A bit of background on this section:
- He-168 are similar to the OTL He-162 emergency fighter. ITTL not an emergency, but modified to fit on the little carrier. Not 100% sure how much modification would be needed.
- Jade: As mentioned it is based on the French Joffre, but modified to be slightly more useful as a CVL type and build knowledge.
- Koester is based on the H-39 of Plan Z
HMS Glorious, Mediterranean Sea
The briefing room was hot – the Mediterranean sun demanding the air-conditioning be turned up, but so far, only a few portholes were open, providing limited respite. Sorley Holmes, ear infection sorted, sat next to Arnold Ferguson on folding wooden chairs and sipped a cup of ice water. Several of the pilots drank coffee or tea, but Holmes preferred water before a flight. He tapped the ash from the tip of a cigarette into an ashtray, twisted in his seat and grinned at the other pilots who would be flying. As he opened his mouth to speak, the door opened and a sailor at the front jumped to his feet.
“'ten-shun” the rating barked, and everyone followed him to their feet as the AGC, walked in.
“Sit,” Commander Sullivan barked, the waving hand and invitation to retake their seats. He gestured to the rating, who rolled down a map, then a sheet of clear acetate to cover it. The pilots edged forward fractionally, although they could all see perfectly well. The huge map showed most of the Mediterranean, from the narrows of the Straits of Gibraltar east to the long boot of Italy kicking Sicily, and the pencil of the Adriatic, the Greek islands, and the Middle Eastern coastline. The young man, armed with a grease pencil marked the acetate with a cross west of Malta, indicating HMS Glorious’ position.
Sullivan went through the usual routine, describing the mission profile, call signs, areas of responsibility and rules of engagement. They were about to disperse when a cheeky grin slid across his face. “Oh, one more thing. I’m sure you all read the intelligence reports about the KM force visiting Syria.” Eyes dropped, few pilots able to meet his eye, and he shook his head in mock disgust. “Well, the latest intel tells us the ships called on the Eyeties in Sicily. They’re probably close. All flights are to be equipped with camera pods. You’ll also be issued with cine cameras as well as the usual stills for this sortie.” The pilots exchanged glances. “Any snaps would be REALLY appreciated.”
A wave of the hand and a board was uncovered. It contained poor quality images of ships from the German Navy, the Kriegsmarine, a battleship, and a carrier. The pictures were black and white, grainy, and offered limited scale. “We’ve had no luck tracking them or getting pictures. The weather was awful when they traversed the Straits on the way in. If anyone gets anything good, the intel boys have promised a bottle of decent scotch. Good hunting. Dismissed.”
The pilots crowded around the board, trying to get an impression of the ships they were searching for. It was surprising they had managed to stay out of sight since entering the Mediterranean, given it was an enclosed area, offering little opportunity to hide. Not that it mattered. Any one of them would accept the scotch. They filed out, eager to fly.
Lieutenant Holmes completed his final checks – trim neutral, brakes disengaged, flaps set for maximum lift – signalled to the deck officer he was ready for launch, then pushed the throttle to full power with his left hand whilst he gripped the yoke with his right. The violence of a catapult launch had to be experienced to be believed. Holmes was pushed hard into the seat, as the five-ton Sea Vampire accelerated rapidly along the deck until the metal ran out, and the aircraft dipped slightly, and suddenly he was flying, the nose barely up. Homes retracted the undercarriage, allowing the airspeed to build before pulling back gently on the control stick, settling into a slow climb. A glance over his left shoulder revealed Lieutenant Ferguson closing into tight formation just off his wing.
The airspeed indicator, just left of centre on the instrument panel, registered over two hundred knots and rising, whilst the rate of climb indicator on the other side hovered at a thousand feet per minute. Reducing the throttle to save fuel, Holmes slipped into a slow turn to reverse course back past the ship towards their patrol area and marvelled at the glorious sight of the ship below. Satisfied, he pulled on his polarised glasses.
