Wow, fantastic AAR.

Stunning! Bravo!

Sept 23, morning

This morning I stood outside my tent at Lympne and watched the sun come up over England for the first time. As the men gathered around the gulaschkanon for their stew and coffee I reflected that perhaps I was even standing where one of my Saxon ancestors had stood, in 500 AD. The pleasure lasted about three minutes before the first air raid warning (a false alarm), but I drank it in.





At the dawn gave way to daylight, we were briefed, and the briefing started with Mayer announcing I would be flying number 3 in his schwarm now - a katschmarek no more! In fact I would have a wingman of my own...



The Leutnant in charge of intel gave us a quick update on the battle. Our forces had established a beach-head at Hythe and captured Folkestone. Unloading of supplies and heavier armour was underway...



Our armoured spearhead was advancing through Folkestone port, to establish a front line facing our ultimate objective, the larger and heavily defended port of Dover.





Our mission was to run a low level strike against the nearby Hawkinge airfield and then patrol the skies over Lympne. But as we accelerated over the turf on our takeoff run, the sirens began to wail again.



"Wellingtons!" Mayer, who was first away, called abruptly, "10 o'clock. They are behind me. You take them Tannenburg 3!" I banked sharply to bring myself to bear on the two dots accelerating toward our airfield. There was no way we could catch them before they hit us.





Sure enough, as myself and my wingman began a full power climb toward them, I saw a rain of bombs fall from their bellies.





I could only hope that the men below had reached their trenches in time, as the bombs rippled across the field.





But they were slow and fat and I reeled them in quickly. "Tannenburg 3 to Tannenburg 4, I'll take the one on the left," I called to my wingman, Heinrich. "You take the right."

"Jawohl Tannenburg 3."



They were quick, merciless kills.











Mayer was watching our backs, high over Dover. He had already made his run on Hawkinge. "Good job Tannenburg 3. Proceed for your attack on Hawkinge."



As we lined up on Hawkinge, I marvelled once again at the armada floating offshore. Surely any British pilot flying over Dover today would feel despair in the pit of his stomach, seeing how inevitable England's defeat must be.



I dropped my nose and signalled my wingman to strafe, and saw the glint of perspex in the sunshine on the landing field below.



Twin engined medium bombers, lined up on the grass in the morning sun. But not for long...



I made my run, pickling my bombs in a single salvo of four.







"Beautiful job Tannenburg flight," Mayer called. "Form up on me and watch for fighters!"



It was my wingman who spotted them first, "Spitfires! 12 o'clock!" Heinrich called excitedly.



We had the sun at our backs, and crept up on a lone Spitfire. "I have him Tannenburg 4, watch my six."



At the moment I was about to fire, he spotted us. He rolled on his back and tried to dive away.



He skidded across the sky, with ailerons and rudder crossed, and momentarily fooled me. I fired several bursts, all of them going wide.



But as he rolled level for a third time, I had him. The Spitfire is slower in the dive than our mighty E4B and he loomed in my sights...



MGFF and MG rounds hammered through his fuselage and as I thumbed the guns for a second burst I saw his cockpit hatch door flung open, and the pilot leaped for his life!







I pulled up and away.

Gingerly, I tested my guns. Only one answered, the rest were dry.

"Tannenburg 4, my guns are empty. Join with Tannenburg 1, I am going down to rearm."

"Tannenburg 4 acknowledging."

I wanted to get down as quickly as possible, and get back into the fight. It was mere minutes from Hawkinge to Lympne, and I dropped my gear and sideslipped in.



I could see the smoke climbing into the air beside the runway, from the Wellington's strike. But the landing strip looked clear, so I floated down and touched at the start of the strip.



Our temporary field control quarters were burning, and fire crews trying to quell the flames.



I was distracted by the sight, so it was pure luck that as I glanced out to port, I saw the huge craters the Wellington's barrage had left, straddling the runway!



The airfield was in chaos as I slowed to a stop. Ambulances were just pulling away from the wreckage, headed for the beach. Firecrews shouting at me to move my machine further away in case of explosions.

It had been a satisfying mission, but my chances of quickly rearming were nil.



I taxiied a little further and shut the engine down, then jumped out to help the cleanup. As I did, the air raid siren sounded again...

Sept 23, second mission, PART I

Just got back to Lympne after spending the last hour fighting the war on a motorbike behind an MG42...but that story comes later!

We were called up to finish the job at Hawkinge.



Our panzers were pushing through British lines toward the larger of the two RAF airfields near Dover. The British forces were concentrated on front lines just downhill from the airfield. We studied their positions carefully, marked in red on our maps.



Advance units were probing the British defences...





But they were dug in deep, with anti tank guns taking a heavy toll.



We climbed out into radiant Autumn sunshine.



The ships and vehicles at the beach-head not yet safe from British long range artillery.





Hawkinge was just minutes away, and Mayer led us in. There was no RAF interference this time.





We formed up line astern and pickled our bombs on his command, the idea being to straddle the hangars with a concentrated stick of HE SC250s.



We overshot slightly. The bombs crossing the corner of a large hangar and bringing it down, but it was not a clean hit.





"Veteran flight, this is Veteran 1, you are free to take targets of opportunity," Mayer said, "Veteran 2 and I will fly cover. Concentrate on vehicles and guns. Let's give those panzers a chance! And don't bump into each other!"

I looked down and saw the funeral tyres of a German scout column that had made it to the edge of the airfield defences.



Somewhere down there was the British position that had held them off.

I scoured the ground, then saw a tell tale puff of smoke from a heavy gun.



It appeared to be an AT gun position, engaging German troops.



I let fly with cannon and MG fire.



But as I swept overhead, I saw I had fired short, and the gun, unharmed, barked again. I heard its 'crump' over the roar of my engine.



