Folks,

We searched and searched but for some reason we could not find a single ant on the clothing in question. Obviously with nothing to bite the ants all cleared out. Confidentially, I suspect that any insects that bit Dux have staggered over to some dark corner and passed out cold. They'll have a nasty hangover tomorrow. Even without the evidence of thousands of tiny crushed and mangled bodies I still believe our pal, don't you?

So Dux has explained himself and more or less cleared the bermaid's good name. Nevertheless, she did not show up for work this afternoon. Pity. I guess we've lost another good one. While I type up the 'Female help wanted, clothing optional' advertisement for the local paper it is an excellent time to think of other things. Here then is an interesting story written from the German perspective by HeinzBaby.

Indianen
By HeinzBaby
HWH Continued
Page 67
Posted 5/10/04

Kurt glanced at his watch, the Staffel had been flying up the Channel for 20 minutes...the sun was just breaking. Ol' Rubens' has got us lost he thought to himself. The leadship waggled its wings, formation change echelon right, they surged on, like a flock of geese in winter skimming over the water .

Dungeness Lighthouse flashed pass, as one they rose majestically over the mainland, chalk cliffs to the left of them.

The morning sun threw an erie light over the patchwork landscape, casting long shadows, twinkling on the canopies and wingtips, "Its a beautiful part of the country" yelled Pauli, his gunner. "...Ja, it reminds me of when I was an exchange student at Canterbury, studing Agriculture, never thought I'd come back like this", Kurt chuckled, "thought you'd like that Paul..."

Another waggle and they swung Nor'east, climbing now to 2000 meters, Kurt could see the Dover Moles out on the right, Ramsgate a little further.

The Brylcream boys are never up this early? thought Syd picking up the drone of aero-engines. Sticking his head out the Kitchen window, he watched mortified as he saw machine after machine with black crosses sweep over, "Syd! Syd! - they be nasty Germans" yelled Flo, ''elp' bring in the washin'" she shrieked running out in a flap with a wicker basket over her head.

"Get under the staircast you daft woman!", making a running dive towards the closet, "they'ed better nowt hit the 'Crooked Kipper' or I'll murder them' ba$tards..."

"Wo ist die Royal Air force?"
"...They're only interested in our Stukas and Bomben Pauli".
...Ramsgate was not their Target, snug under the bellies of each machine hung a pair of SC HE bombs waiting to release their wrath.
Kurt's R/T crackled into life..
"Achtung, Manston ahead,

you know the drill, single pass with the bombs, one more with Mg and canonen then Home via Calais, Good hunting, ende"

Kurt eased the throttle back, sweeping his eyes over the instuments, sliding into a shallow dive lining himself up with the main Hangers.

Line abreast, The Zerstorers zoomed over the happless airfield unleashing their destruction.

Kurt pulled the bomb release,
Pauli watching it all, giving a running comentary "....bombs going in, one Hanger Hit, sagging, the other richocetted off the concrete into the field damn.."

They could hear the air raid siren now, flak started to open up, black smudges appearing, sporadic tracer fire started to track them around.

The Staffel gracefully wheeled back around like well rehearsed Ballet troupe, Kurt looked at the damage, thick smoke hung like a funeral pyre of Manston.
"Too easy Pauli, ...like clubbing baby seals.."

They came in again with guns hammering, sweeping the field, Bowsers went up, workshops, even the Red Fire tender didn't escape.

"Indianen!, low 5 o'clock"
Kurt strained around, looking.
Belately the RAF were responding, Like an angry swarm of bees he could see them rising from the hinterland.

A flak burst caught them near amidships, The 110 lurched skidding sideways, regaining control, Kurt swore, "They almost had us heh"

Looking down he scanned the instruments, oil, Temp, manifold, tach, not a scratch, she was responding magnificently, he brushed bits perspex from his lap and noticed for the first time some jagged holes in the side, wind whistling through.

"We'll be on the other side of the channel by the time the Hurricanes arrive Pauli".
His fingers felt sticky inside his glove, "Damn it, my new leather Jacket's been slashed, nothing serious", though he grimaced as he pushed the throttle forwards.

Other machines were doing the same, nobody wanted to be caught this low, black soot pouring from over rich mixtures from their exhaust stubs, some trailed white vapour, coolant hits.

I wonder how long the poor beggars will last... thought Kurt.
The Staffel dived down to wavetop height gaining precious speed, Ramsgate was left behind, Goodwin Lightship flashed past, the mainland many kilometers behind them.

"Pauli, wo sind die Indianen?"

"...I'm Hit" whispered Pauli

Craning his neck around, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the canopy sides shattered and splashed with blood, rivulets run horizonal by the slipstream.
Kurt swore to himself in shocked disbelief, his brain was racing,
"Hang in there alte knabe, we'll soon have you home chasing those pretty nurses around the hospltal beds" they both knew it was a lie.
"How bad is it?"
"Ich habe angst...too much blood"

Like Thieves in the night they had slipped in and wrought havoc, their target marked only by a faint pale of smoke in the distance.

Now fleeing into the morning sun, Pauli was bleeding to death, his life ebbing away and there was nothing Kurt could do...

The Raid had been a great success no machines were lost,
but for Kurt it had been very brutal, For Pauli, fatal.

That evening the BBC world service radio in a larconic statment said in part..
"... raids inflicted on the Southwest coast of England resulted in some minor damage, none of our pilots were lost.."

Footnote
EpGrp 210 initial strikes with 110's and 109's carrying bombs were quite novel and successful, though the RAF would not be caught out a second time. Rubensdorffer, the gruppe's CO would later meet his death over Kent in a fireball trying to land his crippled 110.