Through the check point he hardly notices the young sentry, other than to note that they seem to be getting younger and younger each time he reports here. Passing the neatly camouflaged line of Fockewulfs he considers the recent fortunes of battle and his outlook on the future is somewhat brighter than the past months though he keeps his optimistic thoughts close, knowing full well the speed at which the pendulum of battle can swing the opposite direction.
The Kubalwagon comes to a stop outside the modest wooden building. His black gloved hand reached to the seat and he retrieves his officer’s hat, as the aging Feldwebel glances back in the mirror at him before getting out and opening the rear passenger compartment.
“Danke Peter”, he speaks softly to his old friend and long trusted aide. Pausing just alongside the automobile he brushes the road dust from his sable tunic and runs a hand down the perfectly pressed and seamed uniform, adjusting the newly received Knights cross hung about his collar. Young for the rank and a small man, thin, dark features with near black hair and large dark eyes, he wears a proud, determined and confident look upon his lean, stern face. Tall black boots polished to a gleaming shine, his appearance is one of a regulation textbook officer. He reaches back first with one arm and then the next as the driver helps him into his long black leather coat. “Ja, ja”…he brushes the fussing aide away with a small, mirthless grin. “He’s not the Fuehrer.” the dark eyes flash to the door of the HQ just as another officer exits the building. He recognizes the man as the Kommander of one of the area strike units, but has not had the experience of meeting him in person. His gaze lingers a moment on him as he makes his way from the building and across the field as if he can somehow size the man’s character up by just his appearance.
His expressionless face betrays no conclusions, as he draws a deep breath of the cool morning air, fastens the wide leather belt of the coat around his waist and heads for the building. Up the flight of small wooden steps, he pauses on the threshold and looks back the way he has come. “Peter, shut the engine down. We must save petrol you know.” With a bit of an ashamed flush that he needed to be reminded, the elderly man replies, “Jawol, Herr Hauptman.”
With a small knock the Kommandeur of Jagdgeschwader 11 enters the Area Kommandeur’s Ready Room, and awaits the man sitting there. When he looks up, the young captain gives a perfect salute before approaching the desk. Reaching within the coat, he retrieves the week’s action reports for the geschwader, and as he places them on the worn wooden surface before his superior, he can not help but feel proud of his unit’s performance over the past weeks, since being assigned to this new area gruppe. Not yet well acquainted with this well known ace, and never quite sure what to expect when reporting, he stands perfectly straight, the pristine image of Germany’s Luftwaffe fighter pilot.
“My duty reports from Jagdgeschwader Elf sir.” He snaps off evenly. “The unit is fit sir, and ready for battle, Herr Kommandeur”.
