Read Online Eagles at War by Walter J. Boyne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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Director?"
"We flew together in Spain. He's a man of great vision."
They were early for their appointment. Traffic had been light on the drive from Berlin, and there had been no delay at the gates of the Focke-Wulf factory. Josten was infuriated that it was Saturday, and everyone was off. Here they were, a full year into the war, and an aircraft factory was closed for weekends like some routine business. He knew that it was in part the labor shortage, but it was also a national attitude. Germany had not yet become serious about the war; perhaps the victory over France had come too easily. The guard on the gate was a symptom, casually waving them through the gates with only a cursory glance at the driver's identity papers.
Weigand paused to catch his breath, surveying the flat countryside. A few years ago it had been farmland; now there was an aircraft factory and, on the opposite side of the runway, their destination, the Hermann Goering Aerial Weapon Establishment. It was a perfect spot for an airfield, but a study in contrasts. On the Focke-Wulf side, sunlight reflected off the tall windows of the long manufacturing building; below, shadows enfolded the low-set engineering offices arrayed alongside. The buildings were laid out in the new German style, well separated to avoid bomb damage, with plywood shutters to cover the windows if the RAF ever got that far. Even though the factory was shut down for the weekend, it had a purposeful military look, with fire hydrants well spaced and clearly marked and directions to bomb shelters posted every hundred yards.
In contrast, the Aerial Weapon Establishment area looked like a small city park, well landscaped and with gravel-covered paths curving through the pine forests. After a sharp right turn in the path, the plant lay before them, submerged in a shallow meadow so that it was invisible from the road. It was startling. The two men had both expected to see another aircraft factory, sawtooth roofs of steel and glass buildings, chimneys smoking. Instead, they saw a rambling wooden complex, a gigantic spiderweb of frame hangarlike buildings, all connected to a central administrative office by covered walkways. At the far left was a huge, grass-covered hillock, two hundred meters long and a hundred meters wide, studded with artificial trees.
They were greeted at the door of the administrative office by a primly dressed woman of fifty, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, a white lace blouse buttoned to the neck.
"Greetings, gentlemen. I am the Director's personal assistant, Frau Schroeder. He sends his apologies; he is taking a physical therapy treatment and won't be able to see you for a few moments. You know, his injuries ..." Her voice trailed off apologetically.
Josten found a chair and assumed the approved position, hands on his knees, gloves folded in his hat. He kept his mouth shut. It was one thing to chat with Weigand as they walked along the path, quite another to speak to him in front of a third party.
Weigand walked around inspecting the walls, covered with photos of most of the Nazi leaders. In the place of honor was a huge, silver-framed photo of the Fuehrer, personally signed, the ultimate gift in the Third Reich. He whistled to himself—his old comrade was obviously well thought of. The trip might be worthwhile after all.
Frau Schroeder returned with a silver tray laden with real coffee, white rolls, butter, and cherry jam, luxuries even at this level in the Reich. Weigand ate greedily, piling on the butter, licking his fingers. With his mouth full he said, "A handsome portrait of the Fuehrer."
"Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, but let me show you some other important photos."
She led him to the far wall. The knotty-pine paneling was hung with a red suedelike fabric covered with smaller photos of ordinary German working-class people—machinists, secretaries, welders.
There was pride in her voice. "These are what the Director calls 'the real people,' those he
"We flew together in Spain. He's a man of great vision."
They were early for their appointment. Traffic had been light on the drive from Berlin, and there had been no delay at the gates of the Focke-Wulf factory. Josten was infuriated that it was Saturday, and everyone was off. Here they were, a full year into the war, and an aircraft factory was closed for weekends like some routine business. He knew that it was in part the labor shortage, but it was also a national attitude. Germany had not yet become serious about the war; perhaps the victory over France had come too easily. The guard on the gate was a symptom, casually waving them through the gates with only a cursory glance at the driver's identity papers.
Weigand paused to catch his breath, surveying the flat countryside. A few years ago it had been farmland; now there was an aircraft factory and, on the opposite side of the runway, their destination, the Hermann Goering Aerial Weapon Establishment. It was a perfect spot for an airfield, but a study in contrasts. On the Focke-Wulf side, sunlight reflected off the tall windows of the long manufacturing building; below, shadows enfolded the low-set engineering offices arrayed alongside. The buildings were laid out in the new German style, well separated to avoid bomb damage, with plywood shutters to cover the windows if the RAF ever got that far. Even though the factory was shut down for the weekend, it had a purposeful military look, with fire hydrants well spaced and clearly marked and directions to bomb shelters posted every hundred yards.
In contrast, the Aerial Weapon Establishment area looked like a small city park, well landscaped and with gravel-covered paths curving through the pine forests. After a sharp right turn in the path, the plant lay before them, submerged in a shallow meadow so that it was invisible from the road. It was startling. The two men had both expected to see another aircraft factory, sawtooth roofs of steel and glass buildings, chimneys smoking. Instead, they saw a rambling wooden complex, a gigantic spiderweb of frame hangarlike buildings, all connected to a central administrative office by covered walkways. At the far left was a huge, grass-covered hillock, two hundred meters long and a hundred meters wide, studded with artificial trees.
They were greeted at the door of the administrative office by a primly dressed woman of fifty, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, a white lace blouse buttoned to the neck.
"Greetings, gentlemen. I am the Director's personal assistant, Frau Schroeder. He sends his apologies; he is taking a physical therapy treatment and won't be able to see you for a few moments. You know, his injuries ..." Her voice trailed off apologetically.
Josten found a chair and assumed the approved position, hands on his knees, gloves folded in his hat. He kept his mouth shut. It was one thing to chat with Weigand as they walked along the path, quite another to speak to him in front of a third party.
Weigand walked around inspecting the walls, covered with photos of most of the Nazi leaders. In the place of honor was a huge, silver-framed photo of the Fuehrer, personally signed, the ultimate gift in the Third Reich. He whistled to himself—his old comrade was obviously well thought of. The trip might be worthwhile after all.
Frau Schroeder returned with a silver tray laden with real coffee, white rolls, butter, and cherry jam, luxuries even at this level in the Reich. Weigand ate greedily, piling on the butter, licking his fingers. With his mouth full he said, "A handsome portrait of the Fuehrer."
"Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, but let me show you some other important photos."
She led him to the far wall. The knotty-pine paneling was hung with a red suedelike fabric covered with smaller photos of ordinary German working-class people—machinists, secretaries, welders.
There was pride in her voice. "These are what the Director calls 'the real people,' those he
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