Impatience gets the better of me and I start shooting at rather long range.
The bomber starts jinking desperately. This makes shooting bit more tricky, but enables me to close the range a bit faster.
I can see that I'm getting hits with nearly every burst but rounds are whacking into my kite, too. Time to break off my attack.
The Junkers is trailing smoke as I bank hard right to get out of his line of fire.
Once safely out of range, I reverse my turn for another pass. But it won't be necessary! The crew are bailing out!
I check the time for my combat report and realise that in my haste, I haven't checked my tail since first fighting the Huns. Lucky there seem to be no escorts around!
The action's far from over, though. Looking around, I can see three Hurricanes chasing down a bomber.
I turn towards them and as I watch, the Hun goes down, the crew once again taking to their 'chutes.
I turn towards another bomber which looms up in my windscreen. I quickly realise he's coming nearly straight at me!
The Ju88 has gained a head start by the time I've come around after him, so I push up the revs again. Slightly right, I can see that another Hurricane is also chasing the Hun.
The other Hurri doesn't make a good job of cutting the corner and ends up in a tail chase. This gives me my chance, and I cut across and lay into the Ju88 with a series of short bursts. Fragments from the stricken Hun flash past me as I break away at the last minute.
I pull up vertically to get out of the way of return fire. The bomber is leaving a faint smoke trail from his starboard engine but otherwise, doesn't appear to be too badly bothered. At least the convoy seems also largely unscathed.
As I complete a wide circuit for another pass, I find the Hun is coming at me from the front again!
I can't get my guns onto him but have no difficulty reversing course and getting behind him.
The big Junkers starts jinking as I start shooting...
...then tips over into a right-handed turn, leaving my tracers tearing up the empty sky under his tail.
I hit him again, and he levels out...
...before jinking right again. By this time I'm really snapping at his heels. But just as I think he's all mine, my ammo runs out!
The Hun has plenty of holes in his wings and tail, but doesn't seem to have been hit anywhere important and the smoke trail looks to have petered out.
So there's nothing else for it, but to let him go, and make my own way home.
I think the same number of ships are afloat as when we arrived, so despite the rather late interception, we seem to have earned our crust; not to mention shooting down at least a couple of bombers, between us.
The R/T chatter has died down so I call the boys back and orbit for them to catch up. Soon, I'm leading three other Hurricanes back to North Weald.
Mission over, I'm delighted to find everyone is ok, despite damage to two other Hurricanes besides my own. And we're claiming no less that five Huns destroyed, including my victim!
If the Huns were relying on a small unescorted force of fast bombers being able to exploit the cloudy conditions, they've come rather badly unstuck! And Fifty-six has had a good day...although it's not over yet.
We've just about had time for breakfast when we're tasked to patrol in the area of Ramsgate. Which is actually on the coast, south of Margate, not where shown on the map below. Anyway, we know where we're going so that's not a problem. I've kept the 'reduced strength' option selected so for this phase of the Battle, where standing patrols were common even in 11 Group, we are not tying up the whole squadron.
It's not just a fluke - I'm definitely getting better at avoiding outrunning my flight-mates. According to the Hurricane Mk.I pilot notes reproduced in the Osprey 'Hurricane Pocket Manual', the recommended climbing speed is 170 MPH indicated (gradually reducing a tad over ten thousand feet) and at about this speed, once they have settled into formation, the boys keep up nicely.
As usual, I climb in steps towards our briefed height of between sixteen and seventeen thousand.
I decide that upon reaching the Thames Estuary, just ahead and right, I will cut out the dog-leg in our briefed route and fly straight to our patrol line.
That done, we're soon cutting across Kent, south of the Medway. I ease back to cruising revs and re-trim accordingly.
I'm fully prepared for this show to be a washout, so I'm pleasantly surprised when my first call to the Controller reveals he has some trade for us!
The only problem is that the raid is a couple of thousand feet higher, at eighteen thousand. Which I'm guessing means we're going up against fighters! Fair enough, Fifty-six will be ready and waiting for them. I open the throttle, turn slightly right onto the indicated vector, and begin to climb. The Huns are probably closing fast and I want to be above them when we meet.
Unless this is some sort of feint, it won't be long now.
