The Boy

Bill couldn’t believe his eyes. What was a little kid doing out here. For God’s sake this is crazy. Where’s his mother.

“Stop watching that child Bill and concentrate on your loading mate.”

“But Charlie he’s all alone…he’s crying and wounded. We have to help him! He’s going to die out there, we have to do something.”

“For Christ sake keep loading or we’re all dead including the boy!”

“There has to be something we can do…look at him he’s bleeding…he’s hurt and scared. He’s terrified we have to do something. We just have…”

“We’re out! Bloody hell we’re out! Alright let’s go then… we aren’t doing any good with an empty gun. Let’s go.”

Charlie is cut in two before Bill’s eyes and he just stares uncomprehending and then turns and jumps the gun emplacement sand bag wall and starts to sprint towards the boy. All he can think of is getting to him and bringing him to safety. He hears the sound of the engine and knows that a Sturmovik is coming in for a run at his former gun emplacement. He even hears the kick of the bomb being released. A wave of heat washes over him but he is on the edge of the napalms impact zone and only his legs beneath his knees are engulfed in searing pain. He is knocked down and tries to get up but his lower legs are missing and then the pain hits. The second Sturmovik’s run splashes him with napalm again.

Splashes is probably not the right term for something that is a liquid flame, that does incredible damage to the human body and soul of those who witness it and those who inflict it on others. This little splash, for wont of a better word, of this viscous, liquid flame hits his upper torso as he is struggling to remove his helmet. When the splash of napalm hits it is splashed further and lands on just a couple of patches on his left and right side. He drops his arms and they become welded to his body. This douses the flame but not before his arms are pinned. He finally starts to scream. He screams for what seems like hours and then something gets through the pain. Something cuts right though his agony. It is the little boy and he is standing by him and watching him.

He tries to detach his right arm from his body and rips a pound of flesh from his side. He is so intent on reaching the boy that he feels nothing. He reaches out but then his muscles fail him. They become detached from their bony anchor and finally the pain becomes too much and shock sets in. He collapses and he dies staring at the little boy who in turn is staring at him. 

Where's Mum?

The boy watched the sky in awe. He was mesmerized by the swirling machines with winking lights in their nose and wings. When they came close to the ground and the flashes came from the wings there would be little explosions on the ground ahead of the plane, little explosions that where linked back to the plane by fiery trails. It was wonderful to watch and he was enthralled. He had been doing it for days between finding food to eat and sleeping. The area he was in seemed to be teaming with planes whirling and turning after each other and occasionally crashing with great noise and fireworks. It was wonderful…just wonderful and thrilling to his 3 year old eyes.

He really missed his Mum and never knew his dad. Just the men his Mum would bring home. Many of them were nice and if they were not Mum would make them leave. They brought him treats and that was nice.

At first the noisy crashes were scary but now he looked forward to them. A few had happened very close and one has sent noisy pieces of the plane spinning around him. He was nicked once by a small piece and had cried when he saw the blood. He really missed Mum then and had cried for a long time. He has no idea of time and as long as he had water and could still find the food that was in the building close by all he could do was to play by himself and watch the wonderful show going on all around him.

If he could count he would have known that he has seen 12 planes crash within a mile of where he was. 12 brave pilots much like the men who had visited his mother had died as his mother had died. Her body had saved his life as well as almost taken it. It had taken him quite a while to finally wiggle his way out from under her protective form. Once he had done that he could then wander around and find the food and water his body craved.

He had long since taken off his pants and went poopoo and peepee wherever he wanted. His poop hole was kind of sore but not always painful and he could forget how much it hurt when he watched the planes.

The big guns on the ground that used to shoot at the planes had been silent for days now. The planes with the red markings had dropped things on them and used their winking wings to make them explode in awe inspiring explosions. Sometimes after the explosions men cried out, some far into the night. Curious he went over to what was once a man, but was now a smoking pile with a head and eyes. The mouth had stopped making a wailing noise and the eyes had looked at him in wonder as it tried to detach what might have been an arm and hand to touch him. Then it collapsed in a pile like his Mum, and stopped moving…they always stopped moving.

