43. Coming Down
Naval Aviation Training Facility Rügen
Rügen, German Empire
3 January 1940
On the first workday of the new year, Peter Volkmann came to work to find the fleet's "carrier godfather" already waiting for him. He had long grown used to Canaris coming and going as he pleased, so the admiral was greeted with nothing more than a weary sigh, a salute, and a cup of brandy-reinforced coffee, offered without asking as soon as he saw the distinctive little silhouette through the glass partition.
Once he had settled into his desk, Peter looked across at his visitor. "So what brings you here today, Admiral?" he asked, more or less politely. Canaris smiled, a surprisingly warm, personal smile. "Peter," he began, and Peter was instantly on guard; for his superiors to call him by his first name was more than unusual, it usually meant disaster. "You've done a hell of a job here. We actually have enough pilots to field a proper carrier force. More important," he added, "we have enough
instructors. As a result, the nature of your job is changing." Canaris shifted in his seat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "What we don't have is a lot of men qualified to evaluate aircraft. Most of that's done by people like that fellow Tank in Bremen. Not a bad man for a cavalry captain, but... well, you and I know he's not a carrier man. Plus these memos you've been sending the Torpedo School - lit a fire over there, I'm afraid." Peter listened quietly, sipping his coffee, then finally broke in, "Excuse me, sir, but what does all of this mean?"
"Effective next month, this is the Naval Aviation Development Center Rügen. The old pilot's school is going to go to Fregattenkapitän Halders, and your focus is changing purely to evaluating aircraft and more importantly figuring out how to use them." Canaris saw this sink in and raised a hand. "None of this is to say you're being punished or even criticized, there's just too much to manage for one man, so we're splitting the command. Besides," he added almost as an afterthought, "your time here's running out anyway, don't you think it's time to get back out to the fleet?" Canaris gave him a probing look. "Word is that the Kronprinz is asking about you as the Geschwaderkommodore for the
Zeppelin, and if Prince Siggi ever figures out which way's up in the Navy now that he's back, he'll probably beg for you for
Prinz Heinrich. You can write your own ticket if you really want, Peter."
Peter frowned, fingers drumming on the chair's arm. He should probably be thankful; chances are whoever followed him in the technical office would probably dismiss Vogt the moment he could and replace him with a "proper" officer. On the other hand, it still bothered him that he was shuffled around so easily by the Naval bureaucracy. He had gotten comfortable here at Rügen, and now Canaris was talking about a "return to the fleet!" Eventually he shrugged and nodded. "All that makes sense, sir. But the torpedo problem really does need to be fixed." Canaris smiled, standing and clapping him on the shoulder. "If anyone can fix it, Peter..." He suddenly straightened and clapped his hand to his forehead. "What a fool I've been! I almost forgot... those people in Bremen... your wife... ah, Peter," he asked, apologetically, "you think you could take a look at this machine of theirs? Quick trip to Bremen? Won't be wonderful weather," he admitted, "but Lufthansa contracted for a bigger version of that silly contraption at the motor-show, and Frau Volkmann's flight out to the Kaiser's summer cruise... well, there are some who think it might have some potential." Canaris looked vaguely sheepish, as if to apologize for the intrusion.
They moved out of Peter's office to the hangar, staring at the two-seat Focke-Wulf autogyro that sat, pampered and babied, in its center, Canaris stroking his chin and Peter with his hands resting on his hips. Finally Canaris broke the silence. "So how was it, being in Britain during the war?"
Peter shrugged. "When we got to London, we were attacked... yes, that's the right word... by Prince Battenberg... Mountbatten, whatever it is he calls himself." He chuckled at the memory. "Showed up on the tarmac at Croydon and began jabbering away at us in German. Apparently he's some sort of staff officer for their Fleet Air Arm. Not a pilot, mind." Peter glanced apologetically at the admiral, whose wings were largely by courtesy, and Canaris gestured for him to continue. "Climbed all over the Heinkel, top to bottom. It's a mail-carrier version, so I wasn't going to complain too much. Besides, he invited us to dinner. We didn't exactly fit in." Canaris snorted, hand on Peter's shoulder. "Peter, Mountbatten's 'set' is a mix of royals and sailors. You're at least in the respectable half of that list."
