Weltkriegschaft

Chapter III: Part VI

Chapter III: The Lion’s Den

Part VI

June 29, 1936

“Pilots! Takeoff at 1500 will be followed by rendezvous with Gruppen I and III at 1515 over Point 4, which is in Sector 88 on your maps. The entire JG will then proceed for 13 kilometers to Point 5 at bearing 301. At this moment, Gruppen I and III will break off toward their own objectives. You, however, will drop to an altitude of 300 meters at Point 5 and immediately commence your attack pattern over the target -- the RAF station at Kenley. Staffel 4 will attack first, with particular emphasis on destroying any parked aircraft in the open before they can take off. Staffel 4 will then increase altitude, exchanging places with Staffel 5, which will seek to render the runways unusable. Staffel 5 will then exchange places with Staffel 6, which will destroy the hangars and buildings. All three Staffeln will then climb to 500 meters and proceed to Point 10. Gruppen I and III will meet you there, proceeding to the Channel coast together and dispersing at Point 11. Before nightfall, Gruppe II will be back on the ground here in Bazinghen.”

A rumble of chatter broke out among the Luftwaffe pilots gathered in the briefing room.

The man who had been giving the briefing, Gruppenkommandeur Major Gottlob Müller, rapped his pointer against the large map of Britain and northern France that hung from the wall. The chatter subsided.

“Questions?”

A lieutenant stood, and Müller acknowledged him. “Expected resistance, Herr Major?”

“Moderate but energetic. Because of losses, many units are without their best pilots, but as you have seen over the past two weeks, their replacements are still quite capable.”

Now it was a captain who stood: the Staffelkapitän of Staffel 6. The major nodded. “Anti-aircraft fire? Has there been any reduction?”

“I am afraid you will have to find out this evening. The two raids last week seemed only partially successful, so significant anti-aircraft artillery may or may not remain.”

There was a long pause. Heads craned to see if anyone else was going to ask a question.

“Very good. You are dismissed to your Staffel briefings. Good luck.”

The pilots rose to their feet, Herbert Ihlefeld among them. He made his way out of the briefing room via the corridor leading to the smaller room used by the ten men of his Staffel.

The Staffelkapitän was already inside, gathering the flightsuited pilots around the room’s small table. Hauptmann Heinrich Troll was Gruppe II’s other ace with eight kills to Ihlefeld’s thirteen. The two men enjoyed a friendly rivalry, with Troll always quick to remind him that if one counted only streaks of kills scored before being shot down, he was ahead eight to four. Unteroffizier Ewert was the last man into the room and shut the door.

“This is it.” Troll rubbed his hands together. “Since the beginning of June, we have destroyed more than three hundred enemy aircraft. Staffel 4 is responsible for twenty of those kills. Though these numbers are far lower than May and April, this is because the enemy planes are getting harder to find. You all remember the big headline in the VB last month: “1000 Kills”, yes?”

The pilots muttered in the affirmative.

“They tell me that turned out to be rather over -- rather, ahm, enthusiastic. But the good news is that this month’s totals now bring us almost two hundred over that mark. The British have virtually no bombers left to throw at us, so next month more planes will be joining us in going fully on the offensive. The number given this morning was 599 total operational combat aircraft, of which 378 are already operating in the Channel area. Intelligence estimates that Air Defense of Great Britain, which you probably know of as ADGB, has about 150 working fighters left to protect British airspace. General Göring believes that the balance has now tipped just enough for us to mount regular raids targeting the fighters specifically. This is to be the first such raid. We’ll be hitting an aerodrome called RAF Kenley, just south of London. Gruppen I and III will go there with us to punch through any fighter resistance, which may be encountered anywhere from the Channel or along the coast to directly over the target. Gruppe I will head east at the break-off point to attack RAF Biggin Hill and Gruppe III at bearing 030 to attack RAF Hornchurch. Meanwhile, we’ll be the first in Gruppe II to attack RAF Kenley. It’s our task to prevent any of the fighters there from taking off. We’ll drop our bombs on the planes out in the open, strafe those that are not destroyed and then circle above the objective until the rest of Gruppe II is finished. We then turn south like birds in winter and and make for Point 10. The rest of the JG meets us, and we head for France together. Is everything clear?”

It was.

“Good. My Schwarm will take first position. Ihlefeld’s second. Kott’s third. Stay together and remember to use your ammunition wisely. Victory?”

As one: “Victory.”


Men of Staffel 4 discussing the upcoming raid on RAF Kenley.


They filed out of the room, down the corridor and out a door into the late afternoon sunlight. It was a short walk to the waiting planes, which were parked on the grass, armed and ready. Two 50kg bombs hung under each aircraft.


Arado Ar 68s waiting for pilots at Bazinghen.


