Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (simple ebook reader .TXT) 📗

Richthofen tallied the Soviet boasts. Then, for the first time, he smiled.

‘Operation Storfang,’he murmured. ‘Remember what we did to Warsaw? Storfang will be all of that and more. No quarter, no letting up. We’ll hit the Slavs until they beg for mercy. Think opera. Trappenjagd is just the overture. Storfang will have the audience on its feet.’

Trappenjagd meant ‘Bustard Hunt’. Storfang,‘Sturgeon Catch’. There was an exchange of nods around the table. The war in Russia was still in its infancy. Nothing excited these men more than the prospect of another slaughter. From two thousand metres, regardless of what the Russian air force could muster, it would be a fresh chance to play God.

Richthofen briefly consulted a file that lay open in front of him. Six bomber groups flying in formations of twenty to thirty aircraft. Close support from Ju-87 Stukas dive-bombing Soviet formations. Rolling attacks, one following another. A torrent of high explosive falling on the luckless Ivans below.

A raised hand caught Richthofen’s attention. The Major in charge of intelligence wanted to know about artillery support on the ground. The question sparked a brief frown from Richthofen.

‘They’re bringing up a Gustav Dora. It’s showing off, of course, and completely unnecessary because we can finish the job ourselves, but it might give our Russian friends a fright or two.’

The image sparked a ripple of laughter around the table. The Gustav Dora was a monstrous piece of railway-mounted artillery. From a siding forty-seven kilometres away it could bombard a distant target with surprising accuracy and the thought of sharing a subterranean bunker with the thunderous arrival of a seven-tonne shell would do nothing for the Ivans’ peace of mind.

‘Questions?’

The Bavarian engineer responsible for maintenance wanted to know about the spares situation. After Trappenjagd, engines on the Heinkels badly needed servicing before an operation of this magnitude. Another officer at the table had concerns about supplies of aviation fuel. To both questions Richthofen grunted monosyllabic replies, scribbling notes to himself on the pad at his elbow. He seemed indifferent to the smaller courtesies of a meeting such as this but by now these men knew that both matters would be resolved. That was the way Richthofen liked to operate. Decisions taken in a matter of seconds. Action guaranteed.

He glanced up from his pad as a figure appeared at the mouth of the tent. Messner recognised the adjutant who’d been with Richthofen since the early days in Spain. He paused beside the table and handed over a single sheet of paper torn from a message form. Richthofen scanned it quickly, nodded. Then he looked up again and brought the meeting to a close before beckoning Messner to accompany him to the nearby hut he was using as his makeshift headquarters.

Messner settled himself in the only other chair with intact legs, doing his best to avoid the draught through the ill-fitting door, and waited while Richthofen attended to a number of telephone calls.

He’d first caught the Generaloberst’s eye back in the days when he was assigned to the Führer’s special squadron. Messner’s task was to ferry Nazi chieftains around the Reich and from time to time the passenger manifest had included the flyer who’d turned Fliegerkorps VIII into a legend. Richthofen, cousin of the great Red Baron, knew a good pilot when he saw one and had – as it turned out – made a note of Messner’s name. Aside from his skills in the air, he liked the way Messner handled himself: unshowy, highly organised, with little time for small talk. In short, Richthofen’s sort of man.

Then had come the accident, and the weeks of surgery, and the months of slow recovery, and Messner’s days in the Führer’s cockpit were over. With his mutilated face and a deep chill where his heart had once been, he’d emerged from convalescence a different man. His wife had left him for his best friend. His only daughter had become a stranger. He had no one he could truly call close.

But none of this meant anything as far as Richthofen was concerned. Messner was still a fine pilot. Richthofen demanded an aide’s undivided loyalty – total dedication – and in this respect he was never disappointed. Over the last year or so, he’d become Richthofen’s eyes and ears as Fliegerkorps VIII pushed east, and his growing reputation as the Generaloberst’s snitch barely registered. Recently, in a gruff gesture of thanks for all his work, Richthofen had secured his tireless aide a promotion. Oberstleutnant Messner had yet to spare the time to celebrate.

The last phone call had come to an end. Richthofen produced the sheet of paper and put it carefully to one side.

‘Your days in the Reichsregierung,’ he said. ‘You flew our Leader on countless occasions. What did you make of him?’

Messner frowned. Questions like these were rare. Richthofen rarely troubled himself with other people’s opinions.

‘Well?’ Richthofen never bothered to hide his impatience.

‘The Führer is a man you’d treat with a great deal of respect.’

‘You think he’s clever?’

‘Very.’

‘Ruthless?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever trust him?’

‘Of course not. But that didn’t matter.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I was the one at the controls.’

Messner’s answer drew a nod of approval. Then Richthofen glanced at the message on the desk.

‘Read it.’

Messner picked it up. It appeared to be confirmation that the Generaloberst’s personal Storch would be readied for take-off by first light tomorrow. He always flew it alone, shuttling from one forward airfield to another, urging his commanders to yet greater efforts. On this occasion, an extra fuel tank had been fitted.

Messner looked up. ‘Somewhere special?’

‘Berlin.’

‘Am I allowed to ask why?’

‘Of course. Our Leader wants a conversation tomorrow night. It’s a long way to go for a shit meal but let’s hope he makes it worthwhile. Something else, Herr Oberstleutnant.’

‘Sir?’

‘Goebbels’ film people are still at work. I’d take the latest footage to Berlin myself but they say they need an extra day. These pictures will do us nothing but good. Can you sort this out, Messner? Make sure the film is in the right hands as soon