Moving On

Royal Air Force Operations in the Middle East and North Africa, 1939-1943
Imperial War Museum

Corporal Willis O'Donnell watched as Leading Aircraftman George Frasier closed up the engine compartment on Flying Officer Reginald Morley's Hurricane, C for Charlie. He had to admit, the lad knew his business.

"Where'd you learn how to do this laddie?" O'Donnell asked.

"I worked for Hawker Siddeley before the war, Corporal. I'd still be there if it wasn't for the Huns going into Poland."

"I should have thought chaps like you would get a deferment, that's automatic for a war industry isn't it?"

"Wasn't drafted, I volunteered Corp, right after we learned that my brother had been killed in France. I wanted the infantry, like my brother, but the government decided that having me work on Hurricanes in the RAF would be just the thing. So here I am."

"Well, I for one am glad we've got you."

"So Corp," Frasier hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should be talking about the rumor he'd heard in the Other Ranks mess the other day, "are we really going off to Egypt?"

O'Donnell turned to the young airman and said, "Well, it ain't official as of yet, but yeah, we are. The Eyeties¹ are gettin' frisky, Mussolini claims that he's going to resurrect the Roman Empire, Egypt's his first stop."

"Think we'll see the Pyramids then?"

"Dunno lad, if we go it'll be to fight a war, not do any sightseeing, but ye never know. Ye never know."

Reginald Morley sat with his new wife, Janice Worthington-Morley, he took another sip of the champagne that she had managed to acquire and looked with longing at his lady, her face still showed the scars from her injuries received in a Luftwaffe bombing raid, but he rarely noticed them at all.

"Do you know when?" she asked him.

Distracted, Morley set his glass down on the table, "When what, love?"

"Egypt, when are you lot off to Egypt?" she had a surprise for him, but wasn't sure how to broach the topic.

"Ah, Saturday next. We're off by ship, apparently we're transitioning to Spitfires once we get there. Don't know where the aircraft are coming from, we'll probably still be in Hurricanes for a while. Not that I mind, the Spitfire is a sweet aircraft, but I know the Hurricane inside and out. I like flying it and it's kept me alive so far."

Morley took another sip of champagne then said, "You know Janice, that you can rely on my Mum and Da' for anything and everything while I'm out East, right?" He noted his wife's nervous smile, then set his glass down.

"I assure you love, my parents think the world of you ..."

Janice interrupted him with, "I've had a posting of my own you know."

"What? Where? Dear God I hope the service isn't sending you off to ..."

"Cairo darling, I'm going to Cairo, to work in the headquarters there."

Morley sat for a moment, flabbergasted, "Cairo, why would they send you to ... Oh Lord, you asked for it, didn't you?" Morley sounded upset.

"Of course I did, d'ya think you men are the only ones worried about stopping Hitler and Mussolini?" Worthington-Morley had an edge to her voice which Morley recognized, he had no desire to fight with his new wife.

"Of course not, love. Just that I worry about you, England is safer and ..."

As he said that, the air raid sirens were going off in the near distance. Another German raid was inbound.

Both realized that as the world sank further into darkness, there were fewer and fewer safe places to be.

¹ British slang term for the Italians.

They Only Come Out At Night ...

Bundesarchiv

Gefreiter Alois Holweck paused momentarily and set aside the letter he was writing. He wanted to tell his sweetheart back home what he had faced over the past few weeks, but he knew that he could get in trouble with the officer who censored the men's letters home. If the words he put to paper were read by the wrong people, and were not in accordance with the views of the Party, he could find himself in very serious trouble. Perhaps even a firing squad or a disciplinary battalion would be in his future.

His unit was having serious morale problems due to the ever changing tactics of the high command. At first they were chasing shipping in the Channel, then their attacks had shifted to British airfields, now they were bombing factories and dockyards. Or so the intel officers told them, but Holweck had seen the truth from the air. They were bombing area targets, typically cities. There may have been a factory in the area his unit had set aflame last night for instance, but for the most part they were bombing civilians in their homes.

They now bombed at night because casualties during the day had grown to such a height that they were unsustainable over the long run. Though Herr Goebbels' Ministry of Propaganda claimed that the Royal Air Force was on its last legs, their last daylight mission a few weeks ago had shown that for the lie it was.

As the formation had approached the English coast, the aircraft's navigator - Feldwebel Leo Habicht - had spotted aircraft approaching, English aircraft. They had turned out to be a squadron of Spitfires. Their Bf-109 escorts had peeled away to engage the enemy, keeping them away from the heavily laden bombers.

