Hello everyone! I have not time to fly for the past few days because I was grading papers. But I completed a very interesting mission a few minutes ago and my fingers are limber as, hopefully, is my mind. So following is the combat report from 07 August 1940, my 12th combat sortie of the campaign.

The sun burning through my canopy makes me sweat as we carve graceful turns around our airfield. Again we are waiting for the bombers we are to escort, this time from I/KG2. Even though it is nearly 2:00 pm it is my first mission of the day. I have not flown for the past two days due to the damage my "Emil" sustained when I was nearly shot down by the British fighter. My mount is patched up again, as are my nerves, and I am ready to face our British friends across the channel once more.
After a further five minutes of turning in the sky, the bombers arrive, and we turn towards the west, climbing to take position above the DO-17s. The sky is light blue and cloudless. Today who has the sun at their back are going to be the arbiters of any engagement and there will be no place for cripples to hide. A sobering thought. Our target is again a convoy, this time in the Thames estuary. I wonder why the English keep sending convoys through the channel in broad daylight, knowing we will pound them. Surely there must be a deeper purpose for it, as it can't be just pride. "Ist das nicht Schön?" Yellow 11, one of the new pilots calls over the radio. We are flying northwest and the cliffs of Dover are to our port side, glistening brightly in the sun. It is a beautiful sight. Just then Yellow 1 breaks in and orders the newcomer to pay attention to the business at hand unless he wants to become one with the channel. That rebuke brings not a few grins and snickers throughout the Staffel.
We turn slightly left and flash over the English coastline. Ahead is the estuary and the bomber's prey. And climbing from our left front is our prey, a squadron of English fighters, straining to gain altitude. III Gruppe has gotten the Freie Jagd today and by the reports have cleared the sky in front of use. That lone squadron is the only one in the immediate vicinity and still they resolutely climb to engage our formation of over 90 BF109s, BF110s, and DO-17s. I admire their courage even as we maneuver to dive on there climbing formation.
Before we can get in position the 110s dive on the enemy planes. Both formations fly apart as the antagonists merge. I watch in horror as a 110 and British fighter collide head on and disintigrate in an enormous flash leaving behind only a dirty smoke cloud from which a few pitiful pieces of burning debris emerge to fall twisting towards the ground. Just like that, three brave men are gone. But there is no time to mourn as we are now in position and the Kommandeur orders my Staffel to dive into the expanding dogfight.
"Bei mir bleiben." I order my Rottenflieger and push over into a dive. Ahead I see a 110 curving desperately to shake a British fighter off his tail. Giving my bird some right rudder, I roll slightly right and increase my dive angle. My 109 responds instantly and I quickly close the distance that is between me and my prey. As I close the 110 turns to the right and the enemy fighter, A Hurricane I see now, mirrors his move, bringing himself nicely into position to riddle the 110. Unfortunately for him, his maneuver brings his plane into position under my guns and the range is rapidly winding down. 200 meters, 100 meters, 75 - Now! My finger presses the trigger and tracer streams out from my fighter. I am too close to miss and my rounds slam into the Hurricane devouring pieces of wing and fuselage in bright flashes of light. Another 1/2 to 3/4 second goes by and the Hurricane looms large in my windscreen and then suddenly it is gone. "Gute Schüss!" calls my Rottenflieger, "Seine Flügel ist abgreißen!" As I pull up next to the 110, the gunner waves. I can see the fear and relief in the man's eyes as I return his salute and peel away. Below the Hurricane spins down to impact the water, while the wing floats towards the sea much like a falling leaf.
We climb and I see that more British fighters have joined the combat. They and the remaining two Staffeln our twisting and turning above us. I turn with my Rottenflieger to gain some distance from the melee and to get "up sun". We climb and turn for almost a minute and a half until we are slightly above the huge dogfight, which now must consist of over 80 fighters, 109s, 110s, Hurricanes and Spitfires, which must have arrived while I was finishing off the BF110's tormentor. My plan to gain more height is cut short by a call for help. It is the new man, Yellow 11. I scan and think I see him, he is to the left about 500-600 meters away, 300-400 meters below. He is turning this way and that trying to shake the Spitfire clinging to his tail.
"Gelbe 11, Stürz Flug, Jetzt!", I call, but the boy keeps turning, the worst thing one can do with a Spitfire behind you. "Gelbe 11, Nicht Wenden! Stürzen! Jetzt!", I call again. "Gelbe 6! Helfen Sie mir! I kann Ihm nicht los bringen!", the boy answers in complete panic. Grimly I dive knowing it will be too late. I can't accelerate quickly enough to get into firing position and watch as the Spitfire cuts inside Yellow 11's turn and opens fire with a quarter deflection shot. Its tracer seems to join the two aircraft and pieces fly from Yellow 11's 109 as smoke and then an ugly tongue of flame erupts from the engine. The 109 snaps into a flat spin and plunges towards the grey waters below. "Ich kann nicht aussteigen! Bitte, helfen Sie mir! Mutter, helfen Sie mir! Mutter, bitte!" I grit my teeth as I listen to Yellow 11's anguished crys which go on until his plane smashes to pieces in the sea.
I am still diving and have the Spitfire in front of me now. The range is a long 200-250 meters and the Spitfire is diving rapidly evidently aware I am behind him and eager to avoid the fate he has just meted out to Yellow 11. I ram the throttle to full emergency power, determined to catch the Spitfire, and the engine howls in protest. Down we go, heading towards the coast. At 1500 meters I have closed the range to perhaps 200 meters and realize I probably won't get a better chance. I open fire with the machine guns first to get the range, firing short bursts to walk my guns onto target. The Spitfire snaps to the left, still diving, then suddenly pulls into a flat turn. I attempt to follow but I overshoot due to my high speed, the parabola of my turn arcs outside my opponent's. He immediately reverses direction and curves towards me, this man is no beginner. I use my speed to zoom climb above him; he does not attempt follow. Twice more I dive onto the Spitfire and both times he turns into my attack, spoiling my aim. With each maneuver the ground get ever closer and I decide that there is no future in pressing my attacks further. The Spitfire pilot can have his victory and I will go home with mine. So with a final wag of my wings I climb away, watching as he turns away also.
The flight home is quiet as is the debrief. I now have five victories in this campaign, second only to the Gruppen Kommandeure, but tonight I can't get Yellow 11's screams out of my head.

