The Storm

It was a dreary grey March morning at RAF Needs Oar Point, and large, grey clouds hung in a pensive and menacing silence over the rows of neatly parked Hawker Typhoons, bristling with cannons, bombs, and rockets. A light shower was falling, which made the air refreshing but the quiet thunder that boomed overhead gave an unusual sense of foreboding.

The light sound of small raindrops tinkling against metal and low thunder is what awoke Wg. Cmdr. John Robert Baldwin. He was a highly respected pilot, having been awarded the Distinguished Service Order, the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Air Force Cross, the Croix De Guerre, and the Order of Orange Nassau. John soon found himself quickly scrambling out of a small, but albeit warm and cozy bunk cot, and into a cold, slightly scratchy flight suit. As he slipped on his clothes, John could hear rain PAT PAT PAT PAT against the tin roof of the bunk house. “Odd, I thought it was supposed to be clear and sunny, not drizzly,” he thought. In a flash, John remembered that today he had to lead a large mission to clear out German coastal defenses.

He hastily scrambled out of the bunks and into the mess where a few other airmen were eating quietly. The smell of canned food and aviation fuel was surprisingly relaxing, and he ate his breakfast just fast enough that he wouldn't choke. John glanced at the clock nervously; the black hands read 8:05. Upon disposing of his dirty utensils and cup, he ran out of the mess and to a tent where he could see the rest of the wing had assembled. A projector was just beginning to roll a tape, and John burst in just as the film began to roll.

“Ah, look who’s awake!” said the Sqn. Ldr. of No. 197 Squadron.

John muttered something inaudibly as he walked up to the screen. “Ok, chaps,” he said, turning to the assembled pilots. “Today, we'll be destroying the German defensive bunkers and posts of Gold Beach. Our job is to take down enemy placements on the coastal cliffs, here… here… and here.” John pointed to a reconnaissance photo, specifically at several bunkers and engraved trenches which were placed tightly on the occupied French coast. “No. 193 Squadron and No. 197 Squadron will be in charge of taking down enemy bunkers. No. 257 Squadron and No. 266 will be in charge of keeping anti-aircraft weapons, infantry, and artillery in check.” John paused a moment before saying,

“But watch yourself, there have been reports of interceptions over the channel. The last flight that went over there was ambushed by 190’s.”

An uneasy silence settled over the assembled pilots. The pattering of the rain and the clicking sound of the projector suddenly seemed too loud, and flickering of the projector seemed too bright and distracting. The Focke-Wulf Fw 190 or Fw-190 was a vicious German one man fighter that could beat the Hawker Typhoon in a race any day. It could fly faster and farther, and facing an entire squadron or two of those was not a fun prospect for the pilots.

“So, in short, blow up anything that is German and could harm our boys, and watch your backs for German fighters,” said John.

The congregation of pilots nodded in a solemn silence, each wondering who was not going to make it back. The sound of rain tapping on oiled canvas was all that could be heard for a moment, as well as the loud projector.

Suddenly, John glanced at his watch and said, “Time to fly!” as he turned of the projector.

The assembled pilots quickly got out of their seats and ran through the wet dewy grass and climbed into their planes as another burst of thunder rumbled overhead. They rushed through the rain to their craft, which were armed with either two 500 lb. bombs or eight RP-3 air-to-ground rockets, four mounted on racks on each wing. Also within each of the Typhoon’s wings, were four 20mm Hispano cannons, two in each wing; which could deliver a considerable amount of damage to anything that crossed into its sights. All in all, it generally wasn't a good idea to be on the receiving end of the Hawker Typhoon.

As soon as all the pilots had gone through their pre-flight checklists, they started up their planes which had just been fully refueled.

PRT PRT PRT PRT PRT PRT PRT… VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

The familiar and reassuring steady drone of the Napier Sabre IIB engine was a joyful noise to John’s ears. He and the rest of the squads taxied out to the main grass airstrip, which was a bit muddy and slick, but it posed no great danger to the aircraft.

Suddenly, mission control crackled into John’s radio headset. “Wing Commander, this is mission control, you are clear for takeoff. Also, there is an advisory for some light fog over the coast.”

“Rodger, mission control, advisory noted,” replied John.

“No problem. Have a safe trip, and shoot a few Nazis for us, will ya?” replied the man at mission control.

“Yes, sir! Will do!” said John as the engine roared and his plane barreled down the airfield, the rest of the planes systematically following suit.

The Hawker Typhoons took off in perfect synchronization, the landing gear retracting and fading into the black and white ‘invasion stripes’ painted on the aircraft’s fuselage and underside. The planes flew stoically into the distance and to the English Channel, which was veiled in a thick, spooky fog.

“And this is light fog?” said one of the pilots sarcastically.

