The newly appointed Kommandant, General Harig addressed the newly christened pilots. “Men, your work is done here. I do apologize for the abbreviated service for the presentation of your wings, and the fact that your families can’t join us, but we are at war. I’m happy to report that the Luftwaffe has swept the Polish Air Force out of the sky, and the conflict in Poland is almost at an end.”
Hans whispered to Wolf, “Does Poland even have an air force?”
“Quiet.”
General Harig went on. “Therefore, none of you will be sent to Poland. But you are to report to your assigned units to finish your specific training. Those of you assigned to the JAG 23 will be forming a new fighter squadron. I’m pleased to tell you, that you will be flying the newest variant of our Me 109 fighter. It is the best combat plane in the world, so you have no excuse…” The cadets laughed. “Now some of you will be assigned to the bomber units. That is also an important duty. Fly straight and bomb even better. The rest... well the rest if there are any here, which I hope isn’t the case, will be assigned to fly transports.”
There was a groan from the cadets. Hans shrugged and looked the ground. “Please, not me.”
Wolf saw that Zigfried and Wilhelm were looking at Hans and him. Wolf raised his voice, “Nazi bastard.”
Hans lowered his voice, “Not so loud. But we’ll never see his ass again. Thank God for that.”
General Harig said, “That is an important duty, especially if you’re hauling petrol and condoms for the front line troops. Try not to crash, or else the Wehrmacht will be out of fuel, but laden with syphilis!” There was a tremendous cheer by the cadets.
Hans whispered to Wolf. “He’s a general?”
General Harig egged them on. “Tomorrow you leave; tonight is to celebrate your wings!”
Hans looked at Wolf. “Welcome to the Luftwaffe.”
The cadets who were now Luftwaffe pilots milled around the parade grounds and then hustled over to the announcement board outside the Kommandant’s office when the cadet postings were revealed. Wolf hung back as the throng of cadets pushed forward to see which branch of the Luftwaffe they had been assigned to.
Wilhelm shoved the others out of the way and made his way to the board. He nodded and went back to Zigfried, who was coolly waiting at the foot of the steps to the Kommandant’s office. He said loudly so everyone could hear, “JAG 23, fighter pilots both of us!”
A look of immense pride came across Zigfried’s face. He turned to Hans, who was next to him and said, “Go get your transport duty.”
Hans didn’t say anything, and he went up the stairs. He only got halfway when a cadet at the bulletin board said, “Hans, you and Wolf are fighter pilots. JAG 23 congratulations, you bunch of brown noses!”
Hans stood up straight and walked down the steps. He approached Wolf and saluted, “Hans Meyer your wingman, reporting for duty.”
Wolf smiled and saluted. “Good to have you.”
“Now can we get drunk? Hans and Wolf laughed as the walked away. Hans said to Zigfried and Wilhelm, “Men, see you there. Try to stay out of our contrail. We’re going to be flying fast... very fast.”
Zigfried replied, “Hopefully into the ground.”
Directive 219
It was after midnight the next day when Zigfried arrived at the Frankfurt Institute for Hereditary Biology and Race Hygiene. Doctor Bockler had informed Zigfried that he would be busy performing special experiments throughout the night. The start of the war had demanded that his critical work on identical twins be put aside for awhile.
Instead, the higher ups in Nazi regime and the Luftwaffe were concerned about pilot survival in cold weather. That was known as Directive 219, a list of experiments and solutions for pilot survival in freezing conditions. So that work, if you could call it that, took top priority. Zigfried was congratulated as he passed the main checkpoint into the medical facility. A guard saluted him, “Sir.”
Zigfried smiled, “It’s me, Zigfried.”
“Sir, you are now a pilot. Go right in.”
Zigfried was led into the rear of the facility. He found his father Doctor Bockler, looking into a glass chamber. Inside the small cage like chamber was a Polish prisoner. The prisoner was naked and shivering. The chamber was a mini freezer used for various experiments. In this case, Doctor Bockler and his macabre staff were trying to determine how cold a temperature a pilot could withstand before he died. Freezing air was pumped into the chamber. The temperature steadily dropped minute by minute, and the Polish prisoner was slowly but surely freezing to death.
