The old Mercedes-Benz truck rattled over a series of vicious potholes as it crawled its way down a mud track towards the well-concealed aerodrome. Franz Quik sat, unfazed, on the wooden planks under a brown, canvas canopy. His fingers traced the well-rehearsed motions which would be required of him this afternoon. Confident he knew his way around the control panel, he kicked his booted feet towards the middle of the lorry, and tugged his forage cap down towards his eyes.
It was going to be a long drive, and life was good. Outside his canvas enclosure, the birds were singing, and the sun was shining over the fatherland. Martial law had been declared six months ago, and whilst it had seemed awful at the time, things really hadn't changed a lot as a result. And what had, had changed for the better. The Mark had finally stabilised. No more running to spend your wage, before it became worthless. No more struggling for food from day to day. The unemployment rate had plummeted, especially since the Wermacht now required so many personnel.
And as a result, Franz had gone from struggling in the gutter to earning money for doing what he loved; to having a decent-sized house in Bavaria; to having a loving wife, with talk of a child on the way.
He felt as if he'd earned his rest. He tugged the cap right down to his nose, and dreamt of home.
Two hours later, and the huge wheels slowed to a halt at the perimeter fence. Franz's head tilted upwards at the sound of screeching brakes. The sunlight filtered down through from a small tear in the fabric, and felt warm on his face. He slowly rolled over onto his front, and tugged at the fabric where it met the metal. He lowered his right eye to the gap he had created.
The aerodrome sat in the centre of a dense wood. It was little more than an open field, with temporary, camouflaged, canvas buildings situated all around. A row of sleek, black cars were parked close to the tall, wrought-iron gates at the opposite end of the field. A group of smartly-dressed officers huddled around them, the brass on their uniforms glinting in the early afternoon sun. Closer to this fence, there was a long lorry bearing a bowser full of aviation fuel, and a squat, khaki hangar.
Franz squinted the sun out of his eyes, as he reached over to collect his black, leather flying jacket and the thick flying helmet, who's dangling wires sprawled over the floor like a spider web. He heard the passenger door at the front of the lorry open, and slam shut. A pair of feet made their way around the vehicle, and a bored-looking private appeared before him. He was about six feet tall, with a sallow face and a long, thin cigarette drooping out the corner of his mouth. His slicked-back black hair shone from under his cap.
With a slight grin on his face, Franz slide over to the tailgate, rested one hand on it, and vaulted over. Once his scuffed boots had landed heavily on the dusty ground, he barely came up to the chest of the other man.
"How's the weather up there?" he joked, in German. The other fellow looked unimpressed, and simply glared at him, as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Ah well, I suppose I'll find out, soon enough." And with that, he was off towards the gate. The private's eyes widened slightly, and he set off at a trot after Franz.
As the pair reached the gate, the guard held out a hand for their papers. The private handed them over, and his eyes lit up.
"Wunderbar! This means the show'll start soon, oder?"
Franz gave a quick nod and a smile, before wandering through the now-open gate.
The hangar was dingy, and reeked of a mixture of aviation fuel and paint. There were no conventional aircraft inside; only a series of workbenches and tools scattered around the walls, with a huge object in the centre of the room, covered by an oil-stained sheet. Franz stepped towards it, and proceeded to haul the fabric back, onto the concrete. The monstrous silhouette of a tank now towered over him.
Something, however, was strikingly different. There were no tracks. Where one might have expected to see wheels, a cavernous pipe twisted its way back from the hull. The whole structure rested on two wrought-iron landing gear. They had no wheels attached, and could not be retracted. They simply rested on the floor, running from the front of the tank to the back, where they looped over, onto the sides of the vehicle, and ran once more to the front. Nothing was wedged between them and the hull, meaning that they could bend, to give some suspension. Underneath the hull, which was very nearly touching the floor, a circle of protrusions prevented a menacing rotor blade from ever coming into contact with the ground. A thick grate prevented anything from jamming the mechanism.
Franz walked alongside the aircraft, running his gloved fingers along the rivets and scratches. Even the light grey paintwork of this prototype was worn; coated with black carbon, oil, and dust. He stopped before a large Balkenkreuz, which was painted onto the side of the turret, completely free of grime and damage, and gave a lop-sided salute; longest way up, shortest way down. He guessed that that was where the smell of paint was coming from.
A couple of mechanics walked in, clad in smeared, grey overalls with oily rags drooping out of their pockets. One glanced over to Franz.
"They're ready. You should have been here ten minutes ago."
"Fair enough."
He reached up, and clasped his hand onto the top of the landing gear, before hauling himself up, level with the turret. He stood up, onto the hull of the tank, before clambering over to the hatch atop the turret, and sliding in, feet first.
