Note: This story is the conclusion to the story arc I began with “Turkey Shoots” (http://www.SimHQ.com/forum/ubbthreads.php?ubb=showflat&Board=75&Number=1717801&Searchpage=1&Main=196294&Words=+Falcon988&topic=0&Search=true#Post1717801) and continued with “The Blitz Begins” (http://www.SimHQ.com/forum/ubbthreads.php?ubb=showflat&Board=75&Number=1717816&Searchpage=1&Main=196294&Words=+Falcon988&topic=0&Search=true#Post1717816) over two years ago. The stories are all entirely based upon events in Rowan’s Battle of Britain’s campaign.
BATTLE OF BRITAIN DAY
Kenneth and Howard, the two pilots reported missing in action on 7 September, were officially designated killed in action after their remains were discovered in London. Howard I’m told was identified only by the serial number on his Hurricane but Kenneth’s body was more or less intact inside his cockpit, with the exception of his spinal cord and vertebrate. Their wrecks join the dozens, if not hundreds of other wrecks littering London proper, its suburbs, or its outskirts. We’ve been having a busy time in the air you see.
I may have believed that the action on 7 September was the fiercest I’d ever seen but it was outclassed by the scrap we had on the 9th. Once again every available squadron in the Royal Air Force met the enemy and my squadron became entangled with 109’s before we could ever reach the bombers. Supposedly it’s the job of the Spitfires to distract the fighter escorts but there’s not enough of them and the engagements are not coordinated enough to designate targets so precisely. One of squadron’s rising stars who’d joined up in August died on the 9th and we lost two other Hurricanes.
10 September marked a lull in our war, which we filled with sleep. At least the boys did, me and O’Connell (my XO and likely the closest thing I have to a friend here) spent the day overseeing the repair of our planes and the arrival of some new ones with new pilots to go with them. By new I mean a few weeks of basic flight and no combat training. We intended to keep them on the ground as long as possible to train them as much as possible before sending them against Luftwaffe.
Upon hearing these plans one of the other “old hands”, actually a 19 year old kid, cracked. He demanded that O’Connell take him off the flight roster, citing the true fact that he’d been on the line for weeks with no rest and that it simply wasn’t fair to force him to go out once again instead of a “rookie” who had never been up in his life. I involved myself in the exchange and the young man spewed some heated works, the kind that would get him thrown out of the military in peace time. I understood what he was going through. He refused to fly one more mission but backed down after I threatened to have him charged with “cowardice in the face of the enemy”, whatever the hell that means. O’Connell advised me to scrap him, he said that a man that far gone was no use to anyone anymore. However, scrapping him would mean sending one of the rookies up against the 109’s and I am sick to death of that. O’Connell relented but I told him we would pick up the conversation again the next day. The following morning he died.
One thousand Luftwaffe planes were hurtling toward London when we got the scramble call. I took the squadron up, rookie free, and we’d gained sufficient altitude for once when we spotted the enemy. Once again the entire Royal Air Force threw itself into the fire. After getting separated I linked up with O’Connell directly above a formation of thirty Heinkels, in about the mid point of the entire formation. At this point the sky was a mess of swirling aircraft, with RAF fighters and German escorts weaving between the massive bombers, and below London was already burning. I led O’Connell into an attack on the enemy bombers, almost directly down, in a near perfect attack. Not perfect enough. Return fire from the bomber formation struck O’Connell’s Hurricane and he sliced through the fuselage of a Heinkel, sending them both to London in a tangled burning mess. I suppose I’ll never know if he was killed by those bullets, or if he purposefully collided knowing his plane was doomed, or if it was a freak accident. Five other Hurricanes and three other pilots from my squadron, all veterans, failed to return on the 11th.
The overwhelming exhaustion and weight of the events were such that I felt on the verge of a complete breakdown. I’d loss count of how many actions I’d seen, how many squad mates had died, and I no longer kept count of how many Germans I killed. Last I remember I was up to six but that was a while before. “Combat exhaustion” and “post-traumatic stress” didn’t exist then on any official basis. I’d been war weary since I saw all my friends die over Dover in July, but the state I was found myself in mid September 1940 was something far worse. The war permeated every aspect of my life. The image of O’Connell’s plane hitting that bomber nose first, crushing my friends body and pulverizing the German crew began to haunt me during my sleep, along with the rookie burning alive in his cockpit as his plane slowly inverted itself belching smoke and fire to begin its long fall to earth… there was not a single instance in the 24 hour cycle when I was able to rest.
The 12th, 13th, and 14th passed in this way. Due to aircraft casualties we saw no action as we were not capable of forming a full complement. The only major attack came on the 13th. I sat on the strip of the aerodrome we shared with some units from 12 Group, the aerodrome we’d moved into weeks before after Hornchurch was bombed to bits, and we’d moved to Hornchurch after Hawking was bombed to bits. For me, and I suspect the rest of the squadron, our squadron’s stand down was much needed. Fresh aircraft arrived on the 13th, even while our comrades were dying over London to the south. The man in charge of the delivery said that the Luftwaffe had taken the pressure off our factories and aerodromes to hit London and so “things are looking up”. I had to restrain myself from berating him.
15 September. Dawn breaks and I wake up the men… I find them already awake and on edge. There’s a flap on today, we all know it. The Luftwaffe have been mounting huge raids every other day, and today is the other day. 10 Group, 12 Group, and we the remnants of 11 Group now being housed in 12 Group aerodromes, are all put on two minute standby. Today the scramble plan is different, instead of blazing off to our death’s were to form with the other squadrons at the ‘drome into a formation of 36 aircraft nicknamed “The Big Wing”. Perhaps Park and Dowding have finally seen the advantage given to the Luftwaffe by their formation flying?
