England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  The Lockheed Martin F-35E Lighting II strike fighter lurched and dove headlong for the ocean, almost breaking the sound barrier as it levelled out just two hundred metres above the surface of the Atlantic. Holding the aircraft steady, Thorne reset the automatic pilot and kept his eyes scanning the view ahead for any potential threat as he hurtled past above the darkening Atlantic at high subsonic speed.

  They were at 5,000 metres, heading south toward the Channel coast, as Alec Trumbull held the Spitfire at an uncomfortably lower-than-normal cruising speed that was the fastest the Gladiators could manage. It wasn’t safe to fly that way — dangerous to be caught at such a speed disadvantage by an enemy — but leaving the b on their own would’ve been fatal…there was simply nothing to be done about it.

  There were fifteen of them now — 610 Sqn had met and formed up with 601 Sqn a few kilometres back, the seven aircraft of that unit as much of a mixed bunch as his own. Fighter Command controllers had informed them that at least three times their number of aircraft were approaching in what was suspected to be an attack on Ventnor radar station. Trumbull ignored the estimate as it mattered little: no matter what number of enemy they came up against, they were the only opposition in the area the RAF could field. All they could do was get on with it and try to shoot down as many as they could.

  “Keep your eyes open, Chaps…” Trumbull, the senior officer present, warned over the radio. “The bombers out there ahead of us won’t be alone!”

  With the English coast to port, Major Adolf Galland held his J-109E fighter barely above the surface of the Channel as he had for the whole of the trip from France in an effort to avoid British radar. His gruppe of escorting fighters had broken away from the main group and circled west of the bomber formations under direction by Fliegerkorps. Advanced German radar installations at Calais and Cherbourg could pick out RAF aircraft with greater clarity than could the more primitive British systems in return at any distance, aided substantially by the fact that the French coast wasn’t under constant air attack.

  Their mottled green and blue-grey camouflage made them difficult to pick out against the dark water of the Channel in the failing light, the only variation in their colour schemes being their distinctive yellow-painted noses that declared they were part of fighter wing JG26 ‘Schlageter’, one of the more accomplished and decorated Luftwaffe combat units of the war so far. Streamlined 300-litre auxiliary fuel tanks hung from their bellies: the J-109E, for all its abilities as a fighter, wasn’t a long range aircraft and the pilots needed every extra litre of fuel they could carry if they were to carry out effective combat operations against the RAF over England.

  They could easily see the RAF formation in the light of the setting sun, illuminated clearly against the darkening blue of the sky above them. Just a few kilometres away now, the British fighters were unwittingly flying straight across I/JG26’s path. With one word of attack over the radio, Galland pushed his fighter into a power climb, throttle wide open. The rest of his group — twenty-four fighters in all –climbed as one to intercept, engines howling in fury as their belly-mounted drop tanks fell away.

  “Bandits! Bandits! Yellow-Nosed Bastards: three o’clock low!” The call came suddenly over everyone’s headsets from Stiles in his Gladiator on the western edge of the formation. The sighting had been late and from a completely unexpected direction, and the Messerschmitts were among the RAF fighters and firing even as their surprised prey began to separate in an attempt to split the attack. Stiles, the closest, was the first to fall and died almost instantly as machine gun and cannon fire tore his Gladiator to pieces, the burning wreckage spiralling downward and trailing terrible clouds of black smoke. Three other aircraft — two Hurricanes and a Spitfire — fell to that initial pass, one of those also plummeting earthward in flames while the other two pilots at least managed to bail out.

  Instantly going to full-throttle and cursing the speed at which they’d been forced to fly in formation, Trumbull threw his Spit into a power dive seeking desperate acceleration. He felt his aircraft shudder as a half-dozen machine gun bullets peppered his rear fuselage to no great effect save for giving him a serious fright and a sobering taste of things to come. An absolutely terrifying cascade of cannon tracer from a different attacker cut a deadly arc across his nose in red streaks a split second later, one of the shells striking his engine cowling a glancing blow and tearing away a jagged section that left a gaping hole over his Merlin’s right cylinder bank. Shrapnel and debris spattered and bounced off his bullet-proof windscreen and fell away behind as wisps of grey smoke began to trail from the hole in the cowling before him. He could feel the engine falter almost instantly and he was left in no doubt the impact had done some kind of damage to his powerplant that might well prove ultimately fatal.

