CODENAME: ATHENA (2025 Edition) by Michel Poulin - HTML preview

CHAPTER 9 – COUNTERPUNCH

16:05 (GMT)

Saturday, September 7, 1940

Fighter Command operations room

Stanmore, England

The operations room at Stanmore was much larger than the one at Northolt, but the

biggest improvement about it was its protection. While the Northolt operations room was on the ground floor of a standard brick building, the one at Stanmore was in the heart of a concrete underground bunker. Nancy, wearing her combat camouflage uniform and her pistol belt, was on the observers’ gallery on the request of Air Chief Marshal Dowding, to assist him during Operation Counterpunch. For that purpose, she had brought her laptop computer, along with her multifunction center and UPS unit. Her equipment was now ready to function on a small table in front of her. It attracted a lot of attention and whispered comments, but the proximity of the air chief marshal thankfully prevented excessive hoggling. A senior air control officer then spoke up.

“Massive German formations are forming up over airbases in France and Belgium, sir.”

Dowding acknowledged the information, then gave an order to his chief of operations.

“Scramble the phase one squadrons! Have them orbit over their airfields at 20,000 feet.”

The WAAFs manning the big plotting board started to get busy, receiving plot information from various radar controllers on their earphones. The symbols denoting the German aircraft soon started to head towards the British coast, now overflying the English Channel. Nancy noted that they progressively formed one huge formation as each squadron and wing joined in. Dowding saw that too.

“Confirm that the raid is not splitting up for multiple objectives.”

Radar control confirmed that within a few minutes. Dowding smiled then with satisfaction.

“Launch the phase two squadrons and have them head for their objectives.”

After a few minutes, squadrons of light bombers were plotted on the board as leaving

their airfields northeast of London, heading towards the French coast at very low altitude and being careful to stay out of the path of the incoming German air armada. Dowding turned towards his chief signals officer, who was obviously waiting for his orders.

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“Commence jamming the German air-ground radio frequencies.”

He then addressed his chief of operations.

“Phase one squadrons are to climb to their maximum ceiling and wait above the

designated kill zones, now!”

In an area east of London and about halfway between the city and the coast, over 300

Spitfire and Hurricane fighters were now climbing to their maximum altitude. All the resources of the R.A.F. were now concentrated in Operation Counterpunch, meant to defend London. The rest of the country had been stripped temporarily of all its fighters, which had then flown secretly to airfields in southern England in the morning. Such a gamble would have been unacceptable to any sensible military leader without the kind of intelligence it was based upon. Dowding was in fact risking everything on one big move and hoping for the jackpot.

Unknown to both German aircrews and their command staff in occupied Europe, who

were trying to break through British radio jamming, four squadrons of Bristol Beaufighter fighter-bombers and eight squadrons of Blenheim light bombers, 132 aircraft in all, were about to cross the French coast at extremely low altitude, heading towards the German air defense radars dispersed along the coastline. The general locations of these radars had been extracted from Nancy’s historical datafiles on World War II and had been pinpointed during the last two days by photo-reconnaissance aircraft. Most were only lightly defended or had no defenses at all and were about to regret it, as they did not detect the approaching aircraft flying at treetop level. The Beaufighters struck first, concentrating on the air defense weapons protecting the radar sites. Their 20mm cannons and .303 caliber machineguns strafed the German defenders with little chance for the latter to fire back. By the time the Blenheims arrived, they mostly had a clear field to play on. The German radar stations fell silent within minutes of the start of the attack, with German headquarters receiving only a few panicked telephone calls for help. The irony of it was that the head of the Luftwaffe, Herman Goering, had also made a big gamble that day. Nearly all the German fighters in flying order in France, Belgium and the Netherlands were now escorting the bombers headed for London, thus no help came to the radar sites. As soon as they had completed their mission, the Beaufighters and Blenheims turned for home and a quick rearming and refueling stop. Two Blenheims were lost, but the German defenses were now blind.

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16:28 (GMT)

The skies southeast of London

The first pilot to visually spot the German flying armada was Flight Sergeant ‘Grumpy’

Unwin of 19 Squadron. Well under the Spitfires of his comrades and visible through gaps in the clouds, nearly one thousand German aircraft were flying by as if they were on a parade. Unwin reported his sighting to Squadron Leader ‘Sandy’ Lane, who warned his pilots not to dive on the enemy yet and to wait for the signal. That signal came as soon as the British fighters were left slightly behind the German armada. Then, 24 squadrons of Spitfires and Hurricanes dove for the attack, having the advantages of surprise, altitude and speed to add to the fact that they were above and behind their enemies, where they were hardest to spot. The first salvoes of the battle were by far the most devastating, as they were fired against an unsuspecting enemy flying in a predictable straight line. After that, the sky became an incredibly confusing ballet of twisting, turning and diving aircraft.

