Reflections on a War

It is the summer of 1944 and I am Hauptmann Erich Von Baer of Jagdgeschwader 27 of the Luftwaffe. We are stationed in Champfleurry in occupied France. Although I am only 23, I have been fighting in this damn war for four years.

I began my career during Operation Sealion, the anticipated invasion of England. It was a different time…a time so long ago…beyond the lives of many fallen pilots. I was honored to fly the Emil, the earlier version of our Messerschmidt Bf-109. Flying against the RAF was akin to the jousting of knights; evenly matched opponents in evenly matched aircraft fighting man to man in the skies over London. It appealed to my Prussian aristocratic tastes.

The Americans…what can I say? They are like the New York gangs they love to talk about. Since February, they kill us on the ground and they come at us in masses that we cannot compete with. In my last battle, I led a dozen fighters against 60 of their Mustangs…we came home with six. I can still see their faces…those of the lost. The Schnapps on my desk no longer has the numbing effect that I desire.

Last week, we were visited by Reichmarshall Hermann Goering…the fool. He struts about like a prancing pony in his ice cream uniform, telling us of the Fatherland and the defense of the Reich. He actually believes we are winning. He gave me a second Knights Cross with Oak Leaves for my 41st victory. How different I feel with this second award…so different than the first I received in 1940. How jubilant I was, thinking victory was only days away. How I recall that Hawker Hurricane on fire, ablaze under the fire of my 20mm cannon. How hollow I am now under the unending bombardment of Allied warplanes. The medal sits in my locker…untouched.

I see now the frightened faces of the new leutnants. They are no more than children. Leutnant Obermeyer is 19 and Leutnant Huber is only days over 18. They have only 20 hours in the Messerschmidt…the American packs will devour them. I have seen the quality of the American pilots improve by leaps and bounds, while our men are ground into dust…the white star is everywhere.

Alas, I dream of my Elise, safe in Berlin. I dream of her blonde hair and the scent of her skin…her crystal blue eyes so full of hope and longing. Surely, the Allies cannot touch her there. I no longer fight for the cause…or even the Fatherland – I fight for her. I should not think such things out loud, however, or those Gestapo dogs may take offense. Shooting down a P-51 is difficult…taking out one of us is easy.

As I lay down at night on this bed in a French manor on this Fifth of June, 1944, my thoughts journey to Elise and her sweet voice, calling me back…back from this unending war.

I float in a land devoid of war and suffering, a time before the bombers. The edelweiss on the slopes of the mountains look up into the Alpine sun as Elise dances in the meadow, her long blonde hair adorned with the delicate flowers…her face aglow with joy.

I reach my hand out to her, but she is too far away. I cannot seem to reach her as dark clouds gather above the tall peaks – a storm gathers.

I try and shout to her in warning, but she ignores me and runs higher and higher. My movements are sluggish, strained. She turns, her face dark and sinister, her lips moving in slow motion.

“Erich…wake up…the invasion…wake up.”

My eyes flutter open. It is still mostly dark outside. Far in the distance, explosions and the drone of bomber engines. I sit up sharply.

“Willie…what?”

The Geshwaderkommodore taps my face. His weathered features are shrouded in his curly brown hair. “Erich, it is time, my friend. The Allies have landed.”

Blinking hard, I roll out of bed and down a swig of Schnapps. The liquid warms my throat from the dawn chill. I grab my black leather jacket and cap after pulling on my boots. Almost as an afterthought, I take the black and white photograph of Elise.

I look into her eyes and, for a moment, she is standing there. She touches my stubbly cheek in ghostlike fashion, her spirit reaching out to me through sheer will.

“Herr Hauptmann,” a voice sounds through the gloom.

The spell is broken and I turn to see Leutnants Obermeyer and Huber, my wingmen. “What is it?” I answer gruffly.

“Herr Hauptmann, today, we defend the Fatherland,” Leutnant Huber says hopefully with a tremulous voice.

I cackle bitterly; a hundred young men have said the same thing to me in the last year…a hundred men no longer with us. “Yes, yes, of course. Come, let’s get this over with. Are the fighters fueled and armed?”

“Ja Hauptmann, they are ready,” says Obermayer, a freckled redhead, who looks like he belongs in school rather than in the cockpit of a Messerschmidt.

