There were a number of different retorts that flashed through Albert Schiller’s mind in that moment, all of them angry and the majority of them not at all complimentary, but he indeed remained silent rather than choose to utter any one of them, although for a moment or two he felt as if the offended rage building within him might burst, out-of-control, to the surface.
His CO – a man he’d considered a friend and mentor the whole of his professional life – had just insulted and belittled him in a manner he’d never have accepted from another living soul… at least, no soul likely to remain living for any great length of time afterward. The man was undoubtedly under pressure… undoubtedly struggling with any number of his own inner demons… and yet the way he’d just slapped Schiller down in such a fashion was completely and utterly unforgivable.
If only you knew what I’ve done for you, he snarled silently within his own mind, taking a step behind his commander with both fists clenched at his side. If only you had any idea what I’ve risked for you…!
Sometimes the scars on Schiller’s lower legs still hurt now and again; a painful legacy from burns he’d received two years before, after an explosion caused by Max Thorne had almost destroyed them all… burns he’d received while saving the life of the man standing before him. There’d also been murder done that night – more than one – and again it had been for the protection of- and out of loyalty for a man he’d worked for most of his life – had looked up to most of his life. Schiller dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands and contained the rage that suddenly burned within him.
For his part, Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters paid the incident little heed. He was at that moment far too caught up in the idea of destroying Hindsight and Max Thorne to realise the grave insult he’d committed against his oldest, most loyal friend.
Papa…! Papa…! Doggie, Papa…doggie…! The child’s voice rose unexpectedly in the back of his mind, the first time he’d experienced it since the incident back on Hirta. Lowering the binoculars, for a moment the real word threatened to fade into the background of that tiny voice and he clenched his own fists tightly, going rigid as he waited for the episode to pass.
Behind him, Generaloberst Albert Schiller was far too focussed on his own indignant fury to realise what was happening and the moment therefore went completely unnoticed.
Willi Meier took his Dragonfly in low and fast, the ground below little more than a blur rushing beneath his aircraft as he hurtled along at close to 380 knots. That was close to the top speed at sea level of the best piston-engined fighters flying, and the most amazing thing in Meier’s mind was that he wasn’t pushing the jet anywhere even close to full throttle. Behind him, Rudel’s aircraft stood off his rear port quarter, exactly where he’d expect his wingman to be, and behind him the twelve aircraft that made up the entirety of I./SG2 followed in three groups of loose, ‘finger-four’ formation.
All were painted in a standard Luftwaffe desert camouflage pattern of overall sand yellow with olive-green blotches over their upper surfaces, contrasting with undersides of sky blue. All wore the unit’s ‘T6’ identification alphanumeric code on their fuselage sides, forward of their Balkankreuz national markings. Prior to the outbreak of war, the unit had flown the venerable Ju-87 Stuka – they’d been known of as StG2 (Sturzkampfgeschwader 2) at that stage in reference to their association with that infamous aircraft – and had upgraded to the far better S-2 Löwe attack aircraft ahead of the 1940 Invasion.
The S-15 Libelle they flew now was brand new, and Meier’s unit had been honoured with the privilege of being one of the first combat geschwader to take the innovative attack aircraft into service. More than eight and a half metres long and with a wingspan of almost eleven, the Dragonfly was a sleek, straight-winged, single-seat design with a pair of small and efficient Junkers Jumo 004 turbojets buried in the wing roots, beneath the main wing spar.
Intended from the outset as a ground attack aircraft, there were already several variants – including one in development for use on aircraft carriers. All variants mounted a streamlined, cylindrical fuel tank at each wingtip to increase range, and all were also fitted with three or four ‘hardpoints’ beneath each wing for the carriage of a wide range of stores that included extra fuel, bombs or rocket- and gunpods.
