Tribute

His mouth in an open roar, the grime covered lion of the north stares toward the distracted police officer who stands straight as a nail atop the stairway leading away from the Colonnade du Congress. 

The lions are too dirty.

The officer gazes at some unknown person or object down Rue Royale.

Keep looking that way you collaborator.

Guarded by the unkempt and unyielding lion, I walk around his platform, slipping the small collection of spring flowers from behind my back so they are always on the other side of my body from the distracted police officer.

How could the Germans keep us from honoring my brothers from The War?

I approach the front of the Tomb at the base of the column, laying the flowers down directly atop the plaque for the fallen which lies in between the statues for Freedom of Association and Freedom of Education.

We can no longer gather together, nor teach the proud history of Belgian soldiers.

Pausing for a moment, I offer the unknown soldier, and all he represents, my prayers on this anniversary of the end of The War. My chest heaves, pushing me forward so I’m bent over the plaque, as tears well in my eyes.

Your sacrifice will be redeemed. We will be free again.

Raising my eyes toward the eternal flame, I’m shocked to see it’s orange hue flickering in the morning breeze.

They have not extinguished you.

They cannot extinguish you.

Backing away with respect, I wait until my feet are past the base of the lions before turning away from the tomb.  Immediately my eyes return to the police officer at the top of the stairs. He is now facing directly across the street toward the Tourism Office.

Honor, my friend, Honor.

Running my hands down my uniform, I straighten my lapel and trousers before returning to my post. 

We may be banned from honoring our War dead, but as long as I’m in charge of this tomb they will be honored.

Directly after Belgium surrendered to Germany on May 28, 1940 the NAZI occupation forces instituted several restrictions on the Belgian people, including an edict banning tribute to the dead from World War I.  Germany was humiliated by Belgium in World War I, and had no taste for those responsible for that humiliation to receive any honor. Despite this edict, Belgians continued to pay their respects to their fallen from the previous war.  These early acts of non-violent resistance led to the creation of a resistance movement across the country, forces that eventually cooperated with, and played a meaningful part in, the liberation of their homeland in 1944 and 1945. After the war two additional plaques were added to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier honoring the dead from World War II, as well as those who have fallen since. On  November 11 each year the King of Belgium visits the tomb, honoring all of the people who perished for the country. 

Orders

Smoke fumes forth from across the airfield while the distant roar of German fighters dissipates as they return to their bases to refuel and rearm for another strafing attack. Our fighter fleet was destroyed on the ground, not having been allowed to take off.

Why can’t we get up there and fight them!

So far the Germans have not destroyed all of our bombers, probably figuring that they’ll get those next. Since our fighters cannot intercept their planes they can now destroy our air and ground forces at their leisure.

Running toward me from the radio shed, Listova shouts “Orders from Moscow, we’ve got a mission!” as he hands me a slip of paper.

Bomb German positions in Osovets, Visna, Belsk and Kleshchelye. 

YES! Finally we can get off our butts and take this fight to the Germans!

“Let’s get going!” I yell out as I see crews starting to gather.

We’ve still got eleven working bombers. We can do some damage, even without fighter escorts.

“We’re fighting back now!” I shout above the pitched discussions among the bomber and fighter crews.  

“Sir, what about fighter crews, we’ve got no planes.” One of the fighter pilots asks.

Our bombers are lumbering beasts, practically undefended without fighter escorts. 

“If you want to fight, find a bomber gun to man.  Otherwise, sit here and wait to die.” I retort.

Four targets, we’ll either have to split up, or carry out multiple missions. 

“We are soldiers of The Red Air Force. We will not shy away from the Germans, letting them take our country. Attack them. Destroy them. We’re attacking Osovets. I don’t want that town to exist when we’re done with it!” 

Ura, Ura, Ura! The crowd of men shouts in unison.

This will be their chance to feel like they can do something, as useless as that something is.

I wait for the cheers to die down before shouting, “We leave in 20 minutes. I expect every crew to be ready.  Let’s go!”

Men scurry across the base, preparing themselves for the mission.  Ground crews begin prepping the four Ilyushin DB-3Fs and seven Tupolev SB-2s.

I gather my gear before heading to my DB-3F.  My crew is fervently preparing the bomber, loading ammunition, topping off the fuel, and checking the engines. 

What a great crew I have. 