Worse still, as I climbed away, I saw a line of British armoured cars advancing to the airfield perimeter. Our lightly armoured scouts would have little chance against these.



I dropped my nose and thumbed the cannon trigger again, not knowing if my 20mm would have any effect on the British armour, light as it was...



It did. I left a burning vehicle in my wake.



But over my shoulder, a more menacing sight suddenly appeared. The twin dust plumes of enemy fighters scrambling.



"Veteran 3 to Veteran 1 - Indians!" I called, "On the deck. Taking off to the south!"



"Jawohl Veteran 3," Mayer acknowledged, "Veteran flight, all aircraft, take on those fighters before they can get to altitude."

I burned up the air between myself and leading pair of Hurricanes. They were still pulling up their wheels when I got within range.



But they had seen me, and as I opened fire, they broke in opposite directions.



I stuck on the tail of the leader, and got a hit on his fuel line.



It must have been worse than it looked, or he was a coward. He jumped.



I went after his wingman next. He was flying almost at a stall, turning hard, his flaps down so that he didn't spin in. Another easy kill moments away...



But my overconfidence betrayed me. Enemy tracer stitched across my port wing root and lit the air beside my cockpit.



A third Hurricane had come up beneath me and gave me a full salvo of his Brownings.





I bunted, hard, nose down. I was learning it was a most effective manoeuvre against the Tommy machines, with their ineffectual Merlin engines stalling if they tried to follow.



The Hurricane overshot, and now it was me in pursuit.



He looped up into a rolling left hand turn. I followed him up.



My MGs chewed along his fuselage as I went for his cockpit, hoping for a quick kill.



Once again felt bullets strike me machine!



A hole appeared in my port wing. Glancing back I saw a new foe, another Hurricane, this one wounded, missing an elevator, but still fighting back. I had to credit the pilot, he was no coward this one!



The next few minutes were mayhem. I tightened my turn, lost my pursuer, found my prey again and closed on him. As I brought him to bear I looked behind me and saw I was still dragging the Hurricane around behind me, and a new adversary as well! A Blenheim had joined the fray and was also gunning for me!



This verged on the absurd and I spat a curse at his cheek. But he must have come barreling down out of the sky with a ton of momentum on his side because he closed with me quickly.



I tried to lose him with a quick snap roll. He followed, a lumbering turn...



And then disaster...

The idiot collided with my tail. He exploded in a ball of fire and my tail sheered right off!





Instinct took over. I grabbed the canopy release and pulled hard, screaming air battering into the cockpit as it fell away.



I heard the crack of flak as I tumbled out of the cockpit, with no idea how high I was, and whether there would be enough altitude to open my chute...



The Hurricane with the missing tailplane flashed past as I fell.



The wind battered my face, but I could see...water...ships...burning vehicles...I was falling into the teeth of the invasion beach-head.



But not the beach itself. Directly below me I saw water, and landing craft.



I reached for my parachute cord, the water closing as I pulled desperately...



It tore out of the pack behind me, but I was falling...fast...faster...would it ever open?!!



Finally it blossomed and pulled me up with an almighty crack!



I tried to steer toward the beach by spilling a little air, but there was no breeze, and I kept dropping, straight toward a barge.



A little gust pushed me between the barge and a freighter, and as I got near the waves, I remembered an old hand telling me to punch out of the chute before I hit the water, so as not to get tangled in the silk and dragged under.

5 metres off the water, I hit the harness release...







And dropped like a brick to the sea below.



The barge was just metres away.



They threw me a flotation ring and I gratefully pulled it over my head and pulled myself over to the barge on the rope.

Alive! Still!

But I was about to see another view of the invasion. The view from the ground.

My mission was not over yet.

Sept 23, second mission, PART II

The barge put me ashore but that left me soaking wet, 10 km from my airfield, with no way of getting there. The beach was a scene of frenetic activity as vehicles and supplies were offloaded directly onto the sand, artillery rounds exploding randomly along the shoreline, as soldiers struggled to pull camo nets over the precious cargo.





I spotted a staff car, and asked the Wehrmacht officer inside if it was possible to organise transport to Lympne.

"Do you think we run a taxi service here?" he barked. Then he noticed my Luftwaffe uniform, "Luftwaffe? Didn't know you were even over here. Bloody lot of good you are doing." He went back to poring over his papers.

I got the same reaction from every soldier I approached. If they acknowledged me at all, it was with derision.

"Luftwaffe? What bloody Luftwaffe? Didn't know we still had an air force."

"Only fighters we see over here are the RAF."

"Come all the way from your cushy billet in France and get shot down eh? Good, see how you like it!"

Finally a feldwebel in the uniform of the courier service took pity on me.

"I'm going to Lympne," he told me, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at a motorbike with a sidecar and mounted MG42. "If you can handle one of those, you can come with me."

I eyed the sidecar suspiciously. The MG42 gave it some teeth, but the thin metal of the sidecar would offer no protection at all.

"It's that or walk," he said, hitching up his britches, and spitting on the ground, "Your choice."

The idea of a 10km walk across a battlefield was slightly less appealing than strapping myself into a high speed coffin on wheels, but I thanked him and we walked over to the machine. As we neared, I could see a line of holes stitched across the front of the sidecar. I asked him what had happened to his previous gunner.

"British armoured car," he shrugged. "If he was still here, I wouldn't need you, would I?" He handed me a Wehrmacht tunic and jammed a helmet on my head. "There, now you look like a proper German soldier!"

He was a courier, so as we strapped in and he kick started the machine, I asked him how far north of Lympne our front lines had reached. Had we taken Hawkinge? Had Dover fallen yet?

He laughed bitterly, and yelled at me as we pulled away, "Front lines?"



