England Expects (Empires Lost)

by Jackson, Charles S.

  Alternate was little more than a concrete runway approximately 2,000 metres long running exactly north-south. Almost in the very middle of the island, the strip – although substantially longer – had been constructed in the exact position as that of grass runway 18/36 of Eday’s Realtime ‘London Airport’ (so named due to its proximity to the nearby Bay of London). There were few facilities to break the otherwise featureless landscape: just two large, circular hardstand areas, one or two large supply huts and an underground fuel tank, all constructed near the runway’s southern end.

  Still under construction as Hindsight had arrived at the end of June, and only completed in the last few weeks, it’d been designed to provide an emergency landing strip should the main runway at Hindsight be disabled for any reason. Large sections of camouflage netting lay across the strip’s length when not in use, making it invisible to the prying eyes of enemy reconnaissance to all intents and purposes. At first warning of the impending raid, the skeleton ground crew stationed there on rotating shifts had commenced clearing the netting from the strip in preparation for the jets.

  Davies brought the Raptor in from the north to touch down at about the same time Trumbull was settling the Lightning into a vertical landing over one of the southern hardstands. The six-man crew were well-trained and were already prepared with fuel hoses and two trolleys; one carrying replacement missiles while the other carried large crates of 20- and 25mm ammunition along with equipment to reload both fighter’s guns. It took three men to lift one AMRAAM at a time between them and secure it to the launch rails beneath the Lightning’s wings, each 3.6m long weapon’s weight of 150kg no easy lift. At the same time, two men controlled refuelling while the sixth turned a crank handle on the second trolley and replenished the empty ammunition tray at the rear of the F-35’s cannon pod.

  Four missiles had been fitted to each wing’s inboard pair of twin-rail launchers by the time the Raptor came to a halt on the hardstand beside the F-35. It was another five minutes before the crew had finished rearming Trumbull’s aircraft and could turn their attention to the Raptor. Neither aircraft would receive a full complement of missiles: there was only space within Alternate’s storage shed to carry twelve of the AIM-120s and these were split equally between the two jets. It took less time to refuel the F-22 than it had to top up the F-35’s tanks. Neither aircraft had used up their entire fuel load in the short distance they’d travelled into combat and back that morning, however vertical landings did consume a substantial amount of fuel in comparison to the Raptor’s conventional approach.

  Both of the Hindsight jets were turning back onto the runway at Eday in preparation for take off as the leading B-10As began to release their bombs, the huge bombers’ combination of altitude and range ensuring they were still too far away for the base’s pair of Tunguskas to effectively launch any missiles against them. As each aircraft’s bomb bays were cleared of ordnance, it banked tightly away to the south and headed for home as long range AA fire from the conventional heavy guns of HMS Proserpine began to burst in the sky around them.

  There were only a few guns at the very eastern edge of the base able to fire effectively, but they were able to make the few shots they had pay, with Nick Alpert providing everyone with accurate readings on range, altitude and airspeed. One bomber fell to a direct hit from a 4.5-inch shell, trailing flame as it spiralled downward to eventually smash into the waters of the anchorage off Flotta and Hoxa Head. Four more were left damaged and trailing smoke as they desperately made off back to the east and the safety of Norway.

  The first of the bombs hit a few moments later. None of those in the KC-10 and C-5M, circling high above the North Atlantic to the west, could see or hear anything of the destruction that followed, nor could Davies in the F-22 as he dragged the jet’s stick back and lifted it from the runway at Alternate, seeking altitude once more. Alec Trumbull was also too preoccupied with more immediate issues as he carried out a rolling take off of his own that consumed less than a third of the runway’s length and also consumed a substantially smaller amount of fuel in comparison to a vertical lift off.

  Neither could the ground crew at Alternate get any clear sight of the attack: their view would’ve been obscured by the intervening island of Mainland, even if their vision had been capable of picking out details at a distance of 50km, which of course was impossible. Most of those placed best to witness what was going on at Hindsight and HMS Proserpine in general were those actually there on the ground, and unfortunately they were far too busy having bombs rained down upon them to take in the spectacle objectively.

