Auxiliary fuel tanks fell away as the remaining fifteen Messerschmitt fighter-bombers fanned out, barely skimming the wave tops as they swept across the channel between South Ronaldsay and Hoy. His pilots were nervous, and there was a lot more radio chatter than normal as a result. Something unseen had hit them that they couldn’t identify and had thinned their ranks badly… something that had barely appeared for a moment before Ritter’s eyes and was gone again as quickly… and five of his aircraft were down, and a sixth had been forced out of formation as a result.
They were desperately scanning the skies as Davies roared right through the middle of them, faster than most could comprehend. He’d stayed well back until the last of the missiles fired by Trumbull had hit home from a distance of more than fifteen kilometres, before powering in to bring his gun to bear. Wolff Kohl barely had time to cry a warning before a torrent of heavy tracer streamed past off Ritter’s starboard side and tore the plane beside him to pieces.
At such a low altitude however, and now so close to the base, an increasingly desperate Jack Davies momentarily misjudged his approach and suddenly found himself travelling too fast to pull up and away from the formation of German planes as he roared through. As the Raptor thundered above Ritter’s Lion at close to supersonic speed, Davies for just a moment presented an unbelievably juicy target. Acting more out of reflex and instinct than any conscious thought, the commanding officer of ZG26 gave a sharp flick of his joystick that took his gunsights across the disappearing shape of the jet fighter for the most fleeting of opportunities, and the subsequent burst he fired was an extremely lucky one indeed.
His four 20mm wing cannon hammered in concert, filling the air about the Raptor with angry red tracer for a few desperate seconds. Of the hundred or so shells that sizzled past the F-22, just five hit and penetrated the jet’s airframe along its port side. Compressor blades snapped and shattered within, and the American pilot instantly found his aircraft losing vital thrust in one engine. The Raptor began to shudder and yaw violently with the sudden imbalance in power output, and with just enough time to cry “Son of a bitch!” in shock and fear, Davies suddenly found himself fighting for his own survival.
The crews of both 2K22M Tunguska flak vehicles had been watching the air battle with intense interest. Both had been driven out of the main base area at full speed, heading for safer positions in open, high country to the south west, however the relocation had also meant they’d lost some range with which to deploy their missiles against the approaching bombers. The sudden loss of the radar control bunker and the network connections that went with it had also significantly reduced their ability to pick up the approach of the new group of low-flying attackers.
Their own systems were capable of detecting and tracking targets out to thirty kilometres or more, but the contours of the land in the area they’d withdrawn to had unexpectedly created a ‘blind spot’ that had blanked out a large part of what their own internal radar systems could ‘see’ to the east. As such, they were late in locking on to the flight of S-2Ds as the aircraft crossed between South Ronaldsay and Hoy, and only picked them up at the moment Davies swept through their ranks with his cannon blazing.
Parked within two thousand metres of each other, the turrets of both turned almost in unison as their gunners selected their first targets and they prepared to fire. Each vehicle could engage up to three targets at any given time (two with missiles and one with cannon), and a secure wireless link between the pair’s fire control systems ensured neither locked on to a target already selected by the other. Two missiles hissed into the sky in sequence from each Tunguska’s launchers as the twin cannon fired together in concert.
At a range of 4,000 metres, the flight of S-2Ds had barely crossed into the guns’ firing envelope, but it was ultimately the presence of the Raptor within their midst that saved Carl Ritter’s life. The Tunguskas’ IFF receivers had been shut down intentionally to prevent any automatic systems blocking the engagement of enemy targets due to the proximity of friendlies, as had happened during the previous attack. There was therefore no alarm raised within either vehicle that one of the aircraft approaching low against the eastern horizon was in fact Jack Davies’ F-22, invisible to radar as it was in any case. The cannon of the nearer of the two 2K22M had been targeted on Ritter’s aircraft, and fired in the seconds after Davies had roared past and been hit by fire from the German’s wing guns. It was of no consequence to the Tunguska’s fire control systems that another aircraft had strayed into the path of its own cannon as it released a half-second burst that sent fifty-odd 30mm rounds into the sky in twin streams of tracer.
