Raven's Nest: A Story of World War Two

By R. Alan Phelps

Paul Maier never wanted to fly, preferring the comforting aroma of an old book over the pungent smell of aviation fuel. Yet no son of a senior Luftwaffe commander ever has much of a say when it comes to the choice of career, particularly in the midst of a global war. Fresh out of flight training, Paul now finds himself the pilot of “Dora”, an aging bomber assigned to the massive air fleet tasked with destroying the Royal Air Force and paving the way for a German invasion of the British Isles.

Pressed by the demands of a ruthless commander, Paul and his comrades are repeatedly hurled into the teeth of British defenses. Only Dora seems immune to the carnage, protected by uncanny luck and the increasing skills of her young crew. Yet with other German bombers falling like ninepins under the guns of British fighters, Paul begins to harbor doubts about the possibility of victory and, ultimately, the nature of the Nazi regime he until now so dutifully served.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638290223

R. Alan Phelps

R. Alan Phelps holds an MA in Modern U.S. and European History and a Ph.D. in United States History. Born and raised in San Diego, he is a member of the San Pasqual Band of Mission Indians of California and currently works as a college administrator in the San Francisco Bay Area.

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About the Author

R. Alan Phelps holds an MA in Modern U.S. and European History and a Ph.D. in United States History. Born and raised in San Diego, he is a member of the San Pasqual Band of Mission Indians of California and currently works as a college administrator in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Dedication

To My Father

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R. Alan Phelps 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Phelps, R. Alan

Raven’s Nest

ISBN 9781638290209 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781638290216 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781638290223 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022911280

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First Published 2022

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Acknowledgments

Growing up in a military family at the end of the 1960s was a critical influence in my formative years. The enormous political, social, and cultural challenges experienced by Americans during the period provided an initial spur to my interest in history, a spark that eventually grew into a lifelong passion. That my family was simultaneously immersed in world events through my father’s combat tours in Southeast Asia and near annual Western Pacific deployments made history even more tangible and, at times, for an impressionable grade schooler, agonizingly so.

Through it all, my parents served as the twin oaks of my life, providing balance and understanding in an otherwise tumultuous world. My mother, pressed by the challenges typically faced by a military spouse, still managed to shower her sons with love, guidance, and a certain emotional toughness. My father, whenever he was home, provided similar supports. He also filled the role of historical interpreter for all that was going on in the world, as well as the chief explainer for the plethora of historical dramas regularly showing up on the ABC Sunday Night Movie during those years.

It was my father who explained why Nixon had to go, and it was my father who evaluated the accuracy of this or that technical detail in Where Eagles Dare, The Devil’s Brigade, or The Dirty Dozen. More importantly, my father made certain that when a certain seven-year-old voiced his admiration of German panzer truppen after watching a solitary Tiger tank dominate the battlefield in Clint Eastwood’s Kelly’s Heroes, the same boy understood that no matter how splendid their vehicles, the Germans committed unspeakable crimes during World War 2 and should never become the object of admiration.

In time, I understood. And I understood because my father made it so. He was a voracious reader, and motivated by paternal instinct, handed over to me, one by one, a seemingly endless supply of books on virtually every aspect of the Second World War. I didn’t read them all, but I read.

Being curious about aviation, the Battle of Britain was a particularly interesting topic, and I devoured what my father gave me. Soon I began looking for more. Not being able to speak German didn’t help matters. There were a few motion pictures, of course, the simply titled Battle of Britain coming first to mind, and a plethora of documentaries regularly appeared on the television.

But something was missing in the English language treatments. It wasn’t that there weren’t any Germans. They were always there, but the focus was on the fighter pilots: Molders, Galland, Hartmann, and others who engaged the RAF in a death duel thousands of feet above the clouds. Of the bomber crews, only the Stuka ace Hans-Ulrich Rudel stands out, an unrepentant Nazi who elevated air-to-ground attack to a deadly art.

