S-tag +7, Sept 29, morningWithin the Folkestone pocket, German troops have been ordered to pull back and consolidate their lines and 40,000 troops are now concentrated in an area of 100 square miles. Royal Navy destroyers continue their bombardment of the port. Two Royal Navy destroyers involved in the bombardment of Folkestone were put out of commission yesterday after repeated dive bombing attacks by Ju88s, but six Ju88s were lost to fighters and naval AAA. RAF patrols over Folkestone have been increased in response.
Newly appointed Commander in Chief of the Navy, Admiral Karl Doenitz, advises Hitler that an evacuation of the 9th and 16th Army Corps in England, in the style of the British mission at Dunkirk, would be impossible. Hitler appears unconcerned, satisfied his troops can hold until the British nerve breaks.
At Canterbury, British troops and German prisoners are evacuating civilians, and dragging out the dead. The Surgeon General of the Canadian 1st Division estimates at least 15,000 civilian and 3,000 German troops dead, but much of the city is still burning and unsafe to investigate.
In yesterdays daylight fighting 13 RAF aircraft were destroyed for the loss of 27 Luftwaffe aircraft. While the night time Blitz on London has continued, Luftwaffe attacks on British ground forces have been negligible.
Hawkinge Luftwaffe station is now under fire from British short range barrels and in danger of being overrun by the Australian 2nd AIF. Generalfeldmarschall of Luftflotte 2, Albert Kesselring, has finally ordered the men and machines of Lehrgeschwader 2, and Erprobungsgruppe 210 to return to France and continue operations over the battlefield from their bases at Calais.
He 111s of KG 53 from Lille-Nord are ordered in at dawn to evacuate ground staff and equipment.
Personal Diary of Leutnant Hans Kauffmann, KG 53, Sept 29 1940A change today from the constant night raids on London. Six aircraft from II Gruppe were assigned to take off at 0500 and fly to Hawkinge! This was quite ironic, as I had spent three missions in July trying to blow the place up.
As we flew in, the sun was just coming up in the East, and the Cliffs were lit up bright white, except for the smudges of smoke and debris on the beaches at Folkestone. We saw an Army down there, huddled in the lee of the Cliffs, with Royal Navy destroyers shelling it mercilessly. The port was filled with shattered and sunken ships.
It didn't look like a victorious army to me.
Nor was it a glorious mission we were sent on. Our orders were to help evacuate the ground troops and equipment of JG2 and Erpro 210. When we landed at dawn, we could hear light and heavy arms fire from the West and North of the airfield. The rapid bark of British 2 pounder cannons, and the reassuring crack of our 88mm guns answering back. But as the light strengthened, mortar rounds started landing on the hangars, and aircraft and vehicles, most already wrecked, started burning.
The loading of the aircraft was taking an incredibly long time. We had flown in with our Heinkels stripped to bare skeletons, no guns, no ammunition. The other aircraft were crammed with men, their belongings and all the tools and dies they could carry. Our aircraft however, was loaded with mysterious crates, supervised by a Major from the Waffen SS Polizei Division. He kept asking me what weight we could manage. I must have told him five times we were flying naked and with tanks half full...4 tonnes! I asked him what it was we were being loaded with, but he told me to mind my own business. He also said that if we didn't get it back to France successfully, he'd pursue us in the afterlife. I think he meant it.
Adimar, our dorsal gunner (or on this trip, our dorsal observer!) had a peek in a few of the crates and reported back, "Loot," he said, "Silver, plates, candlesticks, paintings...bet there isn't a plutocrat's house between here and Canterbury that hasn't been plundered."
Finally we were loaded and taxiied out and lined up for takeoff.
In front of us, the last three operational 109s of LG2 took off to fly cover.
And as they did, all hell broke loose to starboard, over by the hangars.
We found out later it was a British armoured scout unit which had knocked out one of our 88s and made it through the perimeter.
