The New Kid

(Source)

Flieger Uwe Fehrenbach climbed out of the captured British car the squadron used to haul aircrew from the dispersal hut to the aircraft parking area. He noticed that ground crewmen were busy building sand-bagged revetments around each aircraft. He had asked about that, the crusty old Feldwebel who ferried the crews back and forth had a ready answer.

"The Tommies are getting a lot more active what with the Amis in the war now, they're getting all sorts of new kit. The Amis aren't ready to fight, not when they can give the Tommies stuff and let them do the dying."

Fehrenbach wasn't sure what the old Unteroffizier was talking about, but as they drove past two wrecked aircraft (one Stuka and one Ju 52 transport), he realized that how those aircraft got destroyed, and who destroyed them, was rather immaterial. All he knew was that he was assigned to a Stuka as the gunner, his pilot was a long time veteran, and he was in the African desert, whether he liked it or not.

"Here you go, Junge. Hals-und beinbruch!¹"

Fehrenbach got out of the car, grabbed his gear and gave the driver a puzzled look as that man drove off, laughing. He then turned and walked towards the aircraft, noting that there was a man, smoking a cigarette and wearing a pith helmet, leaning against the starboard wing, giving him a hard-eyed stare.

"Excuse me, have you seen a Feldwebel Wolfram around?"

"Only when I look in the mirror, you must be Fehrenbach." The man tossed his cigarette to the ground, where he ground it into the dirt with the heel of his flying boot, then walked to Fehrenbach, his hand extended.

Fehrenbach snapped to attention when he realized he was talking to a non-commissioned officer. "Flieger Uwe Fehrenbach, Herr Feldwebel, reporting for duty!"

Wolfram smiled, then said, "At ease, Junge, you're not at the training camp anymore" His hand was still extended.

Fehrenbach, somewhat flustered, tried to put his flying kit down, only to manage to dump it unceremoniously into the dirt, then hurriedly took Wolfram's hand. "Sehr angenehm, Herr Feldwebel.²"

"Sorry, Sir, let me get that ..."

"It's alright lad, let me show you around the aircraft, you have seen a Stuka before, yes?"

"Not this close, Herr Feldwebel."

Wolfram shook his head, some of the new recruits they were getting were obviously being rushed through training. No doubt all the flyable Ju 87s were at the front. So the Luftwaffe had to make due with other methods of training their gunners.

"What did you train on?"

"The He 111, Herr ..."

"Enough with the rank, Junge, my name's Ernst. If there are officers around, sure, we'll use our ranks, but out here, and in the air, we need to trust each other. First names only, got it, Uwe?"

"Aber natürlich, Herr ... I mean Ernst."

Wolfram chuckled and said, "Let's get you settled in, we're taking off in an hour or so, target is still socked in by blowing sand. It usually clears up fairly quickly, unless it doesn't."

To assuage Fehrenbach's puzzled look, Wolfram said, "The desert, it's fickle, and it wants to kill you, but if you respect it, well, let's just say we get a bit of wind now and again, it kicks up the sand. Especially along the coast. Only in the big sandstorms does it last for longer than an hour or so. Those are called khamsin, which is an Arab word for fifty. Normally those occur over a fifty day period in the spring, we're not there yet, but we still get winds off the Med which tends to blur the air, if you get what I mean."

Fehrenbach clearly did not get it, but figured that he eventually would. If he lived long enough that is, he knew of Stuka crew losses over Britain. He had applied for the Ju 88, got Ju 87s instead. Typical of his luck, he supposed.

Sergeant Pilot Christiaan Krige listened intently as the flight commander briefed them on the day's target. They wouldn't be flying top cover today, they were detailed to hit a German base not far from the front lines, which were moving daily. Krige had flown ground attack missions before, a nasty business if you asked him.

"So that's it lads, we come in from the sea, hit the Jerries as they're arming up, we hope, then head back home. All nice and neat, shouldn't have any problem with ack-ack, the gunners will be looking to the east, not the north. At least we hope so, right?"

Though the captain smiled when he said that, he only received a few nervous chuckles from the assembled pilots. German anti-aircraft fire was nothing to sneeze at, and the men knew it. The captain was new to this theater and hadn't flown a mission yet.

Krige smirked and thought, he'll learn or he'll die. Maybe both. As for him, he'd prefer to keep Mama Krige's boy alive a little longer.

Mediterranean coast of Libya
(Source)

The flight of South African p-40s came in from the sea. They were low, low enough that as they crossed the coast, Krige could see a herd of goats scurrying out of their path, the goatherd furious and shaking his fist at the South African aircraft. It would take some time to gather those frightened beasts up again.

Krige was watching his flight lead, they were now flying in a formation similar to what the Germans used, a flight of four spread out like the fingers of one's hand, not the three ship Vic of the pre-war years. He was flying off Blue Lead's right wing, the number two position. As he watched, he saw Flight Lieutenant Pietersen pump his fist then thrust it to his front.

On that signal the other aircraft slid out to put more distance between each aircraft, allowing the flight to cover more area. Within moments, there was the German base just outside Derna, and they were in luck, there was at least a squadron of Ju 87s in the process of launching a strike.

"Ernst! Enemy aircraft coming in!" Fehrenbach had done well in the aircraft recognition portion of his training, he recognized the P-40s almost as soon as they came in sight.

"Scheiße!" was the only response Wolfram offered as he began to accelerate. Though they were still on the designated taxiway, it wasn't much different than the actual runway. He had plenty of room to take off and he'd rather take his chances in the air than on the ground.

Not a hundred meters ahead of him was Gottfried's aircraft, he had to pull back on the throttle as the man was weaving all over the taxiway. What was he thinking?

