Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) (29 page)

The Spitfire was turning in the same direction, as its propeller, and the fighter cut thru the early summer air with ease. The low-level Dorniers reached the outer boundaries of the golf course and were heading for the Biggin Hill airfield, to add to that morning’s destruction.

They were barely 1000 feet off the ground and had slipped through the radar detection system faster than anticipated. Lieutenant Marsh had the pilots on the ground dive into a set of fairway bunkers as the Dorniers appeared over the horizon. He looked at the remaining Spitfires that were parked on the still lush fairway and prayed they wouldn’t be destroyed.

There wasn’t much time or space to maneuver. Wolf turned his Spitfire into the oncoming Dorniers. Randolph did the same. When Randolph saw the German bombers coming straight at them, he swallowed, “Wolf, you’re crazy!”

Wolf aimed for the lead Dornier bomber, and he started firing at 300 yards. That was akin to two fighters in the boxing ring standing nose to nose. It wasn’t smart, and only bad things happened. The cockpit of the Dornier was rattled with bullets, and it immediately pitched into the trees.

Randolph fired at the second Dornier in the formation, and it fared no better. It bounced off the 4th fairway, smacked into some trees and burst into flames. The six remaining Dorniers broke formation and scattered, expecting to see more Spitfires.

Wolf remained low and banked his Spitfire around the edge of the golf course. It was total concentration now as any mistake would be his last. Randolph was with him as they latched onto a Dornier that was angling away from Biggin Hill. With no fighter escort and the element of surprise long gone, the Dornier had little chance. Wolf fired a short burst that cut across the wing and lit up the starboard engine on fire.

The Dornier was so low that the crew didn’t have time get out. It crashed onto the road leading to the golf course and burned profusely. Randolph chased down another Dornier that was trying to flee the scene. First, the Dornier randomly dropped all of its bombs, to lighten its load. The bombs harmlessly fell into the trees between the 12th and 15th fairways.

The attack was broken and the Dorniers ran for their lives. Wolf and Randolph gunned their Spitfires and circled toward the coast to catch the remaining bombers. They both had plenty of fuel, ammunition and ambition to keep up the attack. They were now above the lumbering Dorniers.

Wolf picked out one and dived. The tail gunner who was in a bubble, hanging from the middle front of the plane fired his single machine gun at Wolf. It was like trying to put out a forest fire with a garden hose. Wolf angled the Spitfire toward the bomber. A long burst killed the tail gunner and the flight engineer of the Dornier. It limped on until Wolf fired another burst which ripped thru the cockpit and killed both pilots.

Wolf turned out and Randolph took the lead. He bagged the remaining Dornier and it splashed into the Channel. With that, Wolf and Randolph head for home.

* * *

Hans thanked his lucky stars and the fact that he kissed the wallet sized picture of his fiancé, for his good fortune of bailing out of his Me 109 in one piece. Bailing out wasn’t quite right. When Hans somehow inverted his Me 109, he fell out of the plane like a sack of potatoes. When Hans finally got his bearings, he noticed that he was floating over the downtown district of Croydon, which was a suburb of London.

He tried to guide his billowing parachute to some open space. That wasn’t in an attempt to escape when he hit the ground. The frantic pulling on the guidelines of the parachute was to avoid the power lines running across the shopping district of Croydon. He didn’t make it. His parachute tangled into an electrical line and Hans dangled fifteen feet above the pavement.

The top of his parachute began to smolder and Hans felt the lines to the parachute sag. He edged closer to the ground and saw a bobby coming toward him. The bobby yelled up to him. “Herr Kraut get down from there.”

Hans didn’t understand a single word that he was saying. All he could think to say was, “Ich gebe aut! That was supposed to be: I surrender.”

The bobby yelled up. “Didn’t you hear me you bloody fool!”

“Englander, yeah.”

“Are they all as smart as you?”

Hans’ parachute gave way and he landed gently on his feet in the middle of the street. A sarcastic applause from a handful of people trying to go about their business came from the sidewalk. Hans bowed, “Danke.”

Hans looked at the bobby and thought better. He put up his hands. “Show’s over. March.”