The C-model serving with SG2 however had been specifically developed with one task and one task and one task only in mind: tank busting. Normally, the S-15 would carry a twin-barrelled 23mm cannon fitted internally, but this had been removed from this particular variant to make way for a far more powerful armament: the S-15C was instead fitted with a huge ventral ‘belly’ pack, partially blended into the existing fuselage to improve aerodynamics, into which had been mounted an airborne version of the same 88mm recoilless rifle fitted to the P-21G Thor recon vehicle.
Protruding from the forward fairing of this ventral pack, the weapon’s long barrel – nearly half the aircraft’s entire length – almost projected from beneath the Dragonfly’s nose while spent shell casings and gun gasses were expelled to the rear beneath the tail. Designers had been forced to offset the nose wheel of its tricycle undercarriage to starboard to accommodate the mounting of the gun along its centreline, with a single 13mm MG6F machine gun fitted into the port side of that same belly pack. It was bore-sighted in sync with the main gun and loaded with special, non-standard tracer rounds that perfectly matched the ballistics of the twelve huge 88mm shells held in a rotary drum within the aircraft’s belly.
“Ismailia coming up to port, gentlemen… ETA three minutes,” Meier advised calmly, glad of his flying helmet’s tinted visor as they flew toward the rising sun. “Intel suggests we should find armour dug in around the perimeter of the airfield west of the city. “Weapons free as soon as we cross our own lines… let’s take it up to fifteen hundred, and keep an eye out for their ‘Sweepers’. We’re probably faster than they’re used to but don’t take it for granted.”
The flight began to climb as one, barely needing to increase throttle at all to maintain speed as they gradually rose to an altitude of 1,500 metres. The desert was still rushing past beneath them, but from that height it didn’t seem quite so frenetic. Low-level dust was hanging across the entire battlefield below like a dirty brown pall, within which the subdued flash of artillery and explosions were a sobering reminder of the job at hand. From that height, the growing brown stain across the western horizon was also quite visible and neither Meier nor any of his other pilots were under any illusions as to what was headed their way: something likely to force the cessation of all airborne combat should it develop into a fully-fledged sandstorm.
Willi Meier had been initially disappointed upon having received orders to attack the northern Allied defences, far away from those rumoured prototype tanks and his suspicions of deadly guided missiles. A no-fly zone had been put in place right around that entire area with no reason given – not that any needed to be given – and it had been made very clear that the exclusion zone was to be strictly enforced. As it turned out, they’d been assigned to flight operations in the north and therefore had no business being anywhere near that restricted airspace.
The flight was only minutes from joining the battle as the unexpected alert came through from Fliegerkorps instructing them to divert. Last-minute changes of plan were frequent, but what made this one unique was the personal message that came with it. Meier was momentarily dumbfounded as the area controller on the other end of the radio read it out to him.
“Divert to intercept convoy of armour supported by two large, unidentified tanks near eastern termination of Genaiva Road; heavy mobile flak battery in attendance. Primary target: flak vehicle, then weapons free. Additional personal message from Reichsmarschall Reuters: ‘Herr Oberstleutnant… mobile flak believed to be the same as at Scapa Flow... opportunity to square the ledger for Carl and all the others… do your best… do your worst…’.”
It took a moment or two for the reality of what he’d just heard to sink in, after whi
ch a broad, patently evil smile spread across the face of Oberstleutnant Willi Meier. Two years before, he’d sat with the Reichsmarschall in an Officer’s Mess at Stavanger, Norway and drunk to the memory of a man close to both their hearts… a man they’d both believed killed in combat in the skies above Scapa Flow. As Reuters himself had pointed out, the fact that Carl Ritter had eventually been found alive and well (well enough, at least) during the invasion of England some months later was irrelevant – during that intervening period, both had mourned a loss that had scarred both deeply.
In any case, while Ritter had lived, many fine friends within the ranks of ZG26 had died that day and that was more than enough incentive for vengeance in Meier’s opinion. That he’d now been given an officially-sanctioned directive to exact that vengeance he’d been hoping for all along was indeed an opportunity too great to miss.
