Chapter One

Captain Walker was enjoying his newspaper, reading was one of the few escapes he had while waiting for the inevitable order to fly one more mission. It was a chance for him to catch up on the madness of the world around him. He had been lucky to get a newspaper that had been aboard a transport plane braving the arduous North Atlantic flight so it was only a day or two old. But it was American news, a welcome word about home, a reminder that life was going on back there despite the fact he was away.

He smiled as he read on, catching a piece of news about his own neighbourhood. Thinking back to the old Victorian house he had grown up in, the runt of his fathers litter, the little one that was always knee deep in trouble. He had run through that old house’s labyrinth of rooms trying to keep up with his older brothers and their games.

But that was a long time ago, almost in another life, he was a man now, a pilot over seas, helping to defend England and protect liberty and freedom if he was to believe the recruitment posters when he volunteered. But he had enlisted, done his training, and earned a pair of wings and the right to take the fight to the German’s.

He looked up at the window, Walker hated rain; all it seemed to do ever since he had arrived in England was rain. And when it wasn’t raining there was fog, the thick kind that just obliterated the world like a heavy blizzard and left a person feeling totally alone. He guessed he was lucky it was only rain, but at that moment he longed for a little sun.

He hadn’t slept, he should have been sleeping after a night out at the local pub, a quaint little drinking hole outside of the airfield where the locals spoke in some thickly accented version of English and looked at him with the disdain of his being American. He had sat there amidst them and ignored the derisive comments about being latecomers to Hitler’s party, and the tired joke not to worry it would all be over by Christmas.

But at five thirty in the morning he couldn’t sleep. It was a common occourance for him those days. He had been there too long, taken part in too many missions. He had watched as friends and people he knew just vanished from his life, plucked away by the fury of war. And he knew it was only a matter of time until it was his turn.

To make matters worse his squadron was up on the roster, scrambling at a moments notice to intercept the Luftwaffe bombers over the channel, or those damn flying bombs that Hitler insisted on dropping on innocent people as part of his plan to terrorize England into submission. After years of fighting, of existing under siege they hadn’t given in yet, and Walker wondered if Hitler would take a hint.

He sat with his feet up on a table in the officer’s mess reading his newspaper, aware of the rain slapping the window in an irregular beat that was almost musical. It was rare to get some peace and quiet, but strangely he had found it when the 8^th had dispatched another bombing mission over northern Germany. Most of the planes were out on that mission, and he had a lot of friends up there.

He returned to his paper, Monday April Fifth, if he had been back home he would be working in his father’s store in Chicago, instead he was sitting down on the southern coast of England fighting a war everyone back home felt they should have gotten involved with when it first started. He had disobeyed his father’s wishes, volunteered for the air force, learned to fly and there he was an officer.

He still looked at the Captain’s bars on the battered G-2 leather jacket with suspicion. Like he couldn’t quite believe he had earned them. He was the kid that wouldn’t amount to much, the runt of his father’s litter who had a wise mouth and a dreamy expression on his face. But some how he had survived his flight training, he had survived the trip across the Atlantic and now had fifty-nine sorties to his name; one more and he would be eligible for a rotation home.

It was like the ultimate prize, like the fifty-mission cap rakishly balanced on his head, a badge of honour that said, “I’m a veteran, and I’ve done my part.”

The news was good; the victories in North Africa were a welcome relief, after the pain and anguish of the war so far. Crushing defeat after crushing defeat, the fact that the Allies were actually winning somewhere was good news. He remembered the party that had been thrown by the locals at the pub when the news reached then that the German offensive had been broken and that the Desert Fox was running for home with his tail tucked between his legs.

He yawned and scratched an itch on his forehead, flipping the page of the newspaper to read about the latest news on rationing. Everything in England was a commodity from butter right through to chocolate. Meat was a luxury item and Walker was glad he ate at the officer’s mess. He didn’t want to think about what was really in the lamb stew the local pub served up. A rotation home would be a welcome relief.

“Hey Captain.” A young officer stomped into the mess still dripping water from the storm.

Walker casually folded the newspaper to smile up at the young man who had just walked into the mess. No matter how hard he tried, Lt. Johansen always appeared like he had slept in his uniform. His hair fell to the right of his parting in a mass of curls that looked out of place, and the vain attempt at a moustache on his upper lip was laughable at best. But the kid was a good pilot, and when your life depended on someone, you really didn’t care how he looked so long as he could fly.

“Jack.” Walker greeted letting his feet fall to the floor and straightening up in the chair, “What’s up?”

Despite the regulations, and the fact that they could be court-martialled they had started a halfhearted attempt at a relationship. Stolen moments in a supply closet where awkward fumbling and timid kissing had made Walker realize that he didn’t really see Jack that way, they were friends and that was all they were ever destined to be, but Jack never seemed to understand that.

Jack grinned, a smile that always said he was up to something, full of teeth and insincerity. “Colonel wants all the pilots for a briefing, I think they’re sending us up.”

Walker rubbed his tired eyes and stood tossing the newspaper down on the table tugging down on his jacket and vainly straightening the tie, “He tell you anything else?”

Jack shook his head, “Nah, didn’t tell me nothing, but the 8^th bombers are due back soon, we’re probably going to escort them back across the channel.” He stopped, “This will be 60 right?”

Walker grinned in return as he pushed open the door and stepped out into the rain swept English countryside, “Yep.” He replied as the rain beaded and ran off of the worn crushed cap he wore, “60 and I get to go home on the next rotation.”

He stared across the airfield to where the P-38 lightening’s that his squadron flew were being armed. The ungainly fighters with its stubby cockpit hung between two engine nacelles didn’t look like much, but it was an impressive fighter to fly. He loved the feeling of freedom and safety the heavier fighter gave him. A P-51 mustang felt small in comparison.

