American Under Attack Read online

  The nose went up. “You actually believe you could best me?” von Schroeder said incredulously. “You are serious?”

  Joel looked him straight in the eye, the smile gone. “Hauptman, I could beat you flying a SPAD.” He referred to the French biplane from the Great War. This was perilously close to an insult.

  The German jumped as if he’d been prodded. “You insult me so? I am champion; do you know it? I am never beaten!”

  Yeah, right! Joel was sure he was exaggerating. “Always a first time, Hauptman. You know what? It’s really too bad we couldn’t both fly Messerschmitts. It’d be even more fun to beat you flying one of your own ships.” Joel laughed lightly, hands on his hips, the gauntlet thrown.

  From the look on his face, Joel had opened an old wound. Apparently, von Schroeder expected to be catered to, and didn’t like being challenged openly; the man had turned red in the face.

  He slammed his hand on the table; “I can arrange this, Oberleutnant!” he said darkly. “You will learn what humiliation is!”

  Chapter 2

  15 June 1936

  American Embassy, Berlin, Germany

  1130 Hours

  Ambassador Dodd

  At first, Colonel Bigsby flatly said no; but with both Major Sandoval and Joel cajoling and explaining, he finally came around.

  “OK, I’ll permit it if the Germans agree, which I doubt. Don’t say anything to them yet; I want to discuss this with the ambassador first.”

  Several phone calls later, they had the Ambassador’s blessing, but with a stipulation: they had to come to Berlin and meet with him.

  Joel’s orders were changed; he was temporarily assigned to the U.S. Embassy in Berlin. He and Colonel Bigsby were driven to the Embassy.

  Ambassador Dodd shook their hands, and invited them into his office. He gave their orders a perfunctory glance, and looked at them over steel rimmed glasses.

  “Colonel Bigsby, Lieutenant Knight, thank you for dropping by to chat. As you are aware, the Germans are hell-bent on building their air forces to be equal to any in the world, and treaties be dammed. They’ve stopped pretending that they’re defensive and are belligerently building both pursuit planes and bombers as quickly as they can. Part of why Army Chief of Staff, General Craig, sent you two here is so professional airmen could observe and assess the Germans.

  “Let me re-emphasize: you are not spies. What you will do, however, is engage your German aviation counterparts, both military and civilian whenever and wherever you are able, watching what you see out in the open, to help our government paint an accurate picture of where Germany is today. This opportunity for the young Lieutenant here to fly a Messerschmitt is a Godsend.”

  Colonel Bigsby looked concerned, “Sir,” he said, “you should know that neither of us are G2. We don’t have intelligence training and don’t know what information is valuable. Basically, we’re both just aviators.” G2 was the Army designation for the Intelligence Section.

  “Precisely why you were chosen, Colonel. None of our intelligence men have an aviation background. Many are convinced that aviation will be a major player in any future war. We are quite uncertain where Chancellor Hitler’s government is headed. Knowing their capabilities, based on your expert analysis of their aviation components, will help our government properly prepare, should, God forbid, another war ensue.”

  “Sir, you don’t think we’ll have to fight the Germans again, do you?” Joel blurted out.

  The ambassador chuckled, shaking his head. “I surely hope not, Lieutenant; they would be a very formidable foe. At this point, one must take Chancellor Hitler’s word as to his intentions, until such time as his actions confirm or contradict them. However, it is in the best interests of the U.S. to know as much as possible about what weapons they have and are developing.”

  He sounds like a college professor giving a lecture, Joel thought, not knowing that was exactly what the man had been before FDR appointed him Ambassador to Germany.

  “Sir,” Colonel Bigsby began hesitatingly, “isn’t it a bit unusual for an ambassador to be involved in military matters? Are we to keep this conversation confidential?”

  The ambassador smiled. “You are perceptive, Colonel! Indeed, you must both keep this conversation confidential. The Department of State in Washington would be not be pleased to know about this. However, the niceties of diplomacy get in the way of protecting the nation’s best interest, betimes. This is, I believe, such a case.”

