The Conversion

Sketches for an original wartime Novella 

SMJ, circa 2002, Philadelphia PA 

Chapter 1 

December 16, 1943 

Dresden, Germany 

Blood, flames, prayer and profanity filled the cockpit. If there were no atheists in foxholes, surely there were none in burning fighter aircraft. The Spitfires’s first pass had blown holes through the Junkers crankcase, now uncontrollably bleeding out what remained of its life-sustaining lubrication. Lt. Col. Rudolph Emory Eckerd beat on the Stuka’s canopy release mechanism with the relentless precision of a crazed jackal. Choking on and spitting out the smoke-filled prop wash, he tried in vain to clear his goggles; scalding engine oil showered him through a shattered windshield. Cursing, he beat on the superheated and jammed canopy latch that burned then blistered what remained of his shredded right hand. He was supposed to be flying the brand-fucking-new ME-262’s, not strapped to this defenseless and bloated sow pig with wings. ‘Damn you Hermann Goering. Call me Meyer my ass, you son of a bitch. Verdammt Du!!” he hissed. “I should be riding atop a Lipizzaner Stallion, negotiating the German surrender to the Allies, and overseeing the transitional government of Europe. Not rendered defenseless and blown to hell in this flying deathtrap…stupid thoughts, Eckerd! Concentrate you fool!. Concentrate! Open you motherless whore. Open, damn you!” he screamed in frustration, as he continued to beat the canopy release latch with the mutilated and increasingly useless right stump, whilesimultaneously tearing at the release pin of his seat harness - with what remained of his left hand. Mentally he braced himself for the inevitable, the death blow. The Spitfire lined up for the kill, fangs born; a cobra coiled and ready to strike acritically wounded mongoose. Glancing at what remained of his shattered control gauges, he fought to balance an unresponsive joystick with his knees, and now eyed the 160 octane aviation fuel pooling around his boots. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear the blood, smoke and horror from what remained of his vision. Only seconds now, he knew. And the seconds had become a millennium.  

As the Junkers Juno 211 engine screamed for mercy, the terminally crippled plane began its final spasmodic death roll. Rudolph’s right boot exploded in a flash of bone, blood and flame, a final goodnight kiss from the Bastard Brit, whose six Browning machine guns proceed to tear through the remnants of the outdated fuselage. The pooled aviation fuel burst into flames. Screaming, Eckard cried out to his childhood Catholic God. A final burst of John Browning’s insults ripped through his right thigh.  “…incredulous…” He could actually see the Brit smile, his face momentarily yet unmistakably illuminated by gold-yellow light of Eckerd’s flame-engulfed aircraft. Then, what? A salut? A fucking salute? Gott en Himmel…” he screamed…”The God-damned British: so fucking proper… The Juno threw one of its three propeller blades and began a final sickening and grotesque death-spasm. Unconsciously, Eckard screamed “Fritz! Fritz! Fritzzzzzz! Damn you, you motherless dog! Bail out! Bail out! Answer me damned you!” Rear gunner Fritz Schultz’s lifeless and bullet riddled body slumped right, held in place by a shredded seat harness.  

Years before, Eckerd’s mother had made him promise to wear the sacred talisman. Out of respect for her memory, he complied. An alter boy in his youth, his subsequent University Studies, Military training and career accomplishments had slowly pulled him away from what he considered the simplistic faith of his loving Bavarian mother. Now, subconsciously, he longed to touch the area on his upper chest where a scapula hung from around his neck, and beneath his jacket, beneath the Luftwaffe Iron Cross medallion. He touched the leather shoulder holster that held his CZ 7.625 pistol. In what remained of awareness, he noticed – or was he directed to realize that -  the Spitfire’s last .308 volley, which had but moments before blow off the tip of his right foot, had also blew apart the jammed canopy release mechanism, and ripped it off its latch mount.  Suddenly the plane involuntarily lurched, up to the right. The canopy dislodged, slamming backon its tracks and jammed into the open position. The plane aeronautically vomited what was left of its being, then dropped and twisted right into a slow inverted barrel roll, wings separating from fuselage. Falling inverted and semi consciousness out of the cockpit and through the flaming night, Heinrich’s last thoughts were of looking at the harness pin clasped between what remained of a bloody stump of his left thumb and forefinger; notions of a glinting Crucifix crossed his mind. Blood, flames, roar, night….The howl of the wind, the sky, stars, smoke, a screaming engine in its death throws; a massive explosion; shrapnel…then falling, falling, failing. A quiet ‘pop,’ tug and then a silk-white parachute silhouetted against the full moon. ‘God, that thing looks angelic, he thought. Then, to his surprise, he muttered a long-forgotten single childhood prayer, just before the world went completely silent… 

December 25, 1972 

Bremen, Germany 

Monsignor Rudolf Eckerd raised his eyes to heaven, lifting the Chalice, and chanted: “…Through him, with him, in him, in unity with the holy spirit…” 

He was a rugged, handsome man - a fact evidenced and often reinforced by the increased female attendance whenever he said mass. The front row pews of the Cathedral were consistently packed with Dresden’s finest, not to mention most attractive, Fraus and frauleins. In his heart of hearts, and to the man deep within, he had to admit, it still felt good. At 55, he could best a man half his age; a fact his spirit and ego constantly wrestled with. Still, he remained true to his vows. One in particular.  

Facing the congregation, Monsignor Rudolf Eckerd genuflected, rose and then reverently offered the chalice to heaven. “…pray my bothers and sisters that our gifts be acceptable to God, the father almighty…” Those sitting closest to the alter couldn’t help but notice the priest’s maimed and slightly shaking hands. New comers often winced at the mass of scars and absent digits which represented the priests left and right hands; those of course who didn’t know that the Monsignor had been in a previous life among the elite, one of the most highly skilled and decorated of the Luftwaffe’s top fighter aces. Still, the tremors were getting worse; he knew it, they knew it. The doctors suggested yet another operation. He again refused.  He’d had enough. Each operation cost him weeks of recovery time, and it was impossible to hold the chalice or offer communion wafers with hands wrapped in thick gauze. He would at this point continue serving mass until he could no long do so, then ask God for further direction. He flashed back, briefly, to the vow he made to God 30 yrs ago today, while lying bloody, bullet riddled and dying in a French vineyard. “…Gott in Himmel…if ever I live through this nightmare, my life is yours…” And, Rudolf Eckerd, Prussian Officer, decorated fighter ace, holder of the Iron Cross, graduate of the University of Dresden Divinity School, Catholic priest, remained, in the end, a man of his word. 

To be continued...