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“Yes, who is it?”
I saluted smartly. “Ottokar Ritter von Prohaska, Linienshiffsleutnant of the Imperial and Royal Navy, currently attached to k.u.k. Fliegertruppe Flik 19F at Fliegerfeld Caprovizza.” He stared at me, uncomprehending. I continued. “I have the honour to report that my pilot Zugsfuhrer Toth and I have just landed after successful completion of a bombing mission against the lagoon bridge at Venice.”
He went on staring at me, as completely baffled as if I had just announced my arrival from Valparaiso by way of Wi
“What are you doing here then?” I began to wonder whether I was dealing with a mental case, perhaps posted here as a convalescent after acute shell-shock. So I tried to be patient.
“We are from Flik 19F at Caprovizza and we have just carried out a bombing-raid on the city of Venice. We are here on our way home, which takes us north of the lines in the Dolomites.”
“Caprovizza? Never heard of it. Is that on the Eastern Front?”
By now I was growing more than a little irritated. “Not when I last looked. It is just outside the town of Haidenschaft.”
“Where’s that?”
I was begi
“Haven’t heard anything about it here; not a thing.” He rummaged beneath an untidy heap of paper on the desk, muttering to himself as he did so. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of rubbish Divisional Headquarters sends us each week. Honestly, we need another Adjutant full-time just to sort through the circulars . . . Ah, this might be it.” He pulled out a crumpled telegram and began to read it, eyeing me suspiciously from time to time. He broke off to look out of the window, then addressed himself to me. “This says two aeroplanes. How come there’s only one of you?” “Our companion aeroplane, piloted by Oberleutnant Potocznik, developed engine trouble and turned back just before we started to cross the Gulf of Trieste. I think that they must have landed safely, but I’m not sure. If you want me to find out I can ask when I telephone my base to tell them that we’ve arrived. Do you mind . . . ?” I reached for the telephone on his desk, but before I could touch it he had snatched it away.
“You can’t use the Kanzlei telephone for operator calls: the Kom- mandant’s very strict about economy—orders from Army Group Headquarters.”
“But that’s ludicrous. I have to telephone Caprovizza or we’ll be posted missing. How am I to contact them if I can’t use your telephone?”
“Herr Kommandant says we’ve got to use letters wherever possible.” “But . . . we’ll be home long before a letter gets there.”
“Well, you could always carry it with you. Or if you’re set on telephoning there’s a post office down in the town.”
“Anyway, where is your commanding officer? And everyone else on this airfield, if it comes to that?”
“The Old Man’s in hospital in Trient. He got the horrors from drinking grappa. Keep well clear of it if you’ll take my advice: it’s foul stuff. As for the rest of them, it’s been a bad month for crashes, so we’re a bit low on aircraft and flying crew. We no sooner get a batch of stupid bastards from the flying schools than they all write themselves off on the mountainside. We’ve only got one aeroplane serviceable—an Aviatik on patrol now up Asiago way—so I thought I might as well give everyone the afternoon off, especially seeing as it’s Friday anyway.”
“I see,” I said, detecting the drift of the conversation, “so would I be right in assuming that we will get no assistance at this flying field today in replacing two worn-out magnetoes?”
“Perfectly correct: we aren’t authorised to carry out major engine repairs in the workshops here, and anyway we fly Lohners and Aviatiks— Hiero engines you see. Yours is a Brandenburger isn’t it?”
“How perceptive of you to have noticed, Herr Leutnant.”
“Thought so: Daimler 160. No luck I’m afraid. Flik 24 uses the other end of the field but they’ve got German Fokkers, Benz engine, so no use either.”
“So what do you suggest? We can’t stand here on your flying field until we take root.”
He yawned and swung his boots on to the desk. I was begi
“Better try the Flep down in Trient, they might be able to oblige.”
I saluted and turned to leave. “Thank you for nothing then. Servitore.” “Don’t mention it. Oh, and by the way . . .”
“Yes?”
“Be a good chap and move your aeroplane; it’s blocking the entrance to our hangars.”
We moved the aeroplane across the field, Toth and I, laboriously pushing it along by ourselves since there were no ground crew to be seen. I left Toth on his own, bidding him to leave me something from the provisions given us by the anarcho-syndicalist peasants of Busovecchio, and set off on foot for Pergine village.
I returned empty-handed. It was Friday afternoon, so the post office was closed, and anyway the entire town was shut up for some church festival or other, St Thuribus of Mongrevejo, or the Veneration of the Authentic Elbow of Padua or something. It was late afternoon when I trudged back, footsore and dusty. There was no help for it: we would have to get airborne once more and fly the ten or so kilometres to Fliegeretappenpark 3 on the other side of the town of Trient. So I swung the propeller once more and the engine coughed and backfired into motion, pouring out clouds of smoke as we lurched unsteadily into the evening sky.
We had some difficulty finding Flep 3 from the air and making our landing. As we did so a bespectacled major came ru
In complete contrast to his commanding officer, the Stabsfeldwebel could not have been more helpful to us—at any rate, so far as he was able. Which, sadly, was not very far at all. He stood looking at the naked engine after we had removed the cowling panels. He shook his head slowly.
“Sorry, Herr Leutnant, but I can’t be of any help. We haven’t got a single spare magneto in stores for a 26-series Brandenburger.”
“But that’s ridiculous: the 160hp Austro-Daimler must be the most widely used engine in the entire Imperial and Royal Flying Service.”
“Not around here it isn’t, Herr Leutnant. The Brandenburger Fliks in the 11th Army sector use Mercedes 160s, on account of the mountains. They reckon the Mercedes is slower accelerating but a bit better at altitude. The trouble is that they use Bosch magnetoes, and this batch of Austro- Daimlers use Zoelly. And anyway . . .” (he glanced at his watch) “. . . it’s half-past five already—sorry, 1730 hours—so my lads couldn’t help you now even if we had anything in stores.”
“Why ever not?”
“Sorry, Herr Leutnant, but it’s a Friday and they all went off duty half an hour or more ago.”
“Gone home? But this is monstrous. What about duty-men? God damn it, man, there’s a war on: the Front’s not twenty kilometres south of here.”