A final check with the Controller shows we're now thirteen miles out and need to come a little to the right. I still haven't worked out whether the WotR vectors are - as I would guess - the relative bearing to the raid at the time they are given, or a bearing to a calculated interception point, taking account of the heading and or speed of the raid (which is how the control system worked, but would probably be very hard to implement). If the former, you ideally need to ask for several bearings over a period, to establish whether, and to which side, the raid is crossing your path. And 'aim off' accordingly, doing for yourself the calculation the real-life Controller would make for you.
There they are! Well, one of the boys sees them, just low and right. I can't yet see a dickey bird.
Now I see them, too! Two small groups of specks, one apparently spreading out and coming towards us, the other staying together and drifting out to out right, as if to outflank us while the others take us head-on. Wily devils, these WotR Huns.
The two closing formations come together quickly and explode in all directions. I come around onto the tail of one of the Huns, who are the usual yellow-nosed 109s. I'm acutely conscious of the R/T call for help from Red 2, but I can't see who's troubling him. Best I go for the Hun I can see, for now.
The 109 is himself closing on one of ours, who, in his turn, is chasing another 109! Anxious to scare off my target, I let fly with a deflection shot. A puff of smoke fast disappearing behind the Hun shows I'm getting some hits.
The 109 rolls over and goes down. I'm reluctant to leave the combat area to chase him and look around first. Up ahead is a pair of distant specks...
...but turning around to look for anything closer, I see a 109 in a shallow dive.
I give him a squirt and the Hun pulls up into me, then banks to my left. I chop the revs to reduce my momentum and start a sharpe left-hander after him. Round and round we go. The 109 is very fast, but after a few circles I'm on his tail and get in another burst. Down he goes like the last one, but this time, I roll after him immediately.
This Hun is determined not to be shot down and throws his kite all over the sky. The best I can manage is some brief high-deflection shots, with the 109 actually out of sight under my nose when I fire.. But after a minute or so of exhilarating dogfighting, I finally get onto his tail and let him have it.
The 109 seems suddenly to hang in the air, like he's thrown out an invisible sky anchor. He disappears on a cloud of smoke as I give him one last burst, before breaking off.
I didn't see the Hun pilot get out but he certainly tried. He should have jettisoned the canopy properly, though, including the rear section and radio mast, rather than opening it on its hinge.
It's not long before I find another victim, a 109 on his own who seems to be running for home. He doesn't appear to see me coming...
...but gets his wake-up call when I shoot off his starboard wingtip.
I've also mangled his motor, for by the time I'm behind him again for another crack, his prop is spinning to a halt.
I hold my fire but he glides on towards France. Daft as a brush, he must be. The Straits of Dover might be the narrowest point of the Channel, but he'll never make anything like twenty-one miles in a glide. I reckon I'm actually doing him a favour when, with another burst, I knock him down just off the coast, where he's got a good chance of being picked up.
The sight of the White Cliffs either side of Dover gives me a good reference point for my claim in the combat report.
A last look down reveals plane and parachute heading for the drink just a few hundred yards off shore.
The R/T chatter has died away so I call the boys to order and turn for home.
A couple show up but that doesn't mean the others have gone for a burton. In WotR, flight-mates don't have a magical ability to locate and reform on their leader after being scattered during an air fight. Afterwards, I discover that there has been a fair bit of shooting, but not much shooting down, apart from my own two claims. One pilot is slightly wounded and three Hurricanes hit, but we've had no loses.
Great stuff Lima,really enjoyed reading these..Some cracking screenies aswell pal.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
We're off again - and this time it's a scramble. A raid is threatening shipping in the Thames Estuary!
I'm quickly airborne...
...and come around in wide turn to the east, which takes me back past North Weald.
The raid's height is estimated at fourteen thousand feet so we've got a bit of fast climbing to do, over the fifty-odd miles we'll have to cover.
About half-way to the coast, I make my first check with the Controller. The Huns are still there, and are now nearly due east of us.
The last thing I want to be is lower than the raid when we meet, so rather than easing off to make sure the others can stay with me, I keep climbing hard.
Today, the boys seem to be rather bad at keeping up.
No matter, there'll be a chance for them to catch up, after I've put on a bit of height. I hope.
Another check with the Controller confirms we're still in business, and that I need to adjust course slightly, to the right.
We're still short of the coast and the raid's estimated to be nearly thirty miles away. It'll be touch and go whether we get them, before they get our ships!