Doctor Bockler looked up and greeted his beloved son. “Ziggy my boy. You wear the wings of the Luftwaffe very well. Your mother would be so proud.” The Polish prisoner huddled into a ball, and his shivering increased.
“Father.”
“Come closer and take a look. This is my second test today, to see how long the subject, in this case, a useless Polish prisoner can survive in freezing temperatures. The first was fully clothed in the Luftwaffe’s experimental survival gear. He survived to under 20 degrees.” Doctor Bockler laughed, “He was fine, he wouldn’t die. We had to pull him out of the chamber and shoot him. I assure you he is dead now. How would it look to return a Polish prisoner to the Waffen SS.”
They both got a hearty laugh as the Polish prisoner hands dropped to his side. Zigfried smirked, “This one is nearly kaput.”
“Yes, this lower class subhuman Pole has been stripped clean. As you can see, he is close to death. He has reached critical mass, with his vital signs much quicker than the others. We won’t have to shoot him. But I’ll have to wait several hours for his organs to thaw out before I dissect his brain. His frontal lobe should give me interesting information on how the freezing has affected his tissue matter.”
“I do see the importance of you work.”
“Yes, yes. Everything must be done to ensure that pilots like yourself can survive in freezing conditions if that is necessary.” Doctor Bockler pointed at the Polish prisoner who rolled onto the floor of the chamber. “The goal is for our pilots to survive so they can fight another day and kill the enemy.”
“Is he dead?”
“Most assuredly. Now let me buy you dinner. This taxing work has a tendency to make me hungry, though remind me to skip dessert. I must keep myself in shape.”
“You look great father. A true credit to our Fuhrer and the Nazi Party!”
“Thank you, my boy. I would like nothing better than to perform these tests on an RAF pilot. They are somewhat close in heritage to us. And it is my theory that they can withstand a lower temperature than Polish subhumans. In fact, I know that is the case.”
“With my squadron coming online, You may not have to wait much longer.”
“That would be splendid my son.”
Harding Barrow
Captain Randolph Ashton’s bags were neatly stacked in the foyer of Harding Barrow. Randolph was in his RAF uniform and was about to open the door to leave. He thought better and walked down the hallway. He lightly tapped on Madeline’s door. Randolph entered and found Madeline in bed with the curtains drawn. She stirred, and he said, “It’s like a morgue in here.”
It was evident that Madeline had been crying. “Is that you Randolph?”
“James will be here shortly to take me to Biggin Hill, and then I’m off to France. You weren’t going to say goodbye?”
“I’m sorry, but as Winston would call it, the “black dog” has got me. I can’t shake it no matter how hard I try. I do miss Owen; I want you to know that. And I truly loved him.”
Randolph took hold of Madeline and gently shook her. “You have to try. Father is lost but Madeline, not you. Don’t you understand you’re the strong one of the family? You’ve always been the glue that has held everything together. That is even truer since mother flew the coop and took up with…”
Madeline sat up in bed. “His name is Harold Ickes, the theatre big shot. With so many actress floozies at his disposal, one
has to wonder why he chose mother. It certainly wasn’t for her charming personality.”
Randolph smiled, “Perhaps she’s a fine cook.”
“I doubt very much that she knows the difference between a spoon and a ladle.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
Winston’s Rolls Royce beeped its horn outside the house on the gravel roundabout. “Off you go.”
Randolph asked, “Will you be all right?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No... no you don’t.”
Randolph leaned down and gave his sister a hug. She said, “You will write.”
“Every chance that I get.”
“That means never. Now take your leave and close the door behind you. I'd like to sulk a little bit longer.”
“Goodbye, my precious sister.”
“Do be safe.”
Randolph closed the door, and Madeline wondered why all the men in her life had either died or gone away to this new war. She fell asleep and dreamed of happier times.
