He spoke like a seasoned pilot. This was a brand-new model they’d rolled out ahead of schedule, its official name being Spitfire Mk IB. In time, this machine would be hailed as the empire’s savior, but during the Battle of Britain, many doubted its effectiveness. Then, as now, my opinion on planes was hardly that of an expert. But Commander G was like a child, delighting in his new toy.
I trusted he was right. He was the leader of the Naval Aviation’s elite acrobat team, the G Circus, so if he gushed about something, that thing was worth gushing about.
“This is the oil temperature gauge, and this is the boost gauge. There are notes stuck to some of them, but they’re all in Polish! Brings a tear to the eye, doesn’t it?” he said.
Watching Commander G fiddle with the instrument panel out of the corner of my eye, I swiveled my head the full 270 degrees, watching our surroundings. My neck had more than twice the number of bones as a human’s, allowing for such tricks.
I had found them. I could see far greater distances than a human could, and I had glimpsed the black specs on the horizon.
“Planes at eleven o’clock! Based on the direction, I assume it’s the Luftwaffe flying in from France.”
“Almost certainly. Our allies are headed for them.”
The other Spitfires accelerated through the air to engage the enemy. Our plane lagged behind.
“What? I thought you wanted to fight the Germans?” I cried.
“Oh, owl, lord of the forest, when did you become so bloodthirsty? I pick the foes worthy of my blade, that’s all. Those pilots who manage to break through the Free Poland Air Force’s formation will become fitting prey. We shall wait in the air above the runway, killing time.”
This was arrogant even for him, but he did have the skills to back up his bravado. Commander G was a real whizz with machines, and a cunning mage. Rarely a day passed that I didn’t regret becoming his familiar, but he was one of the top five pilots in the world.
Though the times favored aviation, Commander G was probably the first mage to abandon an eagle’s wings and embrace those newfangled flying machines. Astonishingly enough, he’d never once relied on magic to help him. Commander G had acquired his piloting skills through practice alone.
As something of an experienced flier myself, I often issued him warnings and found fault with his methods. I argued that bending the laws of the natural world with magic was a small price to pay for a better chance of survival. If we died, there’d be nothing to regret.
But Commander G insisted it was wrong to use magic in combat, stubbornly rejecting my arguments to the contrary. I told him his stubbornness would ensure an early death, but he wouldn’t listen.
Then, I heard a rumble like distant thunder.
“The smell’s turned sour. Looks like the fighting’s begun,” I called.
“You’ve got quite the nose, Sergeant. I can smell it myself: burning flesh and the scent of blood. The smell of death and destruction.”
“Who do you think will win?”
“If we trust the London bookies, I’d bet on England. They’ve the home-field advantage. They may get bombed to hell, but, if the pilots survive, they can soon join another squad. Same isn’t true for the away team though. The Germans have to get back to base in France or Belgium. The RAF may have thrown pride to the wind, and they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel in terms of crew, but that hard work will lead to victory in the—”
Before he finished his speech, I spotted a shift in the battlefield and yelled, “Incoming! One o’clock, in the clouds! German! Altitude: 2,500. Distance: 8,000 and closing!”
That was definitely a Messerschmitt Bf 109. Small for a fighter plane, it was the Luftwaffe’s main firepower and the Spitfire’s eternal rival.
Its speed and firepower made it adept at hit and away tactics, and the technical specs far surpassed the majority of England’s planes. Only the Spitfire, with its superior maneuverability, could really stand a chance against it. Even then the Luftwaffe pilots were frighteningly skilled and victories hard fought.
I watched the enemy plane with caution and awe, but it behaved quite oddly. There was no one on its tail, but it turned and zigzagged, eventually even doing a somersault.
“Strange. Is he taunting us?” I murmured.
“I doubt that. The pilot’s panicking.”
Commander G slid his plane sideways, maintaining speed while lowering his altitude to easily get behind the enemy plane. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and his bullets would tear the other plane apart.
But Commander G’s finger didn’t move. I realized why soon enough.
There was something on the Messerschmitt’s wings!
It couldn’t be human. It was clearly a neighbor and looked much like a rabbit. It was all black and brown, maybe fifty centimeters tall. Two pointy horns sprouted from its brow. A pair of tinted goggles hid its eyes, but the face was definitely fearsome.
