Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Peter remembered the tall, thin Swabian standing beside him. He couldn’t remember his name, but he remembered that he had gone down into the English Channel, and that they had never been notified that he had been taken prisoner.

The other guy, too—what the hell was his name?—had also caught it, later, in France.

Peter examined a rather good oil painting of a Focke-Wulf Fw-190 taking off, accurate to the point that the left gear was nearly in its well, and the right still dangling down, making the sleek fighter look like a one-legged bird.

One of the first things a new Fw-190 pilot was told was that when you went to GEAR UP, you should be prepared for the bird to veer to the right, because the gear went up unevenly.

That triggered memories of the Fw-109 squadron he had commanded before being sent to Argentina, and he went from that to wonder somewhat bitterly how many of his men had caught it since he’d left them.

He turned from the painting and looked around the room. There was something about it that made it seem more like an officer’s mess than a living room in a home. There was no evidence of a feminine touch, although he knew there was a Frau Generalmajor Galland and a family; he had met them—a nice lady, and nice kids—once in Paris, right after Paris had fallen, and another time in Berlin.

I wonder where she is?

Galland again seemed to read his mind. “For some reason, Hansel—never try to understand female reasoning—Liesel doesn’t like it here. She says she never sees me but an hour or two a day. Why she thinks that’s not better than seeing me for a day only once every other week at home, I don’t pretend to understand.”

“And the kids?” Peter asked.

“Whenever it can be arranged, the oldest boy spends a couple of days with me here.”

That relationship doesn’t seem to upset him very much. Maybe he has trouble with his wife?

It’s none of your business.

Three other officers joined them, one at a time, during the next fifteen minutes. Two were young captains (Peter remembered one vaguely from Poland), and an old—relatively speaking; he was probably not yet thirty—Oberstleutnant who had been one of his instructors at flight school.

Peter saw that Oberstleutnant Henderver also wore the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross around his neck. At roughly the same moment, Henderver saw Peter’s and headed for him.

“Your face is familiar, Major.”

“Von Wachtstein, Sir,” Peter said. “You taught me to fly the Stosser, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

The Focke-Wulf Fw-56 “Stosser,” first flown in 1933, was a single-engine 240-hp, low-wing monoplane designed as a fighter, which after 1937 was used as an advanced flying and gunnery trainer.

“And you’re still alive? Amazing!” Henderver said.

“Lucky, Sir, I’d say.”

“You’d better hope it holds,” Henderver said. “The 262 is a dangerous little bitch.”

“I flew it this afternoon, Sir.”

“Under the circumstances, you and the Herr General may address me by my Christian name,?

? Henderver said. “Of course, the Herr General may anyway. But somebody that I long ago taught to fly the Stosser and is still alive is obviously a special person.”

He’s drunk, Peter realized.

“Thank you, Sir,” Peter said. “I think it was probably the quality of your instruction.”

“And you’re an ass-kisser, too…. What was your Christian name?”

“Peter.”

“I like to have my ass kissed, Peter,” Henderver said, “but only by members of the other sex.” He raised his voice: “Herr General, were you aware that I taught this splendid officer to fly the Stosser?”

“And he’s still alive? Amazing!” Galland replied.

“My point exactly, Herr General,” Henderver said. He turned to Peter and smiled. “Let’s have a drink.”