“We’ll be ready to go in seven minutes, Sir.” Patriolov shouts in my direction while leading a team of ground crew to load the ten FAB-100 bombs into the bomb bay.

 Acknowledging him with a nod, I look across the field to see the other bombers prepping as fast as they can as well.

We might just make it into the air before the next German attack wave arrives.

Walking around my plane, I look over its fine lines, precise welds, and x-ray inspected rivets.  

This is a beautiful aircraft.

My crews are beginning to man their planes. I turn to look back at mine one more time, not realizing that someone has approached me from behind.

“Sir, I’d like to join you on this mission.” A  youthful, almost childlike, member of the ground crew asks.

I don’t even know his name.

“Of course, you can man the machine gun in the ventral hatch.”

“Thank you, Sir!” he smiles from a mouth missing several teeth.

We head toward the plane together. 

I look over at his smiling face. My arm wraps around his shoulders. 

I cannot say goodbye to my son. Thank you for offering me this one.

Early in the morning of June 22, 1941 the German Air Force (Luftwaffe) began Operation Barbarossa, a massive invasion of the Soviet Union. The initial phase of the attack included the almost complete destruction of the Soviet Air Force (VVS) on the ground. Stalin would not approve Soviet planes to fly against the German attack for four hours, by which time most of the Soviet fighters, and many of its bombers, had been destroyed. Ordered that afternoon to bomb the enemy, Air Force Lieutenant General I.I. Kopets followed these orders, knowing full-well that he no longer had any fighters to escort his bombers. The crews of the slow Russian Ilyushin and Tupolev bombers stoically and honorably flew from their bases without the expectation of returning alive. Luftwaffe Field marshal Albert Kesselring was quoted later as saying that shooting down the Soviet planes was as easy as “infanticide.” Within twenty-four hours, the Soviets had lost all of their front-line bombers. Kopets, at this point without an air  force to command, committed suicide rather than face Stalin.

Me V Me

Purring like a well-loved kitten, the Daimler Benz in-line engine calms me to an almost meditative state as I soar above snow-capped Alpine peaks.  Near the ceiling for my 109, I scan past slopes I’ve hiked into what was until a few years ago Austria, hoping to see nothing approaching from the distant horizon.

Another day without an incursion would make two in a row.

“It’s the whole damn Luftwaffe at 3 o’clock!” Gehrig calls out.

Snapping my neck to the right, my vision crosses Verstanclahorn toward Dreiländerspitze where it settles on a flight of at least fifty planes coming out of Germany following 27 West.

Fifty don’t get lost, particularly when following a road.  We’re gonna have to fight this one.

“Form up on me!” I order, although my guys know what they’re doing without me telling them.

Even with fourteen flying in from across the patrol frontier, we’re going to have a hard time today.

We usually have approximately ten percent of our fighter force in the air at this border at any one time.  The Germans have been more daring this week, intentionally testing our neutrality by trying to use our airspace to bomb France.

“Get behind them, then we’ll turn around and attack from high in the East.” I order my guys.

They’ve got at least thirty fighters escorting those bombers. That’s a first.  Usually the bombers come alone, or lightly escorted.

“This is East Patrol Leader Nufer, authorization 44783.  Send up the standby fighters toward Piz Mundin at 30. At least fifty German aircraft, of which thirty-five fighters, heading West along 27.” I radio to base.

At an accelerated rate of ascent, varying distances, and who knows what status of readiness, it will be at least fifteen minutes before any reinforcements get here.

I look down toward the German planes, quickly taking a mental picture.

They’re flying Messerschmidts too, at least we’ll fight with the same tools today.

As I’m looking down toward the German flight I notice some of its fighters beginning to peal off.

They’ve seen us!

“Dive boys, game on!” I order moments after my peripheral vision catches some of my wing headed down toward the German fighters.

My guys are always a moment ahead of me. 

Gaining speed, my 109 races toward the German 109’s.  Lining up my sights, I target the lead fighter, noting the yellow paint on his nose.

I really do appreciate them telling me who’s in charge over there!

1000 meters between us.

900. . . 

800. . . 

700. . . 

My trigger finger rests gently against the firing button, waiting for the right moment to bring my guns to life.

600. . . 

550. . . 

I pull the firing button back, releasing a hailstorm of bullets and tracers toward the lead German 109.

Early, I know, but I got the jump on him.