"Anyway, sir. We were actually in Edinburgh when the Kaiser got shot. When we went to war, the British were very polite about it, but we weren't allowed to leave. We spent a lot of that time being actual tourists. The British didn't seem to mind us being at war with Poland too much... felt very strongly about the attempt on the Kaiser. I eventually had to call this Mountbatten fellow, ask if it would be possible for us to fly up to Scapa Flow. I'm not sure how he got approval for it, but he managed."
Canaris frowned. "Well, that explains that. I'll tell you how he got approval. It was on a quid pro quo basis. The Admiral -" Raeder, by implication - "recently informed me that in June, we can expect not one, but two 'blue-ribbon' panels. One from the Americans, one from the Royal Navy. Point of all of this is that we want to show them the fleet... battleships, cruisers, and yes, carriers. They're coming over for Kiel Week. Apparently, it was all this Mountbatten's idea, and the Kaiser extended an invitation to the Americans. But not," he added with an amused snort, "the French."
Peter shrugged. "Mostly what I learned was that the Heinkel just doesn't have the legs for a proper attack on Scapa Flow unless by some miracle we launch from somewhere Aarhus or north. It also doesn't have enough in the way of torpedo payload to offset the risks." Canaris nodded. "Mm. About what I expected, to be honest. So I have one more task for you, Peter. This new Junkers bird the Luftwaffe's got, the 88. Take a look, see what you think."
"So let me get this straight, sir. Right now, we have four major technical projects... Vogt and the fighters, this Focke-Wulf super-autogyro, the torpedos, and now checking out this Junkers bomber?" Canaris grinned, a mad gleam in his eye. "You forgot escorting the British and the Americans around for Kiel Week, since it's your fault."
---
Focke-Wulf Flugzeugbau GmbH
Bremen, German Empire
6 January 1940
The autogyro wobbled as it came in to hover, Peter leaning out over the side to check his ground clearance. It settled slowly on the brown grass field before bumping to a rest, and his rear-seat passenger leaned forward, clapping him on the shoulder and yelling in his ear. "
Told you it was the easiest plane in the world to fly!" Hanna yelled before vaulting from the cockpit. Peter winced, waiting for the inevitable decapitating stroke of the rotors. Every time she did that, he was sure she would lose her head; he had fortunately been wrong every time, today included.
A balding man in a long brown coat clutched the skirts of his coat with one hand and a fedora with the other, keeping them from blowing away in the rotor wash. "Henrich!" Hanna exclaimed in delight, running over to kiss him on the cheek. The older man looked faintly embarrassed by it, but gave her a quick, one-armed hug, releasing his coat to do so. Peter dismounted while this was going on and the rotors were spun down to stillness. "Herr Focke, I presume?" he asked, skinning off his flight gloves and offering a hand.
"Yes, captain, though your face seems familiar... were you at that silly stunt at the motor show?" Focke asked, slightly embarrassed still by Hanna and the memory of the exhibit-hall flight. Peter smiled, liking Focke immediately. "Yes... Peter Volkmann. I was with the fire brigade in case my wife crashed." Hanna glared at him, and Focke blinked. "Your wife...?" Realization dawned and he beamed at Hanna. "Well, congratulations. And, if I may say so, good luck, captain, you'll need it." Peter nodded, smiling still.
"Now, if I may, can we see this super-plane of yours?" he asked as they began to walk back toward the hangar complex. Focke frowned. "You mean that thing?" he asked irritably, waving at a speck circling on the horizon. "Tank's baby? He's running me out of my own company, captain, makes me wish we'd never merged with Albatros. Why..." Peter raised a hand, forestalling what he feared would be a torrent of complaint about the other plane. "No, sir. I mean
your super-plane. The autogyro." Focke blinked, stopping in place, and beamed. Peter could tell he had just made a friend, and Focke immediately picked up his pace, not quite running toward the hangars.
