Folks,
Well, this is certainly not another short one. It was not planned as a non-flying piece either when I started it but like so many other stories it just took on a life of its own and kinda wrote itself. Mark Twain said that being a "self-made" man certainly relieved the Lord of a great deal of responsibility. So perhaps this means I don't have to take all the blame for this mess then?
Desperate Measures
Major Karl Dumbkoff watched as the unmeasured shadows of a new evening slowly began to cross his window and creep toward his cluttered desk. The desk is cluttered but still orderly he thought to himself. Karl had set out before him all his hard won medals, his identity papers signed by Galland himself and of coarse the letter of condolence from the Fuhrer. All had been laid out in precisely measured rows. Karl was a good pilot and a true perfectionist.
Karl sat patiently as the shadow continued to encroach upon his shiny medals and crept slowly across the first half meter of his desk. First it took the sparkle from his “pilot’s badge”, his Iron Cross was next to be swallowed up. On it crept until it had even darkened the luster of his Armed Forces “Long Service Award”. Only the luster of his large “Deutches Kreuz” remained undimmed. Measuring the shadow in his mind Karl reckoned it would completely engulf both him and his desk in darkness in about five more minutes.
In a dark, reflective mood, Karl considered all this for a moment. Thinking on the measured progression of the shadow it seemed to Karl that it was a good metaphor for his long career. At first everything had seemed bright and shiny. The world was his for the taking. The war in Spain had been an instructive triumph for the Luftwaffe. The capitulation of France brought a great measure of joy to Karl, his family and the entire Fatherland.
But now things were getting darker as the shadow of war raged over a besieged England. For the first time since hostilities began things were not going so well for Germany and the Luftwaffe. Spitfires and Hurricanes were a close match for German 109s and they were proving to be better than Hermann’s beloved 110s. The poor Stukas were almost helpless against them. Most RAF pilots seemed to be well trained and always eager for a scrap.
To further complicate matters the Axis 109s had a limited fuel supply on board so they could stay over England for only 20 minutes. This was not long enough to protect their bombers flying to London. Unlike the RAF defending their own turf, any German pilot shot down who survived was surely lost to the Fatherland since he might be expected to cool his heels as a POW for the duration. No, indeed, it is late September thought the depressed Major, and things are not going nearly so well as expected. Karl figured that desperate measures were needed otherwise this war might be lost after all. Then he began to dolefully consider the dark cost already sustained in precious lives, the destruction of material and in wasting great cities. No one could hope to measure the pain and agony of it all. All this pain, and for what, he sat in the gathering gloom and wondered.
As darkness finally covered his desk, Karl’s depressive mood deepened. He thought wistfully of his two brothers and his aged mother who still suffered day and night over their recent loss. Such a loss was un-measurable. He had encouraged his brothers to follow his example and join the Luftwaffe. The two boys had always worshiped, him, their older brother, and were only too happy to join up even against their mother’s protestations. So, one fateful day he would long regret, just before the fall of France they joined the Luftwaffe in spite of her tearful pleading.
Karl himself had promised his dear mother that he would watch over his brothers and protect them. He had the measure of the new enemy, he told his questioning mother. The war would soon be over. France would soon fall. He assured her that the British would not last a month. How wrong he had been about that. What arrogance, what hubris this was that eventually robbed his mother of her youngest sons. He could not bear to imagine her face, her piercing reproachful, tear-filled eyes. Karl’s guilt was unbearable. The heavy feelings of self-pity, guilt and self-reproach welled up inside of Karl and he felt that he could stand it no longer.
Seated there in the lengthening shadows Karl removed a small key from his pocket and released the catch on the middle drawer of his little desk. Slowly he drew the drawer toward him until it pressed upon his stomach. Looking down it was much too dark now to see what had been so securely locked away. No matter, Karl knew exactly what lay waiting in that little drawer. Ignoring a ringing telephone Karl placed his well-practiced hand in the drawer and softly caressed then tightly grasped the cold steel of his service pistol.
Who knows how the remainder a man’s life will be measured? It might be measured in days, weeks, hours, or in a certain number of breaths. As a phone rings in the background the remainder of Luftwaffe ace Karl’s Dumbkoff’s desperate, tormented life can now be measured in just a few more rings of that phone or simply in the tick, tick, tick of his watch.
Let us consider that ringing phone Karl has just ignored. It stands in the shadows on his desk within easy reach. It might as well be on the moon for all that Karl cares about it. Karl is indifferent now to all worldly things even to nagging telephones and loudly ringing bells. Let’s let it ring, and while there is someone waiting at the other end, follow the active line to discover just who might be so determined to reach poor Karl. We follow the line outside where it is attached to a trunk line. From there we speed across country, splitting here and there through this exchange and that until we cross from France into Germany. Shortly we find ourselves looking in the window of a small house outside a major German city. Inside we can see the shadow of a person against the soft glow emanating from the hearth.
Drawing closer to the window we make out the silhouette of a stooped old woman. The old woman is gazing happily at a piece of paper that she holds in one hand. In the other hand she holds a telephone. The window is open and as we listen we learn that the paper in her hand is a cable from the air ministry reporting that both Karl’s brothers have survived having their Me110s shot down over London. Both parachuted to safety sustaining only minor injuries. They are alive, well and prisoners of war in Britain. The elated old mother is desperately trying to reach Karl with the wonderful news. As she also gives the questioning operator the good news about her sons it seems that the phone is just ringing and ringing in Karl’s office.
Let’s go back to see why the Major is missing such an important call from home.
Back in Karl’s office and if you had been measuring, the phone has rung precisely twenty-eight times and is about to ring once again. Through the gloom, a superficially wounded but living Major Karl Dumbkoff can barely make out that all that ringing in his ears does not come from that single, poorly aimed pistol shot. Holding a handkerchief to his battered head the officer reaches slowly for the phone.
Postscript:
The great Luftwaffe ace Adolph Galland also lost two brothers to the air war, Wilhelm-Ferdinand and Paul. Paul would be killed on 31 October 1942, followed by "Wutz" on 17 August 1943. I believe they flew with JG26.
I have a picture of their white-haired mother, Anna Galland, taken in 1950 with her seated next to her famous, cigar smoking second son. Galland had just returned to Germany from Argentina. There is a look of both pride and resignation in Anna's eyes as she gazes somewhat reproachfully at the camera. Perhaps the Papparazzi were not all that popular back then either.
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"Blessed are they who expect nothing.
For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 06-12-2002).]
[This message has been edited by Jolly Roger Too (edited 06-12-2002).]
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