  Each B-10A heavy bomber had loosed more than thirty bombs from its weapons bays, the wobbling dark shapes plummeting downward out of the sky in elongating strings as the rules of ballistics and aerodynamics opened the distances between them in the sky as they fell. Other than active gun crews, almost all of the personnel at Hindsight were already in slit trenches and heavy air raid shelters, and even those at the guns were relatively well protected by high walls of earth, concrete and sandbags. In most cases, although material damage might be unavoidably high, there was an expectancy that human casualties would be comparatively light: there’d been adequate time to get everyone into positions that were a reasonable approximation of safety.

  The objective of the attack had of course been to inflict maximum damage to equipment and materiel anyway, ideally with the element of surprise, and the main targets were aircraft and specialist personnel. Both were extremely susceptible to damage in many forms, and it wasn’t necessary even to destroy the aircraft, as sufficient damage minor might well be enough to ground them and render them useless in a world devoid of advanced maintenance workshops or stores of spare parts. As it turned out, the damage inflicted on the ground at Hindsight was anything but minor. Rather than using only conventional high-explosives, the attacking bombers instead carried a mixture of weapons that included HE and also two of the most savage and despised weapons of modern warfare: napalm and white phosphorous. Phosphorous was a volatile substance that was self-igniting, and would burn viciously if exposed to the open air.

  The first two sticks of bombs slammed into the base to the left of their intended target, the runway and main buildings, and their shattering explosions rippled across the landscape in a long, deep path that tore through Hindsight’s officers’ billets, the mess and beyond. Great torrents of terrible red flame rose along the path of the rolling impact immersed in black smoke, pillars of thrown-up earth, and the hissing grey clouds of phosphorous as it instantly spread and ignited on contact with the atmosphere. Everything the bombs hit disintegrated under the onslaught, consumed in seconds by fire with the intensity of hell itself. The structures were predominantly wooden in construction, and there’d been no rain for weeks: everything was tinder-dry, and the flames instantly began to spread.

  The next three sticks of bombs fell basically on target, the first striking half way along the main runway and ‘walking’ its way up to the hardstands and tower as the other two overlapped on either side and ran on into the hangars and associated buildings beyond. Concrete shattered and cratered under the assault, the tower was blown to pieces by a direct hit from a 250kg HE bomb, and the napalm and phosphorous again consumed a deep strip of land hundreds of metres wide in total destruction.

  As the control tower toppled and disappeared into clouds of fire at its base, the hangars collapsing down on themselves as the instant, searing heat melted the iron sheets on their sides and roofs. Blast and shrapnel shattered their framework and brought it crashing down as stores of ordinance and flammables held within those hangars and attached buildings added their force to the devastation. Wayward tracer sprayed in all directions as crates of 20- and 25mm cannon shells cooked off in their crates.

  Nick Alpert watched all this from slit trench by the bunker’s entrance, an army ‘tin hat’ helmet jammed tightly on his head. The heat was intense all about as the Hindsight base basically burned to the ground before his eyes, but he c
ontinued to relay information back to Drews inside, who in turn passed it on via radio to Thorne and the rest of the aircraft; fighters and transports alike. Something in the periphery of his vision suddenly caught Alpert’s attention, and he turned his head to the east. Looking out across the earth-covered roof of the bunker, there was just enough time to see one of the last five bombers’ bomb ‘sticks’ falling directly toward them.

  The men inside the bunker detected a second formation of aircraft on their radar systems at that same moment, again approaching from the east but this time at very low level: as a result, these new bogies had been able to get much closer before being discovered. No one was given a chance to alert anyone else of these new aircraft’s presence however, and Alpert’s last, desperate thoughts were the realisation that those last patterns of bombs were right for them. Fire and death reached them seconds later and swept past. The bunker’s roof and walls were thick and reinforced by iron mesh – high explosive alone wouldn’t have been enough to harm its inhabitants – but phosphorous and napalm were weapons that could kill without penetrating thick concrete or armour plate.

