Name: Flight Leutenant Hein Kill
Date: August 14 1940
Aircraft, squadron: 607 Sqn Hurricane, Tangmere
Number of enemy aircraft: 9
Type of enemy aircraft: Ju87
Time attack was delivered: 0920
Place attack was delivered: Channel
Height of enemy: 2000-500 feet
Enemy casualties: 2
Our casualties: 0
General report:

Fritz and I were seated up the back of the room as the CO, Vick, hurried through the mission briefing. We were to fly a patrol over a small convoy and keep the Stukas at bay. I admit it was interesting to hear the brief from the other side of the Channel - knowing that in France a group of my former Stuka kamaraden were getting a similar brief about the same convoy and wondering if the RAF would be there to greet them. Well, today they (we!) would.

"We can't just shoot down Germans over the Channel," Fritz whispered to me, horrified. "It's one thing to shoot them down over England knowing they will probably just end up in a POW camp, but over the Channel...I don't like their chances."

"Fritz," I told him, "Do you really think I dragged you all the way over here so we could shoot down our own countrymen?"

He looked at me sideways, "Ja, I do. And you already did shoot down one of our countrymen!"

I leaned in closer, "That was just to establish our credentials, as it were. And it worked. Now I am a flight leader in 607 Sq, with one kill on my record already and well on my way to being an ace, ja?"

"Ja...und...what is the next part of your plan Herr Oberleu...Flight Lieutenant Esteban?"

I turned my attention to the front of the room again, where Vick was finishing his briefing. I narrowed my eyes.

"You will see Fritz, you will see...just stay on my wing and don't shoot at anything."

As we trotted out to the flight line, Vick came up beside me, "Flight Lieutenant Esteban! Good show getting that Dornier last mission. But from what the other chaps tell me, your flight discipline leaves a bit to be desired. 'Get up there and bag one!' is not traditional parlance in the RAF Flight Lieutenant."

"No Sir."

"No. So I would like you to join my flight on this jaunt. Fly red two and see how we do things in this unit. Very well?"

"Si, Sir."

This otherwise humiliating order suited me just fine. I taxied my Hurricane into takeoff position on Vick's wing in machine FC-A, with Fritz right beside me in FC-D.



Our patrol would take us out over the Channel, circling a convoy. I hoped we would run into some Luftwaffe piloten...I needed enemy contact for my plan to work.



Vick started his tedious lecture as soon as we were airborne. "Tighten up there Mr Esteban if you please!"

The fool, true to his name, had us flying in rigid Vic formation. The time we should have spent watching for enemy aircraft, was lost as we spent all our time watching each other's wingtips.



It was particularly foolhardy in a turn, as we had to fly slowly and carefully to avoid bumping into each other, performing an air parade copybook maneouvre that left us waddling about the sky, easy prey for any fighters above.



Thankfully, there were none. Yet.

"Tallyho!" Vick called suddenly. "Ju87s dead ahead! Attack formation A if you please gentlemen."



I peered into the distance over the Isle of Wight, where a cluster of Stukas was emerging from the mist, without escort. Oh well, they would have to do.

Attack formation A? I had no idea what this was, but soon saw the other machines, with Fritz and I lagging, click into line abreast formation. Again, a copybook maneouvre, suitable perhaps for an attack on a slow moving drone, not the fast moving Stukas.



By the time we had formed up line abreast and set after the Stukas, they had already completed their bombing run and a ship was burning beneath us as we flashed past.



"Now, watch how it is done Mr Esteban!" Vick grunted, and I followed grimly behind, as he closed on the six of a Stuka and opened up with his Brownings. I could easily imagine the last terrified moments of its crew as the rounds from the fighter hit home and the Stuka exploded in a ball of fire.



Vick pulled up and away, "Have at them gentlemen!" he called. "Are you still with me Flight Lieutenant?"

"Right on your wing, Sir," I told him. "Closing now."



I looked over my shoulder. Fritz and the others had made a pass through the Stukas and were circling around for a second attack. Vick was obviously enjoying the sight, completely a wide lazy circle that would take him back into the path of the dive bombers.

"Fighters! Fighters!" I called over the RT.

"What? Who was that?," Vick called in confusion. "I don't see anything."

"On your six Sir!" I replied calmly, and depressed my trigger.







He never had a chance. From point blank range my guns tore his machine to shreds and it started belching black smoke. I had hoped to kill him straight away, but either by luck, or by him forcing it free, his canopy broke away.



