[World War II] Thousands of Miles in the Sky

On the pilot badge on the front of Illerman's uniform: "I have a friend in the Air Force. He said he would teach me to fly after the war. His name is Haryo Foko."

"You know Haryo?" Illerman shouted, unable to hide his surprise in words.

"You know him?" The officer's eyes became sharp again.

"I met him during training in the suburbs of Berlin." Illerman's tone was already full of excitement, "What about you?"

"I'm a Berliner." The officer said almost disdainfully, "Hayo is the pride of Berlin."

He paused again for a while before continuing: "We are classmates in high school."

"He's a fine guy," Illerman said. "A great friend, and a pretty good pilot."

"A good friend," said the officer, "and a very troubled fellow. Let's just say... We did a lot of things together that a future SS officer shouldn't do."

As if immersed in memory, the SS officer lowered his eyes and smiled quietly, showing a rare sincere expression.

"He did say in his letter that he made friends with a cadet. Are you from Württemberg, Mr. Lieutenant?" The officer looked up at Illemann, whose eyes had softened a little.

Illerman quickly replied, "Yes."

"What was he like when he was with you?"

"He...is very gentle," Illeman seemed to be struggling to find words in his head, "he likes to joke, he likes to listen to music, and he always wears a silk scarf around his neck..."

"He has a habit when he's thinking," said the officer abruptly.

"He likes to knock on things," replied Illerman, "as if he were beating time to inaudible music."

The officer nodded and turned to face the Dutch sentinel; who had been standing quietly watching the two Germans talking.

"This is the strongest fighter pilot on our entire East Station line." He said coldly, "I heard that you almost shot through his leg. Do you understand what it means to be cautious? What else do you have besides being tall? ability?!"

The Dutchman's Adam's apple moved up and down, and he couldn't help apologizing: "Sorry, sir, I don't know... Last week, a Russian spy pretended to be a German prisoner who had escaped, and just came to our guard position like this, almost Let him get away with it, we really don't know... I didn't mean it, really, I..."

"What are you still standing here for?" the German officer interrupted impatiently, "to find a car to take our hero back to his regiment."

The relieved sentinel responded loudly with "Yes, sir!" and disappeared into the intersection of the trenches.

"It's not all his fault," Illerman said.

"I was on the phone with officers from the 52nd," said the officer, deaf to Illerman's protests. "They told me that Mr. Illerman had light hair, amber eyes, and looked about . . . Girlfriend's name?"

"Ursula. It's painted on my plane, along with an arrow through a heart."

"The mascot of the alliance?"

"A white puppy."

"The best footballer on the United team?"

"Uh……"

Illerman paused for a moment, frowned tightly, looked at the other party inexplicably for a while, and then hesitated: "Mr. Captain Prinz."

The SS officer calmly withdrew his hand on the pistol that had just been resting on his waist, nodded in satisfaction and said, "You are Dieter Illermann."

"The car is ready." The Dutch sentinel ran back.

"Do you know where the 52nd Regiment is stationed?" After listening to his report, the officer turned to him and asked.

"Yes, I asked. I know how to get there," replied the sentinel eagerly.

"You drive him off," the officer ordered.

Turning to Illermann, the officer bid him farewell: "Good luck, Mr. Lieutenant. All of us in the SS 'Nittland' are very grateful to you and your comrades for keeping our skies safe. Allegiance to the Empire will never be forgotten."

"Mr. SS Captain!" Illermann called as the man was leaving through the trenches of the passageway where he had arrived. "May I know your name?"

The SS officer looked back at him with those unemotional eyes, dark as the deep sea: "Gorzer. Horst Gözer."

"Thank you for your help," Illerman said. "If you still want to learn to fly after the war, Mr. Goser, I used to be a pilot instructor."

"So you wanted to teach flying full-time after the war?" Goser asked.

"Ah, no, I want to train to be a doctor."

Illerman was caught off guard by the unexpected question, but quickly adjusted his response: "But I can teach you anyway. You wouldn't mind learning to fly a plane from the nation's number one fighter pilot, would you?" "

"I don't think I will." Ge Ze smiled lightly.

"Then what do you want to do after the war?"

