August 13th 1940,
Adlertag,
A Luftwaffe airbase, Normandy.
"Eagle Day, Gentlemen."
A black uniformed Luftwaffe officer began
"The complete destruction of the English RAF on the ground."
Before the officer sat a collection of airmen, either standing or perched on various pieces of equipment that had been left dotted around the makeshift briefing room. Even the gigantic map of Southern England and North France, to which the Officer enthusiastically referred, was propped against the fuselage of a Heinkel 111. Each man in the room was a pilot, later in the day or concurrent to this briefing, there would be specialised meetings for navigators and bomb aimers. Much to their relief, the air gunners were spared the often tedious briefings. For the pilots, however, they were engaged with watching the officer mark various locations in England with his cane and then plant a little red flag on them.
"These are the main targets for today...Kenley...Hornchurch...Manston...Hawkinge...Dover and finally, our target, Biggin Hill. The weather people say we should have favourable conditions over England and your navigators will be giving you your flight plans at the conclusion of this briefing. You will be joined by several Junkers 88's of Kampfgeschwader 76 as you cross the English coast line. The English defence networks will be knocked out by the time you arrive, so we do not expect much resistance. Even if the English Spitfires get off the ground, they will be too busy to deal with you. Good luck men, Heil Hitler."
The Luftwaffe men returned the "Heil Hitler" as half heartedly as the briefing officer gave it. They were all engaged in far more important matters that such pleasantries.
Ventor radar station, several hours later
A WAAF corporal stared into the screen in front of her, making a note of the blips as they appeared. The radar station at which she worked had been bombed earlier in the day, by JU-87 dive bombers, however the tall radar masts had not been entirely knocked out of action. She was tracking a medium sized contact that was forming up over the channel and headed their way.
"Hello Uxbridge, I'm afraid the raid is coming into my sector now. Height and direction to follow, standby."
She said into a radio mouth piece.
The result of this information, was for a little marker to be placed onto the operations table at RAF Uxbridge. The station at Uxbridge, whilst lacking aircraft, was the nerve centre for 11 Group. From here, incoming Germans were plotted and squadrons dispatched to intercept them and they'd been having a busy day. The table was covered in markers, each denoting a German raid. The operations board that ran around the room showed that a large number of 11 group's fighters were airborne and dealing with the incoming bombers.
From the radar information and the targets already hit, the controllers deduced that the target was somewhere around London. Surely the Germans would not bomb the city, especially as they were going to such lengths to hit RAF stations today, so the target had to be either RAF Hornchurch or Biggin Hill. The units at Biggin Hill were already up and engaged, leaving only the Spitfires of Hornchurch to deal with the incoming bombers.
A senior officer picked up a telephone and said simply
"Hello, 41 Squadron. Scramble."
RAF Hornchurch, minutes later
An man in a pale blue shirt and tie, swung out of a window clutching a telephone in one hand.
"41 Squadron scramble!"
Within seconds, the first engines began to cough into life and the once bored pilots sprang from their seats around the operations hut. For Stanford, the scramble couldn't come quickly enough. Months had past since Dunkirk and it had been weeks since his last "test" flight that had resulted in a severe dressing down from the CO. In that time, he had attempted to reconcile himself with the unit but many of them, behind their smiles and warm words, were still mistrusting of the fighter pilot who retained a reputation as a killer of men rather than aircraft.
Within seven minutes, the entire squadron was airborne. Stanford slid his canopy closed and slipped his Spitfire into position off the squadron leader's wing in the Red Two position. As he fastened his mask across his face he heard the leader's commentary with their ground controller.
"Tophat squadron calling Cowslip control, over...Come in Cowslip, over...For Christ sake Cowslip, wake up will you!"
Sorry Tophat leader, Cowslip control. I have some trade for you approaching Aperfield at Angels 14; forty plus bandits. Tophat climb Angels 15 on a bearing of two-nine-zero to incept bandits.
"Copy Cowslip, Tophat climbing angels 15 to engage bandits. Two-nine-zero."
Before to long, a second pilot called out
There they are! Bandits, three o'clock low.
"Right, here we go. Red, Blue go in from the port; Yellow, you take starboard. Green section, watch out for 109s above. Tally ho."
The RAF fighters broke into their sections as they went into the attack. Red and blue sections, six fighters in total, came in from the sun. The dorsal gunners on the German bombers saw them at the last second. Stanford broke through the formation, without getting a solid shot away at any of the aircraft. Breaking away from Red Leader and Red Three, he wheeled his machine around for another pass. Usually breaking formation was frowned upon, but in the general pell mell of the intercept, it was difficult to avoid.
He came in, fast pointing his nose across the path of a bomber, a Junkers 88 he thought. He gave the German a long burst and then another as he drew closer and then reversed the swooping attack as to come into the German's six o'clock where the rear facing cockpit mounted machine guns couldn't get a good shot at him. Stanford continued to fire into the starboard engine and as the .303 rounds struck home, from extremely close range. Despite the small calibre of the bullets, the damage being done by the torrent of fire was having a very serious effect. After a very few seconds of constant firing, the Jumo-211 engine began smoking heavily. The aircraft lurched and began to swing to port before the starboard engine exploded. The nacelle around the engine disintegrated and the outer length of the starboard wing folded upwards before falling away. The crippled bomber rolled heavily, before plummeting groundwards. Stanford saw no parachutes. Whilst the thought was far out his mind, the Junkers was Stanford's fifth kill of the war. He was now an "ace" pilot.
Another bomber, shot down by another Spit, joined Stanford's Junkers and several others seemed to be heavily damaged as they trailed smoke and flames. However, the twelve aircraft of 41 Squadron were not up to the task of destroying forty odd German bombers. They would be lucky to shoot down five and any more than that would be an exceptionally good day. Without a fighter escort the bombers were sitting ducks, but the defensive fire and the nature of aerial combat made it difficult for the RAF men to get enough rounds on target for the fatal blow. As a result, the Germans managed to hit Biggin Hill. Stanford could quite clearly see the bombs tumbling out of the Heinkel he was attacking. Some moments later, the German bomber slid out of formation trailing smoke from both engines. However, nobody saw the aircraft actually hit the ground.
The action was over relatively quickly as 41 Squadron disengaged soon after the Germans released their bombs, as the formation entered a relatively heavy patch of flak. Upon arrival at Hornchurch, a scene of devastation awaited the unit. They had fought to defend Biggin Hill, losing one of their own in the process, to find that Jerry had been over in their absence. Upon landing the pilots were told that a dozen or so German bombers, more Junkers 88s, had come in at very low level dropping bombs and strafing the field. Their handiwork was readily apparent due to the smouldering craters in the grass, damaged infrastructure and the row of blanket covered bodies next to the medical quarters. Finding his "home" to have been bombed, served only to fuel the fires of Stanford's hate for the Germans.