I followed his machine down. It seemed doubtful he would, or could get out. It looked like he was slumped over the controls. Perhaps it was just the force of his slipstream, but suddenly he rolled out of the cockpit and fell away.



I like to think that perhaps he was still conscious as he fell, and saw with his own eyes that the enemy on his six, was in fact...me.

No matter. I kept my eyes locked on him, and nosed the machine down in a tight spiral around him, prepared to gun his parachute to shreds if it should open. I could ill afford my very first victim to come back from the grave to accuse me.

But it was an unnecessary precaution. His body barely made a splash as it plummeted into the sea.



On the RT there was general excitement and confusion. As I had hoped, the rest of the squadron had broken off their pursuit of the Stukas and had spread in all directions to avoid the imaginary attackers.

"Quiet everyone! The CO has been shot down," I told them, "Fat Cat squadron form on me please," I called rising into their midst.

Fritz looked across at me, pale and as confused as all the others. I led them back to Tangmere in silence, letting them dwell on their thoughts, and fears.





Back at Tangmere I taxiied into the hangar and brought my machine nose to nose with Fritz's.



He jumped out and ran to me.

"Herr Oberleutnant, what happened up there? I was busy trying not to be shot by those Stuka gunners, who weren't too bad by the way, and then I heard someone call 'fighters!' and you say Vick is dead?" he whispered.

I put an arm around his shoulder and led him toward the other pilots, who were standing in a huddle, scanning the skies for a Hurricane I knew would never land.

"Ja Fritz. I am afraid Mr Vick won't be with us for dinner tonight," I chuckled, "Now, let us join the others. You can listen to my report of how he valiantly fought off two 109s, damaging one, before he was, sadly, killed himself before I could intervene."

Fritz gave me a baleful look, "This is not how I expected to be fighting this war, Herr Oberleutnant."

"You should have thought of that before you diddled the Gestapo Major's girlfriend Fritz," I said sharply. "Ah, senőrs! Gather around, I am afraid I have terrible news..."




(Gameplay note: This mission actually fits closest to the actual briefing from Mission 1. Oh well. As I said previously, best to just fly the missions in the RAF campaign without paying much attention to the text.)

Name: Flight Leutenant Hein Kill
Date: August 15 1940
Aircraft, squadron: 607 Sqn Hurricane, Tangmere
Number of enemy aircraft: 0
Type of enemy aircraft: -
Time attack was delivered: 0600
Place attack was delivered: -
Height of enemy: -
Enemy casualties: -
Our casualties: -
General report:

I had not properly thought through the consequences of my actions. While we awaited a new CO, there was no one else to take the dawn duty. Much against my will, I found myself sitting cramped and miserable in the cockpit of my Hurricane at six a.m. the next morning.



We were at 2 minute readiness. I started the engine to warm it, then shut it down again. My wingman did the same.



Fritz was having moral qualms now. Apparently he was content to fly about in an RAF uniform and aircraft from now until the war was over. The idea he might still have to serve the Fatherland by killing the enemy had not entered his head.

"It's not honourable," he protested, later that night in the mess.

"It's war, Fritz," I told him, "Not a football match."

"Ja but...you can't go on just shooting down people in your own squadron! The Tommies will soon realise what is happening and we will hang!"

I smiled, "Give me some credit Fritz. There is method in my madness. Killing Vick was just the first move..."

I decided not to tell him more. I was not certain he could hold his nerve.

My turn on duty ended without incident as we were stood down. As I went into breakfast and saw the men with their faces in their hands, elbows on the tables, I could tell morale had been hard hit by the loss of their CO.

Vunderbar...





(Gameplay note: this mission has a fatal design flaw - similar to Lufwaffe mission 1. If you spend too long taking off and forming up, the enemy aircraft will not be sighted. I ran this mission twice, and once, the AI did not even take off. My advice, just skip to the next mission.)

Name: Flight Leutenant Hein Kill
Date: August 16 1940
Aircraft, squadron: 607 Sqn Hurricane, Tangmere
Number of enemy aircraft: 6
Type of enemy aircraft: Bf110
Time attack was delivered: 1800
Place attack was delivered: Channel, SE Ford RAF
Height of enemy: 15,000
Enemy casualties: 0
Our casualties: 7
General report:

"So, Flight Lieutenant, it was you who gave the order to proceed to the designated patrol sector at 10,000 feet."

"Si."

The 607 Sq Intelligence P/O, Wilkinson, tried to fix me with his best impression of a penetrating stare. I am sorry to say, I have been stared at by Gestapo professionals, so the stare of this little man did not disconcert me. In the Luftwaffe, you learn quickly not to say more than absolutely necessary to these types.