Without warning, as usual, the scramble order comes down. It’s on. We roar across the grass, into the air, and link up with two other squadrons. Then we’re off south once again. As we fly through the clouds and over London I’m happy to see the enemy hasn’t arrived yet. It seems our radar has really alerted us ahead of time. A quick look around brings a sight to my eyes which I’ve yet seen in this war… a mass formation of our aircraft flying over London. We fly south, gaining altitude.
“Goose leader, tally-ho. Bandits ahead!” comes the call from one of the other squadron leaders in our Big Wing.
“Bandits, bandits, bandits! Red Leader, I have visual!”, this time the voice from one of my own pilots, and I recognize it as belonging to the kid who’d refused to fly anymore just a few days earlier.
Instinct takes over and the dread of the last few days melts away. I look around. The sight of not only my Big Wing formation around me, but hundreds of Royal Air Force fighters all around as well, fills me with a confidence I’d forgotten long ago. I radio in “All squadrons, prepare for attack. Watch out for the fighter escorts!”
As we approach the German formations at high speeds, I already see the weaving fighters within the bomber formations and realize that the Germans have already been engaged by other RAF squadrons. As we continue to close distance, I imagine what me and the squadrons around me must look like to the German crews just ahead. And then I realize: if the German escorts have already been distracted, our Big Wings are about to have the German bombers all to ourselves.
The distance to the enemy becomes close, I pick a target, and start firing. Around me I can see other RAF fighters doing the same. We go head to head with the bombers and I feel as though I can visibly see the Heinkel’s or Junker’s or whatever the hell they are shaking with fear as their pilots drift out of formation fearing head on collisions. One bomber drops out of formation and falls to earth. Another. I take careful aim at my target and fire another burst, clearly seeing sparks around the front part of his fuselage. His neighbor bomber in the formation bursts into flames. My target belches smoke. Then I’m flying through the formation at incredible speeds, look behind me, and see a Hurricane’s wing and a Heinkel’s wing hit each other. No time to see what happens though, as a second bomber formation is straight ahead. Bombers are already falling to earth in it, some on fire. “Red Leader, we’re in a turkey shoot here!” someone calls. I shoot my way through the second formation, who knows if I hit anything, perform an immelman, and level myself out facing the rear of the bombers.
Where are the escorts? They’re nowhere to be seen. As I level my Hurricane out I see a Junker falling to earth just to my right, streaming flames, and I look up to see another formation under heavy attack by our fighters. Looking at the formation of bombers directly ahead I spot one drifter belching smoke and turn to the attack. I swoop in below him then direct my airplane upwards, firing and watching my .303’s walk a path up the bottom of his fuselage. The bomber veers off and heads down. Up ahead the rest of the formation is succumbing to our fighters. Up beyond that the formation we’d hit with the head on pass seems to have been completely wiped out.
I turn back and head for the tail end of the massive formation. At each and every juncture the bomber formations are facing fierce and truly unprecedented attacks from RAF fighters. The Germans are falling like flies everywhere. Up ahead now, at the end of the formation, I see a group of fighters flying down to attack our own fighters who are attacking a formation of bombers and know these to be 109’s. I call the warning and go full throttle to assist.
Heading towards the bomber formation I squeeze off a few shots for good measure at a bomber, before sliding onto the tail of a 109 who is in turn on the tail of a Spitfire. I open fire and he veers away, I follow and we go below the clouds. Down here there is a swirling melee and I realize that the German escorts have been down here all along. Following the 109 all the way to the deck, losing myself to the chase, I finally manage a hit and he crashes. At this point I realize we’re over London. Above, between the clear patches of cloud, I see the bombers and around them I see contrails approaching, realizing that more of our fighters are on the way to hit the already ravaged enemy formations. And I realize that, even if I die in the next few seconds, this is truly an amazing day for us.
Machine gun bullets pepper my fighter and I hear the engine cough. There’s little I can do, and I’m so low I fear bailing out. Not only because I would die long before my chute opened, but also because my plane might well crash into some poor bloke’s house. Can’t have that. I struggle to maintain control of the plane, unable to take evasive action, and wait for the killing blow. A part of me welcomes it.
But it never materializes and I never know why. Perhaps my unseen enemy had been chased off by a Spitfire, or lost interest. Who knows. I’m belching oil and I’m fearing a fire. I might welcome being killed by cannons or in an explosion, but burning to death like that kid over Southampton who never even unpacked his bags…I’ve never made a landing anywhere but an airfield but I have no choice now but to try.
I pick a somewhat flat looking field just outside of London, extend the landing gear, extend the flaps, glide across the grass, watch my airspeed drop to zero, and struggle to maintain control of the stricken aircraft to keep the wings from hitting first. The impact when it comes is hard, a bit too hard, but the wheels don’t tear off and eventually I’m able to brake myself to a stop.
Climbing out of the cockpit I hop onto the grass and inspect the damage to my plane. Many holes line the fuselage as I suspected. There’s not much for me to do anymore though. I climb onto the wing of the fighter, light a cigarette, and gaze at London as it burns. Above I can still make out the bomber formations, and I can still see even more contrails approaching them, fresh squadrons racing to hit the Germans where I’d left off.
Eventually a crowd comes by to check on me. They’re rather cheerful, saying that some 200 German aircraft had been blown out of the sky at a loss of “only” 35 RAF. Back at the aerodrome the pilots are less jubilant. We’d lost two of our own again, and I’m informed that one of the dead was the very pilot who’d argued with O’Connell and I, who had practically begged us to let him off the flight roster. Six of our planes, including mine, are damaged so we’ll be off the line for a few days again. The fighter escorts had reappeared at some point and hit my boys pretty hard, but they distracted the enemy enough for reinforcing squadrons to continue hammering the bombers.
I didn’t really know it then but that was the day everything changed for us.