The fancy and modernistic building at 12 Wilhelmstrasse was in the middle of the German government district. The address was next door to 8 Wilhelmstrasse, which was the site of the Nazi Propaganda Ministry. The ministry was accurately named, as Joseph Goebbels and his minions controlled every aspect of news. But the war was going well, and these times were no doubt the golden age of the Third Reich.

At dusk, Goebbels left his office and walked next door to 12 Wilhelmstrasse. 12 Wilhelmstrasse occupied the entire lower floor of the annex to the Nazi Propaganda Ministry, floor to ceiling glass windows, wrapped around the two sides of the building that faced the well-kept boulevard.

Goebbels unlocked the double doors to 12 Wilhelmstrasse and turned on the lights. Inside was an art gallery. The soft white lights bounced off the gorgeous imported Italian marble, which flowed throughout the space. The new gallery was spectacular. It wasn’t warm by any means; instead, it projected strength and forcefulness. That was accomplished by the rows of polished steel ceiling beams and matching columns.

Albert Speer, a young and ambitious architect, designed the Nazi Gallery. It would be the place to show off the glorious art of the new regime. And to the delight of everyone, this was to include paintings by Adolf Hitler. Hitler fancied himself a painter. At least, that was what he dreamed of being. Unfortunately, for the world, he failed to gain admittance into the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna.

Soon, the First World War came, and Hitler’s focus changed. By the end of the Second World War, Hitler became a mass murderer. That was a far cry from a young man who used to spend his time, mixing pastel colors, and a quantum leap into madness. And perhaps some or all caused because he was a frustrated artist. Hitler produced over 300 works of art and killed untold millions.

Goebbels met Adolf Hitler inside the newly completed Nazi Gallery. It was just the two of them, as Hitler’s bodyguards were outside the double door. Goebbels said, “Speer has done a fine job with the space.”

Hitler nodded, “The light is a little harsh. See what Speer can do about that.”

“The gala will be in two weeks. We have collected the finest works of the Third Reich.”

“Soon, the war will be over. I don’t know why England insists in fighting on. Churchill is a madman. He loves war. It will be the ruin of his country.”

“After we invade, we can change all of that. England will be subject to rule by the Third Reich. It will not be pleasant.”

Hitler boasted, “They have brought it on themselves. I have given them every opportunity to end the conflict. But since they insist, I will flatten all of their cities. He says, ‘We will never surrender.’ Nonsense.”

“My Fuhrer, I was informed that our first ace of the war has gone missing over England.”

Hitler eyed one of his paintings with satisfaction. “Find another.”

“I’m waiting for that to happen. The Luftwaffe has rules. You know Goering.”

“Tell him we need Nazi heroes.”

“The first ace wasn’t a member of the Nazi Party.”

“He didn’t join after the distinguished award was bestowed on him?”

“Apparently he begged off and went back to the front.”

“It’s better then, that he is gone. Tell Goering not to let that happen again.”

“Yes, my Fuhrer.

Winston’s Rolls Royce drove around the bomb craters on the runway of the Biggin Hill airfield. The ground crews filled in the holes to get the airfield back in operation for the next day. Temporary lights dotted the runway. The Rolls Royce pulled to a stop and Winston got out. Lieutenant Marsh, who was overseeing part of the ground crew, came over to see Winston. “Sir Winston, we could use a hand. The Luftwaffe is rather persistent.”

Winston chomped down on a cigar. “So are we. I’ve arranged for a brigade of Royal Engineers to post here. They will be here soon. They have a glorious history, having built magnificent teak bridges in India. Certainly they can turn all of this around.”

“They are most welcome.”

“By the way, the lad became an ace today.”

Winston chuckled. “In the RAF you mean?”

“It seems Wolf rather likes the Spitfire.”

“Five planes in one day? Extraordinary.”

“Rather amazing but not surprising. 72 Squadron scrambled twice.”

“What did he get?”

“I believe it was two Me 109s, a pair of Heinkels and a couple of Dorniers who foolishly tried a low-level attack just before afternoon tea.”

Winston went on, “The Luftwaffe should know better than to interrupt an Englishman’s tea time. Rather uncivilized.”

