Sept 29, S-tag +6
The Diary of Corporal (formerly Oberlt) Fritz BauchDear diary,
It isn’t like I asked to be in this war. Sitting in a crummy tent in French rain, last time I had a decent Sauerbraten was what…December ’39?
But not that I had many options. The army, with my feet? Not bad enough to get disqualified for service, just bad enough to make marching hell. Kriegsmarine? Can’t swim. But I learned to fly in the '30s from a circus flyer, so I joined the Luftwaffe.
Then there was the unfortunate incident with the CO’s girlfriend, I got busted, but from that came a nice job riding around in the back seat of a Zerstorer. Mostly hit and run jobs where we were in and out before the Tommies knew we were there. Suddenly we are in England and I am really in the dreck. That crazy Leutnant from JG53 had me flying again, which is hell on my bunions, and the sky is full of Tommies trying to kill me. Well, mostly they were trying to kill him, but sometimes I had to get in the way.
Hawkinge was not my kind of barrio (good word, I learned that word in the Condor Legion).
So diary, you can imagine I was not so unhappy to be saying goodbye to Hawkinge, at last. Even if we were fleeing under fire!
Good riddance, I thought. Stupid idea, invading England. Cold, grey, miserable country with warm pilsner and cold pies. The British wanted it back? Let them have it!
So when we got the word the Tommy tanks were coming, and we should get our tails back to France, I ran to the Crazy Leutnant’s tent and tried to get him up. But he was lying on his bunk, babbling like a hasenhirn. “
Fritz!” he said, grabbing my shirt, “
Fritz! Fire! Everywhere! Put on some sausages! We’ll have a grill party!” Then he just kept laughing. I left him there. Outside, everyone was running around and packing their stuff. I went over to the gulaschkanon to see about second breakfast.
“You two!,” Mayer called to me and this other fool pilot, “Come with me, we have three operational fighters, let’s get them up.”
Why me?!
We followed him out to where three 109s were turning over, behind a bulldozed wall of smashed aircraft and vehicles. The airfield was a mess. And the Tommies had arrived. As we ran, crouching, from bomb crater to bomb crater, I saw Tommy armoured cars run through a gap in our lines and start hammering away at anything that moved.
Our flak 88s levelled their barrels and started firing back, and soon several of the thin skinned British armoured cars were boiling up.
The 109s were parked behind a protective wall of smashed Heinkels, Condors and transport trucks. Whether it was deliberate, or accidental, I didn’t care, I was grateful for the cover.
There were no fancy protocols this time. As soon as he was in, Mayer shoved his throttle forward. I did the same, trying to manage the machine and get my damned straps over my gut at the same time. Heavy MG fire smashed into the ground around us, and I saw a line of British tanks coming straight at us.
I can tell you, a takeoff like that is enough to make a man friedhofsblond! The entire airfield was ablaze as I pulled the gear up and looked behind me. We hadn’t got out a minute too soon.
The Crazy Leutnant was down there somewhere. Probably end up in a nice cosy prison camp eating canned ham and not getting shot at again for the rest of the war. Good luck to him.
I formed up on Mayer.
“Well, that was fun Herr Gruppenkommandeur,” I said, “I wonder what the weather is like in France?”
But he threw his machine onto its wing and I hurried to follow, “France be damned,” Mayer said, “Let’s make the Tommies pay for kicking us out of bed.”
Trouble was not hard to find. Just off the coast, a dogfight was already underway. And we didn’t have to go to meet it, it came to us.
“Fly my wing,” Mayer called, “Watch your fuel. We only have enough for about 5 minutes, then we’ll head for Peuplingues.”
He was still talking when a Hurricane flashed across my nose, and I fired.
But seriously. I have the reflexes of a sloth. I wasn’t even close. I forgot all about Mayer and went after the Hurricane. After all, Mayer was a big boy.
Luckily the Tommy was an even worse flyer than me, and he turned in front of me, so I got in behind him. This one was a real novice.
I fired again. I thought I had him lined up nicely.
Not a sausage. My rounds fell uselessly behind.
It was pathetic really. Here I was, virtually an ace, and I couldn’t even bring down a Hurricane piloted by a British halfwit?