The Spitfires had the advantage of both altitude and speed, looking aft from his gunner's position, Holweck had seen at least one Bf-109 spinning down out of control, a thick stream of smoke trailing behind. It took time for the escorts to gain the speed and altitude they needed to fight the English aircraft, something which Der Dicke¹ in Berlin had discounted when his fighter commanders had protested the order to provide close escort.

Holweck could see why, if close escort was supposed to improve the bomber crews' morale, what was seeing their escorts cut to ribbons supposed to do?

Oberleutnant Johannes Boden, their pilot, had come on over the intercom, ordering his three crewmen to their gunner's stations. "Looks like the Hurricanes are coming in boys, heads up!"

They never made it to the target, Holweck shuddered as he remembered the screams of Leutnant Scholl. He had been hit by flying debris from the glass nose of the aircraft after one particularly accurate pass by one Hurricane which had bored in nose to nose. Boden had hissed "Scheiße ...," anticipating a head-on collision with the British fighter.

It had been a narrow miss, the Tommie had actually clipped the very top of the vertical stabilizer, tearing away the radio aerial. Holweck had nearly shit himself when the enemy bird had passed over so closely. But he had managed to squeeze off a burst which had crippled the Tommie.

The Tommie had managed to wound Scholl and hit the left engine before Holweck had put a burst into him. That engine had been shot up badly, forcing Boden to drop from the formation and head back to France. There had been some doubt as to their ability to even make the coast. But by the grace of God they had, crash-landing on a fighter base just behind the coastline.

Though they survived, their aircraft was a complete write-off.

Holweck picked up the letter again, most of it was fairly innocuous and should make it past the unit censor, it told Paula almost nothing of what they were going through over England. As he began to finish the letter, Leo Habicht walked in.

"Finish it up Alois, briefing in 15, we're on for England again tonight. My buddy in intel says we're hitting the London dockyards again. What are you doing lad, writing letters to that girl again?"

Holweck blushed, Habicht was from the next village over from his in the Harz Mountains, he knew Paula Braun very well, she lived on a farm between the two villages. She had been very popular. Habicht always referred to her as "that girl," knowing that she was completely out of Holweck's league.

"I'll finish this tomorrow, Leo. Have you heard the news about Leutnant Scholl?"

"Yes, poor bastard is blind in his left eye. The doctor's doubt they can save the right one as well. Oberfeldwebel Jürgens is flying as our bombardier tonight, they say he's good."

"As long as you can find the target Leo."

"Ja, there is that. Maybe we can find our way to Spain instead?"

"Don't even joke about that Leo, the Party has their ears everywhere."

"You worry too much, Junge, now come on, let's go or the Oberleutnant will have our guts for garters!"

Flying Officer Reginald Morley and Assistant Section Leader Janice Worthington were arguing, Morley thought it was a bad idea to even think of getting married when his squadron was about to be posted to North Africa.

"You shouldn't tie yourself down love, you never know what's going to happen, why take the chance of becoming a widow before you're even bloody twenty-one?" Morley desperately wanted Worthington as his wife but he also knew that the odds of him even surviving the war narrowed more and more with each passing day. RAF pilot casualties were appalling, though the switch by the Germans to bombing at night was something of a reprieve for the daylight single-seat pilots.

"Oh, you're going to fight the Italians, Reg. That's their second team, you've survived their best, you'll probably have your own squadron in no time. You'll live through this, I know you will!"

Morley just shook his head, "I wish I had your confidence, Janice."

¹ Literally "The Thick," (German), Reichsmarschall Herman Göring's nickname among the troops. The meaning translates as "the fat man."

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)

Encounter in the Sky

Junkers Ju-88 Bombers
(Source)

Oberleutnant Johannes Boden kept a light hand on the controls, the Ju-88 practically flew itself in the smooth air they encountered as they crossed the coast of France. He glanced back over each shoulder in turn to make sure that his wingmen were still in place.

Leutnant Max Stern, off Boden's left wing, held his aircraft precisely in position. Boden felt that if he suddenly maneuvered, Stern would follow as if the two aircraft were welded together. Leutnant Horst Winkel, on the other hand, was a fairly new pilot. The losses of the campaign in France and the early stages of the attack on England had caused the Luftwaffe to send men to the front who might have had the luxury of more time in training than was the case. And Winkel didn't seem to be a particularly gifted pilot to begin with.