The attack caused a panic. Vehicles began rushing in all directions, including straight across the runway.
But the Major in charge of the flight gave the order for us to spool up and get off the ground. He didn't want to be stuck there with British tanks closing on Hawkinge.
It was the last order he gave. As he began to gather speed a column of fleeing troop trucks came out of nowhere, thinking they could squeeze in front of him, or maybe they didn't even see him...no matter. It did for him.
I watched his machine dig into the turf and then go up in a ball of flame.
There must have been 100 men crammed aboard.
But there was no time to think. The crew were yelling at me to get off, get off! I slammed the throttles forward, heading straight for the burning 111 on the runway ahead.
I kicked in a little left rudder, not wanting to veer too far off the close clipped grass and into the verge. It was just enough. The fireball passed under our right wing.
We lifted off with a mighty cheer from Adimar, who broke out into a verse from Wagner. It was certainly like a scene from a Wagner Opera below.
"The little friends are already busy!" Adimar called, and he was right. Hurricanes and 109s spun through the sky above us.
It meant we had a chance at least to get away unmolested.
But now the sun was up, and we were alone in the sky, without guns, and without escort. "At least we might get home, not like those poor buggers down on the beach," Adimar observed. "Oh scheisse! Spitfire!"
We hadn't even cleared Folkestone when the first Indian descended on us.
There were two of them - one went high, the other low. They took the Heinkel to our starboard first, and there was nothing we could do about it. They were careful, but they must have noticed he was not firing back at them, and they made a short meal of him.
Then they came for us.
"Call them Adimar!" I told him, "I'll take us down to the waves so they can only attack from above!"
"Oh, great," Adimar remarked, "Why couldn't I be in the gondola today? Wait...wait...break right! Now!"
I put the lumbering machine into a right hand spiral toward the waves.
The Spitfire was closing on us from the right quarter and he couldnt turn tight enough to keep a bead on us.
He was forced to pull up and away.
But his wingman was not. I had to flatten out to avoid hitting the water, and he was waiting.
His shells walked down the length of the fuselage and punched into our port engine.
I heard a scream from behind, then nothing.
"Adimar?" I yelled, "Admimar where are they?"
There was no response. The bomb aimer, Orman, climbed past me to check on him, but was soon back, "No use," was all he said.
I stayed low, it was all I could think of. As the Spitfires came, again, and again...
I dodged and weaved, kicking wildly at my rudder, and their shells punched the water around us, but thankfully, they mostly missed.
Eventually, they gave up. Out of ammunition, or patience, I would never know.
I saw Calais appear out of the haze, just as my port engine started coughing.
And as we cleared the coast, and I began to bank toward the nearest bomber airfield, which was Peuplinge, the port engine died.
Peuplinge was a short field, even for a bomber base. This was not going to be a pretty landing, I thought to myself. But as I tried the landing gear, I realised it was going to be downright ugly.
The gear would not come down. Orman tried the hand crank, but it did no good. Perhaps it was for the best.
I floated in fat, heavy and with a near dead stick. Foot hard right on the rudder, for all the good it did me, port wing high, slewing across the sky like a drunken crab.
I tried to drop us on the very edge of the field. At the last minute, I pulled the nose high, and we stalled in.
We came to rest about halfway down the landing strip.
After the grinding and tearing of our landing, it was suddenly very quiet. Just the tick of cooling metal.
Then from nowhwere the SS Major appeared, ashen faced. He must have been hiding down among the crates through the whole flight.
"Call yourself a pilot!" he yelled at me, "You nearly got me killed you fool!"
I could see Orman going for his service pistol, but I quietly reached over and put my hand over his, "Sorry Herr Major," I told him, "It will not happen again."
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These AARs and screenies are taken from the Sealion Mission Pack, Luftwaffe campaign, available for free download here:
http://bobgamehub.blogspot.com/p/cliffs-of-dover-missions.html
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