"What bloody front lines?," he yelled over the roar of the engine, "You'll see for yourself, it's a #%&*$#'s breakfast out there. British patrols everywhere. This morning I rode north 15km, didn't see a single thing except terrified Tommy civilians peering out from behind their curtains, German transport columns heading north when they should be going south, and west when they should be going east."

We passed the wreckage of an earlier battle.



"On the way back, we ran into a Tommy patrol, a platoon backed by an armoured car. Shot our way out, but my gunner got it in the neck."

Almost on queue, I heard the chatter of heavy machine guns, and the crump of cannon. He slowed to a stop.



"Scheiss. There's a regular bloody tank battle up ahead," he cursed. "And I'm already late getting to Lympne."

I suggested he go around, but he shook his head.

"There's only one road to Lympne flyboy, and this is it," he gunned his engine, and pointed at the MG42, "Get a good grip of that. If we're lucky they'll be too busy blowing the hell out of each other to notice us."

We ducked under a treeline and roared along the verge beside the road. I could see Panzer IIIs on our side of the road, and on the other, British armoured cars and Valentine tanks. Heavy rounds thudded home on both sides, and machines were brewing up.





Out luck was out. One of the Valentines spotted us, and his turret traversed. We were too fast for his main gun to track us, but his heavy MG opened up.



We swerved behind some trees, then a German round exploded against his front armour. Suddenly we weren't worth the effort. He turned his muzzle away again, toward the new threat.



"Hold onto your helmet!" the Feldwebel yelled, and he gunned his bike, RIGHT AT THE ENEMY TANKS!



As we neared the British lines, a Valentine sat directly in our path. There was nothing we could do. A shell ripped through the air above us, headed downrange, the supersonic roar of its passage nearly blowing out my eardrums. I screamed and open fire with my MG42. My tracer sparkled against the armour of the British tank, but did nothing. Its machine gun depressed toward us, and opened fire.

Then it exploded.



Suddenly we were through. We hugged the treeline beside the road, and I watched the battle recede into the distance behind us.



I was still panting. The Feldwebel clapped me on the shoulder, "That's the spirit flyboy!" he laughed, "Destroy a tank with your MG42! You'll get a medal for that, for sure!" He shook with laughter, all the way through the village.



I knew it was a lucky shot from a Panzer III that had saved us, but he thought it was hilarious. We bumped across the threshold of the airfield, and I saw one of our machines taking off on another sortie.



We skirted the field under the noses of some Heinkels, the Feldwebel laughing all the way.



"Finally the Luftwaffe got a British tank!" he guffawed, "Who thought we'd ever see that?"

He dropped me at the hangars and waved jauntily as he headed back into the village, mimicking me shooting my MG42 and screaming like a loon until he was out of earshot.

I didn't want him to see it, but my legs were still shaking, so I let myself crumple to the ground.

I put my head in my hands. What kind of war was this where a man could be swatted out of the sky by a suicidal British bomber pilot? Where Wehrmacht officers derided their Luftwaffe komrades, and Luftwaffe officers were spat upon by common soldiers? Where British tanks appeared suddenly miles behind our lines? And where lunatic Feldwebels on motorbikes charged at them like he was a knight on a storming black steed.

From the air, it all looked so much simpler.

Bravo! Great updates.

Engaging as always, although the MG42 must've been a very, very, very, VERY early prototype.



(The standard issue for the Wehrmacht was the MG34; even later in the war there was no guarantee of getting a MG42.)

Only the best for my boy

On a random Kradmelder bike, right...

Mayer was sitting at his desk, reading a copy of Der Adler. The headline read “And now, England!”



“This,” I gestured out the door as he looked up, “Is insane!” I protested. “We are under constant air attack. We are bombed as we take off, bombed while we refuel. When we do get up, we are outnumbered two to one, five to one! The sky is so thick with RAF that we cannot fly without ramming them! On the way back here, I passed through a tank battle. British tanks, south of here, just two miles away!”

He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, and twirled a toothpick in his fingers, “This one time, I will ignore your informality, Leutnant, and assume you are speaking under duress. You wish to discuss strategy? Very well, what would you have us do?”

“Move the unit back to France Gruppenkommandeur! It is only ten minutes extra flying time, but we can be protected there and operate more effectively. We can use the time over the Channel to gain altitude and hit the RAF harder. Every hour we are based here we are losing more and more men and machines to RAF bombing and strafing,” I told him.

He stood and went to the window of the British ready room, “Come here leutnant, and tell me what you see.”

I stood beside him. I saw smoke rising from a burning hangar that had taken a direct hit in the most recent RAF attack. Out on the grassed landing field, men were filling in bomb craters with sod, and dragging metal mesh across them to make them firm. An He111 was landing, one of a constant stream, interspersed with fighters as Bf109s from LG2 went up to provide air cover over Hawkinge, and Erpro210 Bf110s departed for yet another ground attack sortie. I saw wrecked aircraft and vehicles pulled unceremoniously into a pile on either side of the airfield, the chewed up and spat out wreckage of more than a half dozen raids in the single day we had been here. I saw a field hospital, and lying outside on stretchers, the bodies of ten dead men, and hundreds more injured - soldiers, sailors and airmen - waiting transport back to France. All this, I described to Mayer.



“Interesting,” he said, “You know what I see leutnant? I see war. Just war. War great and terrible, showing us all its bloody and monstrous faces.” He cocked his head and looked at me, “You started as a Transportflieger didn’t you? Flying Ju52s? Why did you transfer to fighters?”

I replied without hesitation, “I wanted to fight.”

“You wanted to fight,” he smiled, “Commendable. And you have 7 kills, so it seems your wish has come true.” He looked up at a photograph of himself on the wall above his desk, wearing the Ritterkreuz he was awarded on 3 September.