  He continued the dive in fear the attacking enemy might follow to finish him off, still accelerating despite his power loss thanks to the benefits of gravity. He couldn’t know that a second after firing, the J-109E had collided in mid-air with one of his own Hawker Typhoons, the British aircraft’s notorious rear empennage having shaken loose under heavy manoeuvres and sending it into an uncontrollable, tailless spin across the Messerschmitt’s flight path to the detriment of both. The tangled mass of wreckage whirled off at an oblique angle, neither pilot surviving the catastrophic impact.

  Trumbull managed to level the Spitfire out at just five hundred metres, speed dropping off sharply as he came out of the dive. Even at full power, the clattering Merlin V-12 was struggling to keep the aircraft flying at much better than half its normal top speed at sea level. There was no way he’d be able to play any further part in the air battle above: in truth he’d be lucky to make land again once he’d detoured around it, but twilight was less than forty minutes away and there was at least a chance that he might avoid detection by any other enemy in the area if he stayed low and minded his own business.

  Trumbull called in his situation to the others in his squadron before advising Fighter Command of his predicament and that his XO, Flight Lieutenant James was now in command of the flight.

  Assuming, of course, that he’s still alive… he added mentally, the thought a singularly unpleasant one. There was nothing more he could do now but keep flying and pray for his engine to hold out.

  Max Thorne was a dozen kilometres south-west of the Orkney Islands as his radio unexpectedly came to life.

  “Harbinger, this is Icebreaker — we have a bit of a problem here… Over.”

  “Reading you, Icebreaker…” Thorne responded quickly, instantly alert and concerned. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve received an urgent message from the Prime Minister’s office direct. It seems that Alec Trumbull has got into a bit of bother off the south coast and is in need of assistance. Over…”

  “He was supposed to be grounded today!” Thorne growled in reply, ignoring normal R/T procedure in reaction to the unexpected situation. “That was a precondition of Laurence’s assistance!”

  “Yes, Harbinger — sorry about that. The message from Fighter Command apparently arrived at his squadron too late — he’d already scrambled. Seems he has engine trouble and there’s a bit of a stoush going on down that way as we speak. The request did come from the Prime Minister himself…”

  “Actually, I did hear that the first time, Icebreaker,” Thorne pointed out sourly in return and gave the new information a few seconds of thought as the ocean rushed past 200 metres below him at an incredible rate. He’d refuelled just before displacement, but the aircraft didn’t have external tanks mounted and a high-speed run down the length of Britain and back would use a substantial amount of his fuel… he’d be cutting things very fine if he ran into anything other than local opposition or was forced to loiter in the area for any reason.

  “Anything other than the ‘usual’ stuff about, Icebreaker…?” He inquired, still thinking.

  “Nothing as far as we’re aware, Harbinger — all seems to be contemporary.”

  “Fu
ck it…” Thorne muttered to himself finally, the decision made. He keyed the transmitter once more. “Get me a bearing on that, Icebreaker and I’ll go and have a look for you.”

  The new co-ordinates had been entered into his flight computer just a moment later in preparation for the impromptu trip south and the aircraft’s autopilot took over, instantly bringing the F-35E into a tight, high-G turn that brought it back onto a southerly heading. His afterburner kicked in for a few moments, forcing him back in his seat as the jet accelerated and climbed at the same time, levelling out as it passed through 10,000 metres.

  “Comms: music — play Iron Maiden.”

  The F-35E model (pre-production model EF-1) was a one-off, two-seat prototype developed from the original single-seat F-35B STOVL variant. Originally intended as a demonstrator and test aircraft for the viability of a two-seat cockpit due to pressure from some of Lockheed’s prospective international customers, aircraft EF-1 had been commandeered by the US Government and supplied on open-ended ‘loan’ to Thorne’s special unit as it was the only aircraft available that was able to fill a quite specific set of required mission parameters.