At least ten of those high-explosive shells ripped through the stricken Raptor as it strayed into the path of incoming fire that also slammed into its damaged rear end and basically blew apart everything aft of its twin tails. Alarms and warning lights immediately flooded Davies’ screens and instruments with information, although by that stage he was already all too aware of the massive damaged the F-22 had sustained. All control and power was lost, and he was far too close to the surface of the earth to delay choosing his next course of action.
Captain Jack Davies, never one to hesitate at the best of times, instantly weighed up the situation and made the most difficult decision of his life without a second thought. Tucking his feet in tight beneath him to ensure they cleared the Raptor’s instrument panel, he reached up above his head for the yellow and black striped loops at each corner of his pilot’s seat. He dragged those loops savagely forward, pulling a Kevlar protective ‘shield’ over his head as explosive strips shattered his cockpit glass. He felt the aircraft shudder as rockets ignited beneath him and his Martin-Baker ejection seat blasted a hole through the bottom of the Raptor’s fuselage, propelling him upward and sending him high into the air, away from any danger. The shattered wreckage of the F-22 turned nose-over and smashed itself to pieces against the surface of the water below just seconds later.
The rest of the burst that finished off the Raptor continued on past without hindrance, and two of the remaining shells slammed into the tail of Ritter’s S-2D. Huge chunks were blown out of its aft fuselage, followed by an immediate loss of tail and rudder control. At the same time, five more of his fellow pilots were blasted from the sky around him, four by missiles and another by heavy cannon fire, leaving just his and nine other aircraft flying. Struggling with his own controls, Ritter immediately ordered his remaining pilots to dump their ordnance and abort the attack: he’d rather face his chances with a possible court-martial than see the rest of his men killed.
The remnants of I/ZG26 broke apart and began a turn to the east, bombs falling away unused as they hugged the ocean once more in search of safety. Five more fell to the missiles and cannon of the Tunguskas before they managed to slip back into ground clutter behind Cantick Head and the northern end of the island of South Walls, and Ritter’s dismay over the continuing losses was compounded as the deadly 30mm cannon again sought his out S-2D, dealing it a second glancing blow as several shells this time blasted away a substantial section of his port wing. Combined with the damage already sustained in the earlier attack, it was sufficient to send the aircraft into a nose-high stall for a moment before it turned over onto its back and fell back toward the sea, completely out of control.
Ritter gave the order to bail out and struggled from his own harness as the S-2D reached the apex of its last flight. Both men leaped from their cockpit, and Ritter gasped as his parachute unfurled and sharply retarded his descent moments later. He could only look on in total despair as a second incredible, previously unseen fighter swept down out of the sky and destroyed the last of the S-2Ds as they fled to the east. Wolff hung from his own chute a few hundred metres away, and further off in the distance Ritter could see the pilot of the strange aircraft he’d hit, also floating toward the sea from higher altitude beneath his own parachute.
Carl Ritter closed his eyes as he felt his strength suddenly drain away. He released a weary groan a
s he descended slowly, the breeze swaying him this way and that. All he could think about was the destruction of an entire third of his geschwader, and the deaths of so many of his men. Just three aircraft – Meier’s and the two forced to abort their attacks earlier – might be fortunate enough to make it back to Stavanger. Most hadn’t been so lucky, and with most of those aircraft lost today destroyed so suddenly and completely, it had been impossible for any other crews to bail out.
