[caldrail]

Hauptmann Josef Keller strode along the road from Alskirken at a steady pace. On the asphalt surface his jackboots felt hard and unforgiving. The sun had barely risen above the mountainous ridge to his right. On his left the sea mist obscured the North Sea, and with all luck, the airfield too. He knew he was going to be late on duty this morning. It would be as well if flying was delayed also. His night out in the village had led from one thing to another. Now it might lead to a summons to the staffel office

The sound of a vehicle coming up the road behind made him look over his shoulder. A kubelwagen, a small utility car with squared sides, a spare tire on the bonnet, and a hood drawn over the top. At least it would get him back to base a little quicker, so Keller gestured for a lift, gratified as the Kubelwagen began to slow down.

As it drew alongside, the passenger door opened and a feldwebel asked him if he was going to the airfield. "Why yes." Keller answered with a smile, " Have you a spare seat? Please drop me there."

The feldwebel glanced over his shoulder and said "Yes Herr Oberst, he is."

Keller stiffened in horror. Not Oberst Meier? From inside the dim interior of the car, a senior Luftwaffe officer leaned forward and smiled back. "Ah. Hauptmann Keller isn't it? Let me take you back to the field. Step in."

The cramped seating of the kubelwagen made the short journey somewhat uncomfortable. Oberst Meier was a committed party member and a well connected socialite. His gentle smirk advertised his pleasure at catching out one of his men. "Did you enjoy your night in Alskirken, Hauptmann?"

"Ahh... Yes Sir."

"Was she pretty? Let me guess... The blonde barmaid?"

"Yes... Herr Oberst, I..."

The officer dismissed the excuse with a wave of his hand.."No no. No matter. I'm sure the Staffel commander will find something for you to do while we carry fighting the war. In the meantime... Here, have a cigar."

"Sir?"

"Don't be so such a mouse, take one... Come now, Hauptmann, I was young once. I would rather my pilots were daring warriors than those spiritless soldiers on the checkpoint back there. What a hopeless crew. Especially after Ormshagen was strafed yesterday." The Oberst said whilst he struck a match for his junior officer.

"Yes..." Keller puffed a few times, the soldier in the front passenger seat clearly not enjoying the smokey air resulting from the coarse tobacco, "I heard about that."

"Of course this is strictly off the record but... These recent attacks are causing concern at Luftflotte level. The Royal Air Force is proving a nuisance. The Kriegsmarine are moving some ships up the coast over the next few days and they are vulnerable. You'll be hearing all this later of course, but... We need victories Keller. Victories. I want those intruders shot down. I would be very pleased if the British end up swimming in the North Sea, you understand? It would be something positive for me to report, and... Something to forward an officers career."

Keller nodded. He understood. He said no more and the Kubelwagen arrived at the gate shortly after. As he closed the small door behind him, the Oberst leaned forward and spoke as the car drove away to the wooden shacks that served as staffel headquarters."When you fly today, remember what I told you Keller. Victories.... And don't let me catch you on the road again!"

Patrols were of course the order of the day. With so little naval activity of late the British were getting impatient and striking inland. Once refreshed and into flying gear, Keller strode toward the line of Focke Wulf fighters shining with morning dew in the bright sunshine. Even through his flying boots, Keller could feel the cold dampness off the wet grass reaching his feet.

The 190 was his favourite, much preferrable to the touchy and claustrophic Emil he had flown in Greece last year. Certainly the aeroplane had its quirks, but whoever had named it the 'Butcher Bird' had got it right.

Keller met his flight beside the aircraft. "Gentlemen... I have been informed that the British are to be shot down."

"What ? At last?" scoffed Gunther Fauth with his usual bravado. The others chuckled. The men were in good spirits and that was a good sign.

"I expect you to hit one at least." Keller responded, "Keep your eyes open, stay loose. And don't get lost out there... Friedman!"

The number four pilot reddened slightly but grinned all the same. Keller gave the word to start up and signalled the waiting mechanics. The wing surface was a little slippery too. A carpet of small dew drops covered the entire aeroplane and a mechanic hurriedly wiped the canopy clean, opening the weighty perspex teardrop for Keller to clamber in.



