16:05 (GMT)
Saturday, September 7, 1940
Fighter Command operations room
Stanmore
The operations room at Stanmore was much larger than the one at Northolt, but the biggest improvement was about protection. While the Northolt operations room was on the ground floor of a standard brick building, the one at Stanmore was in the heart of a concrete underground bunker. Nancy, wearing her combat camouflage uniform and her pistol belt, was on the observers’ gallery on the request of Air Chief Marshal Dowding, to assist him during Operation Counterpunch. For that purpose, she had brought her laptop computer, along with her multifunction center and UPS unit. Her equipment was now ready to function on a small table in front of her. It attracted a lot of attention and whispered comments, but the proximity of the air chief marshal prevented excessive hoggling. A senior air control officer then spoke.
“Massive German formations are forming up over airbases in France and Belgium, sir.”
Dowding acknowledged the information, then gave an order to his chief of operations.
“Scramble the phase one squadrons! Have them orbit over their airfields at 20,000 feet.”
The WAAFs manning the big plotting board started to get busy, receiving plot information from radar control on their earphones. The symbols denoting the German aircraft started to head towards the British coast, now overflying the English Channel. Nancy noted that they progressively formed one huge formation as each squadron and wing joined in. Dowding saw that too.
“Confirm that the raid is not splitting up for multiple objectives.”
Radar control confirmed that within a few minutes. Dowding smiled then with satisfaction.
“Launch the phase two squadrons and have them head for their objectives.”
After a few minutes, squadrons of light bombers were plotted on the board as leaving their airfields northeast of London, heading towards the French coast at very low altitude and being careful to stay out of the path of the incoming German air armada. Dowding turned towards his chief signals officer, who was obviously waiting for his orders.
“Commence jamming the German air-ground radio frequencies.”
He then addressed his chief of operations.
“Phase one squadrons are to climb to their maximum cealing and wait above the designated kill zones, now!”
In an area east of London and about halfway between the city and the coast, over 300 Spitfire and Hurricane fighters were now climbing to their maximum altitude. All the resources of the R.A.F. were now concentrated in Operation Counterpunch to defend London. The rest of the country had been stripped temporarily of all its fighters, which had then flown secretly to airfields in southern England in the morning. Such a gamble would have been unacceptable to any sensible military leader without the kind of intelligence it was based upon. Dowding was risking everything in one big move and hoping for the jackpot.
Unknown to both German aircrews and their command staff in occupied Europe, who were trying to break through British radio jamming, four squadrons of Bristol Beaufighter fighter-bombers and eight squadrons of Blenheim light bombers, 132 aircraft in all, were about to cross the French coast at extremely low altitude, heading towards the German air defence radars dispersed along the coastline. The general locations of these radars had been extracted from Nancy’s historical datafiles on World War II and had been pinpointed during the last two days by reconnaissance aircraft. Most were only lightly defended or had no defences at all and were about to regret it, as they did not detect the approaching aircraft flying at treetop level. The Beaufighters struck first, concentrating on the air defence weapons protecting the radar sites. Their 20mm cannons and .303 calibre machineguns straffed the German defenders with little chance for the latter to fire back. By the time the Blenheims arrived, they mostly had a clear field to play on. The German radar stations fell silent within minutes of the start of the attack, with German headquarters receiving only a few panicked telephone calls for help. The irony of it was that the head of the Luftwaffe, Herman Goering, had also made a big gamble that day. Nearly all the German fighters in flying order in France, Belgium and the Netherlands were now escorting the bombers headed for London, thus no help came to the radar sites. As soon as they had completed their mission, the Beaufighters and Blenheims turned for home and a quick rearming and refuelling stop. Two Blenheims were lost, but the German defences were now blind.
