His plane flipped over, struggling to gain altitude and engage the British jets. There was a long hair-raising moment when he thought the engine would cut out altogether, just before it caught and pushed him onwards towards a Meteor. The British pilot fired at the same instant as Schmidt, blowing a hail of explosive bullets through the British cockpit and blasting the aircraft into a fireball.
Schmidt cast about desperately for some empty airspace, but could find none. Aircraft were blundering everywhere, firing madly. He cursed as a stream of tracer from a German bomber almost took his wing off. He hurled invective at the pilot and the British genius who had thought up the complicated and brilliant scheme with every word he knew. There was no time to think, only to react.
“No,” he snarled as a British fighter made an angry pass at him. He fired back, but missed. The British pilot vanished somewhere within the swirling dogfight. The British tactic was clever; the bombers, scattered, wouldn’t be able to make their own attacks in anything reassembling a coordinated fashion with the British fighters hammering away at them. The German fighters weren’t the priority targets, not with the British focused on protecting their vital ships, but even so, it was going to be difficult to reverse the situation. He tried to think, to focus, and cursed again as a British fighter took aim at him and fired a long burst.
“Damn you,” he swore. He concentrated on barking orders into his headset, trying to take control of the battle. The bombers were trying to concentrate for an attack run on the British ships, but the level and accuracy of the flak was an order of magnitude greater than anything they had experienced before. He spit out another curse and fired a long stream of bullets towards a British fighter, smiling grimly as the British fighter caught fire and plummeted out of the air, splashing down into the water. It was just a shame that it hadn’t struck one of the British ships.
The remaining German fighters formed up around him, and he almost cursed again as he realised how many had been lost to the British jets. The British plan was clear now. they had launched their own carrier aircraft towards the German ships, the British knew full well that they were protected by their own land based Meteors all the time. They hadn’t been fooled by the German flight. They’d either known what the Germans were doing or had worked out their own plan that had dovetailed nicely into defeating the German force. For the first time in his life, since graduating from the Luftwaffe’s training centre, Schmidt was starting to feel as if he had been comprehensively out-thought and out-gunned
“Form up on me and engage the enemy,” he ordered. The British fighters had drawn apart for a long moment, separating themselves from his aircraft, and then they re-engaged This time, they would have to blow through the enraged German fighters to reach the bombers. The flak was growing more intense as the two sides separated, but as they closed in, the flak reduced; the British wouldn’t want to shoot down their own aircraft.
Schmidt had the satisfaction of seeing a Meteor go down in flames before they punched through the British lines, moving into dive-bombing formations. The heavy bombers were following them, the British abandoning the German fighters to concentrate on the bombers, but too late. He saw the bombs begin falling, targeted on two of the British carriers and one of their battleships. The bombs had been improved following Scapa Flow…
“Scratch one flattop,” someone carolled over the radio as a British carrier disintegrated in a hail of tearing explosions. Schmidt was beyond pity for the crew, but even he admitted that they had died well. “What’s the next target…?”
“The next flattop,” Schmidt ordered, wondering what had happened to the bomber’s raid commander. He was probably shot down along with his aircraft. The precisely organised and comprehensible chain of command had been blown to smithereens; it would have worked much better, he was sure, if he had engaged the carrier-borne aircraft, rather than land-based jets. “All bombers without any bombs; withdraw now and return to base, all others…”
In war, a distraction at the wrong time can have fatal consequences. Schmidt, trying to handle too many things at once, missed the British Meteor until it was too late… and the Meteor put seven bullets through the Messerschmitt’s left jet engine. Schmidt reached for the ejector handle, but it was too late. His jet disintegrated around him and he died in a world of fire and pain.
