Eagles at War (19 page)

Everywhere except on the graveled paths there was snow; even the camouflage netting, strung on the tops of the pine trees, sagged under its weight in a pendant mouse-gray ceiling, filtering light and noise.

They had been waiting for two hours in the Number Two Mess in the
Gorlitz Kurhaus,
the dining room for the Operations Staff, thawing out from the four-hundred-mile flight from Berlin in an unheated Junkers Ju 52. Josten had spent part of the time talking to Christa Garnowski, Hitler's garrulous private secretary who had come in to apologize for the delay—the Fuehrer was in conference with Dr. Goebbels. She mixed a loving Fuehrer fervor with the desire to be recognized as a real insider, someone who was secure enough to criticize freely. Young and pretty, she warmed immediately to Galland, as all women seemed to do.

"This is the nerve center of the Reich—and the most boring place in the world. At least now we don't have the mosquitoes, but it's so cold we take turns holding the dogs, just to get our hands warm."

Josten tried to walk the line between being friendly and curious.

"How could it be boring here?"

"It's the crazy hours we keep. We follow the Fuehrer's schedule—dinner at seven, then a small social meeting with the Fuehrer later." As she spoke, her pride was evident.

"He needs to unwind, so he talks to us—sometimes it's two in the morning before we get away. We go to bed, and it might be noon before we go to work again. There are no newspapers, no radio. Occasionally there's a film, but not often, not since the Fuehrer stopped watching them. The winter was so terrible for him."

The newly promoted Major Josten was hungry. They had left Berlin before lunch and had not eaten anything since. Worse, Zink had brought along enough brandy for a platoon, and they had drunk most of it. Now his stomach was queasy and his head ached. All three men had been following the Fuehrer for almost four days, waiting to be summoned to his presence. The investiture ceremony was to have taken place in Berlin; Hitler had abruptly broken off his visit and returned to his headquarters, and they were sent after him. Galland, who had received the ultimate decoration, the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds, in January, was there to debrief Hitler personally. Zink was to receive the Oak Leaves to the Knight's Cross. It was a special distinction for Josten to be told to accompany them; his award was the Knight's Cross, normally given by the local commanding officer.

"I suppose that you eat very well here."

"You're joking, Major Josten! It's virtually a starvation diet. The Fuehrer is an ascetic who eats only the simplest things. Here, let me show you the menu for tonight so that you won't be surprised."

She reached in her leather purse and handed him a small ivory-colored card. On it was written in good German script:

wolfschanze

20 March 1942

"Keep that for a souvenir. That's what you'll be having. The rest of us will do rather better tonight, pork chops, the first time in weeks. But you get to eat with him and Dr. Goebbels."

Galland had been leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He had met Hitler before on several occasions but had never seen Goebbels in person. Josten wondered if he should talk to the good Doctor about Lyra and Magda's friendship.

"Dr. Goebbels is going back right after supper. That's why you are eating early."

The door opened, and Colonel Nicholas von Below, Hitler's Luftwaffe adjutant, bustled in. Tall, thin, blond, his condescension conveyed the proxy power peculiar to the personal assistants of great men.

"The Fuehrer will see you . . . What's that smell?"

He walked over to the three pilots and sniffed; when he came to Zink he said, "You've been drinking and you stink like a French whore from that hair oil. You cannot be admitted to the Fuehrer's presence like this. Go back to the barracks and wash; I'll try to arrange for him to see you tomorrow. You two, follow me."

As they entered, Hitler stepped forward and clasped them both by the hand and introduced them to Goebbels and the other staff members. Goebbels felt a curious satisfaction that Josten was such a good-looking young hero. He grinned wolfishly and pumped Josten's hand, saying, "I've heard of you."

Hitler led them to a wall map where a small table held the decorations. A staff photographer came in. With each photograph, a restrained tussle occurred among the people present as they vied for a position as close to Hitler as possible. Goebbels did not. He always made sure that he stood on the extreme left of every shot so that his name would appear first in the photo caption.