At about fifteen thousand, I level off and ease back slightly on the revs, to allow the rest of the flight to catch up...
...which they soon do.
Another check with the Controller indicates the raid seems to be crossing ahead from right to left. and is now only seven miles away, at about twelve thousand.
I can see no sign of them, but one of the boys evidently has better eyesight. He reports them slightly left and low. They're pretty well directly over the line of shipping, although I don't notice at the time.
Turning in the direction indicated, there's no sign of the compact formation I was expecting - just a ragged line of straggling specks. From experience, I reckon they are bombers, splitting up as they usually do in WotR when attacking ships - the ones we've come to protect and which I know are nearby. It looks like we're late for the party!
I quickly order the flight to get stuck in, and they're soon turning in behind me.
Down below and out of sight, a stick of bombs narrowly misses a merchantman.
Oblivious to this, I chase after the nearest pair of Huns. I suspect they are making off after bombing, but they could be circling around to make their run. So after them I go.
Closing in, I can see that they are Dornier 17s. Even at this distance, the stubby wings, lack of dihedral and unaggressive behaviour distinguish them from Messerschmitt 110s.
I don't see any enemy fighters, so I test my aim with a couple of short bursts at long range and medium deflection.
I close in and start getting hits. Return fire comes back at me and I'm hit too. I'm hoping my target will break formation with the other Dornier - the fewer rear gunners I have to deal with, the better.
The leading Dornier is actually the first one to break. He goes left, his ventral gunner giving me a final dose of tracer.
I close right in on my target and rake him mercilessly. Just before I break off, I see his escape hatch droop, then I'm down and away.
The Dornier rolls over and drops like a stone, slowly rolling around his longitudinal axis. I don't see any 'chutes, but clearly the bomber is doomed.
From the R/T chatter, it's evident that the air fight is still in full swing, so it's time I got back into it.
Clearing my tail and looking around for another victim, I spot a distant aircraft making out to sea and turn to cut him off.
He turns out to be a solitary Dornier trying to make good his escape. He seems me coming and starts weaving in rather agile fashion for such a large aircraft.
I close in and start taking snap-shots when my sights are on, but have to stop when a Spitfire nips in ahead of me and lays into the Hun at point blank range.
Suddenly, the Spit collides with the Dorrnier! A large piece of airframe goes flying and the fighter tumbles crazily. It's a miracle that the pilot manages to bail out.
The bomber is also out of control and going down fast. Its crew doesn't seem to have been as fortunate - I see no 'chutes appear.
It's a sobering sight, but we're not done yet. There still seem to be Huns around here and there, but my own flight is re-forming.
This won't do! I point out some targets and tell them to get the finger out - and get stuck in again! No resting on laurels is permitted!
There’s a scattered but sizeable dogfight going on a mile or two away and I begin a turn towards it – Spits fighting bombers, or perhaps escorts. I reckon. Suddenly, a twin-finned aircraft detaches itself from the scrum and comes my way. Reversing my turn towards it, there’s a moment of alarm before I realise it’s an escaping Dornier, not an attacking Me110.
I turn after the Hun, but one of the Spitfires is on the job before I can get close enough for a shot.
Next second, another Dornier is chased across my nose by a Hurricane. Fair enough, that’s exactly what I had just ordered the boys to do.
Yet another Dornier slides into my view from the right, so I turn my attention onto him, instead.
I get off a few bursts at if not into him, and take more hits from return fire. Oil splashes onto my windscreen. This isn’t going terribly well!
After a few more bursts, the bomber stops jinking and I think I’ve got him. But then my guns fall silent as my ammo finally runs out. I really ought to resist the temptation to test my aim at long range and save it for when I’m in close. Easy to say, but not so easy to do, when they’re shooting at you and the urge to press the trigger is strong.
Time to go home! I ease off on the throttle, circle around to get my bearings, and settle onto a westerly course. I can’t see land, but I know that’s where it lies. I don’t bother calling off the pack – the lads might as well keep at it, until they too have expended their ammo.
What I can see is that while my oil and water temps are fine, the oil pressure is right down of the bottom of the vertical yellow scale. That can’t be good.
Up ahead, I can now see the coast through a gap in the clouds. A check on the map confirms I’m on course for the nearest airfield. Will I make it?
The rather brutal answer to my unspoken question 'Will I make it to the nearest airfield?' is soon revealed to be ‘No’. I hear, see and feel the power draining out of my engine. Then the prop spins to a stop and locks up.