“Steady, Officer, just keep eye contact with one of the planes ahead of you, and you'll be fine,” responded John. “The fog is supposed to lift as soon as we reach the open channel.”

However, as time passed, a sense of dread and fear began to bubble up inside of John. He looked outside of his cockpit, and he could see his squadron still, but he felt that something was off, like… and that’s when he broke visual contact. He started to panic and grabbed his radio speaker, “This is Wg. Cmdr. John, come in, please? Can you hear me?” Suddenly, a chorus of concerned pilots flooded into his headset, and he observed that he had just flown into a particularly large and thick cloud. John sighed in relief and rejoined the group. However, he saw something about a thousand feet ahead and below them. It was… a squadron of airplanes. “What are you?” John thought. Suddenly, they reached a clear spot in the clouds and John could instantly recognize the Iron Cross of the Luftwaffe emblazoned their wings.

“Contacts, directly ahead, 190s,” said John.

“Oh joy,” said one of the pilots.

“Do not engage, I repeat, do not engage!” said John. “Maintain your course. Do not engage unless fired upon.”

The pilots responded with a chorus of affirmatives. John looked ahead and saw land, the coastline of France, to be exact. “ETA to target: five minutes,” said John.

Suddenly, the distinctive sound of gunfire that rattled through the air.

“190’s, SIX ‘O CLOCK!” yelled one of the pilots.

“ABORT FORMATION! ENGAGE THE ENEMY!” said John.

The next few moments went by like blur. The Typhoons split up into small clusters of two or three, and chased after the 190s.

No Typhoons were lost in the first round, but then another wave of 190s showed up.

“GAHHHHHHHHHHHH!” a pilot yelled as one of his Typhoon’s wings was blown through by Focke-Wulf Fw 190 cannons. The pilot bailed successfully and the plane spiraled down into the coastal waters, where it exploded in a huge splash of white water, the pilot drifting down slowly towards the dangerous beach several thousand feet below.

“FIND YOUR TARGETS AND GIVE IT YOUR BEST SHOT! SHAKE ANY FIGHTERS YOU CAN SHAKE!” yelled John frantically as he tried to shake a German fighter that had latched onto him.

A few Typhoons immediately broke off from the Focke-Wulfs and released their bombs on some German bunkers. The bombs exploded in a massive orange fireballs and mushroom clouds and the bunkers were destroyed.

However, that's when the artillery kicked in. Explosions suddenly dotted the sky as various guns attempted to take down as many Typhoons as possible.

A few guns were successful and three more Typhoons were sent spiraling down to the beach.

"Agh, take out that Flak!" said John. "It's going to rip us to shreds!"

SHHHHHHHHEW!

BOOOOOOOM!

Two RP-3 rockets hit their target, and a Flak gun was no more.

“YEAH! TAKE THAT YOU NAZIS!” yelled a pilot.

However, a few more Focke-Wulfs had come to join the fight as well.

John commenced a steep dive and the four 20mm Hispano cannons roared, tearing apart the wing of a 190. A few bullets also made contact with the engine, whereupon flames and black smoke started coming out. John saw the pilot bail, and, the plane unintentionally went kamikaze and crashed into a bunker, destroying both in a Hollywood-worthy explosion. John pulled up and looked for another target to engage.However, the last of the Focke Wulfs had been shot down or had flown away, presumably other targets. “All remaining planes follow me,” said John. Suddenly, he felt dizzy, and a terribly painful pounding headache racked his head, but he pushed it aside. He eyed the artillery, which were concentrating their fire on them. John then swooped down low, so low that he nearly buzzed the tops of the placements and could see the stunned expressions of the soldiers below. “FIRE!” John yelled, as he released his rockets.

SHHHHHHHHEW! SHHHHHHHHEW! SHHHHHHHHEW! SHHHHHHHHEW!

A volley of RP-3 rockets flew down into the gun placements and trenches, instantly hitting seven Flaks and destroying them. The rest went high or low and decimated any unlucky soldiers that were within the range of the rockets.

After a few more passes, the vicious Flaks had been silenced and the rest of the bunkers were kaput. However, there were still a few large guns, which were attempting to hit them, but were so far failing.

“Good work, squadron! Circle around and get ready to fire another volley, we've got to finish off those placements!" said John excitedly. Then, a wave of nausea flooded over him. Suddenly, to his horror, he realized that his oxygen mask was off! “It must've slipped off while I was fighting those damn 190s!” thought John. He quickly tried to put it on, but he could feel his grip on the throttle loosen, and the plane veered downward rapidly. As his consciousness faded and the voices of his fellow pilots grow faint, he thought he saw dark grey clouds surround his plane, but John dismissed it as a hallucination from his Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Death was only minutes away, and in his final moments on earth, he said, “Win, Britain… win. God… save… the King…”