Herr Heinkel Comes Calling ...

Heinkel He-111 medium bombers
Bundesarchiv

Flying Officer Reginald Morley was airborne with his squadron well before the sun was up. As they climbed the world lightened until they reached an altitude where the sun was already shining. The earth below was still in shadow. Morley was still shaken by the events of the previous day, but miraculously the woman he cared for had gotten word to him.

She was alive. He had asked her if she was hurt, all she had said was, "I'm all right, I'll heal in time. Just some cuts and bruises."

He had taken her at her word, which had given him a great deal of relief. Now he had to focus on his flying, the RDF station to the north had given them warning that another raid was forming up across the Channel. The controller had ordered the squadron to orbit over The Solent at 10,000 feet.

As they continued to climb and head out over the Isle of Wight, Morley nodded. Already the altimeter was passing 12,500 feet. The squadron commander wanted lots of height when they encountered the Huns. No more getting bounced by Messerschmitts if he could help it. The controller wasn't up here, they were.

"Green Flight, Green Leader, bogies at 12 o'clock, our angels. Look for the fighter escort."

Before anyone could answer, another voice came over the R/T, "Green Flight, this is Yellow Leader, with twelve Spitfires, we'll get the 109s, you chaps go for the bombers."

"Green Flight, WILCO."

Hauptmann Theodor Schenk sat comfortably in his seat keeping his eyes moving in all directions as they approached the English coast. The formation had formed up, gone south, then west, trying to feint the British into thinking that a raid on Bournemouth was coming. As they had flown across the Channel they had gradually slid to the north, their real target was Portsmouth.

His crew were all veterans of Poland and the recent operations in France, this was their first trip to England. Intelligence had indicated that there was a gap in the Englanders' Funkmeß¹, a gap they hoped to exploit to hit RAF airfields in the Portsmouth area.

A call from the aircraft's dorsal gunner alerted them all to the fact that their fighter escort, some 2,500 meters higher than them, were being engaged by English Spitfires.

"All stations, keep your eyes peeled, if the Spits are attacking our escorts, their Hurricanes must be around as well." Schenk sat up and focused. If they were attacked he intended to jink just enough to throw off the enemies' aim but still stay on track for the bomb run.

"Hartmann, you better take your position." Schenk instructed his bomb aimer. Max Hartmann slid forward into the nose of the aircraft and readied his equipment.

Morley was well above the flight of Heinkels, it was time, "Blue Flight, slip into right echelon, then follow me down. I'll take the aircraft on the left, Two take the center, Three, the bird to the right. All right chaps, let's go."

Morley advanced his throttle then bunted the nose to put his Hurricane into a dive. He wanted to pass through the enemy formation with enough speed to throw off their aim and then come around for another pass. If they could break up the formation, that would be mission accomplished in his book.

Gefreiter Heinrich Stüber called out, "Hurricanes, dead astern!" as he began to engage the incoming British aircraft. The Englanders were jinking just enough to mess up his sight picture, but he began firing anyway. He didn't notice the winking along the leading edge of the British aircraft as the pilot triggered the eight .303 machine guns, four to each wing. It wouldn't have mattered if he had.

Stüber sat down hard, he didn't understand why he had lost his grip on his gun. He only sat there a moment before he toppled to the floor of the aircraft. Unconscious and losing blood rapidly, he would die before his crewmates knew he had been hit. But they were in a fight for their lives, a fight Stüber had already lost.

"Blue Lead, Blue Two, sorry Reg, but I've copped it. Engine is smoking, oil is spattering my windscreen and I've got a nasty hole in me. I'm off for home."

As Morley and his surviving wingman arched up and to the left, he caught sight of Teddy Wilson's aircraft. It was indeed smoking and losing altitude.

"Teddy, jump when you get over land. Don't try to ride her down, we can get you a new aircraft, we can't get another Teddy."

"I'll try Reg, but she's starting to burn, I'm going over the side now. Cheers!"

The Heinkel was dying, Schenk had managed to turn her back to France but the left engine was smoking badly, the right seemed to be losing oil pressure and at least two of his crew were hit. He had no idea that Stüber was already dead. But Hartmann lay wounded and bleeding in his bomb aimer's position and the side gunner reported that he too was hit but could still man his guns.

"Kurt, how is the radio?"