It used its sharpened front teeth to chew through the Messerschmitt’s wing, opening a huge hole in the plane’s body. It yanked out some wires, slurped them up like spaghetti, and gave the pilot a diabolical grin.
The sight of something so unnatural, even in the chaotic midst of a battlefield, had driven the enemy pilot to panic. The Messerschmitt’s nose turned a bit too far off course, and gravity dragged it into a downward spiral.
“Sergeant, this might get a little rough.” Commander G cranked the throttle all the way open, rocketing us to full speed. We closed the distance to the falling plane in no time, and our Spitfire nearly rubbed wings with it.
“Question for the gremlin! Who do you contract with? What reckless fool is using magic in a war between nations?!”
I was sure the gremlin heard the commander’s question, but it didn’t reply. It realized we weren’t its allies though and waved its sausage-like index and middle fingers in front of its face, lips twisting. Then it bent its knees and jumped.
A moment later, wings sprouted from its head. Ah, so they hadn’t been horns after all. The wings were several times longer than the gremlin’s body and swiftly carried it away to the west. Meanwhile, the Messerschmitt regained control and flew toward the south.
The sounds of battle had died down. The gunfire stopped and the dogfight had ended as abruptly as it began. Victory and defeat had lost all meaning, and only Commander G’s tirade echoed in my ears.
“Someone stupid enough to commit taboo here? Who has the nerve to bring magic into a war between nations?”
Hoping to calm him, I asked, “Do you think it’s an English mage?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. A mage with my level of training can turn stone into metal, give wings to fish, and rot grain in the fields. Naturally, I could make a gremlin do my bidding before breakfast. But we would never do that! We know there are forbidden acts! One of the worst things you could do is show up where people are killing each other and start flinging magic around. English mages should know that perfectly well. This is some shameless witch or perhaps a desperate alchemist. And I have an idea who it might be…”
He thought for a full five seconds, then gave me his order.
“Sergeant Kirishima. Fly to the Isle of Man.”
It was an island stationed in the sea between Ireland and England. Commander G had planned on visiting the place.
“You’re going to Castletown Harbor, to the south. You’ll find an old, protected cruiser moored there. You’ll have to talk to the lieutenant. Using magic in war leads directly to the nation’s ruin. I’ll be right behind you, so you smooth the way.”
Without allowing any questions, he opened the windscreen and shoved me out.
“Wait a minute! I’m a Tyto alba, the sage of the forest, positioned at the pinnacle of the food chain, and the most charming animal alive! You would use me as a mere errand boy?”
“Yes, I would. You asked to be bound to me, remember? It was hard work sending your wife and daughter to a better place. You could stand to do as I say sometimes.”
How could I possibly refuse him now? Reflecting on the choice I’d made back on Kirishima Mountain, when I’d first met Commander G, I flew away from the Spitfire…
2
Kiel, located on the Jutland Peninsula, was the largest port the Kriegsmarine had.
Some strange objects floated in one corner of the Deutsche Werke shipbuilding company there. At a glance, they looked something like submarines, but were definitely not U-Boats.
First, they were entirely the wrong size. They were nineteen meters long, and four and a half meters across—tiny in comparison to a U-Boat. They had no means of propulsion and couldn’t move on their own. These were more or less just floating cylinders.
There were four in all. Known as Wieges, these were intended for unmanned operations, but the first tube alone was fitted with a control room, allowing for a small crew.
KptLt Günther Prien stepped into this control room. Prien was Kriegsmarine’s most famous U-Boat commander and was currently hard at work arguing with a mysterious figure.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I was able to enter the naval base at Scapa Flow and sink the Royal Oak because of the navigation course your auguries plotted. I don’t profess to know the difference between magic, alchemy, and oracles, but all I need to know is that my U-47 returned triumphant. Your strange arts have earned my respect, but this next mission is too much. You won’t explain your reasons to me, yet you expect me to take you to the middle of the Irish Sea?”
The middle-aged, special oberleutnant to whom Prien was speaking settled his tiny frame in the cramped seat. He replied, “Großadmiral Raedar has approved this plan, and so has the Führer himself.”
The man’s name was Henrich Hörbiger. He was a special technical oberleutnant placed with the Kriegsmarine. He’d lived much of his life in England, and thus spoke with a thick English accent.