The cockpit had an oily smell, almost like that of something burnt. He'd long grown accustomed to that and with assistance, strapped himself into the parachute and the plane itself. Keller went through the checks quickly. He'd done this so many times he barely thought about it. Electrics... Fuel... Control surfaces...

The pitot covers were taken off by another crewman. One waited to pull the chocks from the wheels and another prepared himself for the energetic task of winding up the inertia starter. Checks complete, Keller signalled him to start. Battery... Magneto's... The aeroplane began to sway a little as the mechanic pulled the starter lever round and round. With sufficient speed built up, Keller fired the engine. It gave a few hesitant coughs as the propeller jerked round a blade or two, then it caught and a rising rumble of the BMW radial made a satisfying sound.

Temperatures... Pressures... All seemed good to go. His wingman, Heinrich Tanner, struggled to start his engine. Keller watched as a furious feldwebel ordered his mechanics back on the starting handle. They went at it hard and Tanners fighter relunctantly burst into life. With a nod from Keller, his mechanic hauled away the chocks. He felt the aeroplane creep forward under residual power. Looking about, ensuring the propwash wasn't going to cause a problem, Keller opened the trhottle a little and the fighter wallowed across the grass.

The windsock was off by about 45 degrees, so he taxied a little further than normal, turning into what little wind there was. One last visual chack that the sky was clear of other aeroplanes in the circuit, close the canopy, and full power. The rumble turned into a snarling growl that seemed to getting almost shrill as the Focke-Wulf bumped and shook across the rough grass of Alskirken airfield. He felt the aeroplane become lighter, a slight wobble as the sensitive controls had no more resistance from the ground, and he was away, climbing into the blue sky over the North Sea.

How easy this Focke-Wulf was compared to the Messerschmitt. The aeroplane did half the work for you. Adjust the throttle and everything else adjusts automatically. No messing with lots of levers in stupid places like they say the British pilots have to.

It was a lovely day to fly. This early, there would be little turbulence, though he noted the isolated cumulus that promised bumpier flying later. Keller waited for his flight to form up. The schwarm had proven itself an advantage over the rigid British Vic, and even they had adopted the German formation. Naturally , Keller considered at his leisure, since the Luftwaffe had swept away the airforces of the european continent. Only Britain had remained so stubborn, or perhaps, he ought to accept that Russia had too. He thought briefly of his cousin in the Wehrmacht, fighting on the Eastern Front. Keller dismissed those thoughts and returned to his duty of directing his flight. They were in formation. Time to turn north on the first leg of the patrol.

The reality of warfare is boredom. After an hour of flying up and down the coast between Alskirken and Gossen, Keller was keen to keep his pilots sharp. He made occaisional demands for situation reports which his pilots dutifully responded to.

"Flight Leader," A voice called over the radio, "I think I see something."

"Think quicker. What do you see?" keller answered irritably. It sounded like Friedman, the number four man.

"Aircraft. Heading East." Interrupted Tanner, "Eleven O'clock low."

Keller led his flight toward the incoming aircraft. Head on, it was difficult to see what they were, but as the two formations drew close the other flight clearly had British colours. Keller ordered the attack. The enemy were passing slightly overhead, starting to climb. What aircraft were those? Single engined fighters with blunt radiators. Fulmars? Or was that the new Typhoon? The Intelligence people had already alerted the staffels about the latest British aircraft.

One British fighter was still ahead, obediently staying in formation and almost oblivious to the threat. Keller fired his guns, a quick burst as the Typhoon wooshed overhead. Keller began a climbing turn. Not too tight, in order to retain energy, and looked over his shoulder. His target was trailing thin smoke. A beginner? Yes, he will be the first kill of the day.

The British flight was breaking up as they belatedly reacted to the presence of Focke-Wulf 190's. Keller homed in on his previous target. The British pilot was following his leader, trying to use speed to get away. The Typhoon is a fast aeroplane, clearly, but Keller knew he had an advantage now he was behind and closing in.

