mounted on your
airplane?” he asked ominously. “How can you expect to perform your duty of shooting down enemy machines with only one machine
gun?”
“Sir, using only one gun I have shot down sixteen airplanes up to now with no great problem—”
“Quiet!” Goering snapped. He looked at the adjutant. “This man’s name?” he demanded.
“Hermann Goldstein,” Bodenschatz replied.
“Ah, yes.” Goering nodded jovially. “I thought he looked familiar. This is the young fellow who made that touching speech
about winning his Blue Max.” He smiled at Goldstein. “I presume the Herr Sergeant has been set straight concerning that ludicrous
notion?” When Goldstein didn’t reply, Goering’s smile faded. “I asked you a question, Herr Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sir, I have been set straight concerning that, Sir.”
Goering gestured toward Goldstein’s single Spandau gun with his swagger stick. “Your airplane’s armament is totally against
regulations. All the other pilots see fit to fly with standard-issue, twin machine guns.” He stepped in close to Goldstein,
and used his swagger stick to tilt up Goldstein’s chin. “What’s good enough for
decent, Christian, gentlemen
,” Goering took his time, spitting the words into Goldstein’s face as he used the stick to lever Goldstein’s chin ever higher,
“ought to be good enough for the
likes of you
, Herr Sergeant.”
Goldstein heard snickers of laughter up and down the line. His rage, so long bottled up, bubbled over inside of him. “Begging
the Herr Firstlieutenant’s pardon,” Goldstein heard himself say, “your decent Christian gentlemen are content to fly guns.
I
fly airplanes.”
“Not today will you fly airplanes!” Goering exploded. “I won’t have your insolence! You’re grounded! Herr Adjutant! Make note
in the official record that Herr Sergeant Hermann Goldstein had been officially reprimanded and grounded by the acting C.O.
of J.G. 1. —”
“Sir, the Herr Rittmeister knows about the Herr Sergeant’s single gun,” Bodenschatz tried to protest. “The Herr Rittmeister—”
“Isn’t here!” Goering snapped. “But I am here!” He stepped back to address the entire line. “All of you better realize that
I will brook no insolence! No nonsense! Things will be done exactly as I order them! Exactly by the book! Understood?”
The line was deathly silent. Goering shifted his attention back to Goldstein. “You, Herr Sergeant, are to consider yourself
confined to quarters until further notice!” He waved his swagger stick as if he were flicking away an insect. “Dismissed!”
Goldstein stood where he was, too dumbfounded to move. Goering, staring at him, turned red. “I said that you were dismissed—”
Goldstein saluted, and stepped back, out of the line. He felt everyone’s eyes upon him as he briskly walked to the ready room
to turn in his gear.
(Three)
Goldstein was stretched out on his cot, trying to read about the principles of aircraft design, without much success. He was
still too angry concerning the way that Goering had ripped into him two hours earlier to see the words on the page.
He set his book aside, and surrendered to an elaborate fantasy dogfight in which he, with his single Spandau gun, managed
to punch enough holes into Goering’s white D VII to blow the machine right out from under the screaming Herr Oberleutnant’s
fat ass—
And then, Goering’s wails in Goldstein’s daydream turned into the air raid siren’s mournful howl.
Goldstein sat up, skeptical, expecting it to be a false alarm. Then he heard the roar of airplanes overhead, and the flat,
kettle-drum boom of a bomb exploding. He ran to the door, but then hesitated. The Herr Oberleutnant had restricted him to
quarters.
The window-rattling explosion of a second bomb decided it for him. At any moment the enemy might begin strafing the pilots’
huts. He had no intention of dying in this flimsy wooden
airplane?” he asked ominously. “How can you expect to perform your duty of shooting down enemy machines with only one machine
gun?”
“Sir, using only one gun I have shot down sixteen airplanes up to now with no great problem—”
“Quiet!” Goering snapped. He looked at the adjutant. “This man’s name?” he demanded.
“Hermann Goldstein,” Bodenschatz replied.
“Ah, yes.” Goering nodded jovially. “I thought he looked familiar. This is the young fellow who made that touching speech
about winning his Blue Max.” He smiled at Goldstein. “I presume the Herr Sergeant has been set straight concerning that ludicrous
notion?” When Goldstein didn’t reply, Goering’s smile faded. “I asked you a question, Herr Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sir, I have been set straight concerning that, Sir.”
Goering gestured toward Goldstein’s single Spandau gun with his swagger stick. “Your airplane’s armament is totally against
regulations. All the other pilots see fit to fly with standard-issue, twin machine guns.” He stepped in close to Goldstein,
and used his swagger stick to tilt up Goldstein’s chin. “What’s good enough for
decent, Christian, gentlemen
,” Goering took his time, spitting the words into Goldstein’s face as he used the stick to lever Goldstein’s chin ever higher,
“ought to be good enough for the
likes of you
, Herr Sergeant.”
Goldstein heard snickers of laughter up and down the line. His rage, so long bottled up, bubbled over inside of him. “Begging
the Herr Firstlieutenant’s pardon,” Goldstein heard himself say, “your decent Christian gentlemen are content to fly guns.
I
fly airplanes.”
“Not today will you fly airplanes!” Goering exploded. “I won’t have your insolence! You’re grounded! Herr Adjutant! Make note
in the official record that Herr Sergeant Hermann Goldstein had been officially reprimanded and grounded by the acting C.O.
of J.G. 1. —”
“Sir, the Herr Rittmeister knows about the Herr Sergeant’s single gun,” Bodenschatz tried to protest. “The Herr Rittmeister—”
“Isn’t here!” Goering snapped. “But I am here!” He stepped back to address the entire line. “All of you better realize that
I will brook no insolence! No nonsense! Things will be done exactly as I order them! Exactly by the book! Understood?”
The line was deathly silent. Goering shifted his attention back to Goldstein. “You, Herr Sergeant, are to consider yourself
confined to quarters until further notice!” He waved his swagger stick as if he were flicking away an insect. “Dismissed!”
Goldstein stood where he was, too dumbfounded to move. Goering, staring at him, turned red. “I said that you were dismissed—”
Goldstein saluted, and stepped back, out of the line. He felt everyone’s eyes upon him as he briskly walked to the ready room
to turn in his gear.
(Three)
Goldstein was stretched out on his cot, trying to read about the principles of aircraft design, without much success. He was
still too angry concerning the way that Goering had ripped into him two hours earlier to see the words on the page.
He set his book aside, and surrendered to an elaborate fantasy dogfight in which he, with his single Spandau gun, managed
to punch enough holes into Goering’s white D VII to blow the machine right out from under the screaming Herr Oberleutnant’s
fat ass—
And then, Goering’s wails in Goldstein’s daydream turned into the air raid siren’s mournful howl.
Goldstein sat up, skeptical, expecting it to be a false alarm. Then he heard the roar of airplanes overhead, and the flat,
kettle-drum boom of a bomb exploding. He ran to the door, but then hesitated. The Herr Oberleutnant had restricted him to
quarters.
The window-rattling explosion of a second bomb decided it for him. At any moment the enemy might begin strafing the pilots’
huts. He had no intention of dying in this flimsy wooden
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