Mark Ozeroff - Days of Smoke

DAYS OF SMOKE

by Mark Ozeroff

Prologue

The Englishman came at me out of the sun, firing a long burst from his machine gun. My Albatross shuddered as slugs tore into it.

Using his hands to mimic aircraft, Uncle Ernst continued, I kicked my plane into a spin, making it look as though Id been fatally hit. The enemy pilot must have been fooled, because he followed me down to a low level. Just when it seemed I would smash into the ground, I pulled the Albatross out of the spin and lined his plane up in my sights. Opening up with my Spandau, I stitched the Sopwith from engine cowling to rudderpost. He paused dramatically, a tiny smile flickering across his face.

What happened to him? I breathed, caught up in the suspenseful tale.

His right hand slapped the kitchen table hard, simulating a crash and making me jump in my seat. He burst into flames and smashed into the trees! That was my tenth official victory I was now a Kanone . A Kanone. The outdated German term meaning ace.

Repeating facts I had long ago committed to memory, Father said, Your uncle is one of the best pilots Germany ever produced, Hans. He shot down sixty-two aircraft. Only Richthofen beat his score, but hes not around to make the claim.

While Uncle Ernst tried to look modest, I studied these veterans of the Great War. My uncle had been a pursuit pilot under the command of von Richthofen. Father had been an aircraft mechanic for another front line squadron. I felt more honor in being told their war stories than I'd experienced in the previous fifteen years of my life.

Things were simpler in the old days, before the Nazis came on the scene, Uncle Ernst said.

At mention of Nazis, Fathers expression grew serious. I dont trust those thugs. The best one can say is that Hitler talks of reviving the military.

Uncle Ernst toyed with his watch. Its more than just talk, Klaus. You know I attended the Cleveland Air Races. It was Goerings idea I was to learn something about the state of American aviation. Uncle Ernst looked to me. Hermann Goering took over command of my squadron after von Richthofen was killed, Hans. Goering may have shot down twenty-two aircraft then, but now hes nothing more than a bloated politician. He turned back to Father. Goering has finally talked me into joining the new Air Service, which is to be called the Luftwaffe .

Thats a violation of the Versailles Treaty.

I dont think Hitler is going to concern himself with legalities when he comes to power. And mark my words, Hitler will come to power. Uncle Ernst scratched his chin thoughtfully. Unfortunately, it seems as though thats the only way I will fly again in Germany.

Why cant you fly here? I asked.

The treaty that ended the war restricted us from flying anything other than gliders. I need more stimulation than a glider provides, Uncle Ernst smiled. Thats why I barnstorm around Europe in the Flamingo. Straightening in his chair, he unconsciously smoothed his coat. According to Goering, Germany will soon possess the mightiest air force in the world. As an Old Eagle, I am to become one of the first generals.

Father sprang to attention beside the oven, shouting, Herr General!

At ease, Sergeant, Uncle Ernst laughed, then continued in a more serious vein. I have reservations about serving the Nazis, though. Youre right about Hitler.

What else could you expect of a former Army corporal? my father joshed.

Nothing more. But I would hope for better from the German people. My old squadron mate, Isaac Weiss, used to shrug and say, Buy a goose. Its an old Jewish saying, something like, What can you do? Im afraid Germany is buying a flock of Nazi geese.

Tell me about the air races, Uncle! I interrupted, impatient to hear more about flying.

Like I said, Hans, I was sent to America to observe their latest aircraft. I found Americans to be a friendly, outgoing people. He winked at me. They make some good liquor, too.

They had a mixed bag of airplanes. Oddly enough, their civil aircraft were faster than the military planes. But the ships that really caught my eye were the dive-bombers. Mein Gott , dive bombing looked like fun!

I know you, Ernst. You just like to fly low and fast, my father said.

I do love a good buzz job. My uncle laughed. I fast-talked the Curtiss people into letting me try out the F11 Goshawk. They forgot to remove the practice bomb from it, though, and figuring that it shouldnt go to waste I did what comes naturally.

I took off and climbed to three thousand feet. Rolling over, I pointed the nose almost straight down I watched the target grow large very quickly in my bombsight. At the last second, I hit the bomb release and jerked the stick back into my stomach. I bellied out of the dive less than ten feet over the ground. I swear I could hear the crowd gasp, even with the engine and slipstream noise loud in my ear. I banked vertically around, cut the throttle, side-slipped the excess speed away and hit a three-point landing. Uncle Ernst chuckled. Those Curtiss people looked mighty worried at the way I treated their baby.

Did you hit the target? I asked.

Funny thing, in the excitement of flying that new plane I almost forgot about having dropped the dummy bomb. I strolled over to the target, with the Curtiss representatives close on my heels. They nearly fell over when they saw a hit clean through the center. For that matter, so did I.

What did they say?

Before or after I told them that their plane flew well and Id take two?

We all laughed.

Actually, I wasnt joking. I brought two export versions back with me in crates. He prophesized, The dive-bomber will become the most potent weapon in our arsenal.

Thus did my irreverent uncle nurture my love of aviation and my political views, in 1932.

One

I stood alongside my crew chief on the ramp of Tempelhof Aerodrome. I never tired of viewing the gracefully tapered form of my aircraft. The dew beading its surface veiled my personal emblem, an impish Betty Boop gripping a stiletto in one manicured hand.

Werner wiped playfully at her eyes. Bettys got to see, he joked. Then more seriously, The plane is in excellent condition.

Clapping him on the back, I moved to the cockpit to begin my preflight inspection. I stood on the wing root and leaned under the hinged canopy to ensure the switches were off and the controls unlocked. Hopping down, I checked the security of the flap and aileron attachments, the operation of the leading edge slats and the landing gear. I paid close attention to the engine and propeller, moving down the fuselage to the tail surfaces. I finished with a check of the armament. Finding no problem, I nodded at Werner, who inclined his head and flashed a quick grin.

I climbed into the cockpit, stepping carefully through the harness and settling onto the seat pack parachute. Werner helped me fasten the harness, then tighten the seat and shoulder restraints as much as possible to prevent my being thrown around the cockpit during hard maneuvers. Finally, he hooked up my microphone and oxygen mask, saying, Trussed like a Christmas goose. Dont get cooked.

Your honest emotion is touching. Turn the crank.

While Werner joined another mechanic at the front of the fuselage, I adjusted mixture and throttle. Standing on the brakes, I held the stick fully back.

Werner called, Switch on!

Contact, I ritually replied.

The two of them strained to turn the crank, and when they had the heavy inertial starter whining at high speed, I engaged it to the engine. I was rewarded with a brief stutter, then the roar of the Junkers Jumo engine shattered the tranquility of the ramp. I reduced the RPM slightly to idle, noting with satisfaction that the oil pressure registered immediately. Werner never joked about the condition of the aircraft he considered his personal property when he said it was in good shape, he meant it.