Summary: Hogan reports to his new unit.
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 October 2002****
Saturday AUG 17 1940//0700hrs local
HQs, Hillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge Home of 11 Fighter Squadron, 11 Group****
Before the staff car came to a full stop, Hogan had the rear passenger door open. Before the driver had shut off the engine, Hogan was standing on the pavement. Additionally, as the veteran driver, a US Army Master Sergeant with several campaign ribbons on his right chest came around back, Hogan was already removing his bags from the trunk.
"Sir! I promised the general I'd get you here in one piece! And you jumping out of my vehicle while it's still moving--"
"Come on, Murphy! I've had to jump out of planes before. How tough can it be to step out of a moving car?"
"I don't think it's quite the same thing, sir--the ground being a lot closer and all!" Realizing that his sarcasm was lost on Hogan, Murphy rolled his eyes and instead made a grab for the bags. "Here, sir, let me help you with those--!"
"Murph, how many times do I gotta tell you? I carry my own weight--and my own bags!" Reluctantly, MSgt. Murphy nodded. His yearlong association with Hogan had made him grow to respect the officer and know there was no point in arguing with him.
"As you wish, sir," Murphy sighed, stepping back until he was sure Hogan had all his gear. "And, sir?" Hogan gave him a questioning look. "Give 'em Hell!" He snapped off a smart salute, executed a sharp about face, and opened the driver's side door. About to climb in, he paused, and looking over at Hogan grinned and gave him a 'thumbs up.'
Smiling, Hogan returned the gesture, and then watched until the staff car disappeared down the long flight line. Taking a deep breath, he took a moment to look around his new home. Hillingdon Air Base was large by RAF standards and officially listed as being 'co-located' with HQs RAF Fighter Command in Uxbridge. The big brass used it when they were shuttled in and out of the immediate area.
Thankfully, it was actually a good six-kilometer walk between 11 Fighter Squadron and Hogan's old office in Bentley Priory. "My 'old office,'" he repeated ruefully. I've been gone a whole hour and I'm already thinking of my liaison job in the past tense.
A sign in front of the building stated: HQs, Hillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge Home of 11 Fighter Squadron, 11 GroupStanding in front of the headquarters building, Hogan thought back to what he saw as they had driven into Hillingdon Air Base through the southeast gate. They had passed several outbuildings, including four maintenance hangars and several Quonset huts on the way--officer and 'other ranks' living quarters, a fire station, small hospital, rec hall, mess hall, etc.
Dominating the airfield like a giant sentry, the requisite, 25-foot control tower stood overlooking a large parade field, which separated the buildings from the runway.
But Hogan was no longer paying attention to his surroundings, because his eyes had been drawn to something much more intriguing. On the parade field, lined up in perfect military precision stood the last hope of Great Britain--a squadron of Submarine Spitfires. Grinning suddenly, he murmured, "My Spitfires!"
Hogan felt a thrill shoot through him. Momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to report to the base commander, he instead dropped his bags, and crossed over to where the Spitfires waited for the next squadron scramble.
Unable to help himself, he lovingly ran his hand along the fuselage as he walked around and under the plane. He inspected the built-in, wing-mounted gun ports--four Browning .303mm machineguns that gave the Spitfire its exceptional killing power. Furthermore, the Merlin IV engine, combined with the plane's unique, wider wing design made the Spitfire one of the fastest, most highly maneuverable fighters in the air.
He climbed onto the starboard wing, mindful of where he stepped, and opened the canopy. Expertly, he did a cursory check of the instrumentation. Looking around the airfield, he realized that he was the lone figure out this early in the morning and an impish glint suddenly flashed across his dark eyes.
On impulse, he climbed into the cockpit, trying to get a feel for it. Like a little boy with a new toy, he inspected the instruments, while running his hand lovingly along the joystick, enjoying its natural feel against his palm.
"Yeah, baby...just how I like it..."
A discreet cough brought him back. Hogan turned guiltily at the sound. A tall, good-looking man leaned casually on the starboard wing, gazing up at him. About Hogan's age and with a military bearing, he was dressed casually in a white turtleneck sweater and uniform trousers. He puffed on a pipe and his dark hair ruffled slightly in the early morning breeze.