Krige couldn't believe his luck, when he popped up over the slight ridge between the sea and the base he saw that he was lined up on a taxiway, which was packed with taxiing aircraft. He hardly had to aim at all.

He triggered his guns and saw one of the bent winged birds suddenly collapse as its left main gear was hit. The bird slewed off the runway and burst into flames. He saw tracers streaking past his aircraft now, so he started to jink.

Though it tended to throw his aim off, he triggered his guns again, just a short 2 second burst. Another Stuka on the taxiway suddenly jerked to the right as there was now a dead hand on the controls.

As he prepared to pull off and clear the area, he saw an anti-aircraft gun just ahead, mounted on some sort of vehicle. There he was, there it was, so he fired another short burst.

As he flashed over the ack-ack vehicle he had the joy of seeing its crew scatter, those that were still capable of moving anyway. He had glimpsed at least two men slumped over the gun.

"Hang on, Junge! Things are about to get rough!"

As he said that, loud enough that Fehrenbach heard him over the noise of the engine, he slammed the throttle all the way forward. Pulling back on the stick he just barely cleared the burning wreckage of Von Kleppe's aircraft.

He was hunched over in the cockpit, as if that would save him if some Tommy got him under his guns. But it was a natural instinct to do that. Make yourself as small as possible, then just fly the aircraft.

Which he did. He stayed low, the Stuka wasn't much of a threat in an air combat role, but what choice did he have?

As he cleared the perimeter of the airfield, still no more than 50 meters above the undulating desert floor, he pulled up and released his bombs at the same time, sending them on an arc into the empty desert.

Rolling level and pushing the nose forward again, he felt his bird accelerate. Off his left shoulder, he could see clouds of smoke rising from the base.

"Uwe! You still with me?"

"Jawohl, Ernst, though my breakfast is all over the place back here!"

"Sorry, Junge. See any Indianer?³"

"There's nothing back here, no, wait, there's something, yes, two aircraft coming our way. I don't think they see us!"

"How's your oil pressure, Stiaan?"

Krige was trying to guess the extent of the damage to Sergeant Van Heerdens' aircraft. Other than a thin trail of black smoke coming from the engine cowling, he saw nothing else. Until he let his aircraft slide back some.

The elevators on Van Heerdens' P-40 were shot to hell. He had passed nearby the ack-ack gun which Krige had shot up, they had managed to put at least one 20 mm round into Van Heerdens' engine and, from the look of it, had shot up the tail of his aircraft.

"Oil pressure is dropping, oil temperature is climbing, I think I took a hit in the oil system. Controllability is sloppy. I can't really climb or dive, the elevators feel like they're not there."

Krige thought for a moment, if Van Heerdens cut his throttle, he could coast in and land his crippled aircraft, maybe. Scanning ahead, Krige saw a long strip of land, seemingly flat, maybe two miles ahead.

"Stiaan, do you see that flat stretch ahead?"

"Ja⁴, I see it. Are we near the lines?" Van Heerdens didn't fancy spending the remainder of the war as a German prisoner.

"I don't know, might be, things are pretty fluid right now. If I were you, I'd set her down before she quits on you."

Krige swore he heard a sigh over the R/T, then he was jolted back to reality when tracers began to hit Van Heerdens' aircraft.

Fehrenbach triggered his gun as the enemy plane flew into his sights. He could barely miss at this range. He could see impacts all over the Kittyhawk. Before he could adjust his aim, the other P-40 had flashed past them.

"Stiaan, do you hear me?"

Krige couldn't fathom what had just happened, the tracers had come from in front of them, not from behind. Was there an ack-ack battery down there?

As he thought this, he throttled up, he was going to make a wide turn then go back. Whatever had riddled Van Heerdens' aircraft was probably still there!

Wolfram couldn't believe his eyes as an enemy P-40 flashed overhead, then settled directly in front of him. He reacted quickly and triggered his dual MG 17s, one mounted in each of the Stuka's wings. He had used them to strafe but had never used them against an aerial target. He saw the aircraft ahead stagger, then begin to fall.

"Keep your eyes open Junge, we're heading home, if there's anything left. By the way, nice shooting!"

Krige winced as he ran his right hand down his left arm. He had felt something like a hot poker score his forearm, he was hit, as was his aircraft.

Looking in his rear view mirror, he felt nauseated,

"I've just been shot down by a f**king Stuka!" He screamed at the world.

Within minutes he had managed to bring his dying Kittyhawk down on that level area he had seen from the air. Where he had hoped his friend Van Heerdens could have put down.

He had tried two more times to raise the other pilot on the R/T, in vain. As his aircraft bumped and rolled, the right gear snapped off. ending his landing abruptly.

He quickly cleared the wreckage and ran away from it, unsure how badly shot up it was. As he turned, he heard a "wumpff" and sadly watched as fire spread over the airframe. I guess she was hit pretty bad, he thought.

Looking to the west, he saw a column of black smoke along his flight path. No doubt that was Van Heerdens' aircraft. He began to wonder if his friend had made it out in time⁵.

Shaking his head, he began to walk towards where he assumed the coast was. He'd rather be a prisoner of war than die in this merciless desert.

¹ "Break a leg. (Literally "Break your neck and a leg," it being bad luck to wish someone good luck in the Luftwaffe.)

² Very pleased (to meet you) or delighted (to meet you).

³ Luftwaffe pilots referred to hostile fighters as "Indianer," Indians. (The North American kind.)

⁴ "Yes" in Afrikaans is the same as in German.

⁵ He did not, Fehrenbach's first burst had killed him instantly.