The fiery smears of flames that engulfed large areas, were his favorite. His hearing had been severely damaged but he could still hear them when they spread their beautiful warmth and fire filled clouds over huge areas that once contained men. These flame clouds had kept him warm enough during the night. They set things on fire and he would stand or lie near them far into the night. It was cold at night.

A couple of times men had tried to come to him but had been damaged and cut down by the circling planes and their winking wings. After a while no one seemed to care and he was alone in his playground of smoke, flames, explosions and the dead.

He could not go near his Mum any more. She had started to stink and then an explosion had taken her away. She had peed and pooped in her clothes while he was under her and he had asked her why she could do that without getting put in a corner when he could not, but she had not answered. Her eyes eventually turned dead and her body cold and he knew he had to leave her. He was very thirsty and hungry when he had finally wiggled out from under her.

He guessed he was a big boy now. He remembered the other big boys in his neighborhood could run around all day without their moms always keeping watch over them. His Mum did not watch over him anymore so he must be a big boy. He cried every so often and wished she was here to watch over him again. He did not like being a big boy all the time. He missed her. He missed her so much.

No one would ever know why he and his mom were there near the airfield. In years to come when they excavated the grave site they were shocked to find the remains of such a small child. He had only 6 more hours to live but he did not know that and was getting excited as another bunch of whirling planes caught his eye and he watched in fascination as three of the red marked planes tried to stay on the tail of the green plane with the circles on its wings. He knew they were circles. His Mum had taught him that.

Just before the green plane crashed into the ground it came very close to him and he saw the pilots face staring in wonder at him as he waved. He had a nice face. He wished that he was his father. The last six hours and 3 minutes of his life were like the last 3 days or so. He ate some food, played with some interesting pieces of metal, went to the puddle and drank some water, cried a few times in loneliness and then wandered into an area he had never been before. He fell into a large pit and never regained consciousness. That’s where all the other bodies were eventually put in temporary graves. His mother and the pilot of the plane that he waved at were put in the pit as well. One small pile of what was humanity waiting to be discovered and separated into still other holes in the ground. As we all know they are just bodies and not the real person.

His body was never identified and his remains were placed in an unmarked grave. There should have been no one to even remembered his name or that he have once existed. Yet there was one. A secretary who had helped deliver him when she had heard his mother crying next door. Out he came before the doctor could get there. It was all she could so to hang on to him he cried so loudly. She was going through some old records and getting ready to store them when she remembered the little boy being born to that young girl. Pretty hard to forget that. He had such a smile. Most newborns don’t smile. He did from the get go. She was sure that she would see him in the films. His smile was so dazzling even as a newborn.

His name was Jeremy. His stood out so vividly in her mind. She was 7 months pregnant and just then decided to name her baby Jeremy if it was a boy.  Jeremy Beadle…now that had a nice ring to it.

Double Down

John Dunellen was a double ace and he was in deep shit. He was slowly gaining distance from the pack of Yak 9s chasing him but he was running out of time and space. His wingman and squadron mates had been separated during takeoff. It was hard to take off when Tu2s Bats were circling overhead and just waiting for you to show yourself. It was almost impossible to count on a safe haven to refuel and rearm. The anti-aircraft guns had gone silent one by one. The Soviets had targeted them specifically before they even attacked the planes on the ground landing or taking off. Their main focus for the first week had been the guns and gunners. They had died by the thousands. Horrible deaths and now many airfields throughout Britain were defenseless. Defenseless from marauding flying tanks and medium bombers loaded down with all manner of mayhem.

Dunellen tried something new this time he came back to the airfield with a third of a tank. He pretended that he was getting ready to land and waited for the Tu2 Bat to lumber on to his tail then he gunned it and turned inside the medium bomber and caught him with a deflection shot from his 20mm cannons. The bomber went down in a satisfying fireball. But he then found himself low and slow with three Yak 9s were on him like white on rice.