"But the Sector Controller insists he ordered you patrol at Angels 15, and told you the enemy raid was detected at Angels 15."

"I was mistaken. I heard him say ten, not 15, so we patrolled at 10."

"A decision that probably cost the lives of seven men, as well as the loss of your own machine!"

"Regrettably. Si." I picked at my teeth with a toothpick, which seemed to enrage him.

"Regrettably?!"

"Si. And you are speaking to a senior officer, pilot officer Wilkinson. You weel address me by my rank." I reminded him.

He leaned forward over his desk and pointed at me with his pencil, "Indeed Flight Lieutenant Esteban," he leaned on the pronounciation of my assumed name as though its very foreign-ness offended him. "But it is my duty to examine the circumstances in which this squadron lost eight men and machines today and we will do by your going through the mission, in detail, once again. Sir."

I sighed, "If you inseest."

***

We had not yet been assigned our new C/0. The Flight Lieutenants were therefore leading the standing patrols and we went up at 1800 hours in squadron strength to patrol the sector SE of Ford airfield because it was reported that enemy aircraft had been detected over the Channel moving toward that sector.



The evening was clear and visibility was good.



As we cleared the coast I contacted the sector controller on the RT. "Tophat Control this is Fat Cat 1. Do you have a vector to the enemy please?"

"Fat Cat 1 this is Tophat Control. Continue on your current heading. Enemy at Angels 10, you should see them soon."




Wilkinson interrupted. "Angels 10? I have the sector controller's log in front of me here. Would you care to read it?" He pushed a black notebook across the desk to me, with his pencil resting on the page. The number under his pencil was clearly '15.'"

I shrugged. "Si. It was my mistake. Ten, fifteen. It is very similar numbers, no?"

I gave the order to level off at Angels 10. What I didn't tell Wilkinson was that it was my aim to ensure that the Luftwaffe fighters had a considerable height advantage.

My wingman in Hurricane FC-M (I had ordered Fritz to report in sick while he gave some consideration to where his loyalties lay in this war) came in over the wireless, "Fat Cat 2 to Fat Cat 1. Flight Lieutenant, I believe the controller said Angels 15?"

"Fat Cat 1 to Fat Cat squadron, I have ordered Angels 10 and we will maintain Angels 10," I responded sharply. There was no more dissent.

Soon the Luftwaffe aircraft appeared ahead of us. Curse this British Radio Direction Finding system, it was damnably accurate! I had to find a way to get a message back to France to warn them to take it more seriously. What worried me more at the moment though, was that the six Luftwaffe aircraft were outnumbered 2-1. And as we got closer, I saw that they were Bf110s - not a good match for 12 Hurricanes. I was very glad that I had given them 5,000 feet height advantage.

My challenge was to ensure they kept that advantage over the next minute or so, and then survive the coming dogfight.

"Tallyo Fat Cat squadron, enemy fighters 12 o'clock at Angels 15. Stay in formation, beginning a climbing turn to port with maximum power...we need to get above them gentlemen."

I knew this was precisely the wrong thing to do, with the Bf110s now at full speed, diving down toward us. We should turn to meet them head on with guns blazing. Instead, as we merged, we presented ourselves broadsides on, with energy low. But it helped put more of my men between me and the Lufwaffe machines, which increased my own chances considerably.

"Fat Cat squadron, break and engage," I called calmly as the Bf110s cut through us in a hail of withering fire.



The Hurricanes scattered like leaves. One went down in a smoking spiral almost immediately.



Over my shoulder, I saw a second Hurricane pilot leap from his machine, which then continued on through the sky without him, its tail a ragged mess.



As I came back around, anxiously watching my own six, I saw a Bf110 in front of me, stalking yet another Hurricane. He opened fire, but the Hurricane danced nimbly out of his way.



The Hurricane pilot tightened his turn. I recognised him as my wingman, Fat Cat 2, a more than capable pilot by all reports. It would not take him long to reverse on the Bf110 if he continued his tight left turn.



"Fat Cat 2! Break right!" I called. The pilot hesitated a second, his instinct telling him this was the wrong menouever, but his training telling him he should listen to the warning. He chose the safest option, deftly rolling his machine left through 360 degrees so that he was suddenly in a right hand bank.



It was a beautiful move but it put him right in the firing line of the Zerstorer. Cannon shells ploughed into the Hurricane. Now it banked hard left again. I followed, prepared to help the Bf110 even if it meant firing over the wing of the Luftwaffe machine to herd the Hurricane back into his sights...but then...disaster.