“Do you know why I joined?” he asked.

“No, Herr Gruppenkommandeur.”

“I wanted to fly.” The windows rattled as an LG2 Emil thundered past, and he pointed through the wooden wall at it, “That’s all. Fly, in the fastest, most beautiful machines. Which just happen to be fighters. Suddenly, we were at war and though I expected to die in Spain, then Poland, then France - miraculously, I am still here. But each time I go up, I expect it will be the last time, and so I enjoy it even more.”

I stared at him, momentarily lost for words.

He moved to stand in front of a map of the operations area. Our lines were marked in blue. They showed a wedge of territory around Folkestone captured and held, and an armoured spearhead preparing to push for the Canterbury road. In the middle of the wedge, Hawkinge airfield.



He regarded it with a wave of his hand, “Impressive, yes? In less than three days we have captured a port, an airfield, and our armour is poised to move on Canterbury,then Maidstone, just 60 miles from London. They must be shaking in their slippers in London.”

I thought of the tank battle I had ridden through today, deep behind the lines, of the hard charging dispatch rider and the battle won by our Panzers, “Indeed, Herr Gruppenkommandeur.”

He looked at me sadly, “Nonsense Leutnant. As you have so passionately pointed out, our position here is untenable. The entire weight of the British army is concentrated on our little beachhead. The full force of the British navy is about to descend on us from the North Sea, and the Meditteranean. The RAF has 800 fighters it can throw at our little bubble of air here in Kent,” he placed his finger and thumb on the map, vertically, horizontally, doing a small calculation, “That is 20 fighters per square mile of airspace, Leutnant. No wonder we bump into them every time we go up.”

He walked back to his desk, and sat heavily, “All because of the dreams of a jumped up little Corporal. We are all going to die here, Leutnant,” he said, no longer looking at me, “On this sodden little island. It is just a question of how. Bombed, machine gunned, drowned, burned, smashed to pieces in a crash...fate will decide. And if not here, then in Africa, or Russia.

“You think this unit will be safer, more effective, flying out of France? There is no safe place in war for men flying fighters, Leutnant,” he told me drily. “Now get out of my sight. We will not have this sort of conversation again.”

Whoa...

Good stuff !

I was in a dark humour after my exchange with the Gruppenkommandeur. Fatalism was one thing, but Mayer's attitude sounded almost like defeatism to me.

"We are all going to die here...on this sodden little island."

I don't know if it was payment for my insubordination, but when two volunteers were needed for a dusk patrol later that day, despite the fact I had already flown two missions that day including a dunking in the Channel, it was myself and Heinrich who Mayer chose.



The intel briefing was more optimistic than Mayer's outlook - we had pushed the Tommies back from Lympne and our armour was making good progress on Hawkinge RAF field now. It was a much larger station, able to hold 3 staffeln instead of the handful of machines from the two Bf109 and one Bf110 gruppen that were currently based at the smaller Lympne airfield. Folkestone was ours, and in the morning our troops would begin the push on Dover.



The moon was already rising as we taxiied out. It was a bright night, but I was not worried about getting airborne, but rather getting down again. The longer we were up, the darker it would get, and for fear of bombers, there would be no landing lights to guide us home.



Immediately as we took off, I spotted two twin engined machines. It was impossible to tell what they were - friend or foe?



We closed the range to try to identify them as they swept out over Folkestone, and then inland again.



"Bombers above Parzival one!" Heinrich called. I looked up to see the clear outline of Wellingtons, already making a run on Lympne.



It was the devil of a choice - Blenheims, probably, in front of us, or the heavier Wellingtons high above.

Luckily the choice was made for us, from nowhere, a schwarm of our fighters descended on the twin engined machines and swatted one from the sky.



Not Blenheims. They were a type I hadn't seen before. Snub nosed, painted black as night.



"Perzival 1 to Perzival 2, we'll take the bombers, follow me up," I ordered, but as I began the climb, one of the black machines swooped directly in front of me. It was a chance not to be ignored. I pushed my nose level and went after him, opening fire at close range.





Pieces of his machine fell away and he broke for the trees, so I left him to his fate. The bombers were my real target.



It was a hard, frustrating chase. They had unloaded on Lympne, and were making good their escape already.

"Keep up Parzival 2!" I ordered, as my wingman fell behind.



But finally we closed, and again I could see my identification was wrong - these were not Wellingtons. The dusk light had made them seem larger by their silhouettes. These were the smaller Blenheims, more agile, but still easy prey.



"Parzival 2, I don't see an escort, you take the ones on the right, I'll take the left," I ordered.

"Jawohl Parzival 1."

I closed to cannon range, saving ammunition by selecting only my MGFF.



A few well placed 20mm rounds were enough to see off the first Blenheim.



I pulled back the stick to gain altitude and look for my second target.



They were near impossible to see against the ground, but perspex suddenly glinted in the moonlight and I spotted another pair.





Slashing across their rear quarter I thumbed the trigger, cannon fire sawing the tailplane off one of the machines...



And then snapping the wing off the other, as though it was made of balsa wood!





Heinrich called nervously, "Good shooting Parzival 1! Should we head for the field? I can hardly make out any detail on the ground!"



I looked down. Unfortunately, Lympne was easy enough to spot...by the columns of smoke rising after the Blenheims had struck.

"No, we're going up Parzival 2," I told him, "We'll worry later about how we get down again."



He might have been nervous, but he had good eyes. A few minutes later he yelled, "Contrails Leutnant! At about 5,000 metres, directly above!"



Verdammt. These must be the heavier Wellingtons. And they were almost of reach. I did a quick calculation. We were at least 3,000 metres below them. It would take five, ten minutes to get within range...by then the sun would be down, but the moon would be high.