Dunellen was good. You don’t get to be a double ace in a 10 days if you aren’t good. He kept the Yaks at bay for another 10 minutes. Twisting and turning, dipping and weaving even a few barrel rolls. No one did barrel rolls anymore so maybe that’s why they worked.

He knew if he flew straight for even a few seconds he was dead. All the twisting and turning made it impossible to for him to gain altitude and to use the superior straight line speed his Spit possessed. While fighting for his life he saw his precious fuel being burned at a prodigious rate. He could even feel it. His plane became more responsive the lighter it got. The lighter it got the closer he was to death. Then the first cough happened.

It happened on a hard turn to the right. It was a real tight turn and almost caused him to black out. He would have got the Yak 9 with the 14 little swastikas on the side if he had been able to stay in the turn but the Yak’s wingman was doing his job and he had to break off the turn. The wingman’s 20mm cannon round took off the tip of his right wing.  No harm no foul at this height. If his opponents had been Yak 3s he would have not made it this far. The Yak 3 could outturn even a Spitfire. Against the Yak 9 the best pilot would have won. Against 3 Yak 9s all bets were off.

Then his engine coughed again and this time he was not in a tight turn. But he had to turn to avoid the tracers coming from the Russian aces plane. His luck ran out and his skill could no longer defy physics. The air flow over his laminar flow wings could no longer create the lift needed to keep the 2400 odd kilograms of aluminum in the air. In the last seconds of his life just before the Spitfire hit the ground and exploded something caught his eye for a moment.

 It was a very little boy standing among some wreckage calmly waving at him. He had no pants on and looked like he had never been washed. Time froze as he they stared at each other for a fleeting moment. Their eyes locked and he though what was a little boy doing here surrounded by all this death. It made him think of his own family. Dunnellon’s last thought was of his new born daughter’s smile. Not a bad thought to die on.

IL 10 Pilot

2nd Day of the Attack
Near Boscom

The wind had shifted for a minute and the Bofors could see their targets. The machine guns did not have much effect on the IL10 Beast but the 40mm Bofors did and the three that were free from the smoke took down 4 of the squadron in quick order. On the next pass the smoke was behaving much better and revenge was in order. Ah, the never ending cycle of revenge. You killed my brother in arms and now I will kill yours or you. An eye for an eye and a horrid death for an excruciating one. The Beasts in this squadron were caring the pods that spewed flame. Dropping their external fuel tanks after they got an extra 200 miles range from them they were free of that burden and after they scorched the earth in V shaped formations spewing flame and death. They came back and waited for the smoke to clear to finish any survivors off and to catch any RAF planes foolish enough to try and land while they were still making their circle of death runs. The circle of death was a technique use on the Eastern Front with Beast after Beast following each other looking for targets of opportunity and then taking a wide turn and doing it again. It was similar to a flock of vultures but with a human brain and a little choreographing at work.

In the "Circle of Death" attack, a Sturmovik group would flank around the enemy and then peel off successively, each Il-2 making a shallow diving attack, then pulling up and around for another pass. The beauty of the Circle of Death was that it kept the enemy under continuous fire for as long as the aircraft had fuel and ammunition. Even when the smoke clear for a short period, of time the attacks were continuous, with no respite for the AA gunners and loaders.

The 280 2.5kg PTAP bomblets contained internally had been very effective as well and destroyed quite a wide path of soft targets. Targets made out of things like flesh and bone. Thank or curse Mr. Shrapnel depending on if you were giving or receiving for his contribution to the art of war. The current PTAP could penetrate 70mm of armor so the tin and wood coverings placed over installations and control rooms and targeting radar are no match for them.

The four 23mm cannons took care of many of the rest of the targets at the airfield. Not much can hide from that kind of fire power. The RAF or any of the NATO forces had never experienced their own creation...napalm. The Soviet version was very similar and just as deadly killing with excruciating pain if death does not occur instantly. The arms race continues with more and more deadly and horrible ways to kill each other. It appears to be a never ending cycle for human beings. At least the males of the species.

