The Hun in the Sun

RAF Fighter Command 1940 The CO of No. 85 Squadron, Sqn Ldr Peter Townsend, jumps
down from Hurricane Mk I P3166 VY-Q while being refueled at Castle Camps, July 1940.
(Imperial War Museum)

Senior Aircraftman Willis O'Donnell gave the canopy of his Hurricane one more look, it was clear as elbow grease and patience could make it. Flying Officer Reginald Morley would not being seeing things in the sky which weren't there.

Just last week in another clash over the Channel, a pilot in their sister squadron had led his Vic¹ off chasing what he thought was an enemy formation, turned out it was a collection of dirty specks on his canopy.

Though O'Donnell had always given his full attention to making everything about his Hurricane spotless, not all of the ground crewmen were as attentive to their duties.

O'Donnell had been in the Royal Air Force since 1933, he was an old hand and an expert in keeping the Hurricane in tip top shape. If, as his Flight Sergeant often admonished him, he hadn't been so fond of strong drink, he no doubt would be a sergeant himself by now.

"Ah, it's content with me duties I am," O'Donnell muttered to himself as he looked to the skies once more. Was it his imagination or was the weather to the east starting to clear?

Oberleutnant Beppo Ehrhardt was keeping a keen eye on the skies around the formation of Ju-87s that his Schwarm of Bf-109s from JG-26 Schlageter² were escorting in another attack on British shipping off the east coast of England. When they had taken off the weather was clearing, the intelligence boys said that the clouds and rain would keep the Royal Air Force on the ground this day.

Ehrhardt didn't mind, though he had no fear of the RAF, he had shot down three Tommies over France, he also liked the idea of no opposition. These constant escort missions against what he felt were worthless targets, were starting to wear out the men. Most of whom had been flying constant sorties since the beginning of May. A few Routinefluge³ would not be unwelcome at this point.

As he continued to scan the sky for the enemy, he couldn't help but notice that the weather seemed to be much clearer than forecast.

"Leave it to the weather guessers to get it wrong." he muttered to himself, over the radio he announced, "Red Flight, Red One, eyes peeled the weather is clearer than predicted. The Tommies will no doubt be on their way."

O'Donnell wasn't surprised when the klaxon went off and the pilots came scrambling out of their dispersal hut. He was in the cockpit and had the engine on D for Dog purring in no time. As Flying Officer Reginald Morley climbed onto the wing, O'Donnell was climbing out of the cockpit.

Morley looked at O'Donnell, an unspoken question. O'Donnell gave him a thumbs up and yelled into Morley's ear, "She's right as rain, Sir! Good hunting!" as he strapped Morley into the aircraft.

Scrambling down, he joined the other ground crew as the aircraft trundled out to the field where each Vic took off in succession. The grass field had excellent drainage and O'Donnell preferred it to the newer airfields with their fancy tarmac. He considered himself "old school."

Morley followed his lead into the sky, he could hear their flight being vectored to yet another Jerry raid on a Channel convoy. He cinched his harness a bit tighter and got himself into a position in his seat which maximized his view outside the cockpit.

As they crossed the coast, Morley heard, "Yellow Flight, Yellow Two, bogies at my 12 o'clock. Look like Stukas!"

"Right lads, Yellow Flight, let's kill some Huns. Red Flight, watch the sun for us, won't you?"

Ehrhardt saw the enemy fighters before anyone else. What were the Tommies thinking, sending their aircraft aloft in dribs and drabs? He could see three Vics of Hurricanes, two going for the bombers, one flight remaining high, no doubt to keep the Bf-109s busy. But seriously, nine Hurricanes against twenty-seven Messerschmitts? What were they thinking?

He got on his radio, "Blue and Green Flights, this is Red Leader, engage the Hurricanes at nine o'clock, Red Flight with me, we'll go for the top cover!" Beppo waggled his wings and advanced his throttle. The top cover were motoring along as if they were putting on an air show.

Sergeant Geoffrey Wilkinson never saw the Messerschmitt which killed him. Sparks were coming from his engine cowling as machine gun rounds walked from the propeller back, his last thought was of Margaret, the girl he had just met the evening before.

His aircraft spun out of control towards the choppy waters below as the Schwarm of Bf-109s tore through the English formation. Wilkinson was not the only man who died in that first slashing attack, but his death was at least merciful. Pilot Officer William Farnsworth was trapped in his aircraft with a jammed canopy and screamed all the way down.

Flight Lieutenant Michael Bovington had come through the attack unscathed, he was puzzled at first that no one had answered over the radio. But then he was in a fight for his life, one Hurricane against four Messerschmitts.