  Thorne, who’d become the primary pilot, had spend several months in simulator and real flight training with the F-35E as a result and had almost become part of the development team himself as the last of its initial bugs and idiosyncrasies were ironed out. As he’d provided a great deal of input during the final stages of its operational status and had also been required to personally program the cockpit’s speech-recognition command system to attune it to his voice, he’d also had some of his own requests factored into the aircraft’s features.

  One of them had included the provision of a non-standard socket interface mounted just ahead of the throttle control, into which was currently inserted a small 16GB iPod Nano. The Apple music player was filled with a personal collection of Thorne’s favourite music in MPEG audio format and could be piped through his headset on request. The quality of the sound reproduction wasn’t fantastic but it was better than nothing in Thorne’s estimation.

  As the distinctive opening guitar riffs of Iron Maiden’s song The Trooper blasted in his ears, Thorne settled into his seat and tried to remain calm as he contemplated the potential dangers ahead and the F-35E hurtled through the cold, darkening sky southward at close to the speed of sound.

  High above the English Channel north of Guernsey, Leutnant Keller and his wingman cruised along effortlessly in their new Focke-Wulf J-4A fighters. Flying in standard Luftwaffe paired formation (known as a ‘rotte’) they belonged to 8 Staffel of III/LG2 based at Cherbourg. As an instructional unit, Lehrgeschwader-2 was preparing for the commencement of the conversion of front-line Luftwaffe fighter wings to the new fighter aircraft they were now testing.

  Although they’d now had those two particular examples of the new J-4A flying for a few weeks, the aircraft’s capabilities still impressed them. Larger in all respects than the J-109 ‘Emil’ it was about to replace, the Würger — or ‘Shrike’ — was packed with improvements and innovations. The aircraft was heavier than its predecessor, but the larger Junkers V-12 engine that powered it was still able to give the aircraft a top speed substantially greater than the fastest Spitfire either at sea level or at altitude.

  The rear fuselage was cut down and a sliding, ‘tear-drop’ canopy was provided, both factors resulting in greatly superior all-round visibility for the pilot. There was also the added benefit of the ability to leave the canopy hood open, something that was impossible with the side-opening design on the J-109. It was a luxury both pilots were making the most of at that moment.

  “Herr Leutnant!” The call came over the radio from Keller’s wingman. “Aircraft off to port…!” The lieutenant craned his neck to the left, and dipping that wing slightly he caught sight — barely — of the aircraft in question. It was travelling at far lower altitude — no more than 2,000 metres above the Channel — and was at least ten kilometres away. Save for the last vestiges of full sunlight glinting off its wings and upper surfaces, it might well have passed unseen.

  “Well spotted, Hans,” Keller acknowledged “A flying boat, I think. Shall we take a closer look?” He threw his Shrike onto its port wing and increased throttle, banking sharply westward as he armed his guns.

  Smoke poured from the port, inboard engine of Short Sunderland ‘G-for-Grace’ of Royal Australian Air Force Number 10 Squadron as Flight-Lieutenant Edward Whittaker watched from the pilot’s seat with more than a little apprehension. Its starboard counterpart already lay dormant off the right side of the cockpit, the three-bladed propeller feathered and spinning lazily as the flying boat struggled to maintain a constant airspeed. Five hours earlier they’d run across a Focke-Wulf P-200C Condor over the Bay of Biscay and unlike most Condor pilots, this one had decided to attack in spite of the large German patrol aircraft’s generally fragile nature.

  The Sunderland — an aircraft the Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine respectfully referred to as ‘der Fliegende Stachelschwein’ (‘the Flying Porcupine’) — had beaten off the repeated attacks, and in all probability they’d dealt the enemy patrol bomber a beating from which it wouldn’t recover as it finally fled east once more trailing smoke. The P-200C’s heavy machine guns and 20mm cannon had given them a severe pummelling in return nevertheless: only two of their four engines were now functioning properly and their damaged, leaking fuel tanks meant they’d be lucky to make home base at Plymouth, or a Coastal Command safe haven anywhere else for that matter. Their compass was shattered and he suspected they were well off-course and a lot closer to German-controlled airspace than they’d have liked, but Whittaker kept fighting with his controls and refused to give up hope all the same.