Ihlefeld found his own and climbed into the cockpit. This was his fifth Ar 68 -- received after being shot down in two, ramming a French bomber with another, and most recently crash-landing his fourth after being rammed by a British Hart Fighter over Calais. The preflight checks showed everything in working order, and he started the engine. The two-bladed propeller was soon a blur, and he now waited his turn to take off.

Perhaps the worst part of any mission, Ihlefeld judged. The waiting. He could feel the nerves crawling up his throat, but knew they would pass as soon as he opened the throttle. Unconsciously, he played his fingers over his Erkennungsmarke -- the identification tags all German soldiers wore. After several minutes, the time came. He brought the sturdy biplane onto the runway and increased power. Before he knew it he was airborne, soon joined by Ewert -- and Luck, who had replaced Krampski.

The plane handled differently with the bombs loaded, but not dramatically so. Because German bombers were in very short supply, most bombing missions in Britain were being performed by the Ar 68s, which had the advantage of speed but were designed as fighters and could carry pitifully small payloads.


Herbert Ihlefeld flying a sortie over Britain, June 1936.


At last, the whole Staffel came together. Troll led them in a wide arc around the airfield, giving Staffeln 5 and 6 time to come into formation. When they had, Staffel 4 took the lead position, and the 29 planes of Gruppe II made their way northward at 500 meters. Bazinghen receded into the the distance and soon they were midway across the Channel. There was no sign of British fighter patrols.

Troll’s wings wobbled to signal that they had reached Point 3.

Now, the pale English coast passed beneath them. Small country parishes and patches of farms were all that could be seen on the ground. Black shapes, like tiny clouds, began to appear in the air all around Gruppe II.

Flak.

The fire was inaccurate, though, and had ceased by the time Troll signaled Point 4. Perhaps the earlier raids hurt them more seriously than Troll believes they did.

The great dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral was now clearly visible in the distance. So too were Gruppen I and III. They were coming out of the southwest, at first appearing like two flocks of birds. Troll brought Gruppe II around in a circle to give them time to catch up. They were late.


British anti-aircraft defenses were beefed up during the month of June, but were ill-equipped to target the fast German fighters.


Soon, though, all three formations were together. More than a hundred planes all turned together to bearing 301. Almost immediately, he saw several flights of enemy biplanes surging up from the suburbs of London toward the Germans. Planes from Gruppe I engaged them, forcing several down in a running battle that lasted all the way to Point 5. Below, Ihlefeld could see two paved runways making the shape of an X, surrounded by hangars and wooden buildings. Gruppe II descended to 300 meters as the other two Gruppen broke off toward their respective targets.

A few dark puffs of smoke bloomed between the German planes. More Flak.

Now a bright string of shells, like yellow beads, was snaking up toward them from part of a ring of batteries around the airfield. Ihlefeld saw one of the planes in Staffel 6 get hit and plunge sharply downward. The pilot had probably been killed or badly wounded. Troll signaled, and the three Schwärme dropped even lower, on their attack run. Ihlefeld armed his bombs and released both over two large transports sitting next to each other just off the edge of the runway. He was too focused on controlling his descent to see whether had they hit.


Gloster Gauntlets of No. 46 Squadron waiting to be scrambled, RAF Kenley.


Ihlefeld pulled up in time to bring a long row of parked Gauntlets into his sights. He held down the trigger, and bright tracers tore into each of the planes in turn. Bits of debris were thrown into the air almost as high as his own plane. He broke off and started a wide turn around the airfield just as he heard Ewert open fire on whatever remained of the helpless aircraft.

Several of the Gauntlets had pilots who were trying to scramble into the air. One of them was shot to ruin while taxiing, and another lost a wing just as it got airborne and crashed back to the ground in a blazing heap. The gunfire was getting intense now -- even over the roar of his engine, Ihlefeld could hear the air hissing with bullets and anti-aircraft shells. A flash. Another Gauntlet sat burning on the runway as a dark red ball of fire blossomed from it.

Ihlefeld continued his turn, and began to shout uselessly for Ewert. A whole line of Gauntlets had been parked in the trees and was gathering speed across the open ground just past one of the runways. He couldn’t get the proper angle to shoot them, so kept turning. By the time he made his second revolution over Kenley, the air had become disordered tangle of British and German planes, spitting tracers wildly.


Nine Gauntlets parked out of sight managed to take off under fire, inflicting several losses on the German fighters.


Three sharp clinks told him that bullets were hitting the Ar 68’s underside. He climbed slightly and the hits stopped. Ground fire.

Ihlefeld looked back. Ewert and Luck had pulled up and were back on his tail. He motioned to them to spread out, but both signaled back that there was not enough room.

They were heading east, back over the center of the airfield now, coming out of the sinking western sun. Scanning the aerial mêlée, Ihlefeld picked out a single Bulldog and fixed his eyes upon it. The action was so confused and the the smoke and tracers so thick that he almost lost sight of it several times, but gradually drew up closer to it. The RAF pilot was good. He wove skillfully through the cloud of fighters -- twisting, rolling and plunging among his opponents.