16:40 (GMT)

Fighter Command operations room

Stanmore

“How are our fighters doing?”

Dowding couldn’t help be nervous, like everybody else in the bunker. Nancy was also nervous, remembering the first days of the NATO air campaign against Libya. Looking around reminded her though that this was not 2011: the only computer in the center was her own laptop, which screamed of anachronism in this austere room.

“Sir, our phase one squadrons are running low on ammunition and fuel. They will have

to break contact in a few minutes.”

Dowding acknowledged the information from the duty officer with a nod of the head.

“Alright, scramble the phase three squadrons and have them head to their preplanned

orbits. Let phase one squadrons break contact at their own discretion.”

All around the south and east coasts of England, another 234 Spitfires and Hurricanes

were soon taking off. These fighters belonged to Groups ten, twelve and thirteen of Fighter Command and were normally stationed in the west, center and north of Great Britain. Their

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mission was now to wait in the sky for the Germans to turn home, then harass them all the way back while they were short of both ammunition and fuel. But before that, the Germans had another hurdle to cross: London itself.

Like Fighter Command had done with its fighters, the army’s anti-aircraft artillery units all

around England had been moved out of position during the night and concentrated in a deep semi-circular belt of guns east and south of London. After the air raid, the area roads were going to be jammed with convoys of anti-aircraft units rushing back to their normal locations.

Finally breathing a sigh of relief after the short but murderous air engagement that had

left gaping holes in their formations, the Germans then stumbled into the anti-aircraft belt. Since all RAF fighters had broken contact by then, the British gunners were free to engage at will any aircraft flying over London. What the guns missed in accuracy, they made up with volume of fire, with over 400 3.7-inch guns opening fire at their maximum rate of ten rounds per minute. The air defense gunners did not shoot down more than a few aircraft, but their concentrated barrages damaged dozens of bombers and played havoc with the precision of the German bombing. The London Docks area, while suffering heavily, got a lot less than it was feared.

At Stanmore, Nancy was using a special computer program to check the remaining fuel

of the German fighters. Given to her by an American friend during the Libya air campaign, the program was set up to accept the performance and fuel consumption parameters of any aircraft and then, by punching in its speed, time in flight, flying attitude and other data, be able to predict its remaining fuel and flying time left to the aircraft. She had used the last days to prepare program profiles on the main types of German aircraft, with the help of both her historical data and of the technical data found by the British on downed enemy aircraft. As the first bombs were falling on the London Docks area, Nancy turned her head towards Dowding.

“Air Chief Marshal, sir! The German Messerschmitt 109 escort fighters should be Bingo

fuel in about five minutes.”

Bingo fuel was the American term for the point when an aircraft had to turn towards its base if it didn’t want to run out of fuel. A group captain sitting on her right sneered in disdain: what did an army captain and a woman to boot know about combat aircraft? Two minutes later, the chief fighter controller reported that the German fighters were turning around and heading southeast at cruising speed, leaving only twin-engine Bf 110 long-range fighters to cover the bombers.

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The group captain who had sneered at Nancy reddened under the severe look Dowding threw at him then.

“Captain Laplante, how tight on fuel are these Bf-109s?”

“They now have probably a ten-minute fuel reserve, if they stay at cruising speed and if

they don’t have to maneuver for air combat, sir.”

“Excellent! Chief fighter controller, pass the following to the phase three squadrons: they

are to concentrate on the German fighters returning to their bases. Make those Bf 109s burn their fuel over the Channel. Also, have the phase one squadrons follow and attack the bombers as soon as they are rearmed and refueled.”

Dowding then picked up one of the telephones in front of him, a direct line to Bomber Command headquarters.

“Hello, Charles? Dowding here! Everything is going according to plan here. You may

get your big boys airborne now. Keep in touch!”

In the next ten minutes, some 260 heavy and medium British bombers took off to head towards German airfields in France and Belgium. Their hope was to arrive over the airfields and bomb them shortly after the German aircraft had landed, when trucks loaded with fuel and ammunition would be circulating around hastily parked aircraft.

