by Todd Kelsey
Goering considered himself to be a jovial, benevolent commander who took the grand strategic view, but today he was very angry.
“Adlertag is kaput! The Eagle Day campaign has failed!” He pounded his fist on his desk, and the staff officers in the hallway and in the nearby rooms did not move an inch.
“We have had considerable losses over the last three days!” and he was tempted to fly into a Teutonic rage. He wished that he had a sword and could hew off Commander Kesselring’s head. But he needed him, and he was a brilliant commander. He spoke quietly, with a continued menace in his voice, and the volume rose steadily with each word.
“In January I relieved the commander of Luftflotte 2 and appointed you in his place, to achieve total victory!” Kesselring stood before him, with a calm expression; he was used to Goering by now. Kesselring had brought him victory after victory, but was not a magician. Kesselring’s Chief of Staff, Generalmajor Wilhelm Speidel, stood quietly, looking at the floor.
“Adlertag failed because there were not enough escorts, and because our intelligence assumed their strength was deployed in other areas.” he said evenly, matter-of-faculty, and before Goering could explode again, he continued, trying to smooth the feathers of the injured pride of the falcon before him, the very powerful falcon who could take his life with impunity, the falcon who was rightly annoyed and distressed by the continued interference of the damned British radar system.
“Yes, Adlertag failed.” he said. “Still, I know you understand and have the insight to see that the only sound strategy is to continue to send heavily escorted bombers to destroy British airfields.” He looked at his chief of staff, who coughed, and spoke evenly, looking at some blank sheets of paper so that he didn’t have to look at Goering, who he despised.
“Our intelligence report suggests that the RAF is down to just 300 serviceable fighters as of 17 August 1940 . . . “
“Based on what!?!” Goering exclaimed, fist pounding the table again.
“This takes into consideration German pilots' claims and our estimates of British production capabilities.” the Chief of Staff continued, and trailed off as Goering developed a thoughtful look on his face. Kesselring continued to reason with Goering, to win him over to the idea of continued bombing.
Rudolf Jodl and Ernst Grunen stood at the back of the room, stock still, not moving an inch, not breathing, and even the Gestapo commander remained still. They listened impassively, staring at the far wall, waiting their turn. Ernst’s mind was in a high state of functioning, darting rapidly, as a result of a carefully timed dose of Pervitin, taken just prior to coming to Goering’s office. He knew he would need to be on his toes, but his mind wandered, listening to the claims of the intelligence about there being only 300 British planes.
I’ve seen American factories when I visited Rudy, and Britain is no different. What if there are three times as many serviceable planes? Did intelligence consider planes that might in storage or at training units? What if from all sources, including factories manned by people who were fighting for their very lives – what if there were twice as many aircraft as there had been a month ago? Where would be then, Herr Kesselring? And he kept his mouth shut.
“So what is the plan, then?” said Goering, growing weary of the droning wasp standing before him, but respecting its sting.
“The Luftwaffe 's plan of attack will be simple.” and Kesselring spread out a map before Goering, knowing he would enjoy it. He dared to take out plane markers from his pocket and put them on the map.
“German bombers will strike at RAF airfields situated in the south-east corner of England. The most important airfields in this region, No. 11 Group RAF, Kenley, Biggin Hill, Hornchurch, North Weald, Northolt, Tangmere and Debden.”
“Very well, approved.” and he waved Kesselring and his Chief of Staff away. No one even bothered to say ‘Heil Hitler’.
“Next!” roared Goering, who was getting hungry, wishing he could sink his teeth into a nice boar meat sandwich with some kartoffelsalat potato salad on the side, and a large mug of beer. He reviled the Gestapo Commander as he came up with two pilots. He looks like a snake, but snakes have their uses.
“Herr Goering, as you know, a handful of American pilots have joined the Royal Air Force and they are adding a significant propaganda boost to the British effort.” He stopped and wondered if he heard Goering actually growling, and continued. “And our analysis of all the available photographs, coupled with some reconnaissance from assets we have in England, has revealed the location of the quarters of one of the pilots, where he is known to take leave, a Rudy Mitchell from Iowa.”
Goering’s eyes became cat-like, narrowing a bit, and Ernst felt as if he was purring.
“Continue.”
“I have taken the liberty of recruiting volunteers, and I propose that a detachment break away from our main raiding forces and perform a lightning strike against that specific target, and then cover it in the newspaper in Berlin. It is of course not certain that we could get the pilot, but it is worth a try, and others may think twice. It will send the appropriate message”. And the Gestapo commander held his breath and stood at attention. Goering looked thoughtful, playing with a pencil, and eyed the two officers, two of his best aces in the Luftwaffe.
Ernst stood stock still, his heart racing from the Pervitin, and his mind racing as well, seething with a hatred for Rudolf Jodl, and Goering, and the Gestapo commander. When the Gestapo commander came and mentioned the raid, Ernst had been momentarily astounded to hear the name of his cousin, and had stood in shocked silence for several seconds, in a daze, as he heard Rudolf Jodl immediately volunteer, and go up to the Gestapo commander, and whisper, looking back at Ernst. Ernst had walked up quickly in a cool rage and had put forth the best stage acting in his entire life, volunteering immediately and saying that his cousin had made a bad decision, and that he would go proudly on the mission and that it would be a propaganda coup for Ernst to speak to the papers. Ernst had been gratified to see Rudolf Jodl lose the sneer on his face.