I made my decision, "Parzival 2, you return to base. No sense both of us losing our way in the dark."

He didn't argue, "Acknowledged Parzival 1, returning to base."

I started once again to climb, full power.





The contrails were easy enough to follow, glittering and grey as the reflected the dying sun. But then I saw a gift from the God of War. One of the Wellingtons had fallen behind his comrades, and was flying slower.



I banked toward him, hoping I would be invisible against the dark earth. But no...his rear gunner spotted me and opened up immediately.





His aim was poor but it was enough to make me revise my tactics. I had planned to go for a close range belly strike with my last remaining 20mm, but instead I played a more careful game. Staying behind and out of range of his twin Brownings, I climbed high, then rolled over on him.





It was a short, full throttle dive that brought me briefly onto his six and I opened with the full force of MG and cannon...



But his speed was impossible to judge in the dark. Quickly, too quickly, he loomed in my sights. I hauled back on my stick!



As I thundered past him, I felt a sickening wrench as my port wing clipped his tailplane. Something fell away from my wing...



I was cursed. For the second time in two sorties, I had collided, and this time I had lost all the ailerons along my left wing.





I reached automatically for the canopy release, half rising in my seat, but then hesitated, breathed heavily. Tested the controls gingerly. The machine was still responding.

I began a slow, tentative bank away from the Wellington.



He looked wounded, but it was impossible to see how badly. I had greater concerns.



Lympne lay somewhere off to the southwest, hidden under the burning orange ball of the dying September sun, amongst the tangle of creeks and rivers which were the only landmarks I could see on the ground below.



I searched desperately for the field, taking the chance with my crippled wing because the only way I could make out any detail was to look straight down out of the cockpit at the land below.



Finally, I saw the faint glow of fires. They could have been burning vehicles or tanks, buildings...even decoys lit by our troops or the British to draw enemy fire. But I could vaguely make out the crossed landing strips of Lympne...



Once again respectful of my brutalised machine, I swooped gently and slowly out to sea, lost altitude and then turned toward Lympne.



Immediately, I lost my bearings again. The ground ahead a dark unshapen mass. The small fires now invisible again.



Where the hell...I crossed the canal which had marked the hardest of the fighting early in the day. Lympne must lie somewhere ahead!



Then I was on it before I could react. It was the small pyres of smoke rising up into the sky that marked our field and I steered toward them.



I didn't want to risk another turn around the field. I was terrified the shuddering wing would rip away. I yanked on the emergency gear release and the undercarriage dropped into place with a thump.



My leading edge slats banged out, but only on my undamaged starboard wing. My right wing stalled, and I dropped unevenly toward the landing strip.



I overcorrected and the left gear struck the ground hard. I closed my eyes, surely the wing would go now?



But the Emil bounced high, righted itself, and next time, stuck to the turf.





Mein Gott Herr Messerchmitt, you know how to make a war machine! I muttered in relief.

As I cut the engine, the sun disappeared behind the hangars.





As the ground crew gathered around and started gawking at the torn away ailerons, I asked after Heinrich. What of Parzival 2? I asked.



He had not returned.

I stood out on the field for another half hour, scanning the skies, straining my ears for the sound of an engine, a Very pistol ready to fire a flare in case I heard the distinct throb of Heinrich's DB601 engine - but all I heard was the crump of distant field artillery and small arms.

About 8pm the next British raid came.

Vehicles, fuel and aircraft were set alight and burned faster than we could douse the fires. They were still burning when the next raid came, and then the next.

I think I'm hooked. MORE! MORE, MORE, MORE!



Also, CoD looks quite beautful at sunset.

Sept 24 morning, S-tag +3

At 2300 last night we were given orders to abandon Lympne and return to France. The incessant bombing had reduced the small field to a no mans land, all hangars were damaged or destroyed, and more than half of the aircraft there were write-offs due to bomb damage. Guided by the fires we were unable to douse, a constant stream of RAF bombers pounded Lympne airfield into a moonscape.

The ground crew were ordered to retire to Folkestone and await a ship, while pilots whose machines were intact were ordered to fly them out, or get a lift in one of the remaining transports. I got back to Peuplingue at 0200 in a Heinkel 111, and collapsed in the first tent I could find.

The insanity of trying to maintain a base so close to the front in England, was behind me.

So I thought. At 0500 I was woken. We were going back. During the night, our troops had taken Hawkinge. A much larger field, able to support 3 full squadrons.



The field was already being reinforced with every available AAA gun and searchlight in the invasion zone. LG2 would be stationed there with us and provide around the clock fighter cover over the airfield, while ourselves and Erpro 210 focused on ground support and interdiction duties.

We flew into Hawkinge, loaded for combat, at 0700.



We weren't even given time to get coffee. Mayer took us aside immediately and briefed us on the day's first target, a few miles north at a village called Selstead.



British troops dug in with AT guns had created a choke point on the Canterbury road and were holding up our armour.









Worse for us, their heavy guns were within range of the airield and we had to clear them out.



As if to reinforce the danger, as we were taking off, a salvo of HE from the British artillery straddled nearby hills.



Luckily the incoming fire was innaccurte - the only damage being a transport truck.



As we gained height, we put Folkestone behind us, easily visible due to the smoke of a burning oil tanker.



The front line was easy to mark by the line of burning German tanks and transports.



"Parzival flight," Mayer ordered as we neared the target area, "Wide formation, choose your targets, happy hunting!"

I released my wingman and looked out my cockpit at the ground. On the road below I saw a line of burning Panzers.



I concluded that where there was smoke, there must be...an AT gun hidden somewhere!

There, on their flank! I spotted a heavy artillery emplacement, and pushed the nose of the Emil down



It was hard to line him up through the smoke. I dropped lower. Verdammt, too low for bombs! I switched to full guns and reached for my trigger as he swam into the crosshairs.



