Chapter Twelve
Creatures roam the ancient sky before they die to fossil fuel, rushing roaring towards the engines lost in dreams of gushing geysers, sleepless drilling, black gold treasure fierce explosions pushing pistons thrusting inward driving forward ever faster revolutions slicing speeding blades to push propellers spinning, urging onward fibers crackling, tendons pulling elevators, ailerons and rudders turn, wheels are rolling, wings in motion fueled by fire, birds of metal climb the sky, ever burning, helical pyre.
Down beneath the soil and water, rock and stone and molten lava, pressing harder, pressure building, molding forming over ages, epochs, eons, supernovas, endless orbit through the sky, ever changing deep inside, ceaseless digging, delving down to steal the treasure, mining deeper, fiery fever, drawing forth the ore and ingots, smelting fury on the surface, forming skeletons of steel, coughing choking gagging retching, stumbling rusting bombing dropping, as the darkling cloud draws nigh, ever burning, helical pyre.
And everywhere the fierce defense of access to these underworld events.
At the German High Command, Hermann Goering waited impatiently as a general pointed out the strategic necessity of either becoming allies with or conquering Romania, carefully explaining Germany’s ever expanding need for oil and the limited possibilities of coal.
Yes, yes, get on with it. Hermann groaned inwardly, waiting for his turn.
“This summer there have been a series of territorial disputes, resulting in Romania’s losing most of the territory they gained in the Wake of World War I. Therefore the popularity of Romania’s government is plummeting, which reinforces the cause of fascism. We believe that a military coup will turn Romania into a military dictatorship under Maresal Antonescu, and that we will have them in the Axis within 90 days.”
What day is it anyway? Thought Goering, and looked at his watch, feeling a tiny degree of creeping change in his reliance on external aids to memory in some things, and not in others. August 11th, ok.
He glanced up just in time seeing everyone glance at him. Marvelous!
Hermann Goering almost pranced up to the lectern, and waited as a team of attendants nervously but efficiently assembled a replica table, with a vast surface broken into grids, showing France, the Channel, and England. This was Hermann’s masterpiece, in preparation for Adlertag, Eagle Day, when the Luftwaffe would swoop down upon England in successive waves and destroy England’s defenses. Looking at the marvelous replica, so much like a complex game of chess, he couldn’t decided which he liked more: the prospect of the actual invasion and planes carrying our their missions, or the chess pieces, the little planes that would be moved across the board to represent formations and battles and countermaneuvers. Chess for air force commanders! La!
He put his hands behind his back, and as the various commanders moved in and the participants took their place at small seats at the edge of the table, he couldn’t wait to begin.
“As you see, gentlemen, the coast of England is within our grasp. The weather is unpredictable but the courage of the Luftwaffe never wavers.” He motioned to a participant, who moved an air group towards the English coast in four groups.
“Tomorrow, the Erprobungsgruppe 210 specialist fighter-bomber unit will attack these four radar stations. blinding the English.” Then he motioned to the remaining attendants, who used long sticks to move the remaining forces in various groupings towards the coast of England.
“Then we will attack the coastal airfields that the RAF uses as forward landing grounds, including Manston and Hawkinge.” He said, as he clasped his hands behind his back, gripping tightly with excitement.
Ernst Grunen sat in the back of the room on the raised platform with other selected officers, his mind racing now that he was taking Pervitin again. At this point of the day he brain was churning like an engine. Attending these meetings was like combat, and he felt superhuman, highly alert.
He reflected on the RAF radar stations, and thought about raising his hand like a schoolboy, asking what he thought was an obvious question. He didn’t hear Goering mention follow up attacks anywhere in the discussion, attacks on the supporting infrastructure of the radar stations – such as the phone lines, power stations, to render the radar completely useless. Ah well, Goering knows best, and if he doesn’t then I don’t give a damn.
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On August 12th, Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding stood in Fighter Command, where the tension was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. It was a quiet tension, as they waited for Germany to act. He scanned the room, listening to the periodic communications from pilots and patrols reporting in, and watching staff members tracing their movements on the central dais that showed England and the coast, following the movements of the various fighter groups.
Winston Churchill stood next to him, surveying the people, puffing quietly on a cigar, hoping against hope that the Germans may just attack the radar stations without destroying all the infrastructure that supported them. So much hung in a delicate balance. Would the pilots pull through when the dark cloud of the Luftwaffe fell upon England? Damn this waiting. But every hour gives us one more hour to prepare, and we’ll never truly be ready.