“The Dorniers were unescorted. It was to be a hit and run affair. I’m afraid they’re scattered all over the golf course. I shouldn’t think the 18th fairway will ever be the same until the war is over. Who wants to chip over a blasted bomber on the green’s apron?”

“Truth be told, I never like golf.”

“Shall I fetch him?”

“Please.”

JAG 23 returned to the airfield, with its tail between its legs. Several fighters had been lost. When Colonel Dunkel got a phone call several hours later from his superior officer, things got worse. The second guessing started. “Why did your Me 109s leave the bombers to their demise? Who is you squadron leader? Get to the bottom of this... tonight!”

After more information had been gathered by Colonel Dunkel and his assistant, by speaking to the rest of the fighter pilots in JAG 23, Zigfried was brought into the office. Colonel Dunkel was taken aback that Zigfried was in good spirits and not concerned about what had happened. Colonel Dunkel said, “I understand Hans was lost this morning. You have a nasty habit of losing wingmen.”

Zigfried cooly said, “I fight hard for the Luftwaffe and the Third Reich. It is up to them to keep up with me. He was with me one second, and then he was gone. I don’t know what happened to him. Hans had strict orders to stay by my side and protect me.”

Colonel Dunkel grunted and showed his disapproval. “And the escort of the bombers didn’t go well. Many were lost, and I’ve been getting phone calls about that.”

Zigfried was as cocky as ever. “Colonel, I thought I was to be congratulated on downing my fourth plane. Soon I will be an ace.”

“Let’s just hope JAG 23 has an ounce of credibility left, if that happens.”

“You mean when it happens... sir.”

Churchill was in good spirits at dinner that evening, even though the RAF airfields had been hit hard. The early reports were that the Luftwaffe were losing pilots at a 2-1 ratio to the RAF. Plus all of the RAF pilots were shot down over England. Unless they died or were severely wounded, they would be back up in a Spitfire or Hurricane. It wasn’t uncommon for a pilot to get shot down in the morning, be in a new plane in the afternoon, and in the officer’s club that evening.

The same thing went for the RAF planes that were damaged in battle or noncombat accidents. Anything that could be scavenged off a wrecked plane was whisked away by the RAF. That could be something as simple as a propeller or an entire engine. On the other side of the coin, every Luftwaffe plane that ended up on His Majesty’s soil would never fly again for the Luftwaffe.

Madeline, Wolf and James joined Winston for an early evening dinner. After the main course had been served, Winston said, “Wolf, were you going to hide the fact that you’re an ace in the RAF from all of us?”

Madeline said, “You have five then.”

“I think the number is six.”

She smirked. “But who’s counting.”

“You’re the one who asked. At least, I didn’t get it.”

James finished chewing and said, “Lieutenant Marsh did say you took the low road around the golf course this afternoon. Apparently you were chasing Dorniers from fairway to fairway.”

“They surprised us with a low-level attack. What happened to the English radar?”

Madeline said, “English?

“You know what I mean.”

Madeline took a drink of wine. “You have to make it work this time. I believe you’re running out of air forces to join. Besides, I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

“Then surely, I’ll leave and muster in with the Americans. Sir Winston, they do have an air force?”

“Yes, my boy. But it is rather primitive at this point. But give the Americans time. They will do the right thing... eventually.”

“Sir Winston, I will need to switch my quarters to Harding Barrow to be with my men.”

“Esprit de Corp and all that. Well done,” said James.

Winston said, “My lad does any of this bother you?”

“You mean engaging my old squadron today, JAG 23. It was bound to happen.”

“You might have shot down one of your friends.” Madeline wanted to take that back as soon as she said it.

Wolf turned serious. “Or Zigfried Bockler, the little boot-licking Nazi, who killed my parents. He’s the one that I want.”

Madeline had a worried look on her face. “The war isn’t a place for your personal vendetta. Really Wolf, do keep a level head.”

Wolf pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “I need some fresh air.”

He headed for the door. Winston said, “Madeline would you be so kind as to accompany Wolf and show him some of the wonderful sights of London.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you were after all made for each other.”