  Making a steeple of his hands, he went on “I was an observer during the Great War. What I saw still inhabits my dreams. I want to help you, and by extension, our nation, in preventing another such disaster.”

  He leaned toward them, “Therefore, let me caution you on two points: if the Germans decide you are spying, I will disavow any foreknowledge of your activities, and condemn you myself. You will be expelled and sent home immediately. Secondly, you must so conduct yourselves that even a suspicious man – and there are plenty of those here – would have no reason to fault you.

  “I believe that you can interact normally with German aviation interests as fellow aviators without arousing undue attention. But it is up to you to be sure of that. You both come highly recommended; you, Colonel, for your insights into aviation command structure and tactics, and you Lieutenant, for both your aeronautical engineering degree and already broad flying experience. You comprise a formidable team. You are free to exchange details about Army aircraft, the P-36 Hawk in particular, to the limits of restricted information. You can be sure they are fully aware of whatever is in the press.”

  He sat back in the big leather chair, thinking. Presently, he said “It is amazing that you have persuaded our hosts to let you fly against this—what’s his name? I disremember,” he consulted his notes “—this Hauptman Schroeder. He is part fraud, part German Horatio Alger. One of my military staff, Master Sergeant Smith has written a quite detailed dossier on him. I shall turn you over to him shortly.”

  He leaned toward them again, his face very serious. “Colonel, at this point, we do not believe the Germans are aware that Lieutenant Knight is an engineer; it seems doubtful they would allow him to fly the Messerschmitt if they did. Therefore, I recommend that this fact be left unmentioned. It would also be wise to prepare a quick way for him to depart the country should they discover that fact. Since he is attached to the Embassy, he has de facto diplomatic immunity, but I misdoubt that would greatly detour the Gestapo.”

  He turned to a concerned Joel Knight and said, “Lieutenant, by all means, learn everything you can about the Messerschmitt, but be most careful during and especially after the flight. Flatter them about the aircraft, no matter what you actually think; don’t confront them. When you return, you will quietly depart for the States.” He stood, the interview over. “Master Sergeant Smith is waiting for you.”

  The burly sergeant offered Colonel Bigsby the comfortable leather chair at the head of the conference room’s table.

  “Sirs, I am Master Sergeant Clarence J. Smith; please call me Charlie, everybody does. May I get you some coffee or other refreshments?” he asked courteously.

  Their cups filled, and a silver carafe standing by for refills, he turned to the two officers.

  “Gerhard von und zu Schroeder was born in western Germany, near the border of France around 1905 or so,” Charlie began.

  “His father inherited a small piece of property, about 150 acres, which once made a decent living for the family, mostly raising grapes and producing wine. By the time Gerhard’s old man got it, though, the land was pretty much used up. Apparently, he didn’t know much about cultivating grapes, ‘cause the quality of the wine went down steadily, to where they were only producing vinegar, which doesn’t yield much profit.

  “When the Great War came Gerhard’s old man – his name was Gustavus– used an old barony associated with the land to get a commission in the Kaiser’s army. He didn’t last long – got killed in one of the early battles, don’t remember wh
ich one off the top of my head.”

  The sergeant scratched the short, gray hair behind his left ear. “That left Gus’s wife, Gerhard’s mother, in a tight place, ‘cause he had several brothers and sisters. She bundled up the whole brood and headed for her brother’s place in Heidelberg, but they never made it.”

  He shook his head. “An ammunition train exploded beside the train they were on. Everybody was killed but Gerhard. He was about ten at the time. He spent the war years in a state-run orphanage, where he mostly got three squares a day, and a bed along with his schooling. With the Armistice, and the awful inflation, the orphanage ran out of money. They just turned the poor kids out on the streets. He lived by his wits.” The graying sergeant shook his head; despite his tough exterior, the man had a soft spot for kids.

  “By his middle teens, he’d had several run-ins with the cops, which means he was a tough customer, because they mostly left kids alone. They tossed him in jail for a while, and then let him out –don’t know why. That was when he ran into the Nazis.” he said with a grimace.

