The White Knight (3 page)

Roscoe “Streak” Garrison, now his most skilled pilot, was an oversized man with a mop of reddish hair and a pair of bright blue eyes. Everything about him was large, including his hands. It never ceased to amaze Luke how Streak's huge fingers could handle the delicate pieces of an engine. Luke and Streak had played football together in college and had managed to stay in touch since then. When Streak had learned that Luke was going to fight in the Spanish war, Streak had
decided in an instant that he would join the effort. Streak was a talented flier and knew when to fight and when to run away—which some of the men he had lost from the squadron had never learned.

“I'll tell you what, Luke,” Streak told him, grinning broadly. “I've got this book I'm gonna loan you called
On Your Wedding Night.
It'll tell you just what to do. I'm afraid if you don't read it, you're gonna make a mess of things.”

“I appreciate that, Streak. It's just the sort of help I can always count on from you.”

“You don't need a book to help you out.” The speaker was Nicolai Dubrovsky, a Russian with wild hair and even wilder eyes. His English was bad, and he was an aggressive pilot. He never hesitated to throw himself against any collection of fascist planes no matter what the odds. It was a continual miracle that the Russian had survived this long.

Luke and his squadron used to communicate in Spanish, back when the majority of the group were Spaniards. Now, with two Americans, a Spaniard, and a Russian, they alternated between Spanish and English—and even bits of Russian from time to time.

Luke shook his head, saying, “What do I need, Nick?”

“Just go after her like she was one of those Messerschmitts we're going to be facing today.”

“Go in with all guns blazing, eh?” Luke grinned. He had developed a great affection for the Russian but had more confidence in his flying than in his advice to the lovelorn!

“Oh yeah. I have loved so many women I have lost count, and they all keep coming back for more.”

“You are an idiot, Nicolai!” Joaquin Varga charged as he broke into the conversation. The man was a true Spaniard in every way. He looked Spanish, he spoke Spanish, he thought Spanish, and he lived for one purpose: to kill the pilots of the Condor Legion. He was small, thin, and wiry, with a pencil-like mustache and glittering black eyes. “Women are like a
violin,” he said, his voice growing gentle. “You need a soft, sure, but certain touch—like mine!”

Luke stood listening with a smile as the three gave him contradictory and confusing instructions. It was good in his judgment that they had something to think about, for the fight that lay ahead of them was sure to be, as always, grim and bloody. Anything to take their minds off the odds they faced.

Luke was acutely conscious of the other squadrons that were warming up their planes, and he thought about how their numbers had been whittled down too. The air was filled with the sound of coughing engines and men shouting. Finally he said, “Fellows, after we get back, we'll get together for a drink and you can give me more advice. Now it's time to go kill some Germans—as many as we can!”

“Good!” Nicolai agreed with satisfaction. “We go right at them is what I say.”

“No. We don't ‘go right at them,' ” Luke countered. This wasn't the first time they had had this discussion. “We'll do exactly as I say.”

“You've always been too choosy about how to kill Germans,” Streak complained. “What difference does it make as long as they're dead?”

“The difference is, if we don't do it right,
we'll
be the dead ones. Now, pay attention to me.” Luke's tone grew serious. “We don't attack unless we get above them, you got that?”

“Above, below, beside. What's the difference?” The Russian shrugged. “We kill them any way we can—that's the way we do it in Russia, you see.”

“Pay attention, Nick. You're not in Russia. We're going to fly at the absolute maximum today. When we see the enemy down below us, then we go in. We stay out of dogfights if at all possible.”

“Why?” Varga asked, his eyes flashing. He made a handsome figure as he stood in the sunlight. “We can outfly any of the stupid Huns. The White Knight must be bolder.”

“There'll be more of them than there are of us. That's the
one thing we can be sure of. What we need to do is come out of the sun together in close formation, then fire together. We knock down a plane and then run like the devil.”

“That's no way to fight a war,” Varga protested. “We need to attack when we see them.”

“No!” Nicolai said. “We can only get four that way.”

