Snow clung to the edge of the runway as engines roared against the dawn.
At a newly repurposed airfield outside Berlin, white hangars stood in rows, barely completed.
Yet already, the Luftwaffe was flying.
Hermann Göring stepped out of a black Mercedes, his greatcoat trailing behind him, flanked by two officers and a military photographer snapping every step.
A squadron of young cadets stood in rigid formation.
All under twenty, most fresh from Hitler Youth flight programs.
"They look too young," one aide muttered.
"They're just young enough," Göring said. "No fear yet. Only hunger."
The airfield commander, a thin officer with a limp from the last war, approached and saluted. "Training rotations doubled. Thirty-six sorties this week. New Dornier 11s arrive by Friday."
Göring nodded. "And the instructors?"
"Overextended. But committed."
Göring turned to the cadets. "Which of you will fly first today?"
One stepped forward, chest puffed. "I will, Herr Minister."