16:28 (GMT)
The skies southeast of London
The first pilot to visually spot the German flying armada was Flight Sergeant ‘Grumpy’ Unwin of 19 Squadron. Well under the Spitfires of his comrades, over one thousand German aircraft were flying by as if they were on a parade. Unwin reported his sighting to Squadron Leader ‘Sandy’ Lane, who warned his pilots not to dive on the enemy yet and to wait for the signal. That signal came as soon as the British fighters were left slightly behind the German armada. Then, 24 squadrons of Spitfires and Hurricanes dove for the attack, having the advantages of surprise, altitude and speed to add to the fact that they were above and behind their enemies, where they were hardest to spot. The first salvoes of the battle were by far the most devastating, as they were fired against an unsuspecting enemy flying in a predictable straight line. After that, the sky became an incredibly confusing ballet of twisting, turning and diving aircraft.
16:40 (GMT)
Fighter Command operations room
Stanmore
“How are our fighters doing?”
Dowding couldn’t help be nervous, like everybody else in the bunker. Nancy was also nervous, remembering the first days of the NATO air campaign against Libya. Looking around reminded her though that this was not 2011: the only computer in the center was her own laptop, which screamed of anachronism in this austere room.
“Sir, our phase one squadrons are running low on ammunition and fuel. They will have to break contact in a few minutes.”
Dowding acknowledged the information from the duty officer with a nod of the head.
“Alright, scramble the phase three squadrons and have them head to their preplanned orbits. Let phase one squadrons break contact at their own discretion.”
All around the south and east coasts of England, another 234 Spitfires and Hurricanes were soon taking off. These fighters belonged to Groups ten, twelve and thirteen of Fighter Command and were normally stationned in the west, center and north of Great Britain. Their mission was now to wait in the sky for the Germans to turn home, then harass them all the way back while they were short of both ammunition and fuel. But before that, the Germans had another hurdle to cross: London itself.
Like Fighter Command had done with its fighters, the army’s anti-aircraft artillery units all around England had been moved out of position during the night and concentrated in a deep semi-circular belt of guns east and south of London. After the air raid, the area roads were going to be jammed with convoys of anti-aircraft units rushing back to their normal locations.
Finally breathing a sigh of relief after the short but murderous air engagement that had left gaping holes in their formations, the Germans stumbled into the anti-aircraft belt. Since all RAF fighters had broken contact by then, the British gunners were free to engage at will any aircraft flying over London. What the guns missed in accuracy, they made up with volume of fire, with over 400 3.7 inch guns opening fire at their maximum rate of ten rounds per minute. The air defence gunners did not shoot down more than a few aircraft, but their concentrated barrages damaged dozens of bombers and played havoc with the precision of the German bombing. The London Docks area, while suffering heavily, got a lot less than it was feared.
At Stanmore, Nancy was using a special computer program to check the remaining fuel of the German fighters. Given to her by an American friend during the Libya air campaign, the program was set up to accept the performance and fuel consumption parameters of any aircraft and then, by punching in its speed, time in flight, flying attitude and other data, be able to predict its remaining fuel and flying time left to the aircraft. She had used the last days to prepare program profiles on the main types of German aircraft, with the help of both her historical data and the technical data found by the British on downed aircraft. As the first bombs were falling on the London Docks area, Nancy turned her head towards Dowding.
“Air Chief Marshal, sir! The German Messerschmitt 109 escort fighters should be Bingo fuel in about five minutes.”
Bingo fuel was the American term for the point when an aircraft had to turn towards its base if it didn’t want to run out of fuel. A group captain sitting on her right sneered in disdain: what did an army captain and a woman to boot know about combat aircraft? Two minutes later, the chief fighter controller reported that the German fighters were turning around and heading southeast at cruising speed, leaving only twin-engined Bf 110 long-range fighters to cover the bombers. The group captain who had sneered at Nancy reddened under the severe look Dowding threw at him.
“Captain Laplante, how tight on fuel are these Bf-109s?”
“They now have probably a ten minute fuel reserve, if they stay at cruising speed and if they don’t have to maneuver for air combat, sir.”
“Excellent! Chief fighter controller, pass the following to the phase three squadrons: they are to concentrate on the German fighters returning to their bases. Make those Bf 109s burn their fuel over the Channel. Also, have the phase one squadrons follow and attack the bombers as soon as they are rearmed and refueled.”
