NORWAY BATTLE – SCENE 2

NORWAY BATTLE – SCENE 2

“Get three planes in the air!” the on duty fighter controller ordered. “We have a report of English planes coming over the sea, low level. Our destroyer patrol spotted them. Standby for location.”

Three pilots rushed to their waiting fighters, already checked over by the ground crews. After strapping in, doing pre-flight checks, the Messerschmitts started up. Chocks were removed and the black shark-like planes taxied, one after the other, bumping over the uneven ground to the runway. Waiting for the plot of the enemy bombers, they sat there like predatory sharks, ready to pounce. Enemy plot complete, they opened throttles fully. Engine roars built up massively, they roared down the runway and climbed steeply into air.

“Black Shark Leader, we are airborne. Give us an update of the enemy bombers. Over.”

“Aah, Black Shark Leader, contact is now sixteen miles out from the coast and heading north east at two hundred plus miles an hour,” Flight control informed them.  “Height no more than two hundred feet. Estimated raid strength is eight to ten enemy planes, all heavy bombers. Over.”

“Okay flight control, we are turning on to intercept course now, out.”

Black Shark Leader radioed his two wingmen course directions and enemy strength details and commanded the turn. As one, the sleek fighters changed course to the new heading, on course to the enemy and battle. Through the low cloud swept the warplanes, buffeted by slight turbulence, rising up and down as each pilot made slight adjustments with throttle and controls to stay in position. They could have bypassed the weather but the direct route was quicker; distance closed rapidly as the Messerschmitts searched out their prey. Soon battle would commence.

“There, I see them!” the port wingman announced excitedly. “Tommie planes passing Sanoya islands. Can you see them, Flight Lead?”

“Yes, Shark one, I see them. I don’t think they see us. We will climb and circle behind them and attack from the rear. Watch their rear guns. Break away downwards and to the side – don’t show your bellies.”

Switching frequencies, Black Shark leader radioed control and informed them the enemy had been sighted and that soon the attack would begin. Distance fell away, miles meaning nothing to the flight of three dark painted warplanes that sped through the sky like hornets to their nest. Beginning to circle, they throttled back and climbed steeply, in no rush for the kill. Time and planning would bring results. A small bank of clouds, more like a veil of mist, helped hide the 109s as they reached position, ready to dive down from above. “Remember, Black Shark one and two, make every shot count. Take out the rear gunners and then close in for the kill. Don’t show your bellies or you’re dead. Dive after me – here we go! Horrido!” the leader commanded, ending his message with the German word for attack.

Opening his throttle and arcing down to build up speed, the leader was followed closely by his two wingmen, faithful as ever in open formation, not too close but near enough to cover one another in case of danger – a perfect attack formation. Each pilot armed his weapons; twin nose mounted 7.92 millimetre machine guns with a thousand rounds and two wing-mounted twenty millimetre cannon, one in each wing with sixty rounds of High Explosive shells. Lining up on an enemy each, the battle began, a deadly mêlée as the 109s knifed through the formation, not receiving a single return shot. The Tommie gunners must be asleep! In seconds the small fighters sped past, with surprise gone. Now the Germans could be as deadly as they pleased. Already one Englishman had been badly hit, for an engine burst into flame and black smoke coiled behind the Halifax like a ravenous snake. Slowly the hit plane dropped back, a quarter of its power gone with the dead engine. Two other bombers had been hit, with dead rear gunners; not a single bullet had been fired back. Turning again, the Messerschmitts attacked at full speed. This time the crippled plane was hit in the fuel tanks, fuel vapour streaming away like a fog. This ignited silently in the flames of the burning engine, a fiery beacon of death for the seven men onboard. No one bailed out as the Halifax hit the cold ocean at a shallow angle, out of control, in a shower of spray. In seconds the fire was out and the bomber sank beneath the waves, forever.

Now return fire shot out, tracers lazily chased the enemy fighters, missing. Breaking away and slightly downwards to cover their bellies as ordered, the fighters climbed and came round to attack again. Slowly but surely the damage was being done, men were killed and wounded on each pass in the lumbering bombers, originally nine strong. At four hundred miles an hour, the 109s hit again, blowing a bomber up like a huge hand grenade, fuel tanks perforated by cannon shells. Bits of blazing metal and structure fell to the sea and the blast wave buffeted nearby bombers. Two more had smoking engines which had to be shut down; these fell back as the first one had done, speed barely two hundred miles an hour. This time it wasn’t all one way: Black Shark one was hit in his elevator. Without this important control working properly the fighter drunkenly danced around the sky, out of the battle and out to sea. Jettisoning his canopy, the pilot jumped out and opened his parachute. Too late! He hit the sea at high speed with a partially opened ’chute, for he jumped too low.

Unconscious, he soon drowned in the cold sea, the Nazi’s first loss. The doomed fighter flew several more miles out of sight and splashed down in shallow water further down the coast, breaking into three pieces. Desperate radio calls from Black Shark Leader received no answer. Angry at their loss, the leader and his number two scythed down, this time head on, firing at close range into the cockpit area to kill the pilot and front gun position. This was dangerous and had to be done right, a single mistake would be deadly. British tracers shot out from the single nose gun and four upper turret guns, crossing German gunfire which sparked and exploded on the bigger targets. One Halifax swerved to starboard, the pilot having lost his head to a cannon shell, a dead hand on the controls. His wingman saw this too late! He attempted to turn but stood no chance, with a massive bang! Both bombers collided and blew to pieces; nothing remained but smoke, broken metal and bits of falling bodies.