Embarrassed at being caught, Hogan sheepishly climbed down. "Sorry 'bout that, Mac. This your plane?"
"Actually, Major...Hogan, is it...?" Mildly surprised that the stranger knew whom he was, Hogan merely nodded. "I believe it's yours." The other man smiled and held out his hand. "I'm Wing Commander James Roberts--the base commander." He gave a broad wave that took in the their surroundings. "Just about everything you see here is my responsibility. Including these." He indicated the Spitfires. "And--for better or worse, Major--yours as well."
Roberts turned and headed back towards the headquarters building. As he walked, he called cheerily over his shoulder, "Oh, by the way...welcome aboard!"
"Thanks," Hogan muttered.
A large banner greeted Hogan as he stepped through the door leading into his new home: 'Kill or Be Killed!' Making no comment, he instead gave Roberts an askance look of appraisal and followed him through the outer office where a lone WAAF was on duty. She quickly looked up from her typewriter as they entered and addressed Roberts.
"Sir, Group Captain Gordon called to confirm your appointment for this afternoon."
"Thank you, Fitz," Roberts said, without breaking stride. As they passed her, Hogan gave her a friendly nod and smile. She nodded in return and dutifully went back to her typing. From farther down the hall, Hogan heard the steady clacking of typewriters and a phone ringing in another office. Just the dull, daily routine of an army at war, he mused.
****
As soon as the two senior officers moved on, Aircraftswoman 1st Class Mary Fitzpatrick grabbed her telephone and dialed. Down the hall, the phone was picked up on the second ring by her best chum, Aircraftswoman 2nd Class Edith Simmons.
"He's here!" Fitzpatrick whispered excitedly before the other had a chance to speak. "The Yank! And Edith...he's just like Alice described him--absolutely dreamy!"
In the other office, Simmons let out a squeak and promptly covered her mouth, looking around nervously to see if her supervisor might be watching. All clear for now. "Oh, Fitz, do tell me everything--!" She suddenly caught sight of her immediate superior. "Uh-oh. Gotta go."
"The dragon lady?" Fitzgerald asked sympathetically.
"--Is on an intercept vector even as we speak."
"Oh, pooh! I'll fill you in at lunch. How's that?"
"Jolly good," Simmons replied. "See you then."
Smiling, Fitzpatrick slowly hung up the phone and sat back. She closed her eyes, bringing up the image of the American officer's dark good looks in her mind. She recalled the flash of dimples when he smiled at her.
"Absolutely dreamy," she murmured with an exaggerated sigh.
****
"Tea?" Roberts asked. He and Hogan were in his small, cluttered office.
"No, thanks," Hogan said not quite hiding a shudder. "I'm afraid that I'm not much of a tea drinker." Roberts smiled slightly at Hogan's reaction.
"Of course. You Yanks prefer coffee, I believe," he said. Hogan nodded. "I'm afraid that coffee is in rather short supply at the moment. The war, you know."
"That's all right, sir. I had a cup this morning already."
Hogan sat upright on a straight-backed chair, and while he waited for Roberts to take a seat, studied his surroundings. One entire wall was covered with a map of 11 Group's area of operations. Several pins marked the locations of the other airfields and the squadrons assigned to the Group. So far that summer, 11 Group had faced most of the raids from across the English Channel, augmented largely by elements from 12 Group immediately to the north.
No. 11 Squadron had been on continuous standby for several weeks, with its latest skirmish just the day before. They had lost three planes and one pilot. The other two pilots had bailed successfully. Roberts had asked for and received three replacement planes and one replacement pilot--Hogan.
"Erickson, poor chap, was 11 Squadron Leader and my executive officer," Roberts said as he sat down. "You'll be replacing him. Eric was a good man...recently engaged. Blasted war!" Roberts slammed an open palm on his desk in sudden agitation. Sitting back, he covered his inner tumult by taking a sip from his tea. Finally, regaining control, he shook his head.