Dowding then picked up one of the telephones in front of him, a direct line to Bomber Command headquarters.
“Hello, Charles? Dowding here! Everything is going according to plan here. You may get your big boys airborne now. Keep in touch.”
In the next ten minutes, some 260 heavy and medium British bombers took off to head towards German airfields in France and Belgium. Their hope was to arrive over the airfields and bomb them shortly after the German aircraft had landed, when trucks loaded with fuel and ammunition would be circulating around hastily parked aircraft.
17:03 (GMT)
The British coast
Major Adolph Galland, commander of the third squadron of JG 26, was apprehensive as he led what was left of his unit across the British coast and towards France. He kept looking back at the fuel gauge of his Bf 109: those full power climbs he had to perform earlier to fight off the British Spitfires had burned a lot more fuel than he had wished. He suspected that most of his pilots were at least as low on fuel as himself: they would barely make it back to Caffiers. His legendary eyesight was suddenly attracted to a group of tiny dots above and in front of his aircraft. Could it be a second wave of bombers heading for London? Even if those aircraft were effectively coming from the Southeast, they now were apparently diving on his squadron. Trying to contact the newcomers, he got only the growl of British jamming. Galland then recognised the shapes of those diving aircraft: Spitfires! Yelling a warning to his men on the radio, he started climbing, pushing his engine to maximum power. Unfortunately for Galland’s pilots, they either didn’t understand his warning over the jamming or were too stunned by surprise to react immediately: either way, it cost them dearly. Already low on ammunition and nearly out of fuel, the 452 Bf 109 fighters remaining out of the 597 who had started on this raid were caught by surprise over the waters of the English Channel by the 234 Spitfires and Hurricanes who had been waiting for them. The Germans had a cruel choice to make quickly: fight and run out of fuel over the channel or flee and be easy targets for the British. Most chose to fight, like Major Galland. He had time to shoot down one Spitfire and damage another one before his engine started sputtering. He swore when he saw that he had been only three kilometers away from the French coast Galland looked down at the Channel: the sea was choppy and the water was certainly frigid at this time of the year. Still, he now had no other choice but to bail out of his falling fighter.
17:22 (GMT)
R.A.F. Northolt
“Come on, come on!”
Flight Lieutenant Durling of 1 R.C.A.F. Fighter Squadron wished he could go out of his Hurricane and push it to accelerate his climb. He had just taken off from Northolt with three other Hurricanes after a quick refuelling and rearming stop and was hoping to catch up with the now fleeing German bombers. Other fighters were similarly being sent back in small packets as soon as they were replenished from airfields surrounding London. The fight had been brutal and costly up to now but the time for the real reward was approaching.
With a speed advantage over the retreating German bombers of at least 100 miles per hour, the Canadians caught up with their enemies as they were crossing the British coastline. Durling whooped as he looked at the group of sixty Heinkel 111 bombers trying desperately to get away from his Hurricanes: not one German fighter was in sight.
“Alright men, split in pairs and get those bastards. I don’t want to see any ammo left in your guns upon landing. Good luck!”
German gunners fired away at them like madmen, but the defensive armament of the Heinkel 111 bomber was totally inadequate against modern fighters. Durling’s four Hurricanes had shot down six of the twin-engined bombers by the time they crossed the French coastline. Totally caught up in the fight, he did not notice it until his wingman warned him.
“Bob, we’re over France! Time to go back, pal.”
“You’re kidding? Not before I finish this one off.”
Another two bursts from his machineguns finally sent his target down in flame. He was about to follow his wingman and turn towards England when a German coastal flak crew opened fire on him. 20mm shells slammed in his wings, ripping off his starboard aileron. Durling parachuted out of his doomed Hurricane just in time, simply to land practically in front of the jubilant German gunners, who quickly disarmed him and took him prisoner.
17:53 (GMT)
Lille-Nord, France
Major Winkler, commander of Second Squadron, KG 53, promised himself to get drunk once safely on the ground: this mission had been a total disaster. Lining up his Heinkel 111 carefully for landing, he lowered his landing gear, hoping that none of the numerous fresh holes in his aircraft had resulted in an hydraulic fluid leak. All worked well, thankfully. He was about to cross the treshold of the runway when all the anti-aircraft guns around the airfield started firing at once.
