Disclaimer: This is an original work of fiction. All original characters are my own invention and any similarity to actual persons living or dead is coincidental. Where actual historical figures are mentioned any dialogue or actions attributed to them is to be similarly viewed, unless the incident concerned is a matter of historical record.
Alfelt woke up at the ringing and reached over in the semi-darkness of his small room and peered at his small alarm clock. With a grunt he noted it was 0530 and eased himself up out of bed reaching for his shirt and uniform trousers. He was almost fully dressed knotting his tie when it dawned on him.
'Mein Gott.. wake up Johann.. for Christ's sake.. you're off flying.. there's no damned rush!'
With a barely stifled yawn he reached for his uniform jacket, buttoning it up; finishing with his belt and boots. He then grabbed his uniform cap and left the room striding out of the luxury hotel where they had been billeted to find his staff car and senior flight commanders - what was left of them, he noted sourly - waiting for him. Climbing into the back seat he waved for the driver to take them over to the airfield. As they drove through the sleepy village he noted the normal activities of any country village; labourers walking to the local farm; cafes opening up; deliveries of milk on doorsteps; and he mused how similar it was to his childhood in the countryside of Thuringia. A smile twitched his lips recalling his childhood in Großmölsen, before that fateful day when he had walked the 11 kilometres into Erfurt to join the fledgling airforce, having been captivated by the stories of Richthofen, Lowenhardt, Udet, Boelcke, Voss and the other aces of the Great War.
Despite his young age - he was tall for 15 - he'd fooled them and been accepted, six months later posted as a new Leutnant to a squadron on the Western front. His skill and aptitude quickly earning him promotion, he had ended the war as a Hauptmann, and in the inter-war years had kept his hand in joining one of the many glider clubs that had sprung up after the Treaty of Versailles had banned Germany from having powered flight. When word had reached him through an old comrade of the newly created Luftwaffe then training in secret in Russia he had jumped at the chance emerging from the training as a Major with his own staffel. After that had come Spain - the Condor Legion - and all the other battles, now beginning to merge into one in his memory. He stifled another yawn, dragged from his reverie as they reached the gatehouse of the airfield.
_________________________
Ashton yawned and slapped the travel alarm on his bedside table, swore as it fell on the floor still ringing and stretched out reaching for it. As he picked it up his eyes focussed on the time - 0530 - and he threw back the bedclothes, swing his legs out of the bed and stood up reaching for his trousers pulling them on over his pyjamas out of sheer habit knowing he'd need the extra warmth - he cursed - dammit he wouldn't need the extra warmth because the squadron was off flying. About to undress again he thought again and realised they'd have to fly the Hurricanes up to Pembrey.
By now irritated with himself he grumbled 'For crying out loud John make your mind up!'
In answer to himself he reached for his uniform shirt and pulled it on, following it with his tie and jacket, over the top he pulled on and half zipped his sheepskin and leather Irvin jacket. As he left the room he grabbed his uniform cap and flying helmet, opting for the former since they were unlikely to be called for a sortie before their replacements arrived.
Leaving his room he walked downstairs glancing round at his surroundings; ‘Rushmans’ – an old rambling house where the officers had been billeted – in the sleepy village of Oving, less than a mile from the airfield. After the previous day he felt like a walk to clear his head, and ten minutes later checked in with the Admin block only to hear they had no news on their replacements’ arrival, and so with a growl he set off for Dispersal since they were likely to at least have some news of what was happening. Sticking his head through the open door he saw Flying Officer Bill Probert sitting with a boot up on the desk, seemingly asleep. He grinned and was about to turn and walk away when Probert spoke 'Something funny Skipper?'
YOU ARE READING
Just Ordinary Men
Historical FictionWorld War II. We think we know the men and women who fought and died for us, and what motivated them. Opposing sides, opposing views and motivations... Perhaps so.. perhaps not...
