Hellsbaene: Odin's Warriors - Book 1 Read online

  Amelia gave that worried look a lot of small children give, but rallied. "Maths? If I do well on my exercises, can I get a sweet tonight?"

  "I don't know…" said Victoria, elongating the last syllable until it trailed off into the distance all by itself. "Maybe?"

  "I'll promise I'll get a hundred percent," said Amelia, "and then me and Mummy and you too we can all go and each get a sweet. Mmm, chocolate…" She stared into the middle distance.

  Ella looked around the sparse room, which contained a desk and two chairs, the obligatory portrait, and a brown Cocker Spaniel curled up in a corner. The commander greeted her, Hans Breikhart, Head of Experimental Testing. Being a civilian, she did not technically have to salute to military officers, but she did anyway.

  Hans returned the salute, and invited her to sit down. The leather chair, soft, supple, tried to swallow her the way luxurious sofas ate people without raising sweat.

  "I read your report, Miss Gruder. Tell me, did you think you could have saved the aeroplane with the right pre-flight adjustments?"

  "Yes, Commander Breikhart. The automatic throttle regulator was set at too high a stall speed, as I noted in my report" she said. "Entirely preventable, but we were testing for it in the first place trying to eliminate compressor stall."

  Compressor stall was something that happened to these new planes and their jet engines when you slammed on the throttle quickly instead of steadily; the excess fuel caused the engine to stall.

  Given how quirky these airplanes were at slow speeds, the result was often tragic. The poor plane.

  "Yes,” he said, "yes it was." He looked at her with piercing brown eyes, then at the papers in front of him. He paused. "Report to Hanger VII, and prepare the aircraft for test. It's scheduled for tomorrow morning. Good luck, Miss Gruder."

  Ella's heart-rate leapt in excitement. "Yes, Commander." She tried not to jump from her chair and run from the room bouncing up and down.

  It was three hundred meters to Hanger VII, four pairs of hangars away from the Experimental Testing Headquarters. Hangers I, III and V on one side; II, IV and VI on the other. Hanger VII was right at the very end.

  She saluted to the Luftwaffe guard stationed outside, and entered the side exit door, stopping to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. It reeked of aviation fuel, burnt metal, dust, and iron.

  To her, it smelt of Victory.

  There it was. She walked up to it, attention on nothing else. A meter away, she stopped. Her left hand reached out and touched the smooth sheet metal of the fuselage in reverence.

  Hello beautiful.

  Seconds passed, and then the maintenance and technical crew, who up to that point were quietly enjoying a coffee break to the side, sprung back into action, jolting to look busy. A loud bang of a diesel generator starting up and the metal lights overhead shone.

  There stood her Valkyrie, a Messerschmitt 262 jet fighter. Both its engines were to one side, but to Ella, it reminded her of a spaceship from an American pulp science-fiction short.

  No propellers, just short, grey, squat, drooped and ugly. It was gorgeous.

  "Good morning" she whispered to her jet plane, inspecting the port engine. She could see the old automatic throttle regulators lying on the side trolley.

  "Good Morning Ella," said Piers Hahndorf, Head Mechanic of the facility, and her fiancé, in Germany’s longest engagement, from the doorway. "These Jumo engines are devils to run. Fifteen to twenty hours of runtime before another overhaul? Insanity." He wiped an oily hand on the back of his overalls, and pushed his spectacles higher up on his nose. "But still," he said with a grin, "how do they roar."

  "And how they roar," said Ella. Verily as if angels were pushing you from behind when one got the throttle all the way open in an Me-262, the two Jumo-004 turbine engines singing in Wagnerian glory. "You solved the problem? What happened?"

  "Almost," said Piers, walking up to her, a full foot shorter than she was, but twice as wide. He picked up the closest throttle regulator, and tossed it to Ella. "No thanks to that, but I expect efficiency to increase with the new regulator."

  Ella caught the regulator left-handed, and looked closely at the metal assembly which had caused the incident on her last test-flight. "What am I looking for?"

  "The white mark just below the ninety-degree housing."

