Chapter Six

Night

Peter Robinson: November 1938

I cursed silently, in spite of the bright moon above I could see nothing below. Mind you, at 1500 feet, in a single seat aircraft, silent cursing was optional. Even if someone had been sharing the cockpit, they wouldn't have heard much over the throb of the 1000 horsepower Merlin engine that bellowed just in front of me.

Above, it was a glorious night, the stars shone like beacons in the crystal clear air. The moon traced out every ripple in the cloud below. If I had been feeling poetic, I would have called it a winter wonderland. But at the end of an hour long, night navigation exercise, the low cloud that had rolled in from the channel was a nightmare. No matter how beautiful it was, poetry was a long way from my mind.

The rigors of the OTCU were long behind me. From then it was flying training (which I loved) and on graduating, at the top of my class, I was appointed to 701 Squadron as an overconfident pilot officer. I was lucky, I flew in one of the first units to be equipped with the latest and best.

The Hawker Hurricane Mark 1 was a beautiful aircraft to fly. In the daytime I loved nothing more than throwing the powerful machine around the air. But night flying was, at that stage, still largely alien to me.

Equipped with night-flying instrumentation, the Hurricane wasn't a bad aircraft to fly after dark, but it did have problems. In particular, the exhaust manifolds that protruded from both sides of the engine cowling. These both glowed red and emitted flames. Put together, these could and did play merry hell with one's night vision.

A mere two months before this night, we had assumed that war was about to start. Then Chamberlain had returned from Munich with his ‘piece of paper’ and political tensions had eased. But if anything, our preparations in the RAF increased. Every moment possible was spent on improving our skills in every aspect of flying. So here I was on a horrendous night risking life and limb for King and country.

My real problem was still the cloud. By dead reckoning, I was pretty sure I was near an auxiliary field of Biggin Hill RAF base, which was my destination for the night. But although a flare path was sure to be lit I could glimpse no hint of it, or the ground below.

I pondered my quandary for a moment. It seemed I had two choices. Either, I could drop down into the cloud, hoping it was a shallow band and that I could find the bottom before I ran out of sky, or, I could get on the radio and ask for help to find my way to the airstrip.

Neither option was particularly pleasing. The first might mean that I fly into the ground or into a church steeple. Difficult to explain, assuming I survived. The second option would surely cost me points, in what was a competitive exercise and I was young and silly enough to care who won.

Youth won out and I opted for the independent approach. Nervously watching my instruments, I dipped the nose of the Hurricane. As I cautiously dropped into the cloud I expected to be enveloped in blackness.

To my surprise my cockpit was flooded with a bright red glow. My first horrified thought was that I had caught fire, but glancing up from my instruments, I realized that the red hot exhaust manifolds had lit the cloud around me with flame colored radiance.

Adopting correct night flying procedure, I managed to return my main focus to the instruments. I watched the bank and roll indicator and the artificial horizon, and in particular focused on the altimeter. If I was careful, I should be able to avoid flying into the ground, even if the cloud went all the way to the floor.

That descent was one of the most nerve-racking experiences of my life. Easing down through the cloud, with no real idea of what was below me was really frightening. If I was miles off course, which was possible, I could easily fly into a hill, or some other equally unforgiving part of the landscape. At 500 feet I could still see nothing. I now had to choose again, either keep descending with a real risk of crashing, or climb above the cloud and call for help. Stupidity won again and I decided to push down another 100 feet and see what happened.

At 400 feet, for a moment I could still see nothing but the eerie red glow. Then suddenly I flew into clear air. I breathed a sigh of relief. Lady Luck was really with me that night, for there, right in my path a couple of hundred feet below, only a mile or two ahead, glowed the flare path.

I pressed the microphone button on my radio set, ‘This is red two requesting permission to land.’

Almost immediately my headset crackled with a reply ‘Red two landing ground is clear, come on in.’

From this point it was a textbook landing. I eased the throttle back and lowered the flaps. Lining up with the flare path I lowered the undercarriage. I drifted over a hedge that lined the perimeter of the airfield, touching the throttle briefly to lift the nose, I eased the throttle and the Hurricane rolled across the grass strip gradually slowing. A perfect landing!