Hitler's voice was firm and strong, hinting at the range and depth of tones he used in his speeches.

"Major Josten. I don't usually award the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross personally, but this is an exception. If you had not rammed the Swordfish, we might have lost the
Scharnhorst."

None of the conflicting stories Josten had heard about Hitler had proved to be true. He had the appearance of a correct, friendly business executive, obviously in good health, and immaculately turned out. His eyes were a deep blue, but Josten didn't sense the burning magnetism journalists attributed to them.

Goebbels, on the other hand, was exactly as depicted by the rumor-mongers—tiny, with a limp, and a hideous oversize grin that looked as if it had been forcibly stuffed in his head by a revengeful dentist. The little Propaganda Minister stepped forward to congratulate Josten again, saying, "The captain of the E Boat has reported your heroism in trying to save the British crew member. Newspapers all over the world will print the story. I thank you for a propaganda triumph as well."

As Josten replied, Goebbels continued to press his hand thinking, Well, the Fuehrer has decorated you with the Knight's Cross, and I've decorated you with horns.

The meal lasted only a few minutes. A plane was waiting for Goebbels, and the pea soup and rice pudding were equally tasteless glue, nothing to linger over. Hitler had monopolized the conversation, discussing various European opera houses, a subject neither Galland nor Josten could do more than nod about.

After Goebbels left, they went back to the tea room, and Hitler began to ask pointed questions about the Luftwaffe.

"What do you think, Colonel Galland, were we lucky in the Channel, or was it skill? Be honest with me."

"Sixty percent luck, forty percent skill. It was lucky that the British were so slow in reacting. But when they did react, the Luftwaffe stopped them. It was a good feeling."

Hitler interrogated them about the quality of their aircraft, the training new pilots were receiving, what the Luftwaffe's weakspots were, how many fighters should be built, a thousand details. He had incredible grasp for specifications, calling out the speed, range, armament of all the major aircraft, Allied and German, and even quoted them the muzzle velocities and throw-weights of the various weapons. Suddenly he seemed to change the direction of the conversation.

"You have an excellent friend in court, Major Josten. I suppose you know that."

"Yes, my Fuehrer, Colonel Galland has taught me a great deal."

"Not Colonel Galland; I'm referring to Lieutenant Colonel Hafner, the director of the experimental station at Cottbus. He speaks very highly of you."

"Colonel Hafner is a good friend."

"Do you agree with him on his ideas about expanding production by building interconnected industrial complexes around Germany?"

Galland's black eyes shifted to him in amusement; it would be interesting to see how Josten handled this.

"About expanding production, yes, my Fuehrer. And about creating a system of factories. But I think the important thing is the types of aircraft we build."

"What do you think of this so-called jet fighter?"

"It is essential. If we don't get it, our Messerschmitts are going to be as obsolete as the Swordfish."

"I agree with you in part. The problem is the time and resources the technical development for a weapon like this takes. In 1939, at Rechlin, I was shown a half dozen aircraft that were going to revolutionize warfare. It is now 1942 and not one of them has been in action. What makes you think the jet fighter will be different?"

"It
won't
be any different unless we manage it correctly. As you know, Colonel Hafner has set up a team to expedite the introduction of the Me 262. This team should have top priority over everything."

A weary smile passed over Hitler's face. "Yes, the tank men tell me about the Russian tanks, and say they need top priority to counter the T-34. Admiral Doenitz comes in and dances on my chest until he gets top priority for the submarines. And now Speer, who wants top priority for everything."

In his mesmerizing basso, Galland spoke with a quiet urgency. "You won't have tanks or submarines if we lose control of the skies over Germany. They will bomb us into oblivion."

Hitler registered no emotion at Galland's remark. "What is the one major technical problem that we have to overcome with the Me 262?"

With a movement of his bushy eyebrows, Galland signaled Josten to be quiet and said, "The engines, of course,
mein Fuehrer.
They are designed to operate at much higher temperatures than piston engines do. We still have to find the correct alloys for the turbine blades."