"I'll be perfectly honest with you, Major. When I received your orders this morning, I thought someone in HQ was playing a bad joke. You're expected to replace one of the best squadron leaders in 11 Group." He set his empty teacup aside, reached for his pipe, and lit it. Taking several long puffs, he gave Hogan a hard measuring look.
"You have an impressive record, Maj. Hogan--graduated third in your flight training school, served as a flight instructor for three years..." He paused reading over the file before him. "It even shows here that you're qualified on Spitfires and Hurricanes--and a few other aircraft--but you have no combat experience.
"Please don't take this wrong...but I simply don't need a squadron leader who's never seen combat. I need someone that I can entrust the lives of my men to, especially if anything happens to me. Also, Erickson was well-liked and respected by the men...I'm afraid that--" He stopped, unsure of how to continue.
"Look, sir," Hogan began. "I know that I'm an outsider and that it may take the men a little longer to fully accept me. I don't intend on trying to replace Erickson or anyone else in the hearts of the men. I'm here to do my job, and you have my word that I'll always give you 110 percent!"
"And I'll expect nothing less from you!" Roberts snapped. Both men glared at each other. Roberts stood suddenly and moved over to the lone window in his office. It overlooked the parade field and the squadron's twelve fighters.
Relenting, Roberts spoke quietly. "11 Squadron has other problems, Hogan. Poor morale, I'm afraid. They've suffered most of the Group's losses these past few weeks. I've overheard some of the officers while they're just sitting around talking. Some are beginning to believe that the squadron is somehow jinxed--a real hard-luck outfit or something--"
"Sir, if you'll excuse me," Hogan interrupted. "But I think that that's a load of bunk! You know as well as I that there's no such thing as a jinx! Or a hard-luck outfit! We make our own luck--through training and discipline. And in every man doing his job."
Roberts nodded. "I agree with you, of course. But you'll have a tough, uphill battle to bring them out of the black hole that they've allowed themselves to sink into." Sighing, Roberts shook his head.
"And Eric...he shouldn't have been leading the squadron yesterday. He hadn't stood down for almost 48 hours. I'd ordered him to bed, when we received the bloody 'Squadron Scramble' alert." Roberts stared out the window for a few minutes without speaking, puffing quietly on his pipe. Hogan waited, not breaking the silence.
"Eric was a good officer," Roberts repeated, almost to himself. "But he felt too much." He turned and faced Hogan. "Eric couldn't bear to send men to their deaths any longer. So he went in their stead. I spoke with the Flight Surgeon and was determined to ground him for good, but Eric convinced me that all he needed was a few days rest and relaxation. Like a fool, I agreed. That was about four weeks ago. When he came back, everything seemed fine. He was properly rotating his pilots and taking his fair turn. And then he lost two men..."
Roberts shook his head. "I should have grounded him when I had the bloody chance." Sighing, he turned back to the window and the view of the flight line. "Major, you're right when you say you're an outsider--and on top of that, you're a bloody Yank to boot." He gave a short laugh. "No offense meant."
"No offense taken, sir," Hogan said with an easy grin. "Of course, I'm from Connecticut--which makes me a true-blue Yankee. I wouldn't call a fella from south of the Mason-Dixon line a Yank, if I were you."
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Roberts said, also grinning. The next moment, he grew thoughtful. "It could be to your advantage...being an outsider, I mean. The squadron has been coddled so long that maybe what those men need is a good swift kick in the pants."
"And maybe something or someone to concentrate on instead of feeling sorry for themselves?" Hogan asked. He looked speculatively at Roberts.
Feeling more relaxed than either had when they had entered Roberts' office, the men smiled across at each other. "Now, Major--or rather, I should say, 'Squadron Leader'--why don't we get you situated? First off, let's see about getting you into a proper uniform."
****
By late morning, Hogan's US Army uniform had been replaced by RAF blue. He had drawn several other items from the quartermaster, to include a weapon and shoulder holster. He carefully laid out the rest of the gear on his bunk: gas mask, Mae West jacket, parachute, sheepskin-lined flying boots, flight-suit (which he knew most pilots never bothered to wear), and fleece-lined leather jacket.