There was little, however, on the nascent strategic weapon wielded by the Germans in the war’s early years: their fleet of twin engine bombers, the Heinkels, Junkers and Dorniers that made the Luftwaffe such a potent foe over Poland, France and the steppes of Russia. The lack of English language material wasn’t due to an absence of interest in the weapon type itself. America’s bomber crews, as well as their English counterparts, were celebrated in popular literature and film, regardless of whether their targets were dams, bridges or civilian neighborhoods. The crews of the German Heinkels, Junkers and Dorniers, on the other hand, are absent, or simply the faceless targets of Allied retribution, receiving their due for the slaughters they meted out at Guernica, Rotterdam, Coventry, and London.

Yet, however just that reward might have been, those crews are still missing, and historical literature is incomplete without their presence. And so, I make this offering to satisfy my own interest, and to fill out a narrative gap in that most terrible of wars. I also make it a testament to the curiosity sparked by a father who, impeded by the poverty engendered by the Great Depression, never managed to finish high school, but was, in my eyes, the most brilliant man I have ever known.

Others deserve my gratitude. To the military historians whose research provided so much material for the story, I owe a debt I cannot repay. Robert F Stedman’s Kampfflieger: Bomber Crewman of the Luftwaffe 1939-45, as well as Brian L. Davis’ Luftwaffe Air Crews: Battle of Britain, 1940, come instantly to mind, but there were many more. Reference works such as Richard Frank’s The Dornier Do 17Z: A Technical Guide and Marek J. Murawski’s Dornier Do 17/Do 215 were invaluable in imagining my characters’ complex world. And of course, there is a plethora of historical works on the Battle of Britain itself, far too many to list here, but to their authors—a sincere thanks.

To those that provided advice on the manuscript, and to friends and family members who endured my lack of attention during fits of writing, I also send a heartfelt appreciation. And of course, to Jen, whose keen eye spotted a myriad of errors in plot and prose; thank you for your honesty and patience.

Finally, to my son, Aaron: learn from that man who I speak of often, though you never had the privilege to meet. I know life can be hard at times, but God, or fate, has granted you advantages you have yet to realize. You can, and you will, make a positive mark on the world. May I prove as beneficial an influence in your life as your grandfather did in mine, so many years ago.

Glossary

Abschussmeldungen (Mission report dealing with aerial combat victories)

Abteilung 5 (Intelligence Service of the Luftwaffe)

Aldertag (Eagle Day)

Beobachter (Observer)

Blitz (Military Truck Produced by Opel)

B-Stand (Dorsal Gun Position in Most German Bombers)

C-Stand (Ventral Gun Position in Most German Bombers)

Dornier Flugzeugwerke (German Aircraft Manufacturer Founded by Claude Dornier in 1914)

DO 17 (Dornier Model 17 Bomber)

Emil (Me 109E Fighter)

Erganzungsstaffel (Replacement Squadron)

Evolutionsbremse (German insult. A person whose limited intelligence halts the evolutionary process)

Feldgendarmerie (Military Police)

Feldmarschall (Field Marshall)

Feldwebel (Field Usher. An NCO Rank Equivalent to Staff Sergeant in the US Army Air Corps)

Fleigerkorps (Air Corps)

Flughafen-Betriebs Kompanie (Airfield Operating Company)

Flugzeugwerk (Aircraft Factory)

Freikorps (German paramilitary units engaged in combat with communist forces after the Great War)

Gefreiter (Corporal)

Gelbe Schwarm (Yellow Swarm)

Geschwader (Air Wing)

Geschwaderkommandeur (Wing Commander)

Grosskampffliegerschulen (Higher Bomber School)

Hauptman (Captain)

Hauptpostamtsgebäude (Main Post Office Building)

Indianer (Indians. Name Given to Enemy Fighter Aircraft)

Jagdgeschwader (Fighter Wing)

Jörmungandr (In Norse mythology, a serpent so large it encircles the world)

Kampfgeschwader (Battle Wing, Shortened to Geschwader)

Kampfgruppe (Battle Group. Usually Abbreviated to KG)

KdF (Kraft durch Freude, or Strength through Joy. A State Sponsored Leisure Organization)

Kette (A Chain of Three Aircraft, Two Kette Making a Schwarm)

Knickebein (Crocked Leg. A German Radio Navigation System)

Kübelwagen (Contraction of Kübelsitzwagen, or Bucket Seat Car. Light Military Vehicle by Volkswagen)

Leutnant (Lieutenant)

Lotfernrohr (Bombsight. Increasingly Sophisticated Versions Appeared Throughout the War)