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Rudy stood in the readiness hut out on the field, holding a small pan over a field stove and cooking a bit of breakfast. A pilot from Ireland sniffed the air. “By god, are you cooking rashers? I’d give my left earlobe for some rashers?”
“No but I am cooking bacon, and you’re welcome to have some. I’ve laid up a good stock of it with some careful negotiation and trading of cigarettes, whiskey and playing cards.”
“Bloody Yank traders” said another pilot. “Always up to something with your damn colonial attitude, taxation without representation. By God that smells glorious.”
Eric was playing chess with Douglas Bader, and was about to put his Queen down for checkmate, when the alarm rang.
“Scramble! Scramble!” and they all leapt up immediately, some already wearing their Mae West flotation vests, strapping on their helmets, hearts pumping their adrenaline into their brains, as they ran towards their planes.
The fitter pressed the starter button on the battery cart connected to Eric’s Spitire, as he raced towards the plane, grabbing a parachute and climbing up over the side at the rear edge of the wing and into the cockpit.
The propeller started to turn and jets of yellow flame leapt out of the exhaust pipes, and then streams of dark black smoke. Eric careened towards the take-off strip, cursing the limitations of the tail-dragging airplane, wishing that he could see better in front of him, blinded in a 70 degree arc in front of the plane until lifting off of the ground.
“Squadrons scrambled” uttered an attendant at Fighter command in a calm voice, as another staff member moved the figures representing the squadrons into position, while another moved the figures representing the German planes.
“Four German formations reported.” mentioned another voice. Periodic updates were given and the room was deathly quiet. So it begins, thought Winston Churchill, watching intently.
“Civilian observer corps reports dive bombers” said a staff member, and other periodic updates were given, figures were written in chalk upon boards, figures moved, as the forces drew together.
A staff member relayed a message to direct to the pilots. Eric and the other pilots listened through crackling headphones against the roar of the plane.
“Vector five zero, bandits 50 plus, angels one five”
Winston Churchill looked questioningly at Air Marshal Dowding.
“It means, head in the direction of 50 degrees, where there are more than 50 aircraft, flying at 15,000 feet.”
Eric whistled under his breath as the formation came together, as they headed towards the coast to reinforce other squadrons. He looked over at Rudy Mitchell, who gave him a thumbs up and who looked almost cheerful. I sure hope you survive, Yank, and that your bacon isn’t burnt if we return. He caught himself. No, when we return, no
t if. And he continued scanning his quadrant for any possible visual signals; he was on the edge of the formation and needed to be double alert for the first sign of trouble.
“We are expecting dive bombers, and an attack upon the radar stations.” said Douglas Bader over the air. “It may be Junkers or Heinkels, escorted by bf109’s. Remember to look for the tell tale vapor trails.”
Rudy spotted a series of vapor trails somewhat below the formation
“Vapor trails, 10 o’clock!”
“Aces 3 o’clock high!” exclaimed Eric, and peeled off around in a swirling arc, as a hail of bullets began to fly.
Douglas Bader led a tightly packed formation towards the bombers, letting surrounding layers peel off and deal with the fighter escort, as the central spike weaved into position for a diving run on the dive bombers, who were starting to scatter.
“Group five, keep to the perimeter, gain altitude, and do not engage, repeat, do not engage, we need eyes on the bombers that break through!” he said, as a quiet voice from Fighter Command came crackling through.
“Be advised that Radar station no. 10 at vector 70 is the likely target of the formation you are engaging, over.”
“Group five, gain altitude and keep on a vector of 70 at 20,000 feet until those that can support will join.” said Bader, as they began their arc of dive, gaining speed, engines starting to whine and then scream as the velocity increased to a dizzying rush, as the airframes began to shudder above 300 miles per hour. Each pilot chose a plane and vulnerable point and pressed the pressure plates on the control sticks, and a hail of machine gunfire erupted just as another fighter escort broke into view.
Eric and Rudy and give other pilots were desperately trying to get off shots at the extremely close quarters without firing on a friendly plane.
Circle back. 3 bandits at 2 o’clock. Twist and turn to evade. Short bursts.
The staccato thoughts and command ricocheted back and forth in Eric’s mind as the dizzying dance of death swirled around him as he fought against the gravitational forces and took shots wherever opportunity came, barely aware of the bombers but holding his spatial awareness in the highest focus, eyes rapidly darting from point to point, detached from the flames and explosions, tuning out voices except when relevant, tuning out occasional screams. He jerked instantly to swerve out of the way of the falling wreckage of collisions and explosions, always moving, twirling, and a kind of harmonic overtone of thought rose in his mind, sensing that he was in the zone, a killing zone where his movements were balanced, but aggressive, and suitably erratic, to minimize the chance of being tailed.
