“Sir Winston what are you saying?”
“Lord Ashton you are forthwith reinstated in good standing with the RAF. Your pension has been restored, and you will be on the “tree of aces,” with the RAF. Congratulations, even if that gesture if twenty years late. I only hope that you can see fit to forgive the actions of those involved. As you know, war brings out the best and worst in people and governments.”
Lord Ashton was stunned. He dropped the cane that was supporting him. Madeline saw a look on her father’s face she didn’t recognize. It was one of purpose and even pride. It seemed to Madeline her father was now made whole. Madeline went over to her father and kissed him. “You never deserved what happened.”
Lord Ashton stroked her blonde hair. “And neither did you. I’m so sorry for what I have become and what I never was.” Madeline looked up at her father, thru her tears and smiled.
Winston took out a Cuban cigar and was about to light it. Instead, he said, “There is a favor, which I need to ask you. The pilot’s quarters at Biggin Hill are cramped and substandard. We are out of room for the coming air battle. Your estate is just past the runway.”
Lord Ashton proudly said, “Sir Winston, my estate would be most happy to house any of your pilots. But I don’t think you want to scramble a Spitfire from the south lawn.”
“That’s most kind. A quiet place to sleep, that’s what is required. I will make sure the RAF finds volunteers for the cooking and household duties. After all, you will be busy talking to these young pilots at nighttime, about tactics and most of all confidence in themselves and their flying ability. There are but few aces still living from the Great War.”
“And my son, he will be here too.”
“That is up to him. He is in charge of the squadron.”
“I will do my best.”
Madeline turned toward Winston as they got ready to leave the room. He thought, My she’s floating on air. I only wish that this would all go away. Someday... somehow.
Calais-Marck Airfield
The first few days of the Battle of Britain saw the Luftwaffe concentrate their attacks on convoys in the Channel. The gangly German Stuka dive bomber performed most of the attacks. The plane had come into service in the mid-1930’s. It was a two person, single engine plane, with wheels that didn’t retract.
It was famous for mounting speakers on the outside of its fuselage, that made a hideous sound when the Stuka went into a nearly vertical dive. The resulting ear-shattering noise was meant to scare the daylights out of the soldiers and civilians on the ground.
The tactic was a complete success in the battle with Poland and even against French troops...who should have known better. But a unit or combat force that is looking for an excuse to retreat or surrender doesn’t require much prodding. However, as the Stukas showed up over the shipping lanes and radar installations, the RAF shot down the slow moving and unmaneuverable with a vengeance. Within a week, the Stuka was withdrawn from the Battle of Britain.
JAG 23 was revved up by dawn in the early days of July and took off for England. Wolf led his fighter squadron over the Channel where they met up with the two squadrons of Ju 88’s. They then bore in toward the RAF field at Biggin Hill.
The new fangled chain of British radar stations picked up the attack force before they were halfway across the Channel. This was the first day that a sizeable Luftwaffe force meant to bomb the RAF air bases. Over 700 medium bombers and 300 German fighters, (almost exclusively Me 109s) were on their way to vital English air bases throughout Southern England.
The bombers made the coast in short order and dropped down to 9000 feet. This was going to be a low run bombing mission on Biggin Hill. Wolf scanned the horizon. Where are the Hurricanes and Spitfires?
Captain Ashton and 72 Squadron were scrambled in plenty of time and were sent by the sector controllers to intercept a German bombing run southeast of London. Biggin Hill was to be protected by fighters from the 12 Group area while 72 Squadron was gone.
12 Group was northeast of London, and the RAF airbases there were further out and for now, out of range of the Luftwaffe. Therefore, the idea was for the 12 Group fighters to scramble east and protect the airbases of 11 Group, which Biggin Hill was a part of. It was a rather straightforward, unambiguous plan...that should have worked.
While Captain Ashton got his first kill, downing a medium Heinkel bomber, JAG 23 and the two squadrons of JU 88’s appeared over Biggin Hill. The RAF was late to the party, and Biggin Hill was undefended except for a smattering of anti-aircraft batteries.
