His name was Werner Schwantje, an elegant, well-turned out something government lawyer with Revenue Canada.
I had been expecting him to drop in and hand over a photo of himself to scan as a reference for an ink and pencil illustration for the book lead image to this story. I have to admit my expectations of what he would be like were coloured by a childhood filled with images of duel-scarred, grey-eyed, Ritterkreuz-wearing, cold killers flying mottled and ugly-beautiful Messerschmitts and Focke Wulfs.
I would not have been surprised by a heel click, a monocle or a sneer. But Werner was none of that. Werner Schwantje was a quiet and thoughtful man, bemused by and grateful for the interest in his story. He seemed the kind of man who thought sartorial style was a form of good manners for he was dressed impeccably. Back in those days, when I was more sartorially inclined, I immediately respected a man who was well turned out. He wore a light weight trench coat over a grey suit, crisp white shirt, dark narrow tie and his thinning grey hair cut high on the side and swept back in the teutonic fashion once favoured by young Luftwaffe fighter pilots.
He spoke with a German accent worn smooth by four decades in Canada with which he told a story, somewhat abashedly, that was nothing short of miraculous β surviving two bail-outs of burning aircraft, a pair of flaming crash landings and a forced landing after being hit by flak. Like most of the young men who fought in the war and lost comrades, he was a committed pacifist in his later years.
We sat together for a while chatting about the book and his experiences in the Luftwaffe, and then he handed me an envelope containing a small yellowed photo of himself from his time flying Messerschmitt Bf s. It showed a square-jawed and more solidly built version of himself leaning out from the open cockpit of a , leather-gloved right fist pumping some unremembered triumph, his left hand displaying a large chromed watch β the kind that fighter pilots everywhere love.