The line of death walked straight across the sandbagged gun emplacement and secondary explosions leapt into the air.





Pulling up sharply, I looked for another target. Unfortunately, there were British aplenty. Off to my right, another position, this time probably an AT gun. They had flanked the road on both sides, setting up a classic ambush.



I zoomed high, rapid fire AAA following me all the way up, then nosed over and fell down almost vertically on the British position.



I wasn't sure of my aim, and had to pull up abruptly, so I pickled only one of my 250kg HE bombs.



It fell wide.



I pulled the machine into a savage low altitude turn and went in on them with guns blazing.









It was an AT gun alright, and they were dug in like ticks. It was a wasted pass and the AAA fire was murderous.

But the target was too important to ignore - there would be no armoured push up the Canterbury road unless we could dislodge them.

I set the remaining bombs to salvo and went in again.







As I pulled away I saw the enemy gun and lorry erupt in flames.



I punched the canopy glass over my head in jubilation. Yes!

Then a Bofors round exploded under my tail.



TO BE CONTINUED

Sept 24, mission I (continued...)

I levelled out, but slowly. A quick glance over my left shoulder showed the left tailplane was sheered off. The rudder was mushy, so I guessed that had been holed, or the control wires damaged.



Inboard the starboard wing, I saw more flak damage near the guns...probably lucky the ammunition hadn't gone up.



Discretion (or cowardice) being the better part of valour, I decided to turn back to Lympne and try to put the machine down.

"This is Parzival three, to Parzival leader, I've taken damage, am returning to base," I told Mayer.

"Acknowledged Parzivel three, good luck," he replied curtly.



My grandfather, who had grown up in the Black Forest, had a saying..."Some days you get the bear, some days the bear gets you."

This felt like one of the days when I got the bear. I had two ground kills, had taken an almost direct hit in the tail from a flak shell, and I was still flying. To tell the truth, I felt near invincible.

So when I suddenly noticed a dot higher overhead, and got closer, and it resolved itself into a Hurricane, beetling along through the sky without a clue I was there...I couldn't resist.



Crippled kite or not, if my luck was in, I might as well stretch it!

He started a slow climbing turn, and I followed him up, staying low on his six. I was only getting half the lift from the elevators that I normally would, but as long as I didn't need to pull hard vertical manoeuvres...





As I closed to 100 metres, he either saw, or sensed me. He flick rolled left and I opened fire hastily.



His mistake then was to continue the roll. If he'd pulled left and away, he'd have been free, but he kept rolling, came up into a right banking turn and flew back into my line of fire.



I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a piece fly off his machine - his left tailplane!





It was as though the gods were toying wih me! Evening up the fight. I could imagine Odin and the others in Valhalla, filling their mugs with mead and placing their bets on which of the two identically crippled machines would win.



We began a spiralling turning fight, like two palsied tango partners, neither able to risk a climb or dive.



I managed to get a single deflection shot on the Hurricane...



But then a second Hurricane appeared, behind me...



Adding a second Hurricane to the fight might be a joke to the Gods, but it was no longer amusing to me. I decided to spit in the eye of Odin, straightened out and made speed for Hawkinge.



The Hurricane pilot was a sensible fellow too, and he quit in the other direction, taking his squad mate with him.

It seemed Hawkinge had seen a raid while I was up, but nothing major.





I circled around to approach from the South, the controls mushy, the machine wallowing in the air like a pig in mud.



I came in with my usual nose down attitude, then just short of the field, which for Hawkinge is on a small plateau, I pulled back on the stick to flare for my landing...but instead the Emil kept dropping and bellied hard into the hillside just short of the runway.



An 88mm crew was busily setting up their new AAA emplacement and looked over in shock at the protesting shriek of my engine as it seized.



I threw the canopy open in disgust. But at least they could drag the carcass of my machine back for salvage.



No longer invincible, I was starting to understand Mayer's fatalism...while I was able to walk away from this one, it was surely just a matter of time now. This cat was running short of lives...

Nice AAR!

kaRadi

Yep, pretty good stuff!

24 Sept noon, S tag +3

An army can't fight for long on empty stomachs. Horses need water and fodder. Tanks can't drive without diesel. Fighters need gasoline, oil, glycol, tyres, ammunition, spares, grease.

Our next sortie for the day was an escort job, shepherding Heinkels for a raid on Manston RAF base, to help relieve the RAF pressure on our convoys.



My friend the Dark Leutnant leaned over and muttered to me during the briefing, "Without Dover, it's hopeless, even if the ships do get through," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Folkestone can do 300 tonnes of materiel per hour, at best," he said, "Probably they are averaging half that, with all the bombing and shelling. That's, say 3000 tonnes per day. A modern mechanised army needs half a tonne of supplies per man per day, rule of thumb. The 6th Army is 300,000 men, once all the guests get here for the party. That's 150 thousand tonnes of supplies per day - not 3,000." He shrugged.

I stared at him, "Where did you get those numbers? You just make them up?"

He put his finger to his nose, and looked stubbornly ahead, "Trust me, we need Dover."

I had picked up a new machine after my last crash, and was going over it before the mission, when Mayer came up to me.

"18 kills Leutnant?"

"Jawohl, Herr Gruppenkommandeur," I replied.

"That puts you just five behind me," he observed.

"Yes Sir, I believe so."

"Fine. Germany needs its heroes," he remarked ambiguously, and walked away.

I dwelt on this as we forged out over the Channel and met up with the Heinkels.



It was a heavy raid, one of several intended to force the RAF to pull back from their last remaining outpost in SE England.





Ahead of us were Bf110s of ZG2, whose job was to stick with the bombers. Our job was to fly ahead and take on the fighters, disrupting their attack before they could reach the Heinkels.

