An Eagle Falls - Western Desert, November 1941

Bf 109Es¹ from I/Jagdgeschwader 27 over North Africa, circa 1941.
Colorized image of a photo in the National Museum of the USAF (PD)

Flight Lieutenant Reginald Morley was briefing his flight in the squadron's operations hut. As usual the heat was nearly overwhelming, even at this early hour.  Sergeant Pilot William Sanderson would be flying on Morley's wing, Pilot Officer Billy Preston was leading the second element with Sergeant Pilot Herbert Vauxhall on his wing.

Preston had checked in with the Met officer and had the latest data on the weather, "The blowing sand should abate by sunrise, Dudley says the wind will die down sufficiently by that time for us to go in with the ground support bombers."

Morley chimed in, "They'll be practically down in the dirt with the Hun tanks and infantry, we'll stay high to guard them from enemy fighters. Keep one eye on them, and another for the enemy."

"Which eye should we use to fly the aircraft?" Vauxhall quipped.

"Don't know about you old boy, but I use my hands and feet to fly the old kite." Preston drawled in his upper class accent.

"Right lads, keep your intervals, wingmen watch our six at all times. So Herbie, I guess you'll need four eyes then, one for the bombers, one for the Huns, one to fly with, and that fourth one to watch my six. I wouldn't blink if I was you."

The flight laughed as one, though Sanderson was unusually nervous that morning, he managed a chuckle.

As they left to go out to the aircraft. Morley pulled Preston aside. "You seem a bit tense today Billy, problems?"

"Nah, Sir, just that ... I dunno, I just have a bad feeling about today, probably something I ate."

"I understand Billy, what is this, your seventh hop?"

"Yes Sir."

"If the Huns haven't nailed you by now, you should be fine. Stay alert and follow my lead, you'll be fine."

"Right Sir, thanks."

Morley paused for a moment as his men walked to their aircraft. It would be at least another 30 minutes before they could taxi out and take off. He had time, time to think. Not always a good thing.

His wife Section Leader Janice Worthington-Morley was due to head back to England on the next available transport out of Alexandria. The War Office had decided that she could better serve the Crown back in London.

In a way he was relieved, it wasn't that long ago that the Germans had raided the base where she was posted. She, and all the other female personnel, had been moved back from Ma'aten Bagush after that raid, which had killed ten men and one of the women. The woman had worked directly for Janice, who had been in Cairo that day. 

His wife felt terrible, she felt that because she had been away from her post, Sheila Masters had died in her place. Morley knew it was simply the fortunes of war, but his wife wouldn't listen. Her work performance had suffered and her commanding officer felt that she was no longer useful in Africa. So she had been posted back to Blighty.

He missed her terribly.

"Everything in order, Will?" Morley smiled as he saw his chief ground crewman look up from checking one of the panels on his bird.

"Right as rain now, Sir. That bloody access panel that was wobbling in the slipstream had a busted fastener. She's good now, Sir. Top drawer in all respects."

"Thanks, where's Frasier?" Morley asked about O'Donnell's second, Leading Aircraftman George Frasier.

"A bit o' gyppy tummy² this morning. I 'spect it was somethin' he ate. We went down to the souk³ yesterday and he bought something off a vendor, said he was hungry. I warned him Sir, the vendor's stall was swarming with flies. But Georgie wasn't put off, said he was hungry."

"Is he all right?" Morley asked with some concern, dysentery was a bigger killer of soldiers than bullets.

"He'll be fine Sir, medicos kept him for observation. But his stomach was settled down this morning by quite a bit."

"Right then ..." Morley looked up as he saw O'Donnell's eyes follow something skyward. Yes, there it was, the flare signaling to man the aircraft, the op was a go!

The German pilot had been in Africa since April, his sojourn in Africa had started badly with engine trouble on the flight to his new home base from Tripoli. He had had to land in the desert and had missed his squadron's move to the front.

He had also, much to his chagrin, been shot down twice in his first two months in country. Though he had scored victories during the operations over England in 1940, he was considered to be something of a loose cannon. His former commander had hoped the assignment to Africa would settle him down.

Now he was leading a flight of four from Jagdgeschwader 27, "Afrika." Blowing sand had almost kept them on the ground, but the wind had died about an hour before sunrise. As the desert sky began to lighten, he and his flight were airborne.

The Afrika Korps was in some trouble, though they were inflicting casualties in both vehicles and men on the British 8th Army, they were slowly being ground down. Apparently 15 Panzer had virtually no Panzers left.

The Royal Air Force was starting to make itself felt over the battlefield and the Army had called for air support. While Rommel insisted they could hold the line, if they received reinforcements, most of the troops were looking over their shoulders towards El Agheila, from where they had set out eight months ago to drive the Tommies back to the Egyptian frontier with Libya.

The pilot didn't worry about such things, he would do his job by killing enemy aircraft. Something he was getting very good at.

"Yellow Leader, Yellow Three, aircraft at two o'clock low."

The pilot saw them nearly as soon as he had glanced in the direction indicated by his second element lead. His eyesight was phenomenal.

"Set your switches gentlemen, looks like RAF Blenheims, probably intent on hitting our supply depots behind the line. Yellow Three, you go in, take the bombers. We'll watch for fighters."

"Will do, Yellow Lead."

"Christ! Two Huns boring in us! Twelve o'clock high, coming on fast!"

Morley heard the transmission from the bomber formation and immediately ordered his second element in to defend the bombers.