SNAFU,

Thanks for your observations on some of the more dark and twisted archive material delivered to HWH.

JRT,

Those dioramas look quite nifty and reveal an interest in the military which extends beyond the Battle of Britain. Nice work.

Greif1,

You certainly seem to be making up for time lost elsewhere. Highly evocative stuff! How your stories remind me of those books published not long after the war...which many of we old duffers were weaned on.
Flames in the Sky, The Big Show, Fly For Your Life, Stuka Pilot, I Flew for the Feuhrer, The First and the Last, Fighter Pilot, Nine Lives, etc., etc...

Folks,

SNAFU:

101 pages now and still typing.

Greif1:

Your stories are always worth the wait. Excellent work. I have to agree with Dux regarding your writing. Reading your posts, I too am reminded of turning from one exciting page to the next reading many of those same books he has mentioned and I could easily name more. Well done as always.

Quote:"Flames in the Sky, The Big Show, Fly For Your Life, Stuka Pilot, I Flew for the Feuhrer, The First and the Last, Fighter Pilot, Nine Lives, etc., etc..."


Dux:

In fact, I have in my personal library each one of those volumes save two, "Flames in the Sky" and "Nine Lives". You got started about six years before I did I guess.

Yes, and thank you for the compliment, at one time I was very much into the history of armor and the great tank battles. I also did several very detailed WW1 and WW2 aviation dioramas but, alas, I have no pictures of those. One I was really proud of (justifiably or not) was of Greg Boyington's F4U with members of the Black Sheep Sqdrn. gathered round as another "meatball" decal was being affixed. There was sand, sea and even a scratch-built palm tree as I remember.