I had completely forgotten I was swanning around in clear view of the gunner of the Bf110, who must naturally assume I was stalking him, not the RAF machine. He fired a volley from his MG which splintered my windscreen and left fluid trailing from my engine.



I quickly looked around me. It seemed the Bf110s were at least enjoying even odds now, and perhaps had even gained the upper hand. They did not need me anymore. I turned away from the fight. Quickly consulting the map, I could see Ford was my nearest airfield.



No need to risk the flight back to Tangmere just to prove a point today. My work was done.

Ford was an airfield for the large heavy machines of Coastal Command, built to take Sutherlands and Walruses. The runway was comfortingly large and wide.



Unfortunately my view of it was not. I half stood and craned my neck out of the open cockpit, but as the runway loomed toward me I was jarred back into my seat at the worst possible time. That is my excuse, though of course it was only my third or fourth landing in the Hurricane - and I could almost hear Fritz shouting in my ears, "Too fast!!"

I came down hard, bounced once, came down again, the tailwheel bounced, the nose pitched in, and I slid across the hardened runway on a shattered prop and broken gear before sliding to a halt.



As emergency crews raced toward me, I took comfort in the fact that this particular Hurricane would not be going up again in the near future.

When I returned to Tangmere later that evening I learned that five pilots in all had been lost in the action over the Channel, and two more had crashed their heavily damaged machines while trying to land.





In total the results were more than satisfactory. Eight pilots lost, and 9 machines including my own.



"So yes, eet is very regrettable," I told Wilkinson. "No officer can be proud of losing 8 men and 9 machines in one mission."

His eyes narrowed, "You do not sound too upset."

"Whether by my mistake or not, the enemy had the advantage of height, if not of numbers. The Bf110 is more heavily armed than the Hurricane, with forward firing cannon and a rear firing MG. If you want to report anything of value, I suggest you recommend the RAF begin development of cannon firing fighter aircraft so that we can match the Luftwaffe!" I told him, and stood up. "Now if you will excuse me, I have letters to write to the relatives of these men."

Wilkonson watched me leave with narrowed eyes.

Fritz was hovering outside, "So, the game is up? Are we on the run again? I hear Ireland is in great need of labourers for the potato crop..."

I took the valise from his hands in which he had packed his toothbrush and a change of clothes, "No Fritz, not yet. But we need to tread warily."

Any more news on the boys Heinkill

Sorry, RL in the way right now...just moved house. Back soon with an update...my suspicion is Fritz is not going to go along with these dishonourable deeds...

Really enjoying this offbeat story, Heinkill. Hope you get settled into the new place with as little hassle as possible.

I second the hassle free move in experience.


Wheels

Thx for the good wishes! We bought a deceased estate, so a house and garden that have not been maintained for about ten years... but so far so good, razed the garden, painted inside and out, new kitchen being installed in a week, but surviving on one lonely 3G internet connection at the moment which is a major pain! Three weeks wait for a technician to put in the DSL box. Grrrrrr.

Enjoy the new ranch capitano

Name: Flight Leutenant Hein Kill
Date: Sept 6 1940
Aircraft, squadron: 607 Sqn Hurricane, Tangmere
Number of enemy aircraft: 10
Type of enemy aircraft: Bf109
Time attack was delivered: 0920
Place attack was delivered: Channel
Height of enemy: 5000 feet
Enemy casualties: 0
Our casualties: 4
General report:

"Fritz where were you last night?" I asked him casually as we were walking to dispersal. He looked a little paler than usual.

"Uh, I was at the Three Weeds Herr...Senőr Flight Lieutenant uh, Esteban."

"The what?"

"The Three Weeds, it is a pub."

"There is no pub called the Three Weeds near Tangmere Fritz," I frowned. I had made a concerted effort to study the installations and buildings in and around the airfield, and I was certain Fritz was lying. There was no such place.

"Ah, well, I think the name is actually The Rose, Shamrock and Thistle...but all the chaps call it the Three Weeds," he laughed. "British humour...you know."

I stopped him with a hand on his chest, "No, Fritz, I do not know. These 'chaps' you joke about, are the enemy Fritz."

He looked down at his boots, "They don't feel like the enemy," he sulked. "Johnny Robertson was shouting me pints all night because I had no money and I offered to pay him back and he said I could pay him back in heaven when we're all dead, and then Spider Malone, he's the tall one, he invited us all up to his cottage in Dorset next weekend for a ..."

I slapped him hard across the cheek. He looked at me, stunned.

