Four: Spilt Milch

ACHTUNG! ACHTUNG! INITIATE FALL BRUNHILDE!

“ADLERAUGEN,” OBERKOMMANDO DER LUFTWAFFE REICHSLUFTVERTEIDIGUNGSZENTRUM

WILHEMSTRAUSSE, GAU BERLIN

GENERALFELDMARSCHALL ADOLF GALLAND

GENERALSTABCHEF, OBERKOMMANDO DER LUFTWAFFE

1103 LOCAL, 17 JAN 1945

Adolf Galland’s face began to crease into a slight smile as the operations director of the ADLERAUGEN—the Reich’s central air defense operations center, a sprawling command and control complex beneath the Aviation Ministry Building—counted down from ten. The operations center was still, only the director’s voice violated the quiet.

Their ground-based radars had nearly burned through the pesky Allied electronic countermeasures. They’ve gotten too reliant on their tricks, but they won’t be able to hide behind them now. A major formation of large aircraft, almost certainly heavy bombers, had been briefly detected by the Reich’s primary early warning radar array at Bergen before Berlin lost contact with the site. Whatever the status of the array, it had detected several hundred Allied aircraft sortieing south from over Shetland.

Once stripped of their electromagnetic blanket, the Allied formation would be easy pickings for three Jagdgeschwaders of Me 325s. The Americans called the fighter the “Foxbat,” his pilots called them “Dobermänner” for their tall vertical stabilizers. They were his best fighters and pilots, and they had rightfully earned a fearsome reputation, even if it was a struggle to keep all five Jadgeschwaders operational.

They are fools enough to try to use their new bombers from Iceland and Greenland again. The Americans had hoped their new Stratofortresses could break the stalemate in the air war—but they had failed two weeks earlier. That raid resulted in a bloody air battle over the Low Countries which Galland was confident the Reich had won. The Reich had been less than successful in France. Allied tactical airpower had been unleashed after the Winter Offensive, Operation WOTAN, had stalled short of their objective. Generalfeldmarschall Model had carved a two-hundred-kilometer slash from Tours to Cognac, but had failed to reach the Allies’ supply hub at Boudreaux. And really, it was the Heer’s fault that their tactical air defense was inadequate.

“Six… Five… Four…” The colonel in charge of the ADLERAUGEN staff announced emotionlessly, “Three… Two… One… Burn through complete, display updating now.” The officers and men in the room began to buzz like bees as they handed printed documents and cassettes to each other, running numbers and sending electric dispatches. Galland sat back in his seat, rested a hand on the conference table, and looked over to his superior. Puffing away on his cigar the Commander-in-Chief of the OKL, Generalfeldmarschall Erhard Milch had his eyes locked forward.

The primary air plot was a collection of CRT monitors that covered the far wall, ahead of all the staff men’s working stations. The green displays froze for a moment longer than a normal update tick. Then, they were freed from the blizzard of jamming static as the new returns from the main Graðr radars at Esens, Cuxhaven, and Sankt Peter filtered across two hundred miles of subterranean cabling. The data made the ace’s stomach curdle. Galland should have been staring at a clear picture of their decisive advantage, one that would allow the Ju 390E-2 Kran aerial control aircraft circling over Jutland to feed the Jagdwaffe’s best the information they needed to pick apart and destroy the incoming raid.

I should be smiling like that Cheshire cat.

Adolf Galland was no longer smiling.

The lit cigarette dropped from his lip and tumbled into his lap. He instinctively rose to his feet. The room was silent. The staff looked up at the main plot as the noise of the mechanical ticker, which tracked the number of enemy aircraft, came alive. Like a runaway cog, it clacked away as the number soared. It did not stop. It did not falter. Even as it screamed past a hundred air contacts. More and more red arrows popped up over England, a column of pixelated arrowheads screamed north. At the same time hundreds came straight down over the North Sea, right for the German Coast.

“That Yankee Andrews and his dogs have left their kennel,” the dashing-pilot-turned-gold-braided-bureaucrat murmured as he reached for the red phone between himself and Milch. His direct superior, eyes affixed on the display, nodded as Galland lifted the receiver to his ear, “Scramble alert fighters. Initiate Fall Brunhilde Contingency.”

The Combined Allied Air Forces wanted a decisive air battle.

Galland would give them that and more.

---

HANGAR C, CERTAIN FORCES ACTIVITY, RAF DUNSINANE

PERTHSHIRE, SCOTLAND, UNITED KINGDOM

LIEUTENANT GENERAL JAMES DOOLITTLE, USAAFR (GSF)

GENERAL COMMANDING, OPERATION NORTHERN WIND / CHIEF OF STAFF, ALLIED EXPEDITIONARY AIR FORCES

0503 LOCAL, 17 JAN 1945

Jimmy Doolittle walked along the taxiway toward the open hangar at a determined clip. The tarmac was slick. Rain pattered on the ground and his cover’s plastic wrap. He felt the sweat underneath his wool overcoat and gloves. Before him lay a massive four-engine jetliner painted in the standard USAAF two-tone olive drab and gray. A large dish sat above its back like a strange beret. It was an intimidating beast. It was greater than twice the length and width of the B-25 Doolittle had flown over Tokyo, and more than ten times heavier. Waiting at the foot of the stairs up to the cabin was a woman in a flight suit with greying hair and a sour look on her face. She tapped a foot impatiently as he upped his hustle. The ground crew was abuzz with final checks, he was late—and he knew it all too well.