As he passed the ship, one of the big twin dual-purpose gun turrets tracked him, and his eyes narrowed behind the dark lenses. It might be useful practise for one of the newbies, but he did not have to like it. Being in any gunner’s sights was bad news as far as Holmes was concerned, no matter how friendly. The ship bristled with Bofors cannons, but in his eyes, if they were ever needed, it meant he and his fellow pilots had failed to do their job.
Still climbing, at three thousand feet, the antlike figures of the crew scurried away from another pair of aircraft, positioned at the bow of the ship where Holmes and Ferguson had sat only a minute or so earlier. First one, then moments later the second aircraft was thrown into the air. With the patrol airborne, the ship would return to its south easterly heading, approaching the Strait of Sicily. A few of hundred miles ahead, Malta beckoned, and the anticipation of shore leave. Holmes’ head and eyes were in constant motion, checking dials and scanning the sky in every direction possible. Through the haze, the blue waters of the Mediterranean lapped the distant Sicilian coast to port, to starboard was French Tunisia, whilst Italian Libya would soon shimmer on the horizon in the morning sunlight.
Holmes flicked the radio to life. "Patrol Five, Twenty-One Leader. Radio check.”
“Good contact. Patrol Five, Twenty-One Two check," Ferguson responded with the usual crackle.
“Aye, contact,” Holmes answered, then flicked to ‘talk to ship’ mode. “Patrol Five, Twenty-One Lead. Flight of two. Course one four zero. Angels ten. Visibility good. Over.”
“Acknowledge, Flight Twenty-One,” the ship responded. “Good hunting. Out.”
Holmes adjusted the throttle and flicked the radio back to the frequency assigned to their flight. “Let’s find us some Germans,” he said to his wingman. He glanced at the wings, one carrying the aerodynamic camera pod, the other an extra fuel tank. It was a reconnaissance flight, but they still carried a full load of ammunition for the twenty-millimetre cannons. The rising sun was bright in Holmes’ eyes despite the dark glasses, and the cockpit was warm. He twisted the louvre just below the canopy to allow more air into the cockpit.
Forty minutes into the flight, and frustration reigned. They had found nothing. From ten thousand feet, they could see for miles, but given the tens of thousands of square miles of water beneath them, it was far from certain they would find the German ships. Technically speaking, they were looking for wakes rather than ships, and despite spotting several they belonged to cargo ships, one heading southeast, the other north. Holmes was folding a chart when the radio crackled, and he pushed the chart into a pocket down the side of his seat, waiting for his wingman to speak.
“Radar contact. Eleven o’clock, maybe twenty miles,” Ferguson announced in his quiet voice. Holmes instinctively looked up in the direction, then down at the screen of his own radar and twisted the controls until he had a contact at the same distance. “Two contacts,” Ferguson updated.
“Aye, I’ve got ‘em.”
“Just appeared at twenty miles. The German carrier?”
“Mebbe,” Holmes said, a tingle of excitement. He reached for the chart again, trying to remain calm. It could be a long-range Italian patrol, returning after many hours scanning the ocean, or a flight from North Africa? Or perhaps even a poorly directed intercept from Sicily, although it would be an especially inept controller who give up the advantage of being behind and up-sun. A sortie returning to base would have less choice, but the Italians surely knew of the Royal Navy’s presence. “Let’s hae a look. Angels twenty, follow my lead.” He tapped the rudder to nudge the aircraft onto the new heading towards the contact, pulled back on the stick and increased the throttle to maintain airspeed in the climb. A quick glance at the fuel gauge – fine for now, but the climb and increased speed would burn fuel quickly. “Fuel?”
“Fine.”
“Keep yer eyes peeled. Let’s get the scotch.” The other aircraft were in different areas, so it was unlikely anyone else would get a chance to take pictures until the ships left Italian waters. “Take it easy, they might be nervy.”
“Roger.”
Holmes radioed back to the ship to report the contact they were investigating. A nervousness flashed through him, the faint tingle in the pit of the stomach all sailors experienced at even the hint of a threat to their ship. Despite their size, aircraft carriers were delicate and required protection. For a pilot, the ship was usually the only place to land – ditching was dangerous at best. Anyone who claimed not to fear for their ship was either lying or stupid, likely both.