Then it was a simple matter to taxi over to the dispersal area, which consisted of a concrete apron beside a small wooden building. Although mine was the third aircraft of my flight of six to take off, I was the first to come in. After shutting down the engine, a ground crewman helped disconnect me from the aircraft.

I climbed out of the cockpit and slid down the wing, before dropping to the ground. I crossed to the dispersal hut and submitted my logbook to a duty officer. I then went outside to listen for my comrades as they found their way in. Standing on the grass just on the other side of the apron was our squadron commander, Wing Commander David Patterson. I politely approached, saluting as I drew close. He was perhaps ten years older than I, and already graying at the temples. I must say I have never had a better or more approachable CO. ‘Very good landing, Peter. Your navigation was spot on.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He turned away looking out into the dark sky. ‘I find these night exercises always make me nervous. Did you know that 703 Squadron damaged five aircraft in one night last month?’

‘They can't have been very happy about that.’

He laughed, ‘That’s something of an understatement, but no, I imagine they were not happy.’

We stood quietly waiting. It was another ten minutes before the next Hurricane was heard circling overhead. Clearly the pilot was nervous about coming down through the murk. He went around twice before making his final approach. He came in to make a bumpy but safe landing.

The third aircraft arrived in another five minutes, and also landed safely. Number four followed a few minutes later, coming in very low. I held my breath as he approached the perimeter hedge. But he scraped over with not more than a few inches to spare. A wind got up and the mist then began to break up, so number five had a relatively easy landing. Where was the sixth plane?

Then we waited. Another twenty minutes went by. Danny Parnell, now a lowly pilot officer like myself, muttered, ‘He must be running low on fuel.’

Patterson hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, he can't have more than a few minutes left.’

More time ticked by, a sense of gloom descended on us. Finally it became clear that unless the last pilot of the flight, our Flight Leader Paul Frost, had landed elsewhere he must have come to grief. But still we waited. In the dispersal hut a phone rang, the orderly came to a window. ‘Wing commander, it’s for you.’

Patterson hurried inside, the five of us crowded by the open window, craning our necks to hear. Patterson took the phone from the orderly; we struggled to hear what he was saying. ‘Patterson here...’ he paused, listening, ‘yes, I see. Thank you for letting me know.’

He placed the handset on its cradle, his lips pursed. Turning to us he said frowning, ‘You will be pleased to know, Frost is safe at Hornchurch, but he has unfortunately pranged his aeroplane.’

I didn't know whether to be sympathetic or scornful. Patterson spoke again. ‘Right Gentlemen, that’s all for tonight.’

The five of us left together, chatting incredulously about Frost's disaster. Patterson remained, no doubt to begin the innumerable reports that would be needed by the air ministry. In the day, having a couple of years experience over us, Frost could fly rings around us. It seemed incredible that he had failed where we succeeded.

I found later that while experience certainly improved one's chances, it guaranteed nothing. I set an unbeatable squadron record on that night, a perfect score. Frost on the other hand had to face an enquiry into the loss of an aircraft, but in the blink of an eye our positions might have been reversed. Life and death are just a breath apart.

Ebert Gausel: November 1938

It is amazing that a day can dawn with hope and joy and end with the taste of ashes. I remember so clearly my elation, as I went to Berlin's Adlon Hotel. I walked with a bounce in my step, I had not a doubt, or a care. I was on my way to meet Katharina and after not seeing her for nearly a month, I was invincible; nothing could slow me down. Even the damp cold Berlin weather of late autumn did not cast a shadow across my mood.

I strode into the foyer of the hotel, the doorman snapping out a Nazi salute at my uniform. I was not going to delay seeing Katharina by going back to the barracks to change. The man at the desk was one I had seen many times. He proudly wore a party badge on his lapel. ‘Good evening, Alfred, is the Princess in her usual suite?’

‘I am sorry Sturmbannführer, the Princess checked out this morning.’

‘I know, which suite is she in?’

‘I am sorry Sturmbannführer, you misunderstood me, the Princess checked out this morning.’

‘She what?’

He looked at me patiently before repeating, ‘The Princess checked out this morning.’

‘I heard but I don't understand. She wasn't due in Berlin until today.’

He turned the register towards me, ‘As you can see she arrived at two pm yesterday. Her chauffeur checked her in and took up her baggage, although I didn't see her myself. Then she has signed the register herself as she checked out at six this morning, I wasn't on the desk then.’

