“Bloody hell! Those are Messerschmitts! Get on the rear gun Tommy. Beware the sting, boys!” He was shouting out the squadron motto, their emblem blazoned with a yellow hornet, but the sting they needed to beware was coming from above. Filmer craned his neck at his gunner and signalman, Midshipman Thomas McKee, hoping he was ready.
The Skua was a dual purpose plane, with the ability to perform as a fledgling fighter or a light dive bomber, though it accomplished neither role with any real authority. The absence of any German carrier threat at sea had not spurred development of Royal Navy planes. They knew they were fielding interwar models, largely obsolete against a plane like the BF-109, but there was nothing much in the pipeline to redress that issue at the moment. They were stuck with the slow, rugged Swordfish as their sole torpedo bomber, and until the Fulmars started arriving, the Skua was left holding down fighter duty and bombing runs.
“I’m going to jink left, Tommy!”
The rattle of the rear facing .303 Vickers MG punctuated the drone of the Skua’s engine as Filmer began his evasive maneuver, but the Skua was not an agile fighter. It was capable of a maximum speed of only 225 MPH and the 109s were over 120 MPH faster. If one got on your tail that single .303 MG was not enough to bother it unless the gunner was very good, and the Messerschmitt would unload with a pair of MG 131 guns in the wings and a 20mm Motorkanone in the nose. The MGs would rattle their cage, but that 20mm gun would skewer just about any bird it hit.
Ritter got his first kill on plane 7F in that heedless, headlong diving pass. The 109 thundered by, leaving Tommy McKee dead in the rear seat and the plane on fire. Harris and Stevenson in plane 7L fared little better, caught by Hauptmann Hans Frank, who had come over from the newly formed Night Fighter NJG-1 unit to join Graf Zeppelin. Only Lieutenant Commander John Casson and his mate Peter Fanshawe escaped. Casson was a bit of a stunt flyer, and he could get maneuvers out of his plane that the designers never thought to put there. He jogged left, scudded into a cloud, then wheeled around hoping to emerge with guns firing, but the BF-109s had flashed past to take down the other two planes in short order.
Outnumbered three to one, Casson knew his only chance was to get into low cloud and make a run for it. “Get the warning off, Pete!” he shouted. “What in bloody hell are these 109s doing out here?”
He knew the worst even as he spoke those words. They were 600 miles northeast of Trondheim, and the 109 had a combat radius of only 310 miles, and that was with drop tanks. If these planes were here, then they had to be off a carrier, and that meant that all the rumors in the hanger deck about the Graf Zeppelin were true…It was real, and it was here.
That news was soon in the hand of young Christopher Wells, hastening back from the W/T room with a heavy heart. So you fancy that you carried that order to send those fighters up, do you? Well look what’s in your hand now, boyo. Two Skuas lost, a Swordfish shot to hell, six men dead and the skies swept clean in ten minutes by German BF-109s. Now you can carry that…and he felt the weight of it all the way back, somewhat relieved when he finally reached the Flag Plot Room with the message and handed it off to the Commander Villers as he had been told when entering the room to find both the Admiral and his Flag Lieutenant present.
“There’s been an air battle, sir. We’ve lost three planes!”
Villers took the message in hand reading dispassionately. “Calm yourself, Mister Wells,” he said quietly. “If I require your interpretation of a message I shall ask for it.” Then he walked slowly to Admiral Tovey. “Confirmed, sir. Two Skuas and a Swordfish down approximately here.” He moved a small model plane out onto the situation map to mark the spot. “BF-109s, sir.” The tone in his voice was evident as he placed emphasis on this and it got Tovey’s attention.
The Admiral looked at the message briefly, handing it back to Villers. “Confirm the message was also received by the Vice Admiral on Ark Royal. I think he’ll want the balance of 803 squadron up at once. And signal RAF at Wick to see about support.”