“We can always get four more.” Luke lowered his voice, letting them know he was serious. “I don't want any dead heroes, do you hear me? I want some live cowards who will kill the enemy, run away, and live to fight another day.”

Streak shrugged his beefy shoulders and said in a sour tone, “If we just had some better airplanes than these little flies, we wouldn't have lost so many men.” The Spanish liked to call the I-16 the
mosca,
or little fly, while the Nationalists called it the
rata,
or rat.

The Germans flew the Messerschmitt Bf-109, which was, in all likelihood, the finest fighter plane in the world, and Hitler had sent a large number of them to fight in the Spanish war. Luke had learned to respect the airplane and the men who flew it. He despised their politics, but the German pilots were probably the best trained in the world. Germany had been forbidden to have an air force after the Great War, but in secret they had taught young men to fly by using gliders and had later managed to build a formidable air force despite the limitations imposed. Now Hitler had no fear at all and was building an air force in exactly the same way he had built a magnificent army.

“They've got better planes, but we're better men,” Luke said. “Now, remember. We get above them. You stay on me, and no flying off to become heroes. When we sight the enemy, we go down, hit them, and run.”

“Is crazy.” The Russian shook his bushy head, and Luke knew that Nick would disregard everything he'd been told and do exactly as he wanted once the madness of battle had seized him.

“All right. It's time to go,” Luke said with grim finality. “Good hunting.”

Luke watched as the three pilots jogged to their planes, then climbed into his own, patting the side affectionately as he did. He loved his white plane with the knight on the side. He had argued about it with Streak many times. “They'll pick you out and come for you first, Luke,” Streak had argued. “They know you've shot down more planes than any of us, and you'll be their number one target.”

“Exactly what I want. I want them to know who's killing them,” Luke had replied. He climbed into the mosca, a low-wing monoplane with retractable landing gear and an enclosed cockpit, and went through the procedure of getting the engine started. When it caught and roared, he eased the machine forward with a touch on the throttle. The cockpit was as narrow and uncomfortable as a designer could possibly make it. There were few instruments. Those that did exist were poorly arranged. The controls, however, were sensitive, and the featherlight ailerons gave a high rate of roll.

Taxiing out into position, Luke felt the thrill he always did just before a takeoff. The mosca was responsive to his touch, and he gave it full power. He knew the plane well. It was an agile airplane and had an outstanding climb capability. It was faster than most fighters, except for the Messerschmitt, and at ten thousand feet it could go as fast as three hundred miles an hour. Unfortunately, there were flaws. The acceleration was surprisingly poor in a dive, and its rigidly mounted engine caused the whole airplane to vibrate and rattle, which made it a poor gun platform. It was all a pilot could do to hold the plane steady when firing at the enemy.

Despite these aspects, the I-16 did well against German and Italian fighters, and to everyone's surprise proved to be more than a match for the Bf-109. As he left the ground, Luke started into a steep climb. Glancing around, he saw the other three were staying right with him.
They're all good pilots or
they'd all be dead,
he thought, fully realizing the odds were stacked against them.

As they climbed rapidly, Luke allowed himself to think about Melosa for just a moment. His engagement had surprised him more than anyone else. He hadn't been planning to ask her to marry him, but while holding her on that romantic night, it had seemed to be the right move. He knew his odds of living through the war were not great. After all, he had been living on the brink of death for the two years he'd been in Spain. He had seen many of his fellow fliers meet death in gruesome ways and knew that such a fate was always close at hand. At times he wondered if he was crazy or if his idealism had unbalanced his mind. When he first came to Spain, he had done so with high hopes and had joined an international group of pilots, all of them convinced they would win the war.

Now, however, Luke knew with dead certainty that Franco was going to win this battle, which meant that Hitler would win as well. The futility of such thoughts dulled his senses, and he shook himself to put his mind on the fight before him.