The Heinkels came in for a low-level run and dropped sticks of bombs totaling close to 2500 kgs per plane. Within seconds, the Biggin Hill runway was littered with bomb craters. Two anti-aircraft batteries and their crews were destroyed by the avalanche of bombs.
As the bombs moved up the runway and toward the hangar, Lieutenant Marsh, and the ground personnel took cover in slit trenches and hastily constructed bunkers. It seemed to everyone who had their heads down that nothing above ground could have survived the devastation courtesy of Hermann Goering and the Luftwaffe.
Lieutenant Marsh stuck his head out of the a bunker and expected to see a pile of rubble where the hangar had stood. Except for some minor damage, the hangar was in one piece. Lieutenant Marsh shook his fists at the German bombers as they headed for France.
Hurricanes and Spitfires finally appeared over the airfield, and Lieutenant Marsh swore at them. “Well, you took your bloody time about it.”
JAG 23 turned with the bombers and started for the coast. As a few RAF planes chased them, Wolf turned to engage them. He spoke into the radio. “Everyone stay with me. Let’s give the bombers a chance to get out of here.” Contrails filled the air as the opposing fighters sliced thru each other.
Zigfried ignored the order and banked left toward a Spitfire. His new wingman, who had scant training hours in the air, followed him and was jumped by another Spitfire. Zigfried’s wingman yelled into the radio. “On my tail! On my tail!”
Zigfried had a bead on a Spitfire, who then climbed at full power. The Me 109 was no match for the climbing ability of a Spitfire. Zigfried gave up the chase and banked left, just in time to see his helpless wingman’s plane roll over in a ball of smoke and break apart.
Hans took a short burst in his left wing and the oil pressure in his Me 109 started to drop. He got on the radio, “Wolf I’m hit. It’s not bad…”
“Get out of here. I’m on your tail.”
Hans banked hard and picked up speed as he dove at the same time. He tightened his grip on the controls as he willed the plane to make the coast. Behind him Wolf was jockeying around for position, trying to keep the roaming Spitfires off his friend’s tail.
Zigfried appeared out of nowhere and shot down a Spitfire that attempted to get on Wolf’s tail. Wolf turned his head to the side and saw the yellow colored nose of Zigfried’s plane. He leveled out and relaxed as the fight seemed to be over as fast as it had started.
The RAF fighters were banking away, and Zigfried found himself on Wolf’s tail. He was out roughly 200 yards from his rival. Wolf saw Zigfried on his tail, which he found more than odd. Planes in the same squadron usually were off center when following another plane. That was a much better position from which to protect the lead plane. It opened a better view of the horizon and was just plain good common sense.
Zigfried watched Wolf cut thru the air. He edged his plane to one side as he moved closer to Wolf. He saw the five markings on the tail of Wolf’s plane that earmarked him as an ace. Zigfried checked the horizon and knew they were alone. But that wouldn’t last long. Soon they would overshoot the bombers and rejoin the rest of the fighter squadron.
Zigfried centered his 20 mm nose cannon on the rear of Wolf’s cockpit. He flipped the weapon’s safety off and fired. The cannon’s semi-armor piercing rounds tore into the protective plating of Wolf’s read cockpit. Two rounds exited his armor plating seat and bits of metal splintered into Wolf’s shoulder
. The pain was unlike anything that he felt in his life.
Instinctively he banked to the right as Zigfried fired a long burst from his machine guns. The rounds swept into the engine of Wolf’s Me 109 and smoke poured out. Within seconds, flames were working their way back from the engine and entering the cockpit.
Smoke filled the canopy, and Wolf got a glance at Zigfried, who performed a victory roll. There wasn’t time to think...only to react. Wolf’s plane shuttered, and he knew that he only had a few seconds to get out before he was trapped in a burning inferno. The canopy of the Me 109 weighed over 50 pounds and was difficult to open in an emergency.
This was more than an emergency; it was death knocking on Wolf’s door. He had one chance to get out, and even that was rapidly closing as he left shoulder was burning from the hot metal fragments. Wolf Kruger inverted his stricken plane, and the canopy blew away. He dropped out and separated from his plane.
