Eagles at War by Walter J. Boyne

himself, "There I go again—I'm here to learn, not to teach." But he recalled his last combat flight, in Spain, in 1937, and how he and his old comrade Lacalle had flown farther apart, able to fly formation easily and still scan for the enemy. It was at times like this when he wanted to believe in an afterlife, to think that Lacalle was somehow looking down at him, preparing to take care of him, just as he had in the old days.
    *
    Above the English Channel/September 15, 1940
    Josten squinted into the bright blue afternoon sky, searching for the little dots that would appear from nowhere and try to kill him. His eyes traversed the horizon from north of London toward Land's End, noting the changing striations of color above the cliffs' chalky smear. The variegated countryside was tan and dull green to the north, growing stripe by stripe to a viridian brightness in the far south. While he and his comrades had fought their long battle, summer had drained June's bursting green glow to the sere tans that forecast an early winter. With luck, perhaps a peaceful early winter.
    The Royal Air Force could not hold out much longer according to the intelligence reports, straight from "Beppo" Schmid at Luftwaffe Headquarters. Schmid, whose unremitting optimism had destroyed his credibility weeks ago, had again pronounced that the poor "chaps" flying the vulnerable Hurricanes and the nasty Spitfires had been worn down to a pitiful handful.
    And yesterday the RAF attacks on the bombers had been poorly coordinated and not pressed home, perhaps a sign that they were indeed losing their nerve. Josten eased out his right foot from the retaining strap of the rudder bar and stamped it upon the cold metal cockpit floor of his Messerschmitt, muttering, "Wishful thinking."
    Below them, in an aerial staircase stacked up and back from twenty thousand feet, flew 150 bombers, mostly Heinkel He Ills with a few Dornier Do 17s mixed in. The bomber pilots were obviously tired, letting their prescribed tight mutual defense formations straggle into lengthening oblong ovals. Wearily courageous, they plodded implacably toward an already burning London.
    The whole scene looked strangely different to him after last night's conversation with Galland. Yesterday the bombers had seemed lethal and purposeful; today he realized what a puny force they really were.
    It was like a tug of war, he thought, each side mustering its dwindling strength, trying to make the last-gasp effort to overwhelm the other. Both sides were worn and battle weary. He wondered if the RAF intelligence was as bad as the Germans'. Maybe they'd just fight until there was no one left.
    Josten reached up and ran his finger around the edge of his oxygen mask, letting the perspiration seep out. The prospect of combat made his senses more acute, and he could smell in the arid oxygen a scent of the hay stacked in neat little triangles along the strip at Caffiers.
    They were flying as the staff flight in a two-ship Rotte, a loss-induced departure from the usual four-aircraft Schwarm the Luftwaffe had employed since Spain. He glanced across the 175-meter gap that separated him from his leader. The yellow nose of Adolf Galland's Messerschmitt Bf 109E fighter glistened vividly in the hot afternoon sun. The Emil, capable of 570 kilometers per hour, was loafing along at 450. It banked slightly as Galland ceaselessly checked for enemy aircraft, and on the gray-green fuselage side, beneath the canopy, Josten could see his leader’s personal insignia, the bloodthirsty Mickey Mouse, smoking a cigar and holding a battle ax in one hand—paw?—and a pistol in the other.
    The pair of them were lucky, on a free chase while the rest of their squadron mates below were still confined to a close protective weaving orbit over the slow bombers, per the embarrassed Reichs marschall Goering's orders. Just one month ago, on Eagles Day, he had promised the Fuehrer a victory within five days.
    It had been easier said than