She waved him over, “You’re almost two hours late.” Doolittle saw the single silver star on each of shoulder, a tag marked her as Commodore Savannah “Crone” Nasbee. She was a Cert officer if had ever seen one, and he had seen many. “We were about to leave without you.”

Crone? I hope she is wise and not just rude.

“Train broke down at Larbert. Roads are clogged with deuce and halfs hauling fuel and munitions.” Doolittle put on a polite face, “Something has sent the demand for jet fuel and missiles through the roof.” Nasbee snorted and returned the smile. “None of them were heading here, shocking as that may be. I had to telephone and get an old pal to bring over a rotorcraft to take me out this-a-way.” Doolittle’s warm presentation was little more than his attempt to crease over his anxiety and hide the fact that he had spent the better part of three hours running and shouting. Bastards wouldn’t give me a damn ride. Being late for the biggest air operation of the war was far from an auspicious start. “So my apologies, Commodore. Wish I had one of those cellular phones.”

“I get that, sir; I miss mine, on god, no cap. Well, I’m happy you made it, sir. Cat—Rear Admiral Mitscher, I mean—would’ve killed me if I got a Charlie India killed in an accident, you especially. But we really need to get rolling.” She motioned up the stairs. Doolittle ascended, and the Crone followed.

Doolittle's voice turned to a dour, composed tenor, “What’s our status?”

“Weather is stable at mediocre visibility, so on net good for us. FREIGHT TRAIN finished tanking over Iceland thirty mikes ago, and they’re heading on in, so we’d better get up in the air. We’ll be able to get a better picture than MOUNTAINTOP once we’re there.”

“JACK KNIFE? Our talker birds?”

“Commodore Nakamura is already airborne, and they’re tanking west of Orkney. The first twenty Warning Stars are up in the air; the next twenty are taking off now; the final twenty start launching in an hour. Guess we’ll find out if all our Valks are as good as they say.” She paused as they both entered the cabin, “You got a flight suit?”

Doolittle lifted his attaché case and shrugged, “This is all I brought with me, left my staff in some godawful pub in a dreary hamlet.”

“We got a spare one. Let’s get you suited up and to your station.” Doolittle had been given this assignment as he was the most technically proficient senior officer in Europe, outside of attached Highcollars. Nonetheless, he marveled at the interior of the aircraft, filled with rows of screens and solid-state computing devices. “This is Senior Chief Benton and Lieutenant Ro. They’ll be helping you.” She turned to her sailors, “Chief, Ro, can you get the General situated and dressed? I’m gonna get us rolling. We’ve gotta make up some time.” She turned back toward the flight deck and barked like a hellhound, “GUS, GET THIS FAT BITCH MOVING. SO HELP ME, GOD.” Doolittle’s cheeks went a little pink at the foul language.

His handlers were odd, as to be expected, but they were competent and respectful, which was not a given considering the irreverence of most Certs. The song and dance of awkward mutual over-politeness were refreshingly familiar. The computers on the aircraft were of an operating system that Doolittle had been trained on the year prior. He had spent six months taking classes with young soldiers, barely more than boys, and greasy warrant officers and technical sergeants, all under the tutelage of an exceedingly vulgar Highcollar Master Chief Petty Officer.

The aircraft was wheels up, as the Certs would say, eight minutes later. Doolittle was still awed by the power of these jets, though he also knew the paled in capability to what these sailors had trained on. By 0600, the aircraft was at its cruising altitude and preparing to tank from a KB-36 over Aberdeen. The air over England was filling with aircraft, all operating behind a massive wall of electronic jamming.

Doolittle stared at a screen that showed FREIGHT TRAIN, a mixed formation of just shy of two hundred B-52B and B-52A Stratofortresses and just over three hundred B-36C Peacemakers and EB-36A Screechmakers. The three strategic bombardment wings were now heading southeast over the North Sea. Each time he glanced at the nerve-wracking formation of their escorting fighters, his heart rate jumped. Almighty God, let us do this. If it worked, the Germans were in for one hell of a surprise—and an even worse day.

They’d been detected by the Nazi radar at Bergen as planned. They then whacked the array with one of the Cert’s few operational A-14Bs, what they called the “Super Dorito” (apparently a reference to some kind of snack chip). The bombers were more capable than anything short of the Cert’s single operational YA-15, but their readiness rates were abysmal like every other Cert platform. Cert technical expertise was in astronomical demand with a very fixed supply, and it had been years ago decided that a maintainer was better-used training Gennies than actually holding a wrench.