Major Ernst Schwarzenegger had assigned Winkel to Boden's Kette¹ as Boden was the best pilot in the II. Gruppe of Kampfgeschwader 54² and handled much of the training for the group. Schwarzenegger had hoped that Boden could get Winkel up to speed quickly. While Winkel was improving, he wasn't a pilot you wanted flying too close to one's own aircraft. So the formation was perhaps looser than Boden would have liked.

When air currents would cause Boden's aircraft to lift or drop slightly, again Stern's aircraft held position precisely to the left quarter of Boden's Ju-88, Winkel always took a hair longer to regain his position off the right quarter. Boden wasn't worried, this was a quick run in at fairly low altitude to hit an English base just on the coast. All Winkel had to do was keep up. As long as his bombardier dropped when his own bombardier, Leutnant Philip Scholl, dropped, they'd be fine.

Straight in, under the radar, bomb the base, a gentle turn back to France, and they should be back at Coulommiers-Voisins Aerodrome, roughly 45 kilometers east of Paris, in time for lunch.

As long as the Tommies had nobody up on patrol that is.

Flying Officer Reginald Morley and his Vic were just landing as a flight of three Ju-88s overflew the base at low altitude. Morley nearly lost control of his aircraft just before the wheels touched down. His exhaustion and the fact that the three German aircraft had flashed past perpendicular to his own flight path less than two hundred yards away made him nearly jump out of his skin.

"Damn me, Red Lead! Are you all right?" came the squawk over the R/T, "Your left wingtip nearly hit the ground."

As his Hurricane began its roll out, Morley got control of himself. He had recognized the voice of young Wilkins over the R/T, "Red Two, I'm fine. Red Flight let's taxi over to the other side of the field, looks like Jerry wants to play and we're out of gas."

(Source)

Boden brought his flight in at just above tree top level. The Tommy airfield was just ahead, he could see three Hurricanes landing as what he assumed was von Büchler's Kette overflew the landing strip and headed for the hangars and other buildings which were their main target. Boden climbed to put his Kette above the burst radius of their own bombs.

"Hold her steady Johannes, we're nearly there." announced Scholl from his position in the nose.

Things happened quickly then, off to his right front he could see the bombs from von Büchler's Kette exploding in the midst of a dispersal area, then his aircraft got appreciably lighter as his bombardier pickled their own bomb load. A flash to his left distracted him for just a moment, which was followed by Max Stern's laconic announcement over the radio, "Lead, we're hit, left engine, a lot of flames coming from under the cowling. We need to get out of here."

As they turned east, Boden scanned the skies for enemy fighters, seeing nothing he was startled again when his aircraft rocked slightly. His bombardier turned and looked anxiously at him, "What was that?"

"Light flak I think." Boden answered as he looked at both wings of his aircraft, sure enough, there were holes near the tip of the left wing, ragged metal vibrating in the slipstream.

"Lion Flight, spread out, start varying altitude and course, we've got light flak from what appears to be a warship anchored off the coast." Boden announced over the radio, followed by, "Lion Two, can you make France?"

Boden had noticed that Stern had feathered the prop on his left engine and had started to lag behind. There was no fire evident, at least nothing more than a thin stream of smoke from Stern's left engine. He realized that they had gotten lucky, there were no British fighters aloft.

As they passed farther out into the Channel, he ordered the flight to reduce power to allow Stern to keep up. Beyond the reach of anti-aircraft fire now and with no opposition after them, he figured that to keep formation with Stern a lower speed was in order. If Stern had to ditch, Boden could report his position.

"Lion Three, report." Boden had been keeping an eye on the youngster, so far Leutnant Winkel had been silent.

"Alles in Ordnung hier³." Winkel answered, in a surprisingly steady voice.

Feldwebel Leo Habicht, Boden's navigator/ventral gunner, nudged Boden and pointed to the rear, "Trouble. We've got company."

Imperial War Museum
(Source)

"Tally ho Blue Leader. Looks like Ju-88s at your two o'clock. Probably the bastards who hit our airfield!" Pilot Officer Geoff Mansfield had great eyesight, better than his lead who was always riled when he didn't spot the enemy first.

"Got 'em Blue Two, I don't see any escorts. Let's bounce these Huns!"

Opening their throttles the two Spitfires rapidly gained on the three Ju-88s, one of which was trailing a thin wisp of smoke from his left engine. Flight Lieutenant Michael Gibson now understood how they were able to catch these raiders.

"Leave the cripple for now Two, take the leader, I'll take the chap on the right!"

With those words, the two pilots charged in, closing the range rapidly.

"Lion Leader, run for home, I'll hold these fellows off, you've got a chance, I won't make it, neither will you if you wait." Max Stern's heart sank at the thought of never seeing his Elsa again, but they had very little hope of escaping the British fighters.