Now with cannon ammunition exhausted and only enough machine gun ammo left for one more attack, the Messerschmitts turned and came back again for the last time. English return fire hammered back from every remaining gun position, a fight to the death which had cost three bombers and a fighter, every man dead. Black Shark Leader came in from behind, engine throttled back to give his short range machine guns time to do damage. Picking the last Halifax in line, with a dead tail gunner, he came in firing at the last moment; he raked the left wing and both port engines. Many of his small calibre bullets whined off into space due to the shallow impact angle. Kicking in right rudder, he aimed expertly at the top turret gunner who fired back with determination and skill. Several bullets hit the 109’s wing causing little holes and a dent. The pilot grimaced and got on with the job as more bullets flashed past his canopy – soon he would be killed if the gunner got any closer! A last chance to get the gunner before he got hit. With a quick burst of fifty rounds he did it, shattering the Perspex bubble of the gun position which fell away like silver rain, shooting away one of the rifle calibre Browning machine gun barrels and riddling the brave gunner with six rounds.

No more gunfire, wind howled through broken plastic and blood flowed down the fuselage in the airflow-red rain. Almost leisurely, Black Shark Leader throttled back, falling into formation with the crippled Halifax, no more than ten feet away from the big fat fuselage. Glancing at his Air Speed Indicator, he saw the speed read one hundred and eighty miles an hour, dangerously slow for this kind of flying. Yet he was a master, of himself, of his fighter and of battle. No problem. Holding formation he glanced to port, above and to starboard. A surreal scene greeted him; two smoking Halifax bombers flew very low over the sea, parallel to the coast, as if the closeness would save them. Unable to gain height, they would never reach home, crippled with shut down engines, shell and bullet holes spoke of terrible damage. He shuddered at the carnage on board, ravaged by his Flight’s fighters. He wondered where his number two was, or the other bombers? When he had killed this plane, he would radio his wingman. Carefully dropping back to fifty yards distance, he aimed at the port wing again, between the engines where the fuel tanks lay, through the smoke and damage. Squinting through his illuminated Revi 4 reflector gun sight, he fired. His machine guns sounded in an angry staccato of noise for four seconds until his ammo was exhausted. He stared in amazement as his fire danced around the target area, holes opening up, appearing as if Goddess Freya herself was spearing the thin skin of the wing. Yet he was doing it, with the power of a God, in the best fighter plane in the world, the Messerschmitt BF-109E.  Jagged metal stuck up in the slipstream like broken fingers, an access panel broke loose and sailed past him. Then it happened, finally happened. The big bomber was dying, not just crippled. A thin streamer of fuel vapour streamed forth. It caught on some hidden spark within the wing, a severed electrical lead? A bright spark and flash did the work and flames hungrily spread along the wing, reaching back forty feet past the bombers tail, almost to his 109 fighter. For seconds, mesmerized by the doomed bomber, he watched, in awe and horror at his work. Gently edging his plane into a sideslip, Black Shark Lead banked out of the way of the flames from the bomber, to avoid the final explosion when it came. He turned and left the burning Halifax to her fate and radioed for Black Shark 2. No reply came. Then to base: “Black Shark Leader to base, believe Black Shark two is lost, repeat lost. I saw Black Shark one shot down. He baled out but was too low, over.”

“Base to Black Shark Leader. We have been monitoring your channel and haven’t heard from him. We will launch the Heinkel floatplane now to see if we can find him, over.”

“Okay base. I’m returning now, fuel is low and ammo is out. Just minor damage to myself, over.”

Flicking his black painted Messerschmitt onto the port wingtip, he dived to the low-lying coastline and back to base. At fifty feet he roared along, enjoying the exhilaration of low-level flight, the thrill of victory, of knowing he was the best but mixed with the disappointment of losing two wingmen. Yes, this had been a tough fight: next time he would order another three fighters into the air to confront an enemy nine-bomber fleet. It had been sheer lunacy to take such numbers on with so few planes. Yes, he had learned something in this battle, definitely. He wondered what if a full squadron went up, twelve planes. How would his losses compare then? Angry at his own doubts, he smiled a savage smile for the loss of two men and fighters; nevertheless, they had destroyed half a squadron of the hated English bastards and kept the secret safe, guarded the Nazi secret project that could win the war. Yes, this was a hard victory but worth it! He never had once doubted his wingmen in their ability or questioned their will to sacrifice themselves. In this they had done their best – they had pledged their lives to him, to the squadron, their Fatherland, and both died heroes. In five minutes he would land alone at the fighter strip at Kristiansand; no time for victory roles – his fuel was critical.

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The Royal Air Force had been taught a crippling lesson that day, one they would not forgot, just like Heligoland Bite several years ago. No RAF bomber could survive very long against good German defences, anywhere, in daylight. Of nine Halifaxes, six had been destroyed and three badly damaged, which had dead and wounded onboard. Only one bomber made it back to base with dead and injured crew; two ditched off the English coast. Of fourteen men crews, just four men lived, rescued by a small fishing boat and a Royal Navy motor launch. Black Shark 2 killed the sixth Halifax before being shot down and killed himself. Both warplanes fell into the sea, a hundred yards apart, comrades in death, both missing in action by their respective air forces. It was clear that another plan had to be devised by the brave but foolish RAF, if they wanted a glimpse of the Nazi secret weapon facility at the end of the fjord. A single bomber had failed before, nine had just been mauled and not one had crossed the Norwegian coast. What could do it? And if they could glimpse it, work out the secret, how would they destroy it? How many airplanes and men would that cost?