Lufteflotte (Air Fleet)

Möbelwagen (Furniture Van)

Oberfeldkommandatur 670 (German Occupation Administration of the Nord and the Pas de Calais)

Oberfeldwebel (Staff or Technical Sergeant)

Oberst (Colonel)

OKH (Oberkommando des Heeres. High Command of the German Army)

OKL (Oberkommando der Luftwaffe. High Command of the Air Force)

Organisation Todt (State Operated Engineering and Construction Organization)

Pervitin (Methamphetamine Distributed to Nazi Soldiers and Airmen in the Early Years of WW2)

Propagandaministerium (Ministry of Propaganda)

Reichsmarine (German Navy during the period of the Weimar Republic)

Reichstheaterzug (Traveling Variety Troop)

Scheisskanal (Sanitary Sewer)

Schutztruppen (Colonial Troops Serving in Africa)

Seenotdienst (Luftwaffe Sea Rescue Service)

Soldbücher (Paybook)

Stab (Staff. A Headquarters Section in Luftwaffe Combat Units, Usually of 3 Aircraft)

Staffel (Squadron)

Staffelkommandeur (Squadron Commander)

Tante Junes (Auntie June. Nickname for Junkers Ju 52 Transport Aircraft)

Tanzbär (Dancing Bear. German gelatin candy. Direct ancestor of the Gummy Bear)

Unteroffizier (NCO Rank Equivalent to a Sergeant in the US Army Air Corps)

Vanaheim (From Norse mythology, home of the Vanir group of gods)

Verdammte Scheiße (Damn Shit)

Wekusta (Luftwaffe Weather Unit)

Zerstörer (Destroyer)

Zwangsarbeiter (Slave or Forced Laborers)

1ST Staffel Organization (August 15, 1940)

Prologue

June 11, 2013

The old man sat quietly in his wheelchair at the center of an asphalt pier on the western edge of Ramsgate Harbor, tapping an aluminum walking cane across the forward caster. He raised his calves a few centimeters from the footrests to ease the stiffness in his legs, a condition made worse by the bitter cold. His new orthopedic sneakers, impeccably white by virtue of age, seemed heavier than the old pair, but perhaps that was another consequence of his slow decline.

Each day seemed to be a tad more challenging: harder to hear, harder to see, harder to eat, harder to sleep. Yet more than anything, it was becoming increasingly difficult to move. Rheumatoid arthritis, the doctor said. The diagnosis explained the swelling in his joints and the cold winds off the coast of southern England were certainly not making things better. The new medications helped ease the discomfort, but still.

At least his mind remained sharp. He was certain the crossword puzzle books his eldest daughter brought to the retirement home on Saturday mornings helped him with that. Kreuzworträtsel für Anspruchsvolle V was proving exceptionally challenging. Unfortunately, he forgot to pack it before leaving.

How are things at school? the old man finally asked in German, not bothering to turn towards the woman standing dutifully at his side. What is the subject you are studying?

You asked me that an hour ago, Opa, the woman replied, likewise in German. For the hundredth time, I am a postdoctoral researcher in environmental science and engineering, at Oxford.

I have no idea what a ‘postal researcher in environment’ is, the old man said, laying the cane across his knees while he removed his glasses. He pulled a small cloth from the right pocket of his windbreaker, and began to wipe the lenses carefully.

Just trying to undo the damage your generation did to the planet, the woman said as she nestled her chin as far as she could inside the closed collar of her coat, determined not to let the wind come into contact with her skin.

I had nothing to do with it, the old man replied, unsure if her comment was the result of playfulness or something annoyingly sincere. He read about, and sometimes experienced, the unfamiliar changes in the weather. Yet the backend of his career had been dominated by fears of a nuclear winter, a projected consequence of human action that was to be purposeful, almost instantaneous, and final. The looming specter of an unintended planetary catastrophe brought on by something as mundane as an internal combustion engine was too difficult to grasp. He quickly decided he wouldn’t live to see it anyway, and tried to change the subject.

When are you and that fellow…Oliver…going to get married?

Oliver and I broke it off 2 years ago, Opa. I’m with Will now.

Oh. And what is he like?

You should know, the woman chided. You met him yesterday.

