Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) Read online

  Churchill’s Ace

  By

  Greg M. Sheehan

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2016 by Greg M. Sheehan

  All Rights Reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Amiens France

  The Inquiry

  Chartwell, Kent 1937

  A Place For Men

  Fast Water

  Biggin Hill

  Madeline

  Goodbyes

  Luftwaffe Flight School

  House of Commons

  Harding Barrow

  Luftwaffe Flight School

  Harding Barrow

  Chartwell

  Doctor Bockler

  The Black Forest

  Heston Aerodrome

  Luftwaffe Flight School

  Savoy Club

  Berlin

  House of Commons

  Luftwaffe Flight School

  London

  Chartwell

  Luftwaffe Flight School

  Biggin Hill

  Berlin

  Dusseldorf

  St. Paul’s Cathedral

  House of Commons

  Luftwaffe Flight School

  Directive 219

  Harding Barrow

  JAG 23

  Chartwell

  Sedan Bridgehead

  10 Downing Street

  Trier Air Base

  Welcome to the Luftwaffe

  Paris

  Reich Air Ministry

  10 Downing Street

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  Biggin Hill

  Harding Barrow

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  Queens Alexandra’s Military Hospital

  10 Downing Street

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  Biggin Hill

  10 Downing Street

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  10 Downing Street

  Biggin Hill

  Biggin Hill

  Berlin

  Biggin Hill

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  10 Downing Street

  Dulwich Village

  10 Downing Street

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  de Havilland Mosquito

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  St Bartholomew's Hospital

  Berlin

  Harding Barrow

  Berlin

  Churchill’s War Rooms

  Luftwaffe Flight Testing Center Rechlin

  Dulwich Village

  10 Downing Street

  Dulwich Village

  Harding Barrow

  Luftwaffe Headquarters Berlin

  Harding Barrow

  Dulwich Village

  Luftwaffe Flight Testing Center Rechlin

  Churchill’s War Rooms

  Abwehr Headquarters Berlin

  Luftwaffe Flight Testing Center Rechlin

  Luftwaffe Flight Testing Center Rechlin

  Calais-Marck Airfield

  Amsterdam

  JAG 23

  10 Downing Street

  Biggin Hill

  Biggin Hill

  Dulwich Village

  Chartwell

  Amiens France

  1918

  World War I was supposed to be the war to end all wars... At least, that was the hope. The century had recently turned, and surely mankind had better things to do besides sticking pointed bayonets into the air and boasting, “God is on our side,” as they raked the enemy with machine gun fire.

  That, of course, wasn’t the case not by a long shot. But World War I, was the first war to usher in aerial combat. That was like saying the Middle Ages introduced the world to the plague. That wouldn’t get a round of applause from anyone, especially those who died.

  But nevertheless, airplanes did make their stage debut. At first, their performance was rather innocent and even wondrous as the airplane added another spatial dimension to the military mix.

  Powered military aircraft started the whole affair rather meekly, and without malice. They seemed somewhat harmless and to a hardened soldier stuck in the trenches nothing more than a gimmick, something that you would lay two bits down to take a peek at a carnival. The crowd would be amazed and then trudge home to their wretched lives.

  The gangly and odd inventions were initially used to scout enemy troop formations below on the battlefield. Maybe that was just an excuse for the purveyors of the modern marvels to look around, take in the sights and report the following to headquarters. “Yes General Hornblower, these flying machines are most valuable. I have to report that the Germans are well entrenched, with machine gun nests and barb wire. And there isn’t anything alive in no man’s land. It is most dangerous down there on the ground.”

  General Hornblower would go into deep thought and say, “Quite right. Now, what else can you tell me about the enemy? What is he up to?”

  “Sir, I think they’re hunkering down in those trenches. That is the situation at the moment. Now we can’t be too sure what the Jerries have in mind. You can’t trust them you know.”

  After scratching his chin, the General Hornblower would say, “Tell me; how much does one of these new found contraptions cost the Royal Crown?”

  “Sir.”

  “The plane!”

  “Thirteen hundred pounds, more or less. But look what they can do for us.”

  “I see…”

  Down below most soldiers in the trenches kept their heads down and ignored the flying machines, because they had enough of their own problems. In no particular order, those were disgusting filth from living in the mud, poor food, rampant disease and enemy machine gun bullets flying overhead.

  Death was lurking around every corner. That wasn’t being over dramatic. The enemy was within rifle range just on the other side of the trench. You could hear him; you could even smell him if the wind was right. He knew where you were and what you did. When you went to sleep, when you made breakfast. And if you were dumb enough to attempt it, when you went "over the top" to attack him for king and country, that was akin to committing suicide.

  Not everything would kill you. Some things only made you wish you were dead. Trench foot was debilitating and insidious. That malady alone was responsible for thousands of casualties, and there wasn’t anything anybody could do about it. Not as long as you stomped around in a wet trench twenty-four hours a day for weeks upon end.

  Eventually and very much sooner than later, the skin on a soldier’s feet would come apart. Then the unlucky man’s foot was subject to infection and if left untreated gangrene. That meant amputation and an unsightly foot that was to be hidden from view, from the rest of the world until the day the man died.