Well, that’s settled, then. I have more than enough height to make a forced landing rather than having to ditch, but I’m going to bail out. Not for me coming down amongst those deadly WotR fences. The latter, incidentally, you can rationalise as a representing rather effectively the obstacles put down in many open spaces in the south-east of England in 1940, to deter the arrival of gliders and air-landed troops (whether or not dressed as Nuns). Which obstacles were more of a menace to force-landing RAF aircraft than anything else. Anyway, I've got a bit of time yet, and I'd rather not get my virtual feet wet, if I can possibly help it.
Crikey! Flames suddenly erupt from my Hurricane ahead of the cockpit, where a fuel tank lies between engine and instrument panel. No time to worry about whether I’ve reached dry land – it’s time to get out, double-quick!
I fumble for the right keystroke, find it, and away I go, the ‘chute opening almost at once. That was downright scary!
The abandoned Hurricane glides down straight ahead. The flames go out, but flare up again just before she hits the deck and blows up. I’m just glad I'm not still in the cockpit.
We’ve actually had quite a good time of it, with six Dorniers claimed, including my own. I’m uninjured despite the fire – keeping goggles down and oxygen mask up is healthy, in such eventualities. But thank goodness there weren’t any escorts!
Ideally, if you’ve got them, you’d want the option to take twelve aircraft, if responding to an order to scramble (referred to as an ‘Interception Patrol’), and six for a standing patrol (eg over a convoy). At the minute, you have to make that choice globally in advance, in Workshops. For the ‘convoys’ phase, where standing patrols were common, in the name of realism I’ll continue with the ‘reduced strength’ option, and take my chances. I hope not to regret that decision!
That was close Mate! Oil or petrol must have been spewing on those hot exhaust manifolds and erupted in flames. Glad you got out old bean! Saved your hide to fight another day. Your lass will be a bit worse for the wear, but there are more where that one came from chappy. Bend the Adjutants ear when you get home and convince him to have MU No. 5 whip up another Hurricane for you and send her over on the double! Those Jerries won't wait for you Mate, so hop to it!!!
Just so long as my replacement kite is not one of those clapped-out 'L' series jobs with the wooden prop and fabric-covered wings - certain published pictures seem to suggest that's all they've got left!
We're not long back from the last show, when six of us are tasked to patrol the area of the Chain Home RDF Station at Swingate, near Dover.
It's not long before we're off...
...and climbing to sixteen thousand on a direct course to the south-east.
There's a certain amount of cloud around, but it's localised and most of it, below us by the time we're at altitude.
A first check with the Controller indicates the skies around us are clear, at least of Huns.
Dover is soon coming up on our right...
...and we slip past it and out over the Channel.
There's still nothing doing, so I lead the patrol around in a wide orbit to the right, which takes us towards the White Cliffs between Dover and Folkestone.
I'm about half-way around the circle I'm flying when a precautionary call to the Controller reveals the Huns are coming in behind us, twenty-odd miles back.
Round I go. Settled onto a southerly course, I make another check. Yes, the raid is still up ahead and the range is falling steadily. We're in business!
Suddenly, while I'm waiting for the others to reform after my hasty turn towards the raid, the situation goes very badly wrong. Red 2 reports he's bailing out. An aircraft which can only be a Hurricane is going down behind a pillar of dark smoke. Next to the smoke trail, another aircraft is spinning down and a parachute is hanging in the sky.
It's worse than that, because a third Hurricane has turned away and is making for home; a fourth is no-where to be seen. Just a single aircraft is now closing in on me, from what seconds ago was a flight of six.
With perfect timing, the Huns now show up. Even better, from their behaviour, they're obviously fighters, about a dozen of them. Most carry on together, but about four split off and start cutting across to my right. If I run for it, we'll just be chased down. So I turn into them, ordering my surviving flight mate to attack also.
They're 109s and the ones who split off are racing across our front, as if in a pincer movement. They are keeping their distance for now so in an effort to be unpredictable, I swing left after the main group, hoping to scatter them then get away in the confusion.
I'm half-way there when one of the Huns who split off catches me. Rounds whack into my kite and I pull hard back on the stick and start rolling right, to get out of the line of fire. I feel exactly like someone who's in the course of being shot down, caught dead to rights.