I flipped, he flopped, he rolled, I fired. Bang. Something flashed on his wing. I must have hit his ammunition.
“Dammit katschmarek!” I heard Mayer yell, “I…need…some…help here. What are you doing man?”
I looked around, and sure enough, the Gruppenkommandeur had a Hurricane on his tail, banging away. It’s funny, isn’t it, how when your boss gets himself in trouble, suddenly it’s the minion’s problem? I mean, here I was having a lovely little dogfight of my own, but no, I had to break off and help him out as well. Oh well, that’s the job of a katschmarek, to make his boss look good. I broke off and nosed down after him.
They were too low and too fast for me to catch them quick enough, and the Hurricane got some hits on Mayer. Luckily, one of them must have knocked out his radio, because he stopped yelling at me.
The two of them were rolling and diving and turning. It made me quite sick. I actually felt the oatmeal from breakfast come up in my mouth a little. It was quite unpleasant. It was pointless trying to shoot.
But then the Hurricane wandered into my sights and I let him have it.
That should have hurt. But he kept flying. What were those things made of?
He should have quit. I would have. I would have jumped. Sure. You have a big ugly German fighter on your tail, throwing cannon shells at you, your machine is all chewed up, you should run for it, I say.
Finally, he showed what a dullie he was. He nosed up, maybe trying to loop me, and I nailed him right through the cockpit.
Should have quit when he had the chance.
I saw Mayer heading away from the fight. His machine was kaput. Thick white vapour trailing behind, no way he was getting back to France in that wreck. Oh well, spam and thin blankets in a POW camp for him too. That’s war.
Speaking of which… I looked quickly down at my fuel.
Not good. Time to head east.
No one bothered me on the way out. Looking down at the beach, I sure was glad I wasn’t in the Wehrmacht. Huddled in little wet holes being shot at from up on the Cliffs, and from destroyers out to sea at the same time, and waiting for what?
…for the navy we didn’t have anymore to rescue them? They should be giving up as well. Why don’t more people take the obvious route to survival? “We surrender!” How hard is that?
Like those SS lunatics in Canterbury. Last night, all night, we could hear the bombing in the North. The whole horizon was red, from east to west, and it wasn’t London. It was a firestorm in Canterbury. The British were carpet bombing their own city. At night, it burned...
In the morning, a recon pilot in a captured Tiger Moth had reported a pall of smoke hanging over smashed and still burning houses, nothing moved.
Who could do something like that to their own city? To their own people? It was like burning your house down to get rid of mice. Let the Germans camp there a few more weeks, what difference would it make? Eventually they would run out of ammunition, food and whiskey and start dreaming of canned ham and Red Cross packages. What was the rush? We could see the horizon dark with smoke this morning when we woke. If there was anyone left alive there now, British or German, they would be deaf and mad.
But I had problems of my own. My next problem was, which airfield was Peuplingues? Erpro 210 flew out of Calais Marck. I had never been on this side of Calais.
All these French fields looked the same! And there were three airfields right next to each other. Nightmare.
And my stomach was starting to growl. I looked at my map, and worked out I should be heading for the left hand airfield.
I had no idea what the Peuplingues radio frequency was, so I just circled a couple of times to give them time to get out of the way, and went in.
Another landing that reminded me why I hated Emils. Do you know how many good pilots those things have killed because they have this little narrow, proppy undercarriage that, if it doesn’t fling you into the air, will fold underneath you if you put the least bit of strain on it?
I took it in as gently as I could…
And bounced.
And settled.
The prop died almost as soon as I cleared the grass strip.
Fuel tank was bone dry.
When they saw it was one of their machines from England, the ground crew and some pilots from JG53 crowded around. They wanted to know how it was all going. The invasion and all that. Great! I told them. We’ll be in London by the weekend.
They didn’t fall for that. They started asking after all these guys, groundcrew, pilots that were over there - I didn’t know any of them - had they made it out? Was there anyone left behind? Maybe they landed at other airfields? It took me a while to realise I was the only 109 that had made it back from Hawkinge.
That was completely verrückt. 30 JG53 pilots go to England, and the only guy who makes it back, is a gunner from Erpro 210? What a war.
I asked if anyone had a sandwich.
THE END?