“Ready, Herr General,” Karlsberg replied.
“Two One Seven rolling,” Galland said. “OK, Hansel, let’s see if you can still fly.”
The runway lights came on.
Oh, that’s nice. That means it will be totally dark in an hour, and I will have to make my first landing in this thing in the dark.
What the hell, you’re a Luftwaffe fighter pilot, aren’t you? You can fly anything with wings, anywhere, anytime.
Peter advanced both throttles until their indicator needles touched the green line on the dials. He released the brakes, felt the plane just barely start to move, then pushed the protective cover over the rocket fire button out of the way and pushed the red button.
There was a cloud of billowing white smoke as both of the rockets ignited. Peter expected the plane would immediatel
y accelerate rapidly. It did not. But a moment later, as he lined up the nose of the accelerating aircraft on the centerline of the runway, he became aware that he was being pushed slowly, but with great force, back against his seat.
He saw the airspeed indicator jump to life at about 70 kilometers, and then the needle continued to move upward very quickly. He felt life come into the controls.
A moment later, Galland ordered: “Lift it off.”
Peter dropped his eyes to the airspeed indicator. It was indicating more than 120 kilometers. He edged back on the stick. The rumble of the landing gear ceased almost immediately, and he felt that he was flying.
“Gear up,” Galland ordered.
The gear came up very quickly.
There was a tendency for the aircraft to turn to the right. Peter made the necessary corrections without thinking about it.
“Drop the rockets,” Galland ordered.
Peter pressed that button. He glanced out the window. The ground was dropping away quickly, and as he watched, the runway lights died.
Runway lights were turned on only when aircraft were taking off or landing. Otherwise, they served as lovely target markers for B-17 bombardiers.
This sometimes caused problems for fighter pilots trying to find their fields after radios or antennae had taken one or more .50-caliber Browning bullets, or were not functioning for some other reason.
He saw Karlsberg’s ME-262 slightly behind and just a little above him. And then there was backward pressure on the stick. He fought it at first, then realized it was coming from Galland, pulling backward on the backseat’s stick. He gave in to it.
The nose rose at an impossible angle.
Christ! What’s he trying to do, put it in a stall?
There was no stall. With the nose approaching straight-up, the ME-262 continued not only to climb, but at an ever-increasing velocity.
Peter looked over his shoulder. Galland was smiling at him. “Put on the mask, Hansel,” he said. “We’ll be going through three thousand meters very soon.”
Peter pulled the clammy rubber mask over his mouth, twisted the valve, and felt the oxygen on his face. He looked at the altimeter. The needle seemed to be almost spinning around the dial, and as he watched, it indicated 3,000 meters. “This is fantastic!” he said.
“It’s not a bad little airplane, Peter,” Galland said, and with an exaggerated gesture—holding up both hands at the level of his shoulders—signaled that he had let go of the stick.
The airspeed settled down at about 600 knots, but the altimeter continued to wind rapidly.
“Level off at six thousand,” Galland said. “And then you can play with it a little.”
“Are we going to find any Amis or Brits up here tonight?” Peter asked.
“I don’t think so,” Galland said. “You heard the tower. The aircraft warning status is blue. The Amis are usually long gone by this time of day—they like to land in the daylight. And the Brits usually time their night raids so they arrive home just after first light. Which is why we’re flying at this hour. The longer we can keep them from learning about the ME-262, until we get enough of them to really do some damage, the better.”
“Understand,” Peter said.