For once, we had the advantage of height, so when Mayer inevitably called, "Indianer! 12 o'clock, about 1,000 meters below, let's get them gentlemen"...we were in the perfect position, with the RAF struggling to gain height while we could fall on them like hailstones.



I recognised them as Spitfires as they pulled their noses up to meet us, and we closed.







Guns hammered...his...mine...





And he flashed overhead. But I had the energy, he was struggling near a stall, and I rounded on him with ease.





I began to reel him in, my finger closed on the button...

"Drop back Falke 3!" Came Mayer's voice in my ears, "That one is mine!"



Mayer dropped in front of me, and I pulled back on my throttle angrily. Had he deliberately stolen my kill? Could this be about who was the leading ace in the Gruppe? Surely not?



Before I bled away more of my airspeed I pulled back up toward the swirling contrails of the dogfight above.



After getting back up to 7,000 metres I looked for prey. Below, two RAF fighters were in a death dance with an Emil. I descended on them.



I came up on their six, and again reached for my trigger...



But they were no novices. One broke high, the other, my target, put his machine into a spiralling dive, straight at the sea.



I followed him down...down...down...the engine was screaming even though I had chopped the throttle right back, as the propeller was driven by the hurricane force of the wind blasting past. I looked at my speed gauge...nearly 550 km/h...controls stiffening...much more and the only way I would be able to pull out of the dive would be with elevator trim...



Finally he pulled out, at about 2,000 metres



He tried to pull up and loop over the top of me, but that just earned him a broadside from my guns as he crossed my sights...



I rolled quickly and followed him through the loop, firing short bursts.





It seemed someone had told him the Emil couldn't turn as well as the Hurricane, because he tried to turn inside me. My leading edge slats banged out, the machine vibrated, but I held him in front of me, and proved him wrong.





In all the excitement however, I had picked up a shadow.



As I dispatched my target, tracer started to fly around my machine and looking back anxiously I could see my pursuers.







I watched the stricken Hurricane in front of me fall away, and began to concentrate on my own survival.





The first RAF machine closed, fast. I bunted. He shot underneath me.



I got off a quick snapshot.





Guns dry!

I peeled away and pointed my machine West, trying to put distance between the boiling dogfight and myself.



Mayer must have seen me disengage.

"Report Falke 3," he called.

"Out of ammunition, Herr Gruppenkommandeur," I replied tersely.

"Very well." Could I hear a note of satisfaction in his voice?



Nothing in this corner of hell is far away, and I was back at Hawkinge in eight minutes flying.



As I glided in over the village, flak filled the air above, but it was a reassuring sight. It was our flak, and it might make Tommy think twice about sending his bombers over today.



I had added one kill to my tally. But until Mayer's comment this morning, I hadn't thought much about it. Suddenly, it was all I could think of.



Damned Mayer...if he wanted to turn this into a personal contest, so be it!

Sept 24 afternoon, S tag+3

Hans Karl Mayer: 24 kills
'The Katschmarek': 19 kills

If what the Dark Leutnant had said about our supply situation was correct, it explained why we were again sent out on convoy protection duty, rather than the jabo missions we had been trained for. Rumours said we were starting to run low on fuel and ammunition, even with He111s flying in with near full tanks and bellies full of bombs which were being siphoned off for our use.

Mayer clapped me on the shoulder as we sat down to the mission briefing, "Another kill Leutnant! Magnificent! Soon there may be two Iron Cross wearers in our little gruppe! Did you hear that men? 19 kills! Not bad for a transportflieger!"

There was some polite applause. If I didn't know better, I might think he was sincere, but he had added to his own tally yesterday by stealing one of my kills, so I had no illusions - his praise was intended to be ironic.

The afternoon should offer fertile hunting though. A big convoy was coming in, and the RAF would be expected to do their best to send it to the bottom.



I looked over at Mayer as we took off on in the dull light of late afternoon. He waved back. It was clear he loved flying, that much was true.



Folkestone, our only lifeline to the European mainland, looked busy, but the oil tanker I had seen burning on the last mission, was still ablaze, which must be hampering the loading and offloading of supplies.





"Dogfight, 9 oclock low," Mayer called calmly, "Stay in formation. Our mission is the convoy gentlemen." I watched as a Bf110 of Erpro 210 delivered its payload on British positions near Dover, under heavy attack by British fighters.





Then the AAA at Dover spotted us and that bane of my existance, the British Bofors, began sending shells up at us.



Were they radar controlled? It was infuriating how close they came, though they scored no hits this time.



Steaming S-Southwest, out of range of the British guns at Dover, our convoy appeared on the sea below.



We circled for 30 minutes without incident. Perhaps this was going to be our first clean sweep, with no enemy action. Privately, I hoped so. I was actually enjoying the calm throb of the engine coming up through my feet, the glint of waning sunlight on the calm sea...

"Parzival 4 to Parzival leader," came the voice of my new wingman, Gurtler. "Aircraft at 7 oclock! I can't see what they are."

We didn't have to wait long for an answer, "Parzival leader to Parzival flight, they are Spitfires, follow me in. This will just be an escort, keep a watch for the heavies."





"Good eyes Parzival 4," I told Gurtler. "Stay with me now."

Then I saw the reason for the appearance of the Spitfires. Down low, ahead of the convoy, two fat seaplanes were circling, no doubt laying mines.

"Parzival 3 to Parzival leader, I have British seaplanes 12 oclock low," I said, "Permission to engage?"

"Granted Parzival 3, the rest of you stay with me, go after the fighters," Mayer commanded.

"Parzival 3 and 4 engaging," I confirmed. We dropped toward the waves.