Eric realized he was in a perfect position to tail a bomber in a space opened up, as his eyes darted to identify swirls of opposing fighters, his mind cataloging the probable movements and calculating the probabilities all in a series of split seconds, and he pulled the stick over and descended in a rapid darting dive towards the bomber formation and flew at maximum speed, weaving downward, firing almost continuously, peeling off and rejoining, and wreaking maximum damage as he worked through the formation in the space of a few seconds, sensing that he had to break away in a corkscrew pattern, as a spray of bullets riddled the fuselage.
As he leveled off, he breathed heavily, looking inside the cockpit at his body, and felt a numbness in his left forearm, flexing his muscles and gripping the throttle and rapidly eyeing the rest of his body, knowing he could be in shock and then seeing holes in the fuselage. He rapidly glanced at the gauges, then scanned outside, looked inside again at the gauges, and then stopped, taking a deep breath, letting it out, and entering the zone again, willing himself to feel the plane as a single continuous stream of consciousness, as an extension of his being, and it was ever responsive to his touch, and he was freed from analysis to rejoin the melee, calculating how much ammunition he had left and seeing two Messerschmitts close in on a comrade, noticing in a split second information on the plane that passed by too quickly to even register, and knowing that it was Rudy somehow.
“That’s Rudy, damn you!” and he increased the throttle and brought the plane up and outwards in a rolling barrel arc and flexed his feet on the rudder pedals instinctually to compensate for slip, dipping the control stick to give the right angle, and closed in a sweeping dive across the vector of the closing planes. In concentrating on Rudy’s plane, these attackers were providing a more continuous target, and Eric calculated the tempo, the percussion rhythm he would need to loose short bursts on each plane, his mind calculating a roll and dive that would allow him to fire on them without endangering Rudy any further, whose exhaust ports were streaming more smoke intermittently. At the last moment Eric closed in at blinding speeds, angry at an attack on his comrade and with the fleeting thought of recognizing he was strangely angry at the thought of the Germans depriving Rudy of his bacon. He pulled the trigger to let off and try to evenly divide what he calculated was probably his last bit of ammunition, and as he passed, he saw Rudy jump out of the plane.
As Eric circled around, his mind registered Rudy’s parachute deploying, one of the German planes engulfed in an explosion and the other plane peeling off with smoke trailing from it, and then suddenly Eric’s plane was wracked by a shuddering hail of gunfire, and in the few seconds that followed, he found that the rudder pedals played freely, and that the tail must have been shot up badly, the engine was still pulling but the elevators were damaged, and he made the instant decision to try and get into the air.
Detach belt, put on goggles, remove cover, climb up, and he was looking at a gyrating vortex of planes and fire and the patchwork quilt of fields far below and feeling the howling wind, and he slipped and fell down to his knees, as the plane started to careen, and he gritted his teeth and felt the numbness in his left arm spread and pushed with his legs, straining against gravity. Push from legs, pull with good arm, arm over edge, pull, hold, rest for a second, leg on clasp, get footing, get thumb in parachute ring, push out. And he was tossed like a rag doll dropping into the void and pulled for all he was worth on the ring, feeling the jerk as if it were a an immense wave of water crushing him, and then after a few seconds, he was floating.
He looked around and was thankful that he had been at the edge of the melee, less likely to be fired upon, but he heard stray fire go by, and then picked up another parachute also descending, both of them carried along by the wind. That must be Rudy.
He looked as he saw a German bf109 sweep out of the melee and dimly pass beyond his view. He was starting to feel dizzy and then heard the sound of a different approaching plane, and heard the sound of machine gun fire and an explosion. He tensed, and felt a searing punch, as his breath was taken away, and he went black.
A few minutes later, Eric woke up from the shock, still floating, and his back ached. He was somewhat dazed, but didn’t feel as though he was bleeding, and he realized that a piece of a plane must have hit him. But thank God, I’m still in one piece.
The ground came closer, he saw it was a dairy farm, and he prepared to land roughly and tumble. In the dizzy confusion, he felt himself land, roll, and then pass out again.
He woke up again, and looked up and saw Rudy smiling, who laughed when he looked up at him.
“Well damn you Limey for intervening at an opportune time.” And Rudy shook his shoulder, with the excitement and delirium of being alive, and then shook his hand. “Because now I’m going to have to share some of my bacon with you, because you saved my bacon!” And then Rudy sat back and laughed, pinching himself, as they waited for their strength to return.