Oh, the old man said, carefully placing his glasses back on his nose. He was alright, I suppose.

Mother is very sorry she couldn’t be here for this, the woman went on. She had a board meeting in Frankfurt. Something about a stock buyback. I think she told you.

You and your mother work too hard, you know.

We learned from the best, the woman replied.

Your grandmother knew how to pace herself. She worked hard, but still had time to raise a family. The comment drew no response. His granddaughter was a good girl but, the old man felt, drawn too heavily to her career. Still, he admitted as he watched her long auburn hair flutter in the ocean breeze, his granddaughter enjoyed an endless queue of suitors from virtually every nation in the European Union. How could she not? She had her grandmother’s eyes.

His thoughts returned to the present as he watched the coastal barge GPS Boxer edge into the harbor, pulled slowly by the tug GPS Napia. Another small tender, the Shake Dog, pushed the barge from behind. The Boxer’s massive crane extended into the sky, the assembly towering over the warehouses and offices scattered along Military Road, as if saluting itself for a job well done. About 2 dozen onlookers stood on the eastern side of the harbor, watching from picnic tables outside the restaurant at the edge of Pier E as the barge brought in its cargo. All were dressed for cool weather, the sun shielded by the overcast so typical of a June morning, the wind pressing the fabric of their garments against their skin.

The old man caught his breath as he noticed a brown shape forward of the crane. Perhaps that was Her, he thought, trying to focus his eyes on the object. It appeared to be an elongated pile of rusted, twisted metal, an amorphous thing that bore no resemblance to the twin-engine aircraft he came so far to see. He felt a slight tremor in his hands, unsure if it was an indication of excitement or dread. The museum staff assured him that the divers found no human remains within the wreckage. Still, he was skeptical by nature, no matter how well intentioned his hosts seemed to be. What if the recovery team missed something, however small?

Move me closer, please, he said in a near whisper, still in German, determined to get a better look as the Boxer rounded the breakwater, moving toward the dock at the western side of the harbor. His granddaughter complied without comment, pushing the wheelchair to the edge of the pier. The shift in position didn’t help, the rusted heap at the front of the barge still giving no hint of purposeful form. Two stubs emanated from the center of the shape, appearing to be truncated wings, hulking pods mounted at their top. Something appeared odd about their arrangement. There had to be a mistake. This couldn’t be a Dornier.

Wait, the old man said, considering the form. it’s upside down.

What? Really? the woman asked, the observation finally piquing her interest.

Yes, the old man answered, pointing his cane at the object. It’s upside down. Now he understood, his excitement building as his mind began to match the lines of the shape with memories of the working aircraft. "You see, the bulky blocks at the top of the wing are the engine cowls, which were hung below the wing. And the long open gap there at the top of the fuselage, that is the bomb bay, which should be at the bottom. The doors are no longer there."

And where did you sit? the woman asked.

Right behind the nose, he replied. You see the opening at the front? That was a glass nosecone so we could see below and to the front. We all sat right behind in that opening. You have to flip the aircraft over in your mind.

I see, the woman said, squinting her eyes in the same fashion as her grandfather.

Ask her why it is upside down, the old man said.

His companion turned to the intern standing behind them, a young woman of south Asian descent, long black hair falling past her shoulders. Why is it upside down? the older woman asked in perfect English, only a slight accent detectable.

That is how we found it, the intern said. Or, at least, how the fishermen found it. We suspect it was buried like that in the sand for decades, until the currents, or perhaps a storm, revealed it again. I’m afraid flipping it right side up would have finished it. The remains are quite fragile after all this time underwater.

The intern waited for the message to be interpreted for the old man, but his companion simply smiled and nodded, turning away to watch the tugs push the crane barge towards the pier. The intern shrugged. She had been assigned to keep the old man and his granddaughter company, answering any questions she could and texting the head curator on her cell phone if there were any problems. The job was simple enough, and the rather easy task of babysitting a V.I.P. got her that much closer to graduation.

The old man continued to sit quietly, considering the rusted airframe as the Boxer moved gingerly towards the dock, deckhands grabbing mooring lines as her sister Napia pulled away. Still at the rear, the Shake Dog reduced power on its engines. The old man tried to match his own experience with the object he saw on the barge, folding his arms and tucking his chin as he pushed his thoughts back into a distant, often uncomfortable past. Outer portions of the main wing as well as the tail were absent.