“What are these fools doing? These are our aircraft circling the airfield.”
“BRITISH WELLINGTON BOMBERS OVERHEAD!”
The scream from his dorsal gunner was tainted with panic, for good reasons: this was the worst possible time to be caught by the enemy. Winkler immediately pushed his throttles to maximum power and raised his landing gear for an emergency go-around. German air defence gunners had to hold fire as Heinkel 111s scattered all over the place. The first bombs fell in the midst of a group of bombers that had just landed and were lined up besides fuel trucks. The huge fireballs nearly swept away Winkler’s aircraft. He looked behind at the airfield as it was becoming a death trap for his comrades and shivered. He then looked at his horrified bombardier/navigator.
“You better find me a safe place to land soon, Hans, or you will be practicing your parachute jumping somewhere over France.”
He then swore to himself: how come those idiots at the radar sites didn’t warn them of those British bombers?
18:25 (GMT)
Fighter Command operations room
Stanmore
“The bombers are on their way back, sir. No Germans in pursuit.”
“Thank you!”
Dowding looked at Nancy with guarded optimism.
“It looks like everything worked pretty well, Captain. Now we wait for the butcher’s bill and see who gets out the winner.”
“Sir, as a war correspondent, I have seen and documented a lot of conflicts. The one thing that it teached me is that, in war, there are no winners, only losers. In this case, we can only hope to be the smallest losers.”
“How true, Captain Laplante.”
Dowding’s shaking hands showed how much he hated it everytime he had to pay the butcher’s bill with the blood of his men and women.
At 19:40 hours, the chief of operations silently handed a sheet of paper to Dowding. The air chief marshal read it slowly twice, then turned towards Nancy.
“Captain Laplante, you suggested this plan for approval: it is only fair that you see the results of it.”
She took the paper he was presenting and, with a dry throat, read it. Nancy then looked back at Dowding with haunted eyes.
“I hope that ULTRA will soon tell us it was worth paying such a price, sir.”
She sat slowly on the table supporting her laptop.
“So many young men…”
A total of 73 British fighters and 14 bombers had been lost. 59 fighter pilots and 41 bomber aircrews were dead or missing, with 48 more men wounded. Civilian casualties in the London area were in the hundreds.
Approximately 200 kilometers away to the Southeast, General-Major Osterkamp, commander of Jagdfliegerfuhrer 2, was closing the door of his office in Wissant. He had just received his own butcher’s bill and had to advise GeneralFeldMarschall Kesselring. He could not finish writing the first sentence of the message to be coded and sent before grief overcame him and he started crying.
22:35 (GMT)
Fighter Command operations room
Stanmore
Nancy saw the officer in charge of the Special Liaison Unit, the section that handled the distribution of ULTRA messages, come out of his sound-proof cubicle, where she knew there was a teleprinter with a direct line to Bletchley Park, the decoding center for German ENIGMA messages. The squadron leader was obviously looking for Dowding, as he walked towards the air chief marshal’s desk, near where she stood with a cup of tea in her hands. Not seeing Dowding, Squadron Leader Reeves looked at her.
“Do you know where the air chief marshal is, Captain?”
“I believe that he is taking a nap on a cot in his office. Is this the latest from the guys in Hut 3?”
Reeves stared at her for a moment. He knew the story about Nancy and that she probably knew more about ULTRA than he did himself, but she was still not officially cleared for ULTRA material.
“Er, yes, but you can’t see it. Sorry!”
She rolled her eyes upward.
“One fine day in a million years time, common sense will catch up with military bureaucracy. Can you tell me at least if it is good or bad news?”
“It is very good news, Captain.”
Reeves had a large smile as he went to knock on Dowding’s office door. Three minutes later, Dowding burst out of his office, Reeves in tow, to stop in front of Nancy.
“Read this, Captain!”
He then handed her a teleprinter page. She took it with a sarcastic look at Reeves, who rolled HIS eyes upward.