As Roberts' executive officer, Hogan was entitled to private quarters for which he was thankful. He looked around the tiny cubicle. It was not much to look at, but it would be home for the next few months or so--Depending. He decided not to dwell on the 'depending' part.
Catching sight of a family portrait on his small desk, he paused for a moment. It was taken a few months prior to his being assigned to England and his brother Ryan, a Navy pilot, to the Pacific Fleet. Both men were in their respective uniforms, standing behind their proud parents.
Studying the photo, Hogan thought guiltily of his parents and the effect his decision would have on them. He needed to write them and let them know. He had not told them earlier of his efforts to transfer to the RAF, because he did not wish to worry them needlessly. But now they had to be told. A Spitfire pilot's lifespan was sometimes measured in hours, if not minutes.
It's not like they haven't been expecting it, though. Even Ryan's talked about joining the Flying Tigers.
Casting off the sudden gloom that threatened to engulf his excitement, Hogan quickly began to put away his gear. He hung up his extra uniforms in a metal wall locker and neatly stowed the rest of his equipment in a footlocker. He next made up his bunk with West Point precision. On impulse, he took out a coin from his pocket and tossed it on the bunk. It bounced several times before finally coming to a rest.
"Still got it," he said with a grin. A sudden speculative look came over him. Earlier, he had walked through the squadron's officer quarters, which had been unoccupied at the time. On impulse, he had decided upon an impromptu inspection.
To describe the conditions under which the junior officers were living as 'sloppy' would be an understatement. Disgraceful was closer to the mark. The single bunks were largely unmade, or else were made up haphazardly. A noisome odor warned him that most of the sheets and blankets had not been changed in weeks.
The floors were filthy and littered with several articles of clothing and other personal effects. The windows almost did not need blackout curtains because they were practically opaque from grime. Naturally, there had been a layer of dust on every surface he had dared touch.
He did not even want to think about the reeking odors that had come from the direction of the latrine area.
Checking his watch, Hogan was surprised to see that it was almost noon; abruptly, his stomach reminded him that he had not stopped for breakfast before reporting to the squadron. Taking one final look around his quarters, he nodded in satisfaction.
"I think I know exactly where I'm going to start," he muttered and headed for the Officers' Mess.
****
Saturday AUG 17 1940//1300hrs local
Dispersal Hut, 11 Fighter SquadronHillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge
****
Hogan stood to the side, only half-listening to Roberts. Instead, he studied the faces of the officers and crew of 11 Squadron. If Hogan had believed the officers' living quarters to be in shambles, then the officers themselves were but a reflection. Not much of a spit and polish man himself, Hogan nevertheless believed that discipline began with the individual.
Hogan knew well enough that a poor outward appearance did not necessarily reflect on job performance. On the other hand, if a man were possibly suffering from low morale--as Roberts stated was the case with 11 Squadron--then there was always the danger that in time, the individual might begin to adopt some of the same slovenly attitude towards the job.
Before long, such carelessness might get him or his men killed...
"...And I know that you'll give your new Squadron Leader the same cooperation that you gave Squadron Leader Erickson. Squadron Leader Hogan--?" Hogan snapped to attention and quick-timed towards Roberts. Standing before the senior officer, he snapped a sharp salute. Roberts returned it, and then moved off towards his office. Hogan, who had his back to the squadron formation, took one step forward and executed an about face.
"At ease--I mean, 'Stand easy,'" he said with a self-deprecating grin. "Sorry, fellas...I'll get the commands down one of these days. Hopefully before the war's over." His comments were met with brief, uneasy laughter and a few doubtful looks. RAF oral commands were slightly different from that of the US Army. It was as good a way as any to break the ice.
"First, I'd like to say how proud I am to be here and in this uniform. In the past few months, I've been highly impressed by all the pilots and crews that it's been my privilege to accompany as a neutral observer. However, I was beginning to feel a little bit like a paying customer at the Roman Coliseum--" He received a few snickers at this from the enlisted men, or 'other ranks' as they were called. "--So, I requested a transfer to the RAF, and well, here I am. I know that you will give me your full cooperation, and I assure you that you'll get the same from me."
