Chapter 312
General der Nachtjagd Josef Kammhuber normally didn't share the hours of the people that worked for his command, but today was a rather special day. Ten years since the National Socialists had come to power, which had to be duly celebrated by those with more scrambled egg on their hat than him, but he also had an itch that told him the British might have heard of that date too.
The night had been quiet, suspiciously so in fact. Yes, there had been the usual night-time air-raid on the Submarine pens at La Rochelle, but the raids by the heavy bomber streams that came in every night had failed to materialize. It worried him, but when he had taken this matter up with The Fat One his worries had been dismissed, citing the admittedly godawful weather of the last two weeks as a reason for the British to curtail operations.
It hadn't stopped him worrying. Because of that he wasn't sleeping in his quarters but rather on a folding field bed in a back room of one of the Air Defence Control centres that co-ordinated his fighters, his RDF stations and his searchlight batteries.
The knock on his door came at first light.
“Sir, something is happening.”
Kamhuber bolted to his feet and barely chanced a glance at the clock. Around 07:30. Dawn.
“What is it, Colonel?”
The Colonel, a former fighter pilot who had lost an arm and now commanded this sector of the barrier that was supposed to defend Germany replied:
“For the last hour we have monitored increased wireless traffic from air-bases all over southern England.”
“How much of an increase?” the General asked.
“Our intercept stations have yet to report all back, but it's massive, Sir.”
Kammhuber pulled on the rest of his uniform and boots and stood in the main plotting room.
As he watched the dots of light that denoted enemy formations began to light up the western half of the large map of North-Western Europe. Judging by previous British patterns they would be forming up before heading to the mainland, but these were many, many aircraft.
“Looks like a big one.” Kammhuber commented as the wall of lights slowly began to move eastward.
It worried him even more now. This couldn't be a coincidence, what was shaping up to be the biggest British raid in weeks on the biggest day the Nazi Party had yet had to celebrate? No conincidence there.
“Put everything on alert, our night Squadrons included and notify Luftflotte Reich.”
Luftflotte Reich was a term for the forces that defended the airspace of the inner Reich by day, and even though Kammhuber detested it's commander personally, both were good enough soldiers to keep it from interfering with their work.
“Reich reports that they detect similar activity down to the south.” came the news after a few minutes.
That made it official, the British were making a point. Unfortunately the Air Fleet lacked a line similar to the Kammhuber system down south and the very presence of the Alps made it impossible to tell just what the Allies were up to there. With the defection of the former Axis nations there was not a single Axis RDF station on the south of the Alps.
“Through Vienna, I presume?”
To Kammhuber's horror the man shook his head.
“No, Sir. The Airbase there has been attacked already. No news on damage, but it is bad.”
That gave the Allies free reign south of the Alps. The only remaining German airbase there out of action and thus the only outpost for reliable Air Intelligence removed.
“Stations in Bavaria record large numbers of aircraft coming over the Alps and Vienna reports overflights.”
All the while the dots on the map kept moving east as the girls operating the lamps moved them slowly as the reports came, and more and more kept appearing on the edge.
“How many does that make now?” Kammhuber asked no one in particular
He didn't bother trying to count. Several hundred at least, the greatest day-time attack of the war.
There was only one thing to do.
“Get me the Reichsmarschall's headquarters, NOW!”
The Fat One likely had left for the parade ground already but he had to try.
~**---**~
The FW-190B wearing the Yellow 14 and the stripe denoting it as part of the Reichsverteidigung had barely reached altitude when Marseille's Squadron was jumped by an equal number of British Spitfires.
Marseille never caught more than a glimpse of the bombers they were supposed to intercept, he was far too busy to fight for his life to indentify and count, let alone attack the Lancasters that were crossing the Alps through the Vienna gap.
The 20mm shells zipped past his plane only inches from his wing, so he slammed the rudder hard left and banked to get out of the line of fire. A Spitfire appeared in front of him, too focused on it's own prey, though not for long. Marseille pressed the trigger and the four 20mm and two 13mm guns spat fire, igniting the fuel tank. Marseille's first catch of the day. He pulled the throttle forward and pulled the stick back. The 190-B's turbocharger whined and the plane sped forward and up. At the apex of his climb Marseille cut engine power and turned on the tip of his left wing to dive down onto the melee again. In his next pass he shot down another Spitfire, this time by the way of the left wing coming loose, but then he found himself in the crosshairs of a Spitfire. The first he knew of this was when two 20mm shells tore a gaping hole into his left wing and promptly his No.1 Cannon refused to work.
He lost track of time as he banked and twisted, turned and fought, but the British pilot stayed on his tail. Suddenly he realized that he had lost contact with his Squadron and his wingman was nowhere to be seen, he and the Brit were alone, fighting somewhere over southern Bavaria.
He was hit again. Somehow, before he even registered the shock and the damage he figured that the Spitfire had to be running out of fuel soon, but then the plane bucked and began to spew smoke.
