Scan McMullen - The Devils of Langenhagen

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The Devils of Langenhagen

by Sean McMullen

other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *

Above us the sun was a dirty orange colour from the burning ruins of nearby cities, and the sky had the

colour of muddy water. Soot and ash drifted down like dirty snow, and the smell of smoke had been with

me for weeks. On both sides of the road the trees were either burnt or smouldering, and the road itself

was torn and savaged by the bombing. Most of the time the truck that carried me could skirt the craters,

but sometimes we had to stop and dig ourselves a path.

Looking back, it seems such a strange and alien scene, out of place in our world. Yet all battlegrounds

must have been similar, whether of the Crusades, Poitiers, the American Civil War, or any from the

Twentieth Century. In the future they will be the same, because wars of the future will be all the wars that

ever were. That is my theory, at least: I am an elderly Lutheran minister now, and have no technical

expertise. I have only my memories for evidence, and the events are forty years old as I write.

As we neared the airfield I saw thicker smoke rising up ahead, and from time to time could hear an

explosion above the truck's engine.

"So the Allies still pay their respects to this airfield?" I said to the driver.

"Yes, last night, and the night before that," he replied wearily. "They bomb the runways, they bomb the

forest, they even bomb the wreckage of earlier bombings. How can they have so many bombs?"

"They must know that our jet interceptors still operate from here. They are powerless against our jets

in the air, so they bomb them on the ground. It is no different at the Lechfeld airbase, or anywhere else."

The road disappeared amid a tangle of torn earth and smashed trees, and the driver slowly picked his

way through the burning woods. The trees thinned out, and gave way to mounds of rubble and twisted

steel. The burned out wreckage of aircraft littered the ground, looming out of the smoke like the

skeletons of dragons as we passed. It was worse, much worse, than at the Lechfeld airbase.

"Is anything left at all?" I asked the driver.

"Not much," he replied with a shrug. "There are a few of the underground hangars that the bombs have

missed, enough runway intact to get the jets into the air, but that's all. Fuel and spares for the jets are

nearly all gone."

"And what of the new super-fighter, the 'flying-wing'?"

"I saw it land yesterday, at dusk. It really was only two wings, with jet engines either side of the

cockpit. Think of a huge bat and you have some idea. Something strange about the pilot, too. His uniform

is clean, and I have seen him smoke five cigarettes since last night."

The road became a runway. Emaciated figures in striped, ragged uniforms struggled to repair the

surface with shovels, carrying the earth in baskets, while guards strode among them, shouting and waving

their weapons.

"Terrible, terrible," I muttered.

The driver nodded. "The surface is terrible, but it's the best we can do." We turned off down a

dispersal track. Ahead of us two doors slid aside in a mound of earth, revealing an underground hangar.

The truck entered, and the doors closed. Paraffin lamps hung from the roof, and the floor was littered

with aircraft spares, radio equipment, drums of fuel and ammunition. An officer came over to the truck as

I climbed down.

"Oberleutnant Willy Hirth?" he asked in a hoarse voice as we saluted.

"Yes. I am to meet a Major Schwartz with a consignment."

"I am Major Schwartz. You have some crates of R4M rockets from Lübeck, and a replacement pilot,

I believe."

"I am the new pilot," I replied with a little satisfaction, "and the rockets are in the back."

He sighed heavily and steadied himself against a mudguard. "When I saw the truck arrive unescorted I

thought it couldn't be the rockets," he said, then looked me up and down.

"No escort could be spared. Besides, a single truck attracts less attention from the Allies' aircraft."

"Ach, a realist," he said with a sudden smile. He called some men over to unload the truck and we

walked out into the smoke and ash. "I assume that you have at least flown a jet fighter before."

"Only five missions in the jets, Major, but several dozen in other aircraft."

"Any actual combat experience in an Me 262?"

"Two Lancaster bombers destroyed, and an unconfirmed Spitfire."

"Good, very good. It's a wonder they let you go from your squadron." I stared down at the ground.

"The Spitfire attacked when I was landing and low on fuel. I had enough left to engage it, but not to get

back to the airstrip. I ejected safely, but there were no more serviceable aircraft..."

"Calm down Willy, it's all right," he said reassuringly. "You're more than I'd hoped for. They sent one

novice from the Hitler Jugend who managed to hit a tree while taking off on his first mission-- but no

matter. We have four Me 262 jets still operational, and that experimental flying-wing, the Horten 229.

Your aircraft is in that mound at the end of the row. You will take a full load of fuel and four dozen

rockets."

"Four dozen, Major?" I exclaimed. "On that runway? I've seen carthorse tracks in better condition."

"It can be done. I have done it myself, though it took nearly 7000 feet to become airborne."

At that moment I caught sight of the flying-wing through the open doors of its hangar mound. It sat on

a tricycle undercarriage with its cockpit jammed between two jet turbines. Racks for the antiaircraft

rockets were bolted beneath its wings, and the wingspan was so great that it barely fitted inside the

hangar.

"A strange looking aircraft, Major," I said as he steered me towards it. "How good is it in the air?"

"The pilot says that when fully laden it needs only 3000 feet to take off, and its top speed is a hundred

miles per hour more than an Me 262. Have a closer look, Willy. Tell me what you think."

The Horten was painted in standard camouflage colours, mottled green and brown above, and light

blue below. It was sleek and impressive in a way totally different from the sharklike lines of the Me 262.

I ran my hand along the leading edge of the wing.

"Do you know how old this aircraft is, Major?" I asked.

"It's been in the air less than a fortnight," Schwartz replied. He peered into a turbine. "Today is its first

operational test."

I nodded, puzzled. There were tiny nicks in the leading edge that accumulate only over months of

flying. I examined the wheels next. The tyres were about a quarter worn, but had been cleaned carefully,

and painted with blacking. The hydraulics were lovingly cleaned and polished, but although the grease on

them was new there were fine grooves of wear along them. Everything pointed to an aircraft that had

seen a great deal of use. I climbed the stairs beside the cockpit and looked in.

It was upholstered in rich, red leather, the switches and controls were trimmed in brass and ivory, and

there was red carpet on the floor. I recognised some familiar controls, including the new Ez 42 sight, but

there were several panels of coloured lights and switches that I had never before seen in any aircraft. The

material of the canopy seemed as thin as paper, yet it was absolutely rigid to the touch. Looking closer, I

noticed that some of the brass controls were etched with perspiration from the pilot's hands. Only

prolonged use would do that to brass.

"Remarkable," I said as I rejoined Schwartz. "Major, there is something odd about that jet. It reminds

me of a very old, but lovingly maintained sports car."

"That's impossible. The prototype flew only weeks ago. It is well worn, that is obvious, but that must

be because it has been test-flown so intensively."

I shrugged. "It's just an impression, sir. You say it will fly with us today?"

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Scan McMullen - The Devils of Langenhagen

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