“HOT DAMN!”
The message was addressed to the commander of Luftflotte 2, Kesselring, from the commander of his fighters, Osterkamp. In extremely terse terms, Osterkanp was basically telling his superior that his command had been destroyed. Out of the original 597 Bf 109 and 56 Bf 110 fighters he had sent on the London raid, a staggering 489 had been lost, many of them being Bf 109s that had run out of fuel over the English Channel. Osterkamp was concluding by requesting an all-out rescue effort by the Kriegsmarine to find as many of his pilots as possible before it was too late. Taking out her pocket calculator, Nancy did a quick calculation.
“WOW! Their fighters suffered a 75% loss rate on this raid. This means that German bombers will have to operate with little or no escorts…”
Her eyes suddenly sparkled with malice,
“… And that our own bombers will have a mostly free hand from now on.”
Dowding suddenly stopped staring at her pocket calculator and snapped his head up, a look of revelation in his eyes.
“By jove, I didn’t think of that! I’ll get Portal on the telephone right away.”
He then ran back in his office, leaving a bemused Reeves facing Nancy. She handed him the teleprinter page.
“Here, you can have it back. Thanks!”
Reeves didn’t know if he was supposed to get angry or to laugh at that.
Four more ULTRA messages arrived at Stanmore that night, all being casualty reports from units of Luftflotte 2 and 3. The grand total at 03:05 hours for Luftwaffe units in Western Europe was by then of 524 fighters and 181 bombers destroyed, plus another 46 fighters and 106 bombers seriously damaged. While the majority of fighter losses had been due to fuel starvation over the Channel, the bombers had suffered most on landing, when they had been caught on the ground by British bombers. What was going to hurt the Germans the most by far however was the loss of the large majority of their experienced fighter pilots. The Luftwaffe would never be the same after this, the same way that the Japanese navy never recovered from the battle of Midway in 1942. The atmosphere at Stanmore was one of jubilation by the morning of September 8, a Sunday.
Nancy was just finished packing away her computer equipment so she could return to Northolt for a well deserved rest when Squadron Leader Reeves walked out of his office with another teleprinter page in his hand. He handed it to Dowding with a shaking hand. The air chief marshal’s face paled as he read the ULTRA intercept.
“My god, the poor bastards…”
He then handed the message to Nancy and turned away, trying to hide his tears. Her heart sank as she read the dispatch. It was a message from the head of the Luftwaffe, Herman Goering, to Kesselring. It directed him to hand over all RAF aircrews captured over France on Saturday to the Gestapo for detailed interrogation. They were to be transported to a small local prison near Gravelines by no later than 24:00 hours on Sunday, September 8. Goering further stated that everything had to be done to find the source of the leaks, which, in his mind, had doomed the London raid. She looked at Reeves, sobs breaking her voice.
“The bastards are going to torture our pilots to death to try to find out that source and I’m the one who started all this. Oh my god, what have I done?”
The three of them were silent for a moment, horrified by the turn of events. Reeves saw Nancy’s jaw suddenly tighten as the tears cleared from her eyes. Dowding noticed it too. Her voice came out firm, resolute.
“Sir, we have to get those men out of there.”
“Agreed! I will contact Sir Newall right away.”
“And, sir…”
“Yes?”
“I want to be part of it! I’m responsible for what is happening to them.”
Dowding stared at her for a long moment. No woman would normally be allowed to go as a combatant on a mission. He was however starting to wonder how wise that rule was in view of Laplante’s overall performance. She had earned his full respect for her gutsiness and intelligence and he could see that she fully understood what she was getting into. Besides, she may well be the key to the success of any rescue operation. Air Commodore Nicholls had told him about her incredible precision jump. He finally grinned and gently tapped her shoulder.
“Captain, you want to help? Then you plan the operation on my behalf.”
06:05 (local time)
Berlin
The telephone woke up Klaus Manheim in his hotel room. Admiral Canaris was on the line, his voice sounding shaky.
“Manheim? I’m afraid that you will have to delay a bit your departure for England. Something very big happened yesterday and I need your brains in France.”