* * *
James was kind enough to place Randolph’s luggage in the trunk of the Rolls Royce. He thanked him and opened the rear door to the Rolls Royce. It was only then that he saw Winston Churchill sitting quietly in the back of the car with a cigar in his mouth. “Sir Winston, this wasn’t necessary.”
“Nonsense. Every soldier deserves a proper send-off.” James closed the door, and the Rolls Royce pulled away. A curtain over a small window at the front of the estate was pulled back, and Winston saw the face of Lord Ashton. Winston nodded as the sedan kicked up the gravel on the driveway and left Harding Barrow.
“Do you think she harbors feelings for this Wolf Kruger?”
“I’m not sure that matters now. Captain Ashton, I could use an adjunct from the RAF to help me navigate the complexities of the coming air campaign. Your help would be most valuable.” Randolph squirmed in his seat, showing his displeasure.
“Sir Winston did Madeline put you up to this?”
“Most certainly not.”
“I see.”
“I could demand that you take the position.” Winston chomped down on the cigar as he watched the countryside roll by.
“But you won’t do that.”
“Of course not. But do keep me informed about everything: planes, tactics and our pilots. I will do what I can here to further our cause and get the RAF everything that it needs. The Spitfire is quickly coming online. I intend to increase production as soon as possible. There isn’t any time to lose. Is there anything else I can do while you’re in harm’s way?”
“Yes, there is. Help Madeline find her a sense of purpose. So much has happened to her. I fear Madeline’s spirit will be broken from the tragedies and disappointment that has befallen her.”
The Rolls Royce turned into the gate at the Biggin Hill RAF Fighter Base. Two squadrons of Hawker Hurricanes were parked on the runway. It was a magnificent site. The machines and their pilots would be off the next day for France. There, they would continue their training and patrols awaiting Adolf Hitler’s next move.
Lieutenant Marsh greeted Winston’s Roll Royce as it stopped by the entrance to the hangar. “Sir Winston.”
Winston shook his hand. “Lieutenant Marsh this is Captain Ashton, commander of 72 Squadron.”
Lieutenant Marsh saluted, “Sir.”
Randolph said, “Are things in order, Lieutenant?”
“Very much so. By tomorrow, you will be off, and I will be left with only the old two-seat Hawker Hurricane trainer. That won’t be much use if the Gerries come calling.”
Randolph confidently said, “We will try to prevent that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Marsh turned to Winston. “I beg your pardon Captain, but may I ask Sir Winston a question?”
“Of course.”
“Sir Winston whatever happened to that German lad. You remember him; he had a nasty habit of flying upside down.”
Winston said, “I understand he has been commissioned as a fighter pilot.”
“Really? I shouldn’t want to run into him.” Lieutenant Marsh turned to Randolph, “Now Captain Ashton is there anything else I can do for you?”
JAG 23
The city of Trier, Germany is the thing that travel postcards are made of. It is on the banks of the picturesque Moselle River and claims to be the oldest town in Germany. This may be true, because the strategic city became the capital of the prefecture of the Gauls, overseeing much of the Western Roman Empire.
Trier ended up as the fifth largest city in the known world, with over 75,000 loyal Roman subjects. As time went on, Trier was captured by the Franks, France and finally firmly placed in the German Empire.
By early 1940 during the Phoney War, Trier once again became important...at least to the Luftwaffe. The reconditioned airfield now housed the newly formed JAG 23 Fighter Squadron, as well as other air units. The reason was rather simple and more than obvious. The French border was only a hop and a skip away. Up and down the border with France, Germany had been moving Luftwaffe units as close as possible to the French frontier.
The JAG 23 Squadron immediately began their final training and fine tuning in the new Messerschmitt 109 fighter F-variant. JAG 23 was the first unit in the Luftwaffe to receive the new variant that was slowly being ramped up at the German production lines. The significant difference in the fighter was that it now possessed a more powerful engine and a 20-millimeter cannon that was placed smack in the center of the propeller shaft.
The Me 109 would be the workhorse of the Luftwaffe, and it was designed to wrestle control of the skies from RAF.