It was dark, but mercifully cool in the cockpit. As a prototype, this version had few comforts. An intimidating, black control panel sprawled out before him, peppered with dials, switches and gauges. A joystick loomed out from in front of the seat, and he slotted his legs into the wells behind it, his feet resting on the rudder pedals. Two levers were set out beside him; one almost level with the seat - the throttle - and one on a platform, which he could comfortably rest his hand on - the altitude control. To his left, a pair of perspex shutters led to the spaces in which the rest of the crew would sit. They no longer opened. After a rough landing, they had come out of their runners, and no-one had bothered fixing them. Visibility was surprisingly good, despite the only direct window being a tiny perspex strip directly in front of the pilot's eyes. This was due to the fact that a bank of four mirrors, reflecting the views from four separate periscopes, looked down towards the seat.
Franz took a minute to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He looked over every switch, display and lever, running his fingers over some. Finally, he plugged his leather flying helmet into the jack, tugged his goggles down over his eyes, checked the throttle, and flicked a few blackened switches. With his index finger resting on the final one, and his left hand gripping the joystick, he was ready to start her up.
"Contact!" His holler was deafening.
"Contact!" as if it were an echo, a mechanic's voice came ricocheting down, through the hatch. His index finger swiped up. With a splutter, the vast engine burst into life. The mechanics crouched in order to stabilise themselves against the downdraft, as paint cans and spare parts were scattered across the floor. Gently, Franz's hand eased the altitude control lever forwards, and the tone of the engine changed. Other drones joined in with the chorus, as several smaller propellers and vents kicked in, providing upward thrust whilst the craft was close to the ground. The landing gear gave a long groan, as the weight was taken from them. They momentarily seemed to stretch, as the tank lifted into the air, and they sprang into shape.
The vehicle was now around half a metre of the ground, and was hovering remarkably steadily. Franz's eyes were fixed on the mirrors, as he saw a modified kubelwagon hook up to the front of the tank, before feeling the motion of being pulled forwards. The little car quickly disconnected, and moved around to the side of the hangar, leaving the tank suspended at the edge of the runway. Every pair of eyes was now on it. He checked the artificial horizon. Perfectly steady.
He rammed the throttle forward.
The crowd gazed skyward as the heavy vehicle lumbered out, across the grass, before rocketing up, into the clouds. They all watched as a dense pall of black smoke stained the sky. As the tank rocked down to the left. As it dropped like a stone. As it embedded itself deep into the earth. As it was engulfed in flames. They saw the ambulance and the fire engines scream across the aerodrome. Figures clad in thick, shiny, asbestos suits hurried towards the mangled, black bundle of metal.
They spent precious minutes endeavouring to enter the warped turret, before they realised it was impossible. Eventually, one managed to reach in, through an access panel. By now, most eyes had been averted. But at least one pair strained, like those of a hawk, as Franz Quik was dragged from the crash.
The paramedics soon covered him over with a blanket. But he was not yet still.
It was going to be a long drive, and life was good. Outside his canvas enclosure, the birds were singing, and the sun was shining over the fatherland. Martial law had been declared six months ago, and whilst it had seemed awful at the time, things really hadn't changed a lot as a result. And what had, had changed for the better. The Mark had finally stabilised. No more running to spend your wage, before it became worthless. No more struggling for food from day to day. The unemployment rate had plummeted, especially since the Wermacht now required so many personnel.
And as a result, Franz had gone from struggling in the gutter to earning money for doing what he loved; to having a decent-sized house in Bavaria; to having a loving wife, with talk of a child on the way.
He felt as if he'd earned his rest. He tugged the cap right down to his nose, and dreamt of home.
Two hours later, and the huge wheels slowed to a halt at the perimeter fence. Franz's head tilted upwards at the sound of screeching brakes. The sunlight filtered down through from a small tear in the fabric, and felt warm on his face. He slowly rolled over onto his front, and tugged at the fabric where it met the metal. He lowered his right eye to the gap he had created.
The aerodrome sat in the centre of a dense wood. It was little more than an open field, with temporary, camouflaged, canvas buildings situated all around. A row of sleek, black cars were parked close to the tall, wrought-iron gates at the opposite end of the field. A group of smartly-dressed officers huddled around them, the brass on their uniforms glinting in the early afternoon sun. Closer to this fence, there was a long lorry bearing a bowser full of aviation fuel, and a squat, khaki hangar.
Franz squinted the sun out of his eyes, as he reached over to collect his black, leather flying jacket and the thick flying helmet, who's dangling wires sprawled over the floor like a spider web. He heard the passenger door at the front of the lorry open, and slam shut. A pair of feet made their way around the vehicle, and a bored-looking private appeared before him. He was about six feet tall, with a sallow face and a long, thin cigarette drooping out the corner of his mouth. His slicked-back black hair shone from under his cap.
With a slight grin on his face, Franz slide over to the tailgate, rested one hand on it, and vaulted over. Once his scuffed boots had landed heavily on the dusty ground, he barely came up to the chest of the other man.
"How's the weather up there?" he joked, in German. The other fellow looked unimpressed, and simply glared at him, as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Ah well, I suppose I'll find out, soon enough." And with that, he was off towards the gate. The private's eyes widened slightly, and he set off at a trot after Franz.
