Free Eagles at War by Walter J. Boyne

first operation, they congratulated themselves, deciding that he would live but be completely paralyzed. Now they only said he wouldn't walk again. He would prove them wrong about that, too, no matter how long it took. He would walk again, and he would fly again as well, and to hell with them all!
    Kersten gave him the customary three gentle taps on the back that signaled the end of the session, shook his hand, and left. In the outer office Kersten chatted briefly with Weigand and Josten while Hafner dressed. Then the intercom crackled: "Please ask my visitors to come in."
    Weigand was impressed beyond measure by meeting Kersten. Only a very important man would have both Hitler's silver-framed photo and the services of Himmler's masseur. He self-consciously checked the shine of his boots and straightened his tie before moving through the large mahogany double door.
    They hurried into the immense, pine-paneled office. The polished hardwood floor, glistening with wax, reflected the battery of lights suspended from the high ceiling. Hafner's enormous desk was half paperwork and half machine shop, covered with folders, aircraft models, cannon shells, and odd bits of machinery—gears, valves, and unidentifiable bits of metal. Behind the desk were the Reich battle flag and the flag of the Luftwaffe. On the wall opposite the desk hung an enlargement of a photograph of Hermann Goering, showing him at his desk, the President of the Reichstag. Stuck in the lower left corner of the frame was a smaller, candid photograph of Goering, this time with helmet and goggles on, seated in the cockpit of his Albatros fighter, Hafner standing at the aircraft's side, handing him a map. Both photos were signed.
    The outer wall of the office was half an octagon, each division having large French doors opening to a ramp leading to a separate factory building. At the center of the complex, in the middle of his office, crouched over his desk like a malevolent spider, sat Bruno Hafner.
    "Forgive me for not rising, Kurt. You rascal, you were early."
    "If you're always early, you're never late, Bruno. You used to say that, back in the Great War. You are looking very well; Frau Schroeder says you have shoulders like Max Schmeling."
    Weigand peered at Hafner's face, and in his usual blunt fashion said, "Your airplane burned, I take it?"
    "No, these are scars from the parachute risers." The lines of the parachute had made one quick twist about him as it opened, abrading the flesh on the right side of his face so that his cheekbone stood out sharply above a tight and twisted mouth.
    "Helmut, it's good to see you again. It's been a year, at least."
    Weigand saw immediately that the two were friends, and his opinion of Josten rose sharply.
    As the two older men ran a conventional roll call of remembered names, Josten sat quietly, examining the extraordinary pair of portraits of Hafner on the wall to the left. One, obviously painted from a photo, was Hafner as Josten remembered him in Spain. Hafner, helmet in hand, stood tall, looming over the cockpit of his Messerschmitt fighter. His blond hair was askew, as if the helmet had just been pulled off after a combat sortie, and he was gesturing with his hands in the familiar fighter pilot style. The artist had taken some liberties—Josten didn't remember that Hafner had been as lean and fit in Spain as he was portrayed here. But he had captured the face, the broad forehead, thick eyebrows, wide-set eyes, shown with the fire of combat still burning, and the thing Josten remembered most, the captivating grin, the smile of a boulevardier. There had been an absolute procession of women through Hafner's quarters in Spain—local Spanish ladies, visiting German women, foreign women photographers and journalists—and they all seemed to cherish the experience, judging by their return visits.
    The other portrait was a painfully exacting reproduction of Hafner's current twisted state, crouched behind a desk, his face scarred,