Deflection... Fire!... The Focke-Wulf vibrated as the guns burst into life with loud rattles. Smoke trails from the tracer showed the bullets path. A hit! The British plane flared briefly and a wing fell away, the crippled aeroplane rolling gently over. Something fell. A canopy? Yes, there's the pilot, no doubt frightened out of his wits and pulling his ripcord urgently. Keller lost sight of him as he turned around to chase the enemy leader.



With a grimace of concern Keller realised the British flight leader knew his trade. There he was, pulling inside the turn, trying to get on Kellers tail. He had to pull harder on the controls, feeling the 190 trying to roll out of the turn. Rudder... rudder... Keep inside this Englander....

The enemy Typhoon was an elusive target. He used height wherever he could, diving in and going for the classic position of right behind his quarry. Tanner was struggling to ward him off. This Englander was courageous, risking his own neck to attack his opponent with a sense of cool mastery.

"One, Check your six o'clock!" Came an urgent message from Tanner, "I'll be right there!"



The Typhoon had tucked in behind. He's good! Keller hauled back on the stick and rolled left, his fighter entering a tight corkscrew that lost height in mad gyrations. He caught sight of the Typhoon flashing past with superior speed. Now! Pull out! Get behind him. His 190 felt so slow to respond, but it wavered and with urgent dancing on the rudder bars settled into stable flight as the Typhoon roared away. Fire!... Yes!... The enemy flight leader starts to go down. Tanner is shouting encouragement already. IKeller felt he should tell his wingman not to be so exciteable, but it was a close call, and a moment later, Keller realised he was watching his enemy dive to the sea.

Where are the others? The remaining two Typhoons were engaged in a dogfight, maybe as much as a thousand feet higher up. Keller opened the throttle and began a climb, wary of overheating his radial engine. In a wide spiral he reclaimed the altitude and turned toward the pair of British fighters as they met his Three and Four head on. The first Typhoon swept past but...



Keller saw the fireball as two aircraft collided. Wreckage shot out either side as it developed into a thick ball of smoke. Fauth had smashed into the British Typhoon almost head on. Neither could have survived that. The crump of impact made itself felt immediately afterward. Keller breathed deeply and tried to focus. To lose a friend in combat was something he had come to know, but to see a man die like that, so sudden, so final...

The remaining British pilot fled back across the North Sea. Keller saw him speeding away on his right side. He felt an urge to order a chase, a reaction to Fauths death, welling up inside him. No. Let the Englander go. His friends have died too, and we have won today. Another time, Tommy. Go home. Tell your friends that the Butcher Birds are patrolling these shores. Norway is not safe for you.

"Keep alert." Keller ordered his flight, "Watch out for more fighters."

High power settings in combat use fuel like nothing else in big aero-engines. They had barely half an hour endurance left anyway, so Keller ordered a return to Alskirken. There he would make a report. Thankfully it was not him who would write to Fauths family, telling them he had died for the Fatherland. As he descended in the relative quiet of a powered glide toward the coastal strip, he saw the village further down the coast. Such a short walk from the airfield.

Was she watching him fly home, he wondered? Would she congratulate him on his victories? Would she comfort him over the loss of his comrade? Or would he find another daring warrior in her bed?

Keller brought his aeroplane down with an accomplished landing. At the line of camouflaged tents he turned the Focke-Wulf sharply. Brake on, mixture fully lean, electrics off. The propller came to a halt with a soft clacking sound. The silence following a flight is always an uncomfortable emptiness.

Once out of the cockpit Keller walked to the staffel office to record his tally. He noticed a black staff car behind the lorries near the gate. The Gestapo? What are they doing here? Keller called to a junior officer, one of the flak crew guarding the field.

"I see the Gestapo are here. Do you know what's going on?"

The Leutnant ordered a soldier to carry on greasing his gun, then turned Keller and said quietly "Take care next time you go to Alskirken, herr Hauptmann. One of the resistance was caught trying to use a radio. A barmaid apparently... Hauptmann? Is there something wrong?"

[RichardH]

We want more! We want more! We want more!

[luther01]

excellent story, a very enjoyable read thank you