An immense swell of cloud rose slowly into the air, resembling a colossal tidal wave. It loomed menacingly over everything in its reach, forming a barricade between the sun and all below. A long tendril of silvery cloud-stuff emanated from its side, as if it were beckoning to someone. If anyone were to fall victim to its charms, they would be swallowed up by its gaping grey jaws; then drawn further inwards to reside for an eternity, lost in its cold, dark core.
Six Mark V Supermarine Spitfires accompanied by eight Mark IIc Hawker Hurricanes cruised through the air in a perfect V formation. James glanced down at the Altitude gauge of his Spitfire. 19,000 feet, just the altitude where the air becomes uncomfortably thin. Reaching up with a gloved hand, he fiddled with his oxygen mask before strapping it across his face. He felt an involuntary shiver run down his body. No matter how many times he went up, he would never be able to shake off the mind-numbing cold of the earth's troposphere. As if echoing his own thoughts, the intercom crackled to life.
"Bloody hell Commander can we get a move on? I'm freezing my bollocks off up here!" The ever jovial tones of Chester Winningham were recognisable to James instantaneously. He turned to look at the Hurricane on his left. Their tight packed formation meant he couldn't have been any further than 10 metres away from it. Inside the cockpit he saw Connor, one of his closest friends roll his eyes before putting his mask on.
"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to second that Skipper – we've been up here nearly two hours now!" Adrian Helford groaned into the radio. "I can't feel my legs no more."
"For Christ's sake, why haven't we seen them by now?" Monty snapped, the sound of him slamming his fist into his cockpit window in frustration audible over the intercom.
"Calm down Monty, you might need that window in a bit." Henry Evans joked.
"Shut your mouth Evans." Monty quickly retorted, irritable as ever.
"Relax boys." The mature and reasonable voice of Ben Talbot cut in. "Not gonna lie, this is pretty odd, those German lads are usually pretty punctual in getting it over and done with." There was a unanimous agreement over the intercoms.
"So, what's the plan then Skipper?" Sam Taylor inquired over the radio. There was a long silence. All of the crew of St. George's Senior School waited expectantly for a reply from their Commander. Finally, the emotionless and uncompromising voice of Squadron Commander William Hughes drifted out of the pilot's headsets:
"We follow the plan we agreed on beforehand. Alpha Squadron, proceed to climb to 25,000 feet."
"Commander, I don't think…" Jacob Sanders began but was interrupted by a calm yet cold retort on the part of William.
"To be quite honest Sanders, I don't give a shit what you think. And if you continue to cause unnecessary radio chatter by sharing your thoughts and feelings to the squadron, I will shoot your fat arse out of the air myself."
Another long silence followed.
"Begin Climb to 25,000 feet."
James increased the throttle on his Spitfire, prompting the Rolls-Royce Merlin Engine to wail demonically. Slowly, he pulled back on his control stick, causing the elevator to raise. The Spitfire effortlessly soared into a climb. James felt himself being pushed back into his seat by the sheer force generated by his plane's phenomenal climb rate. He would never get tired of that feeling, the mixture of fear and exhilaration the roar of the Spitfire evoked in him. It was times like these when he truly recognized he was never really in control of this beast, he was merely being carried along for the ride. Such a prospect was nothing short of terrifying, but simultaneously, it was intoxicating.
It was addictive.
Another half hour had passed and there was still no sign of the opposition. That was until, all of a sudden, Daniel Wallace bellowed into the intercom:
"Targets spotted, 11 o'clock, by that cloud." He was breathless with excitement. James craned his neck to get a good view of the supposed sighting. Surely enough, eighteen aircraft had emerged out of an enormous grey storm cloud, resembling a flock of oversized metallic birds.
"They're making a beeline towards us Commander." Chester piped up once again, his voice shaking with anticipation.
"Looks like ten Bf 109s, six Focke-Wulf 190s and…" Harry Davies was interrupted.
"Jesus Christ! Are those Messerschmitt 410s?" Connor exclaimed. Shielding his eyes from the sun to get a better look at the two heavy fighters accompanying the approaching enemy squadron, James cursed into his mic:
"Fucking hell, I didn't have a clue this lot were so heavily armed."
