“Good God where did HE come from?” It was Air Warfare Alley again. “Sir, single contact to the east, well defined Climbing fast sir., estimated position somewhere near Vannes. From the rate of climb and the fact he's on his own I'd make a tentative ID as an Arado recon bird. Sir, He's turning straight towards us.”
“Picked up our radars?”
“Certainly Sir, if we've seen him, he's heard us.”
“Get fighters up to intercept him. NOW.”
“No Sir. Can't do that.” It was Pearson, the CAG. Not one of the most tactful characters in the CIC but an airgroup commander who knew his job.
“Explain yourself.”
“We haven't any fighters available. Damn it Sir, I've been complaining about this for a year now. Every time we come out we've been carrying fewer fighters, more strike aircraft. This time we had 36 Flivvers. We've lost seven, eighteen are over France doing flak suppression or escort, six are unserviceable and the remaining three landed five minutes ago and it'll be at least 30 minutes before they are on line. If they don't need fixing. The F2Hs are either over France, in France, or on the hangar deck shot full of holes. We've half our Adie group over France and the other half sitting fully loaded in our hangar deck waiting for an escort for the strike on the railway yards at Nantes. The Essexes are even worse off. I've been telling the brass we are short on fighters and can't protect ourselves and they just didn't listen.”
Madrick started to say something then thought better of it. If the air group wasn't available, the Shiloh was going to have to defend herself. How could it be? He had over a hundred aircraft, more like a hundred and twenty. He couldn't be out? Yet, orders had said maximum effort to strike land targets. The target list had been a long one and time short. He'd given the General Quarters and Battle Stations orders without thinking and knew his ship was coming to an air defense readiness state. Still, it couldn't be too bad; he was surrounded by escorts whose decks were wallpapered with anti-aircraft guns. What could one single aircraft do. A lot, his unconscious kept telling him. It might be wise to alert the other groups as well.
Arado 234C Red Two Over The Bay of Biscay
Lieutenant Wijnand was playing a hunch. He'd come out of Savenay low and fast as per orders and headed for Vannes. After there, the mission profile had been up to him. The great thing about Colonel Kast was that he gave his people a mission then left them to use their judgment. It was hard work earning his trust, but once earned, that trust went all the way. It also went both ways. Colonel Kast never left his people hanging out to dry. He'd even faced the Gestapo and SS down on that score. Now Wijnand had an idea. His guess was that the Amis used their radars but were far enough offshore so they were below the radar horizon. German fighters didn't carry radar detectors and, when carriers were around, bombers didn't live long enough to get up to the altitude where the radars could be detected. But his Arado could. So after reaching Vannes, Wijnand had climbed fast and hard. Something the Arado did well. Red Two had always been a good machine.
Sure enough, his hunch was paying off. His radar warner started wheeping as he picked up altitude. It wasn't directional as such but did give an octantal reading. Now, if he bisected the octant, he should start getting closer. Colonel Kast had given him an idea where to look and now he had confirmation. Struggling with a map was hard in the cramped cockpit but it was the name of the game now. He had to get that position right. He marked his course in on the map, right through the oval Kast had drawn a few minutes earlier. Working well so far. It looked like the Amis had screwed this one up. Victory disease, that was the name for it. You won so often, you forgot you could lose, The Ami carriers had been having their way so long, they'd become careless and over confident. Wijnand had firewalled his throttles and Red Two was going flat out. Going to make fuel very critical but it was their only real chance of doing the job. He was less that 15 minutes out from the center of Kast's estimated position.
Still no fighters. His luck was holding. What was that? Down below, far below, a streak on the surface. A wake? A wake. With a ship at the end of it. Couldn't tell what it was so it must be a battleship at least. It was pointy so it couldn't be a carrier. But that one was blunt. Obviously a flat front. A carrier.
“'Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World”.
Black smoke erupting around him. To close, so very close. The Ami gunners were good. And their shells always exploded at just the right time.
“Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World”.
Red Two lurched and started to twist. Wijnand could see damage to his wings and engine pods, the two starboard engines were already streaming black smoke.
“Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World”.
Red Two was heading down now, Wijnand fighting the controls all the way. They were stiff, unyielding, the power boost was out.
“Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World”.
Lieutenant Wijnand yanked the ejector seat handles. Nothing happened. That had gone too. OK, so his luck was really out, he would have to ride Red Two in. He managed to get the steep dive straightened out a bit and was heading north now. He wouldn't make the coast now. that was for sure. It was into the sea.
“Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Goodbye Cruel World”.
Combat Information Center, USS Shiloh, CVB-41. Bay of Biscay
“We got him sir.”
“He got our position out sir. Over and over again even when he was going down”
Captain Madrick cursed quietly to himself. For the first time in two years, a carrier group had been spotted and its position fixed. And he didn't have fighters. “Aircraft status. Now.”
“Be thirty minutes before we have aircraft of our own. Then four Flivvers. Gettysburg is sending some Flivvers as soon as they can get them up. Ten, 15 minutes. Chancellorsville is sending a dozen Panthers be with us in thirty minutes. Admiral Spruance is raking around now for more but almost everything we've got is over France or unserviceable.”
“The Panthers will cover us when they get here”. Something was nagging at Madrick, something important. Suddenly it snapped into place. If they were sending a recon aircraft, they must have a strike ready to go. And he had two dozen fully loaded Adies on his hangar deck. “Get the Adies unloaded and seal everything down.”
Savenay, France. Primary base of II/KG-40
Colonel Kast was already on his belly in his Hs-132 when the radio operator came running in. “Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West, Sir”.
“Sure it was our little Dutchman?”
“He kept repeating sir Goodbye Cruel World. That was the phrase wasn't it.”
Kast nodded. The radio operator knew what he was thinking and shook his head, the way the message had cut off, their Little Dutchman wasn't coming back.
“Get the position out to everybody who can fly. Get off as quickly as you can get there as quickly as you can. Don't bother to formate we'll just go as we get there. Tell everybody to stay low, don't bother to dive, Use the reflector bombsight.”
“Sir, it’s, well fuel you won't....”