  But that was assuming the soldier survived the war in one piece or even with a few things missing from his body. Or maybe he outlasted the Great War and brought home a few souvenirs, like shrapnel embedded in his back. He’d have to sleep on his side for the rest of his life. He would be grateful; most of his comrades who had bit the dust were permanently on their backs in cheap wooden coffins.

  Therefore, some soldiers did look up thru the mud and muck and wished to hitch a ride on one of the new flying machines. The aircraft buzzed around far overhead, without a worry in the world. Their trench in the sky didn’t have rats the size of artillery shells or enemy bayonet charges in the middle of the night, where you didn’t know when your next breath would be your last. No, It was different up there. Cute little scarves gently tied to the necks of pilots, fluttered in the breeze as the planes doodled about in the air.

  Often the pilots put on a show for the boys in the front lines: loop de loop, barrel rolls, even stunt stalls and dead man spins. Some of the sol
diers clapped at the entertainment. Others grunted and headed for the latrine, hoping that the enemy was also watching the two bit or in the German case, two pfennig show.

  The enemy had a nasty habit of lobbing artillery shells at the other side’s latrine complex, which usually was behind the lines and definitely downhill. The shelling was timed to coincide with when the latrine was packed with poor saps.

  The latrine was chock full of lime, which was caustic and smelled horrendous. No one with any brains lingered at the site for any longer than they had to. There were rumors that you would get sick if you hung out there long enough. That was true.

  Up above the British and German pilots often waved at each other, like they belonged to the same fraternity or gentlemen’s club. “Glad to see you. Please join us for cocktails at the officer’s club just before dinner. Proper attire required. We will toast our flying machines and the beautiful girls waiting for us in our comfortable barracks.”

  These modern flying machines and their occupants floated far above the trenches and destruction, pretending that moral superiority was the order of the day. After all, they were better educated than any infantryman and were, indeed, one of the few chosen to take flight, like magnificent birds reaching for the sun.

  As was the case with human nature, it wasn’t long before things took a turn for the worse. Soon pilots were firing pistols at each other, but that was more for harassment and bragging rights than anything else. Invitations to cocktails and dinner were rescinded at that point. However, things were still somewhat in order if only barely.

  That changed when lethal machine guns were mounted on the good flying planes. Scouting the enemy now became for the weak and frail of mind. Manhood, glory, metals and a roll in the hay with an impressed girl would be determined by besting your opponent, which meant sending him and his plane, which surely was now a death trap, spinning in flames to the battlefield below to die with the lowly infantryman.

  The real show began for the soldiers in the trenches, as airplanes were blasted out of the sky. They all ended up in the same place nose down in the mud on the battlefield. A wrecked plane, with its wings shredded and a pilot headless or not, was a curious sight.

  At first, it was as odd as finding a dinosaur in no man’s land. Within weeks, it was commonplace, and soldiers if they could get close enough to the wreckage, would pilfer anything not nailed down. The dead pilot was forgotten as soon as his after effects were recycled. Smokes, boots, scarf, revolver, dry socks, they were all fair game. In the end, the dead pilot was no different than a spent soldier. They both were dead and eating mud.

  Captain William Ashton entered the ready room of the RAF 5th Brigade. The room wasn’t anything fancy; it was a commandeered French farmhouse near Amiens. The quaint town in northern France had the unfortunate fate of being in the middle of a never-ending slugfest between the Germans and the Allies, who were the French and British. The surrounding area changed hands numerous times, and it didn’t take long for the landscape to take on all the ambiance of the moon, barren, uninviting and shell craters which were full of rain and dead bodies.

  Outside the ready room, where milk cows once grazed and chickens jockeyed for position, sat a section of Sopwith Camels, the mainstay of the RAF fighter force. The airplane had turned the tide in the battle for air supremacy against the German Albatross, the Kaiser’s best fighter plane.

  In the hands of an experienced pilot, the Sopwith Camel was deadly. RAF crews joked that the biplane offered a pilot the choice between "a wooden cross, the Red Cross, or a Victoria Cross."

  Captain William Ashton was an ambitious young pilot. He tried to keep that to himself, but everyone could see it. The signs were everywhere. The way he dressed; the way he talked about the enemy and what he was going to do to them in the air. To some, it seemed that he was bragging and rather full of himself. But Captain Ashton knew it was the truth, at least as he saw it. That’s all that mattered.

  Major Bartlett, the commander of the 5th RAF Brigade, which was stationed just behind the front lines, knew that fact all too well. What to do with Captain Ashton?

  Captain Ashton had shot down four German planes in less than a fortnight. Not slow moving bombers or observation planes or even the increasingly obsolete early Fokker models but the Albatross, the Germans top flight fighter.

  Major Bartlett surmised that Captain Ashton would soon be an ace. An ace was a pilot credited with bagging five or more enemy planes. He wasn’t sure where that distinction came from or who came up with the idea of counting downed enemy aircraft. But that didn’t matter, it could have been ten planes or twenty; young pilots who fancied themselves as great warriors would strive to reach that mark or die trying.

