Arctic Sea, 22nd March 1942
“8000 meters, Kommandant”
The Fokker’s propellers whirred erratically, the plane’s four engines groaning in
agony as it fought the Arctic gale high above the ocean. Up ahead was a small break
in the clouds, and from this angle he could see a speck of shimmering blue where a
foreboding ocean pierced through the dense layer of sky.
“7500 meters, Scheer.” A different voice, closer than the first. “We should be safe at
this altitude.”
Hans Scheer clutched the throttle, preparing for a slow descent as soon as he could
pick something out from the mist. Even inside the plane and donned in three layers
of clothing, all of the Fokker’s five crew were insufferably cold. Scheer did not need
to ask to know; a look backward and the sight of chattering of teeth was enough.
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“No, we are not,” He drew in a painful stream of frozen air.
No one replied as the plane’s spluttering engine limped the steel hunk across the
sky. They were not too far from the clearing in the clouds, and there they would be
able to catch a glimpse of the ocean below.
The crew of five did not speak; the paralyzing cold made sure of it. Yet when a shrill
whistle sounded next to the plane, Scheer’s heart skipped a beat— though he had
heard it hundreds of times above the English countryside.
A single bang of flak rung hard in his ears as Scheer looked to see the black and
sooty remnants of an enormous mid-air explosion. The Fokker Condor that was
flying a distance away from them was exceedingly unlucky. Smoke trailing from one
of its engines, Scheer could only imagine the silent screams within the plane from
the frosted window of the cockpit.
“Kommandant! That’s not a 40mm— that’s a cruiser gun! Kommandant!”
The plane’s communications chattered, it’s crackle reverberating for the first time in
hours. “152! They have 152s!”
Scheer remained silent. His crew shook, in fear as much as cold, as a progressively
bigger barrage painted the pristine Arctic sky around them an ugly, spotted black.