How many of those pilots, gunners and ground personnel being killed that day had children or even infants. Some might have newborns. They would die and were dieing for those children yet they were wiling to kill other fathers and mothers as well as other children in the belief that they were protecting their own.

What an absurd way of thinking. What an absurd way to live. What an absurd way to continue a species thought Yuri. I'm told by my leaders that if I don't kill them... the enemies men, women and even children, that my women and children will perish. This is just plain crazy. Yet here I am following orders and spewing death on men just like me who have children and who honestly believe that by killing me they are saving something near and dear to their hearts. Would I kill them if they were not trying to kill me. Of course not. I rather liked the Americans and Limeys I met near the end of the war. Yet here I am burning possibly one of those men to death and all because he is trying to kill me and because someone down there killed Ari. When does it stop? When are the scales balanced...not today!

The Attack on the Airfields

First they flew over in those weird ball shaped formations. We laid into them with our massed 3.7 inchers. 3.7 inchers armed with VT fuses. There was no shortage of fuses now. Fire, eject, load aim fire, load eject aim fire…his crew were like robots in in a Charlie Chaplain movie. Shot after shot left his muzzle. Something was wrong. The shells seemed to be exploding much too soon and way below the massed balls of bombers. He could see as they passed overhead that it was not a true ball but more like a semi sphere with well-defined spaces for the bombs to fall and not hit the planes below. Pretty clever these Ivans. The semi spheres were staggered and some of the bombs that dropped were slowed down by parachutes. Others fell straight and were dropped from a lower altitude.

He braced for the impacts. As the first bombs hit the ground they exploded as expected but the ones attached to parachutes hit and formed huge clouds of smoke. They were 1000 pounders and spewed a lot of smoke for what turned out to be a longtime. Everyone scramble for their gas masks.

The ones who forgot or couldn’t find theirs waited for death to come and watched in terror as the clouds reach out for them. Fingers of dense smoke marched towards them carried on the weak winds of the day. Everyone held their breath and a few of the unfortunate ones without gas masks panicked and started to run. Everyone expected the worst as the clouds reached their stumbling mates…The worst didn’t happen. Their mates kept running even after breathing in lungful’s of what appeared to be poisoned gas.

It was a smoke screen… just an old fashioned smoke screen! A few of the runners shouted for joy as the others in in their gas masks yelled as best they could with the contraptions attached to their faces. A few of the runners sheepishly started to feel their way back to their duty stations. They had no fear that their fellow crew mates would be angry or consider them cowards. They would however get a real ribbing for not having their gas masks along.

Then they heard the next wave of planes approaching. These were low and fast. Single engine planes from the sound of them. They couldn’t see shit. The radar directors where pretty much useless at this altitude and the 20 mm and heavy machine guns were not tied to them for the most part. Eric remembered thinking that if he couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see him. The 3.7” could still fire at the higher flying bomber stream because of the radar and were ordered to fire blind with their aim being controlled.

Before the smoke blotted out the sun he could see that the only planes that were being damaged and shot down by the 3.7“ shells were the ones that had strayed or were on the very edge of the formations and even then they were few and far between.

He had noticed that the fuses were not in the best of shape. Some smelled moldy and musty like his grandmothers basement. He couldn’t worry about that now … fire, eject, load, fire…no aiming anymore… fire, eject, load, fire. Then the other planes were on top of them. The 40mm, 20mm and heavy machine guns fired blindly in the general direction of the noise. He vaguely wondered about the engines of the Russian planes. They definitely had a different sound to them. Not anymore powerful or even weaker sounding, just different.

Then he felt the first heat wave coming from his left. Something had exploded and was pouring out heat like a ship on fire. Must have been a fuel storage unit, but there were none that close by. The engineers wouldn’t be that stupid. Damn that was hot. He had never felt anything that hot. Then the radar director link malfunctions. The smoke was still blinding and he sent Billy to see where the cable had been cut. Billy never came back. He never even found Billy or his body. He did hear him scream when another explosion and heat wave swept over them.