The glass and aluminum greenhouse that topped the crew compartment were missing as well. All the paint had dissolved over time. In fact, there were no discernible features to mark the aircraft as an individual machine with its own unique history and personality.

The tremor in his hands seemed to be getting progressively worse. The old man decided to calm himself. He pulled the zipper down to open his windbreaker and reached into an inner pocket, finding the pack of Haus Bergmann cigarettes and the disposable Bic lighter. Drawing them out, he pulled a cigarette from the pack, carefully placed it in his mouth and lit the end before taking a long, satisfying draw.

Opa! the woman scolded. You promised me! What would grandmother say?

She would have left me in peace, the old man said. Your grandmother and I had an understanding about these things.

About consistently ignoring your doctors? the woman reprimanded as she leaned in, trying to take the cigarette. The old man pulled it towards his chest, determined to maintain possession.

I am 97 years old, Anna, the old man said, pushing her gently back with his free hand. Far too late for an early death. He inhaled the cigarette again, savoring the taste of the tobacco, his eyes locked on his granddaughter, ready to pull the offending instrument away should she try once again to take it. Anna had not yet learned to leave a man to his habits. It was, in a decidedly chaotic world, a way to hold on to one’s sanity.

He’s always been like this, Anna said as she turned to the intern, switching easily to English. Stubborn as a mule.

Sounds much like my own dādā, the intern replied, lowering her voice to a near whisper. But your grandfather here seems remarkably sharp. My own passed when I was in secondary school. He was 76. Complications from Alzheimer’s. A rough few years. His mind just slipped away.

Ask her if they are certain of the identity of the aircraft, the old man directed.

Anna complied, shifting easily back to English.

Tell him that the identity of the aircraft is not completely confirmed, the younger woman replied. The manufacturer’s plate is still intact, but the aircraft markings have been overtaken by corrosion. Seventy years in salt water will do that. The researcher’s best guess is that it originated from, let’s see…camp, camp-group?

Kampfgruppe, the old man corrected. It means ‘Battle Group’.

Ah! I didn’t know he spoke English! the intern said to Anna, smiling.

Yes, Anna replied as she gently tapped the old man’s head. Opa is full of surprises.

And as the last surviving pilot of a Do-17Z, an honored guest of the RAF Museum, the intern said, more relaxed with the realization that the old man could understand. It’s really an honor to have such an accomplished individual in aviation to be here for this historic moment.

I bombed your country, the old man said honestly. I was young then. We did what we were told. For that, I am sorry.

You were caught up in events larger than yourself, the intern said. The old man marveled at her maturity, grasping for complimentary words. They didn’t come, and as with so many other instances, he remained silent, watching the Boxer make contact with the quay and the dock workers move forward to secure it. The tug reversed its engines and began to move back.

It says here, the intern said as she thumbed through her notes. after the war you played an important role in the creation of the West German Air Force and its integration within NATO. You learned to fly jet aircraft, rose to the rank of, let’s see…General de Luftwaffe, serving as GOC for a number of combat units, and before your retirement, you spent a number of years as Chief of Staff of Allied Air Forces Central Europe. Did you enjoy that type of work after so many years flying?

I enjoyed keeping the god damned Russians and their East German lapdogs out of the rest of Europe, the old man said.

Opa! Mind your language, Anna corrected as she looked at the intern. You’ll have to excuse him. He’s…he’s old.

But you do have an idea of where this machine came from? the old man redirected.

Well, the intern went on. the museum researchers believe that the aircraft may have originated from…Kampfgruppe…am I saying that correctly? Kampfgruppe 3, Staffel 7, based out of Belgium, when it went down at the end of August 1940. She flipped the pages of her notebook. According to the researchers, the aircraft was a Dornier Do-17Z with a fuselage code of 5K+AR. But…

But? Anna said.

They are not certain, the intern said, again pausing as she continued to flip through her notes. "The corrosion has wiped away all external markings, and records matching the manufacturer’s plate with individual aircraft did not survive the war. But the location of the wreck corresponds with records from the Royal Air Force on known crash locations.