* * *
Admiral Fraser knew that he no longer had any tactical control over the battle, if indeed he had ever had any at all; there were limits to how much he could command fighter pilots struggling over his carriers. He’d given them all their orders, planned it so they could have the best possible chance at taking a clear shot at the enemy, and now all he could do was wait and see what happened. The reports kept coming in of a carrier being hit — first one of the fleet carriers, and then one of the modified carriers he’d been preparing at Scapa Flow — and then the King George V was struck. He braced himself as the ship shook, but the damage was minor; a German aircraft had crashed into the ship, apparently accidentally. The Japanese had used suicide tactics in the later days of their brief war against Soviet Russia, but it was unlike the Germans to deliberately crash their aircraft into an enemy ship, although he had to admit that it would make one hell of a guided weapon.
“Minor damage,” the Captain reported. Fraser concentrated on appearing calm. Everything was out of his hands now and would remain so until the enemy air assault was beaten off. “The Nelson took a major beating, sir.”
Fraser said nothing. There would be time for them to count the cost later, but for the moment, all that mattered was remaining calm and appearing to be in control, even though he wasn’t directing the battle. As the German aircraft finally broke off from their attack, he allowed himself a brief moment of relief. The main body of the fleet had survived the encounter.
“Status report,” he ordered, refusing to seem as if he had been even slightly worried by the battle. “How many did we lose?”
“We lost one fleet carrier and two smaller carriers,” the radio officer said as he tallied up the reports. The remainder of the German air-force was fleeing for home now. The RAF squadrons would have to head back to their tankers soon, before they ran out of fuel and fell out of the sky. “Two battleships were badly damaged. Three cruisers and nine destroyers were sunk, three more damaged.”
“I see,” Fraser said. Truthfully, he’d expected much more damage; the Germans had taken more of a beating than he’d dared to hope. “Is there any report from the CAG?”
“They are engaging the German fleet now,” the radio operator said. “I have no report on progress as yet.”
Fraser hadn’t expected one.
“Good,” he said. He glanced down at the plotting chart. If everything went well, they could put an end to the war in an afternoon. “Inform me the minute you get an update.”
* * *
As one of the Fleet Air Arm’s most experienced pilots, and one of the handful who could paint a German carrier on his cockpit, Flight Lieutenant Stanley Baldwin and his Gannet was in the lead force of British carrier aircraft approaching the German fleet. The briefing had been clear; the Gannets were to concentrate on the carriers. The older aircraft, armed with torpedoes and other surprises, were to wait until the German carriers had been sunk, or if Baldwin and his squadron mates failed, they were to engage the carriers themselves. Baldwin wasn’t particularly surprised at the orders; if the German carriers were sunk, the British Navy would be able to sweep the seas of German ships with ease.
What had surprised him had been the miniature carriers, converted freighters that had been quickly rigged up into tiny carriers something he’d heard about. The designs had been sitting on the back shelf somewhere in the Admiralty, gathering dust, until some of the fleet carriers had been sunk at Scapa Flow. The flight from one of those terrifyingly short decks had been the stuff of nightmares, something that he had never wanted to do in practice; the RAF pilots might think that they had it hard, but anyone who had flown off a carrier’s deck
knew that they had the most dangerous job in the fleet. Baldwin would have felt safer standing in a crow’s nest during a battleship duel than flying off one of the tiny carriers — so small they didn’t even have names — but there had been no choice. It was a minor miracle that the squadron had gotten into the air without losing a single aircraft to the drink.
The enemy fleet appeared ahead of them and so did the enemy aircraft. Like the British, the Germans divided their carriers wings between fighters and various different kinds of bombers, providing a mixture of protection for the carrier and striking force for the German Navy. The British fleet had sent all of its fighters out to escort the Gannets, and, as the German aircraft drew closer, Baldwin could see that they would be well matched. The Germans were flying their modified aircraft from the last war; the British pilots were flying Seafires, modified Spitfires designed to serve on-board carriers. They were the last Spitfires in Britain, although there were still some squadrons of Spitfires in the Middle East, Australia and India, and both sides knew that this would be their swansong.