He knew that something was badly damaged. He also knew that he could fight no more, but instead of the salvo that ended his life he saw the Spitfire coming along-side. For a few seconds it was as if time had slowed down to nothing and Marseille noted that a strange seal was painted prominently under the seven kill flags, two Italian, one Hungarian and four German.
Then it snapped. He had been fighting one of the Eagle Squadrons.
The pilot wiggled with his wings and then turned away.
Marseille snorted and then focused on his instrument panel. The turbocharger was shot to hell but for the moment the engine ran relatively smooth, but he was loosing fuel like it was going out of fashion and he was at least another half hour from the base. He knew he wouldn't make it in time either way. So he put the engine on half and then glanced upwards, and above him he saw a massively large group of twin-engined planes racing north. Mosquitoes. A whole damn lot of damnable Mosquitoes that kept getting away from him and he could do nothing. Almost a hundred.
He tried to raise anyone on the wireless but gave up when he saw the sparks coming from the unit.
He slammed his fist into it but that didn't work either.
So he concentrated on his flying.
He was flying in a slight downward angle, both to keep the stress on the airframe limited and to conserve what fuel he had, so when he was maybe ten minutes from the field he was ready when the needle dropped to zero.
Glancing at the altimeter he saw that he still had almost two-hundred metres of altitude but it was time to prepare for landing.
He set the propeller on free, extended the landing gears and sighed in relief when both came out and locked in.
In front of him the empty and unploughed fields that fed a large part of Germany stretched out so he just selected the nearest piece of flat field and extended the flaps.
He touched down and leaned back in his chair as the plane rolled to a halt.
Marseille pushed back the canopy, climbed out and ran towards a nearby clump of trees. The Yellow 14 didn't catch fire but overhead still more and more planes flew overhead.
It seemed as if every tactical aircraft the Allies had was out today, out for blood.
It was the biggest rally/military parade Germany had seen, period. Planning had taken months but now the hand-picked audience of the most loyal party members from across Germany whitnessed ten men from every Division in the main German Field Armies in Bavaria and Austria march past the stand.
There Hitler and Stalin were busy saluting in their own way. They rarely met, but with the reverses of the last year a show of strength was needed. Below them the military and civillian leadership was assembled. Martin Bormann represented the party, Field Marshals Rommel, Guderian and von Manstein the Heer and Reichsmarschall Göring the Luftwaffe. Notable the Commander in Chief of the Kriegsmarine was absent.[2]
Hitler clearly enjoyed himself. The best Germany had to offer was on show. The newest Panther Tanks, the new 150mm guns, the self-propelled Rocket Artillery that was not at all inspired by the Katyusha launchers and scores of spit-polished German soldiers marching with incredible precision.
The Axis leadership was in a world of it's own on that day and maybe that contributed to what happened next.
Rommel was bored to tears, but as an Army Group Commander he could hardly now show up for this ridiculous occasion, but he only saluted the men and the uniform, not the Great National Socialist Victories this parade was supposed to herald. He knew he was being filmed so he put on a good show, but his smile only was genuine when units from his own Army Group marched past. He was as loyal to these men as they hopefully were to him and they deserved to know that.
Something was at the back of his mind. Where were the fighters that were supposed to fly overhead in intervals?
He shrugged. No concern of his.
More than half an hour after this he suddenly decided that something was indeed wrong. Why could he hear a roar over the cheering? There were no more Panzers supposed to come, and the Divisions still coming where of I.Waffen-SS Korps.[3]
Then everything went crazy. All over the city the Sirens went off.
But it was far too late, because now Rommel could hear where the sound was coming from and in that direction, across the lake where the Volkshalle awaited completion a HUGE cloud of black dots was growing rapidly closer and bigger. He could see that they were twin-engined, he could see that they were Mosquitoes.
He dove to the ground just in time.
The Allied aircraft started to open fire.
For maximum effect and likely to display their markings proudly as they machine-gunned the parade they slowed down, so he could see the first Squadron was British, the next one wore the chess-board of the Polish Air Force, the next was Belgian and the next one Dutch. Later Rommel would reflect that it hadn't been so much about destroying some of Germany's best troops but to give Hitler and Stalin the finger, especially on the part of the occupied countries.
But at that moment in Nuremberg all he could do was to try and stay alive.
As they passed the stand where Hitler and Stalin were red with rage they wiggled the wings, but then suddenly the explosions started.
The Mosquitoes had all circled around and where now each putting their bombs into the Volkshalle. Not with the intent of destroying it, it was too large for that but more to show Hitler that nothing was safe or holy to the Allied powers. Rommel doubted that Hitler would get the message, but it was hammered home clear to him. It was as if the Allied powers were speaking to Germany.
Watch out Adolf, the Allies are coming.
+-+-+-+-
Comments, questions, rotten Tomatoes?
[1] Small bit of trivia: The Pilot has some artistic talent and it took him most of a very, very snowy day in a hangar on a North Italian Airbase. This was subsequently adopted by all Eagle Squadrons. Of course the version on the plane is nowhere near this detailed but you can read the motto.
[2] The KM is such a non-entity in this war that I can't remember who's that CinC...
[3] An honest-to-god coincidence. No planning on the Allies' part.
)