More explosions and waves of heat all around him. What he thought was a human being came rushing at them totally aflame from head to foot. It was not making a sound just walking fast, it’s flesh dripping off it as it was slowly consumed in fire. After about 5 more steps it collapsed and a new horror caught his attention. A small bomblet bounced around at his feet. This one did not explode but the ones farther to the right did, cutting Ferguson in half, Jones’s legs off and causing Williams to lose his head.

The shock of what was happening was complete all he could do was to stand there paralyzed as horror after horror appeared out of the smoke and flames. One after another they appear, the headless this, an armless that, a screaming torch of fire, a whimpering legless head and torso dragging itself with one arm. Horror after horror struck his all-seeing eyes. He didn’t even think he blinked for what seemed like hours. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t look away. He always remembered thinking that he should be at least helping some of these apparitions. Helping to drag them to where ever they were going or at least attempting to put out the fires immolating them. I was like your standard nightmare where you can’t move as the monster or horror comes running at you. All you can do is watch. Watch with unblinking eyes. Watch as your friends die horrible deaths all around you. Deaths that only Dante could imagine or that only humans invent for each other. Nothing else in nature could do this to any other creature much less to its own species. Any other species would be wiped out by Darwin’s law if they did this to each other but not homo sapiens.

More small explosions and shrapnel everywhere as those smaller bomblets exploded by the thousands then he caught a glimpse through the smoke of what was causing the heat he was feeling. About a hundred yards to his right he had a fleeting yet perfect view of a hunched back ugly looking Russian plane spewing liquid flame from twin pods on either wing. He remembered thinking…So the bastards have their own form of napalm. Napalm a horrible invention by the Yanks if you were on the receiving end.

This thought brought him back to his senses and got him running. Running for his life. As he looked back at what had been a mighty flack trap all he saw was flames and smoke, Nothing moved except the boiling pillars of flames appearing here and there above the clocking clouds of smoke. He never did see the cessation of the smoke screen. He just ran and ran and ran. He finally ended up miles away in a ditch next to a stream bed. That gradually turned from pink to red. The stream ran through part of the air field complex. Right near where his gun emplacement was. He knew things were getting bad when he actually started to fill his canteen with the reddest of trickles with the full intent of going back and putting it back into the lifeless body of Roger. Roger who he watched slowly bleed to death from a very small wound in his belly. Very small from the front but when Roger finally fell over from his kneeling position, it was very large from the back. Here you go old Roger, all you need is a little fill me up. Drink up now and all will be right. Drink up and we’ll go have that pint I owe you. Drink up and we’ll talk about the Williams sisters and how we’re going to get them drunk and screw them. Drink up and all will be right with the world.

They eventually did find him near the creek walking back and forth between a body and the creek pouring blood tinted water down it’s throat. The pink colored water would go down through the mouth and out a large hole in the back of the body of Roger Peters. Eric must have poured a hundred gallons of water through the body before they found him.

Next Spring what would become the largest willow tree currently in Amesbury proper took root on the exact spot where all that pink colored water had made a small puddle. The airfield at Boscombe Down ceased to function. Without anti-aircraft defenses it became a death trap for any RAF plane attempting to land. Anything that moved in the area was slaughtered that day and for the following weeks. It might as well have been an ancient field of battle full of the dead and dying.

The willow that grew created shade for the cemetery that eventually appeared. Unofficially a number of unidentifiable bodies were laid to rest over the coming weeks and months. Never again was the air field used to launch planes into the air. Although many other fields were hit that day this one was damaged the worst and was continuously attacked when attempts were made to use it again. Over the course of the Second Battle of Britain it was visited almost daily by the VVS and anything that was put in place to defend the area was immediately attacked. In large parts of Britain the RAF had lost control of their skies much like the Luftwaffe lost control of German skies.