“In France? Where and for what?”
“I will explain the what in my office. The where is near Gravelines, on the Pas de Calais. Our Canadian friend from Northolt may just have played a very nasty trick on the Luftwaffe. Come as quickly as possible.”
“I’m on my way!”
16:05 (GMT)
Sunday, September 8, 1940
Fighter Command operations center
Stanmore
Captain George Townsend, of the Royal Commandos, was led to a small conference room of the underground bunker, where a Royal Navy lieutenant-commander was already sitting at a long table. The navy officer shook his hand warmly.
“Peter Stilwell, commander of His Majesty’s patrol boat SEA DRAGON.”
“George Townsend, Royal Commandos. I gather that you have also been loaned to help the RAF on short notice?”
“You could say that, by jove! Everybody seems to be in an awful hurry on this, whatever it is. Oops, there’s the Air Chief Marshal.”
Both stood rigidly at attention and saluted as Dowding, followed by a tall, foreign female officer wearing a camouflaged combat uniform, entered the room. Townsend couldn’t help stare at the nasty looking pistol of unknown design slung low on the female officer’s right hip. Dowding’s voice then returned him to reality.
“At ease, gentlemen! Please take a seat.”
Once they were in place around the table, Dowding addressed both newcomers.
“As you may know already, the RAF stopped a German bombing raid on London yesterday, causing very heavy losses to the Luftwaffe. The Germans now seem to think that we have a secret source giving away their plans and are trying to find that source. Unfortunately, this has led them to order that our pilots captured after jumping over France yesterday be handed over to the Gestapo for questioning.”
“My god, the poor bastards won’t survive it!” Exclaimed Townsend.
“Exactly the point, Captain. We have to get these men out of France as quickly as possible, thus we will have no time for practice runs or complicated planning. Time waisted will mean more pain for our men. Captain Laplante, to my right, is in charge of planning and preparing this rescue operation. She will also participate in it.”
“But, sir,” protested Townsend, “this is going to be a delicate, most dangerous commando operation. I’m not going to put my men at risk by letting a woman plan this mission, let alone having her come with us to second-guess my orders while in enemy territory.”
Dowding nodded in understanding at Townsend’s protest: the commando officer’s reaction would have been considered a sensible one by any British commander in normal times, as women were widely considered unfit to command men in combat in Great Britain, or in most other countries as a matter of fact. Laplante was however no normal woman and the present situation could not suffer delays caused by bruised egos. Prime Minister Churchill himself had agreed that time was of the essence and that Nancy had unique special talents that would be vital for the rescue operation.
“Captain, your objections are duly noted. However, Captain Laplante is still in charge of this operation. She has the full support of both myself and of the Prime Minister on this and will have the final say on everything. I will now leave you with her, as there is a lot to do and little time to do it. Good luck, all of you.”
When the door closed behind Dowding, an uneasy silence filled the room. The female captain looked at both of them calmly, appearing supremely confident.
“Look, we are here to help men facing the imminent threat of torture and execution. Let’s work together to help them, instead of fighting each other.’’
‘’Why did you push Air Marshall Dowding to put you in charge of this operation, Captain?’’ Replied Townsend, his tone clearly hostile and with the word ‘Captain’ pronounced derisively. ‘’Do you have the least idea of what to expect in France, or of the dangers we will face? What the hell are you trying to prove?’’
Nancy stared back at the commando officer and answered in a firm but calm voice.
‘’Captain Townsend, I don’t give a shit about what you think of women in uniform. I can tell you without hesitation that I can shoot a pistol better than you, have made more parachute jumps than you and that, in terms of combined special operations, know more about them than you or any other officer in Great-Britain presently. I can also demonstrate to you on the spot that you don’t measure up to me in unarmed combat.’’
Townsend gave her a contemptuous look.
‘’You dumb bitch! You really believe what you say? And I should let my men be killed because a delusional opportunist like you wants to show off to the big brass?’’
Nancy’s reaction surprised both Townsend and Stilwell. Jumping out of her chair, she went around the table an