"Sean McMullen - The Devils of Langenhagen" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

 "Yes, and I'm sure it will perform well. Ah, what we could do with a thousand like it. We could shoot
down enemy bombers like fowls on a roost."
"We could do the same with a thousand dirty, oil stained Me 262 jets," I snapped, annoyed. "I'm
sorry, Major, but have you seen the stupid luxuries in the cockpit?"
"Yes Willy," said Schwartz, putting a finger to his lips. "Major Gestner is a very rich man, but a little
eccentric. It seems that a lot of his own money went into the Horten 229's development. If he wants
some extra trimmings in this pre-production model, so what? It's another fighter for Germany."
As he spoke I heard the rattle of a trolley, and turned to see two fitters wheeling a load of rockets up
to the hangar. They were followed by a tall, blond man who was, perhaps, in his mid thirties. There was
something easy and graceful in his walk, something that had never been disciplined by a parade ground.
As he drew closer I wondered at his clean, crisply pressed uniform. Where, amid these bomb-shattered
ruins, had he found a laundry and bathroom?
"Major Gestner, this is Oberleutnant Willy Hirth," said Schwartz as we saluted. "Willy is our new pilot,
and will be my wingman."
Gestner looked at me with surprised curiosity. "So, you are to fly with us, Willy," he said in a
melodious voice that was strangely high pitched for his build. "But you are very young."
"I am nineteen," I replied, vaguely annoyed.
"So? Brave lad! And are you nervous? Your first time?"
"Fifty one sorties, fourteen kills," I replied frostily.
"Ah, good, good, " he said, taken aback, but recovering well. "I have, oh, over twenty. One loses
count, eh?"
He was not in our war. His manner was certainly one of confident superiority, but it was not that of a
veteran pilot. His gently bulging stomach was silent as my hunger rumbled. His eyes mocked my filthy
uniform and unshaven face. His eyes were clear while ours were bloodshot from smoke and nights of
bombing. Who was this man who slept far from the Allies' bombs, who had water to wash with that
many thirsty Germans might kill for? I left the hangar angry and ashamed.
"His Horten 229 can stay aloft four times longer than an Me 262," said Schwartz as we walked to the
mess shelter. "Just imagine: a top speed near 700 miles per hour, yet it can manoeuvre like a Spitfire!"
It was good for the war effort, to be sure, yet he only made me feel unhappy with my jet as well as
myself. And there was Gestner's accent as well. Precise, educated German, yet with an underlay of
something else. My mind kept throwing up comparisons: sportsman, big game hunter, driver of racing
cars, rich adventurer.
We began a breakfast of black bread and cheese, washed down with rainwater. Food was more
scarce than even fuel, and water was measured out by the tablespoon. As we ate, the air raid sirens
began to wail.
I heard the antiaircraft guns begin to fire, then the bomb bursts shook our shelter. We muffled our ears
against the blasts as the floor beneath us jumped and heaved. One bomb must have hit only yards away,
bringing down part of the roof and filling the room with dust. It seemed to go on forever, but was
probably no more than a few minutes. At last the all-clear sounded, and we made our way outside. I was
given a leather flying suit to put over my uniform, then Schwartz left to collect the other pilots for a
briefing. Apart from some new craters, there was little change from the raid. Smoke still drifted
everywhere, the fires still smouldered in the woods, and the sun shone coldly in a sky of pearly brown.
A squad of wretched deportees shuffled past me with their shovels and baskets, herded by SS guards
with machineguns. If most of my fellow pilots and officers looked haggard, these deportees looked
already dead and well into decay. Some seemed beyond suffering, moving nervelessly. They all looked
the same, with ashen, starved, hopeless faces. All to repair the airstrip for my takeoff. I was looking after
them when Schwartz collected me for the presortie briefing.
"Can all our struggles achieve anything?" I asked as we walked. "Our cities are in ruins, the Luftwaffe
has been almost wiped out, and our factories are bombed as fast as we build them.
"And the SS murders deportee slaves to keep our runway operational," he added quietly. "I saw you