Cambridge Airport on the Day by Tallthinkev

Tom's leg hurt, not the one that made him limp the other one. He decided to have a sit down for five minutes. Less than thirty seconds later an RAF corporal laid in to him.
'What do you think you're doing lad?'
Tom looked up, said nothing.
The corporal took him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. The RAF man then found himself on the ground, a hairy arsed fitter standing over him. 'Don't do that, it's not very nice.' he said in a soft tone.
Moments later there was pushing and shoving that involved both members of the RAF and Marshall employee’s.
It only stopped when some Snowdrops waded in and pulled the sides apart.
This kind of thing was getting more frequent over the last number of days. The pressure was getting to everyone. Civilians, RAF, army, Germans, Italians, Poles. Even the NAFFI and WVS were a bit short with their customers and each other.


'I don't like it' said Jack 'not one bit.'
'I know, I know.' replied Arthur Marshall.
Thing were moving on a pace at the airport. More ack-ack for a start, there had been two accidents with them getting trigger happy, at least no one had been hurt. Mini hangers where being built, just enough for one plane. Plus there were more slip trench's being dug. They had caused injuries to three people. One of those digging put a spade though his foot and two more had fell into them.
Everyone knew what was going to happen, but just not when, couldn't be too far off that was for sure.
Jack was now very glad his family was in Wilbraham, he wished he was too. Yes he had been over the evening the before and had even slept the night, and that was something that was getting increasingly rare. Nice to see the family anyway.


Arthur and himself looked, up a Thunderbolt came in, smoke coming from the engine, one wheel up, the port wing digging in. The pilot was out, it was lucky there was no explosion
'More mess to clean up.' observed Arthur.
'Yes never rains does it. Have you an idea when Wilhelm maybe back with us?'
'None at all. He one day here gone the next. Won't mind so much if they let us know. A good lad that one.'
'Yes he's come a long way in the last few months, I want to keep him around, the youngsters look up to him.'
'What? He's only, what three, four years older that the new lads.' said Arthur
'A hard few years. Very hard. I won't have wanted to have them. Still no word from the rest of his family.'
'That is where you are wrong, Jack.'
'What do you mean?'
'Oh sorry I didn't tell you did I.'
'And'
'He had word about his bother.'
'Which one, think he had two.'
'The older one. The one who was serving in the U boats.'
'Where is he then?'
'He was a POW in Canada. Out now of course. Gone to train up some of their lads I think.'
'Speak of the devil.' Jack had spotted him coming towards the office.

Day One

Adam was witnessing an odd sight, waves of planes flying not in the usual V or Box or even Finger Four formation but in kind of a school of fish formation. He did not have firsthand knowledge or had ever seen a Soviet bomber or even fighter before but here they were in the hundreds. Droning overhead in their odd formation going much faster than the US and RAF heavy bombers. They were traveling closer to the speed of the few Mosquito formation he had seen. He had joined the Anti-Aircraft regiment after the Blitz and had not seen many large formations of similar German medium bombers. The numbers were staggering and disconcerting.

He had read that the largest daylight raid ever mounted by the Luftwaffe was around 800 planes during the first Battle of Britain…First Battle of Britain. He could never in his wildest imagination think that he would ever utter or even think that phrase.  Yet here it was. This was of course the second day of raids. That first couple of raids a week ago had decimated the airfields and maintenance units used to repair RAF planes. It had been a stunning success for the VVS or Red Air Force. Hundreds if not a thousand repairable planes laid to waste and ruin. Then came the debacle over the beacons.

