Valley (Guest Post)

Captain Ermbach walked into the Group Commander’s office, waving vaguely toward his forehead. Let the Prussians of the Army pretend to be Junkers. The German air force looked to business. Besides, fighting in the air was less than half a dozen years old and those practicing the new arts felt they were free of such pedestrian restraints as drill-sergeant saluting.

“Ulrich. Good to see you. Sit down.”

The captain would have been puzzled at the request, except that the group commander made sure there would be few routines. You couldn’t go on as usual, or less so, and expect to escape displeasure for any length of time. So the captain, with his multifarious duties as the Group executive officer, was not puzzled. He was always ready for the unexpected. He made notes of how the commander did it. Rumor had it his own promotion was in process.

The colonel looked at him for a moment, then past Ermbach, presumably through the window behind him, gauging the morning sky for flying weather. But he kept looking.

Then, suddenly, “Ulrich. You know why we’re so good?”

“I would presume it is through the unending efforts of your executive.”

The colonel smiled—Ermbach thought he would ordinarily have laughed—as if he agreed, while shaking his head.

“It’s because we fight just enough.”

“Sir?” Ermbach had had thoughts like this but it would not have done to say so. Commanders, however, had latitude not available to their subordinates or, in fact, their equals in rank who did not command.

“Our pilots learn to fight in an environment where their skill and experience can be improved.”

Ermbach nodded.

“Now, the great sausage machine on the Central Front, or over Belgium, is different. The best pilots in the world, mixed up in what the English would call a scrum, get shot down with regularity. Those recovered tell a story far too frequently. While fighting like heroes in combat, the sheer numbers of enemy allow even a green replacement to stumble into a pursuit curve and, miracle of miracles, even hit our pilots. A rapidly-calculated but accurate approach might be ruined by another duel crossing in front. And the bullets by the tens of thousands crossing the sky will hit somebody. Your own side, some tied up in other combats, might force you to sheer off an approach, or into the path of an enemy machine to avoid a collision. It’s a madhouse.”

The commander, usually precise in his speech, had apparently thought about this for a long time, but seemed to be searching for more compelling ways of illuminating what he was trying to say.

“Yes sir. And we practice in aerial combat and live long enough to become skilled. We are not killed by accident first.”

Not all lived long enough but by this time in the war, some things went without saying.

“The wise wolves of the north have sufficient reputation that they need not plunge into the scrum. It’s said, under the breath, that they wait on the edges for a sure kill. They kill. And they live. And they kill and they put up astonishing records. Which, of course, would not be possible without those willing to plunge ahead into the scrum, throwing the unskilled and unlucky into the plight of the stag at bay.”

Ermbach was pleased. He’d have put it the same way, he thought.

“We’re going north.”

Ermbach’s stomach came to his attention. Suddenly he recalled the comfort of having Switzerland just a few miles to his south. He couldn’t remember thinking of it as a sanctuary if the war got too bad. Now that it would not be there, he felt naked.

“You have the morning status report?”

An orderly brought in tea. The commander pulled a bottle of sherry—God knows where he got it, Ermbach thought—and poured an ounce or so into each cup.

“Yes sir. We’re ready to carry out the plan of the day.” Ermbach handed two sheets to the commander who scanned them briefly and put them aside.

“You are not flying today, as I recall.”

“No sir, and your machine is tuned to your satisfaction.”

Ermbach reproached himself for giving the commander an opening to say, unpleasantly, that he expected every machine be tuned to his satisfaction, even if flown by a new sergeant pilot.

“Number four in the second squadron has too many hours on it to trust in combat. I want you to take it to Johannisthal and return with a new Albatross D III. They’ll have one for you. Take three days in Berlin. See your family.”

Ermbach tried to recall if he’d reported any cumulative hours for the group’s aircraft this month. Probably not. The commander had taught him another lesson, this time without explaining the depth of his negligence.

“Yes sir. I can get my business wrapped up by shortly after lunch. Thank you.”