  "Ah" she said. She rotated it to get a better angle in the light. Below the housing, she saw a pinch in the metal where a pipe had collapsed, as if a hose had been sucked in hard. The components for the regulator were a lucky dip as far as reliability went, or for that matter, the entire Jumo engine. "Too thin a gauge in the metal tubing?"

  "And now we think we have solved it, Miss Gruder."

  "I certainly hope so," said Ella. "Commander Breikhart has asked me to help down here in preparation for the flight tomorrow morning," she said, casting her gaze back to the aeroplane.

  "Well then," said Piers, raising his voice loud enough for the other mechanics to hear, "back into it gentlemen... and ladies."

  Amelia looked at the maths questions in front of her. Message Bear sat just to the left. The page seemed too full of multiplications, and beginning, pencil in hand, she recited the times-table by rote. "Six times six is twenty-six, seven times six is forty-two, wait...silly me! Six times six is thirty-six, seven times six is forty-two." Her tongue stuck up on her upper lip reaching towards her nose as she concentrated, she wrote the answer down and moved onto the next one. At last Amelia finished, and bouncing up and down, moved on to making a model jet airplane.

  Chapter Six

  The Scarlet Kiss

  It took the rest of the morning, and all afternoon, to install the pair of Jumo's back into the fighter. It was strange to have worked all day without major complications, but by 5pm, when the turbojets were in working order, Ella ticked off the last item on her clipboard, compared her notes to Piers, and declared everything in order. At least to her requirements. Piers' check-list was thrice as long.

  "Farewell." She waved, and nodding to her Head Mechanic and best friend, walked out into the afternoon sky and the setting sun. Aircraft taxied past, on their way to the staging areas to prepare for the night-time sorties against Allied bombers, which came almost daily. Quickly, she made her way back to base headquarters, wrote and filed her paperwork with the clerks, and left the base, right throttle wide open.

  It was a pleasant enough ride back to the village, and onto the Chateau. When she arrived, the sun had half set over the horizon. The delicious smell of stew wafted on the air. She could barely see any interior light through the masked windows, but it was enough, and as the night claimed its territory and dominion, she entered into the candle light and warmth of her second refuge.

  "Mummy's home,” yelled Amelia, running up to hug her mother in the doorway. "I did my maths problems, like you said, and then we baked bread, did all the laundry, and then I had some sweets! I saved you some, come on, I'll show you where they are," she said breathlessly, grabbing Ella's hand, pulling her down the hallway.

  "Hello munchkin," said Ella. "Can I take my boots off first?" Pulling the shoes off, but not undoing the laces, she put them in front of the coat rack with the others, and let herself be towed down the passageway, her stockinged feet loving the texture and softness of the rugs after a day standing on hard concrete.

  Victoria stood in the kitchen, stirring the large pot over the oven, sleeves half-rolled up. "Evening, Ella."

  "Evening, Victoria, you've had a busy day it would seem?" said Ella, smiling at Amelia.

  "We have," said Victoria, "we have. Would you like to show your mother what we also did today Amelia?"

  "Oh yeah," said Amelia, and dashed out of the kitchen, almost tripping over the cat. "Zia!" she said, harrumphing as she scooped up the light-brown fuzzball before it escaped to safety underneath the side-dresser, then skipped down the hallway to her room.

  "That poor cat," said Ella. "She almost made it." The sounds of Amelia singing drifted back down the hal
l.

  "She'll be fine,” said Victoria, stirring the stew.

  Ella walked around the wooden oak table, and hugged her. "Thank you,” she said. "For everything." Victoria had been a stalwart since Hamburg, and both Amelia and Ella had become quite fond of the young woman. "Amelia." She called out, letting go of the girl, "Come and help me set the table please."

  The singing stopped, then feet pounded up the corridor, half on the rugs, half on the bare wooden boards, and there stood Amelia. "Look!" Her hand held a wooden model aeroplane, more on the imaginative side than technically correct, Ella thought, smiling while Amelia ran around the kitchen making whooshing noises. "It's like what you fly Mummy, see?"

  Victoria smiled at Ella, and spoke. "She really wanted to make one, just like her Mum does. Didn't you Amelia?"

  The third most beautiful thing she had felt all day, Ella grabbed Amelia as she flew past into a big whirling hug. With misty eyes she blamed on the onions, she spoke. "Right you, let's set the table."