He ignored the fighters as they duked it out for air supremacy and peered down at the German fleet, hunting for the carriers. From this height, the German ships looked tiny, little toys gliding across the water, but there was little amusing about their presence now. He could see puffs of smoke, far below, that signified the firing of anti-aircraft guns… and, moments later, felt the air violently swirl around the aircraft as the shells detonated. The Germans were supposed to have some really good proximity fuses, to match with the radar guided guns, but so far, nothing was coming close to his squadron.
There, he thought, as he saw the German carriers. There were four of them, all spread out and well-protected from any submarine assault, but they were dependent upon their combat air patrol to protect them from British aircraft… and most of their fighters were busy. They would be recalling them now, trying to get them back to cover the carriers before the British bombs fell on them, but Baldwin knew that it was already too late. The last war had started with aircraft trying to bomb ships from high up in the sky and missing more often than not. Now, they would engage the German ships through a sharp dive and release their bombs at the lowest possible attitude.
His aircraft nosed down as he dove. The German carrier grew as he closed at phenomenal speed. He could see an aircraft on the deck, with tiny Germans scurrying around as if it were the end of the world. The German fighters were closing in, firing. He pulled the release handle, knowing that even if they shot him down as he tried to pull out of his dive, it would be too late for the carrier. He yanked back on the stick, feeling the plane shudder as it tried to pull out of the dive and save them both… as the rockets ignited, driving the bombs down towards the carrier with terrifying force. They would punch through the carrier’s deck and detonate inside it’s bowels.
The force of the explosion stunned him. The plane jerked as he struggled to maintain control, trying to get away from the German pilot he knew was on his tail, out for blood and revenge. He glanced back, risking his life, and saw the German carrier burning brightly and settling into the sea, other German ships were burning or firing at him as he tried to escape. It all seemed hopeless as he skimmed over a German destroyer, seeing the crewmen on the deck for a lightning-quick moment, too fast to fire on them with the Gannet’s cannons.
He found his course and sped away from the German fleet, trying to escape… and then a German fighter slipped in behind him. Baldwin tried to escape, but a Gannet was no match for a German fighter… and the aircraft disintegrated around him as the German fired, sending him smashing into the sea at a colossal speed. He died knowing that he’d hurt the Germans far worse then they’d hurt him.
* * *
“Only nine aircraft survived?”
“Yes, Admiral,” the radio operator said. His voice was profoundly shocked. Fraser had no time for shock. “All four German carriers and two of their larger ships are confirmed sunk, along with several smaller ships, but only nine of our aircraft were able to escape from the German aircraft.”
Fraser nodded once, grimly. He’d expected heavy losses, but nothing like that… and it meant that he would have to alter his plans. “I want to cut loose the Lightning and her force,” he ordered, after a moment. The destroyer Lightning headed twenty-one destroyers, the latest and most modern destroyers in the Royal Navy, and they had an excellent record for sinking German submarines. “The Lightning is to escort the remaining carriers back to Scapa Flow, where they can be rearmed and prepared to go out to sea again.”
“Yes, sir,” the radio operator said. There was a long pause. “The ships acknowledge and are starting to separate now.”
Fraser looked down at the chart. The German fleet was out there, wounded, but still dangerous, very dangerous. It was a gamble, but if they won…
“Order the Nelson and the Jellico to accompany them as well,” he said. The two battleships had both taken a serious beating and wouldn’t be fit for action for months. The remainder of the fleet is to form up on the flag and prepare to advance.”
He smiled darkly. “And signal to all ships,” he said, remembering Lord Nelson’s famous signal. It was oddly fitting for the last battleship duel that Fraser expected to see in his lifetime. “We go now to fight and sink the remainder of the German Navy before it can escape; England expects every man to do his duty.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
North Sea
Generaladmiral Förste’s already dark mood turned black as he stared down at the reports. The German Navy had been hammered by the British aircraft in both encounters; they might have sunk several British carriers, but the British had more carriers to spare. He’d lost all four of his fleet carriers, and while there were several more being constructed, they wouldn’t be available for several months at least. His force was trapped, about to engage a British fleet which had superior numbers… but not, perhaps, superior fire-power His force had the greatest fire-power available to any German fleet. If he could defeat the British ships, there was still hope for the invasion.