Together, we walk to the field, where mist shrouds our aircraft. The ground crew is finishing loading the belts of 13mm ammunition into the wings of my fighter. They quickly replace the wing panels and hop down with a salute.

“Herr Hauptmann, your aircraft is ready,” says the chief with pride. The old sergeant has been with me since Belgium and France and he knows what I like and what I don’t like. We pilots are a superstitious lot.

Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Strasser, the Geschwaderkommodore steps up and we exchange military salutes, not this party nonsense. We still have honor. Willie and I too, have been through much. At 29, he is ancient for this line of work, but his 96 victories speak for themselves.

“Erich,” he says with a forced smile and a dark chuckle. “Today, everything changes. Today is the beginning of the end. Remember, my friend, we still have honor.”

He struts off toward his aircraft and turns one last time. He gives me a wink and then mounts his steed.

I gather my wingmen together. “Stay with me and don’t get separated. If you get into trouble, I’ll help you out. Don’t be heroes.”

They give me funny looks as I step up onto the wing root of my bird. I look her over with pride. The mottled green and brown camouflage has hid her from the eyes of the enemy and he sky blue underbelly blends with her from below. My kill markings adorn the tail along with a black raven with talons unfurled.

I step into the cockpit and strap in. The smell of leather and sweat fills my nostrils as the cage-like canopy comes down over me. I look left and right and nod to my wingmen; they are ready.

I wave to the ground crew and they pull the chocks from the tires. I quickly place the picture of Elise on the dashboard. I purse my lips for a moment and then my fingers fly across the instrument panel. The power comes on and the fuel mixture is enrichened. My finger presses a button and blasts of dark smoke shoot from the engine muffles as the propeller jolts.

The tachometer comes to life as the manifold pressure rises. The Daimler Benz engine roars and I lean the mixture. I make a chopping motion forward with my hand and ease the throttle open. The Bf-109 bounces forward and I dance on the rudder pedals to keep her straight.

Willie and his two wingmen are already airborne. It is time…we are ready. I lower my goggles and glance down at my beloved. I kiss the tip of my finger and press it onto her picture.

I ease the throttle forward and the airspeed comes alive. With a narrow wheel base, I must be careful when on the ground. The torque of the engine threatens to spin me…kill me before I leave the ground. I am in constant danger from this point on.

But experience prevails. I push the stick slightly forward, lifting the tail and then ease the nose up. The Messerschmidt roars into the dawn sky to do battle with the Allies once again – my faithful steed.

I press the throat mike. “Climb to one-thousand-five-hundred meters and form up on me as a Vee. Vector Three-Three-Zero.”

My wingmen struggle to keep up, wobbling back and forth with inexperienced hands. I remember when we could do this in our sleep…but that was then.

“Use your trim…like I showed you,” I remind them, telling them to use the tabs on the control surfaces to help them maintain control.

Long minutes go by. Where are we going? Have the Allies landed at Pas de Calais like we have all thought?

My questions are answered.

“Ravens, vector Three-Zero-Zero, your target is Normandy,” a controller urges.

I make a sharp turn to port followed by the wobbly turns of my wingmen. They can barely fly…how can they fight?

Daylight is quickly approaching as I see the coast in the growing illumination. The thrum of my liquid-cooled engine is steady.

“Stay in formation, we’ll line up for an attack run. Hit the landing craft.”

I turn to the right, to bring the beach along my port wing. When I am perpendicular to the beach, I bank hard into the enemy. What I see astounds me. Endless waves of landing craft supported by hundreds of ships. Is this what the Trojans saw? How can we fight this horde?

I dip the nose and keep the throttle forward. “Keep your speed up or you’ll get hit by flak.” My airspeed increases while the altimeter dips. A creaking sound reverberates in the cockpit while my engine whines in protest.

The landing craft grow larger in my gunsight. I can see the olive green surrounding the white star. I have no hate…I have no rage…only a shred of hope. I pull the trigger.

White hot tracers lace from my weapons as 30mm cannon shells and 13mm machine gun rounds slam into a landing craft. Orange explosions erupt as men fly into the water.

I fire again.

Another craft rips into shreds, throwing debris into the air. A chunk of metal flies by my canopy as I yank the stick to starboard, kicking the right rudder pedal. “Damn, that was close!”

I pull up sharply and black puffs of smoke appear nearby…flak.

“We have done our bit for the Fatherland…let’s regroup.”