  The table was quickly cleared and set, and next to the candelabras in the middle was placed the balsa-wood model of an Me-262. Victoria ladled out three servings of stew into the porcelain bowls, and then they all sat down to eat with big chunks of fresh bread and their week's ration of butter.

  The delicious stew stuck to the ribs in a good, wholesome way. Amelia told the story of how Zia chased the wood shavings from the model making, Victoria shared the time she made a flower crown out of coloured paper, only to have a wild goose run off with it, and Ella, well she didn't say much at all, but smiled, nodded, and soaked up the experience.

  It was all going to work out okay, she told herself, and the anxiety, which prowled in her mind like a caged panther, retreated to the darkest shadows.

  Dinner finished all too quickly, then all three of them washed, rinsed, and dried until all the day’s dishes were done.

  "Can we keep reading the story from last night?" said Amelia, eyes shining.

  "Yes," said Ella. And with a quick hug from Victoria, Amelia danced down the hallway to her bedroom, Ella right behind her. With Amelia changed into her pyjamas, and their teeth brushed, they both snuggled into Amelia's bed to continue the night-time ritual, which she hoped would teach Amelia some English.

  It seemed to be working, words and phrases here and there. Ella tried to stop yawning, and succeeded for a while. She reached a long arm out to pick up the book from the bedside table. It was a battered, well-thumbed paperback.

  Next to Ella, all that showed of Amelia was a pair of shining eyes, the rest hidden under blankets.

  "Start at the beginning? I really liked the beginning, it's only a few pages back," said Amelia.

  Ella took a sip of water from the tall glass.

  "Okay, I did like it too." She looked at the front cover, then opened it to the first page. Translating it from English, she began, in her best Humphrey Bogart impersonation.

  "The Scarlet Kiss, by Harry A. Colt. Chapter One. It was a cold rain, grey as steel falling onto the ground. Detective Tracy..."

  "Why would steel be raining on the ground again, Mummy?"

  "I don't know" said Ella. "It's in the book. Can we continue?”

  "Please." She dug herself deeper under the covers.

  "Detective Tracy looked at his revolver, and at the gangster's dead body before him which had taken his hot lead sandwich, Saturday-night-Special style." Ella paused, not for the first time wondering if this was appropriate for Amelia's age, but compared to the real horrors out there, was tame enough.

  She dropped her voice even lower, added a dash of gravel.

  "They said revenge was a dish best served cold. Cold as ice. Well he had served it alright, a platter of Death, absently stroking his handsomely chiselled granite jaw." She smiled. Amelia's eyes again were bright, darting back and forth in the candlelight.

  "How can his jaw be made of granite?"

  "It's a literary device, I think,” said Ella. She continued. "He took his badge from his pocket and threw it on the dead man, and walked away. And it had all started with a kiss, the kind of kiss that leaves a man wanting, scarlet red on his lips."

  "Like in Sleeping Beauty?"

  "Yes," said Ella, her face saying otherwise.

  A few more pages into the pulp-fiction Amelia yawned. Ella placed a leather-bookmark in the book, and blew out the candle. The occasional truck rumbled in the distance, trains chugged, box-cars clanged, as German industry moved about in the relative safety of night. Zia jumped onto the bed, settled down by Amelia’s feet, and began purring.

  "Sweet dreams. I love you," said Ella.

  "Love you too," said Amelia with another yawn.

  Ella cuddled up to her child, and listened to the noises of the night until Amelia fell asleep.

  She must have briefly nodded off, for when she woke with a start, everything loomed larger and out of shape. The caged panther returned, heart hammering. Ella willed herself to calm down, holding Amelia, and then calm enough, rose, placed the blankets back up, and joined Victoria in the front sitting room.

  "How did today go?" said Victoria, squeezing a paint tube onto a wooden tray, easel in front.

  Ella poured herself a tea from the cast-iron teapot, and sat down. The room was modest. Two armchairs, a sofa, and a dresser, and a cold fireplace.

  "Good enough," said Ella. "I get to fly her again tomorrow." She stared into her tea.