"Your friend Johnny Robertson has three kills to his name, including two Heinkel bombers, each with a crew of four men Fritz. Good Germans, with mothers, wives and families. Spider Malone got his first kill yesterday, a Stuka. No parachutes were seen. Two men - perhaps you flew with them once. Luftwaffe men. Like you."

He jutted his jaw, "I left the Luftwaffe when the Gestapo came to take me away. It was your idea."

I grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the dispersal hut, "Indeed. And my idea now is that we make the most of the bad situation you put us in, working as part of this squadron to sabotage everything it does. Is that clear, Kanonier?"

"Jawohl Herr Oberleutnant," he hissed, unconvincingly.



On the flight line I cast a glance over at Fritz in his Hurricane, his machine idling as we awaited our turn to take off. Our sortie this morning was a rescue mission - a squadron of Hurricanes over the Channel was trying to get home low on fuel and ammo when they were jumped. We were supposed to fly to their rescue. Unfortunately I was not flight leader today (the intelligence officer Wilkinson had no doubt had a hand in that) so I could not simply lead the flight astray. I would have to improvise to ensure the RAF did not get the upper hand with our arrival.

It took us just minutes to take off and form up and we were on our way over the Channel. Not long after we crossed the coast, we saw them. The cowardly Hurricanes were scooting down low across the water, fleeing the pursuing 109s.



"Bandits, 11 o'clock," Fritz's new friend Johnny Robertson said calmly, "Stay with me gentlemen, I'll take us up-sun."

But there were only six 109s, and eight of us, plus the other Hurricanes, if they suddenly found the courage to join in. I did not like the odds. I reached for the button of my RT, and switched the radio to a civilian emergency frequency, one I knew the Luftwaffe would be listening to.

"Sector Control this is Tumbler flight, we are proceeding at 10,000 feet, 5 miles S-SW of Portland. Do you have any business for us?" I asked innocently.

"Who the blazes was that?" came the angry voice of the flight leader, "Shut up with that chatter! Form up on me chaps, line abreast, and let's have at them!"

I could only hope there was another Luftwaffe patrol in the area that had heard my broadcast.

We spread into line abreast formation and flew head on into the Luftwaffe formation. A 109 flashed in front of me and I held my fire until it was past and then loosed a five second burst, just to show the ground crew I had broken the tape over my gun barrels. I had no intention of dogfighting today.

But with horror I saw Fritz in his Hurricane to my right, following a Luftwaffe 109 down in a dive toward the waves, and as it bottomed out and started to climb again, he opened fire!



I fell in behind him. "Tumbler 3, Tumbler 3! Break! Break!" I called desperately, trying to get him away from his target. It worked. He could not risk that it was a bluff, and pulled up and away, letting the 109 escape.

My diving pursuit had carried me up beside the Luftwaffe pilot Fritz had attacked and I carefully checked his machine. He seemed to be in one piece.



He gave me a startled look, but I simply waved at him, broke to port and dived away. No doubt frightened and confused, he made for France. Joined very quickly by the rest of his staffel. Good.

"They're running back to mummy chaps!" Robertson called excitedly, "Chase them down!"



I did not like this development, and was wondering what I could do when away to starboard I saw a welcome sight.



A second staffel of 109s was bearing down on us like avenging eagles. I smiled. So my broadcast had been heard.

They cut through us like a hot knife through butter. Now it was the Brits who lost their nerve, "Bandits, bandits!" Roberston yelled, "Everyone for themselves!"

I should have left Fritz to his fate. He soon had a 109 on his tail and was diving and turning like a snipe, trying to avoid it. He broke into a steep left turn, the 109 broke right, and then they both turned toward each other for a head on pass. I was on Fritz's tail again, with enough energy to overtake and flash over his cockpit before the 109 could open fire. I blazed away into empty sky with my guns, well above the 109. But it was enough to pursuade him that a head on pass against TWO Hurricanes was not a quality choice.



He dove away and I pulled up beside Fritz, shaking my head and pointing for the coast. I turned, and was satisfied to see him follow meekly behind.

As we joined the circuit over Tangmere I looked behind me at Fritz's face through the windscreen of his Hurricane. He looked different somehow.



I dropped my wheels and flaps and steadied for the descent to the field.



Something had happened to Fritz up there over the Channel. And it was not part of my plan.

(Gameplay note: this is quite a well designed mission. At the start, the odds are in favour of the RAF, but then the arrival of the second Luftwaffe unit changes the balance completely. My advice is to ignore the naff briefing and storyline, and just enjoy the mission for what it is...)