  Whittaker was twenty-eight years of age and had studied architecture at university prior to enlisting with the RAAF as a flying officer in 1936. Born and bred in Perth, Western Australia, the young man had grown up strong and fit as a teenager working on his father’s sheep farm. Tall and lean, with fair hair and a pair of sharp, blue eyes, a love of amateur boxing had kept him in shape through his university years and left him in good stead for his military career as a pilot.

  The pilot was an original member of 10 Sqn, having been with the unit since its formation at RAAF Base Point Cook in July of 1939, and had left Australia later that same month to train in England on their newly-delivered Sunderland flying boats. The outbreak of war had prevented their return to Australia, and instead the unit had remained in Europe, basing out of RAF Mount Batten in Plymouth and taking the war directly to enemy U-boats operating in the Atlantic and the Bay of Biscay.

  Coming in hard from the west, the setting sun making them invisible until practically the last moment, Keller’s J-4A thundered in toward the tail of the Sunderland at full speed with his wingman at his port rear quarter. The leutnant smiled as he closed to within cannon range, the flying boat’s tail gunner spotting them far too late. As the man screamed a warning over the intercom and Whittaker threw the aircraft into an evasive corkscrew to port, the fighter’s wing cannon and nose machine guns opened up and four deadly streams of tracer poured into the Sunderland’s rear fuselage. The wing cannon of the J-4A fired at much higher velocity and rate of fire than any before fitted to a Luftwaffe aircraft; all of which meaning it was a deadly weapon in the hands of a good pilot, and Keller was as good as any.

  The sparkle of shell detonations flickered across the rear of the flying boat, its tail gunner dying before he was able to return fire. Keller’s fighter roared past in a tight circle, immediately coming around to begin a second attack run as their prey banked away in the opposite direction trailing smoke, that single pass inflicting severe damage on the already-failing Sunderland. Inside the cockpit, Whittaker’s heart sank further as the ailing port inboard engine chose to give up the ghost completely at that moment, right in the middle of his evasive manoeuvre. The Pegasus radial died in a shower of lurid sparks and clouds of smoke, and at that point the pilot realised there was no
hope left whatsoever of keeping his aircraft intact: he gave the order to bail out.

  Keller opened fire a second time just eight hundred metres astern of his target, centring his Revi gunsight on the flying boat’s port wing root. The radio operator died under the barrage, vainly calling out across the airwaves for assistance that would never come. Whittaker’s co-pilot slumped forward under that same attack, his back a sea of crimson and half his head blown away as glass and instruments shattered all around them.

  Whittaker became the last of just five of the aircraft’s ten crewmen to get clear, bailing out just moments before the enemy fighters raked the Sunderland with fire for a third time. The starboard wing became engulfed in flame as what remained of the fuel within it ignited. It tore completely away from the stricken aircraft and the two shattered, burning remnants of flying boat spiralled away trailing dense clouds of smoke and fire. Keller radioed back to base with instructions to alert units on Guernsey of the attack as the pair turned away. Within minutes, an E-boat or rescue aircraft would be on its way to pick up any survivors.

  By that stage the German fighters were just eighty kilometres south of the English coast and for the second time that day, Keller’s wingman spotted an enemy aircraft in the failing light: this time a lone Spitfire heading north-west at very low altitude. Faint trails of silvery smoke trailed behind it, a good indication it was already in trouble, and the pair of Shrikes turned in to attack once more.

  Trumbull caught the flash of sunlight off canopy glass in his rear-view mirror just seconds before Keller opened fire. He threw the Spit into a hard, banking turn to port as the tracer sizzled past him, fire from just one of the enemies’ cannon chewing at his starboard wingtip and leaving it a ragged mess. Their superior speed was so great that both Focke-Wulf fighters overshot their target quickly, banked high to starboard as they circled back around. Trumbull desperately fought to gain some altitude with which to manoeuvre — the coast was tantalisingly close but still too far away under the present dire circumstances. Turning back to the north, he began a slow, agonising climb as his exhaust stacks chugged grey smoke in protest.