  Most pilots didn’t worry about becoming an ace; they were interested in staying alive. But there were a scant few who never thought for one second about getting shot down or killed. All they cared about was getting five kills and becoming an ace. Accolades would inevitably follow, replete with delicate ribbons and shiny medals. And then there are the women, who are attracted to such a man. Surely, that was a bonus. Men such as these had big egos and nocturnal needs.

  The commander was sure Captain Ashton longed for all of that. The young man was talented, but that was a small part of the equation, in trying to stay alive above the battlefield.

  Through attrition and wartime necessity, Captain Ashton was now in charge of four Sopwith Camels, and there was nothing that Major Bartlett could do about that. Even if there was, he wasn’t sure if it would have changed one “bloody thing.” War was like that. It begged for uneven compromises.

  Major Bartlett brought Captain Ashton and the pilots who were mostly new and cocky, to attention in the main room of the farmhouse. Some drank coffee; others smoked pipes as Major Bartlett drew on a makeshift blackboard. “Gentlemen, today you will escort the bombers on a surprise raid. The target is the German airfield just north of Amiens. If all goes as planned, we will hit the Huns while they are eating breakfast.”

  The pilots in the room laughed and blew smoke. One of them said, “I’m glad someone in this war is getting a good proper breakfast.”

  Major Bartlett carried on. “Well, you volunteered for His Majesty’s Flying Circus. Remember that and the fact you have a bed to sleep in at night. Don’t think command hasn’t seen the French country girls sneaking in and out of your quarters.” There was more laughter, and the same pilot pulled up his collar as if fixing himself for a date. “But I must admit the 5th Brigade has exquisite taste in woman. If I wasn’t happily married...” The room broke up in laughter.

  The pilot lifted up his cup of coffee, “Here, here.”

  “Now, the task at hand. Captain Ashton, of course, will lead the flight, but this will be a small operation, five Sopwith Camels and just the three bombers. The German aerodrome in Section 4 is the target. Do the job, and be quick about it.”

  The same pilot said, “Major Sir, and what if we run into a flight of Germans out for a morning stroll?”

  “Then, unlucky for them.” Major Bartlett looked at his watch. “Liftoff at 0900 hours. Good luck and get cracking.”

  Captain Ashton saluted, “Sir.”

  * * *

  The flight left the sleepy farmhouse on time that Sunday morning when most residents were at church. The church in the nearby village had been the tallest structure in the community. However, that all changed when a German artillery barrage weeks earlier, turned it into kindling. The services from that point on were held in the cemetery, which was filling up with unwilling permanent occupants.

  Captain Ashton’s flight passed over the church, and some of the parish members made the sign of the cross. The German airfield was of course across the frontlines. That was a mere ten minutes away by air. In the calculation of trench warfare on the battlefield, ten minutes by air was two years in time and 500,000 in casualties.

  The flight left the British sector and entered no man’s land. That dangerous and uncertain area was cover
ed in seconds. The German front lines gave Captain Ashton and his flight a morning hello, which consisted of pot shots from all calibers of guns. Mostly, this was a rank nuisance as the Sopwith Camels were above 8000 feet and climbing.

  The three bombers were in formation behind the Sopwith Camels as the entire flight veered toward the east and the German airfield. Captain Ashton kept the flight together as they cleared the German front lines.

  In the distance, specks appeared in the sky. Soon they grew larger in size. Some of the pilots hoped they were a flock of birds, perhaps heading south for a warm stay during the approaching winter.

  They were a flight of German Albatross fighter planes. Captain Ashton pressed on as the airfield was now in sight. The German fighter planes rolled down from 9000 feet and made a pass at the British formation. A Sopwith Camel was shot up and went into a death spin.

  It was now apparent to Captain Ashton that he was outnumbered by at least 2-1. He couldn’t very well break off the bombing run; it was much too late for that. He signaled for the bombers to continue to the target. More German fighters joined the battle. They came up from down below and poured machine gun fire into the belly of two British bombers. The planes simply came apart and disappeared from the sky.

  Captain Ashton went into a right turn, and all sense of order in the RAF battle plan was torn apart. It was now every man for himself in a desperate struggle to stay alive. A wayward Albatross slid by the Sopwith Camel’s nose, and Captain Ashton banked even further, and the chase was on.

  The Albatross headed for the deck, and Captain Ashton followed the German fighter as if he was in a trance. The allure of getting his fifth kill was all that mattered now. That would make him an ace. Pilots would walk by, salute him and wish they were him.

  The Albatross flew across the German front lines. The men in their trenches cheered for their comrade in arms, even though they were mired in the filth of trench warfare.

  Captain Ashton pressed his attack and drew ever closer to the Albatross. He opened fire and smoke poured from the German’s engine. Seconds later the Albatross pitched downward and crashed into no man’s land.

  I have done it, thought Captain Ashton. He banked his Sopwith Camel and headed toward the German airfield. His flight formation was nowhere to be found. The aerodrome was also fully intact. Captain Ashton thought, So much for Major Bartlett’s grand morning raid. It seems the Germans skipped breakfast or better yet saw fit to chew on the RAF.