"They're the bloody Munich Academy, what the hell did you expect mate?" Henry replied with a nervous laugh.
"Alpha squadron, listen up." The authoritative voice of William Hughes dominated the intercom. Everyone fell silent. "The opposition don't know that we've seen them yet, let them think they have the element of surprise, continue our course as normal. On my mark, break and commence attack."
James gripped his control stick with both hands. His gloved knuckles were white. He couldn't take his eyes off the approaching forces. Could they really take out such powerful opposition? He had been dogfighting since he knew how to take off and land an aircraft. Yet in all his fifteen years, he had never come up against such a formidable force as the one ascending rapidly towards him right now. Just the name of the Munich Academy struck fear into the hearts of opponents around the world. Their reputation alone was intimidating. As a brother school to the Black Forest Peak Girl's Academy, James expected no less. They were recognised around the world as the very best at the sport of Dogfighting.
"Uhh, Commander, they're actually getting fairly close to us now." Sam's voice became louder with every word.
"They can't be any less than 400 metres away." Ben spoke quickly.
"Hold your course." The commander's voice shook ever so slightly.
James could see the inscriptions on the enemy's aircraft. His eyes glazed over all of them searching for one number in particular. All of a sudden, he found it. His breath hitched in his throat. 363. That was him. Reinhardt Schneider. The Munich Academy's ace. He was a year older than James, but was already hailed as one of the best pilots the sport had ever seen. James had been watching him religiously for the last three years. He was clinical in his manoeuvres, astonishingly accurate in his aim, there was not a single aircraft that had ever emerged victorious in a dogfight with him. James had seen him take down entire squadrons by himself. It was a fact of life known by boys competing in dogfighting all around the world; if you ran into Reinhardt Schneider, you were going to be shot down.
"Alpha Squadron, break on my mark."
James raised his throttle, preparing to follow the manoeuvres he had been rehearsing for the past several years.
"Remember, this is the final, we have one shot. We've put too much into this competition to come out here and be humiliated. If we win, we will be the first team in the history of St. George's School to have won the world championships. We will break the Munich Academy's winning streak. The world is watching this, all eyes are on us. We cannot lose…" William was interrupted by a series of 50. Cal rounds ripping past his plane, missing his fuselage by mere inches.
"Alpha Squadron! Break formation!"
James yanked his control stick backwards and to the left, simultaneously ascending and rolling his Spitfire. For a brief moment he was weightless, everything below him appeared to freeze up. His eyes glazed over the chaotic scene below him. Tracer bullets ripped through the air, leaving blood red and acid green trails in their wake. Messerschmitts and Hurricanes performed a dizzying, acrobatic waltz. Mangled chunks of aircraft spiralled downwards to the earth, torn and butchered by the unrelenting force of steel bullets. In the midst of this pandemonium, James spotted his target, a stray Focke – Wulf 190. He slammed the throttle to full power, sending his Spitfire hurtling downwards towards the fray. James gritted his teeth, struggling to bear the immense G force such a manoeuvre was putting his body under. He pulled his control stick ever so slightly towards him, pitching the Spitfire upwards. The Focke-Wulf was just about in his crosshairs.
"Wait for it." He whispered urgently to himself. "Just a little longer." He was itching to squeeze the trigger and unleash the rolling thunder of his eight .303 Browning Machine Guns.
"Come on then you German bastard." He spat. James pushed the throttle up to 110%, causing his Spitfire to let out an ungodly scream. There was that feeling again. He was riding with a Fury. He hurtled downwards towards the Focke-Wulf. James saw the pilot jerk his head to see the Spitfire tearing through the air towards him. He could see his eyes grow wide in shock. He could see him desperately try to pull up and out of the way. But he was too late. A voice rang out in James' head, bellowing: "Take the shot!"