Kurt Graebner responded, "I can transmit, but I think the receiver's dead. Can you keep her in the air long enough to get home?"

As Graebner asked that, the right engine coughed and seized up, the oil was gone. "No, transmit a Mayday, I'm going to try and put her down near the rescue buoy off Barfleur, that's as close as I can get to land. If the Seenotdienst can get to us, we'll make it through this."

Max Hartmann stirred, coughing he said, "Provided we survive the crash, Herr Hauptmann."

Graebner nodded, "There is that, there is that."

Morley touched down, Sergeant Roger Friedman's Hurricane behind him and to his right. He wished he could feel the elation he should have felt at badly damaging one Heinkel and shooting down another. Friedman had a kill as well.

As they pulled up to dispersal, Morley noted that, as always, O'Donnell was waiting.

Morley sat in the cockpit for a few moments as the engine shut down. After a bit, all he could hear was the ticking of the hot engine in front of him. O'Donnell knew enough to wait for Morley to collect himself.

"Any word on Teddy?" Morley asked, hoping against hope that his downed wingman was alive.

O'Donnell shook his head, "Mr. Wilson went into the Channel, Sir. His chute was spotted but an offshore wind pushed him further out to sea. By the time the rescue boat got to him, he'd drowned."

"Damn it." Morley sat a moment longer, then climbed onto the wing of the aircraft, with O'Donnell's help.

He stood there, looking to the east, towards the Channel. He would have to write a letter to Teddy's Mum and Dad. They'd already lost one son in France, now this. He looked at O'Donnell, "I hope you've improved the contents of that flask Chiefy."

O'Donnell nodded and handed it to his pilot, "Whiskey, Sir. Traded with a fellow I know over at our sister squadron."

"Nothing vital I trust?"

"Of course not Sir, just a few typewriter ribbons that I nicked from the Station Commander's office."

Morley managed a smile.

Schenk's Heinkel made it to the rescue buoy, two men out of his crew survived the water landing. Schenk did not.

Final tally for the day: Four Heinkels shot down, three returned to France with dead and wounded crewmembers aboard. Two of the escorting Bf-109s were shot down to one Spitfire damaged.

Teddy Wilson was the only loss among the Hurricane crews.

¹ Radio-measuring, what the Germans called radar.

They Also Serve

WAAF radar operator Denise Miley plotting aircraft on a cathode ray tube in the Receiver Room at Bawdsey 'Chain Home' station,
May 1945.
Imperial War Museum

Flying Officer Reginald Morley was on his bicycle heading back to his station. He had spent an enjoyable evening with his WAAF¹ friend, Assistant Section Leader Janice Worthington. Their nights off had coincided so they had the rare chance to spend some time together.

He had met her a fortnight ago during a briefing where the pilots of Morley's squadron had had the chance to tour one of the Chain Home radar facilities, where Worthington worked. The two had hit it off and had become good friends. Morley worried that he was becoming far too attached to her. With the war and his being on ops nearly everyday, he didn't want to burden her with the thought of loss. He could tell she really cared about him.

Facing the Huns didn't bother him, hurting her in any way did. He needed to think this through carefully.

He arrived at the gate to his station to be greeted by the sentry with, "Weather's supposed to be good tomorrow Sir. The WingCo² wants everyone to get a good night's sleep, the mess is closed up tight, as is the Officer's Club.

"Right-o Corp, I'm off to bed anyway, sunrise isn't that far away."

Flieger Hans Decker was flying with the Gruppenkommandeur³ this morning, Oberstleutnant Erich Furtwängler. His regular pilot, Feldwebel Ernst Wolfram was in hospital, a nasty tear in his side which had taken multiple stitches to close. The doctors wanted him to rest for at least a couple of weeks.

Though nervous flying with a new pilot, Furtwängler was a superb "stick," he made the big Ju 87 dance. Decker thought that it made Wolfram seem almost ham-handed at the controls.

The target today were the strange aerials along the English coast. Intelligence reports varied as to what they were, the Geschwader's Ic was convinced that the aerials had something to do with the British early warning system, something he called Funkmessgerät⁴. Apparently one could detect large metal objects by bouncing radio beams off of them. To Decker it sounded like black magic.

"Janice?" Flight Lieutenant Bill Hansen spoke as he laid his hand on Worthington's shoulder.

"Sir?"