"Here is what we have," he said, waving inside. "It's not ready to fly, but compare it to what you came in." Peter's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, and he gasped.
"When I was asked to come down here, professor, I didn't expect anything so... large!" Focke waved it away. "This is a beginning, captain. This is the first machine of a new era. It is also," he said somewhat bitterly, "what I am allowed to work on; Tank monopolizes the rest of the firm." Peter glanced at the professor, and saw deep lines etched in his face by the light. He had not realized the strain the man had been under, and a flash of pity passed through him. He shook it off and asked instead, "Professor, how have the flight tests been going?" Focke frowned and replied, "To be honest, it has been difficult. We have to develop a whole new set of testing protocols for it, because it is so radically different." Peter nodded and Focke moved over to a workbench. "Here, though - here are the initial hover reports. As you can see, we have problems with the engine, but BMW swears they will be ironed out soon."
Peter perused the reports in silence, with Focke at his elbow and Hanna walking around the helicopter. She came back uncharacteristically subdued, and Peter glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. "When I flew out to the
Deutschland," she explained, "it was nothing, just a stunt. But Peter... think about what you could do with a machine like this. You could carry wounded men from the battlefield, or get medicine to places where before it would have required mule trains. If we can make it work, we can save lives."
The moment he heard that 'we,' he knew he had been committed to the project. He turned to Focke and asked in resignation, "All right, professor, how can His Majesty's fleet help?"
---
1. Fallschirmkorps Kampfschule
Stendal, German Empire
15 January 1940
The students in the corps finishing school had heard rumors of their new company commander - that he was the hardest man in the corps, bar none, that he had been wounded in battle in Poland and had only left his position when the battle had been won, that his wife was the most desirable on post. The truth was far more prosaic, and when the thin, sparely-built Oberleutnant appeared in front of his first company formation, he was not what they had expected. For one thing, he walked with a slight limp, and rather than the dozen decorations that he was said to have, he had a wound badge, both orders of Iron Cross, and the cross of the Red Eagle at his throat. He wasn't even an infantryman - his collar tabs marked him as a Pioneer! He set them at ease and began speaking, surprisingly conversationally.
"This company is a 'finishing school' for riflemen and specialists, so you are probably wondering why an engineer lieutenant is standing up here. I am Oberleutnant Volkmann. I made the Lodz jump and, as you may have gathered, was wounded outside Warsaw. In short, what separates me from you is six weeks of fighting, not much in the scheme of things. What I have to teach you, though, is how to survive those six weeks. Studies in the Great War showed that the vast majority of casualties were in that initial period - that if you survived your first exposure to fire, you'd likely survive your second, and so on.
"The first task ahead of you is an aptitude test... fairly simple, really... to determine whether you stay riflemen, become marksmen, or, for the truly fortunate -" and his mouth twisted wryly - "to join the divisional assault battalions." He paused for a moment, then continued. "My people." For a moment, Wilhelm's mind drifted back to now-Feldwebel Bechtel and Fitzgerald, freshly returned in Unteroffizier shoulderboards from the corps NCO academy, and wondered how that new lieutenant was handling his platoon.
"With no more ado, your training officers will take charge of you from here. Officers, take charge of your platoons!" He saluted, the three lieutenants under him - all men who had made the step into commission in Warsaw rather than freshly graduated lieutenants - returned the salute, and he walked off to the right, leaving them in charge.
The officers and "mother" NCOs were obvious in their jump smocks; the trainees stayed in field-gray until this course was complete. One of the trainees, big and strongly built, attracted his attention. He could swear he had seen the man before, and he lingered for a moment, trying to determine the man's name from conversation. He answered to Schmeling at roll call, and Wilhelm headed into his orderly room, calling over at the clerk, "Gefreiter, get me Schmeling's file." The clerk acknowledged the order and scrambled to find the file, and Wilhelm settled behind his desk to begin the day's round of paperwork.