Last Flight to Stalingrad Graham Hurley (sight word books .TXT) 📖

‘Tonight, as far as I know.’

‘And that’s why you’re here?’

‘Yes.’

‘One favour? Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Ask him what the SS were doing here yesterday with a truckload of bodies.’

*

The Generaloberst was quartered, at his own insistence, in a smallish tent adjacent to the two-storey wooden structure on the edge of the airfield that served as a control tower. Beside the tent Richthofen had parked the little Fieseler Storch that took him to every corner of 4th Air Fleet’s enormous area of operations.

Messner had collected Nehmann from the darkroom. Now, with the prints still slightly wet, Nehmann awaited an introduction. Messner, capless, emerged briefly from the tent and gestured Nehmann inside. Richthofen was sitting on a folding canvas chair, bent over a map, enjoying what looked like a chicken sandwich. The tent smelled of cigarettes and warm leather and a single oil lamp cast a flickering glow over the Generaloberst’s upper body. At his elbow was a bottle of brandy and three glasses.

Messner poured drinks while classical music played softly in the background. Beethoven. Probably a symphony.

‘And you’re Nehmann?’ Richthofen glanced up. ‘Goebbels’ little Waise?’

Nehmann blinked. Waise meant ‘orphan’. He didn’t know whether this was a compliment or not.

‘Waise?’ Nehmann wanted to be sure.

‘Imp. Elf. Some people I know think you belong in a circus.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘I’m not sure you should be. That stunt on Mount Elbrus. Your idea or your master’s?’

‘I helped make it happen. At the time it seemed a good idea.’

‘It was an excellent idea. Poorly received by the Führer, alas, but command at his level is seldom easy. Occasionally you go crazy over the silliest things. You’ve seen the photo? It was developed here.’

Messner fetched it from a box file beside Richthofen’s camp bed. Half a dozen men were clustered around a pinnacle of snow. Above them, the War Flag streamed in the wind. Perfect, Nehmann thought.

‘I understand Messner here arranged for a little keepsake to be left up there, as well. A Fokker triplane. My cousin would be flattered. And so am I. War can be a burden sometimes. Moments like these lighten the load.’ He took the photo, gazed at it for a moment, and then handed it to Messner. ‘So, what do you have for me, Nehmann?’

Nehmann returned the Leica. Richthofen put it carefully on one side, then he rolled up the map and asked Nehmann to spread the prints from the developing bath across the table. The prints were already beginning to curl. Richthofen flattened each of them in turn with one thick finger and told Messner to find a magnifying glass.

‘So why are you here, Nehmann?’ Richthofen was studying the cratered wilderness that had once been the picnic area on the Mamaev Kurgan. A smoker’s grunt appeared to signal approval.

‘The Minister is hungry for news.’ Nehmann said. ‘He thinks Berlin needs a bit of cheering up. I was a butcher once. I know how to carve the best bits from the carcase.’

‘And that’s your skill? Finding little morsels of good news? Then scuttling back to your lord and master?’ He was examining a shot of the oil tanks ablaze beside the river.

‘The wick in the Stalingrad candle.’ Nehmann nodded at the burning oil tanks. ‘That’s the kind of image he likes.’

Richthofen glanced up. There was surprise in his face, and just a hint of admiration that he didn’t bother to conceal.

‘Wick?’ he repeated. ‘Candle? I like that.’

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Then you’re a poet.’

‘You’re too kind. An ex-butcher would be closer.’

‘No.’ Richthofen shook his head. ‘You should leave the butchery to us. That’s why we’re here. That’s what we’re good at. That’s why we have the medals and the fancy uniforms. You have a different talent. Maybe I should be envious.’

‘I doubt it. This regime has little use for poets.’

‘You’re probably right, Nehmann. Which raises a question or two. I understand that Goebbels gives you free rein. Am I right?’

‘More or less.’ Nehmann nodded.

‘Then tell me why.’

‘I think he’s lonely.’

‘You’re his friend?’

‘I’m someone he can talk to. That’s rare, believe it or not. He’s surrounded day and night by people who make life sweet for him. He must know thousands, tens of thousands. How many does he trust enough to risk a proper conversation?’

‘That’s true for all of us. You flew in a Heinkel today. Those men talk to each other, get drunk with each other, would die for each other and one day they probably will. Get above a certain command level and it’s never the same. This job is solitary. It has to be. You can’t afford it to be otherwise. But solitary can be good while lonely is something else entirely. So…’ He sat back a moment and reached for his brandy. ‘Where does that leave Herr Goebbels?’

‘Lonely. For sure.’

Messner stepped back into the tent with the magnifying glass. Richthofen muttered something Nehmann didn’t catch and Messner disappeared again.

‘You’ll take a little brandy, Nehmann?’ Richthofen nodded at the bottle. ‘A man shouldn’t drink alone. Bad for the liver but worse for the spirit. Prosit.Here’s to more candles and more wicks.’

Nehmann raised his glass to acknowledge the toast, watching the Generaloberst as he took a closer look at the remaining photos. He’d heard a great deal about this man, and the reputation he’d built for himself since the early days in Spain. To chalk up victory after victory, to rewrite the Luftwaffe’s combat manual, to command the respect of flyers who could spot a phony at a thousand metres, to be at ease with the likes of Hitler and General Franco, to be able to stir an old woman like Paulus into taking a risk or two, all this spoke of someone deeply unusual.

Messner stepped back into the tent. He’d brought a thick buff envelope, a little battered around the edges. Richthofen grunted an acknowledgement and said they needed a third chair. Messner once again disappeared.

‘He tells me you two have met already.’ Richthofen was tidying Nehmann’s photos into a neat pile.

‘That’s true.’

‘Then you’ll know that he, too, is lonely.’

Nehmann felt