THE HERO 

LEUTNANT ERICH LOCHNER

LUFTWAFFE - AGE 24

 

FROM CHAPTER ONE

 

As Leutnant Erich Lochner eased himself down into the dark cramped cockpit of the Messerschmitt Bf110G, a mix of odours assaulted his nostrils. Even though the cockpit canopy had been protected from the day’s sun by a canvas shroud, the cockpit was warm, smelling of oil, rubber, warm leather, lacquered metal and that intangible….  fear. Despite the fear, the smells offered him an odd comfort. Despite the threat of death, he loved this place. The cockpit was his world. Here he was in command. Here he could climb above earthly concerns, survey the landscape, the wonder of the night sky. Here he became the ruler in a unique kingdom. He was a Nachtjager, a pilot in the elite Luftwaffe night fighter force. 

But the cockpit’s odours reminded him, too, of other smells… Margriet’s Bar with Dieter Schmidt the night before. The stale pungence of cigarettes and beer, of whiskey and schnapps. Above the bar, a string of red and green lights shining diffusely through the tobacco haze, had reminded him of aircraft navigation lights. He heard again the jazz playing from a battered radio.  Dizzy Gillespie he’d thought. It was a little jab the Dutch made at Hitler, who everyone knew, disliked ‘degenerate negro’ music.

And there she’d been, the Fraulein, surrounded by a gaggle of cacophonous, mostly drunk flyers. Their uniforms created an island of blue amongst the Dutch regulars who, in worn shirts and workers caps, ignored the interlopers as best they could. The cackle of laughter and snatches of German intermingled with the jazz and drowned out the subdued Dutch conversation.

Eying the Fraulein, he’d felt uncomfortable, being in this raucous company, even as he was proud to be part of it. He was, after all, a Nachtjagd, a night-fighter pilot, the cream of the Luftwaffe, and these were his comrades-in-arms. But Lochner was the son of a German mother and English father, had spent time in England, and had always felt somehow out of place.  Yet here he was, with the Luftwaffe in Holland and as such even more of an interloper. They were invaders…

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CHASING THE ENEMY

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EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTERS TWO AND THREE

 

They worked in a night world of greys. Earth, sky and cloud; black-grey, grey-grey, lightish-grey, grey-black, black. A firmament often torn by the weaving white blades of searchlight beams and the stitch-work arcs of tracer fire. Isolated as they felt, the three of them, so apparently alone in the void, Lochner and crew were part of a vast, sophisticated and highly integrated aerial defence system. A chain of of Himmelbett ground radar tracking stations formed an electronic barrier from Denmark to southern France.

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The Messerschmitt drove on upwards, gaining three thousand feet each minute, the air becoming thinner and colder. From 18,000 feet the grey landscape below seemed at peace. Few lights showed; people obeyed the blackout. Then the appearance of two faint lights, the weaving glims of heavily hooded car headlights, reminding him suddenly of last night, when Schmidt had dragged him away from Margriet’s bar, from his obsession with the girl.…

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 …Lochner tried, but saw nothing. Behind him Kleist’s face was eerily lit by the green glow of the Lichtenstein screens. “Go right,” he said tersely. “Five— no, eight degrees.”

At the peak of concentration, Lochner complied.

“More! Quick, or we’ll lose him…Good. Level now!”

His heart pounding, Lochner nudged the stick, kicked the rudder to straighten up. This was his chance! No mistakes tonight, Erich. Don’t let the bastard slip away. He’d show Polz he could do it; wipe the sarcastic disbelieving smirk off the Staffelkapitan’s shitty face.

“Slow down—“ Kleist barked. “He’s turning. No, wait.” He paused, uncertain. “Yes, I think I see him. He’s coming right at us - going to pass us to the left. We’ll need a maximum rate turn.”

In the rear, Heitmann reached for the grab-handles.

“Now!” said Kleist. “Left, hard as you can. Go, go, go!”

Lochner had the big fighter’s wings vertical in a head crushing turn. They were pinned into their seats by the ‘g’, the black air howling over the airframe, whistling over the cockpit canopy, challenging the roar of the engines.

“Christ,” Heitmann gasped. “I wish I hadn’t had that wurst!”

Then Kleist said, “Level now,” but Lochner had been silently counting the seconds for a full 180 degree turn and was already levelling the wings.

Kleist again, “Good - Great job - Hold that - Tommi’s dead ahead - Fifteen hundred metres.”

“Good man,” Lochner breathed, allowed himself a brief smile. Kleist was the best.

Kleist continued his running commentary, giving his pilot small course corrections as they gained on the enemy. “1,000 metres… 700 metres… Four hundred.”

Lochner found he was holding his breath, idiotically, as if the Kurier could hear them creeping up behind.

“That’s it,” Kleist barked. “Eyeballs now.”

It was up to Lochner now, searching the void— ahead, to either side, above and below. Looking for a tell-tale giveaway, the glare of an exhaust, the glint of metal in the faint moonlight. But there was nothing.

“He’s there,” Kleist said, his throat dry. “He must be. He must—“

“Where, dammit?”

It was Heitmann who yelled. “There! Off to the right. Two o’clock and slightly above.”

”Watch him, don’t lose him!” Lochner kicked right rudder, yawing across. He eased the throttles back a touch, so as not to overtake his prey.

 Heitmann said again, a note of impatience in his voice. “He’s there! Plain as daylight.”

Kleist was searching too, fruitlessly. “You’ve got fucking brilliant eyes, Heitmann.”

“It’s a Halifax,” Heitmann exclaimed.

Then Lochner saw it. The big bomber was faintly silhouetted against the high cloud. It was further away that he’d expected; more than two hundred metres. The blood pounded in his neck as he thumbed the gun safety catch to ‘FIRE’.

Now he could see the pinpricks of blue flame spitting from the exhausts of the four engines. It was a majestic monster in the dark, now dead ahead and above. He quickly ran his hands over the gun arming switches, checked the gunsight, every sinew in his body taut as a bowstring. The Halifax was cruising almost casually, heading westwards for the sanctuary of England on the far side of the water.

“They seem pretty cool,” Kleist observed.

“The Dutch coast’s coming up,” Lochner said, gaining on the Tommi.

“Like they’re on holiday,” Heitmann murmured.

“Hope they’ve brought their buckets and spades,” Kleist said.

The Halifax loomed over them, black and awesome. Less than a hundred metres now separated its tail from the Messerschmitt’s guns. Lochner had only to raise the nose and fire. The success that had so often eluded him, and which he wanted so desperately, was within his grasp.

But in that moment he was paralysed by doubt. What if the intelligence was wrong, and Edward flew Halifaxes, not Lancasters? 

Then he knew Polz was right. He was soft on the English. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t have the guts.

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