Hi Old Dux,
I guess I have a bit of an unfair advantage when I write BoB stories. In addition to owning alot of books on the battle, including several of the ones you, a spent alot of time talking to my Grandfather about the battle before he passed away. He had some very interesting stories and comments that I have never forgotten. When I write, I try to weave a little of what he told me into the mission I have flown based on how it unfolded. I am glad you like the stories. It is nice to be able to talk with others who enjoy the history, as well as the game, and can discuss it and honor the men who flew without getting into politics. That is hard to do even now in Germany. I am a (Very) junior History Professor at a German University and both now and as a student was often looked at strangely when the topic of WWII came/comes up and I voice my views. Which in your country would not be considered out of the ordinary or unique. On the plus side, I am considered the "expert" on such topics, as most of the older professors do not have the background needed to teach or lecture on them. Hopefully I can break some new ground over the next few years and open some students eyes to facts and stories that we are not taught in our schools. Again, it is very refreshing to be part of an intelligent, polite, and open group.

I look forward to reading some more of your stories and talking with you in the future.

Sincerely,
Greif1

Hello JR2:

I guess we were posting at the same time. I include fellows like yourself in my previous post to Old Dux. It never ceases to amaze me at the number of interesting, intelligent, and historical minded people one finds on these forums.

Sincerely,
Greif1

Folks,

(Experten),Greif1:

It must be somewhere around the hour of 10:30 PM in Bavaria? We have just finished our evening meal here.

I am delighted that you were able to sit and listen to "first hand" stories of the war in the air told by your grandfather. Although you may agree that all stories told by anyone are subjective to some degree, those who listen to them first-hand do benefit greatly because they usually are not politically filtered, white-washed, or propagandized. So many so-called factual history books have been found to be inaccurate. I thank you for passing some of this historical "pure gold" on to us.
On the other hand, I gather that there is a faction growing up in Germany that wishes to re-write history in certain ways that seem unconscionable to me. History that is not passed down from grandfather to father and father to son risks not being remembered and thus may be repeated. Also, if there is no one around who knows better who can dispute it, "history" may be re-written or even completely distorted.

One day soon I wish that you would post a photo of your grandfather along with a brief bio. We would all enjoy seeing and reading that.

I agree (myself excepted) that there are some very interesting, intelligent, even scholarly individuals who frequent our forum. It has been said more than once by new posters that we are a far more civil and historically knowledgeable bunch. We have several teachers and now that you have safely returned a professor as well.

I wonder how you Brits feel about Bill Gates getting his KBE? I have a hunch that nobody on either side of the Atlantic but Bill and Ms. Gates care one way or the other.

I guess there must be some things left in this world you can't buy with money? For instance you can't buy love, right? True, but believe me, you CAN even rent that for a while.

Folks:

As you know, I am the uncompensated, self-imposed, semi-official HWH archivist. It would help a tad if everyone who posts a story would please give all your stories a title.

Nothing fancy, just a title of your own choosing. Otherwise I must come up with something and I haven't a clue what you might prefer.

Thanks fellows.

Greif1:

As with stories by others I like to read and then re-read all your fine combat stories. I always discover something new.

How terrible it must have been on both sides to hear the anguished screams of a young comrade, particularly so when totally unable to do anything to save him. If you made it past that first combat sortie without being shot down your odds of getting through the war were highly increased .... since otherwise you were probably dead.

So many pilots on both sides at one time or another went into battle with very little instruction and precious few hours of flight time in their fighters. At the end of the war a desperate Germany was sending up the very young with hardly any hope of survival. I believe that Britain, during BoB, was rushing pilots through training and sending them up far sooner than was desirable or even prudent under less desperate circumstances.

These boys made it on sheer guts, nerve, patriotism and a rock solid resolve. I can only wonder at what it must have been like for one of those pilots going into the great unknown of their first battle. There must have been questions ripping through their minds. Would they shoot down an enemy? Would they cut and run and somehow let down the side? Would they themselves be shot down? If so, what might that be like? Would they die bravely and quickly? Of course it was probably going into the next battle that took the most raw courage for now they knew exactly what to expect.

All,

JR2, you never cease to amaze me. Those dioramas are terrific and as Duxie said show your interest in things military beyond the BoB. I have studied the second world war since I was 13 years old when I began playing the Avalon Hill board games like Stalingrad, Afrika Korps and Panzer Blitz. about that age while many of the boys I knew were getting into trouble I was in my basement creating battle scenes in HO scale on a plywood board of about 4'x8' on saw horse stands. I brought dirt into the basement, wet it down to a muddy paste and formed my terrain. I would dig trenches and gun emplacements into the mud and when all dried out it was like the real thing. Then I would get the fake grass from train shops, build or buy buildings, tree's etc. Finally I would set up the troops tanks and other equipment. I hadnt thought of those days for years. You provoked some very fond memories of simplier times.