Ritter was also baffled as he considered the appearance of those two strange, grey aircraft, and it was a small consolation indeed that he’d been able to damage one of the things sufficiently to contribute to it being brought down by ground fire. The thing had displayed American style insignia… admittedly not the ‘red-spot-in-a-white-star’ of the US Army Air Corps… but it’d been close enough to easily draw conclusions. The aircraft had shown a pale five-pointed star along with the letters ‘USAF’. Had the Americans changed the air arm’s name to United States’ Air Force and he’d merely not heard… could he be certain that he’d seen the words ‘United States’ on the aircraft’s fuselage in the same faded lettering? Surely the American’s couldn’t be so openly aiding the British as to risk an act of war?
…And if they were to declare war against Germany, how could anyone oppose aircraft like that? He gave up agonising over questions he couldn’t hope to find answers for as he opened his eyes and saw the cold, dark water coming up fast to meet him. He grimaced and closed his eyes once more, wondering if his life jacket was going to work now he needed it for the first time… as he thought of the men he’d already lost that day, he wondered for a moment if perhaps it might be better if it failed.
14.
Post Mortems
Home Fleet Naval Anchorage at HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
Saturday
August 17, 1940
The trip back from Alternate by motor torpedo boat had taken three hours, the sleek craft cruising down the east coast of Mainland and around South Ronaldsay to Hoy. Smoke still hung in a pall over most of the Hindsight base as the craft docked at HMS Proserpine, and very little of what remained was recognisable. Davies had been picked up by a boat out of Longhope, on the western side of South Walls, and had been collected at the lifeboat station there as the MTB had passed through. He was wet, cold, battered and bruised, but was otherwise physically sound despite his ordeal. His mental state was another matter however, and as the group continued on to HMS Proserpine, the Texan was unnaturally silent… as were they all, for that matter.
Black: everything was burned black, and the smell of ash and soot was all-encompassing and pervasive. As Thorne, Davies, Trumbull and Donelson walked across the open ground south of the anchorage, they entered a landscape alien enough to have been another planet. Fires were still burning in isolated areas, although damage crews using water tankers with powerful hoses had most of them under control, and most of Hindsight had been burned or completely destroyed. The hangars… storage buildings… the tower and the personnel quarters: nothing much remained other than smouldering foundations or burned out, skeletal frameworks of charred wood and twisted, scorched metal.
The concrete runway that had taken so long to build in anticipation of their arrival, six weeks earlier, had been rendered useless in seconds. Huge craters scarred the surface at irregular intervals along more than half its length, and the intense heat of incendiaries had opened jagged, longitudinal cracks right across it in many places. It’d be weeks of constant repair work before any of their aircraft could use it again, and the real truth was that they all knew that that work would never commence.
Much of the supplies for the aircraft had also been destroyed, along with a large proportion of their cannon ammunition and most of their remaining AMRAAMs, all of it lost in flames as the hangars and storerooms went up. At least the underground tanks buried at the far end of the strip remained intact along, with their thousands of litres jet fuel. It was a small mercy in light of what had been lost.
Kransky and Kelly appeared together, separating from a crowd of fire fighters near the ruins of the main hangars and walking toward them. Their clothes and faces were singed and blackened with soot, the tracks of tears dry against both men’s dirty cheeks. To what extent those tears had been as a result of the heat or of the horror of it all was anyone’s guess. Kransky carried a long-handled shovel, but dropped it the moment he caught sight of the group of Hindsight officers approaching. The men almost staggered over to their position near the remains of the collapsed tower, and they stood together for just a few moments, all silent.
“You’re all right there, Mister Kelly…?” Trumbull asked in a faltering voice, noting the thick bandages that swathed both of the man’s arms from wrist to elbow.
“I’ve been better, to be certain, Mister Trumbull, but I’ll live,” Kelly grimaced in return, trying to make light of his situation but unable to find any humour, “which is more than I can say for some o’ the poor bastards they’ve got down at the infirmary right now.”
“Kelly nearly died trying to get through to the control bunker with a group of fire fighters after the raid… as well as dragging a dozen men or more to safety before that…” Kransky added, feeling the Irishman had left too much unsaid.