As the pair reached the gate, the guard held out a hand for their papers. The private handed them over, and his eyes lit up.
"Wunderbar! This means the show'll start soon, oder?"
Franz gave a quick nod and a smile, before wandering through the now-open gate.
The hangar was dingy, and reeked of a mixture of aviation fuel and paint. There were no conventional aircraft inside; only a series of workbenches and tools scattered around the walls, with a huge object in the centre of the room, covered by an oil-stained sheet. Franz stepped towards it, and proceeded to haul the fabric back, onto the concrete. The monstrous silhouette of a tank now towered over him.
Something, however, was strikingly different. There were no tracks. Where one might have expected to see wheels, a cavernous pipe twisted its way back from the hull. The whole structure rested on two wrought-iron landing gear. They had no wheels attached, and could not be retracted. They simply rested on the floor, running from the front of the tank to the back, where they looped over, onto the sides of the vehicle, and ran once more to the front. Nothing was wedged between them and the hull, meaning that they could bend, to give some suspension. Underneath the hull, which was very nearly touching the floor, a circle of protrusions prevented a menacing rotor blade from ever coming into contact with the ground. A thick grate prevented anything from jamming the mechanism.
Franz walked alongside the aircraft, running his gloved fingers along the rivets and scratches. Even the light grey paintwork of this prototype was worn; coated with black carbon, oil, and dust. He stopped before a large Balkenkreuz, which was painted onto the side of the turret, completely free of grime and damage, and gave a lop-sided salute; longest way up, shortest way down. He guessed that that was where the smell of paint was coming from.
A couple of mechanics walked in, clad in smeared, grey overalls with oily rags drooping out of their pockets. One glanced over to Franz.
"They're ready. You should have been here ten minutes ago."
"Fair enough."
He reached up, and clasped his hand onto the top of the landing gear, before hauling himself up, level with the turret. He stood up, onto the hull of the tank, before clambering over to the hatch atop the turret, and sliding in, feet first.
It was dark, but mercifully cool in the cockpit. As a prototype, this version had few comforts. An intimidating, black control panel sprawled out before him, peppered with dials, switches and gauges. A joystick loomed out from in front of the seat, and he slotted his legs into the wells behind it, his feet resting on the rudder pedals. Two levers were set out beside him; one almost level with the seat - the throttle - and one on a platform, which he could comfortably rest his hand on - the altitude control. To his left, a pair of perspex shutters led to the spaces in which the rest of the crew would sit. They no longer opened. After a rough landing, they had come out of their runners, and no-one had bothered fixing them. Visibility was surprisingly good, despite the only direct window being a tiny perspex strip directly in front of the pilot's eyes. This was due to the fact that a bank of four mirrors, reflecting the views from four separate periscopes, looked down towards the seat.
Franz took a minute to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He looked over every switch, display and lever, running his fingers over some. Finally, he plugged his leather flying helmet into the jack, tugged his goggles down over his eyes, checked the throttle, and flicked a few blackened switches. With his index finger resting on the final one, and his left hand gripping the joystick, he was ready to start her up.
"Contact!" His holler was deafening.
"Contact!" as if it were an echo, a mechanic's voice came ricocheting down, through the hatch. His index finger swiped up. With a splutter, the vast engine burst into life. The mechanics crouched in order to stabilise themselves against the downdraft, as paint cans and spare parts were scattered across the floor. Gently, Franz's hand eased the altitude control lever forwards, and the tone of the engine changed. Other drones joined in with the chorus, as several smaller propellers and vents kicked in, providing upward thrust whilst the craft was close to the ground. The landing gear gave a long groan, as the weight was taken from them. They momentarily seemed to stretch, as the tank lifted into the air, and they sprang into shape.
The vehicle was now around half a metre of the ground, and was hovering remarkably steadily. Franz's eyes were fixed on the mirrors, as he saw a modified kubelwagon hook up to the front of the tank, before feeling the motion of being pulled forwards. The little car quickly disconnected, and moved around to the side of the hangar, leaving the tank suspended at the edge of the runway. Every pair of eyes was now on it. He checked the artificial horizon. Perfectly steady.
He rammed the throttle forward.
The crowd gazed skyward as the heavy vehicle lumbered out, across the grass, before rocketing up, into the clouds. They all watched as a dense pall of black smoke stained the sky. As the tank rocked down to the left. As it dropped like a stone. As it embedded itself deep into the earth. As it was engulfed in flames. They saw the ambulance and the fire engines scream across the aerodrome. Figures clad in thick, shiny, asbestos suits hurried towards the mangled, black bundle of metal.
They spent precious minutes endeavouring to enter the warped turret, before they realised it was impossible. Eventually, one managed to reach in, through an access panel. By now, most eyes had been averted. But at least one pair strained, like those of a hawk, as Franz Quik was dragged from the crash.
The paramedics soon covered him over with a blanket. But he was not yet still.