"I'm going over to the mess hut, care for anything? A tin of biscuits perhaps, tea?" He had removed his hand from her shoulder, not wanting to give the much younger WAAF the wrong impression. Hansen was in his fifties and had been recalled to active service due to his experience in planning air operations in the Great War. He had wanted to be a pilot but his eyesight was bad enough to disqualify him.

Truth be told, he loved the task of determining the path and target of incoming raids. It was a game to him. Much more exciting than determining how many aircraft carrying how many bombs would be needed to destroy a target. Looking back on things, those raids were pinpricks compared to the tempo of operations in modern war.

"Biscuits would be nice Sir, a cuppa perhaps?"

"Ladies, anything for you?" Hansen asked the other women in the Receiving Room, most of whom had just come on duty.

No one wanted anything so he moved off. Stepping outside he couldn't help but notice what a glorious day it was. The sun was coming up, seeming to rise from the waters of the Channel and lighting the sky with a glorious rose-like hue on what few clouds there were in the sky.

As he took a deep breath and sighed at the simple pleasures of life, he turned to head to the mess hut. A voice from the door to the hut containing the Receiving Room stopped him dead in his tracks. "Better come back in, Sir. Looks like a big raid forming up over the Cotentin."

Sighing once more, Hansen went back in, tea and biscuits would have to wait.

Oberstleutnant Furtwängler transmitted over the radio, "Coast in sight. All echelons get ready. Adler⁵ flight, clear?"

The commander of the Messerschmitt escort radioed back, "Sky is clear, no enemy in sight. Waidmanns Heil!⁶"

As the target, a group of huts near the base of one of the tall aerials slipped into the window of the floor of the aircraft, Furtwängler pushed the aircraft into a dive approaching ninety degrees. Decker felt as if he'd left his stomach at the altitude the Ju 87 had tipped over into its attack. But it was a thrill he never tired of.

Decker felt the aircraft lighten as its bombload was released, then he felt the crushing weight of gravity as they pulled out of their dive. He could barely hold his head up, he nearly died of fright as he saw one of the tall aerials pass close aboard. How on earth had the pilot missed that?

Morley had the gear up on his Hurricane nearly as quickly as they had left the ground. The warning of the raid had come in very late and his squadron was scrambling for altitude. The men knew that they were too late to stop the raid, but they could possibly catch the Germans on their trip home. A dead German was a German who couldn't bomb England again.

"Morbid thought for such a pretty day," Morley muttered aloud as he checked that his wingmen were still with him. They were, though young Hawkins was again having trouble keeping up.

"Blue Three, close it up laddie."

"Three!"

He was a good lad, but a very green pilot, this was his first op.

Hansen slowly regained consciousness, his head ached and his ears were ringing. One bomb had hit very close to the hut. He looked around, the Receiving Room was a shambles. He could hear someone crying dimly through the ringing in his ears, he also saw that at least two of the girls in the hut were on the floor, and not moving.

"Sir, sir, all you all right?" Hansen became aware of someone shaking him. He turned and looked into the eyes of Janice Worthington, her face was bloody and her uniform was torn.

He shook his head and immediately regretted it, "I'm fine Janice, I'm fine. Are we still on the air?"

"No sir, the generator room took a direct hit. We have no power at all, the screens are all dark and the phones are dead." Janice drew a sleeve over her face. "Sir."

"What is it Janice?" With the young woman's help, Hansen managed to regain his feet.

"Martha and Jane, Sir."

"What about them?"

"I think they're dead Sir."

"Damn it." was all he could say.

The Hurricanes arrived far too late to even intercept the raid as it moved away over the Channel. It was discovered later that an inexperienced controller had vectored the closest squadron in the air in the wrong direction, Morley's squadron was too late getting into the air to do anything at all.

As his element circled, he looked down and recognized the target. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he realized that was Janice's station below. Three buildings were destroyed, a fourth, the mess hut he thought, was on fire. Dear Lord, he prayed that she was all right.

After the day's operations were complete, Morley received word that Janice's station was offline completely, for the moment there was a gap in coverage along their part of the coast. Orders were for them to take off before the sun rose and patrol that gap.

Word was also received that the station had suffered twelve dead and upwards of thirty wounded. No word on names though. Morley spent a very sleepless night, wondering. He resolved that, should Janice still live, he would tell her how he felt about her. Perhaps even ask her to marry, but he had to wait.

