(quick edit for anyone new to AH -this is just my pure conjecture and probably wildly inaccurate!)
It’s my first combat mission for the allies. I’ve finished training in the Hurricane and I’m ready to go up against the enemy. The Mission briefing is relatively simple, the map familiar to me from training missions. The Luftwaffe have been conducting daylight bombing raids on the South East. Ju87 Stukas have been flying over at low level to hit point targets, airbases and radar installations. This time we’ll be scrambled as soon as the enemy are picked up on radar over the channel. We’ll have time to gain altitude, and radar will vector us in on them, telling us their location, bearing and altitude. There will likely be twice as many Stukas as we have Hurri’s, but even if we each only kill one, the mission will be considered a success. (As we’re still in training, no points will be deducted even if we fail to stop the bombers). This is about as easy as it gets in war, to know where a weaker enemy is, and go after him in broad daylight. Meanwhile, the lucky chaps in the Spits will tangle with the expected escort of bf109s. I check the weather reports and chat with the other pilots until we scramble.
Our Flight Leader is an experienced pilot who could be flying the Hurri in North Africa, or training up to the Spitfire, but instead he has opted to help bring new pilots up to scratch. It’s a heavy responsibility, and his career as a trainer depends on how well we perform. (To encourage us to follow his orders, he’s given a quantity of points depending on the success of our mission. These he can allocate evenly, or according to individual merit, around his flight. These are in addition to the usual mission completion points or penalties that each pilot receives.)
We take off, checking in and testing our mic volumes as we adjust props and throttles to form up. I’m winging for a pilot with a bit more experience than me. We’ll follow the flight leader as long as possible, but even if the flight breaks up into a furball, I’ll stick to my No.1 like glue. They beat that into all of us during training and as we practised maneuvres. “You must be able to stay with your No.1.” In turn, it’s his responsibility to find the targets, and come back to clear my tail if need be. (Points scored on most fighter missions are halved if your wingman dies.)
Once we’ve settled down, our Flight Leader briefs us on tactics. The Hurricanes have a huge speed advantage on the Stukas, so we’ll be making multiple fast passes around their 3-9 line, staying away from their rear guns. Time permitting, we’ll dive in rough formation on each pass, pulling up to altitude and reforming again before the next go. “Everybody just blast away at whichever Stuka you find in front of you, No.2s as well. Try to go for the wingroot if you can, it really buggers them up.” He goes on to say that if the Stukas scatter, then the No.1’s are to pick their targets and go after them. No.2s will follow close, watching out for the Messerschmidts and taking over if No.1 runs out of ammo. “Remember to check your bloody targets once it gets untidy. Don’t shoot unless you’re sure.” It’s rare that anyone ever does more than superficial damage to a friendly, but it’s a quick way to get demoted none the less.
Then my radio conks out suddenly. This is not an unusual occurrence and certainly not an excuse to ‘bug out’ as the Yanks call it. It’s quite common for new pilots to get the older planes, and the less experienced ground crews. I open the throttle to catch up with my No.1 and fly alongside, waggling my wings. It’s primitive, but he seems to get the message, waggling his in return. I drop back again onto his high 5 o’clock. If I lose touch with the others now, I’ll have to find my way home alone, or at least find a field somewhere to land. (though I’d lose some points for landing at another airbase, even more for ditching in a farmer’s field). I’m glad I paid attention on the navigation training flights: all that flying along roads and rivers, holding a course, calculating time*speed=distance. The instructors voice comes back to me now: “Although we’re currently flying within the Chain Home radar system, and can always radio for a distance and heading to either our enemies or our nearest airbase, it’s still important that every pilot be able to navigate for himself if need be.” I’m confident I can find my way back to base if necessary. I could pull out my chart board now and try to keep track of our location, but I’ve got a more important job to do. I’m deaf and dumb without the radio, but not blind. It’s my responsibility to constantly scan every point in the sky. Light cloud below us may be obscuring the enemy bombers, but it’s their escort I’m most worried about. We seem to have picked up the Spits; in formation about 5,000 feet above and on the same vector, they’re unlikely to be anything else. Although taking care of the 109s is their job, I keep looking as well, I don’t fancy being surprised by a 20mm cannon.
Finally we clear the clouds, and Flight Leader’s wings go vertical for a moment, before he peels over into a dive. He must have visual on the enemy. We follow him down, throttling back. I can see specks below, a rough pattern of the lumbering dive bombers. It’s all very quiet, very calm for a moment longer. Then guns start winking down there as we speed toward the enemy along their 4-10 line. I’m focusing only on my chosen Stuka, but even so, I’m aware of others stumbling, smoking and spiralling down toward the deck. Now my target is filling the sights. I let rip with the guns, the plane shuddering around me. A little off, but even as I think this, he’s flying into the stream of tracers. Debris, sparks and glass fly around his canopy, I boot the rudder to stay on him longer, and little holes appear in his wing. Then I’m pulling up, screaming past, looking for my No.1. I join up on him and can take a moment to look back. My targeted Stuka is streaming smoke and fuel, losing altitude as he drops below and behind his formation. There’s no way he’s making it to the target, let alone back home. My first kill, but I can only exult silently on my own, imagining the radio chatter of the other chaps as they celebrate their victories. I scan the sky again, checking our six. A mess of contrails above gives no indication as to how that fight is going. At least there’s no sign of the 109s down here, it’s practically a milk run for my first mission.
Flight Leader’s taking us into a gentle banking turn, giving us a chance to form up on him again. We’ve caught the blighters early enough, miles from their intended target, and there’s no need to rush. Now in close formation, I can see a few bullet holes in the other Hurri’s, some ragged fabric, nothing too bad. We complete the turn together and swoop back down towards the Hun. I can only hope there are enough left for me to bag another one….