At a little past ten, the German fighters circling over Denmark and the North German Plain turned toward the main body. He paged through his display to another screen. The Germans were burning through the Screechmakers’ jamming on schedule. The Luftwaffe fighters were moving slowly, barely over Mach 1, but they started picking up speed. That this is now considered slow. Good Lord. They were verified as Foxbats by the phased array at Stoke Holy Cross a moment later. Two minutes after that, a flash message arrived from MOUNTAINTOP. One word. It was the last signal. Doolittle turned in his seat and looked back toward the Crone; she replied with a thumbs up. The General switched on his transmitter and spoke to over 10,000 aviators and air controllers from Keflavik to Rome. His message was only two words.

“Trumpeter.” He paused, “I say again. Trumpeter.”

---

SHELTER NO. 8, RAF CHURCH FELTON

CHURCH FELTON, EAST YORKSHIRE, UNITED KINGDOM

AIRCRAFTMAN FIRST CLASS ALBERT VALE, RAF

NO. 94 MAINTENANCE UNIT

1017 LOCAL, 17 JAN 1945

“Not gonna let the damn Yanks beat us into the air.” Group Captain Johnnie Johnston thundered as he strapped himself into the seat of his English Electric Lighting Mk II. The shelter hummed with activity and swirled with movement. Some erks pulled pins from the Sparrows and Sidewinders, others checked the airframe, while other readied the stacked American J7-57-350 engines. The shelter was a microcosm. The base was in a frenzy of labor. They were working up every aircraft that had been readied over the last days and weeks of work.

Aircraftman Albert Vale clambered up the ladder after No. 72 Wing’s Group Captain. He checked the commanding officer’s harness and completed the last pre-flight check as the CO finished his own. The engines came to life with a howl as the other aircrew finished their work. Johnston said something, but his voice was masked by the firing of Church Felton’s satellite American-operated Talos battery. The two pairs of twin-arm launchers were on automatic; each arm fired a telephone pole-sized missile once every fifteen seconds. Vale watched as the intermittent din became a titanic roar as the base’s alert fighters took off down the runway. They were zooming at max reheat, a cone of fire in their wake.

The Air Crew’s Sergeant barked, “Ready!” as the crew finished their work.

Vale wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a splotch of grease in its place, “So what’s going on, Sarge?” The young erk asked as the engine wailed with one last check.

Johnston smiled as he freed the wheeled ladder from the aircraft. He shouted over the din, “A right proper scrap. A damned big one too!” With a laugh, the group captain shoved Vale free from the jet. The aircraft started to trundle forward as the back of Vale’s head knocked into the far wall of the shelter. The canopy lowered as Johnston turned down the taxiway, joining a procession of fighters. A smile was the last thing on his face as he put on his oxygen mask.

The aircraft’s crew stepped outside. It was clear winter’s day. Voices across the base rose alongside fingers pointed to the sky. Vale saw what they were pointing out. There were contrails across the sky heading north. Why the Hell are they going that way?

The crew’s sergeant removed his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving a trail of grease in its place, “Shite, that’s a lot of them.”

“Are they ours?” asked one of the fresh-faced erks, barely out of school.

“If they were Huns, would they be flying like that, boyo?” The northern NCO growled dismissively.

“But the rocket battery…” The quiet, bashful voice of the young crewman was barely audible over the noise radiating off all the commotion.

“Use your eyes, Kenney.” The Sergeant indicated toward the nearest launcher, “Look at those missiles. They’ve got red-heads—that means Magnum.” Neither Kenney nor Vale knew much about the rocket, “Radar seekers. Good Lord, boys! Read the damned manuals. You’ll need to. And, they’re shooting towards…” He paused and looked back toward the missile streaks as the wind shifted them, “Holland? Why the bloody hell are we shooting them at Holland?”

The low roar that filled the air grew louder. Vale looked to Sarge. The grizzled erk snapped his neck toward the sound. His eyes grew so large that it almost seemed like they’d pop. A moment later, Vale understood why. His own eyes widened, and his jaw drooped.

A line of silver darts strung across the sky, barely off the deck, appeared across the horizon. The noise was tremendous, as if the sky itself was being ripped open. He recognized the pointed-catfish-mouthed fighters; they were Yank Super Sabres.

This wasn’t a flight but an entire Yank wing.

The 298 aircraft of the 605th Fighter-Bomber Wing came screaming over Yorkshire at 350 knots in fifty Vics, a few hundred feet off the ground. Each Hun was loaded down with as many heaters as they could carry. Each ready to join the titanic struggle soon to unfurl over the cold and choppy waters of the North Sea and the hill and mountains of southern Norway.

“Tally Ho, mates. Give Jerry what for.”