He struggled to stay alert and pulled the ripcord on his parachute. It filled, and he had the sensation of lifting in the air. Wolf saw his plane cartwheel into the ground. It smashed into a grove of trees and burned. It left an enormous cloud of smoke; that could be seen for miles.
It was only now that Wolf fully realized that Zigfried had purposely shot him down. And for the first time, he knew Zigfried had killed his parents... or had arranged it. Wolf screamed at the top of his lungs, but there wasn’t anyone to hear him as he lazily floated toward a field of hay. I killed my parents. Why did I become a pilot? God forgive me; I’m sorry.
The ground was approaching fast. Two English farmers with pitchforks were running toward the floating parachute. One tripped and let go of his pitchfork. A younger man closed in on Wolf as he hit the ground with an unceremonious thud. Wolf’s shoulder was bleeding profusely, and he exited his parachute and put his right hand over the wound.
The young man thrust the pitchfork in Wolf’s face. “Don’t move Adolf.”
Wolf put up his hands and his shoulder leaked blood on his flight jacket. “My name is Wolf.”
The pitchfork was jabbed near his chest. “If it’s all the same to you, I prefer Adolf. You bloody Hun.”
The older man finally reached the scene. He was panting, and he had left the pitchfork behind. “Well, well, well.”
“The bloke speaks the King’s language.”
The old man looked at Wolf with an inquisitive stare. “You some spy? You think you can drop into my 10 acres and be on your merry way? Or maybe Grips and I should invite you to the pub.”
Wolf put his right hand on his shoulder wound. “Grips?”
The young man said, “That’s right you kraut bastard. I might just shishkabob you right now.”
The old man spit toward Wolf. “Give the German a break. Did a Spitfire get you?”
Wolf calmly said, “My own man shot me down.”
“Don’t that beat all,” laughed the young man as he jabbed the pitchfork at Wolf.
“Start marching my friend. And we aren't heading for Berlin…”
Queens Alexandra’s Military Hospital
Two hours later Wolf was in the back of an RAF lorry. The lorry pulled up at the Queens Alexandra’s Military Hospital, and a guard led Wolf inside. The military hospital was on the banks of the Thames River and was in a state of organized confusion.
The commencement of hostilities had caught the hospital somewhat unprepared. Numerous doctors, nurses, and neatly dressed military men came and went at all hours of the day. The wounded were trickling in from the morning raid. Little did the hospital know that in the coming weeks the trickle would turn into a stampede.
Wolf was handcuffed and was urged along by a soldier with a rifle. Heads turned, and people gawked at the German pilot...with the bloody shoulder. When they entered the lobby, a nurse at the desk said, “Is that weapon necessary in here?”
The soldier smirked. “He’s a prisoner of war. He met his match today.”
Wolf said softly. “Nurse I’m getting a little dizzy.”
“Ain’t that a shame,” laughed the soldier.
The nurse scolded the soldier. “Sergeant, I wouldn’t be so crass if I were you. You may find yourself in the same predicament someday, as a prisoner of war.”
“It’s Sergeant T.M. Willits, and I think not lassie.”
The nurse put her hands on her hips and gave the soldier a look. “My name is Miss Harlowe. Bring the Captain up to the second floor so the doctors can take a look at him.”
The soldier put the rifle in Wolf’s back, and they slowly walked up the stairs. “On you go now, Captain. I wouldn’t have called you that. And don’t think Miss Hartlove is like the rest of them.”
The nurse raised her voice. “It’s Harlowe; now move along.”
“Come on El Capitan; move your German rear.”
“Splendid.”
“No one likes a wiseass Kraut.”
Wolf was led into a room inside a doctor’s office. The office was just like the lobby downstairs, busy and helter skelter. The sergeant and Wolf were put in a room that was overlooking the Thames River. An RAF doctor came in and looked at Wolf’s wound. “You speak English.”
“Like a barrister, he does,” bellowed the sergeant.
“I was speaking to the Captain.”
“The hospital has gone bonkers.”
“What was that Sergeant?”
“Nothing.”