The commander looked at him for some seconds. One of the reasons he was so good at aerial fighting, it was said, was that his eyes were both extraordinarily large and set quite far apart. His strong jaw and large nose prevented him from looking like a frog, Ermbach thought, recalling some who were not so fortunate.

His gaze, not to mention his stare, was frequently unnerving. The look went on and seemed to have something in it besides the business of a fighter group.

The commander nodded dismissal. Ermbach stood and, for reasons he could not explain, snapped an academy salute with heel-clicking.

Ermbach dropped his luggage satchel behind the pilot’s seat. The machine’s hours—he’d checked—were high but would not make a trip to Berlin and its neighboring Johannisthal airfield and factory problematic.

He ran his take off roll a bit longer than necessary, kept his climb to a couple of degrees and let his speed build. When he had more speed than he needed, he climbed, pulling the nose up until he felt the shudder of an incipient stall, eased the climb. It was a way of keeping his handling sharp, did the same thing with a turn toward the gunnery field. He dipped his nose, fired a test burst into the grass, and resumed his climb.

He watched his instruments, such as they were, and listened to his engine and the rush of air past him, over the wings and around the struts and wires. Nothing was amiss, as far as he could tell. He climbed further, setting a course somewhat east of north.

Not having a flight to command, or at least lead, he was able to see himself alone in an immense blue sky, with much of his attention unneeded. He kept his head moving. It was a habit and he’d probably do it riding on a train. Without the prospect of contact, his eyes did their work and his mind wandered. Certain lines of thought he turned from, with effort.

He swung right, a bit south, to avoid a building cumulus. Below him were hills almost large enough to count as mountains, if you didn’t think of, say, the Alps when you thought of mountains. A flash of gold to his right front caught his eye. He was far enough into Germany to fly low for sightseeing or navigating by railroad and so he dropped a wing and spiraled down.

God, he thought. His mind actually hurt. Below him was a view that distilled the popular paintings of the prosperous German farmer, paintings he, a city boy, had liked especially. Grain, in a shallow valley, ready for harvest, was so gold and red that it looked as if it were actually hot in the mid-afternoon sun and his mouth watered at the thought of the chewy, salty bread the grain must shortly make. And butter…. Butter. At this time in the war….

There was no way he could tell at this altitude but he was certain, for some reason, that the large, sturdy farm house and adjacent barn were built as strongly as a margrave’s castle. Farming equipment stood about, but there was no clutter. He turned to retrace his flight, even lower. More than a dozen cattle grazed on a meadow so green it looked artificial. They were fat, sleek, and he hadn’t seen their like in some time. Since 1914, actually. Five horses were in a paddock. Huge, powerful, they were the kind of horse for which his brother in the Heavy Artillery would reluctantly sell their mother. A small mill and wheel stood on a brook.

This place, he thought, should be in a painting. Not here and not now.

A man came out of the barn, looked up shading his eyes. He waved. Ermbach returned the salute. He reefed his aircraft around, taking a last look and returning to his course. Once he’d gotten settled, he pulled out a map. He’d folded it to show his likely route so there was no wrestling in the slipstream. He couldn’t satisfy himself that he saw his location on the map. But all Germany was north and east of him and he would not panic and start flying like a drunk looking for a landmark. He looked over his shoulder, a last glance at the farm and the cumulus. As he flew, he felt as if he were leaving home.

Ermbach had been back and forth, from front to rear enough times not to note with surprise the difference in atmosphere at Jo-thal’s operations office. Here he would turn in the paperwork on the worn out aircraft he’d brought, and show his orders for a new one, arranging the date and time. It had the casual organization of a large transport firm arranging railway passage for freight. He supposed, never having been in any such transport office, large or small, outside of the Army.

The senior sergeant in charge of the outer office at Johannisthal seemed to have been a jovial innkeeper as a civilian.

“Herr Captain, here is Captain Heeren, in from Freiburg, practically neighbors.”

It was a not the role of a noncom to act as host, but this man was happy in his work, far from the trenches, and could hardly keep his joie de vivre contained. Ermbach suppressed both a reproach and a grin.

