass over the rooftops and waved to Redenbacher from the open cockpit: a big smile and an ancient leather flying helmet, and low enough to see that the pilot was a woman. No one would believe him, until in January 1937 a high-ranking Russian woman was shot down near Madrid.
It was at the Schleissheim fighter school near Munich that a pupil turned without power on take-off, thus writing off an old He50 biplane that would have floated unharmed to the ground hands off. It was the worst crash of all. The pupil died and Redenbacher spent six weeks in hospital. Although he would never admit it, even to his wife, still to this day in cold weather the base of his spine ached like the very devil.
His four victories in Spain, fourteen on the East Front and thirty-two French, RAF and US aeroplanes downed had brought him a Knight’s Cross with Oak-leaves and made him something of a celebrity. He had been shot down over the sea by an American P-47 the previous May, and had spent four miserable hours bobbing from wave-top to wave-top perched on a one-man dinghy. He was too old to take that sort of punishment without suffering after-effects. A medical board had detected his symptoms in spite of Redenbacher’s denials. Now he had been advised that a staff job was to be his. Meanwhile he flew every sortie possible.
When he went to spend the rest of his life flying a desk he’d asked that Löwenherz should take over as Gruppenkommandeur. He had been one of his pupils at the fighter school, and one of his best. Redenbacher was glad to have a young aristocrat like him in his Gruppe because, for Redenbacher, National Socialism meant the end of classes and social groupings. During all the wars of the last century only a hundred or so German NCOs had been made officers. In this war, under National Socialism, thousands and thousands of rankers had so far been commissioned. There were, at that moment, twelve Nazi generals who had come from the ranks. It made Redenbacher very proud to be a member of the Wehrmacht. It had become a simple matter of being a good Nazi.
Redenbacher looked at the men across the room. The young SIPO officer was a good Nazi. There was no other explanation. Only a dedicated young officer would be happy to do his duty as a lowly Feldwebel engaged on menial tasks. The old Abwehr man was a more doubtful case. Why had he never been promoted to officer rank? That shrewd old swine, like too many men in today’s Germany, guessed Redenbacher, survived by evading conflict. Major Redenbacher walked round his desk, but he did not sit down behind it, neither did he invite the others to sit. There were in any case only two chairs. The white-painted office was bare and austere: only a framed portrait of the Führer, one of Reichsmarschall Göring, and a small photo of Redenbacher and his wife framed by Nazi banners on their wedding day.
The major’s table-top was clear and efficient. A gleaming piston-top from the wrecked Heinkel biplane stood near the blotter. It would have made a fine ashtray for anyone who dared to smoke here. Instead it was a paperweight but there were no papers awaiting attention; the trays were empty, ink-wells full and sharpened pencils placed to hand. The major picked one up and tapped the table-top reflectively. He raised his eyes to Löwenherz. ‘What do you make of Himmel, Victor?’
Löwenherz came correctly to attention, his white-topped cap clutched tight under his arm. ‘He has six years’ service, sir. Service record excellent.’ Löwenherz related Himmel’s Service record. It was easy to remember, for so much of it was the same as his own.
‘But is he loyal, Victor? Is he a true National Socialist?’
‘Yes, Herr Major.’
Blessing came to a noisy attention. ‘With respect, Herr Major, loyalty is something best left to my department.’
‘I’m sure my Oberleutnant had a reason for testifying to Unteroffizier Himmel’s loyalty,’ said Redenbacher. He nodded to Löwenherz.
‘Himmel was one of the pilots assigned to the Führer’s Kurier flight in March 1941 for three months. All personnel were cleared for security by Kommandostab RF-SS.’
For a moment there was a complete silence.
‘Why the devil didn’t you say so, man?’ said Starkhof angrily. Redenbacher admired the way in which Löwenherz had caused the old man to lose his careful temper.
‘No one asked me, Herr Doktor.’
‘That was over two years ago,’ said Blessing.
‘If his clearance had been changed recently, I would have been informed,’ said Redenbacher.
‘Even our Kommandostab security people are not infallible,’ said Blessing, taking folded papers from his pocket. ‘Let me read you a part of a letter written by Himmel …’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ said Redenbacher.
Leutnant Kokke entered. He was the Gruppe Technical Officer in addition to his other duties. In his hand he was carrying neatly drawn training schedules for the coming twelve-week period.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Kokke. ‘I will come back.’ He ran a hand through his black untidy hair.
‘Come in, Kokke,’ said Redenbacher. Kokke was an excellent example of the new order. From the melting-pot into which National Socialism had poured the old Germany had come men like himself and Kokke. In the old days they would have had no chance to become professional officers. Kokke pretended that he would sooner be a musician, but this cut no ice with Redenbacher who recognized him as a man born to be a pilot as few men were. He still had much to learn, there was no short cut to experience, but Kokke might be a great flyer of tomorrow’s Reich. Even now – Staffelkapitäns excepted – he was one of the best pilots on the Gruppe. He had top grades in navigation, instrument-flying and engine: theory and practical. He reminded Redenbacher of the oil-stained old pilots home fresh from the first war, with their medals, tall stories, hard drinking and acid Galgenhumor.
Many people thought that Redenbacher was too soft on Kokke, but this was because he knew that Löwenherz kept a tight rein on him. He looked at them now. Young Löwenherz in his white jacket, standing primly with his cap under his arm like a fashion-plate, and Kokke,