Boden hesitated, then radioed, "Three pitch up and roll hard to your left, I'll go under you."

Stern's voice came over the radio, "Johannes! Run!"

But he watched in horror as young Winkel's aircraft pitched up, then rolled hard to the left. At the same time Boden went into a shallow dive to the right while using his rudder to cause his bird to skid crazily across the sky.

Stern heard his rear gunner shout at the same time his machine gun began to fire. Then Stern banked hard left, fighting the drag of the left wing and trying desperately not to stall the aircraft.

"What in God's name ..." Mansfield hesitated as the the aircraft he was aiming at broke to the right while at the same time the damaged Ju-88 crossed his path. He pulled up and narrowly avoided colliding with the German.

As he began to roll to his right, he felt the sickening thud of machine gun rounds striking his aircraft. One of the German front gunners had hit him, from the sounds of the engine, his aircraft didn't have long to live.

Gibson saw the whole thing, he had been startled by the abrupt maneuvering by the three German aircraft. He had managed to fire a burst at the aircraft which Mansfield had nearly collided with, he wasn't sure if he had hit him or not.

As he began to maneuver, he spotted something which made his blood run cold, German fighters, at least four of them, headed his way.

" Incoming Huns! Two, break for home, I'll cover. There's four of the bastards."

"Lead, my engine is starting to misfire, something's broken. I might have to switch it off. Maybe I can make the coast, but I doubt it. Might have to ditch this kite and swim home." Mansfield was watching his oil temperature rising, the engine seemed to run rougher by the second. He had no choice but to climb and hope.

A little prayer might be in order as well.

Hauptmann Kurt Riesling spotted the Ju-88s first, what the Hell were they doing? Then he spotted the two aircraft harassing them, Spitfires!

"Horst, Willi, get on those Tommies! Jürgen, let's cover the bombers! Execute!"

Stern pulled hard on his control column as the bird seemed intent on diving into the Channel. His dead engine had nearly killed them, but as he recovered the aircraft, he saw two familiar shapes flash past. Messerschmitts, probably from Schlageter, JG-26⁴

"Max ..." his bombardier shook Stern's knee, then nodded to the rear of the cramped crew compartment.

"Scheiße ..." was all Stern could manage as he turned and saw that his young radio operator, Fritz Fritsch was slumped over his gun, blood covering the entire rear of the compartment. The Tommy he had nearly collided with had missed, but his wingman had not.⁵

All four Messerschmitts rejoined on the bombers, the Spitfires had run for home and the Bf-109s were low on fuel.

As they neared the coast, the three surviving members of Stern's crew jumped from their dying aircraft within sight of the coast of France. They were quickly rescued by the Seenotdienst. They were back at their base the next day.

Boden and Winkel made it home in time for lunch. Boden was still amazed at how deftly Winkel had maneuvered when the British had attacked.

"Where on earth did you learn that?" he had asked the young pilot.

"It seemed like the only option we had, so ..." Winkel blushed, "I also pay attention when you're trying to teach me, Herr Oberleutnant."

"We might make a competent pilot of you yet, Horst. Just maybe ..."

Morley's D for Dog was a complete loss. Though he had managed to land and taxi safely off of the landing ground, after he had switched off his engine and sought cover in a nearby slit trench, a German bomb had landed not far from his aircraft. As the raid continued for another fifteen minutes, he had watched with great sadness as his beloved Hurricane burned.

He was also miffed that he'd lost her, not in combat, but on the ground. Poor thing should have had the chance to go down fighting. Not for a moment did Morley consider that he might have gone down with her. Still, she was a fighting machine and deserved better than burning to a crisp on the ground.

He was also quite sure that O'Donnell would never forgive him for losing D for Dog.

¹ A Kette was a unit of three bombers flying in a V-formation. (Kette literally translates to "chain" in English.)

² II. Gruppe of Kampfgeschwader 54 = 2nd Group of Bomber Wing 54. (Kampfgeschwader literally means "fighting wing," the terms "Geschwader" and "Staffel" aren't precise translations of Wing and Squadron in English. They're close enough and functionally very similar. Bomber Staffeln consisted of nine aircraft, fighter Staffeln had twelve aircraft.

³ Everything's ok here. (German)

⁴ JG-26 was named for Albert Leo Schlageter, a hero of the Nazis. JG = Jagdgeschwader, a fighter wing. (Literally "Hunting Wing.")

⁵ Stern confused the lead and the wingman, as the wingman had attacked first, he thought that Mansfield, and not Gibson, was the lead.