“All units: abort mission… I repeat: abort mission…!” Meier called out immediately to the rest of his pilots over the radio, dragging back on the stick and pulling the Libelle into a steep climb and bank to starboard.
“Bruno calling Anton… what’s happening, Mein Herr…over…?” Rudel’s voice came back a second later, managing to maintain radio protocol in spite of the surprise and confusion in his voice.
“New orders from Fliegerkorps, Bruno,” Meier crowed, unable to hide the malicious glee in his voice as the remaining thirteen jets followed behind him in formation and he continued to turn west, away from the battlefield.. “New orders from Reichsmarschall Reuters himself… over…!”
“Right from the top, Mein Herr…? What’s been asked of us so important as to drag us away from such a target rich battlefield....? Over…”
“Remember our little ‘field trip’, Bruno…? Remember I told you what we encountered over Scapa Flow… what I suspected was also present near Agruda?” He didn’t wait for Rudel to respond. “Well, the Reichsmarschall knows what we faced also and he’s given us – given me – the opportunity to avenge ZG26 and all the men who died that day! We’re to proceed to a map reference near the eastern termination of the Genaiva Road…” he gave Rudel the co-ordinates HQ had provided “…and there we’ll engage and will destroy this verdammt mobile flak vehicle along with anything else we find…” Meier took a deep breath before addressing the entire flight once more.
“We have a new mission men; one that will be both difficult and dangerous; but I’m confident you’ll do your duty and make me proud. Stay low, all of you, and stay on my tail: we’re heading south to the Genaiva Road and then east into battle. Flying time roughly seven minutes to target: the objective is a small, northbound Allied armoured column which includes two large, unidentified panzers and several mobile flak vehicles, also unidentified… at least one of the flak is believed to be extremely dangerous, and this will be our primary target followed by the panzers. Follow my lead men, and trust your instincts. The Reichsmarschall himself selected us for this duty and I, for one, do not intend to let him down. What do you say, meine kameraden… are we ready…?”
“Bruno… ja…!” Rudel’s voice was the first he heard in positive response over the radio.
“Caesar… ja…!”
“Dora… ja…!”
“Emil… ja…!”
All thirteen of his pilots called out their agreement by voicing their aircraft’s personal unit letter code, each responding in turn with not a one showing any hint of dissent – not that he’d expected any.
“Ausgezeichnet…!” Meier exclaimed happily, fiercely proud of the men under his command as the flight headed for the deck once more, turning south-west in order to skirt the German side of the front lines. “Let’s show those Tommis what our new ‘toys’ here can do… Anton over and out…!”
He was well aware that some of them would probably be dead before the day was out – and so might he, for that matter – but they’d accepted that possibility with the level of cool professionalism and confidence he’d have expected of such highly-trained combat veterans.
“For you, boys…” Meier muttered softly to himself, recalling painful memories of the day his old unit – ZG26 – had been destroyed over Scapa Flow two years before. “For all of you of the Horst Wessel…”
Hauptmann Bruno Stolle brought III/JG2 ‘Richthofen’ in as low as they dared across the desert heading due east, the thirty-six Würger J-4Ds forced to fly at a higher altitude than they’d have otherwise liked due to the gritty, sand-filled wind gusts swirling about at ground level. Two years ago, the Focke-Wulf fighters had been the cutting edge of aerospace technology and the bane of RAF Fighter Command. The current D-model variant had since been superseded by far more potent German models such as the S-15 and J-16 jets.
Nevertheless, they were still an equal match for the F-1D Mustang or F-3C Sea Fury and in any case still performed the bulk of Luftwaffe combat duties and would continue to do so until sufficient quantities of the new jets entered service to take over. They roared across the landscape at close to their top speed, nine clusters of aircraft in standard ‘finger-four’ formation, and crossed above the front lines not far from where Wittman’s panzers had broken through along the Genaiva Road.