  As entire area became saturated with both burning and hissing substances, there was suddenly no oxygen for living creatures to breathe. Alpert, with no time to get under cover, was engulfed in flaming, sticky gasoline and died within seconds. Neil Drews and Dicko Cassar, inside the bunker and ‘protected’ from the immediate effects of napalm and WP, took longer to die from a combination of suffocation and asphyxiation by noxious fumes. They had no chance to give a warning to anyone… instead, the radio simply went silent in a sudden and rather permanent fashion.

  Davies didn’t wait for Trumbull as he turned the F-22 to the south-east at full throttle, thundering across Stronsay Firth between Stronsay and Shapinsay, and out across the North Sea in pursuit of the remaining bombers. He quickly left the F-35 behind as a result, and went supersonic even as he continued in a shallow climb. The retreating enemy bombers hadn’t been able to get far and he picked them out instantly on radar while they were just twenty kilometres east of South Ronaldsay, and it took just seconds for him to release his last six AMRAAMs against the nearest of them, six more bombers falling in fire and wreckage a moment later.

  Davies was prevented from pressing home his attack with guns however as his radar suddenly picked up more aircraft at low level, this time still heading inbound. At first, he thought them to be the expected two squadrons of RAF fighters, but quickly realised that couldn’t be the case as he quickly identified far more than the expected twenty-four aircraft.

  “Bogies… bogies…!” He howled over the radio to anyone who’d listen. “New targets… fifty-plus… twenty klicks out at extremely low level and heading for Hindsight…! Harbinger: I’m out of missiles! Forget what’s left of the heavies and vector onto this new threat!” He tried twice more to raise Hindsight on the radio with no success, and began to have grave fears for the men left on the ground beneath that onslaught.

  “Top Hat to Eyrie control – Top Hat to Eyrie control…” The unexpected new and obviously English voice on his radio caught Davies completely by surprise. “Come in please, Eyrie control…”

  “Top Hat, this is Captain Jack Davies of Hindsight Training Unit – call sign ‘Phoenix-One’,” Davies broadcast to the new arrivals as the expected RAF fighters finally appeared on his screens, also at relatively low level and approaching from the same direction as the second flight of enemies he’d just detected. “I’ve been unable to raise ground control and fear the worst. Authorisation code word is ‘Phalanx’: I’m assuming command from the air immediately. Be advised there are enemy aircraft in your vicinity, bearing approximately three-three-zero from your current heading. If you have guns and fuel, then we need your assistance urgently with this new threat… Please respond… over…”

  ‘Phalanx’ was the current version of a weekly code-word that was part of briefings for any pilot operating out of the Hindsight base. The word was intended to provide confirmation that the user – Davies in this case – was cleared to issue direct orders and take command if required, which he was now required to do. The approaching Mustang pilots would’ve all been briefed on the same information prior to departure for the trip up that morning.

  “Reading you loud and clear, Phoenix-One… Orders received and understood…”

  “Stay out of the Hindsight area until cleared to land, Top Hat,” Davies added, relieved they were all up to speed and that he and Trumbull suddenly had some welcome assistance. “Ground batteries on base are cleared to fire on any aircraft that approaches within a four thousand yard radius and will do so… proceed with caution… over.”

  “Information noted and understood, Phoenix-One – thank you for the advice. Have sighted low-level raiders and turning in to engage now… Tally Ho, chaps!” Better late than never, twenty-four long-promised British fighters Davies couldn’t yet see threw themselves into the fray.

  Ritter and his aircraft were just five kilometres south-east of South Ronaldsay as an alert call came in from the escorting fighters of I/JG54. The sudden appearance of RAF Mustangs from the south was totally unexpected (even the existence of a previously unknown aircraft was itself a complete surprise) and it was the Luftwaffe pilots’ turn to be caught unawares by the appearance of an unidentified and powerful new opponent.