A split second passes before I see gun bursts from the nose and wings of his plane.  

Here they come!

I hold steady, firing directly into the German plane.  He holds steady firing directly at me.

No maneuvering today friend.

Tracers streak past the cockpit canopy.  Sounds of metal ripping through metal accompany the furious roar of an engine strained to pick up speed.  

Who’s getting out of this alive?

200 meters from the German fighter I pull right.

At the same moment he pulls left, heading in the same direction as me.

The undersides of our planes face each other as we scramble for new firing positions.  I take this moment to look around.

Where are my boys?

I see Messerschmidts chasing Messerschmidts across the sky, Swiss white crosses darting in between German black crosses.  

Circling around, I can make out the yellow nose of a smoke streaming 109 turning to hide in a bank of clouds.

You’re not getting away from me!

Pushing the throttle forward to max, I beeline toward the other fighter.

You can’t just come in here, shoot at me, and leave you son-of-a-bitch!

My 109 bursts into the cloud, aiming to catch up with that yellow-nosed plane.

Just as I break out of the clouds a grey-nosed German 109 streaks across my 11, spewing forth fiery lead.  My left wing buckles, tears, and simply disappears.

Shit!

Over, and over, and over, and over my plane spins as the weight of one wing twirls me through the air.

Out, I’ve gotta get Out!

Reaching for the canopy latch, my hands have a hard time centering as the centrifugal force pushes them away from my target.

Gotta get the latch!

My right hand meets the latch, yanks it, releasing the canopy.  

YES!

I push off with my legs, leaping out of the plane, hoping to miss the right wing as it whips around again.

I’m lucky I didn’t get cut in half!

My body tumbles through the air, maintaining the spin of the plane, minus the projective power of my legs in a perpendicular direction. With my eyes open, I look around to get my bearing, but the ground and air take each other’s place every half-a-second as I hurtle toward the earth.

If I pull my ripcord now my parachute may be ripped off or tangled.  If I don’t, I may be able to level myself out.

Stretching out my arms and legs creates a larger surface area for greater air resistance.  The air-land exchange begins to slow.

I have to pull soon.  I can’t be that high anymore.

As I continue spinning, I can start to make out the ground when it’s in sight.  

Yep, time to pull.

My right hand tears at the ripcord, releasing my parachute.

Luckily my spin is slowing.

Unraveling as it’s supposed to, my parachute begins wrapping around me because of my spin. With both hands I attempt to push it over my head at each revolution.  

If it’s not tangled on me maybe it won’t get tangled in the air above me.

I look up to see the parachute beginning to open. The cord is twisted, but doesn’t look tangled.  

I will have to unravel once it opens completely. How am I supposed to do that if I’m still spinning in the wrong direction?

As I look up toward the parachute I notice another chute about 2000 meters to my left.  

It’s a German chute, and it’s opened perfectly. Bastard!

My chute keeps catching, fighting the tendency to tangle, as I keep spinning against it.

I may not make it, but at least he’s out of the war too.  Not a fair trade!

My spin is slowing, so I keep my hands out, palms against the force of the turn, legs out wide, hoping to continue slowing myself down. Above me, my parachute continues to fight me, slowly opening more as my spin slows.

I may make it after all.

The German in the chute at a distance seems to be going a lot slower than me, as his chute is fully open.  He is gently descending to the earth as I seem to be in far more of a hurry.

My chute finally opens completely, slowing my body’s descent.  I still have a few hundred meters to go.

I’ve made it.  Now, to not hit a tree or anything.  

I look back at the German.

We’ll both be landing in Switzerland.  I may be back in a fighter this afternoon.  His war is over.  

Switzerland was neutral during World War II.  Instead of peace and tranquility, this meant that the Swiss had to maintain their neutrality through military force.  This often meant fighting both sides if either committed an incursion into Swiss territory, particularly airspace.  Patrolling that airspace was a motley collection of French, German, Dutch, and Swiss made aircraft numbering only 300 pilots and 210 planes early in 1940 when the Germans invaded France. The bulk of the Swiss fighters were 90 German Messerschmidt 109’s, the same planes the Germans flew in great number at that time. On one occasion, fourteen of these Swiss fighters pounced upon thirty-eight German 109’s that were escorting German bombers on their way to bomb France.  The fight was relatively short-lived, as World War II air battles go, but in the end the Germans lost four planes and the Swiss lost one.