He had never prayed so hard in his life.

¹ In the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, an Assistant Section Leader is the equivalent of a Corporal. (More info here.)

² Short for Wing Commander.

³ Gruppenkommandeur is a Luftwaffe position (not rank), that is the equivalent of a commander of a group or wing in other air forces. A Gruppenkommandeur usually has the rank of Major or Oberstleutnant (Lieutenant Colonel), and commands a Gruppe, which is a sub-unit of a Geschwader. A Gruppe usually consists of three or four Staffeln (each of which is commanded by a Staffelkapitän). (Source)

⁴ Literally "radio meter," an older term for radar (German)

⁵ Eagle (German)

⁶ A traditional German hunting greeting, which hunters would say wishing each other luck in their search for game.

The Angel

Heinkel He 59 of the Seenotdienst¹
(Source)

Feldwebel Ernst Wolfram and his gunner Flieger Hans Decker had been on their second mission of the day when they had been bounced by a section of two aircraft which had cut through their formation like a scythe. The fighter escort from JG 54 had been surprised as well. They hadn't seen the British fighters until it was far too late.

One Ju 87 had exploded in mid-air when a single .303 round had hit the 250 kg bomb slung under the fuselage. That explosion had sent that aircraft's wingman into a spin from which it never recovered. Wolfram swore he had seen the aircraft's empennage tear loose as the bird spun towards the dark waters of the Channel far below.

As Wolfram sat briefly mesmerized, his own aircraft had been rocked by a series of strikes along the wings and across the nose. The controls had immediately turned to slop, but far worse, a piece of the fuselage next to his seat had been blown inwards. Slicing through his life vest and flight suit like a hot knife, then embedding itself in his side. The pain had been immediate and intense.

Grimacing he assessed the condition of his aircraft, she had but minutes to live, the engine was already sputtering and coughing. Thick smoke was issuing from the exhaust stacks.

"Hans ..." Wolfram paused, taking a breath which sent pain through his entire left side, "are you okay? I think we need to step over the side."

"I'm okay, Herr Feldwebel, but the bird is a mess, I think the left aileron has been shot away and the rudder looks like Swiss cheese. You're hit, aren't you?"

"Ja Junge, I am, it hurts but I don't think it's that bad." Wolfram lied.

Even as he said that he reached back with his right hand and pressed the wound gently. His hand came back with the glove soaked red with blood. He had felt the metal protruding from his side. Though tempted, he knew better than to try and pull it out. His mind screamed for his hands to do something to stop the pain. 

"Hans, I'm switching the radio so you can transmit. Call the Seenotdienst, I'm going to try and get the bird as close to the coast as I can, I'm aiming for Cherbourg, but I don't think we can stay airborne much longer."

Before Decker could take any action, a radio call got the crew's attention. "You boys need any help, you look shot to shit. Look to your right."

Decker turned immediately and saw a Rotte² of two Bf-109s from JG 54 flying formation with them. Not close, it was apparent to the lead Messerschmitt pilot that the Stuka was in rough shape.

Wolfram was woozy and didn't turn, "Is this a miracle Hans? Am I dreaming?"

"Nein, Herr Feldwebel, the Grüne Herzen³ have come to watch over us."

"Stuka, can you maintain this altitude?" the Messerschmitt lead radioed.

"Negative, the controls are mush, the engine is ready to quit. I want my gunner to jump while I can keep the bird in the air. How far from the coast are we?" Wolfram managed to answer.

It took all of Wolfram's strength to try and control the aircraft and speak. He had checked his wound again, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. While he didn't feel any worse, he didn't feel any better either. He now wondered if he would be able to jump.

"Seenotdienst is inbound and should be on station in ten minutes. You're losing altitude gradually, if it were me, I'd let her sink to twenty-five hundred meters then jump. Can you manage that?"

Wolfram checked the altimeter, then remembered that it had been smashed, "My instruments are shot away, let me know when we reach twenty-five, ja?"

"Will do." The Messerschmitt lead transmitted.

The big Heinkel biplane, with its white paint job and prominent red crosses painted everywhere, lumbered over the water. The pilot was homing on the transmissions from the fighters escorting the stricken bomber. He had heard the mention of the Stuka crew bailing out, at least they should be able to spot the chutes easily enough, the sky was as blue as he had ever seen it.