  The Mustangs came in from much higher altitude, using the sun at their backs to blind their quarry until the last moment. The fighters of 93 and 96 Squadrons wore the standard RAF temperate land scheme camouflage of brown and green patches, and unlike their photo-reconnaissance relatives, they were all armed with a pair of high-velocity 20mm Hispano cannon in each wing firing outside the disc of the propeller. They were at least the equal of the J-4A in performance, manoeuvrability and firepower, and their pilots – all drawn from experienced units – were also equal to the challenge of JG54 Grunherz.

  Five unsuspecting J-4As were stricken by cannon fire in the first pass, and another two were so badly damaged they were forced to break away from combat. As drop tanks fell from the bellies of the remaining J-4As, the two waves of Mustangs streaked past unscathed through their ranks, their dive speed carrying them on toward the lower-flying S-2D Lions the German fighters had been tasked to protect. Two Mustangs pressed their attacks too closely and were shredded by fire from several rear gunners’ twin 13mm guns, but the attack nevertheless signalled the destruction of three S-2Ds and forced another two to dump their weapon loads and extra fuel in order to escape pursuit, the end result being that I/ZG26 had been effectively stripped of five attack aircraft in one pass.

  With the benefit of surprise lost however, the RAF fighters now found themselves engaged in a twisting, low-level dogfight with the remaining J-4As as the S-2Ds opened their throttles and continued on toward their target. The battle was evenly-matched, with both aircraft exhibiting similar performance and manoeuvrability at low level, however the German fighters’ ability to delay the Mustangs was all that was required for them to accomplish their mission: even if the RAF was ultimately victorious, the delays the dogfight created would be enough to ensure the Lion attack aircraft reached their target safe from pursuit. The S-2Ds swept on in formation, passing over the east coast of South Ronaldsay close to the centre of the island.

  As they crossed water once more on the other side of South Ronaldsay, the destruction already meted out by strategic bombing became clearly visible for the first time. Smoke rose along a broad stretch of the horizon; thick, black smoke with the flickering of red flame at its base. The pilots of ZG26 could see little else at that distance, but it was clear that serious damage had already been done. Ritter was about to advise his men to drop tanks and prepare for attack as something trailing grey smoke, travelling impossibly fast snapped across his nose and the first of six AIM-120 missiles exploded in the formation’s midst.

  Five were either direct hits or detonated close enough to destroy an aircraft, each missile tearing its target from the sky, but
at such a low level it was more difficult even for an advanced missile like the AMRAAM to pick targets out of ground clutter. The sixth missile had been targeted on Willi Meier’s S-2D and resulted in a near miss, detonating angrily in the aircraft’s wake as it flew off Ritter’s port wing. The shrapnel that filled the air was more than enough to damage the aircraft badly, and it immediately pulled up and away from the flight, streaming smoke.

  “Willi…!” Ritter cried out in shock as his friend’s plane reared upward, seemingly out of control. “Willi…!”

  “I’m okay, Carl… barely…” The reply came back over the radio instantly, but Meier’s voice was strained and weak as Ritter craned his neck to see his XO’s plane level out unsteadily behind them. “Johann’s bought it, though. I don’t think I can hold her through an attack run – it feels like she’s going to break up around me!”

  “Get out of here, Willi… that’s an order. Just get her home… we’re going in…!”

  “I’m sorry, Carl...” The despondent reply came a moment later, Meier’s S-2D lurching and banking away to the west as its tanks and offensive load fell away to explode harmlessly on the surface of the ocean. “God be with you, my friend…!”

  “Here we go, boys,” Oberstleutnant Carl Ritter observed with a tense voice as he shifted himself slightly in his seat and reluctantly turned his thoughts back to the target ahead. “Keep it tight and locked up: you all know your jobs and we know what our targets are. Make me proud…”