A thousand suns

On the horizon Max could see a flickering of light, the telltale sign of a distant bombing run over Stuttgart. The flashes of light in the night sky, like localised sheet lightning, were accompanied by an almost constant muted rumbling.

Major Rall led Max and his men across the pitted and rubble-strewn concrete of the airfield towards a solitary hangar. The airfield was unlit and in the darkness the men had to make their way cautiously or run the risk of twisting an ankle. Max used the sporadic flashes in the sky to study the treacherous ground in front of him.

Three Waffen-SS stood guard outside the closed sliding doors of the hangar. In the darkness, they only became aware of the approaching men from the clatter of debris unintentionally kicked across the ground in front of the building.

‘Stop and identify yourself!’

‘Major Rall,’ his voice rasped.

A torch flicked on, and the beam flashed across the Major and the others.

‘Turn that fucking thing off!’ Rall hissed at the soldier. ‘If you do that again I’ll wrap it round your neck.’

The torch snapped off.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Just open the door.’

Max heard the metallic clatter of the door to the hangar sliding open. The intermittent flickering light on the horizon did little to penetrate the dark void revealed inside.

‘Okay, Max, gentlemen, this way.’

Pieter tapped Max on the shoulder. ‘What are we being taken to see exactly?’

‘I don’t know, he hasn’t said yet.’

Rall entered the hangar and the others followed him hesitantly. The SS guards pulled the hangar doors shut behind them.

In total darkness they heard Rall’s voice. ‘The Allies bombed this airfield to hell and back two weeks ago. As far as they’re concerned, this is now just rubble and craters.

‘They came back the following day to drop a bomb on this hangar because it was still standing. Since then the airfield has been left alone. As far as they’re aware it’s no longer usable. And that’s what we want them to carry on thinking. You see we’ve got something very valuable in here.’

Rall flicked on a torch and muted the light by placing his hand over the end. His fingers glowed red and faint amber light illuminated the hangar. Giant shadows cast from his fingers danced like enormous phantoms.

‘Look.’

He removed his hand from the end of the torch and swung the beam of light towards the middle of the hangar. Taking up at least a third of the total floor space, stood a B-17 bomber.

‘Magnificent, isn’t she?’ he said proudly.

Pieter gasped. ‘My God, is it a real one?’

Rall laughed. ‘Of course it is, go on, go and take a closer look.’

Pieter and the other crew members jogged over towards it and began inspecting it closely.

‘Major, how did you manage to get one of these?’ asked Max.

‘It was a gift made to us, over a year ago, courtesy of the United States Air Force. It landed undamaged in a field in Holland. The crew had become disorientated through the night and lost their way from the rest of the bomber group. They ran low on fuel and ended up putting down in the field. It was rather amusing, you see, they believed they’d made it back to England and were putting down on friendly ground.’

Max nodded with a little sympathy. Stef, his navigator, had managed on occasion to misplace them by a few miles, but in fairness he’d always managed to navigate them to the correct country.

He wandered beneath the plane’s giant wings and ran a hand over one of her Wright Cyclone engines. Rall stood beside him and watched the pilot caress the smooth steel plates of the engine casing.

‘It really is an awe-inspiring plane, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘What on earth convinced us we could win against a country that can produce machines like these in their thousands?’ he said more to himself than the Major.

‘Arrogance, foolishness. Didn’t we all think we were invincible two years ago?’

Rall panned the torch across the fuselage towards the front of the plane. The light picked out the painted image of a topless woman, breasts held at bay by crossed arms. The woman smiled malevolently, while the hair looked unkempt, wild and almost alive.

‘What’s that?’ asked Max

‘Ahh, yes, the nickname the American crew had for this plane, very clever. A little more thought went into this one than most others.’

‘What is it?’

‘ Medusa. The Americans called her that presumably in the superstitious hope that enemy pilots staring at the plane, at her, would turn to stone. Silly, hmm? But clever.’

Max could understand such a foolish notion. Superstition governed many of the little habits and rituals he and his men privately acted out before every mission. It was a good name.

Pieter approached the two men. ‘Major, can we get a look inside it?’

Rall nodded briskly. ‘Of course, take my torch with you.’ He passed it to Pieter.

Pieter dipped his head formally. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He grinned and turned towards the belly hatch, leading Stefan and Hans up inside.

‘Boys in a toy store springs to mind, eh?’ Rall nodded and winked.

‘It’s too easy to forget they’re all still young, Major.’