We know of several other Dorniers that went down here, but they all impacted the sea after an uncontrolled descent from high altitude. There wouldn’t be much left of those aircraft, and some of their pieces washed up on shore. The 5K+AR made a controlled landing in the water after suffering combat damage, and was structurally intact before it sank, so it’s the logical candidate for the identity of the find. But of course, we cannot be completely certain.

Then it could be my bird, the old man said in English, the excitement rising in his voice. We went down near here. Or could be the Stab aircraft of Oberst Raus. He went down closer to the coast line, about a kilometer or so to the northeast.

Stab? the intern asked, confused.

The headquarters aircraft of the unit. The Gruppe and Geschwader commanders would be in those aircraft. Again, you say the wreck was about 10 kilometers off the coast?

Yes, the intern replied.

Then it could be the Stab aircraft, the old man said as he slumped back in his wheelchair. Or, he paused as he took another long draw from the Haus Bergmann. It could be Dora.

Dora? the intern asked.

My aircraft was 7K+DZ, the old man answered. We used the third letter as the aircraft identifier. D for Dora.

There’s no record of a 7K+DZ here, the intern replied, pursing her lips as she scanned the notes.

There were no RAF aircraft in the area when we went down, and we were at very low altitude, so I imagine we were not very visible from the shore. I am not aware of the particulars regarding the tide, but I recall the water was fairly deep. Still, it is surprising you have no records of the crash.

Have you spoken to the museum curators about this? Anna asked.

No.

And why not? Anna pressed. I’m sure they would be interested.

The old man sighed, quietly regarding the wreck on the Boxer’s deck. I usually prefer to keep these things to myself.

One

Summer, 1940

The Third Republic had fallen. Advancing through the weakly defended Ardennes, Hitler’s panzers reached the English Channel, outflanking the vaunted Maginot Line, surrounding the cream of the French Army and cutting off the British Expeditionary Force. The remnants of the isolated Allied armies withdrew to Dunkirk, evacuating the continent with little more than the shirts on their backs. Harried by wave after wave of German bombers, what was left of the French Army retreated to the Somme through roads choked with tens of thousands of refugees.

At the river, the French made their final, desperate stand. Holding complete mastery of the air, the Luftwaffe pummeled the defenders relentlessly, the remnants of the French Air Force quickly swept aside by swarms of German fighters. The panzers crossed the river and headed south. Paris was occupied without resistance. Lesser cities fell in rapid succession. A week later, the French government sued for peace. The Nazis raised the swastika over the Arc de Triomphe. Hitler visited the Eifel Tower and Napoleon’s Tomb. During the Great War, France’s Third Republic endured 4 years of German assaults without breaking. This time it collapsed in little more than a month.

Britain however, refused to surrender, or at least to recognize Nazi hegemony over Western Europe. Hitler was incensed, and puzzled. Although they saved their men, the British left their tanks, their artillery, their vehicles and equipment on the beaches at Dunkirk. They no longer possessed an army, as modern armies go. Yet Winston Churchill made speeches of defiance. His nation prepared for a long war.

In response, Hitler ordered his generals to develop Operation Sea Lion, a plan to move 2 German armies across the English Channel to crush British resistance once and for all. The Kriegsmarine, Germany’s diminutive navy, protested. The Royal Navy still controlled the seas, and would easily sink the ragtag flotilla of river barges Hitler planned to send across waters no invader had successfully breached since William the Conqueror. For Hitler then, victory depended on the ability of the Luftwaffe to stop any fleet attempting to interfere with the invasion. Therefore, the prerequisite for Operation Sea Lion was air superiority. That meant destroying the Royal Air Force.

And so, the Luftwaffe moved, transferring its Geschwaders, combat wings of some 100 aircraft, from permanent bases in western Germany and newly acquired airfields in Belgium, Holland, and eastern France, to makeshift sites near the Channel coast. Methodically, reconnaissance aircraft scouted for suitable sites throughout Flanders, Picardy, and the Pas-de-Calais, hunting for appropriate locations, never perfect, but just good enough to call combat units forward. Sometimes they occupied former Allied airfields, but more often pasturelands near townsites that could support operations.