“Tallyho,” Ferguson called. “Dead ahead, a little low.” They were closing at a combined speed of over five hundred miles per hour, the twenty miles evaporating in minutes.
“Tallyho,” Holmes acknowledged. “Separate. What are they?” He stole a glance to his left as Ferguson drifted away to give them room to manoeuvre, then squinted ahead. The dots grew quickly. Fat cylinders above a glass canopy, a pair of fins and narrow stubby wings. Holmes’ eyes flicked up and down, alternating between the target and aircraft identification sheets, pinned against the yoke with one hand. Nothing. He turned the page. “Mebbe one-six-eights?”
“Yeah. The carrier must be close,” Ferguson answered, his excitement palpable. No British pilot had seen one of the new, ultralightweight jet fighters first reported almost a year ago. The first real evidence for their existence was a pair of grainy photographs from a Kriegsmarine’s test facility, which led to speculation the Heinkel bureau had managed to develop a carrier-capable jet. The limited information suggested the He-168 was nothing like as capable as the aircraft Holmes and Ferguson flew, but they knew better than to let their guard down. Israeli Spitfires had shot down Syrian jets – a bad workman blamed his tools.
“Woah,” Holmes muttered as the swastika clad aircraft flashed past. “Keep ‘em in sight Arn,” he muttered. “Look for wakes.” He tapped the radio. “Glorious, Flight Twenty-One. Contact. Two, repeat two KM fighters. Suspect He-168. Lookin’ for carrier.”
“Coming round,” Ferguson reported, his voice now cold, calculating. The cine camera was in one hand as he flew with the other. The cameras in the reconnaissance pods pointed down and would only work on the ships.
“Bugger,” Holmes said. “Take the lead.” He drifted into position behind his wingman who, with eyes on the enemy was better placed to lead the engagement. The Germans flew a wide arc to join up in formation, and Holmes reached for a camera and with one hand managed to focus and snap pictures of the German aircraft. The German pilot was doing the same.
“Wakes, two o’clock,” Ferguson called. Immediately Holmes took his eyes off the German to focus on the long white trail up ahead.
“Aye, good. Let’s do it. Angels ten, straight ower, then another pass back.” He glanced at the fuel gauge. “Slow to two hundred knots.” Ferguson altered course, and Holmes followed as he informed Glorious of his intention. The German pilots closed, the frantic waving of his hands and unmistakable sign he wanted the British pilots to fly away from the ship. Holmes waved back and turned anyway, laughing as he clipped his oxygen mask back into position. Despite the laughter, he was wary, and out of the corner of his eye he watched, so when the German cut across, close to Holmes’ nose, he was ready with a tap of the airbrake.
“Careful Arn,” Holmes said. “They’re nervy. Protective.” Holmes knew if the roles were reversed, he would be doing the same, but also knew he would not be allowed to shoot first. They had to trust the Germans had the same instructions.
“Tough,” Ferguson responded, whilst maintaining a cautious watch on his own shadow. The German aircraft flashed across them several times, slowed to match them, then slipped back. It was a dangerous location – they could slide into shooting position in a moment – and the navy pilots warily watched their mirrors. It was an ominous situation. No fighter pilot wanted to allow an enemy aircraft to settle behind them.
“Nice an’ calm Arn. They won’t shoot,” Holmes said with a confidence he did not feel. The flight controller from HMS Glorious informed them two additional aircraft were inbound, although it was unlikely, they would arrive in time to help if the situation deteriorated. Backup was nice, but Holmes was confident he would not need it.
“Flattop,” Holmes barked, but it was the ship off the port bow that caught his attention. “Bleedin’ hell, the escort’s massive!”
“Christ,” Ferguson said. “Shame about the carrier. Wouldn’t fancy landing on that if it was bouncing around!”