From what he was observing this raid was stating out like the other ones. He could not imagine why they would once again hit the same targets. From what he understood they were decimated. So his thinking was that something else was in store for the RAF. His 3.7” gun was ready for action. Screw the German 88 this baby hit just as hard. Cases of the super accurate VT proximity fuses were ready to be mated with the 3.7” shells. The VT fuse possibly stood for Veritable Time fuse. This more commonly called proximity fuse exploded when it even got near an enemy plane. It increased the accuracy of an anti-aircraft shell by a factor of at least three and certain circumstance seven. It was a nasty piece of work and some say responsible for decimating the Japanese Kamikaze effort. The factor of seven comes into play when a plane is coming straight at you or on an easily determent course. Most Kamikaze came right at you or at your buddies without deviation. The factor or three came into play when a plane was dodging around and not flying straight.

They had not had much practice with the shell towards the end of the war and even now only a few shots here and there until today. Today they would be using a lot of them he was sure. There was not a real shortage but a shipment of close to a million fuses when down from a lucky hit by one of those midget submarines he heard.

His friends in the Navy had told him that the Seehund Soviet style midget submarine was a real hard nut to crack. Too small to show up on most sonar yet capable of sinking a good size freighter, it was something to be reckoned with and a lot of resources were being spent in defeating it. So far with not much luck. The point being that the loss of those million fuses prevented much of the usual practice with them. They had fired hundreds of practice shots with un-fused shells. The theory was that if you could come close or even hit the towed targets with a regular fuse then using a VT fuse would be almost like cheating.

From what he observed from afar the Soviet bomber formations where kind of like a swarm or ball of their medium bombers staying as close as possible to what looked like an American B25. They appeared to be just out of 40 mm Bofers range but easily within altitude range of his 3.7”. The action was going to be hot and furious today, he could feel it. The AA batteries were set up in the usual formation with a central command unit and radiating batteries of guns. 3.7” guarded by 40 mm Bofers . in turn guarded by 20 mm and finally heavy machine guns. They were unusually close together. The theory being that with the VT fuse they would be safer if closely guarding each other at their optimum range rather than spread out. Furthermore the high and mighty had decided that the target of the Soviet Red Air Force would be the fighters and their airfields. Believing that the Soviets had learned their lessons, they were sure that the Soviets knew how close the Germans had come to defeating the RAF in the First Battle of Britain by attacking the airfields.

Many a paper and memo had been written about the fact that the RAF was almost out of planes and trained pilots at one point during the first battle and would have been defeated if the Germans had not been tricked into ignoring Fighter Command. Ignoring them just long enough for them to catch their breath and then to tear into the German bomber formations once again with a vengeance. This broke the spirit of the German command and pilots.

They remembered how they themselves had defeated the superior speed and firepower of the first German jets by catching them while they attempted to land and take off. The only time when they were vulnerable to the slower Allied fighters. The Germans countered by concentrating flak batteries around the airfields used by the jets and it had been very effective but not effective enough. The Germans did not have the VT fuse. We did.

The concentrated firepower, superior fire direction of our radar directed guns and the VT fuse promised a safe haven for our little returning friends from Fighter Command and a hot reception to any VVS scum who tried to enter our airspace. Flak Traps were the common name for what we had set up around the various airfields. Killing zones was another term. Curtains of lead came to mind as well. The amount of concentrated firepower is truly amazing. It was felt that the Soviets could not effectively bomb cities so they had to concentrate on the air fields and the fighters based within. With their new found range thanks to the use of external fuel tanks and overwhelming odds it was certain that they could loiter just out of range waiting for returning planes. Even a SU 2 medium bomber, code named Bat, could easily shoot down the best RAF fighter pilot in the newest Spitfire if that pilot was out of fuel and attempting to land or take off. Just as it had been the case when many a German ace flying the Me262 had fallen to lessor pilots in lessor planes while vulnerable. Not very sporting but this war was far from a sport.

With our superior fire control, VT fuse and concentrated firepower we would be ready to defend our little friends when they came back from a hard day’s work. There was a nagging thought in his mind however. Is it wise to rely on the lessons of the last war? Could not the enemy adapt if he knew your tactics? He had heard that they were outnumbered 5 to one. In the first Battle of Britain it was about 1 and a half to one. Well what did he know? He was just a gun pointing piece of the grand puzzle that was going to save Britain once again.