It was then that Hauptmann Gerd Richter saw two dots, low on the horizon, slowly growing in size. Had to be two aircraft, down on the deck, coming their way. But whose were they?

"Grünherz Lead, this is Engel⁴ One, approaching your position. I think I've got company inbound. Looks like two bogies at my ten o'clock, same altitude."

"Copy Engel, we'll have a look."

Flying Officer Horace Buckingham was nearly salivating as his flight of two bore in on the lumbering rescue aircraft. Though standing orders stated that only rescue aircraft in the vicinity of active operations could be attacked, he considered the entire Channel to be an active operation.

His younger brother, James, had been killed in action in the early stages of the German attack in the west. His brother had been a Battle⁵ pilot and had gone down in an ill-advised attack on a bridge in Belgium. Since that day, Buckingham lived to kill Germans. Being transferred to a Spitfire squadron had made that goal even easier.

"I say Bucky, seems we're a bit farther east than we should be. Petrol's going to be iffy pretty soon." Buckingham's wingman, Pilot Officer Louis Trotter, transmitted. He was leery of getting too far away from England. There was just the two of them and those rescue aircraft often had fighter escorts.

"Break off then Lou, if you don't have the bollocks for it, go home."

 

Oberleutnant Joachim von Bolleberg lined up his gun sight just forward of the lead Spitfire. He was content to wait as the range closed. The big floatplane wasn't in range of the British fighters yet. He had ample time to kill them both he calculated.

Far above him he heard the last transmission of the crippled Stuka as the crew abandoned their dying aircraft. He knew that his wingman, Unteroffizier Klaus Riess would protect the Stuka crew as they dangled in their parachutes. He could focus on the two men who had attacked and broken up the Stuka formation.

Trotter saw a shadow on the water, as he pondered what it was, his lead was spattered with gunfire from above. Buckingham never had a chance, from being hit to plowing into the waters of the Channel, maybe three seconds had elapsed. Now Trotter was in a fight for his life.

He rammed the throttles forward to put on every ounce of speed he could. As he did so he began to gain altitude, ever so slightly, he hesitated to maneuver this close to the water. Glancing in his rear view mirror, he caught sight of the Hun who had killed his lead.

Von Bolleberg thought about how pretty the Spitfire was, those elliptical wings are distinctive, he thought. He knew the Tommy really only had one chance, von Bolleberg was too close for the Spit to outrun him. He figured the Englishman would try and chop his throttles and drop his flaps, trying to abruptly slow his aircraft and cause the Messerschmitt to overshoot.

"Keine chance Tommy, not a chance." von Bolleberg, with six kills in Poland and five in France, hissed as he squeezed his trigger.

Trotter chopped the throttle and dropped his flaps, far too late. The machine guns of the pursuing Messerschmitt walked from the tail of his aircraft up to and over the cockpit, Trotter was hit multiple times. He knew, almost instantly, that his wounds were mortal. Time seemed to slow to a standstill.

At the same time, the Messerschmitt's two, 2 cm wing cannons smashed into the beautiful wings of Reginald Mitchell's superb design. Had Trotter been at a higher altitude, the wings would have folded upwards, forming a shroud over the dying pilot. But at just above the water, they simply snapped off as the Spitfire caught the peak of a wave.

Trotter was already dead, dying within seconds of being hit, when the aircraft smashed into the sea and broke up. The shattered aircraft quickly disappeared into the dark depths of the English Channel.

Decker had dragged Wolfram into the raft, he hadn't seen the short engagement which killed the two Spitfires, but he involuntarily ducked as the Messerschmitt which had downed the English fighters boomed low over their raft, waggling his wings, then zoom climbed to rejoin his wingman.

The big He 59 floatplane was down and taxiing over to their raft. Decker squeezed Wolfram's hand. "You still there, you big lout?"

Wolfram blinked then moaned, "Yes, I'm still here. You're buying the beer tonight, klar?"

"Aber natürlich, Herr Feldwebel⁶. No doubt you would claim that you forgot your billfold in the aircraft."

"No doubt. Am I still bleeding?"

"Yes, a little, here's the Angel, you'll be in hospital in no time, now shut up would you?"

"Cheeky bastard." Wolfram groaned before closing his eyes and listening to the Heinkel's engines slow. Perhaps he had survived again.

But for how long?