Chapter 23
The Junkers JU-87C was adapted from the workhorse of the early Luftwaffe ground attack planes, the very successful JU-87B-1. For carrier operations it had been modified with folding wings, a stronger fuselage, arrestor hook, and ejectable landing gear to permit possible emergency landing in the sea. It was rigged to carry bombs only, as the Fieseler Fi-167 was on the drawing board for a dedicated torpedo bomber on the German carriers, though they were not yet ready. But the Stukas were ready, and even as dedicated dive bombers they could still win a race against the British Skua, being about 25MPH faster while cruising and almost as well armed with two 7.92mm MGs forward and one MG-17 facing the rear. Their real punch was the 250 KG bomb, over 500 pounds, and four 50kg bombs mounted on the broad vulture-like wings. The ‘Jericho Trumpets’ were also retained to give the dive bombers that awful screeching noise when they dove on attack. Their one limitation was range, with an effective combat radius of about 300 miles.
Ritter’s fighters had disrupted the British search to the north, and one of the Arado 196s followed a hunch and pressed on through the low clouds until the pilot was surprised to burst out into a clear patch and find the sea below him crowded with warships. There was a carrier in the distance, ample reason for the seaplane to be quick in its reconnaissance here, but the real find was the sighting of HMS Invincible and Renown with a pair of destroyers. Elated at the lucky discovery, he skipped into the clouds and turned tail for home, urging his signalman on the wireless to send out the coordinates.
Kapitan Böhmer was equally pleased to hear the news, and immediately notified Lindemann that the British fleet was no more than 125 kilometers southeast of their present position. He asked if he should attack, and Lindemann quickly gave him his blessing. The Valkyries were about to sing in the first German carrier borne air strike of the war. A formation of 18 of his 26 Stukas was selected, three squadrons of six planes each, and they were to be escorted by the six reserve BF-109s as soon as Ritter’s group could be recovered.
Taking off from a moving carrier at sea was always easier than landing, which was a lesson the Germans were soon to learn when one of the six fighters they had aloft misjudged the approach and came skidding in to lose a wing against the carrier’s armored 5.9-inch deck gun turrets. Thankfully the pilot was saved, but the plane was a total loss and had to be pushed overboard, which sent Böhmer pacing on the island bridge. There had been too little time to for training.
It took another half an hour to clear the deck and reset equipment for the launch, and the weather was worsening rapidly. Böhmer looked at the charcoal skies, where the light of the setting sun was glowing blood red, like embers burning in coals. The words of the Nordic poem he had read so often ran though his mind as he smelled the cold air and heard the distant rumble of far off thunder.
“Now awful it is to be without,
as blood-red rack races overhead;
and the welkin sky is gory with warriors' blood
as we Valkyries war-songs chanted.”
He briefly considered whether to cancel the mission in these darkening skies, with the wind up and the chances high that his planes would not find anything at all. But war was war, and risks had to be taken. The Valkyries would fly. The strike would send the whole of Trägergruppe 186, out to look for the British fleet.
Soon he heard the first growling overture of the opera, as one engine after another sputtered to life and revved up on the flight deck below. The BF-109s took off first, all six forming up over the carrier before the Stukas went aloft. One by one the dark crows lifted off the rolling deck. In spite of the heavy swells, Graf Zeppelin was a large ship, displacing nearly 34,000 tons with a 118 foot beam, and it provided good stability. The long flight deck, over 800 feet, also gave the pilots plenty of room for takeoff. The Stukas were formed up, their engines howling on the flight deck as they waited for final clearance to begin takeoff. Hauptmann Marco Ritter had already returned and was out on the flight deck waiting for the air
crews to refuel and rearm his Messerschmitt, eager to get back into the sky. He was counting the planes, seeing that only seventeen had been spotted.
“Where’s number eighteen?” he asked an airman.
“Still on the elevator. The pilot is sick and doesn’t think he can fly. But seventeen should do the job well enough.”
“That’s an unlucky number,” said Ritter. “Let me go and see about it.”
He went below, only to learn that the remaining six Stuka pilots were all busy performing pre-flight checks on their planes, which were being armed in the event they were needed later. Frustrated, he spied a lone pilot leaning dejectedly on a bulkhead, enviously watching the crews work on the dark flock of crows.
“You there, what are you doing?”
“Nothing, sir. I have no assignment.”
Ritter shook his head. “No assignment? Here I am looking for a pilot and there you are right in front of me. Isn’t that a flight jacket you are wearing?”