The Bulldog’s silhouette had somehow changed. Lights winked behind the propeller. Ihlefeld reflexively forced the stick as far down as it would go. The enemy plane was racing toward him -- surely there would be a collision. The Ar 68 bucked as bullets slammed into its engine block. Ihlefeld’s instincts overwhelmed him and he ducked low beneath the windscreen. He felt the rush and the roar of the Bulldog scarcely a meter above his head. Ewert was right behind him and never saw it coming. His Ar 68 collided with the Bulldog in an explosion that rocked Ihlefeld in his seat.

Ihlefeld sat up, looking back over his shoulder to see Luck’s plane missing both left wings, corkscrewing downward like a broken toy. He had been following Ewert too closely. Ihlefeld felt his face growing hot with grief and anger. He bit his tongue to suppress tears and keep his vision clear.

By now the battle was breaking up, as individual pairs of British and German pilots ranged out over the countryside carrying on their private duels. Here and there, the Luftwaffe had maintained cohesion, but formation had been fundamentally lost. At least parts of Staffeln 5 and 6 had made their attack runs though, he could see. Both runways were cratered and strewn with wrecked and charred planes. Though a control tower and a few hangars remained intact, several other wooden structures were ablaze. A few spurts of anti-aircraft fire shot up whenever the gunners could pick a lone German plane out of the confusion.

He made one more wide pass from the west. He saw a damaged Bulldog down in a meadow to the south of the airbase. The pilot was struggling to free himself from the wreckage. Ihlefeld aimed his aircraft downward and pressed the trigger. Twin ropes of sod spat out of the ground, obscuring the mangled plane. He let the dust clear for a moment. The pilot was struggling on the ground. Another burst the plane was consumed by a vibrant yellow fireball. Ihlefeld howled at the sight, but there were no words.

In the air over Kenley, Gruppe II was beginning to reform. Ihlefeld fell into formation behind Oberleutnant Kott’s Schwarm. As the din of firing faded, he noticed something wrong with the sound of his engine. He checked the gauges. They seemed fine.

Banking southward with Kott, Ihlefeld turned his head around for one last look. RAF Kenley was a scene of battered devastation. Thick plumes of black smoke rose from the blazing gasoline tanks, and at the center of the pockmarked runways, several Gauntlets still burned.

Troll and his wingman pulled up from below to meet him. Ihlefeld made eye contact and shouted. “Theirs?”

The Staffelkapitän held up a gloved had and flashed five fingers twice and pointed upward. Then five fingers three times followed by two fingers and a point downward. Ten in the air, seventeen on the ground.

“Ours?”

Troll had taken the count. Five fingers once, then two fingers. Seven.

He must have seen that two of them were Ihlefeld’s wingmen, but didn’t comment. He felt the urge to cry out at the captain. Then again how could he have said anything? What could he say in the air? Throbbing guilt hit him. He should never have let them get into that position. It was his fault. He was responsible.

Troll climbed, bringing Gruppe II to 500 meters. At last they reached Point 10. Gruppen I and III appeared out of the north, missing several planes each as well. As a single formation, the mass of Germans was breaking for the coast. Ihlefeld prayed for no more fighting. No more fighters. No more flak.

The motion in the tachymeter drew his gaze. He was losing RPMs. More strange sounds from the engine. Ihlefeld remembered taking hits to the engine the moment before... Again he was blinded by remorse. Ewert.

They had been friends. He would never again see German soil. On the horizon, the Channel came into view.

The tortured engine was clanking laboriously. Just a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer.

A wrenching grind told Ihlefeld that it would not be so. The propeller came to a stop and the Ar 68 began losing altitude immediately.

He tried to trade altitude for airspeed, but found himself quickly losing control of the plane. The patchy countryside was getting clearer and clearer -- deep green forests and farm fields stained red by the sunset.

He made a last attempt to right the aircraft, but it barely helped. The Ar 68 -- and now he himself -- were powerless.

There was nothing more that he could do. He was going down far too steeply, the ground coming up far too fast. Ihlefeld clamped his eyes shut as tightly as he could.

The impact reverberated in his mind for what seemed like hours, the sensation of the stick gripped in his hand overpowering until it grew numb.

At last he again became aware of his own ragged breathing. He had to get out of the wreckage before it caught fire. He tried to release his grasp on the stick but his fingers were locked around it. He opened his eyes.

He was in a cottage that for all the world looked like his grandmother’s in Pommern. He was lying down on some kind of table. Out the small round window, darkness had fallen. Ihlefeld painfully turned his neck to his left. A small crowd of queer-looking people was looking down at him, including a helmeted man in a blue uniform who was holding Ihlefeld’s Erkennungsmarke up in the firelight.

Ihlefeld tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. “Where am I?”

The blue-uniformed man looked at him suddenly, unaware that he had been awake. “Welcome to Appledore, Kent, Mr. Illiefield.”