¹ The Seenotdienst (sea rescue service) was a German military organization formed within the Luftwaffe (German Air Force) to save downed airmen from emergency water landings. The Seenotdienst operated from 1935 to 1945 and was the first organized air-sea rescue service. (Source)

² An element of two aircraft (German)

³ Green Hearts, a green heart was the emblem of Jagdgeschwader 54 (German)

⁴ Angel (German)

⁵ The British Fairey Battle light bomber had seen serious losses early in the attack on the Low Countries (Source)

⁶ But naturally, Sergeant. (German)

Hurricanes at Two O'clock!

Messerschmitt Bf-110 over the Channel
(Source)

Major¹ Karl Hönigberg checked the positioning of his Staffel of Zerstörergeschwader² 76 as the formation reached the midpoint of the Channel. They should be over the target within minutes. His formation was stepped up from five-hundred to a thousand meters above the Stukas they were escorting.

Hönigberg was not happy with today's assignment, he felt that the big fighters would be better used sweeping inland to attack the RAF fighter bases directly.

"Make them come up to meet us, Sepp! Fighter on fighter, don't tie us to those lumbering dive bombers!" he had remonstrated with the Geschwader's operations officer the night before.

"They will come up to intercept the 87s, do you doubt that?" Oberstleutnant Josef "Sepp" Steiner had countered.

"But they would come up to stop us alone wouldn't they? Why tie us to those slow, clumsy crates?" As he spoke Sepp's counterpart from the Stukageshwader came into the briefing room.

"Slow? Clumsy? You forget yourself Major, the bird is also ugly as Hell!" Major Wolfgang Niebuhr laughed as he spoke, but there was an undercurrent of anger as well.

"Easy Wolf, I'm not insulting that fine aircraft produced by the engineers of the mighty Junkers Flugzeug- und Motorenwerke Aktiengesellschaft,³ but they certainly aren't the most nimble of craft are they?"

"Gentlemen, can we knock off the banter and get on with the briefing?" Steiner interjected.

Flying Officer Reginald Morley listened intently as ground control vectored them towards an incoming group of aircraft. His group of fifteen Hurricanes had been climbing since takeoff in order to get above the incoming Germans. He had to assume they were Germans, who else would be approaching the English coast from the Continent?

As Morley continued his scan, he heard the voice of Squadron Leader Bertie Wilson come up on the frequency, "Look alive chaps, Jerries at two o'clock low. Looks like Stukas with 110s as high cover. Green and Blue flights go for the Stukas, Red Flight with me, let's splash the 110s."

"Herr Major! Tommy fighters, coming around from three o'clock high to our six!"

Hönigberg turned to look, sure enough, he could see the British aircraft, perhaps a flight of six. He assumed there had to be more and they would go for the Stukas. "Shark Flight, engage the British fighters, Lion and Tiger flights, keep covering the 87s!"

Hönigberg advanced his throttles and began to turn into the British fighters. He knew that he shouldn't get into a Kurvenkampf⁴ with the far more nimble Hurricanes, but if he could get his forward-firing armament⁵ on the smaller aircraft, he would have a distinct advantage. Though some argued for always forming a defensive circle in the face of single-seat fighters, so that each aircraft could cover the others in the formation, Hönigberg was of the more aggressive school. Go straight at them.

The problem was, the Bf-110 had terrible acceleration. Though nearly as fast as a Hurricane at altitude, the 110 was slow to get up to speed. Hönigberg figured he had enough time to get around, the Hurricanes had the altitude advantage but hadn't moved to intercept the 110s just yet. Though they could have easily outpaced the Hurricanes by putting the heavy 110s into a dive, their mission was to protect the Stukas, so diving to get away wasn't an option.

Morley saw the big fighters coming around, judging by the angle his formation had on the Huns, the Hurricanes would be through the enemy formation before the Germans would be in position to engage the Hurricanes. The Hurricanes would have to worry about the rear gunners, but Morley wasn't that worried about them.

"Tallyho!" came over the R/T⁶. Morley shook his head as he picked out one of the Huns, some public school boy no doubt.

Hönigberg realized, too late, that the British fighters would be on them before they could bring their own noses to bear on the enemy. "Hang on Rudi, take your shot as they pass through!"

Gefreiter Rudi Wagner answered with a simple "Verstanden!⁷"

Hönigberg was struggling to bring his nose around, the big aircraft just wasn't coming around fast enough. He had to be careful and not stall the bird. He was still confident that he could ...