He pulled out a small notebook from his breast pocket. He'd already memorized the names and numbers, but nevertheless made a show of checking it over carefully.
"Flight Lieutenants Debney and Lee--front and center!" Two young men dressed in rather hit-or-miss pretexts of a uniform stepped forward reluctantly. Catching sight of a pink scarf around Lee's neck, Hogan's eyebrow went up, but he did not comment.
"Flight Sergeant Muldoon!" he called. A craggy-faced NCO dressed in clean coveralls and a Glengarry cap came forward. The Glengarry was the first sign of headgear Hogan had spotted. In fact, he noted that the other ranks were dressed in proper uniforms and appeared more like professional soldiers than any of his officers. "The rest of you, smoke 'em if you've got 'em."
Jerking his head to the side, he called the three men into a huddle.
****
Pilot Officers Stephens and Halliday watched their new flight leader, curious as to what he was discussing with Flight Lieutenants Debney and Lee. They could not tell much from Hogan's expression, but Debney and Lee both looked like they had just bitten into a sour lemon. The next instant, the section leaders snapped a salute and ran in the direction of their quarters.
"What d'you suppose that's all about, Dickie?" Stephens asked.
Halliday shrugged, looking completely uninterested in the proceedings. Sighing, he sat down on the soft, grassy field and moments later, leaned back on his elbows oblivious to whatever his new flight leader was up to.
"Who cares?" he muttered. He lit a cigarette and smoked quietly for a few moments. He turned his upper body slightly away from Stephens so that his friend could not see that his hands were shaking. "I still can't believe Eric bought it." And that I almost did, too.
In his mind, Halliday relived those heart-stopping seconds in the cockpit: The controls shot; acrid smoke in his eyes, mouth and nose; the Spitfire in a death spiral; all the while knowing that he was going to crash and that there was nothing he could do about it.
The nightmarish struggle to open the canopy haunted him, as did the terrifying, out-of-control freefall, tumbling head over heels. When his hand had at last closed around the ripcord, he had not believed he was safe until he saw the parachute billowing overhead.
"...And can you believe we've got a bloody Yank for a flight leader?" Stephens was asking. "The group commander must hate us or something."
"Right-o, Steve," Halliday said sarcastically. "I can just see it--each morning when he wakes up, Air Vice-Marshal Park says to himself, 'Now what do you suppose I can do today to muck up that hated 11 Squadron?'"
"You know what I mean--!" Stephens protested. However, before Halliday could answer, they saw that Flight Lieutenants Debney and Lee had returned at the double, each in full uniform. And Stephen noted that Lee's ever-present pink scarf was gone. Debney and Lee came to a stop at attention, and waited for Hogan, who was busy with Flight Sergeant Muldoon
"Hello? Now what--?" Halliday muttered, standing slowly. Stephens shook his head.
"Dickie, I don't exactly know what's going on," Stephens murmured, "but I think I hate it already."
****
Two hours later, Stephens knew he hated it. And from the muttered grumblings coming from the other junior officers, he was not alone.
"A bloody barracks inspection!" Stephens exclaimed, waving the wet mop he was holding for emphasis. It slopped water all over Pilot Officer Rhys-Michaels.
"Hey! Watch that thing, mate! This is my last clean uniform!"
"Oh, bugger off, RM!" Stephens growled dismissively and continued his rant. "I mean...we're on fifteen-and-fifteen, and what's the first thing he does when he takes over the squadron? He orders a barracks inspection!" Some of the others mumbled in agreement. They had been on fifteen-minute standby for fifteen hours a day, seven days a week since the first wave of German dive-bombers had swept over the English Channel in June.
"And now this Yank--who hasn't flown even one bleeding combat hour--is telling us that in order to win the war, we have to make these blasted floors gleam!"
"Well, they are rather filthy," Rhys-Michaels said reasonably. The others groaned and then proceeded to pelt him with their wet sponges. Yelping, the hapless pilot officer managed to duck into the latrine. "I say there--! That's not very sporting of you chaps..." His voice died out as he shut the door behind himself.
"Stephens! Aren't you done mopping, yet?" At Flight Lieutenant Debney's angry tone, Stephens dunked the mophead into the water bucket and sloshed it rebelliously.