At that point the gruppe broke into two separate, pre-arranged formations with the twenty-four planes from 8- and 9- Staffel veering slightly to the south while the remaining twelve of 7-Staffel continued on their original heading, following the line of the road ever eastward toward its termination and the abandoned airfield that was their objective.
“They’ve split up, Max,” Mitch advised as the Sentinels and their attendant convoy of armoured vehicles bumped and bounced along the sides of the stony track as fast as they could manage. “I’m tracking two distinct formations now; twelve bogies headed for Eileen and twenty-four headed straight for us.”
“Nice to know we’ve been bumped up to ‘Number One’,” Thorne growled in reply, barely managing a thin, humourless smile. “No doubt firing our missiles made ‘em reconsider their priorities.”
He took a moment to think, not courageous enough to actually stand up while they were travelling at such a rate but lifting his head as far as he could above the line of the M101’s roof to stare off in the same direction they were travelling. They were very close now – surely no more than five minutes away from Eileen’s position – and he could clearly see the burning pyres of smoke rising into the air in the distance where they’d downed the gunships.
“Damn it!” He snarled in frustration, at a loss as to what else could be done that hadn’t been already. “We can’t take a fuckin’ trick…!” He released a long, angry sigh and raised the microphone to his lips once more.
They’ll all die… The voice ventured softly in his mind, well aware of the wavering in his mind over the next difficult decision as he paused momentarily.
“They may not all die…” he muttered in return, not believing it himself.
…And that’s better how…? What d’you think they’ll do to them as POWs… particularly Eileen…? That question drew a sardonic smile from Thorne.
“And I thought you didn’t even like her…!”
You should know better than that, came the unhesitating reply. Of course we like her… We’d go so far as to even use the word ‘love’…another pause, and Thorne would’ve sworn it had been used for effect’ …just like you do…
“Then…” Thorne began with greater frustration, barely keeping his volume down to a ‘private’ level “…then why the fuck have you been so red hot on keeping her away from me? What’s she gonna do to me that’s so bloody awful…?”
It was never about that… and the voices in the back of his mind were sombre now – almost sorrowful. …It’s never been about keeping you safe from her…!
“Mitch…” Thorne snapped sharply into the microphone, his face hardening as his mind struggled to process that last sentiment. “Take down the flight heading for Eileen first.”
There were plenty of strong, very valid tactical and strategic reasons w
hy the commander of the Tunguska should have argued against that decision, not the least of which was the necessity to protect the two valuable and potentially irreplaceable tanks accompanying them. He and the rest of his crew felt the bonds of friendship and esprit de corps as strongly as the rest of his unit however, and – truth be told – it was quite possible there wasn’t a man in the entire Hindsight group who didn’t have a special place in their heart for Eileen Donelson.
“Understood, sir…” Mitch replied without hesitation, and the Tunguska pulled off to the side of the track and slowed to a walking pace in preparation for firing.
Within seconds, two more missiles hissed angrily from its launch tubes and quickly accelerated to two-and-a-half times the speed of sound. Each sought out and destroyed one of the fighters from 7-Staffel, leaving little wreckage to fall to earth as each in turn disintegrated in huge clouds of smoke and flame. Another pair roared away… then two more… and then the last of their missiles were gone, also streaking away low across the sky and cutting paths through the lingering exhaust trails of the six that had preceded them. Eight aircraft were obliterated in a matter of seconds with just one finger-four formation remaining from an entire staffel of fighters.
“All birds away...” Mitch advised as the Tunguska accelerated once more and fell back into formation with the rest of the convoy, although Thorne was already well aware of that. “Remaining bogies out of range of guns – approximately ninety seconds to firing on second formation…”
“Thanks Mitch, you’ve done everything you could…” Thorne replied, knowing the response was unnecessary but feeling compelled to give it anyway. “They’re on their own now, I guess…”
Aren’t we all…! The voice in his head added softly and for once, Max Thorne had no reply to give.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 75