17:03 (GMT)

The British coast

Major Adolph Galland, commander of the third squadron of JG 26, was apprehensive as

he led what was left of his unit across the British coast and towards France. He kept looking back at the fuel gauge of his Bf 109: those full power climbs he had to perform earlier to fight off the British Spitfires had burned a lot more fuel than he had wished. He suspected that most of his pilots were at least as low on fuel as himself: they would barely be able to make it back to Caffiers. His legendary eyesight was suddenly attracted to a group of tiny dots above and in front of his aircraft. Could it be a second wave of bombers heading for London? Even if those aircraft were effectively coming from the Southeast, they now were apparently diving on his squadron. Trying to contact the newcomers, he got only the growl of British jamming. Galland then recognized the shapes of those diving aircraft: Spitfires! Yelling a warning to his men on the radio, he started climbing, pushing his engine to maximum power. Unfortunately for Galland’s pilots, they either didn’t understand his warning over the jamming or were too stunned by surprise to react immediately: either way, it cost them dearly. Already low on ammunition

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and nearly out of fuel, the 452 Bf 109 fighters remaining out of the 597 who had started on this raid were caught by surprise over the waters of the English Channel by the 234 Spitfires and Hurricanes who had been waiting for them. The Germans then had a cruel choice to make quickly: fight and run out of fuel over the channel or flee and be easy targets for the British. Most chose to fight, like Major Galland. He had time to shoot down one Spitfire and damage another one before his engine started sputtering. He swore when he saw that he had been only three kilometers away from the French coast. Galland looked down at the Channel: the sea was choppy and the water was certainly frigid at this time of the year. Still, he now had no other choice but to bail out of his falling fighter.

17:22 (GMT)

R.A.F. Northolt

“Come on, come on!”

Flight Lieutenant Durling of First R.C.A.F. Fighter Squadron wished he could go out of his Hurricane and push it to accelerate his climb. He had just taken off from Northolt with three other Hurricanes after a quick refueling and rearming stop and was hoping to catch up with the now fleeing German bombers. Other fighters were similarly being sent back in small packets as soon as they were replenished from airfields surrounding London. The fight had been brutal and costly up to now but the time for the real reward was approaching.

With a speed advantage over the retreating German bombers of at least 100 miles per

hour, the Canadians caught up with their enemies as they were crossing the British coastline. Durling whooped as he looked at the group of sixty Heinkel 111 bombers trying desperately to get away from his Hurricanes: not one German fighter was in sight.

“Alright men, split in pairs and get those bastards. I don’t want to see any ammo left in

your guns upon landing. Good luck!”

German gunners fired away at them like madmen, but the defensive armament of the

Heinkel 111 bomber was totally inadequate against modern fighters. Durling’s four Hurricanes had shot down six of the twin-engine bombers by the time they crossed the French coastline. Totally caught up in the fight, he did not notice it until his wingman warned him.

“Bob, we’re over France! Time to go back, pal.”

“You’re kidding? Not before I finish this one off.”

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Another two bursts from his machineguns finally sent his target down in flame. He was about to follow his wingman and turn towards England when a German coastal flak crew opened fire on him. 20mm shells slammed in his wings, ripping off his starboard aileron. Durling parachuted out of his doomed Hurricane just in time, simply to land practically in front of the jubilant German gunners, who quickly disarmed him and took him prisoner.

17:53 (GMT)

Lille-Nord, France

Major Winkler, commander of Second Squadron, KG 53, promised himself to get drunk

once safely on the ground: this mission had been a total disaster. Lining up his Heinkel 111 carefully for landing, he lowered his landing gear, hoping that none of the numerous fresh holes in his aircraft had resulted in a hydraulic fluid leak. All worked well, thankfully. He was about to cross the threshold of the runway when all the anti-aircraft guns around the airfield started firing at once.

“What are these fools doing? These are our aircraft circling the airfield.”

“BRITISH WELLINGTON BOMBERS OVERHEAD!”

The scream from his dorsal gunner was tainted with panic, for good reasons: this was the worst possible time to be caught by the enemy. Winkler immediately pushed his throttles to maximum power and raised his landing gear for an emergency go-around. German air defense gunners had to hold fire as Heinkel 111s scattered all over the place. The first bombs fell in the midst of a group of bombers which had just landed and were lining up next to fuel trucks. The resulting huge fireballs from the bombed fuel trucks nearly swept away Winkler’s aircraft. He looked behind at the airfield as it was becoming a death trap for his comrades and shivered. He then looked at his horrified bombardier/navigator.

“You better find me a safe place to land soon, Hans, or you will be practicing your

parachute jumping somewhere over France.”

He then swore to himself: how come those idiots at the radar sites didn’t warn them of those British bombers?