Wolf, Hans, Zigfried, and Wilhelm took to the air immediately. They flew every day and as often as possible. After a month, they had over a hundred hours each of flying time in the new Me 109.
Every time they went up, they knew the French border was just over the horizon. That meant the RAF and the French Air Force were somewhere over there flying and training. But hope still percolated on the French and British side that the Phoney War would end, and Germany would come to its senses. The Allied air forces had strict rules not to fly over the border of France. And they weren’t to engage the Luftwaffe unless the Germans violated French sovereignty.
JAG 23 fighter planes were broken down into groups of four planes each when they were in the air. The four planes would be further divided into two plane formations. And those two planes, would be lined up with a lead fighter and his all important wingman. The lead fighter would be the plane that would maneuver and attack. His wingman would be on his tail protecting the lead fighter from the enemy. No one was looking out for the wingman. Who said military doctrine was infallible.
As fate would have it, Wolf and Hans were paired up with Zigfried and Wilhelm. The four pilots were the very best that JAG 23 had to offer. It was no surprise that Wolf and Zigfried were the attack pilots in their groupings.
Much to Zigfried’s dismay, Wolf was put in command of the four pilot gruppe. On a late February morning, the four Me 109s left the Trier Air Base and headed for the French frontier. Ten minutes out Wolf ordered the group due north, on a course parallel to the French border.
Hans fell into line behind Wolf as they picked up speed. Moments later Hans came over the radio. “Yellow 1, Red 1 and Red 2 are staying on course toward French airspace.”
What is he doing? Wolf called Zigfried and Wilhelm on the radio, “Come to 150 degrees. Do not enter France. Do you hear me.”
A garbled transmission came over the radio from Zigfried, “We are under attack, taking evasive action.”
Hans came over the radio to Wolf. “Attack my ass. Yellow 1, I don’t see any enemy planes on the horizon. Are we going in too?”
“Negative.”
Zigfried rolled over into French airspace and Wilhelm was on his tail. Barely five minutes over France and at 17,000 feet, they spotted, at least, a half-dozen dark specks in the sky. Zigfried turned left and down. Wilhelm now got a clear view of wh
at the specks were. It was a flight of French Morane-Saulnier fighter planes. There were six of them in tight formation. That all changed when the French saw the Germans. They broke apart and split in two different directions. Wilhelm came over the radio to the flight group. “We got six here! Six!”
“Follow me,” said Zigfried. The two Me 109s banked and headed to the right half of the French formation.
Hans spoke loudly over the radio. “Yellow 1. Wolf. Wolf.”
“I know, let’s go.” Wolf banked his plane from 24000 feet and headed for the French frontier and the flight of Morane-Saulnier fighter aircraft.
Zigfried and Wilhelm made a pass through the French formation. Zigfried fired his twin 7.9 mm machine guns and a three round burst from the 20 mm cannon in the nose of the Me 109. He flatly missed the oncoming French fighters. Zigfried banked left and climbed. That didn’t do much good as Morane-Saulnier fighter got on Wilhelm’s tail. Though the French plane was underpowered and weakly armed, it was highly maneuverable. It stayed on Wilhelm’s tail and machine gun bullets peppered his left wing.
Wolf rolled over from 20,000 feet with the sun at his back and dove for the French fighter that was on Wilhelm’s tail. He steadied his Me 109, closed to 200 yards, and then opened fire with a three-second burst. The French fighter took numerous hits from Wolf’s machine guns and smoke fanned into the air from its engine.
Two rounds from the 20 mm cannon found the back of the pilot’s seat, and the French plane spiraled toward the ground and broke apart. Wolf Kruger the former glider pilot and wayward mathematician, was the first Luftwaffe pilot of World War II to shoot down a plane flown by the Western Allies. Hans screamed, “Way to go!”
Wolf got on the radio to Zigfried, “Break it off now!”
Zigfried pushed the throttle to his Me 109 all the way forward, and he headed back for the German border. Wilhelm whose Me 109 was shot up limped over the frontier. All four planes landed, and there was a buzz at the Trier Air Base, as the Me 109s were parked and their wheels chalked.
Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) Page 13