"Oh, bloody hell, Deb!" Stephens protested. "This is ridiculous--!"
"On the double, Pilot Officer!" Debney snapped. "Squadron Leader Hogan will be inspecting soon!" Not waiting for a reply, he whirled round and stepped out the door again.
Disgusted, Stephens crossed his arms and balanced them on top of the mop handle, addressing the barracks in general. "I reckon ol' Goering will just shiver in his boots when he hears about His Majesty's latest secret weapon." With a dramatic flair, he leaned the mop handle against one of the double bunks, and taking a step back, came to attention and snapped off a sharp salute. "Sir! Pilot Officer Stephens reporting for duty! We also serve who stand and mop--Sir!"
"I'm happy you feel that way, Stephens, 'cause I have a feeling that you and that mop are gonna become real close pals in the next few weeks or so."
Everyone froze in place. Then as one, they all turned and faced the dark, smiling eyes of their new flight leader.
Stephens swallowed nervously. I don't think I like the looks of that smile.
****
Thirty minutes later, Stephens (as well as the other officers of 11 Squadron) definitely knew that he did not like his new squadron leader's smile.
"...And each morning immediately following roll call, you will each fall out with your respective ground crew and personally pull maintenance checks on your assigned planes. Flight Sergeant Muldoon will be in charge of the operation. Whatever he says goes! Are there any questions?"
"Yes, sir! I have a question." Halliday stepped forward. He calmly withstood Hogan's glare.
"Go on...Pilot Officer Halliday isn't it?"
"What is this all about, sir? What's with all the spit and polish? Number 11 Squadron's been on the frontlines since June. I think we know something about fighting and flying without having to resort to--" He stopped suddenly, unsure of the amused twinkle that flitted across Hogan's eyes.
"Go on, Halliday...without having to resort to what?" Hogan took a step forward. "Without having to resort to clean sheets and blankets? Or how about clean latrines? Do you happen to have some kind of an aversion to personal hygiene?"
Halliday shook his head. "No, of course, not, sir. It's just that--" He paused uncomfortably.
"--It's just that I could smell the officers' quarters long before I saw them," Hogan said quietly. "Sorry, fellas, but I guess Mr. Churchill forgot to outfit this place with maid service. From here on, your quarters will be maintained in a high state of readiness. Furthermore, every officer will be expected to stand a morning roll call formation at 0600 hours. At that time, you're mine! So take care of whatever personal business you need to do prior to that."
"What if we have a squadron scramble?" Rhys-Michaels asked timidly.
"Then you'll be airborne in two minutes flat or I'll know the reason why!"
"Two minutes?" Stephens asked.
"That's standard operating procedure, gentlemen," Hogan said. Looking each officer squarely in the face, he added, "I've read the squadron reports going back a five weeks. In the last six scrambles, B Flight has taken well over five minutes to be completely airborne, and A Flight six minutes. I don't need to tell you that every minute it takes you to be wheels up costs you a thousand feet in altitude."
"That's all well and good, sir," another man spoke up. Halliday saw that it was 'Tommy' Thompkins, the quietest man in the squadron. "But what does all that have to do with our standing formations and pulling daily maintenance on the planes. The ground crews are all fantastic at their jobs. What do they need us for? We'll only be in the way."
"Good question, Thompkins," Hogan replied. "Your job is going to be to learn everything you can about your plane. And this isn't just me bringing heat--a pilot who doesn't know how to maintain his own aircraft is a fool." His cold gaze dared them to challenge him. The moment passed and his hard look was replaced by mild amusement, giving him a surprisingly boyish look.
"I think that I can promise you a few changes around here in the next few days," he said. "We're on a moving train that's picking up speed. So far the Jerries have concentrated their attacks to airfields and other outlying areas. It won't be long before they begin to concentrate on large, populated cities--like London--in order to break the backs of all you Brits.
"The difference between being wheels up in two minutes as opposed to six could mean whether or not a London neighborhood--maybe even the one you grew up in--survives another day." The young pilot officers exchanged reluctant nods.