He did not need to be told twice. He squeezed the trigger with all his might. Red tracer rounds lacerated the air, like a hoard of blood – thirsty piranhas. They devoured the fuselage of the Focke-Wulf, ripping and hacking at its wings. By the time James stopped firing, the flaming hunk of mutilated metal in front of him was barely recognisable as a plane. The cockpit sprung open and the pilot ejected. James pulled up to avoid the falling wreckage that was once a Focke-Wulf. In doing so, he flew directly past the ejected pilot. For a split – second, they had eye contact, each boy glared at the other. As James became to climb again, he looked in his rear view mirror. He saw the flaming wreckage of the Focke-Wulf careering back down to the ground, followed by its pilot, whose parachute had just deployed.
"Fix that, dickhead." James quipped to himself with a smile of glee. His moment of triumph was short-lived. Suddenly, green tracer rounds shot past his window, several of which ripped directly through his fuselage. Swearing into his oxygen mask, he yanked on his control stick, rolling the plane in an evasive manoeuvre. He looked into his rear view mirror. Behind him were two planes; tailing him was a Bf 109, and trailing behind it, the hulking silhouette of an Me 410, its twin Daimler-Benz engines shrieking satanically. His headset crackled to life.
"James, you've got two hostiles on your six!" It was Connor. James spun his head to the right and to see his Hurricane trundling along through the air. His plane had evidently taken a bit of a beating, and was trailing light grey smoke. On closer inspection, he could see that the Hurricane was flying slightly lopsided.
"Connor, you've taken some hits mate." James replied into his mic.
"Never mind me, get the fuck…" Conor was cut off by more rounds ripping through the air, just grazing his left wing.
"Jesus Christ!" James grabbed the stick and yanked it to the right. Those weren't tracer bullets, they were cannon rounds. The Me 410 had got a shot on him, and had missed by the smallest margin.
"James you've got to lose that 410, if he gets another shot on you you're fucked." The Bf 109 let loose another volley of tracer rounds. The shots didn't get anywhere close to his aircraft, but shocked him into action.
"Connor, I'm gonna try and lose the 410 in that cloud over at ten o'clock."
"What about the Bf 109?"
"Maintain your altitude, I'll lead him right up to you." Connor took some time to process this and reply.
"Alright, go for it."
"I'm going in." James sharply pushed his stick forward, forcing his Spitfire to enter a steep decline. As he predicted, the Bf 109 followed. Unfortunately, so did the 410. James grabbed the throttle control and shoved it up to full power. He looked at his speedometer. 748 Kilometres per Hour.
"Faster." He whispered to himself. He pushed the stick forward even further, taking the plane into a dive. He looked in the rear view mirror to see both enemy aircraft following him. He pushed the stick as far forward as possible, bringing the plane into a completely vertical position. 897 Kilometres per Hour.
"Good enough." He thought to himself. He took a deep breath, and proceeded the wrench the control stick backwards. The entire frame of the plane audibly creaked as he rapidly pulled out of the dive and headed for the cloud. The G force was almost unbearable. He forced his eyes open and turned his head to look out of the cockpit window. The Bf 109 had managed to pull out of the dive and was continuing to pursue him. Luckily for James, his manoeuvre had caught the pilot of the 410 off guard. He could see him laboriously pulling his 6,000 kilo aircraft out of a dive. By the time the Munich Academy pilot was flying horizontally once more, James had disappeared into the clouds, followed closely by the 109.
"I don't know about you David, but I think that was a very well executed manoeuvre."
"I'm going to have to agree with you there Larry. Whilst the Munich Academy's Messerschmitt 410 has astonishing firepower, its weakness lies in its turning speed, it just can't keep up with the lighter St. George's aircraft!"
"That there was James Wright of St. George's School, he's one of the youngest on the team and has had an excellent tournament so far. We've already seen him take down Gerhard Muller's Focke-Wulf which was a big loss for the Munich Academy, Muller having the second highest kill rate in the team!"
"I'd say he's one to watch out for in the future Larry."
"Well David, let's hope he can turn the tables for this St. George's team who are currently six planes down, they only have 8 aircraft left compared to Munich Academy's 15! They're completely outnumbered!"