Aces' Diary

Prologue

London, 1940

The wreckage and rubble of the buildings collapsed; just more for the civilians to clear up. The police and Home-guard watched them to prevent looting. Firemen struggled to put out the flaring fires they had been trying to put out all day long. The remaining children in the city played around the rubble of a bombed-out building, playing hopscotch. MPs patrolled the street, carrying armfuls of respirators. Mobile tea cars served the firemen, homeguard and the police. The shops in London were crowded with people buying food and household items, or at least what could be had in such lean times. Women, working in the munition factories started to go home. The Thames made beautiful sight, reflecting the sunlight and the building near the great river. Big Ben’s bell tolled 4 times. 4 pm sharp. A peaceful day...

Vroooooooo

The air raid sirens came to life. The patrolling air wardens blew their whistles and yelled, “TAKE COVER!”

London was in the Blitz. Civilians ran for underground bomb shelters in paths cleared of the rubble of bombed-out buildings wrecked by the last air raid. Firemen stood by, waiting for the inferno which was coming for London. The Home Guard ran for AA emplacements and spotlights, even though it wasn’t dark yet. Some of the Home Guard picked up binoculars and started to look for enemy planes. The peaceful day had been broken.

A few minutes later, the droning sound of German bombers and their escorts came closer. Swarms of Heinkel bombers flew in perfect formations. Their escorts flew by them, mostly Messerschmidt Bf-109. The rest were Junker JU-87 Stukas, for strategic bombing.

The Stuka dive bomber drove mass destruction to British war machine production. The siren installed on their noses would scream their hellish noise as they dive, bringing fear to the heart of the British people.

The AA guns started to bear on their marks as spotlights found their targets and tracked them for the gunners. Vast black clouds of smoke filled the sky as the exploded, shrapnel-shells scattered hot metal in all directions to damage the enemy aircraft.

An ace among the escorts. Gerhard Barkhorn, sat rigid in his Messerschmitt Bf-109, mentally checking his armament: a 20 mm gun on each wing, loaded with short-fused shells and dual MG 17 machine guns mounted in the engine cowling. If he had seen to them correctly, they would not fail him in battle.

He saw silhouettes on the horizon. He instinctively knew they were enemy Spitfires, and  alerted his comrades through the radio right away, “Feindliche Flugzeuge! (enemy aircraft)”

As he throttled up his Bf-109 to engage the enemies and protect the bombers as he had been so rigorously trained to, flipping his Bf-109 in a carefully calculated barrel role to end up on the tail of the nearest enemy aircraft.

The Spitfire had seen him coming through; the British pilot turned his plane around to face the German, but it was in vain; altogether too late evasive maneuver.

Gerhard aimed ahead of the Spitfire and pulled the trigger on his flight stick.

Most of the burst missed, and the few machine gun rounds that did make contact failed to damage anything critical to the enemy plane beside scratching some of its camouflage paint.

Their fighters began to spiral closer and closer. They dodged each other’s fire, but one fighter would have to peel off eventually, and Gerhard knew it would be him.

After what felt like an eternity bearing down on each other, he pulled the flight stick with all his might and peeled off, trying to avoid the Spitfire’s superior turning circle. He looked at his opponent's plane and then saw a series of crosses painted beneath the cockpit. He was facing a Spitfire ace, and he knew all well that he could make a name for himself by taking down this skilled enemy.

He tailed the ace and took aim once again. His 20 mm cannons and machine guns burst out destruction at his enemy. The ace’s engine started to smoke, but yet again his enemy survived.

The ace pulled up and did a barrel roll, going inverted above him. He dived down on Gerhard and let loose rain of 7.7 mm bullets. Gerhard felt his aircraft’s tail getting peppered, but the tail flaps were still more or less functional. He had to be more careful around from now on. Especially anywhere near that ace.

He knew that Spitfires were faster than his Bf-109 at climbing and turning, but he did have one advantage. The Spitfire's engine seemed to cut out instantly when climbing up vertically. The sweet thought of receiving a Knight Cross came into his mind, rendering him more determine to eliminate the ace.

He pulled his nose up and throttled back into a near-suicidal stall. The ace didn’t slow down, but rather quickly pulled his aircraft’s nose to bear and fired his dual machine guns. Gerhard clenched his jaw as the British ace’s guns homed in. But in the last moment, the Spitfire’s engine cut out, just as planned. German fuel injection now gave Gerhard the advantage. He throttled back up and pulled out of the stall, the British aircraft coasting in a dive before him. Before the Spitfires engine restarted, Gerhard threw a burst of everything he had at the Spitfire. It was torn up by his barrage. Holes covered the enemy Spitfire, and the engine let out a plume of black smoke.

The ace fled to the clouds, so Gerhard followed after the trail of now-fading exhaust. The cloud, though, hid his prey well. When he came out the other side, the Spitfire had disappeared without a trace.

Suddenly, the ace descended and opened fire on him, damaging his left wing. He saw gaping holes torn in the aluminium, and a few stray rounds damaged the engine, releasing pitch-black smoke. The ace had returned the favor, and now the field was leveled. Gerhard started throwing everything he had left at the ace to survive. The hunter had become the hunted.

Gerhard brought himself around yet again, preparing for one last push, but he found nothing but empty sky. Even as he watched, all nearby clouds were blown away by a mysterious force. His radio crackled painfully through his headset.

“Hallo?” he tried the radio, “Hallo?” Dead. “Hallo?” he tried another attempt, but yet, no reply.

The only sound that broke the engine’s pained droning was loud and endless static. But then, out of nowhere, a sound from the radio rang in his ears: music...

Too happy to be war time music. He didn’t know the song, but it sound like music for children in happier times, and it was starting to creep him out.

He saw another aircraft approaching his own from the horizon, fast. He saw flashes, and his engine burst into flames. He tried to return fire, but no use: his main machine guns, centered around the damaged engine bay, had jammed. He tried the cannon, but no luck there either. He was helpless.

He started to fall from the sky; only death awaited him below. He tried to control his plane for as smooth landing as possible. The sun shone out its brilliant light. As he turned to face its warmth, shielding his eyes. He thought that must be heaven. He look down and saw the sea, the English Channel. He wished now that he had opted to keep his parachute, but it was too late. He closed his eyes and prayed.

The brilliant light flashed blindingly bright.

He waited for his death, one, two and three minutes. He hadn’t been that high up, was he? He opened his eyes slowly to see land below. He was pretty sure that it was water as far as eyes could see a little while ago. It wasn't the rolling plains of southern England either, but high mountains, a village, forests and...

Winged horses?

“Was?”

His eyes were tracking the creatures which just flew past him. They noticed his burning aircraft and immediately retreated, afraid of the flames.

“Dies ist nicht England, (This is not England.)”

He saw a smoke trail from the forest on his right. The source was a wrecked Spitfire, smoking from the massive crash landing. He noticed it all approaching him very, very quickly. He would end up like that ace: died from crashing.

He was still falling. The only thing he could think of is his wife back at the airfield. He may never see her again. He looked at the photo of her that he kept next to the attitude indicator.

A young woman, around 30, with short, blond curly hair and sparkling eyes looked back at him. She was also in the Luftwaffe, an engineer. He smiled for the first time between his mission.

He looked at the altimeter. 1000 metres. It’ll end soon. He would survive, if the Devil decided to give him some more time.

Just a smooth landing will be enough, he thought.

The his engine cut out completely, no longer burning, nor functional. He saw the forest from earlier below. He glided down to a clear field nearby, his landing gear not functional. He readied to belly out. In the final second before the jolting blackness overcame his mind, her name passed through his head:

Ava...