As for Aberdeen I would be honored to serve as your tour guide or simply as company should you decide to visit there one day. The place is amazing. They have 88 Flak guns, halk tracks, Japanese tanks and many types of artillery and other stuff. To see Anzio Annie is a treat. The gun is just huge with shells almost as tall as me at a bit over 6 feet. Everything is laying in a large grassy area near the weapons museum. Very cool place.

Greif1, another top notch story from our Luftwaffe representative. Congratulations!

I have often wondered how younger Germans view the war and how you position what happened in the context of the combat and battles. Your insights and what you share from your honorable Grandfather fill in many gaps for me. I so much enjoy hearing what you have to say.

A question. Did you Grandfather fly in Russia and if so is there anything you can share of his experience there? I have always found the war in the east as the most facinating of the entire conflict. The size and destruction brought by that part of the war may never be matched in history.

Old Dux, Dark purhaps but brilliant by any measure. Thanks again for bring us another tale from Olga.

Gentlemen,

C51 hasn't been around for a while. Hope he is alright.

Could it be that Olga has payed another visit to that one-time gem in the British colonial crown in order refresh her association with our valued friend? Maybe he is at this very moment, victim to her womanly wiles. Poor devil.

Greif1 is probably unfamiliar with procedure in instances such as this....where one of our precious members is overdue.

We usually call for a carefully selected volunteer who is stup....er.... keen enough to offer assistance should it be necessary - and it usually is. So, off you go old chap but don't forget to draw your survival kit from the armoury: 9mm UZI, knuckleduster, Bowie knife, fragmentation grenade, and of course....gas mask and personal first aid kit. You will probably need them all.

Folks,

SNAFU:

It is sometimes amazing how much alike we all are in so many ways. I will let you know well in advance when we plan to visit anywhere in your vicinity. I can think of no better "guide" to all things military in Maryland than you sir.

Dux:

Um, and don't forget to remind the poor sod... er lucky devils they must see to getting all their inoculations up-to-date as well and that includes hoof-in-mouth disease. Olga hunting is a very risky business.

Fear not lads. I have been in more or less daily touch with our pal C51 and his dear Lady "M". C51 has been a very busy man these past few weeks. Report cards, an illness, and a long awaited weekend birding trip to Algonquin Park. Not only all that but he and his fiddle playing partner have been practicing for and playing several gigs at Toronto's well known and aptly named Spitfire Grill. He tells me he has been lurking about but not taking time to post. I expect him back here soon.

OK, Greif1 and Dux shamed me into it. Here is a very little story typed by my very own two stubby little fingas. What's that you say Dux, some people actually use more than two fingers when they type? Really?



The Highwayman

It is September 1941 and a lone BF 109 fighter returning from an unusually late sortie drops through a thickening shroud of mist into startlingly bright moonlight. The little gray fighter is shot through like a sieve. Smoke trails back toward England for hundreds of yards behind Red 3 as it bounces about slowly descending toward the coast of occupied France. Inside the dark cockpit, a figure silhouetted by the dim glow of a few un-shattered instruments stares out of the cockpit into the void beyond. His cracked pilot's goggles are pushed up onto his forehead. There is a dark streak of crimson trickling down past his left eye and there are terrible burns on his left hand. The taste of blood is strong in his mouth yet the pilot is going into shock and no longer notices the throbbing pain.

Major Karl Vogle is not a particularly superstitious man. In fact he is a brave man, a proud man. He is a very practical man. He sees things as they are. There are no gray areas for Karl, only black and white. As a trained engineer and veteran Luftwaffe fighter pilot he considers himself to be a scientific man. Tonight, Karl Vogle is, uncharacteristically, also a very frightened man. The sortie was a disaster, he was nearly shot down and now things are not going well for Karl as he struggles to make it home and hold his wits together at the same time. In fact, things are not going according to the known laws of physics. Things have apparently happened that are not even possible. Yes, Karl is a scientific man and yet he knows he has actually seen things tonight that defy all reasoning.

