the night-fighter crews had at midday after sleeping late. It was still only ten AM and as yet these three flyers were the only ones up and about.
‘Can I join the Kaffeeklatsch?’ said Löwenherz.
‘The whole points system should be revised,’ said Leutnant Kokke, a young Berliner. He was a swarthy man with long black hair, full moustache and a beard trimmed just close enough to fit under his oxygen mask. Löwenherz noted his grubby grey shirt and unpolished boots. Kokke was noted for his devastating sarcasm and polished flying skill, but he was invariably the untidiest officer on the unit. Löwenherz decided that he must speak to Kokke about this on a more suitable occasion.
Kokke went on, ‘On the Eastern Front any fool can shoot down a dozen a day. One hundred victories, two hundred victories, what’s it matter? Any day now they’ll have a fellow there with three hundred victories.’
‘While we struggle and sweat to see who will be the first man to get thirty,’ complained Beer, a sad little Leutnant from Regensburg who before the war had been a racing-car driver. His face was lined with worry and his wavy hair surmounted a very tall forehead. He too was trying to grow a moustache but after nearly three weeks its growth was less than luxuriant. He fingered it for a moment before laying aside his copy of the Völkische Beobachter and sipped at the bitter coffee.
A Mess waiter put a plate of chopped raw swede on the table along with a fresh pot of coffee. The Luftwaffe medical authorities said it would improve night vision. Few aircrew ate it, fewer still believed in it, but Löwenherz bit into a piece now to set a good example. Then he reached for a tin of vitamin tablets and took two.
‘Do you think the tablets improve night vision, Herr Oberleutnant?’ asked Beer.
‘Night adaption,’ corrected Löwenherz.
‘Yes,’ said Beer.
‘There’s a whole world of difference,’ said Löwenherz.
‘And you think the vitamin A tablets improve night adaption?’ asked Beer.
‘It’s on orders,’ said Löwenherz. ‘Two each morning before breakfast and two immediately before flying.’
‘They should revise the points system,’ said Kokke. ‘At present a pilot has to destroy, say, thirteen four-engined bombers at three points each and a twin-motor escort at two points in order to get a Knight’s Cross. At night! My God, we should get a Knight’s Cross just for finding one. And now with this wet weather our radar aerials will be all to hell.’
Beer nodded agreement. It was all Kokke needed to expound further. ‘Why, on the Eastern Front you can knock down a couple of antique American Airacobras and a couple of LaG3s every morning before breakfast and get yourself a sheet-metal tie in a week or two. Isn’t that right, Herr Oberleutnant?’
‘Are you two still talking about Knight’s Crosses?’ said Löwenherz. It was no surprise, though, that’s what everyone in the Gruppe spent their spare time talking about; perhaps the whole damn Luftwaffe did. ‘Knocking down Ivans is not so easy,’ said Löwenherz. ‘I’ve never seen a LaG3, but its newest variant is the La5FN. It’s got fuel injection, a 1,650-hp motor, and the exhaust gases – carbon dioxide and nitrogen – are passed into the fuel tanks as a precaution against incendiary bullet hits. It’s got two cannons with supplementary rockets. A Red pilot defected with a new one last month; I flew it at Rechlin Testing Centre. It’s a good plane.’
‘How fast?’ asked Kokke.
‘I got nearly 400 mph out of it at 15,000 feet.’
‘That’s fast,’ said Beer.
‘But what can it do at higher altitudes?’ asked Kokke.
‘It doesn’t matter what it can do higher,’ explained Löwenherz. ‘It’s a low-altitude air war in the east. If the Ivans are ground strafing, or bombing at low level, then we’ve got to come down low and fight them.’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Kokke.
‘What’s more,’ said Löwenherz, ‘our technical people say its air-cooled motor will be simpler to service in bad winter conditions than the liquid-cooled ones are. The report also said that the airframe will take more punishment.’
‘We could do with a few of those La5s to replace these crappy old wrecks that we have to nurse through the air,’ said Kokke.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the Richards,’ said Beer. ‘Last year I was flying 110s. That really is an obsolete design.’
‘Nothing wrong with the Richards?’ scoffed Kokke. ‘Where did you read that, the Völkische Beobachter in 1937?’ He tapped off criticisms on the fingertips of his stubby pianist’s hands. ‘Designed as a dive bomber, we’re using it as a night fighter. Four years out of date. Poor pilot visibility. Very high landing-speed. So, land a dive bomber with poor visibility at night with a high landing-speed and you’ve got a handful of aeroplane.’
‘I like having a handful of aeroplane,’ said Löwenherz. ‘Anyway, next year we’ll have the Heinkel 219.’
He was inclined to agree with Kokke about the Ju88R, especially in respect to the landing-speed, but the last thing he was prepared to do was to destroy the confidence his aircrews had in their equipment.
‘With all respect, Herr Oberleutnant,’ said Kokke, ‘next year might be too late.’
‘By next year we shall all be on the East Front,’ said Beer. He helped himself to bread and cherry jam. A wasp was buzzing round the table and Beer shooed it away nervously.
‘You’re a miserable bastard,’ said Kokke. ‘When shall I ever hear you say a cheerful word?’
‘Well, I don’t say defeatist things like you do,’ said Beer. He smiled thinly as he said it, but there was more than a trace of accusation in his voice.
‘What did I say?’ Kokke reached for Löwenherz’s Börsen-Zeitung and swatted the wasp with a loud crack.
‘The war in the east was like a travelling circus and a travelling zoo battling in a wilderness to decide which should put on a show.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t just make that up?’ asked Kokke.
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Beer angrily.
‘More coffee, Herr Oberleutnant?’
‘Thank you, Kokke,’ said Löwenherz. He watched the bearded man handling the coffee cups. Those were a musician’s hands. Kokke had wanted to be a professional pianist until the war had interrupted his studies. By now a career of the sort he’d once hoped for was impossible. He had only to touch the Mess piano to know how much skill had slipped away from him. Kokke poured coffee for Löwenherz and grinned at him provocatively. Some people said the young Berliner was an agent provocateur in the pay of the Gestapo. Löwenherz suspected that to be a story Kokke himself had circulated to provide an excuse for constant criticism of the régime and its methods and equipment.
‘Here’s to our Knight’s Crosses,’ toasted Löwenherz with coffee.
‘I’ll not drink to yours,’ said Kokke smiling. ‘If the bloody thing isn’t on its way by now, it must be because they’ve decided to stop awarding them.’
Löwenherz bowed gratefully at the compliment. He had gained more than enough victories for the coveted Knight’s Cross to be at his neck. His seniority and experience deserved a promotion but the Führer’s birthday, a traditional date for promotions to be announced, had come and gone.
The pilots drank their coffee in silence, and Löwenherz held his napkin carefully in his free hand lest a drip of coffee fall upon his gleaming white summer jacket. Somehow Löwenherz always had the answer and the technical data to back it up. It was amazing how he found time to handle the office routine and paperwork that fell to him as Staffel Leader, as well as reading and remembering all the intelligence reports, doing the same blind-flying