The Air Maintenance Chief heard the men and yelled at Ritter as he worked on one of the planes. “Don’t get excited, Hauptmann Ritter, he’s just a recon pilot.”
“Recon pilot?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Airman. “I fly the Arado.” The man was the number four Arado 196 pilot, still waiting for assignment, listless and brooding below decks. “But I can fly that too,” the man pointed at the last Stuka on the elevator, a dejected, hungry look on his face.
“You can fly a Stuka?” Ritter remembered the man now.
“Yes sir. I trained with Sturzkampfgeschwader 3 before volunteering for my assignment here.”
“Excellent! You’re my lucky eighteen.”
“Me sir?”
“You can’t send him, Ritter,” the maintenance Chief protested.
“Mind your spanner, Chief. I am head of air operations on this deck, and if this man can fly a Stuka he’s as good as any of the others.”
Most of the Stuka pilots were young and still relatively inexperienced. They had fought briefly in Poland before being drafted into the special units for training with the new carrier based model.
“Just get in the plane,” said Ritter. “You can ride it up on the elevator.”
Rudel’s eyes glowed with thanks. “Right away, sir!” And he leapt for the plane, scrambling up and into the cockpit as the lift started.
“You’ll get him killed, Ritter. He’s never flown a real combat mission in a Stuka, just training.”
“Every man gets his first chance, Chief. And nobody lives forever.” He watched the young man go, eager, happy to serve, and also noted how he correctly fixed his harness in little time at all. He will have to do, he thought.
Ritter’s lucky number eighteen was Hans-Ulrich Rudel, and he had joined the School of Air Warfare right out of high school to learn to fly. There he found the work challenging, and was thought to be ill suited for combat missions by his instructors, which is why they gave him the role of reconnaissance pilot. Determined, he applied himself rigorously, shunning alcohol and cigarettes, and maintaining a rigid discipline in his studies. It was to be a case of sheer will that saw him succeed, and he made numerous requests to be transferred to a fighting unit.
Begging for a more active role, he was sent over to the Kriegsmarine for training on the Arado 196 his experience in recon operations saw him assigned to the Graf Zeppelin as Number Four pilot in the Arado Anerkenung Squadron. Two of his mates were already up there joining in the excitement as they loitered to help vector in the strike wave once it got aloft, but Rudel was sulking below decks when fate, in the form of Marco Ritter, placed a hand on his shoulder.
Ritter took the ladder up, back on the flight deck to watch the Stukas take off. When the last plane was ready, he gave Rudel a thumbs up, and a wide smile, remembering his own very first combat mission over Poland. He watched as Rudel’s plane roared off the deck, eager for the sky. A nice takeoff, he thought.
Soon the strike wave was up and on its way, only twenty minutes out from the target at their present cruising speed of 225 MPH. They threaded their way through drifts of clouds, moving fast on the wind, and far to the south the alarms were clanging hot and loud on the ships of Tovey’s Home Fleet.
* * *
Lieutenant Commander John Casson was back, his Skua just landed on the Ark Royal as they began to spot the decks with new planes for a hasty takeoff. He leapt out and down from the cockpit, checking on his signalman gunner before he hit the deck. There was a line of bullet holes in his left wing, but it had not caught fire and the low clouds and his acrobatic flying had saved the plane, and undoubtedly his life as well. He spied the Squadron Leader, Captain Richard ‘Birdy’ Partridge, of Peartree fame on the ship. He was huddling with his gunner’s mate Bostock as they made ready to mount their planes.
“Jerry 109s,” he said flatly. “Jumped us from above, and had two planes down before we could tip a wing.”
“That means they’ve come off a carrier, Johnny. So we get a crack at Graf Zeppelin.”
“Yes, well you had better hop to it! Those planes were no more than fifteen minutes out when they found us. They could be right on my heels.”
“Who went down?”
“Filmer and Harris.”
Casson patted the chest pocket on his flight jacket where he kept a silver brandy flask given to him by his wife. He could use a swig now, but was only glad to have made it home in one piece.