Such locations could be sited within optimum range of intended targets, and were less vulnerable to attack than established airfields, their locations initially unknown to the enemy. Slowly the new bases were found, and in great chains, the aircraft moved forward. First came the Geschwader Stabs, their staff units, evicting families from their homes, establishing a headquarters, and hurriedly organizing an empty patch of land into an effective airfield.

By land came the engineers. Ignoring the passing scowls of unwilling French hosts, they came to mark off locations, level the intended airstrip, and otherwise prepare the site for the oncoming rush of personnel.

After a few days of frenzied work, the Geschwader’s combat element, the Gruppes, arrived. In squadrons of 9 to 12 they came, great green insects, black crosses on their wings, swastikas on their tails, the former heralding a Christian past, the latter a dark and menacing future. Landing in the newly prepared airfields, the aircrew: pilots, observers and gunners, relieved themselves in the most convenient places and boarded locally commandeered vehicles, civilian busses if they were lucky, horse carts if they were not, to be taken to their new quarters, adjacent homes and schoolhouses similarly confiscated for the duration of operations.

Then came the trucks. Endless streams of trucks. Inside them, in cabs and beds and hanging on running boards, were the heart and soul of the Geschwaders. In great lines they came, not nearly as large as the panzer columns, but impressive nonetheless. Arriving at the airfields, out they spilled, the ground crews of the Flughafen-Betriebs-Kompanie. Called blackies because of the dark coveralls they wore, these airfield works companies each brought 12 flight mechanics, 2 engine mechanics, 12 armorers, 2 wireless technicians, a single instrument mechanic, and a solitary parachute fitter, all the talent the Geschwader needed to keep the aircraft flying and prevent the men from dying.

Behind them came other trucks carrying men of lesser status, yet just as vital to the aircrews, dozens of adjutants, clerks, cooks, medical personnel, logistics experts and communications specialists. Fanning out from the trucks, they pitched tents, erected radio aerials, dug latrines, stacked bombs, filled magazines, and off-loaded barrel after barrel of lubricants, coolants and aviation fuel.

Throughout the early summer the process repeated itself, over and over and over again as the Geschwaders established themselves. The Jagdgeschwader with their Bf 109s, the slim fighter aircraft that had wrested the skies from the Allies; the dreaded Stukas of the Sturzkampfgeschwader, gull-winged dive bombers that served as the Luftwaffe’s flying artillery, heralding their arrival with screeching sirens; and lastly the Kampfgeschwader, the bomber wings, their twin-engine craft resembling mechanized locusts out of a turn of the century Wellsian novel.

Yet the Third Republic did not fall without cost. Over 1,200 German aircraft were lost and hundreds more damaged. More than 4,000 priceless aircrew had been killed and thousands more wounded or missing. Operations against the Royal Airforce were imminent. The Geschwader’s needed replacements. Quickly.

And so, with the trucks, the tents, the radios, the food, the petrol, and the ammunition, came men from the Erganzungsstaffels, the Geschwader’s operational training units, where crews fresh from advanced flying schools practiced the tactics associated with their future combat units. Into France poured this new stream of eager young men ready to fly, fight and die for the Fatherland. Their rapid arrival signaled that the launch of the final phase of the war was looming and explained the haste of this great military migration. In slightly more than a week, the Geschwaders’ passage was complete, the easy pace of farmers’ fields replaced by the roar of machines and the frenzied business of gray and black legions.

It was all so purposeful. All so efficient. All so imposing. All so German.

The Führer and Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces

Führer Headquarters, 1 August 1940.

10 copies

Directive No. 17 For the conduct of air and sea warfare against England

In order to establish the necessary conditions for the final conquest of England I intend to intensify air and sea warfare against the English homeland. I therefore order as follows: The German Air Force is to overpower the English Air Force with all the forces at its command, in the shortest possible time. The attacks are to be directed primarily against flying units, their ground installations, and their supply organizations, but also against the aircraft industry, including that manufacturing antiaircraft equipment.

ADOLF HITLER

Catherine Köhler

Westphalia

Paderborn, Neiderwaldstrabe 7973

11 August 1940

My Dearest Blue:

I must write quickly as I have been transferred out of the training squadron and to one of the operational Gruppes. I am leaving for my new posting today. Oskar Dollman, the fellow I told you about, has been transferred as well. I expect that we may see action soon, but please do not worry. The enemy has been roughly