The planes reached their maximum altitude, and the search began. Luke's eyes roved constantly, searching for the enemy—not only down below but also above, where the Messerschmitts could operate at a higher ceiling. He also checked the mirror he had mounted to his left. The quickest way to get killed was to let the enemy get behind you. The mirror was an innovation Luke had brought to the Republican air force. Many of the pilots who had rejected the idea were now dead.

Luke's squadron flew for half an hour without spotting anything. Then finally Luke spotted a group of black dots below—deadly black dots. He counted six of them and was happy they were not flying in their usual groups of twenty or thirty. “Just right for us,” he muttered, smiling grimly. He waggled his wings to catch the attention of the other fliers, then pointed down. They were close enough he could see the wild excitement on the faces of Nicolai Dubrovsky
and Joaquin Varga. Streak edged in close to him, looking as nonchalant as ever. There was little battle madness about Streak Garrison. He was merely an efficient killing machine.

Luke led the three into a good position, then motioned downward. He threw his plane into a steep dive and concentrated on the six dots far below. They grew larger as his dive took him closer, and he noticed with a thrill of excitement that one of them was painted jet black.

“Ritter!” he cried out and his heart beat faster. He was glad he had instructed his pilots to leave Erich Ritter alone.

The wind whistled like a banshee as the four aircraft fell upon the enemy at top speed. He hoped the other three had picked out different targets, for there was no point in all four of them shooting at the same plane. The Messerschmitts were flying steadily on, but suddenly their formation changed, and one of them swung into a position over Ritter's plane. Disappointment enveloped Luke, but he shook his head and put his sights dead center on the plane guarding Ritter.
I'll have to kill him to get to Ritter,
he thought.

He pulled the trigger and felt his plane buck as the four machine guns spat out lead. The tracers revealed his fire was slightly behind his target, so he inched the plane up, holding it firmly while his bullets struck the Messerschmitt, doing a dance from the tail to the cockpit. He saw the pilot's head explode as one or more of the slugs hit him, and the plane veered away and headed for the ground.

As he banked around in a steep curve, he saw that Streak had downed his plane and was following, and that Nicolai and Joaquin had made hits but had not downed their targets. They had both disobeyed his instructions, and Luke watched them whirl around and fly at the remaining four planes.

Having no choice, Luke motioned to Streak, and the two of them joined in the fray.

A dogfight in the air is one of the most disorganized activities on the face of the earth. No one knows what moves to make in an aerial battle. It's a hellish confusion, with
planes exploding so violently they seem to shake the skies in their fury.

Luke went straight for Erich Ritter's black Messerschmitt while Ritter was pouring his lead into Varga's plane. Despite Luke's attempts to get in range to shoot at Ritter, the Black Knight had already performed his deadly work. His fire struck Varga's plane in the nose, and at once a white plume of smoke began to pour out. Varga tried to lose Ritter, but there was no losing the best pilot in the entire Condor Legion. Varga would be a dead man if he didn't get out of his plane.

Even at a distance too far for true shooting, Luke began to fire at Ritter's plane. He must have made some hits and startled Ritter, for the black plane suddenly broke off, bearing left, leaving Varga's plane headed for earth. For one instant, even as he flashed by, Luke saw that Varga was slumped over and knew that the young man was dead. A fierce anger raged in him and he stayed after Ritter, firing in short bursts. The one thing the rat could do that was superior to the Messerschmitt was turn more sharply. This had been the secret of Luke's kills. Once he got on the tail of a 109, he could not be shaken off. The only hope the enemy had was to outrun him, for the 109s were faster.

Ritter made one turn, and Luke caught a clear image of the German's face. Ritter was staring at him, and in that brief instant, the two men's eyes clashed.

And then the 109 straightened out, and with his engine fully open, he simply ran away from Luke. Desperately Luke fired all of his ammunition, but the attempt was futile as the Black Knight moved out of sight. Then he saw that the rest of the German squadron had been shot down by Nicolai and Streak, so the fighters came together and Luke led them home.

When the three landed and got out, Streak and Nicolai came right over to Luke. “That Ritter!” Nicolai shouted, his face pale with anger and his eyes filled with a killing light. “I will kill him! You will see me kill him!”