Hermann Göring in person?’
‘A visit to Karinhall’ – Löwenherz nodded. ‘And the cauliflower for the Knight’s Cross means an audience with the Führer.’
‘With the knives and forks they give you a two-bedroom apartment at Berchtesgaden,’ said Kokke mischievously.
‘It’s all right for you two to talk of Oak-leaves and swords,’ said Beer. ‘You, Herr Oberleutnant, have twenty-eight confirmed victories, and Kokke has twelve, but as yet I have none and might never get one.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Kokke. ‘We all have the Iron Cross on our pocket.’
‘That makes it even worse,’ said Beer. ‘How do I explain that mine was awarded for doing twenty flights without ever catching sight of a Tommi?’
‘Perhaps you’ll get a chance tonight if the weather clears,’ said Löwenherz.
Beer pinched his face and refused to be cheered up. ‘Each night the controller sends up his most successful crews first. They get the first crack at the Englishmen while the rest of us spend all day practising instrument-flying and all night playing chess.’
‘It’s necessary for the defence of the homeland that the best crews are put into battle as soon as the first radar contact is made,’ said Löwenherz.
‘Beer thinks the war has been arranged solely for his sport,’ said Kokke.
‘You must remember that these bombers are tearing the hearts out of our cities,’ said Löwenherz. ‘Ask Kokke if he prefers the best crews to go up first when it’s his town of Berlin that’s being bombed, or ask poor old Oberfeldwebel Krugelheim, my chief mechanic, whose wife was killed in Stuttgart last April.’
Kokke added, ‘Or Leutnant Klimke, my radar man, whose wife and three children were killed in a bombing raid on Duisburg last Christmas, one day before he went on leave.’
‘All I want to do,’ protested Beer, ‘is help shoot the murdering bastards out of the sky.’
‘Don’t be downhearted,’ said Löwenherz. ‘You will soon have your opportunity.’ He finished his coffee and wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin. He stood up and after nodding a good day to them he eyed Beer’s black leather zipper-jacket, breeches and high boots.
‘You’re not thinking of flying in those boots, Leutnant Beer?’
‘No, sir,’ said Beer.
‘Good. There is a regulation about it. The Luftwaffe medical service has informed High Command that foot injuries are very difficult to attend to if the injured crewman is wearing close-fitting high boots.’
‘I read your memo, sir.’
‘Excellent, then that’s clear. Good morning, gentlemen.’ He looked at his newspaper with the remains of the wasp spattered across the headline in ugly brown stains. He didn’t pick it up.
They both nodded goodbye to him.
‘Kaffeeklatsch,’ said Beer; ‘patronizing bastard.’
‘May I quote you?’ said Kokke.
‘It’s all right for a Krautjunker like him,’ said Beer. ‘Son of a baron, enormous estates in East Prussia well out of the reach of the RAF …’
‘That’s why he’s worried about those Russian aeroplanes,’ said Kokke. ‘You know, the mechanics across on Staffel number three have got a nice fiddle going. When the long-range Aunty Jus fly in with spares, the crews bring tins of caviar from Odessa to swap for bottles of Dutch schnapps. They say that that tall Oberfeldwebel with the motorcycle is making a fortune out of it. The other day the mechanics opened a tin of caviar out there on the dispersal apron. They were sitting around in the sun eating it, when Löwenherz walks up. The Oberfeldwebel gives him a big salute and spreads a great heap of caviar on a biscuit and offers it to him. “Beluga caviar, sir,” he says. Löwenherz looks down his nose at it and says, “Never mind what kind of caviar it is, Oberfeldwebel. Have you washed your hands?”’
Kokke laughed heartily at his own story but Beer didn’t. ‘Prussian bastard,’ said Beer. ‘And that damned white jacket he wears as though this was a peacetime training school. Did you notice him looking at your dirty shirt? I bet there’ll be another reminder about officers’ appearance circulated next week.’
‘Screw him,’ said Kokke.
‘He’s always wiping his mouth and fingers,’ said Beer. ‘He makes me feel like I’m suffering from some sort of contagious disease.’
‘You are,’ said Kokke. ‘It’s called poverty.’
‘Well, you know what I mean. And I hate men who wear cologne. He’s obsessed with cleanliness, he’s always in that shower whenever I want to use it.’
‘Which isn’t often,’ said Kokke. ‘Well, that’s probably because he’s terrified of getting a dose of clap from all those girls he runs around with.’
‘One of these days, Kokke, you’re going to get yourself arrested saying things like that.’
‘Yes, well I can always count on you to help. Fancy telling Löwenherz that stuff about the East Front.’
‘A man should be prepared to live with the statements he makes,’ said Beer.
‘You know, Beer, sometimes I think you would have made a bloody wonderful Pope.’
As Löwenherz reached the foyer of the Mess half a dozen aircrew officers were arriving for their noon meal. He nodded curtly to each of them and collected his peaked cap from the orderly in the cloakroom. In the foyer there were soft leather chairs and low tables with copies of Luftwelt, Signal and Der Adler scattered on it. Sitting nervously on the edge of his armchair was Blessing, the man in charge of civilian labour. Sitting next to him, leaning well back and reading the Deutsche Zeitung, there was an elderly man in civilian clothes. Blessing tapped the other man on the knee. He lowered his paper and looked up. Blessing nodded towards Löwenherz. The man was too old to be local civilian labour, and his clothes were a little too good and of German cut. My God, thought Löwenherz, it must be a relative of some recent aircrew casualty. The man reached for a soft hat and leather briefcase, got to his feet and approached Löwenherz with a sad smile.
‘Oberleutnant Victor von Löwenherz?’ said the man. The suit he was wearing was of pre-war quality but had been darned carefully at the corner of the pocket. There were three pens in his waistcoat and under it he was wearing a grey home-knitted sweater. The man’s eyes stared calmly at him through gold-rimmed spectacles. His eyes were moist, as old men’s eyes become, but they were as active and alert as they had ever been. His face was heavily lined and had the mauve tints that afflict the skin of heavy drinkers. His stiff white collar was of an ancient style and the knot of his tie was secured by a gold pin. A doctor or lawyer most people would have guessed him to be, and rightly. Blessing saluted carefully while the man extended a hand to Löwenherz. It was while they were shaking hands that the man said ‘Heil Hitler’ in a disinterested voice that he also used for commenting on the weather. He smiled bleakly and introduced himself. ‘Feldwebel Dr Hans Starkhof of AST Nederlands, Group IIIL.’
The man’s eyes flickered short-sightedly behind his spectacles and yet Löwenherz wondered whether this myopia – like his hesitations and eyebrows raised in surprise – was a ruse feigned for his own purposes. The man watched for Löwenherz’s reactions to his low rank and the manner of its coupling to his doctorate, and to the Nazi greeting with his soft civilian handshake. He watched too for the reaction to the word AST – the Abwehr, or Military Intelligence, office: the technique of surprise was one that Starkhof had perfected many years ago as a criminal lawyer in Hamburg. There was always work for a criminal lawyer in Hamburg and a surprise immediately upon meeting could often help a case to a quick conclusion. From Löwenherz came no reaction, but Starkhof still had a card to play.
‘Perhaps I should introduce …’ he half turned towards