A mile behind and still enveloped in mist, a single RAF fighter churns along in pursuit of the straggling German fighter. Group Captain Percy Pettigrew dearly wants to catch up with the straggler and shoot it down. Earlier this evening an enraged Pettigrew could only watch in horror as the pilot of the German plane had shot down his young wingman. Now he was determined to exact a terrible retribution.

Fuel is low for both fighters, especially for Karl, who's “Emil”, like everyone else's, is notorious for having an inadequate fuel supply. Karl is doing all he can to conserve what fuel he has left and knows he does not have enough to make it to his home field. He is going to have to ditch or bail out tonight and were that all he had to consider that would be more than enough.

On the ground, Karl's mates have already safely landed. And as the moon rises higher they scan the dark skies toward the Channel. Each one is worried about Karl and each man is imagining the desperate struggle for survival that must be going on out there over the black water. Karl was last reported just a few miles off the coast. Everyone now fears the worst but he silently prays for the best.

Pettigrew taps his wavering fuel gage with his index finger and realizes that he must turn back now or risk certain ditching in the Channel. At this moment of decision an aircraft drops out of the mist up ahead. It is the 109 with the blood red three on its fuselage. There can be no doubt for the stricken craft stands out clearly against the rising moon. Percy grits his teeth and vows to revenge his mate even if it means he will join him in the murky depths stretching far below. He begins a shallow dive and notes with pleasure that he is gaining. Soon he is gliding into and out of the 109's smoky trail. Percy adjusts his gunsight. The 109 takes no evasive action as it slowly grows within the gunsight's reticle. Percy takes a firm grip on the control yoke. A little left rudder. Hold it. He will be too close to miss.

Far below, the rising moon casts a million diamonds along the rolling wave crests. Pursued by a larger fish a smaller fish darts high into the spray filled air only to be gulped down the instant it crashes back into the sea. A brisk wind begins to whip the wave crests and to herd a few wispy clouds across the face of the moon. Ashore, Karl's worried mates have mostly given up hope. All save two have left the vigil for a hot meal and a bath. Standing there as if chiseled in granite stands Karl's rigger Ernst and by his side stands Karl's huge Alsatian Cerberus. They will stand there, both bone-tired, silhouetted by the moonlight with the gritty tarmac scrubbing under their tired feet until dawn. Cerbi wags his tail as Ernst gives him an affectionate pat of encouragement. Any moment now they are certain they will hear the roar of an aircraft engine.

Karl strains his eyes as a sinister cloud completely darkens the moon. Something is out there. He wipes his tired, stinging eyes and squints toward the silvery lined cloud. There it is thought Karl. I do see it. It has to be real. In Karl's crowded mind reality and imagination have somehow blended. Out the port side of the cockpit Karl clearly sees a dark rider on a jet-black steed galloping across the sky from cloud to cloud on a ribbon of moonlight. Karl had seen them before and much closer. The dark horse has eyes like fire and the man wears a three cornered hat and wields a long, bloody sword. The spectral figures are now coming straight toward Karl. The great stallion rears up right in front of the terrified Karl who screams and throws his fighter into a sharp dive. He does not even see the 303 tracers streaking across the sky as he plummets toward the sandy shoreline of France.

Damn! Shouts Pettigrew as his shells pass harmlessly through the spot just vacated by Karl and his Emil. Just then another cloud passed before the moon and Percy lost all hope of finding his quarry in the darkness below. Cursing under his breath Pettigrew turns back for the Cliffs of Dover and a boisterous wake for his departed chum.

Thousands of feet below Karl's 109 has plowed a long furrow across a stretch of French beach front property. Karl un-straps his harness, disconnects his wireless cable, unlatches and throws open his shattered hood and scrambles out onto a crumpled wing. There is no more threat of fire as Karl sinks down with his back against the cold fuselage. A fresh wind blows Karl's matted hair as he slips into a stupor. Tomorrow he will rest safely in a German operated French hospital and not remember a thing.

High in the sky an unusually shaped cloud forms, crosses the face of the moon and then dissipates into a fine mist. Anyone who saw it on that blustry night must have caught their breath as they realized that it looked just like a sinister dark horse and rider.