Jack Fernley - America Über Alles

The second round of anti-aircraft fire almost did for them.

The first burst had flown harmlessly wide of the left wing, but the second hit the lower side of the Fieseler Fi 156 Storch’s cockpit. The round of armour-piercing bullets cut through the machine’s flank, catching Robert Ritter von Greim’s right foot and leg, peppering him with hot shrapnel. He screamed out, involuntarily letting go of the joystick and frantically attempting to stamp out the burning metal that had struck through the boot leather and was torching his foot and calf.

Hanna Reitsch immediately recognised the danger.

Unstrapping herself from the jump seat, she leaned over von Greim and seized control of the plane.

Already the plane was making a desperate, right-sided lurch to the ground; within seconds it would be crashing on to the streets of Wilmersdorf below them.

Using all her strength, she pulled the Fieseler out of its sudden descent, parlaying to the north-east, and avoiding the smouldering ruins that ran to the edge of the Grunewald. She was little more than a kilometre from the Heerstrasse. Out of the forest, more ground fire came at them, bullets popping off the fuselage. Ahead she saw the line of the Heerstrasse and banked right to follow it, leaving the enemy fire behind.

Von Greim moved to take back the controls, but without looking at him she barked, ‘I have this, Robert.’ Then, more softly, ‘Sit back and enjoy the ride.’ Groaning, he slumped back into his seat.

As the street gave way to the Siegessaule, she saw the open expanse of the Tiergarten to the left. Spring was the best of times for the Tiergarten, the lush canopy of its trees sheltering marble monuments and furtive lovers, the streams along which cygnets and ducklings took their first rides, the lush flower beds springing to life – but not this year. Those once magnificent trees had been reduced to ugly, charred stumps by months of bombing and shelling; statues, bridges, all lying in ruin, the streams and flower beds polluted and filthy, the swans and geese long eaten by a starving city, young lovers separated by war and death.

She was heading for the east–west axis, where the Unter den Linden crossed Friedrichstrasse. In the distance, the Reichstag loomed to the left, and before it the Brandenburg Gate. She eased the joystick up, straightened the plane and then gently moved the controls down, readying for her landing. The plane wobbled slightly. She knew she was moving a touch too fast, but there was little she could do. She had limited room to land and no chance of pulling up and attempting a second approach. Reitsch gambled to get it right.

Pushing her body tight against the back of the seat, she jammed down the stick. The wheels of the Fieseler touched earth, immediately bouncing back up. With great effort, she pushed down again. This time the plane hit the ground and stayed there. The Unter den Linden was full of rubble and the wheels of the plane threw up stones and bricks into the air. She was braking hard, but her ability to control the landing disappeared when the right wheel struck a large chunk of concrete. The wheel collapsed. Immediately, the Fieseler banked to the right and the undercarriage began to rip along the road, sparks flying out.

The plane started a wide spin; Reitsch went with it. She had no control over the Fieseler now. The momentum of the circle was pushing the plane towards a reinforced sentry post. The right wing of the plane smashed the sentry box into splinters before detaching itself. Now the plane tipped to the left, the remaining wing throwing up a cloud of mud and rocks, illuminated by sparks as it ran along the ground. Through the murky window, Reitsch saw the Brandenburg Gate coming closer and closer, until finally the nose crashed into the masonry. It crumpled up, a concertina of metal, but just as she thought it would swallow up both her and von Greim, it stopped short.

There was a low moan from her companion and a weak whisper: ‘And that, my darling, is why you will never get to be in the Luftwaffe.’

The three boys had watched the plane fall from the sky in their foxhole on the edge of the Tiergarten. From the insignia, they saw it was one of theirs, but as they scrambled towards the smoking remains, they were surprised to see a woman pulling a man out of the cockpit.

‘It’s Hanna Reitsch!’ the oldest boy shouted.

‘Who?’ asked one of the others, as they ran towards the wreckage.

‘The greatest girl pilot in the Reich. It is you, isn’t it, Frau Reitsch?’

She eyed him up. He was no more than thirteen, and the other two looked even younger. They wore street clothes, dirtied by months of aerial bombardment, a swastika armband the only nod to a uniform. So these were the last defenders of Berlin, boys who should have been at school. The Volkssturm in all its glory.

‘I am, well spotted. Boys, I need your help. The general has been injured. Come, let’s not mess about, I need your help here.’

The boys ran round the plane and did their best to help her pull von Greim out of the Fieseler.

‘I saw you when you flew that Fa-61 in the Deutschlandhalle, in thirty-eight, my papa took me,’ the oldest boy said.

‘Yes, I remember. That was a glorious day. Robert, let me take this boot off.’

Von Greim winced in pain as she unbuckled what remained of it, most of the leather having been burned away. His foot was badly scorched, almost charred in places.

‘My papa was a pilot too, in the Luftwaffe. The English shot him down. We’ve never seen anyone land a plane on the Unter, have we, lads? Did you land it, Frau Reitsch?’

She nodded her assent.

‘Can you walk?’ she asked von Greim.

‘I, ah, it’s just some small burns, I’ll be fine,’ he said before putting his blackened foot on to the ground. ‘Aagh!’ The scream was involuntary – so too the buckle of his body as he fell towards the ground, stopped by Reitsch’s outstretched arms.

‘It’s not just burns. There’s shrapnel in there. We need to get it out. Before you lose the foot. No, you can’t walk.’

‘Then I’ll crawl to the Chancellery.’

Reitsch turned to the boys. ‘You boys, you’re members of the Volkssturm, yes?’

‘We are Frau Reitsch, the Volkssturm Mitte Group. We’re here to defend the Reichstag from the Communist barbarians. We will fight to the death!’ said the oldest boy.

‘To the death!’ echoed the other two.

‘What with?’

They looked at each other.

‘With whatever we can get our hands on!’ shouted the oldest again as the other two cheered.

‘That’s the spirit. The Reich will triumph if everyone has your attitude. What are your names?’

‘Karl, Karl Dahrendorf. And this is Wilf, my cousin, and our friend Paul. Are you going to the Chancellery to see the Führer?’

Reitsch looked at von Greim and he replied, ‘We are. The Führer sent a telegram asking us to come to see him and – as you know – we always have to obey the Führer.’

‘Heil Hitler!’ Wilf said, shooting his arm up.

‘Heil Hitler,’ von Greim replied, a thin smile across his pained lips. The smile was interrupted by the explosion of a shell in a neighbouring street. Reitsch noted that none of the boys flinched, let alone paid it any attention.

‘Boys, we need to reach the Chancellery as soon as possible, but we need to help the general, he can’t walk.’