Next second. there's a bang and my Hurricane lurches horribly. The silly b*gger's run into me!
The controls no longer answer and my stricken machine, less its port wing, noses rapidly down into a near-vertical dive, rolling rapidly and belching flame.
Secondary explosions ravage the doomed Hurricane. The canopy won't open, and I can't bail out. The reason's not hard to see. I should have gone home when my flight decided to wipe itself out!
So ended the operational career of Flight Lieutenant Richard Kennedy, AFC. Six confirmed victories from seven sorties wasn't a bad innings, even though it was a very short one.
That mustache! Oh, the tragedy of it all! I think he was trying to copy his pilots wings with his mustache, except upside down! Oh for the Love of Pete Ivor, how could you man? I think he would have matched up well with a Corsair later in the War. I mean that mustache and the gull wing, they would have made a perfect team and the Axis anywhere in the world would have turned tail at first sight of them and run for the hills! Sorry for your loss Sir. For all of our loses actually, I mean that is a once in a generation mustache! S!Blade<><
I Gruppe Jagdgeschwader 26, Audembert, 26 July 1940
Resuming my paused Luftwaffe career finds me tasked to lead four aircraft on a fighter sweep over the Thames Estuary, to support the inevitable anti-shipping operations. I only remembered after flying this mission that I had left 'Reduced flight strength' turned on. Not that we would have had many more planes in the air otherwise, after the debacle in the last mission, when most of the flight were lost in dubious circumstances.
A change of skin goes awry when, for the second time, I mis-read the label and pick yellow 6 of JG2. I'll let the Richthofen Geschwader have their aircraft back later...if I manage to bring it back in one piece.
Our briefed height is 4-5,000 metres and we're over half way there by the time the White Cliffs are looming up ahead in the slightly hazy conditions.
As usual, in the Ramsgate-Manston area, we come in for some attention from the local flak people.
Taking no chances, I've brought a full tank of fuel for the ride and a quick check confirms I still have plenty left.
About half-way out over the Thames Estuary, we fly over a line of ships...
...which a few minutes later have been sunk, all apart from one!
That's all I saw of the bombing raid, but at least there was one. What I see next is a group of distant aircraft up ahead, buzzing about angrily. They're clearly not bombers - the RAF has arrived!
I must have been in the external view and had onscreen text turned off, to miss the warning from the boys - you only hear radio messages while in the cockpit view, something I wish would be changed, so you could hear in radio traffic in the external view as well, and didn't have to rely on leaving the 'gamey' text display turned on.
I order the newcomers attacked, after briefly turning on the Tactical Display and selecting one of them as a target. Which incidentally confirms that they are indeed enemies. It’s a bit artificial, not being able accidentally to order a ‘Blue on Blue’ as at the Battle of Barking Creek in 1939. But I suppose it compensates for the limitations of MonitorVision.
After a moment’s hesitation I turn right and transfer my attentions to a single fighter which is heading away from the pack.
He’s moving very fast, and can only be a Spitfire, I feel certain. I apply full combat power in short bursts but am barely catching up, until he begins a gentle right turn and I’m able to cut the corner. I place his silhouette to the left of my windscreen and adjust my own turn till he’s not moving left or right, just getting bigger – setting up the 'Tizzy angle’ as it was called in Fighter Command lore, according to 'Notes on Gunnery and Air Fighting' (1943), reproduced in the RAF Museum handbook 'Fighting in the Air'.
The Tommy levels out again and I’m forced back into a tail chase. But I've gained a lot of ground in the turn and another few seconds of full power bring me into range. I let fly with all weapons…
…and get many hits. A Spitfire wingtip flies past, and its owner rolls right and starts to lose speed and height.
I break away and come around in a wide turn to clear my tail and set up another pass. The Spit is now going down in a gentle right-hand turn, still flying more slowly.
I get more hits and the Spit levels out, giving me a nice, easy no-deflection shot to finish him off.
Or maybe it's to present me with an armour-plated arse. I throttle back, park myself right behind him and let rip again. Still, not much happens. I would have expected better results from cannon fire, but perhaps this is why a motor cannon beats two in the wings, if you're this close, or not a great shot.
Finally, down he goes. He soaked up all of my 2 cm rounds - and a fair number of the 7.92 variety, to boot.
Slightly taken aback but still game, I look around for any more Spit-panzers.