"Flight Lieutenant Debney is forthwith my exec and A Flight leader. Flight Lieutenant Lee is the squadron training officer and B Flight leader. Flight Sergeant Muldoon is Squadron Sergeant Major." He paused in an effort to give the men a chance to digest the information as well as to try to gauge their reaction. "You will give these men your full cooperation. Are there any questions?" No one spoke. "Very well. Flight Leaders take charge. Dismissed."
As the men broke into two smaller groups, Hogan stopped Muldoon. "Flight Sergeant?" Muldoon turned. "My plane. Is it ready for a check flight?"
"Aye, sir. As ready as can be expected. She's a rebuilt model--and not one of those straight off the assembly line flying bucket of bolts!" Hogan grinned at Muldoon's words. The Flight Sergeant had little respect for the Spitfire mass production effort. Like it as not, most new planes had so many unique maintenance problems that it made them rather problematic to fly.
"How about the other two new planes? For Pilot Officers Halliday and Stephens? Are they also ready for a check flight?"
"Aye, sir...that they are."
"Good! Have them fueled and ready on the flight line within the next half hour. I'll go have a word with the boss and file a flight plan."
"Very good, sir!" Muldoon saluted and marched off.
****
Saturday AUG 17 1940//1600hrs local
Flight Line, 11 Fighter SquadronHillingdon Air Base, Uxbridge
****
Making his final check, Hogan gave Muldoon a thumbs up. Muldoon nodded and ducked under the plane's fuselage to remove the wheel chocks. As soon as the flight crew was clear, Hogan began to taxi down the airfield. Looking left and right, he saw that Halliday and Stephens were taxiing alongside him. Moments later, they were airborne.
Hogan took the first few minutes to simply enjoy being back in the pilot's seat. Like riding a bicycle, he thought. Checking his altimeter, he saw that they were at their designated altitude.
"This is Red Fox Leader. 10 Angels. Level off. FFI on. Acknowledge." Hogan spoke in short, terse phrases, announcing that the flight had reached fifteen thousand feet altitude and that they should level off, turn on their 'Friend or Foe Identifier' signal, and acknowledge receipt of the information.
"This is Red Fox two," Halliday said. "10 Angels--acknowledged."
"This is Red Fox three," Stephens chimed. "10 Angels--acknowledged."
"This is Red Fox Leader. Let's see what these babies got--!" With an exuberance he had not felt since flight school, Hogan began putting the planes through their paces. In unison and singly, he and the other two pilots executed precision rolls, steep dives, and power climbs.
When a lone Lancaster flew within range of their guns, they practiced an attack approach. After they 'killed' it, Hogan tipped his wings at the Lancaster crew. As he flew off, he caught sight of their nonverbal response at being used for target practice.
"Ah, the international sign of friendship," he murmured. Grinning, Hogan was about to call it a day, when Roberts' voice suddenly came on the air.
"Red Fox Leader, this is Control. Over."
"Control, this is Red Fox Leader."
"Red Fox Leader, bandits at 20 Angels. Vector 2-2-0. Acknowledge."
"This is Red Fox Leader. Acknowledged...Okay, fellas, you heard the man. Tallyho!" As if they had been flying together for ages, instead of a few hours, the three planes pealed off in the direction given, while climbing to the new altitude.
"This is Red Fox Two! Bandits at nine o'clock!" Halliday shouted excitedly. Hogan immediately saw them--three Junker-87s, escorted by two Messerschmitts!
"I seem them," he said calmly. "Tallyho, boys. Let's show 'em we don't like party crashers!"
The three Spitfires immediately banked right and split up. "Okay, fellas...the 109s are yours. Keep 'em off my back while I take care of the 87s!"
"Right-o!" Stephens and Halliday acknowledged almost simultaneously. Out of the corner of his eyes, Hogan briefly saw the other two Spitfires disappear into the sun. The next moment, the sky seemed to have been emptied of everything except him and the three German bombers. Climbing, Hogan looped and turned until he was directly behind and above the three planes.