“Steer us towards them,” he said quickly as he found his cap and placed it firmly on his head. “I’m going to the bridge.”
* * *
Admiral Fraser peered through his binoculars at the tiny shapes of German ships, still miles away. He counted seven battleships and one battle-cruiser; four of the battleships, he saw, were Bismarck -class. He’d been much younger when the Bismarck had been hunted down and sunk, but he’d studied the battle carefully. The Bismarck had killed the famous Hood through a single lucky shot in the right place. The heavy German battleships weren’t perfect designs, but the Germans had been improving them ever since… and, if he didn’t miss his guess, the lead ship was the Tirpitz, the famed Lonely Queen of the North. The Royal Navy had tried to sink her until the peace treaty in 1943… and, as far as he knew, they hadn’t even scratched her paint.
He smiled to himself as he checked out his own fleet. He’d brought nine of his battleships to the encounter and dozens of smaller ships to cover their flanks, but the important part of the duel would be between the battleships. His force was spread out into line of battle, steaming directly towards the Germans, but spread out enough so they could turn to bring their stern batteries into play at a moment’s notice. He expected that the Germans, knowing they had the inferior numbers would attempt to pass through his fleet and bring their weapons to bear as quickly as possible. He welcomed such a manoeuvre. He had the fire-power to handle it and the crews he needed to hold such a steady course. The Germans might decide to try to retreat, turning at just the right moment to bring their own weapons to bear by crossing his ‘T,’ but if that happened, he would simply match their manoeuvre and pour fire on them.
The German battleships were getting closer. Any moment now… he smiled as he saw the flashes of light on the German ships. Their main guns had opened fire, blasting heavy shells towards the British ships. He doubted that they would hit anything at that ran
ge, even with the help of radar to guide their shells, but the fountains of water were too near his ships for comfort. He studied the German formation again and issued a set of orders, watching as the operators passed the orders on to the other ships in the fleet, which were still holding their fire. Fraser was proud of their discipline. The Germans fired again. This time, the geysers were much closer to his ships. How long had it been since either side had fired a shot in anger at another battleship? 1941?
“Fire,” he ordered quietly.
The bridge was meant to be soundproofed, but the noise of the guns echoed through the hull as the ship fired, sending a pair of heavy shells back towards the Germans. The gunnery officers would be watching them through radar now, calculating the location of the German ships and adjusting their own fire to compensate. The Germans would be doing the same. It was a battering match and one he was confident of winning. He had the numbers, and the Germans did not. He raised his binoculars to his eyes once more as towering plumes of water erupted near the German ships. A German destroyer, struck broadside by shells intended for a battleship, was blown apart in a tearing gout of fire.
Poor bastards, Fraser thought, with the slightest flicker of amusement. The German crew had been hit by accident, but as the old saying had it, no ship could do very wrong if it struck an enemy ship. The Germans would be concentrating their own fire on the British battleships — a massive gout of water burst up near the King George V — but so far neither side had scored a real hit on the other’s capital ships. The ships grew closer.
“The Howe reports one hit, minor damage,” the radio officer reported. Fraser scowled. The Germans had found their range first and would probably plaster the unfortunate Howe until they cracked her open and sent her down to the bottom. He glanced over towards the Howe, a battleship almost completely identical to the King George V, and saw smoke pouring from the side of the ship. It looked bad, but his experience told him that such things were often illusionary; as long as the ship was firing and moving normally, the damage wasn’t that extensive. “Her Captain reports she’s still in the fight.”
The Invasion of 1950 Page 45