  "That's a good thing, right?" said Victoria. Blue mixed with a dash of green in her hand. "It is what you wanted."

  "It's all I ever wanted. But now – I don't know. I'm afraid for our country. We once were proud. But it ate us."

  They shared a look. Were the walls listening? The shadows magnified fears all too well. The Gestapo? Ella hesitated to say any more.

  It became too much. "Goodnight Victoria," she said, standing up. "Thank you for your help."

  "Goodnight Ella," said Victoria, dabbing the first strokes of paint onto the canvas, humming.

  Chapter Seven

  Test Briefing

  Ella awoke in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, her body twisted. The bed covers lay crumpled on the floor.

  I am a fake, she thought, I have no idea what I'm doing. The terror took her by the throat and shook. What business do I have pretending that I can fly? Others should be doing it. She curled up into a foetal position, crying.

  Impostor, impostor, impostor.

  She fell asleep again after what felt like forever.

  She woke again, but this time at dawn. Her temples pounded in time with her heart. Churning nausea.

  Mein Gott, what am I doing.

  Fake.

  Loser.

  Impostor. A bad mother. A failed lover.

  My loyalty is tainted. What happened to the Luftwaffe I loved?

  She spiralled some more, until she reached out and picked up the silver case by her bed, no bigger than her thumb, and opened the ornate box. She took the last two white pills, and swallowed, chasing them down with the last of her bedside water.

  When her panic attack had mellowed, edges dulled by the tablets, Ella got up and opened her bedroom door. Message Bear sat outside it. She took out the folded purple note and read it. Can we read it again tonight?

  She made her way to Amelia's room. Amelia sat upright in bed, drawing in her sketch book. She climbed into Amelia's bed, and hugged her.

  "Morning, Amelia."

  "Morning," said Amelia. "Look what I am drawing." She showed it to her mother. A picture of a sun and a tree and a stick-figure with a dress. "I still have to draw you." She reached for her biscuit tin full of coloured pencils, singing to herself.

  Ella lay in the warmth a little bit more, willed herself to breathe, and when the barbiturates had taken full effect, kissed her daughter on the forehead, and started her day.

  The kitchen was empty. She made a small fire on the big pot-belly stove and put the kettle on to boil. Victoria joined her not long after, and together they prepared for br
eakfast. Ella gathered the morning's eggs from the hen-house behind the cottage, as the surrounding farmland warbled its rustic songs. The sky was grey.

  At least it's not raining steel. Well, not in that sense, anyway.

  The chickens picked at the grains and some fresh greens Ella had picked from the front garden. She returned with three eggs, warm in her hand, and made breakfast.

  Fried eggs on toast, food of champions.

  Time to go. Bidding them both farewell, she hopped on her BMW, kicked it into roaring life, and rode once more to the airbase. There was a great deal of commotion when she went through the village. A few errant bombs had fallen, and the bakery's kiln, a small building attached to the main shop had suffered a hit. Villagers and the local fire brigade picked up bricks, clay and blackened wood and piled them up.

  Here today, gone tomorrow.

  Her euphoria crashed. She rode even harder, power sliding the R12 around the twisty dirt bends, leaving big clouds of dust in her wake as the knobby rear wheel fought for traction, then the sun broke out from behind the clouds and stayed out, all the way to the airfield, but this time to the main gate.

  A Luftwaffe staff car idled at the barrier, its two occupants waiting. Eventually, the guards emerged from the guardhouse, handed a black satchel back to the passenger, saluted, and the car drove onto the airbase.

  She rolled slowly up to the barrier, and produced her paperwork. The regular corporal was absent. The new guard frowned at her, and at her identification, but still he saluted, and she did in return, and he raised the wooden bar. "Good luck," he said.

  Ella was unsure if he meant it or not, riding past onto the aerodrome.

  It didn't matter anyway. People get weird around me all the time, but that's their problem, not mine.

  Or so she tried to convince herself, for the millionth time.

  At the airfield's headquarters, the staff car driver smoked a cheap Army cigarette with the guards out front, and again showing her papers, she was let through. She finished typing her own flight paperwork at an unoccupied desk, then stood, and knocked on Commander Breikhart's door.