"Will, let's climb a bit, I doubt that there's only two!"

"Roger."

Nearly as soon as he had advanced his throttle he heard a scream from his wingman, "Blue Lead BREAK RIGHT!"

Rolling right and pulling the stick back as he firewalled his throttle, Morley saw tracers blazing past just above his aircraft, if Sanderson had hesitated even a second, he'd be dead now.

Glancing in his rear view mirror, he saw the nose of what had to be a 109 boring in on him. Sucking in his breath, Morley chopped his throttle and bunted the aircraft nose, losing airspeed quickly. He gasped as he saw the underside of a German fighter pass within ten feet of his aircraft.

Keeping the nose down to regain airspeed, Morley twisted in his seat and saw the German pull up then gracefully roll onto his back, aiming his aircraft back towards Morley's. Morley gasped as he kept his aircraft in a slight dive, this was no time to lose airspeed.

He kicked in left rudder to skid his Hurricane across the sky, throwing off the German's aim. As the German passed below him, Morley decided to keep his speed up and come around. He had no intention of getting into a turning contest with the 109. Break free, then re-engage, try to seize the initiative.

The pilot had a slight smile on his face, this Tommy was no slouch in the air, a most worthy opponent. Keeping one eye on his target, he twisted around to see where his wingman was. In the distance, surprisingly some distance away, he could see an aircraft trailing smoke, plummeting to earth in a death spiral. Hopefully not Hans, the pilot thought.

He nearly jumped out of his seat, he had been woolgathering for far too long, mere seconds perhaps, but he felt the thumps as enemy rounds impacted the empennage of his aircraft. Kicking right rudder he slipped out of the enemy's bullet stream. He winced as the enemy aircraft nearly collided with his own. This fellow is good!

Morley blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the sweat dripping into his eyes. He was in a fight for his life, this Hun was no ordinary pilot. As he looked back over his shoulder, trying to regain sight of the 109, he began to wonder where he was relative to the front line. If worse came to worst, he wanted the option of coming down behind his own lines. He had no desire to revisit Axis hospitality.

There! There he is! Damn it but this fellow is fast! He could see the camouflaged 109 coming hard at him, slightly to his seven o'clock. Wait, wait, wait ...

There! He could see the winking lights along the wings of the 109, he pulled hard left and kicked in rudder to skid the aircraft. Traces flashed past on his right, then he pulled the stick back into his stomach as he rolled the Hurricane on its back. Dear God, he thought, I hope I have the altitude for this!

O'Donnell and Frasier were at the dispersal hut listening in as reports came in over the wireless. Apparently the bombing raid had been a shambles, they'd been jumped by a pair of 109s and had scattered, jettisoning their bombs as they fled. Only two aircraft had bored in, scoring a few hits on an Italian supply column. Neither of those aircraft had returned.

The flight of escorting Hurricanes had reported briefly before their transmission had been overwhelmed by static. The corporal in the dispersal hut turned to the men waiting and said, "Happens all the time, wind kicks up, sand gets in the air and the radios go to shite. The chaps should be in range in about 20 minutes."

As the two men walked over to Morley's normal parking spot, O'Donnell turned and asked, "So how are ye feelin' Georgie-boy. Still comin' out both ends?"

"Geez Corp, let it go would ya? I don't think my bum is ever going to recover."

"Live and learn laddie, live and learn."

The shadows were lengthening in the desert, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Frasier looked up. "That's an aircraft engine!"

O'Donnell, who had given up on Morley's return, but not on the man's survival looked up, "Come on lad, how many years did ye work for Hawker? That's not a Merlin, sounds like a Daimler, Hun engine. Bastard must be lost."

As the anti-aircraft guns along the edge of the airstrip began firing, O'Donnell saw a very fast-moving shape at very low altitude approaching the field. The AA guns couldn't keep up with the 109, all of their fire was falling to the rear of the swift aircraft.

The 109 flashed very low over the dispersal area and both men saw something drop from the aircraft, so they dove for cover.

When nothing happened, and as the sound of the Bf-109E-7's Daimler Benz engine faded to the west, O'Donnell stood up and walked to where he'd seen something hit the ground. It was a weighted, canvas sack.

Frasier rushed over and O'Donnell cautioned him to stay back, "Let the UXB boys deal with this laddie, might be some sort of Hun trick."

As night set in and the temperature began to drop, O'Donnell and Frasier left the suspicious sack to the men trained to deal with such things. Neither man said a word as they returned to their quarters. They didn't bother to eat either, they were in deep despair.

Your pilot was seen to enter a split  S maneuver as I closed to re-engage him. Unfortunately his aircraft was far too low to complete the maneuver.

The Hurricane  hit the ground, relatively intact, but slid for a number of meters before a wing dipped and flipped the aircraft onto its back. No fire was seen in the wreckage, no movement was noticed in the cockpit area either.

 I later appropriated a vehicle and traveled to the crash sight with the intention of discovering the fate of your pilot. I found him dead in the wreckage. We buried him at the spot of the crash.

My condolences on the loss of your pilot, he fought well.

Marseille, JG27 "Afrika" 

¹ Me 109E is also correct, even the Luftwaffe used both terms. Bf is for Bayerische Flugzeugwerke (Bavarian Aircraft Works), Me is for the designer Will Messerschmitt.

² Upset stomach, usually accompanied by diarrhoea.

³ Arab marketplace or bazaar.

Editor's Note: Hans-Joachim Marseille was the top German ace in North Africa.