Broken Bird
A story I wrote almost four years ago, now.
Heinrich gazed at the plane he was just about to climb into, inspecting it as if he thought the mechanics had missed something. The Fieseler Storch was a fine reconnaissance plane, elegant in its own clunky fashion. It held only two crew members, and was very short: around thirty-two feet. It wasn't much taller than a man, but this lightweight would soon be carrying Heinrich and his pilot almost one hundred miles over allied-controlled territory. They were based in Ramstein, and were going to take aerial photographs of the Allied lines. Heinrich didn't know his pilot. They had only just met yesterday, at a briefing. He couldn't remember if his name was Alfons or Alban. He would soon find out, because he walked over to Heinrich and started to talk to him. "Bad news," he said, "The plane's camera was broken last night-an idiot mechanic tripped on an engine cart and dropped the thing right on its lens!" "So how am I supposed to report on enemy positions?" Heinrich asked, knowing what the response would be already. He hated writing, the way the pencil shivered as he scratched that wooden stick against the paper-it irritated him so much! "You'll have to write it, Sorry." Heinrich could feel the grinding already. "We're taking off in an hour. Get ready, and I'll see you in the plane." They walked away in opposite directions. Heinrich walked into the mess hall and directly up to the coffeepot. It was seven o'clock in the morning, so the only people there were officers, all of whom were sitting down. Heinrich got his coffee and spent the next half-hour nursing the brown liquid. When there were only a few sips left, he downed the rest and went off to the barracks. The small building was empty, and Heinrich was able to make his way to his foot-locker easily. Inside were all the normal stuff you would find in a foot-locker: extra clothing, shaving cream, razor blades, a Luger pistol, and other toiletries. He started putting the emergency supplies in his pack, Luger in the holster, some Ration kits in his forward pocket, and the rest of the required supplies in their designated pockets.
He spent the last twenty minutes reading Eduard von Keyserling's Wellen, a book about vacationing aristocrats whose self-imposed repressions eventually led to disaster. He put the book down when he got to the part where Hilmar started courting Doralice. He walked out onto the runway and stopped next to the plane, where he put on his parachute and the flying cap he'd worn so many times before. As he climbed into the back seat, his pilot climbed into the front and started taxiing. The Engine roared to life, and the suddenness of the noise startled the idle half of the ground crew. As they took off, and Heinrich felt heaviness, he asked the pilot what his name was. "You forgot, huh? My name is Alban." They headed west, toward the dreaded allies. He looked over the edge of the plane when they were fifty miles out, and started writing down the enemy's positions. The pencil's vibration annoyed him to no end. It was quiet until they got about seventy-five miles out. Then Heinrich noticed something. There were small dark-colored patches dotting the land below them. He tapped Alban on the shoulder and pointed to one of the dark patches. Apparently, Alban hadn't seen these before, and when he did, his eyes widened and he started shaking as he pulled back on the stick, making the Storch go up into the sky. Heinrich tried to shout to Alban, and fortunately he seemed to hear him. Alban replied, shouting over the roar of the wind: "Anti-Aircraft Guns!" Almost the second he said that, they heard a loud rapport from the left. They looked and saw a large black cloud appear a few meters away. Alban panicked and jolted the Storch even more skyward, as far as it could without stalling. The shells got closer and closer. After what seemed like hours climbing, Alban leveled off as he heard the explosions die away. Alban seemed like he was panting, tired. Heinrich quickly scribbled: "Heavy concentration of American AAA over Faulquemont." Heinrich's heartbeat slowed as Alban turned around toward Rammstein-toward his warm cot. Suddenly the explosions got louder and louder, and the aircraft was soon shaking. Shrapnel tore through the wings and fuselage as Alban struggled to keep the Storch up high. A shell exploded right in front of the wounded Storch, and shrapnel pelted the front of the small aircraft. Cold air flooded in as the windshield shattered. The engine slowed and started smoking. Heinrich coughed as smoke entered the cockpit. He was covered in black residue and sweat, coughing and struggling to open the cockpit door. He looked over to Alban, who was shaking, screaming, and struggling to get a grip on his leg. As Heinrich looked closer, blood was gushing out of his pilot's leg like a pulsing fountain. Heinrich looked away and kicked open the door. The door created so much drag that the plane started banking to the right. Heinrich got onto the foothold on the outside of the plane and saw that the leg wasn't the only wound Alban had sustained. His jacket was stained with blood, and there were numerous holes in it. He pulled the still-screaming form of Alban out of his seat, and as he fell out of the descending plane, he pulled Alban with him, grabbing him by the parachute. Heinrich tried desperately to hold onto Alban as they fell, the wind pushing them apart. Finally, he was able to get a hold of Alban's ripcord for the parachute. He was right above him, with Alban's chest equal to Heinrich's foot. As he pulled the ripcord, he immediately realized his mistake. The parachute rushed out, and the fabric struck him straight on the chin. Everything went black. First, Heinrich heard. He heard wind. It was just a loud whooshing noise. Then he blinked. He saw sky; blue, blue sky. He passed through a cloud, and he felt. He felt wet. He was wet and in pain. The wetness only exacerbated the pain, because he was now in pain and cold. Then, he remembered. He remembered that he was falling. Remembering that he was falling, he was scared. He pulled the ripcord on his parachute and felt an awful jerk as it deployed. The wind noise slowed down to one of a slow breeze as he descended to the ground. Being so high, he was able to see for miles. He was going to land in a field, as he was too low to steer anywhere else.