‘Who was? Did she leave a message?’

‘No, there doesn't seem to be a message. Grant Schmidt was on this morning, he may not have left yet. I can check if you like.’

‘Do so.’

Schmidt was a calm, fastidious, looking fellow. ‘It was very strange Sturmbannführer. The Princess came in just before six. She had a blanket wrapped around her. Her hair was a mess and she looked very upset. She was with a police sergeant, so naturally I immediately offered my assistance. The policeman said the princess would be checking out immediately and could I send two housemaids up to her suite to help her to change and with her packing. She was in her car and gone in around ten minutes.’

I brought my little Opel to a sliding halt in the gravel outside the gamekeeper's cottage. I was out and hammering on the door in an instant. ‘Martin, Martin, open up!’

A moment passed and I hammered again. The door opened, Martin stood in the doorway, bleary eyed. ‘What do you want?’

I am not ashamed to say I was close to tears, ‘They said at the palace she's not home, but they wouldn't talk to me, or let me in.’

Martin looked at me impassively, before turning and going down the hallway, ‘Close the door behind you.’

I followed him down the hallway, to a warm little kitchen. I expected a mess, but everything was immaculately scrubbed. The only concessions to Martin's trade were a well-oiled shotgun lying on the table and a pair of muddy boots, sitting on some folded newspaper by the back door.

Martin busied himself stirring up fire in the grate. ‘What do you want from me, Gausel?’

I slumped into one of his two kitchen chairs, ‘I... Katharina... Katharina left Berlin in a rush, before I even saw her on Thursday. I don't know what has happened.’

Martin filled the kettle from a pail and set it on the stove. ‘That's simple. Victoria and John have gone to Switzerland. I believe they will go on to France and England afterwards. I expect John will not be back while Hitler is in power. As to Victoria I don't know.’

I fought to hold back my tears, ‘But why?’

‘You probably know better than me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She came here to say goodbye, last night before they left, but she didn't talk to me about it. What ever you did she was really overwrought.’

‘But I didn't even see her!’

He stared at me, clearly not believing, ‘I should kick you out now, how she worshiped you, I expect you've been especially shitty.’

‘But I haven't seen her for weeks.’

He looked at me under his brows. ‘You know Gausel, I've never had any time for you, or understood what she sees in you. Somehow though, I think you're being honest with me. In that case, then the obvious question is what did she see you do? Or find out you'd done?’

‘What did she see?’ I suddenly felt sick, ‘Inge, oh my god, she saw me with Inge.’

‘Inge? Been visiting more than one bed Gausel?’

‘But I haven't, I wouldn't.’

‘You wouldn't be the first.’

I snapped angrily, ‘Do you think any man in his right mind would risk loosing Katharina?’

‘Are you in your right mind? Perhaps, I don't know about that. Katharina's bewitching enough though, so what is your story then?’

‘On Wednesday evening, I was on the Kurfürstendamm. I stumbled across Inge Hofstadter, an old girlfriend of mine. Inge was very upset because she had broken up with her latest boyfriend. She's like that, nice enough, but always carrying on with histrionics. So I sat with her at a café and cheered her up.’

‘Hardly a reason for Katharina to run away.’

‘No, but when we said goodbye, out on the street Inge not only hugged me, but she gave me a passionate kiss. We were right there in plain view, Katharina would have been in Berlin by then, she must have seen us.’

‘Perhaps, but it doesn't make sense. I can imagine Victoria laying into you both on the street. But I can't see her tucking her tail between her legs and running away.’

‘I don't know, I just don't know, I don't see what else it could be.’

Half an hour later I drove away from the cottage, Martin couldn't or wouldn't tell me where in Switzerland Katharina had gone. He simply suggested I write to her at the palace. Mail would surely be forwarded, and so in the end it would be up to her. I drove less than five kilometers, of the hundreds I had to cover on my way back to Berlin, before I had to pull over.

I sat in my little car on the side of the road, and cried like I have never cried before. As I sat there, on the lip of the Brunnen Valley, in the same place we had watched the sunrise those months before. A dark cloud drifted across the hills blocking out the light. While the first snow began to fall I continued to cry, the sun that Katharina had brought into my life was gone, and my despair was darker than the cold embrace of the storm that enveloped me.