The next second, the sky around him was filled with tracer rounds zipping past him. Instinctively, he went into a rolling dive, successfully evading the deadly fusillade. As he brought the fighter's nose back up, he saw that the three bombers still maintained their group formation, flying steadily on course. They were relying on their crew gunners and fighter escort for protection. Hogan grinned ferally as a half-formed idea suddenly flashed in his head.
"Okay, guys, you crashed my party...let me crash yours!" As he uttered these words, Hogan threw his plane into a crash dive--angled directly at the tight bomber formation. Ignoring the relentless onslaught of the enemy planes' combined firepower, Hogan kept his eyes on the cockpit of the center plane, diving straight towards it. Abruptly, the bombers seemed to go into a panic, and the three planes broke off in three different directions. Hogan went after the lead bomber.
Over his headset, Hogan could hear Halliday and Stephens as they fought a long aerial dogfight with their respective Me-109s. He saw Red Fox Two fire a sustained burst at his target, but the 109 executed a series of complicated maneuvers and evaded safely.
Even as he aligned his sights, Hogan kept a part of his concentration on what his men were doing. "This is Red Fox Leader. Don't waste your ammo! Fire only short bursts!"
As if to emphasize his point, Hogan fired off three two-second bursts. A long, black stream of oily smoke appeared suddenly from the portside wing of the Junkers-87. He fired two additional bursts, and the plane slowly began listing to port. One more salvo and the plane erupted into flames. Hogan didn't see any parachutes.
Not waiting to see it hit the ground, he went in search of the other two bombers.
"This is Red Fox Leader. Status report." As he spoke, Hogan banked his Spitfire until he had the second Junkers-87 in his sights.
"This is Red Fox Two. Running low on ammo and fuel." Rolling to avoid a volley of red-hot tracers, Hogan calmly sighted and fired twice. To his surprise, the 87 immediately started trailing smoke.
"This is Red Fox Three. Same here." Parachutes started appearing from the doomed plane as it fell towards its death several thousand feet below. Hogan searched for the third bomber.
"Then I suggest you eliminate your targets ASAP--before you run out of either!" Spotting the last Junkers in a cloudbank, Hogan dove after it. "These bandits are not--repeat--not going to reach their objective! Do you copy?"
"Roger, I copy," Stephens and Halliday said, their voices somewhat subdued.
"Red Fox Leader out!" Checking his own ammo and fuel status, Hogan saw that he was just about out, too. He had just enough ammo for one more pass. So, I've gotta make this good! Feeling the tension along his shoulder blades growing, Hogan took a deep breath and released it slowly.
"Tallyho! Scratch one Me-109!" Stephens called out. "Get a move on, Red Fox Two! We'll be late for supper!"
"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twitch!" Halliday retorted. "I've got 'im where I want 'im!"
"Yes...I can see that. Although being in front of your target is a unique way to 'eliminate' it, wot?"
"Knockoff the chatter!" Hogan snapped. "Red Fox Three, what's your status?"
"Out of ammo...fuel critical."
"Then get your butt back to base! You don't need me to tell you that!"
"Roger. Red Fox Three out!" Stephens answered in quick staccato tones.
"Red Fox Two, what's your status?"
"I'm a little busy at the moment. Red Fox Two out!"
Grimacing at the younger flyers' irreverent behavior in the air, Hogan made a mental note to thoroughly chew them out when they got back to base. If we get back to base.
Cruising just above the cloud cover, his keen eyes searched for the last bomber, but saw no sign of it. Had it somehow given him the slip? About to dive below the clouds, Hogan's patience was suddenly rewarded--the bomber emerged from cover at just that moment.
"This is Red Fox Two! Scratch one more Messerschmitt! D'you need help with that 87?"
"Negative! Head back to base!" Hogan shouted, only half-listening. He lined the bomber in his crosshairs and fired the last of his ammo. Instantly, the bomber exploded in a fireball! Astounded, Hogan could only watch in awe as the enemy plane literally disintegrated before him. "Bulls eye," he whispered.
"Bloody hell...you must've hit the bomb bay," Halliday said, stunned.
Hogan waited just long enough to ensure that there would be no parachutes from this plane either. Banking his Spitfire, he called out, "This is Red Fox Leader. Let's head home."
****
End of Part 3