"Agreed," Hitler snapped. "And that is precisely the problem. The jet engines require large quantities of chromium and high-grade nickel. We don't have it. Yet. When we finish with Russia, things will be different. And we can defeat Russia with our present aircraft. Can't we, Josten?"

"Russia, perhaps, but not England
and
Russia. And if we don't finish Russia soon, before the United States gets mobilized, England will become a huge, unsinkable aircraft carrier."

"You know what Goering tells me about the American airplanes, don't you?"

"That the Americans can build cars and razor blades—" Hitler interrupted, "No, not that old story. No, now he tells me that it is good that they are building four-engine aircraft, because when we shoot them down, it means twice as great a loss. Do you believe that?"

Galland could not restrain himself. "Sir, may I answer that? You know that the American aviation publications keep no secrets. We would shoot anyone who gave away information as they do. The Americans are continually improving the B-17s—if they come in large numbers they will be very difficult to bring down with our existing equipment."

Hitler seemed excited now, his eyes acquiring a fierce glow, expanding even as his voice did. "Exactly. I've been calling for thirty-millimeter cannon for our aircraft for years, and not one has it. At least the 262 is supposed to get them. Now I want fifty-millimeter cannon installed, and all I hear from the Luftwaffe technical staff is that it can't be done."

"The pilots would be satisfied with the thirty-millimeter, sir. We—"

Hitler stood up suddenly and put his hand out. The gesture seemed curiously constrained; he offered his hand, yet the crank of his arm told how reluctant he was to have it accepted.

"Thank you and congratulations again. I've learned a great deal from you." They saluted and Von Below led them to their rooms in a bunker half sunk in the ground, chill and dank in the cold East Prussian night.

"What do you think, Josty?"

Josten waited to reply, to make sure that the boyish enthusiasm he felt was not too evident. After a moment he said, "He is undeniably brilliant, and he knows what he's talking about. I have to say he inspired me."

As Josten spoke, Galland moved carefully around the room, checking it for microphones, his hand pressed to his lips. Then he reached over and turned on the battered record player which a former occupant of the room had left behind. The only record was a scratched one, of Furtwangler conducting the Berlin Philharmonic in the overture to
Fidelio.
As the record groaned, Galland signaled Josten to speak.

Galland whispered back. "You're easy, Josten. Yet there's something to what you say. I've met him several times before, but never like this. It gives me something to think about." He paused, then added, "Just like your friendship with Hafner does."

Josten raised his voice defensively. "What is there to think about? He is an old comrade."

"He's a dangerous man, Josty. Be careful."

Josten paused before he replied. "Dolfo, if you and Hafner combine forces, we'll get the 262 next year. He already has enormous power, plus backing at the very top. But he needs your approval, your imprimatur, for the 262. Will you work with him?"

"Now that you've asked, point-blank, I'll tell you. I'm reluctant to work closely with him as a matter of principle. He siphons off something from every deal, just like all the top Nazis, Hitler included."

Josten was troubled, almost insulted. How could he say this about the man they'd just left? "Hitler? Goering perhaps, but not Hitler. He lives very simply."

The concern about microphones had one advantage; in speaking softly, Galland also spoke slowly and distinctly.

"Don't fool yourself. He's become the wealthiest man in Germany, from the sales of
Mein Kampf,
from his royalty on stamps—and they
all
have his portrait now—from gifts, who knows what all. But I can excuse Hitler and Goering; they are certifiable. But not Hafner; he is a soldier, or he was one. For him to steal from his fellow soldiers is truly criminal."

Galland turned and went to his cubicle. Josten fingered his new "tin necktie." Every German service man dreamed of winning the Knight's Cross; it was the ultimate reward, respected by all, soldiers and civilians alike. With it you could go to the head of any line, get reservations in any restaurant, and rarely have to pay. Even the enemy knew what it meant. Yet after talking to Galland, it didn't seem significant anymore.