  “The National Socialist Party was a natural place for a thug like Gerhard,” the Master Sergeant continued. “He was deeply bitter, and vengeful, just looking for someone to vent his hate upon. The Jews suited his purposes just fine, ‘cause his role in life was to bully and manhandle any opposition to the party, Jews or otherwise.

  “He was assigned to guard an airplane used for party officials. He was fascinated, and talked to the pilot, who had flown for the Kaiser. The guy gave him a ride. That hooked Schroeder on flying.

  “With the pilot’s help, Gerhard applied to a ‘glider club.’ The competition was brutally stiff but he showed exceptional aptitude, and learned quickly.

  “He soloed in gliders, and built a reputation for careful flying. Twice, he placed second in time and distance contests. His instructors took note; when the first cadets were selected to clandestinely train in powered craft, his name was on the list.”

  “Sound’s like you’re reading a book,” Joel commented, very impressed with the sergeant’s thoroughness.

  “Well, sir, I did write the Embassy biography for him, so I know his story pretty well.”

  “Please continue, Charlie,” Bigsby invited, with a side look at Joel.

  “Thank you, sir. He flew trainers and built time faster than anyone. When it came time for solos, he thought that he’d be first. Didn’t happen. He was third, behind two aristocratic guys; he thought it was unfair, and was again bitter and resentful. It’s a pattern with him.”

  The sergeant was really into his story, “Now, it was common practice then to let the advanced students tutor those behind them. His file says Gerhard treated them harshly, and set extremely high standards for them. In the end, though, nothing was said, because his students performed very well.”

  Joel was impressed, in spite of himself. “How’d you get his file?” he blurted out.

  “No comment, sir!” The master sergeant said with a twinkle in his eye. Colonel Bigsby shook his head slightly. Joel took the rebuke; he shouldn’t ask questions the sergeant couldn’t answer.

  “When the Luftwaffe began recruiting pilots,” Master Sergeant Smith told them, “Gerhard was among the first. His first military airplane was the Heinkel HE-51; that’s a real nice biplane. “Yes, I know it,” Joel said. “It’s a very pretty ship.”

  “Well, he loves it, and flies the heck out of it. When Chancellor Hitler announced the Luftwaffe to the world in 1935, Leutnant Gerhard von und zu Schroder was already an experienced pilot. He’s fiercely proud of his uniform. He’s still stung by the perception that others are better than him, and insisted on the title ‘Baron’. The Luftwaffe, well, they were eager to show ‘Aryan superiority’ even by questionable lineage, so they let him. He was abandoned all those years ago, but the Luftwaffe gave him a home, and most important to him, a place that respects him for who he is and his abilities.”

  “He sounds ruthless, Charlie.”Joel said.

  “Sir, you’d better believe it. He’s a diehard Nazi. He feels he has nowhere else to go; he’ll do anything to stay. He has a real ‘inferiority complex,’ Lieutenant. I’m no psychologist, but I know that anybody that challenges him gets a Lulu of a reaction. Be careful of him, sir. He can get very violent.”

  “Yes, I’ve already encountered some of that,” Joel replied dryly.

  “What else can you tell us about this tendency to violence, Sergeant?” Colonel Bigsby asked.

  “Colonel, this guy is a time bomb. I’ve heard, but haven’t confirmed, that he actually killed some guys who mocked him at a rathskeller.” Joel blanched, remembering how he had taunted him.

  After Smith left, a somber Joel sat quietly thinking.

  This Baron Gerhard von und zu Schroeder isn’t at all what I expected. I’ll have to be real careful, he decided. To do otherwise—.

  Bigsby interrupted his thoughts. “Well, Lieutenant, you may have bitten off a bit more than you expected. Now, you have the dilemma of deciding whether you’ll let him beat you, or fight him straight up, and suffer the consequences if you beat him.”

  “Sir, if I don’t fight him hard, we won’t learn much about the airplane. I’ll just have to trust that you and his superiors will prevent him from going crazy when I beat him.” Bigsby noted the confident statement was made without braggadocio.