"Keep your distance unless I order you to attack," I told Gurtler, "These are Sunderlands, they are as prickly as porcupines." I remembered a briefing on the British seaplane, and being impressed by its defensive weaponry, some carried up to 13 guns.



I closed on the rearmost. Over the radio I heard the calls of the rest of the flight as they went into action.

"Engaging now Parzival 6"

"Where is he, I can't see him!"

"Wait, down low, it's those black devils again!"

Sure enough, the party was heating up. A flight of the dark black twin engined aircraft we had first seen the previous day came sweeping in on the convoy, the heavy cannons grouped in their noses spitting flame before they pulled up and away for another run.



I dropped my wing and prepared for a fast slashing attack across the rear quarter of the Sunderland, hoping to give the gunners an impossible target. Tracer reached up toward me.



As I slid in on the seaplane's six to briefly give it full guns before rolling out of range, MG fire drummed up the length of my cowling and smashed into my cockpit. Metal, glass, I wasn't sure what, but something struck my forehead and my vision blurred.



I pulled up, rolling over the top of the Sunderland where it had no guns.



I wiped my face and my hand came away bloody. My head was pounding, but it seemed it was just a gash across my hairline.



It wasn't critical though, yet. I swept around for another run at the Sunderland, and saw the black devils sweep in for another run at our ships, their cannons chewing up water and steel alike.





They didn't have it all their own way. One of our Emils closed swiftly and batted the enemy from the sky.



Wiping blood from my eyes again, I pulled in abeam of one of the Sunderlands. They were surprisingly agile. The panicked pilot threw it into a half roll, and I stayed with him.



My broadside of cannon and MG stitched across his wings and I looped upward, again seeking the safety of his blind topside.





As I bored down on him for a third time, the crew gave up the fight, and I saw them throwing themselves from escape hatches.





"Good shooting Leutnant!" called Gurtler, but then came another voice.

"Parzival leader to Parzival 2, I can't shake this one!" Mayer said, then with a note of desperation, "Do something about him man!"

Looking back toward the convoy I saw 4 machines, Mayer in the lead, then a Spitfire, then Mayer's katschmarek, but behind him, another Spitfire. It looked bad for them both.

"Parzival 3 and 4, we are on our way Parzival leader," I advised and pushed open my throttle.



I caught up the rearmost Spitfire first, and though I had a poor angle on him, fired at him to try to shake him off the tail of Mayer's wingman.



He pulled away, but now the leading Spitfire opened fire on Mayer. He rolled left.





They dropped low and that gave me the chance to reel them in. Now I closed on the Spit.



"Parzival leader," I said tersely, "On my mark, break low." I knew the RAF machines could not roll as quickly as our Emils, and a fast rolling inverted S was sure to put the Spit at a disadvantage.

"Break, break, break," I called, and Mayer rolled.



The Spit tried to follow him, but couldn't. I nailed him with full guns at 100m.







Mayer was still in trouble. His wingman had been drawn away, and there was another Spit glued to his six.

He seemed strangely calm, "I still have one admirer. Same procedure if you please, Parzival 3."

"On the way, Parzival leader," I confirmed.



I came in from below them, but slower, and had to think quickly. If Mayer could drag the Spitfire up, it would slow them down...I could catch them.

"Parzival leader, climbing left hand turn please," I called, "Now!"



He dragged the Spitfire up, and left, and I pointed my guns ahead of him.





He started leaking a thin trail of oil.



That would have been the end of him, if a bolt of black lightning had not suddenly appeared in the heavens.



Dropping down out of the blue evening sky, one of the twin engined British fighters appeared, guns hammering. I pulled up to meet him and he bombed past with engines screaming.



We both hauled our machines around and suddenly we were nose to nose.



Time slowed.

I could actually count the cannons in his front nacelle. Four gaping mouths of flame spat their bile my way. In the wings, six more machine guns. I almost forgot to trigger my own weapons.



How he missed, I will never know. I pulled around again, my vision blurring once more.



Getting inside him was easier this time, as he appeared to have been wounded in my pass.



I was out of MGFF, but gave him a long burst of MG fire and saw heavy damage as I flew past.





There were also strange antennae on his nose and wings. What were these machines?

He tried to regain altitude and turn for land, but I caught him, and finished him.





"That's three, Leutnant," Gurtler called. "And one damaged!"

Really? It was all a blur.



My head was throbbing unbearably now, so I had to turn for home, ordering Gurtler to rejoin with Mayer.



As I turned my nose toward Folkestone, the Wellingtons arrived.

This was the real attack. The Sunderlands and twin engined fighters had just been a sideshow.

They came in at 5,000 metres, safe from the guns of the escorting destroyers.



They filled the sky above the convoy, and laid a carpet of bombs across the ocean so think, it was a miracle any of the ships made it through.





Many didn't.













In the poor light I had trouble seeing my instruments, but I nursed my Emil back to Hawkinge in relatively good shape. The engine temp climbed a little on the way home, perhaps I had lost some coolant...



The field was thankfully clear, our overkill of AAA plus the fighters of LG2 now serving to keep the RAF at bay.





It had been a hard fought battle for the staffel. We had lost one man, Parzival 9, but claimed 7 RAF. I had 3 confirmed, and a probable.

Mayer, on the defensive most of the fight, came home scoreless this time, but in good humour.



I was sitting, head in bandages, in the mess eating soup when he walked in. He sat down heavily opposite me.

"I want to thank you," he said, and reached out his hand. I shook it. "My wingman was useless out there. I had started to think that today was the day."

"Not today, Herr Gruppenkommandeur," I told him, "Perhaps tomorrow?"

He smiled, "Or another day." He stood again, "Now, I have to go and write some reports." He winked, and added cryptically, "Including a citation. I'm going to recommend one of our pilots for a decoration."