Feldwebel Ernst Wolfram had no choice but to jettison his bombs, his gunner Flieger Hans Decker had screamed that there were two of those Tommy Hurricanes on their tail. He saw strikes on his left wing as he tried desperately to jink his aircraft, but the Stuka flew like a farm cart compared to those nimble fighters. He began to despair of ever seeing his family again.

Decker screamed, "Stirb du Schwein!⁴"

Looking over his right shoulder, Wolfram saw a Hurricane pulling off, smoke streaming from underneath the aircraft's engine. He heard Decker's gun continue to hammer, then he heard an exultant scream from Decker. He had managed to hit the pilot on the second craft which had been attacking them.

Pilot Officer Wilfred Shaw had seen Tommy Lloyd's aircraft pull away from the fight, he wondered who had hit him? He saw no other aircraft other than the lumbering Ju-87s. He had forgotten that the Stukas had rear gunners.

When he saw the winking of what could only be a gun from the rear section of the enemy cockpit, he was surprised. But he went in anyway, one gun against eight? He'd take those odds any day.

As he went to trigger his guns, the Stuka was nearly filling his windscreen, he felt a sudden silence and what felt like a punch in the belly which took all of the air out of him.

His hands seemed to refuse to do his bidding, but he was fully conscious of the fact that his engine had quit. The German gunner had hit the engine squarely, one round had gone high and into Shaw's cockpit, into Shaw as it turned out.

Shaw was staring at his windmilling propeller, it was so quiet without the roar of that beautiful Merlin engine. He felt a sense of panic when he realized that unless he could get control of himself, he would die.

Shaw's engine was indeed damaged badly, what Shaw couldn't know was that his aircraft was also on fire. That fire soon reached the auxiliary fuel tank, directly forward of the cockpit. Within seconds after being hit, which felt like an eternity to Shaw, his aircraft exploded.

Senior Aircraftman Willis O'Donnell and the other ground crew watched, and counted, as the aircraft returned. They had everything in readiness to rearm and refuel the planes as soon as they landed. Minor repairs would also be carried out.

As they waited, Bert Albertson shouted out, the lad had very good eyes, "There they are!"

Slowly the remnants of the squadron drew into view. Of twelve aircraft which had taken off, seven were returning, two of which were trailing smoke.

As O'Donnell climbed onto the wing of D for Dog, he said a silent prayer, thanking the Lord that his aircraft and his pilot had returned. In the same instant, he had a pang of guilt for those whose aircraft hadn't returned. One more had been lost when the pilot had tried to land without his badly-shot up gear deploying. The aircraft had flipped over when it came in nose low. The resultant crash had killed the pilot, Sergeant Jimmy Smythe.

Morley sat in the cockpit, making no move to switch off the engine, so O'Donnell reached in and did so. Staring at the pilot, O'Donnell placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Sir? Are you all right, Sir?"

As the engine wound down, Morley shook himself, "It was a slaughter Will, bloody Huns jumped us as we went in for the bombers. Thirty of 'em at least. Get her fueled up and rearm her, I need to urinate. Badly."

Decker was strangely quiet in the back of the aircraft. He had only grunted in response to calls over the intercom. As they regained the coast of France, he finally spoke.

"Herr Feldwebel, I killed a man. I could see him as my gun hit his aircraft. I saw his head jerk when my bullets touched him. I've killed before, why do I regret it now?" Decker sounded horrible.

Wolfram didn't know what to tell his gunner, other than, "It's war Junge, we kill them, or they kill us. It is the way of things."

"I know Ernst, I know. But today feels different."

"When we land, I shall buy you a beer, we can talk."

"All right, but I don't know what difference that will make." Decker answered again.

"Can it hurt?"

Decker was still wondering about that when the wheels of the Ju-87 touched down. If he lived through this war, he had much to answer for. For now, he could only try to survive.

¹ A formation consisting of three aircraft in a V. Obsolete in 1940, the British would soon learn to abandon that for the more free-flowing Schwarm of the Luftwaffe. What we would call a "finger four" formation now-a-days. (Hold your right hand out in front of you, fingers spread. The tip of middle finger is the flight lead, the index finger is his (or her, these days) wingman, the ring finger is the leader of the second element, the little finger is the second element leader's wingman.

² The wing was named after Albert Leo Schlageter, a World War I veteran and Freikorps member who became famous for acts of post-war sabotage against French occupation forces. Schlageter was arrested for sabotaging a section of railroad track and executed by the French military. The Nazis considered him a martyr, though Schlageter himself had never been a Nazi, but a German nationalist.

³ Milk runs (German, literally "routine flights")

⁴ Die you pig! (German)