A faint smile escapes my lips as sweat beads on my forehead. I look back and my blood freezes. A Mustang is behind Leutnant Huber.

Before I can speak, twinkles of light flash from the Mustang’s wings, heralding the unleashing of .50 caliber incendiary rounds. Huber’s Messerschmidt is shredded like paper as white-hot bits of lead streak into his aircraft. The flaming parts fall to Earth, spreading fire and metal over the sandy beach. The boy never saw it coming.

However, it is not over. Seven other Mustangs are behind us…eager for a kill.

All That Remains

A pillar of dark smoke arises like a ghost from Leutnant Huber’s demolished Messerschmidt. My head is craned around, peering through the cage-like canopy, looking for the enemy. The silver, aluminium gleam of the American Mustangs draws my eyes to them like a magnet. The Americans have achieved such air superiority that they no longer care about being spotted…in fact, they want to be spotted. Their yellow, checkered noses display their fighting spirit.

Their arrogance.

“Obermeyer, break high right!” I shout as I bank left and pull back hard on the stick. Gee forces wash over my body and I pant hard as I squeeze my abdomen to keep the blood in my head. Crushing waves of force dim my vision and nausea sweeps my belly.

A Mustang shoots by me, guns blazing, but I roll over to avoid the attack. I must be careful, I am at 300 meters; not much altitude to maneuver and no room for mistakes.

I see Obermeyer in a climb, two Americans on his tail and I snap back toward him. I open the throttle and activate the water methanol injectors; my engine surges with power and my gut tightens.

A Mustang flashes by my nose and I squeeze the trigger on instinct. Cannon and machine gun rounds streak from my gun ports. Puffs of smoke appear on the port wing of the P-51 and part of the aileron tears off.

My opponent’s port wing dips and the aircraft spins into the ground. I rocket by the blur of exploding fire, trying to look for the next Mustang.

“Hauptmann! I’m hit!” yells Obermeyer frantically. My head rotates around quickly and I see my wingman, trailing white fumes; his fuel line has been hit and the enemy is lining up another shot.

“Climb quickly,” I order him. “Get altitude and bail out.” Obermeyer is maneuvering erratically…without purpose. He is near panic. He doesn’t stand a chance.

I am too far behind and more .50 rounds slash into the green Messerschmidt. The incendiary rounds ignite the leaking fuel in Obermeyer’s doomed fighter. The fumes turn into flames.

“Bail out, Obermeyer, bail out!”

All I can see is dark smoke and orange fire trailing behind my wingman. All that remains now is revenge.

“Hauptmann, I…I cannot open…open the canopy! I am trapped! The fire!” he screams in terror.

There is nothing I can do. I have failed them.

I squeeze off a shot with my 13mm machine guns at medium range and am rewarded by puffs of smoke on the fuselage of the Mustang. It too, begins to streak coolant.

I close in and unleash my nose cannon, firing massive explosive shells through the propeller hub. I am rewarded with a hit. Part of the horizontal stabilizer explodes away and I see a man tumble from the cockpit. I am tempted to fire upon him, but there is no time.

Thump thump!

Fifty caliber rounds slam into my fighter from behind. The pack is upon me.

On instinct, I bank sharply to the right, kicking the right rudder pedal. One Mustang zips by. I turn back to line up a shot, but my Messerschmidt shudders again.

I quickly look back to see five Mustangs, guns blazing. It is like a wild west shootout.

Smoke pours into the cockpit and I choke on the acrid fumes as my oil pressure drops. Black liquid sprays onto the windscreen.

Thump thump thump!

My engine snorts as fumes streak from the mufflers. Engine temperature shoots up into the red. The battle is over.

I reach down to take the picture of my beloved Elise. My hand grasps the black and white image of my angel.

As I reach down for the canopy release, there is a sharp sound, like the shattering of metal. The picture is covered in blood.

I choke on the thick, red liquid in my throat and the world begins to tumble around me. The altimeter clocks downward at an accelerating rate. However, I feel nothing but the rising temperature in this tomb.

I hold the picture tightly as it begins to crinkle from licking flames entering the cockpit. I cannot reach the release…the g forces are too much.

All that remains for me is to look into the eyes of my beloved. Her crystal blue eyes like the Danube in Spring…her hair like the wheat fields of autumn.

My Elise.