Wolf answered the doctor. “Yes sir, I do.”
“Fine, we’ll give you a shot, get you stitched up and they can take you, wherever that is.”
“Thank you.”
The doctor said, “Sergeant, please take off the Captain’s handcuffs.”
“That’s not a good idea, sir.”
“That’s an order. You can attach one of the handcuffs to the bar on the wall. I need more room to work on his shoulder.”
The sergeant re-cuffed Wolf to a hand bar on the wall and a doctor and nurse soon went to work. After he had been stitched up, the doctor said, “Sergeant I want the Captain to stay seated for a few more minutes. I’ll be back soon.”
Two minutes later Wolf closed his eyes and slumped over in his chair. The sergeant couldn’t rouse him. “Come on. The bloke has had it!” He checked Wolf’s handcuffs. “Damn it all! Doctor!” The sergeant left the room.
As soon as he was gone, Wolf opened his eyes, and he jumped up on the examination table. Wolf jammed his legs against the wall and pulled with all his might. As he strained the stitches in his shoulder stretched and finally gave way. A burst of blood splattered on the table as the bar was ripped from the wall. He slid the handcuff over the bar and was free.
Wolf opened a floor to ceiling closet and found a doctor’s smock. He put it on and slid the handcuff up his sleeve to hide it. Wolf walked out of the room, turned left and went down the stairs.
With the confusion and the increasing activity of the wounded being brought into the hospital, no one noticed. Wolf walked by the reception area, and the nurse said, “Doctor. Doctor.” Wolf ignored the comment and headed for the door. Blood dripped from his sleeve and onto the floor. The nurse calmly got on the phone. “Get me the provost guard and hurry…”
10 Downing Street
Churchill was at the War Office as the reports came in from the first serious raid over England by the Luftwaffe. The take from initial bombings of the RAF airfields was sobering. The Luftwaffe hit every fighter base in the 11 Group Sector. Winston took a cigar from his mouth and said, “Kenley, Croydon, Northolt, the list reads like a horror story.” Winston turned to the RAF duty officer in the room. “Did they damage all the fields?”
“Yes Prime Minister, but we’ll be working all night to get them back in action for tomorrow.”
“Have Air Chief Dowding stop by 10 Downing, later on. I’ll be up all night. We need planes and most importantly pilots.” Winston turned his attention to the rest of the RAF officers in the room. “Find them. Poles, Americans... it doesn’t matter.”
The duty
officer said, “Sir.”
Winston walked toward the door and stopped, “How many did we shoot down?”
“We don’t have a firm number.” The duty officer then offhandedly said, “We did score a propaganda coup though Prime Minister. It seems our lads shot down a Luftwaffe ace, near Biggin Hill.”
A cheer went up in the room. The duty officer looked at a piece of paper on his desk. “His name is… Wolf Kruger. Captain Wolf Kruger.”
James, who was at the door, couldn’t believe it. Winston calmly said, “And his status?”
“Wounded and taken to Queens Alexandra’s Military Hospital.”
“Please ring them right off.”
“Sir.” The duty officer reached the receptionist at the hospital and spoke in muffled tones. In the meantime, James lit Winston’s cigar. The duty officer hung up the phone, and his face turned a strange shade of pale white. “Prime Minister, the ace from the Luftwaffe has escaped from the hospital. Not more than five minutes ago.”
James looked at Winston and shook his head. Winston said, “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. James... the car.”
* * *
Wolf walked as fast as possible without raising undue suspicion and headed for the Thames River. A hedge line ran along the side of the hospital, and that gave him some comfort that he would be hidden from view. However, Wolf knew that he had to disappear in the fading sunlight. In another hour, the sun would be down, and he could hold up in an alleyway or maybe a closed shop and figure out his next move.
The tide was running out, and the Thames River was moving ever steadily toward the Channel. Wolf walked on a dirt path that was full of broken bottles and discarded trash. He followed the flow of the river. Up ahead Wolf saw a half dozen boats tied off to a dilapidated pier. The boats had seen better days and were a perfect fit for the crumbling pier.
Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) Page 19
