Summary: The summer of 1940. Europe has fallen to Hitler's advancing forces, and America has not yet entered the war. All that stands between Nazi world domination and freedom is the tiny island country of Great Britain.
Acknowledgement: I used several historical sources, but the two that were the most useful are:
The Battle of Britain Campaign Diary, 1940-2000. 14 Apr. 2002. DeltaWeb International Ltd. 2000. http://www.raf.mod.uk/bob1940/bobhome.html
Clayton, Tim and Phil Craig. Finest Hour, the Battle of Britain. New York: Touchstone Books, 1999.
Author Notes: 1. The idea for the story was inspired by a brief reference that Hogan was once assigned to the RAF (Episode #67, "Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London.") 2. For dramatic purposes, some of the actual historical events have been altered. 3. To the best of my knowledge there was never a No. 11 Fighter Squadron, nor a Hillingdon Air Field near Uxbridge.
Disclaimer: Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!
Copyright September 2002****
A Connecticut Yankee in the RAF
By Syl Francis
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"This was their finest hour."
(Winston Churchill, 18 Jun. 1940)
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Wednesday MAY 29 1940//1430hrs localOver the Bergues-Dunkirk Road
Approx. 25km SE from Dunkirk, France
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He hated sitting back while someone else did the flying...And the fighting, he grumbled. Since Churchill initiated Operation Dynamo--the evacuation from the European mainland of all British forces--the American officer had flown along on several combat missions as a neutral observer and reluctant rear seat pilot.
And hating every minute of it!
From his vantage point behind the pilot and copilot, he watched the French-Belgium countryside scroll past them. Here and there he saw evidence of the Luftwaffe's Blitzkrieg brand of warfare--entire villages razed to the ground, roads clogged with refugees and entire armies fleeing the onslaught.
He shook his head in disgust at Germany, a supposedly civilized nation, for once again bringing the world to the brink of war. What happened next went by so fast that later he was never quite able to recall the exact details...
The cockpit suddenly exploded with the sounds of shattering glass and bloodcurdling screams. Two Messerschmitt Me-109s ripped past them, their .30mm cannons blazing. Automatically, he threw his arms up to protect himself from flying glass and metal, but less than a heartbeat later, realized that they were spiraling out of control.
Instantly, the American observer tore off his restraints and rushed to the pilot's side. The young RAF Flight Lieutenant--code name, Wolf Leader--was slumped over. The observer quickly checked him for any life-signs. No pulse. A groan from the right hand seat, told him that the copilot was still alive, but a hasty glance said not for long.
He did not have time to worry about that now. The Me-109s were banking for a return run. And we're gonna pancake in just about another minute! Reaching over the pilot's body, he grabbed the controls, and giving a short prayer started pulling back with all the strength he could muster.
He glanced at the altimeter--10,000 ft...9,500 ft...9,000 ft.
"Come on, doll...come on..." he coaxed.
Slowly, reluctantly the Blenheim light bomber began to respond to his insistent commands, until finally, he pulled it out of its death dive. He glanced at the altimeter--1500 ft. Plenty room to spare! He quipped, breathing in a sigh of relief.
No time to celebrate...Those 109s are probably on a return vector already. By now, the much faster planes would have him lined up in their sights. One-handed, he hurriedly pulled the dead pilot out of the command seat and slid in. The American tried not to think about the young pilot's wife and new baby girl. Or how happy he'd seemed when he'd proudly shown off their pictures to everyone lounging in the squadron's ready-room. The other pilots' good-natured ribbing still echoed in his ears.
The American shook off the thoughts. Now wasn't the time. He had to concentrate on the job at hand. Running a quick check of the instruments, he saw to his relief that most were fully functional.
Thank goodness for small favors.
"Air Gunner to Pilot!" a frantic voice yelled over his headset. "Bandits on our tail!"
"How close are they?" he asked, preparing for evasive action. Without warning, the plane jerked as a burst of .30mm rounds struck its starboard wing.
"That close enough for you?" The air gunner punctuated his question with a long salvo from his own twin machineguns.
"Plenty close...!" Jaw clenched, the 'neutral' observer hit the flaps, effectively slamming on the 'brakes' in midair. The next instant, the Me-109s overshot them. At the unexpected change in airspeed, the bomber's controls became sluggish, fighting his commands.
Hey, who's in charge here?! Okay, doll...There hasn't been a plane built that can get the better of me.
Wrestling with the controls, he zeroed his aiming circle on an imaginary point, leading the fighters--Hold it...hold it..."Now!"--and squeezed the trigger. Instantly, a deadly fusillade of tracer rounds spewed forth from the port wing machinegun. Seconds later, a trail of black, oily smoke erupted from one of the Me-109s.
"Got 'im, Wolf Leader!" the air gunner shouted. As proof, the enemy fighter listed to starboard and began plummeting to earth below.
"That's not gonna work a second time, Mac--! Get ready!"
"Who is this?" the air gunner suddenly demanded. Apparently, he had finally figured out that the voice over the intercom was not that of his flight leader. "What the devil's going on up there? What's happened to Wolf Leader?"
"There isn't time for that--! Heads up! Bandit at two o'clock!"
In the back of his mind, the American calmly analyzed the situation. The only chance they had was to present the smallest possible target. The solution? He banked the Blenheim into a head-on collision course with the oncoming fighter. Coolly staring down his sights, he rested his finger on the trigger and waited. The enemy fighter made no attempt to break away.
"So you want to play a little game of chicken, eh, Fritz? Okay...let's see who blinks first!"
As the distance between them closed, he felt a slow trickle of perspiration wend its way down his temple to his cheek to the tip of his chin. "Come on...come on..." he muttered. At the last possible instant, the German fighter broke right, avoiding a collision.
The American fired a short burst at the enemy fighter's suddenly exposed underbelly. A clean miss! Still, the other guy had blinked.
"Chicken...! Bwakwakwak..."
Grinning, he changed heading, attempting to follow the Me-109. However, before the 'neutral' observer could do anything further, the enemy plane burst into flames!
"What the--?" He craned his neck, scanning the sky in a 180-degree radius. That was when he spotted them, coming out of the sun--Spitfires!
"This is Red Fox Leader! Thought you could use a hand, mate!"
"You can say that again, Mac! We have a medical emergency on board. The pilot's dead and the second pilot's suffered massive injuries. I need fighter escort back to the nearest air field."
"The pilot and second pilot injured? Then who the bloody hell are you, mate?"
"Maj. Robert E. Hogan, US Army Air Corps--neutral observer."
"...!" After a second of stunned silence, Red Fox Leader cheerfully replied, "If this is how you Yanks fight when you're 'neutrals,' I can't wait to see what happens when you finally do enter the war!"
"You'n me both, Mac..." Hogan muttered. "You'n me both.
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End of Part 1