The Day of the Eagle, Prelude

Smoke rising from the London Docklands after the first mass air raid on the British capital, September 7, 1940.
(Source)

Assistant Section Leader Janice Worthington, the left side of her face still heavily bandaged, was looking over the shoulder of one of her operators. A raid was forming over France, a big one. She notified her superior who nodded and said, "Nice work ladies."

The word passed up the chain of command and out to the sector stations within minutes. There were a number of raids forming up out across the Channel. One of the station commanders turned to his flying counterpart and said, "If they hit our airfields again, I don't think we'll make it through. It's been a hard pounding."

Wing Commander Johnnie Fairfax nodded grimly, "Remember what the Duke said - 'Hard pounding this, gentlemen; let's see who will pound longest.' My chaps are still game, but they are getting damned exhausted."

"No chance of being pulled back for rest and refit?"

"None, the Huns have been pressing us damned hard. If we could get those fellows in 12 Group to cover our bases while we're up, it would make things a damned sight easier. But Leigh-Mallory keeps prattling on about his bloody 'Big Wing.' By the time they get their squadrons up and formed, the bloody Huns are back in France having bloody lunch."

Group Captain Tommie Johnson nodded, "Well, we'd best get cracking, good luck to your chaps today."

Oberleutnant Johannes Boden was now a Staffelkapitän, losses were increasing, he was beginning to wonder if Göring planned to keep throwing his bombers against the English in this slapdash manner. Bombing airfields one day, harbors the next, then factories. Boden had nearly lost his mind the week before when his target was given to him. A bomber factory ...

He wondered if anyone in Berlin had any idea what was going on out here. Göring had ordered the fighter squadrons to stay with the bombers. Boden could look around outside his cockpit and see Bf-109s weaving above them, like race horses chained to a herd of cows.

Some of his colleagues thought this was a splendid idea, "Keeps the lads' morale up to see the fighters nearby!" one lieutenant had argued. It was a waste of breath to point out that with the fighters tied so closely to their bombers, it took away their initiative, now they couldn't act aggressively, they could only react to the moves of their opponents.

His men also knew that the higher ups were lying to them about British fighter losses, just last week he had heard a quip from a man in another bomber unit, "Oh look, here come the last fifty Spitfires in Britain!"

In reality, the numbers of fighters the British could put up stayed about the same, What was more worrisome is that the number of Spitfires was increasing, some were even armed with cannon now.

"What are they doing, Janice?" Peggy Waltham was watching her scope. She could recognize from her display, primitive as it was, the rough size of a raid and, knowing the locations and aircraft compositions of the German bases, the types of aircraft could be assumed. She also knew that in one direction, were fighter bases, along another vector were bomber bases. It looked as if the fighters weren't coming ahead of the bombers, but were going to be flying with the bombers.

"It looks as if the fighters are babysitting the bombers. I'd say that was a mistake." Janice lifted the phone to report theirs suspicion. The man on the other end didn't think much of the idea, in fact, he said, "I doubt that old Göring is that stupid."

But he was.

Flying Officer Reginald Morley was in the sky, patrolling along the coast near Hastings. Three Vics of Hurricanes were all that his squadron could put up. They had plenty of aircraft and, on paper, plenty of pilots. But Morley had made the decision to leave the new pilots on the ground.

"There's no point in getting them killed Skipper." He had put his hands on Squadron Leader Hartley's desk and leaned in.

"Watch yourself Reg ..."

Standing up again, and struggling to control his voice, Morley spoke in a calmer tone of voice. "Look Skipper, the Huns will make mincemeat of these new lads. The most experienced of them has precisely fifty minutes in the Hurricane. Fifty minutes!"

Hartley sat back and rubbed his jaw, turning his chair he looked out at the dispersal area, then he spoke, "You take the experienced lads up for the next scramble, I'll take the new lads into the interior to see how they handle their aircraft, give them some more training."

"Thanks Skipper, but ..."

"Enough Reg, we need the numbers. I hate to say it but if they die, they die. But they have to fly missions, and soon. The WingCo has been on my arse about it, for now, I'll take care of it."

So here they were, the best remaining nine pilots. According to ground control his nine lads were up against a formation estimated to be at least a hundred strong.

Nine against a hundred.

Feldwebel Leo Habicht looked up from his maps, "We should sight the coast any minute, Herr Oberleutnant ..."

Bombardier Leutnant Philip Scholl came over the intercom, "Aircraft ahead, look like Tommies."

Boden sat straighter and tightened his harness, "All right lads, look alive. No doubt the coast is under those Tommies. Leo, nice navigating."

"Danke Herr Oberleutnant¹, but truth be told, I'd rather be in Düsseldorf right now, sipping an Altbier." Habicht stowed his maps and began to ready his gun.

"Ich auch, Junge, ich auch."

As the Luftwaffe approached the coast of England, and the Royal Air Force prepared to meet them, the men of the German high command held their breath. This was the toss of the dice, could the airmen subdue the RAF? This was the grand attack which had been postponed multiple times due to weather.

It was now or never for the German Air Force. Adlertag, Eagle Day had arrived.

The players are on the stage, ready to play their parts.

The curtain is rising.

¹ Thank you, Lieutenant. (German)

² Me too kid, me too. (German)