"Anything the Führer wants me to do," Goser said.

Illerman paused, and finally said: "Good luck, Mr. Goser. See you soon."

Ge Ze didn't answer any more, but just took off the military cap on his head and raised it slightly as a signal.The black hair on the top of his head is unexpectedly long, falling down to cover part of the bare/exposed skin on the sides as he takes off his hat.Now he no longer looked like a fearsome SS officer, but just a handsome and arrogant young man, standing wantonly under the heavy night.

"Come with me, Mr. Lieutenant," said the Dutchman.

31

Illerman leaned on the back of the back seat, leaned on the window with one hand, rested his chin and closed his eyes.The car body bumped slightly rhythmically, and Illerman also lowered his head slowly.

"Are you really the most powerful pilot on the Eastern Front?" the Dutchman who was driving suddenly asked.

"If that were the case, I wouldn't have just made an emergency landing behind the enemy's rear and then fled back under the cover of an air strike." Illerman replied with half-closed eyes.

"No matter how good a pilot is, there are times when he is shot down," said the Dutchman, as if defending Illerman.

Rubbing his temples, Illerman said, "I had a friend in North Africa...never got shot down. Never. He was a truly amazing pilot."

The Dutch didn't seem to know how to respond and didn't answer.The carriage fell silent, only the sound of crushing the frozen ground could be heard coming from under the wheels.

"What's your name, Mr. Sergeant?" Illerman broke the silence.

"John Coopers." The Dutchman replied, looking ahead.

"Call me Dieter, John. There are many types of pilots," Illerman patiently explained, "I am a fighter pilot. Mr. Hans Haptmann, who led the bombing mission yesterday, is a bomber pilot. He holds the highest military honor in Germany, like Ye Shuangjian with a diamond-studded Knight's Iron Cross. My Knight's Iron Cross does not have diamonds. So if you can sum up all the pilots on the Eastern Front, at least he is stronger than me."

Kupas shook his head while driving, and replied: "I don't know much about these, I only know that you are the well-known 'Ukrainian black devil'. Horst knows better."

Illerman opened his eyes suddenly, showing a surprised expression, as if he didn't expect that the Dutch soldier who had been submissive just now would call the officer by his first name at this time.

"You're not that tall either," Illerman said. "Mr. Goser just made it sound like you're extraordinarily tall."

"Not that tall compared to other Dutch people?" Kupas asked.

"Compared to him," Illerman said.

Kupas chuckled without warning, and said, "Yes, Horst is a little taller than the average German...he's a quarter Dutch."

"He has Dutch blood himself?" Illermann said, even more surprised, as if he couldn't understand Gothe's previous cynicism towards the Dutch.

"Yes. He treats us well. When no one else is around, he talks to us in Dutch. Most of the German officers who lead the troops here don't understand Dutch. With them, we soldiers have to speak German. .”

Illermann shook his head. "I thought he was such a fanatical Nazi that I was sure he was pure German."

"He's a pure German." Kupas turned the steering wheel violently, avoiding a small raised mound in front of him, "If you want to become an SS officer, you must be of pure German blood for at least three generations. .”

Illerman frowned, as if he was pondering these few words, and finally said: "But, I think what he means is that he is still loyal to the German Empire."

"That is," said Coopers. "After all, he is a German. Even if he has Dutch blood, he is a German through and through. For him, the fatherland is only Germany."

"What about you?" Illermann asked. "Why do you Dutchmen come to fight for the German Empire?"

"We are all Germans," Kupas said dryly, "and especially we Dutch, who share the same language and race with the Germans. We, the Low Countries, and those Scandinavian countries, without exception, are not A Germanic country that is closely related to the fate of Germany. In today's world, the whole of Europe must unite against Soviet Russia, otherwise there will be no eggs under the nest? It is the responsibility of every European man to fight against the Soviet Union. Without the support of a strong Germany, A small country like the Netherlands is simply left to be ravaged/ravaged."

Illerman lowered his gaze and seemed to be chewing on the words over and over again.His frown still didn't relax.

"My brother and I were the first to join the Dutch Volunteer Corps of the Waffen-SS as early as [-]. After training in Hamburg,