Why did I volunteer for this mission, to try and kill my cousin! he wondered, standing there before Goering, standing next to Jodl. The answer was hovering at the edge of his mind, but his mind felt as if it had been fraying at the edges.
“Very well! Incorporate the mission at your discretion. Tomorrow, August 18th, we will be throwing the entire weight of the Luftwaffe at England, mounting the largest operation in the history of the war, and we will pound them mercilessly into the ground. We may as well strike at the Americans specifically too.” He said, and waived them out.
After speaking with the Gestapo snake, Goering dictated an order to attack aircraft factories on the 19th, and then got up and rubbed his hands together, looking forward to the boar’s meat sandwich and potato salad and beer.
--
August 18th began quietly enough at Biggin Hill, with everyone placed at the dispersions in the airfield, in their familiar spots, drinking tea, cooking a bit of breakfast at the readiness hut, and reading the magazines they had read before.
Eric was beginning to pen a letter.
I have a feeling like it will be an eventful day he wrote, when the alarm came.
The daily routine of scrambling to the planes, lifting off in formation, and heading to battle was becoming a habit now, and Eric dropped his paper on the ground, along with the pen, and the paper fluttered away into the distance.
--
The mood at the No. 11 Group Bunker was grim, with the communications gear ready to chime in and the map becoming filled with moving targets. As the voices of the various participants increased, there was a palpable sense of how something was different about this day. Edith Rose stood at the periphery, listening, on leave from being a ferry pilot, here to listen to the events. I hope that Eric will never find out, and I absolutely need to be here.
She watched as the pattern of the RAF’s analysis, and the choreographed movements rose in complexity. Her friend Moxie, an attendant, was trying
to recruit her, knowing of Edith’s nerves of steel. Moxie spoke quietly.
“First, radar detects the aircraft” she said, pointing out the equipment where incoming messages from radar stations came in. “The filter room at Stanmore Park receives radar plots, which are dispatched by landline”, Moxie said, counting the stages off on her fingers.
“Fighter Command Headquarters?” asked Edith, quietly, and Moxie nodded.
“At the filter room at HQ, they take the enemy plots and compare them with the known location of RAF fighters to validate identity.”
“And that is to compare with IFF?” asked Edith, and Moxie leaned back and looked at her.
“Yes, dearie. Identification Friend or Foe signals help us to identify Bomber, Coastal and Fighter Command aircraft on radar screens.” and she turned back to the center of the bunker and motioned at a section.
“Unidentified or hostile plots are dispatched by landline to fighter group or sector operations for plotting on maps.”
“Situation maps.” said Edith. She looked at Moxie. “I’ve been doing some reading.”
“Well I suppose you have. Then we keep a status of each unidentified or hostile raid, and the state of RAF squadrons, and whether they are refueling, landing, in combat, or . . . . “ and she trailed off, testing Edith.
“Or scrambling” said Edith, and in her minds eye she pictured Eric running off to the Spitfire she had delivered to him, and flying it at this very minute. Part of her wished she was in combat by his side, part of her wished to hear some news of him, part of her dreaded what news that might be. Moxie nodded.
“Fighter controllers at sector operation rooms choose which formations to engage and exactly how many squadrons to scramble, and word gets passed down the line.”
“To satellite controllers?”
“Yes, then fighter controllers bring their squadrons to the field, and we deploy them loosely to try and prevent the Jerries from slipping through.”
“And squadron leaders are then responsible for the combat engagement?”
“Correct.”
Edith stared at the massive chess game in front of her, and imagined Douglas Bader issuing commands. Then, in an increasing state of tension, she listened to the news about their squadron engaging the enemy. The specific points were lost in a quiet melee, and the mood in the room darkened as minutes passed by, as it became apparent that the Luftwaffe was throwing everything they had at the RAF. Sometimes individual communications from fighters were patched in, and Edith’s hands gradually gripped the rail as tight as a vice. She had no idea of how long she stood there, and try as she might, she couldn’t pinpoint the exact status of Eric’s squadron. If they knew she was to marry him, they would never have let her in.
In her mind, she saw the dread whirlwind of the various engagements, and bombing raids, and fighter engagements, and heard some of the thunder of the deepest explosions when they were not far off, in spite of the bunker. As the day wore on, and the tornado of chaos intensified, as fire and flame and death engulfed England in a desperate struggle, Edith was forgotten, as Moxie returned to her duties, and Edith looked on, transfixed, aching but not daring to move, listening keenly, watching the maelstrom unfold. So many mothers’ sons, she thought.
She wondered if Eric would survive the day, if his new friend Rudy would survive the day, and she tried to accept the very real possibility that neither of them might come back. She listened enough to realize that the fate of England hung in the balance this day, and sometimes she growled inside, remembering Winston Churchill’s pugnacious defiance. She wished she was at the helm of an anti-aircraft gun, blazing a hail of fiery bullets into the sky to bring as many fighters and bombers down as she could. She saw them bearing down on her, bearing down on England, and she knew she was fainting, and as she sunk to the floor, she held on tightly to the image of fierce defiance. Give em hell, lads and lasses`. Give em hell.