“Where’s yer sense o’ adventure?” Holmes muttered, but he could not disagree. “Take the battleship first, ah’ll do carrier. Switch on the return so we both get pictures. Try an’ get an escort in shot on way oot.”
“Roger.”
As he lined up on the bow of the ship, Holmes assessed the aircraft carrier Jade. French designed and built, it was taken on by the Germans as reparation after the Vichy government moved to Paris soon after the end of the conflict in Western Europe. The Kriegsmarine had no aviation tradition, and it was believed the ship was largely a training vessel, which made sense. It took the Royal Navy the best part of two decades to learn how to use aircraft carriers properly, so the Germans would need at least as long.
The Jade was much smaller than Holmes’ own ship, too small to cope with modern, heavy jets. Several outdated, propellor driven aircraft were spotted on the deck, but their encounter proved the tiny, superlight He-168 fighters were carrier capable. Such information was sure to interest the intelligence men and enable the brass to ask for additional funds. Pictures would secure the scotch.
“It’s a piece of junk,” Ferguson said on the radio. “The island’s too big, the deck overhangs the bow, and the lifts are in the middle of the deck. I wouldn’t land on that if you paid me!”
“Aye, not the best,” Holmes agreed as he snapped pictures of the fighter whilst flying as steadily as possible over the ship to get good pictures.
Whilst the carrier was interesting, the escort steaming half a mile away dwarfed it. Holmes did not need to consult an identification card to recognise the battleship Koester. The biggest lesson of the Pacific War was the vulnerability of super-heavy battleships to air power, a lesson the Koester ignored. Fractionally larger than HMS Glorious, the Koester’s massive guns could reach around twenty miles. The carrier’s aircraft could attack at a range of several hundred miles, but the Koester was the apparent king of this task force. Scattered around the two were a half dozen escorts, protecting the capital ships from submarines and air attack.
“Nice and slow Arn. Nae sudden moves. Dannae want these wee laddies getting’ jumpy.” Holmes could picture hundreds of men at battle stations on the ships below and the flattop’s deck was a hive of activity as they prepared to launch more aircraft. He flicked the radio to warn Force C they should expect visitors sooner rather than later. “Keep yer eye on ‘em. They’ll no’ start anything.” He crossed his fingers. Whilst was confident he could outfly the little fighters, if the ships started shooting, they were in trouble, although the proximity of the German aircraft made such an outcome unlikely.
The Vampire’s flew the length of the largest ships, cameras whirling, then drifted over the escorts before making lazy turns to return, their targets switched, and both gripped handheld cameras, taking snapshots of the Heinkels tracking them, as well as of the smaller escort ships. The German aircraft gradually got closer, but they could do nothing to stop the FAA aircraft short of firing, and despite the tension between the countries, the commanding officer would have to be crazy to order an unprovoked attack.
“That’s me dry,” Ferguson announced as he reached bow of the Jade.
“Aye, me too. Intel boys’ll be happy,” Holmes responded as they set a course back towards Glorious. The He-168’s escorted them for a time but were soon forced to return due to lack of fuel. The leader closed-up on Holmes’ starboard side, who grinned and raised a hand in mock salute. The German attempted a Nazi salute in the cramped confines of the cockpit, then snapped the little aircraft into a tight turn and headed back towards the German fleet. As they cruised back to the ship, saving fuel, and Holmes scribbled notes about the encounter. Twenty minutes later they were passed by two pairs of aircraft.
“Christ,” Ferguson said. “Is that a one ninety?”
“Aye, looks like it. A version o’ one,” Holmes replied. “Safer than the one oh nine I suppose.” Both snapped more photo photographs.
“Not a bad day’s work,” Ferguson said as the carrier came into view.
As they approached, the German aircraft passed on their way back, doubtless similarly loaded with photographs. The pair landed, debriefed then spent an hour with the intelligence officers whilst the film was developed. The negatives were immediately flown to Malta – they would be in London for analysis by morning. The intel team pored over several sets of prints, happy to hand over the bottle of scotch which was rapidly consumed in the pilot’s mess.