“There was work to be seen to,” Kelly shrugged, playing down his actions and in no mood to be lauded a hero when so many others had died, “no need for exaggeration…”
“At least two sticks of bombs bracketed the bunker,” Kransky began softly, his voice almost breaking with emotion. “Another scored direct hits on the closer trenches…” He shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t just explosives… they were using phosphorous and a persistent incendiary that stuck to anything it touched…”
“Napalm…” Thorne muttered softly, knowing that putting a name to what Kransky was speaking of was meaningless even as he spoke.
“Drews… Cassar…” Kransky continued, his voice faltering a second time, “Nick…” Eileen groaned softly, her eyes closed in despair as he spoke that last name. The list continued: more personnel from the SAS… several of Kowalski’s marines… British troops posted to the base after their arrival whom they’d all come to know well.
Kelly, whose temperament generally leaned toward one of light-heartedness even in the face of the adversity he’d suffered in his own life, suddenly found the terrible and overpowering sense of loss unbearable and turned as if to leave. He took a few steps past the group, only to stop momentarily at Eileen’s shoulder as he turned his head to speak.
“I’ve no time for stupid principle in times like these, missus…” He spoke gently, the honest sincerity in his voice obvious. “I’m mighty sorry for yer loss… all o’ ye.” Unable to look directly at him as she struggled to retain control of her emotions, Eileen could do no more than give a single nod, but that recognition was in itself more than enough. With a silent acknowledgement in return and a grim, mirthless smile, Kelly set off in search of something productive to do to aid the cleanup operations.
Thorne stared off into the empty space over Kransky’s right shoulder rather than directly at him, his fists clenching at his sides as Davies also walked away, composed on the surface but inwardly distraught and needing to be alone. Trumbull, holding back his own tears through sheer willpower, reached across and placed a comforting arm around Eileen’s shoulder. She instantly turned to him completely and buried her face against his neck, her whole upper body wracked with sobs as she wrapped her arms tight about him.
“I need to see…” Thorne said with simple softness as he finally found the strength to stare directly into Kransky’s eyes. The intensity of his expression almost chilled the tall security chief out of his own despair, and he could only nod slowly. A moment later he led Thorne off in the direction of the command bunker.
The burial ceremonies were carried out quickly that very afternoon. Most of those present at the services were suffering from what might’ve been considered at the v
ery least a mild state of shock, and many would later have difficulty remembering any real detail, had they been asked. Thorne was unsteady in both his stance and speech as he delivered what seemed to be an endless procession of eulogies, speaking a few words for each of the dead as they were lowered into newly-dug graves at Lyness Naval Cemetery, situated to the west of the docks and main buildings of HMS Proserpine. The ceremonies would by-and-large exist in the mourners’ memories as no more than a blur of sadness and pain, and most would be grateful for the lack of clarity.
Sunday
August 18, 1940
Corporal Cecil Thomas was a professional soldier. He’d be forty-seven years of age in a few months, and he’d experienced his fair share of good and bad fortune during his lifetime. He’d signed up for the British Army in 1909 at just sixteen years of age. The son of an illiterate blacksmith from Coventry, there’d been little work about upon leaving school, and he’d joined up simply because there seemed nothing better to do.
His father had died of influenza during the winter of 1913, and from that very next payday he’d religiously sent half of everything he earned back to his widowed mother and six younger brothers and sisters. In twenty-eight years of army service, he’d never failed to send a portion of his wages on, even during the time spent on the fields of France during the Great War of 1914-18.
Thomas had been an infantryman in his younger years. He’d fought at Cambrai, Ypres and all three battles of the Somme and survived all of it. Even by 1940 standards, he wasn’t a well-educated man, but he was loyal, hard-working and attentive, and those three attributes often made up for any lack of wit or cunning in an honest man. These were qualities that had been clearly recognised in Thomas, and were the reasons for which he’d been given the assignment as Max Thorne’s orderly.
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 59