The two officers waved at their foreheads, even more casually than usual, then shook hands. They recognized the weathered face with the staring white where the goggles covered the eyes. Aviators, each implied, were different.

“Freiburg, eh?” said Ermbach, “just now? Picking up an Albatross, too?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the other, “after some partying. You?”

“Family in town, then back to the salt mines.”

Heeren’s eyes softened for an instant. Dealing with one’s family in such a war, and hearing of the deaths of friends, was difficult at best. Some dealt with it by avoiding home leave as far as they could.

“Well,” said Ermbach with slightly emphasized good humor, “weather good on your way in?”

“Perfect. Not a cloud to be seen from horizon to horizon. Makes you think of flying after the war, just as an amusement. Although one would own an aircraft for years before seeing such a day again.”

Ermbach didn’t reply. Heeren’s description of the sky was accurate, except for the cumulus Ermbach had had to avoid. He reviewed a map in his head. Freiburg to Johannisthal would have put the cumulus well within Heeren’s sight, if not route. He said nothing. There was no point in reproaching Heeren for saying he hadn’t seen something he hadn’t seen, or for accusing him of lying if he had seen it.

The sergeant called Captain Heeren to report to the officer commanding the distribution of precious aircraft.

Ermbach walked idly to a wall-size map of Germany. It was a topographical map, which was normal for a military operation. Even aviators didn’t get their commissions without at least some introduction to the ground as seen by those who walked and fought upon it. Or in it, Ermbach mused.

His history of Germany had included as a matter of course armies marching, cross-marching, and counter-marching. He tried to link what he remembered with the various terrain features, looking for natural invasion routes or obstacles. There was the Fulda Gap. Far to the east were the plains of Poland, which attracted the attention of cavalry officers who hadn’t gathered that horse cavalry was obsolete.

He looked south by southwest along his route. Was there any indication of a valley whose grain gleamed hot in the sun?

Berlin dismayed him. People were threadbare and silent, the children thin and quiet. At the front, shortages were normal and overcome by the occasional coup providing liquor or a half a truckload of hams. But that was war. Here were shortages but no war.

After a day of awkward happiness with his family, he went out for exercise and to see if a liquor store had anything to bring home. He encountered a thin, red-eyed woman. Looking twice—possibly recognizing the coat—he discovered it was the mother of a neighbor boy, just too young to have been a playmate.

She rushed to him, hugged him frantically, crying, “My Hanni’s gone. My Hanni’s gone.”

He could think of nothing to say. Mentioning a righteous cause might have comforted a Spartan mother. Swearing to kill ten for her son was a monstrous obscenity in any case, infinitely more so in this year of ten thousand dead in a month, or a week.

He felt his mind competently avoiding certain subjects. Was the grief of the millionth bereaved mother different from the grief of the first? One would think so, merely as a matter of the accumulation of grief in the atmosphere. And the millionth mother would have had years to dread it.

“Sorry. So sorry,” he murmured. Eventually, he disentangled himself by asking her to visit his home, sure she would refuse. She did, controlling her sobs, and walked off. It occurred to Ermbach that bringing this mother to his mother would have been a bad idea. One had lost, the other not. One’s dread was over, the other’s continued. One was glad it wasn’t her son and felt guilty for being glad. The other resented that it was her son and not another’s, and felt guilty for resenting.

The weather was clear at Jo’thal, the phone line to his base working and the jovial noncom told him his friends were waiting.

He took off to the northwest, into the prevailing wind that brought weather to the German Army after passing over the Allies and giving them its secrets. He turned left on course for his base. Duty required him to wring out the new aircraft with aerobatics at the edge of the flight envelope, with throttle nearly closed and then wide open before leaving the area, searching for manufacturing defects while over friendly territory and within gliding distance of a field. Instead, his swing to the south was smooth and confident.

At the appointed time, in the middle of an untroubled sky, he saw a building cumulus. He changed course to pass to the south of the cloud, saw the valley and pulled back on the throttle. There was the red-gold gleam, a man who could probably use some help, and a valley that appeared on no map whatsoever.