Squadron navigator Peter ‘Hornblower’ Fanshaw came running up, breathless as he gathered himself. “I’ve just got the latest position report. One of the Swordfish got clean away and they’ve spotted the Germans up north.”
“Good show, Hornblower. Let’s get airborne!” Partridge was keen to get up and about his business, but he could not help but notice the sprig of white heather that Hornblower always liked to set on the dash for good luck. They were going to need it. Every man among them knew their planes were beyond their prime, and no real match for the German BF-109. But in the end the skill of the pilot counted for much in any encounter, and the British were veterans all.
They were sending six Skua fighters from 803 Squadron, and another six from 800 Squadron. With no time for loadouts of bombs, the planes were tasked with combat air patrol over the fleet until they could bring up the Swordfish for a go at the Germans. Then they would serve as escorts. Ark Royal could spot no more than fifteen planes for takeoff at any one time, and the Skuas were first up, with Bartlett and Gardiner already climbing into the wind.
Partridge watched all of 803 Squadron go before he ran for his plane. As was customary, the Senior Squadron Leader would be the last to take off. Once aloft he gave the signal to get the Skuas up to 11,000 feet while they waited for the Swordfish, but they soon had uninvited guests for dinner. The Valkyries had arrived.
Petty Officer Henry Monk saw them first in plane 6C from 800 Squadron. “Trouble at three o’clock he called.” He looked to see long, dark lines of planes flying in formation as they broke out of a cottony grey-white cloud. “Look there, boys. Those are Stukas!” They were planes they could fight with a good chance of beating them, but Monk had not seen the six BF-109s on overwatch. As the Skuas tipped their wings and rolled into action the Messerschmitts suddenly appeared, streaking down from above as before with their wing guns snarling.
The fight was soon on, a dizzy whirl of man and machine in the grey skies, with planes wheeling and firing at one another. The Germans scored a quick kill on Finch-Noyes, but they saw at least one parachute get safely away from his smoking Skua as it went down. Partridge, Gallagher and Martin had formed the last sub-flight, and they tore into the Stuka formation, riddling two planes with their four wing-mounted .303s A kill went to the Squadron Leader, and he yelled a ‘Tally Ho’ as he brought his Skua around with Gallagher on his right wing in a wide turn.
But the BF-109s had also taken their toll. Riddler was down, his plane a smoking wreck, and no one got out alive. Spurway was hit and had one wing on fire. Partridge came aro
und only to find he was in a fight for his life. A Messerschmitt on his tail had put a round right through his canopy, but it luckily missed, prompting him to kiss his leather glove and pat the sprig of lucky white heather on his dash. He managed to lose the German fighter in the clouds, but when he emerged he could see that the Stukas were now tipping over into screaming dives. The fleet was under attack.
* * *
Hans Rudel saw the first two Stukas go down, his pulse up, heart pounding as much from excitement as anything else. Combat! At long last he was on a real mission against the enemy. He knew the Stuka well enough, having trained with it in France for over six weeks before he came to the carrier disheartened to learn he would be flying an Arado seaplane. They do not think I’m any good, he thought, but his iron will was going to prove them all wrong today. Right here, and right now.
As he started his dive he could see the formation of British ships below, and now the skies were puffing up with the sharp muffled explosions of Ack-Ack fire. There were two big ships, and he found himself in a perfect position to line up on the number two vessel in the line. Now he tipped his plane in earnest, pointing the nose down in a near 90 degree dive. He could hear the wail of the Jericho Trumpets as the Valkyries dove to either side. The sound was terrifying, an awful wail of wrath from the welkin sky. The planes ahead of him scored a near miss on the big leading ship, which was now turning in a hasty evasive maneuver.
Rudel could see that his target was forging straight on, and he lined up perfectly on the ship, remembering the bawling cajole of his flight training officer. ‘Line up and hold for ten seconds. Don’t move a muscle, then let your bomb fly and pull out fast.’ And that was exactly what he did. His hands were like ice on the stick, and flack was exploding all around him, jarring his plane, but he kept in line, heedless of his own personal safety. Then he released the bomb and pulled out of his howling dive, light headed with the G-force of his recovery.
Kirov Saga: Altered States (Kirov Series) Page 20