Morley held the firing button for a full two seconds. He could see strikes all over the nose and cockpit of the twin-engined fighter as his own aircraft flashed past the target. He winced and ducked his head as he saw tracers pass over his canopy. Obviously the rear gunner was alert.

After diving through the formation he looked back, his wingmen were still with him. "Red Flight, Red Lead, let's get some altitude and pitch back in," Morley transmitted as his aircraft leaped higher, exchanging speed for altitude.

Hönigberg winced in pain, he had a bad cut over his right eye which was bleeding profusely. Though his instrument panel was shattered, he still had control of the aircraft and the engines seemed to be running just fine.

"Rudi, report!" he transmitted over the intercom, almost expecting that to be inoperable.

"I'm okay, Herr Major, are you hurt?" The rear gunner had felt the impact of the British guns as they had smashed into the big fighter. He had fired at the Tommies as they had flown past, but had hit nothing.

"I'm having trouble seeing out of my right eye, Junge. I'm heading back to base, we're out of this fight. Keep your eyes peeled for those Hurricanes."

Morley touched down, very satisfied with himself. He had damaged one German and was sure he had shot down another. Green and Blue flights had downed at least five of the Stukas and the remainder had jettisoned their bombs and fled to the east.

As he taxied to the dispersal area, he could see O'Donnell waiting for him, no doubt more concerned for his aircraft than his pilot. Still and all, Morley knew he was lucky, he had one of the best men in the RAF watching over the aircraft and, by extension, Morley himself.

As O'Donnell climbed onto the wing to assist him with the harness, Morley grinned and yelled out over the noise of the engine shutting down, "Hit two, killed one. At least I'm pretty sure of it."

"And 'ere you've used up all my ammunition I'll wager. Sir." O'Donnell offered sternly.

Morley winked and said, "Pretty sure the bullets belong to His Majesty, Willis, but yes, used 'em all."

As Morley climbed from the cockpit, O'Donnell handed his pilot a flask. "Not a problem, Sir. I'll have her ready to go within the hour. Any gripes?"

Morley coughed as he took a drink from the flask, "Damn, we need to find you a better source of alcohol, that's hideous. The kite is just fine, she's running like a top. Anything to eat in the hut?"

"Sandwiches Sir, cucumber I think."

Hönigberg let the medical people help him from the cockpit. He was woozy from loss of blood, his flying kit was stained with it, the cockpit was as well. He passed out as they loaded him onto a stretcher.

"Will he be all right?" Rudi Wagner asked the Sanitäter.

"He'll need stitches but he should be fine. Rough out there?" Unteroffizier Hans Scheibel nodded to the orderlies to load the Major into the ambulance. The pilot would be given intravenous fluids as well, he had lost a lot of blood. Head wounds tended to bleed badly, making even small wounds look nasty. The pilot most likely had a severed facial vein or artery from flying debris and that would be tended to immediately.

"Rough? Leutnant Seger's bird blew up in mid-air. He and Dietrich never had a chance." Wagner answered.

"No chutes?"

"They blew up," Wagner snapped his fingers, "happened in the blink of an eye, there was no way they could have gotten out. A bad day for them. We didn't even make it to the target, so I don't know how successful the raid was. We'll have to wait until the rest of the boys return."

The final toll for the day was three Ju-87s shot down (the RAF claimed five) and two of the escorting Bf-110s were shot down. All for the loss of a single Hawker Hurricane. Downed by "friendly" anti-aircraft fire.

The air war over the English Channel was heating up.

¹ I have italicized this rank, which is the German equivalent to the American rank of "major" because the pronunciation is different, "mah-yor" as opposed to "may-jor." I wish to be consistent here and not make you think I'm using the English equivalent of the German word.

² Destroyer Wing (German), the nomenclature used for wings consisting of the heavy, twin-engined Bf-110.

³ Literally "Junkers aircraft and engine works joint-stock company" (German)

⁴ Dogfight, literally "curve fight" (German)

⁵ Early versions of the Bf-110 had four 7.92 mm MG 17 machine guns in the upper nose and two 20 mm MG FF/M cannons fitted in the lower part of the nose. (Source)

⁶ Radio/Telephone also Receiver/Transmitter.

⁷ Understood! (German)

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)