  Chapter 3

  18 June 1936

  Hannover, Germany

  0800 Hours

  Competition and Conclusion

  The Embassy provided a driver and a spotlessly clean 1932 Nash formal sedan. Colonel Bigsby accompanied Joel, along with an official photographer. A graying Luftwaffe Oberst [Colonel] sporting a thin, Errol Flynn style mustache greeted them. His age and silver wings had him and Colonel Bigsby eyeing each other; could they have fought each other during the Great War?

  Joel was so focused on the upcoming encounter that he scarcely was aware of the formalities. At last, they headed for the flight line.

  Carefully, aided by an English speaking German crewman, Joel walked around the trim pursuit ship, and performed a careful preflight check, over protests from von Schroeder. The Messerschmitt surprised him; close up, it seemed smaller than his P-36; the wing span was certainly less. It seemed square and very Teutonic compared to the sleekness of his Hawk. Finally satisfied, he turned, climbed up the left wing, and sat in the cockpit.

  The cockpit is cramped for someone of my height, Joel thought, and I really don’t like the way the canopy hinges on the right. It was full of strange angles, and small, flat panes of Plexiglas. Apparently, the Germans don’t like the distortion of curved Plexiglas. This ship has radio, he noted. He’d been told that not all German pursuits were so equipped. He was mentally cataloging everything.

  A German instructor pilot began briefing him in serviceable English on the controls and instruments. The layout was entirely different from anything he’d flown, but after a few minutes seemed logical enough. He’d boned up on metric to English conversions, and the instruments made sense to him, he was gratified to note.

  I like the throttle and engine controls, but not the positions of the landing gear and flap controls, he thought, continuing to memorize his comments for later commitment to paper. He shifted his weight from side to side – If I maneuver violently, I’ll be banging my shoulders on the cockpit edges. The seatback is too low for my height.

  They spent the entire morning familiarizing Joel with the aircraft’s characteristics and controls. Finally the instructor approved Joel starting the engine. It had a bumpy idle, its inverted V12 water cooled engine sounding completely different than the 14 cylinder air cooled radial engine in his P-36.

  It was another half hour before the German released him to do some slow taxiing. The ship was more stable than the center hinged landing gear made it appear, and the brakes had a solid feel.

  I’d rather have a tail wheel than that fixed skid, he thought. Taxiing complete, he returned for clearance to fly around the p
attern.

  He felt every eye on him as he turned into the wind on the grass runway, and advanced the throttle. Per the instructor, he let the tail fly off on its own, and then just nudged the stick backward. In seconds, he was airborne. He reached in the wrong place at first for the lever to retract the wheels. But it took only a few moments before he began to feel comfortable. Soon, he was turning, rolling, doing stalls, until he had something of the measure of the craft, at least on a superficial level.

  The $64 dollar question, Joel thought grimly, is can I beat this guy with only thirty minutes in his own ship!

  Inevitably, the moment of truth arrived, and Joel was facing “The Baron,” as he had come to think of the German.

  “Now,” von Schroeder said very much in command, “at my radio command, we will come at each other from opposite ends of the field, yes? Level, at 1000 meters, passing on the left, like the Autobahn, yes? When we pass, the fight is on. It requires ten seconds on the other man’s tail for a ‘kill,’ agreed? This we will do four times.” He held up the fingers of his hand.

  “Yes, that sounds OK.” Joel said.

  Von Schroeder turned, and walked toward the other ME-109. On its tail was painted a bright red slash with a gold baronial seal; Schroeder was flying his personal airplane!

  1017 Hours

  They took off, von Schroeder leading the way. When von Schroeder radioed his readiness, Joel banked away, and went to the far end of the airfield.

  Joel turned heading back toward von Schroeder’s airplane – it was hard to see, it was so small. As von Schroeder flashed past him, Joel slammed the throttle full forward, and pulled the stick back into his stomach.

  He zoomed upward several thousand feet, and holding the stick, began to go over onto his back. Straining his head to see out of the top of the cockpit, he saw that, inexplicably, von Schroeder had turned left, stayed level, and was way below him!