The two friends sauntered through the rain until they found their way into the cramped building that had been hastily converted into a briefing room. Its roof leaked, and the water streamed from the ceiling into a bucket that was now half full. About half the squadron was assembled already, pulled from their bunks and their Monday morning breakfasts across the base and tossed together sleepily into the room.

The Squadron CO, one Lt. Colonel Hammond was up at the front as usual discussing something with the Squadron XO Captain Richmond, and Walker took his usual seat up towards the front, listening to the banter of the other members of the fighter squadron behind him. Spirits were high, which was good, they weren’t the ones flying over enemy territory right now. That was enough to make anyone cheerful.

“Hey Johnny.” Captain Roger’s fell into the seat beside him, another character of the Gambler’s squadron, Roger’s always seemed to have a smile on his face, it was the kind of smile that implied some English country girl was also smiling that morning. Rogers reached up and tipped Walker’s hat forward over his dark eyes.

Joseph “Johnny” Walker reached up and pushed his cap further back out of his eyes and gave a terse nod, “Thanks Rogers,” he grumbled, “remind me again why they promoted your sorry ass?”

“Some one has to be in command around here.” Roger’s replied as he sat forward to listen to the briefing.

Colonel Hammond’s eyes swept across the group of assembled pilots, the determined Texan rested a hand on the borrowed lectern that had come from a bombed out church in a near by village. He always looked like a Baptist minister about to deliver a sermon, and the men under his command gave him the respect of one. There was a certain reverence the pilots gave to a man that seemed to genuinely care about their sorry souls.

“Alright, listen up.” His drawl silenced the room, “We have a squadron of B-17’s inbound from a raid on northern Germany and they are going to need escort home. You will fly along this course,” he pointed to a line on the map that had originally been laid out for the bombing raid earlier that morning. “And intercept the bombers here.” He tapped a spot on the map, “Bring them home. There’s a Squadron of Me-109’s operating out of northern France here,” he tapped an airfield marked on the map just north of Belgium, “But Intel doubts they will be able to intercept you before the B-17’s make it back to the coast of England. You will be flying out purely as a precaution.”

“Wonderful, your sixtieth and its a milk run.” Jack groaned leaning forward from behind him to clap a hand on his shoulder.

Walker smiled as he put his hands behind his head and smiled one of his knowing smiles, “I promise once I’m home I’ll stop by and say hello to that pretty little girl you keep sending letters to.”

* * *

Oberst Erik Kesslar was considered a Luftwaffe ace pilot. The model of chivalry in the air and a true gentleman. But at that moment, as he screamed across the desk at Generalleutnant Kuratz, he was none of those things. It was pure rage, boiling frustration that came from the crumpled piece of paper clutched in his hands. He occasionally used it to accent his gestures as he spat out his words.

“They bombed Kiel!” he screamed as he gestured futilely for the tenth time. He wasn’t making any headway with his commandant, but he had to try.

“I am aware of that Herr Kesslar,” Kuratz said slowly.

“They will be flying over us within the next half hour and you are going to make us sit here and do nothing!”

The Luftwaffe general remained unemotional, he was used to Kesslar’s enthusiasm. “We have no fighter’s…”

“What about the prototype?” Kesslar demanded.

“That plane is not ready to engage the enemy.” Kuratz said, again with slow determination in his voice. “I have ordered a squadron of 109’s to intercept these American bombers. They are on their way.”

Kesslar snorted his derision; “They will never reach them in time.”

“Then they will follow them back to their base and we will bomb them with our own bombers while they are on the ground. Worry not Oberst Kesslar, we will exact our vengeance.”

Kesslar swore in frustration as he turned and marched from the office, the thin door slamming shut behind him. What was the point of having a fighter that no one would allow him to fly? He hated this assignment; there was a war on. And for all the advancements that were being made at the test facility, he still missed flying in combat.

He hadn’t wanted to be assigned to the test program, the secret airbase in Belgium tucked away from the action. But that was about to change. A friend that worked in the radio station had given the crumpled piece of paper in his hands to him. The news that half of Kiel lay in ruins; his wife and son were missing, probably dead. His fist tightened, as he looked skywards.

And the bastards that did it would get away.

He stormed across the airfield to the hanger where the prototype sat out of sight. The future of the Luftwaffe it was the secret weapon that would win the war. He felt that slogan turn to ash in his mouth. What was the good of having a plane of the future, when that future died under American bombs?

A technician was working just outside the hanger, and looked up at the Colonel marching towards him, he hesitated a moment squinting in the dim light of dawn and smiled when he recognized Kesslar.

“Herr Oberst!” he snapped to a crisp attention.

“I want to take a look at the fighter.” Kesslar ordered tightly.

The technician blinked through the grime on his face, “Of course Herr Oberst.”

They made their way over to the starboard maintenance section well away from the bustling activity of the main airstrip. The technician fished out a key to the heavy lock; he stepped back away from the doors as they swung slowly open. Inside Kesslar found the Luftwaffe Me-262 prototype illuminated in bright white light, resplendent with all her armour and Jet engines as she waited patiently for him to bring her to life. With eyes searching for anything amiss, he did a quick walk around, removing the various protective covers and pulling the pins for the Mk108 30mm cannons. Satisfied that she was ready to go, he climbed aboard and started her up. The familiar cockpit came alive with information as the systems brought themselves up to speed.

The technician looked up at him in confusion, “Herr Oberst, you do not have clearance to take her out.”

The phone on the wall of the hanger began to ring and the young technician walked over to answer it.

“Go ahead.” The technician said turning slightly, a frown appearing on his face.

The technician turned and looked up at Kesslar in shock, no doubt it was Kuratz on the other end, and Kesslar didn’t wait, he calmly levelled the Luger and fired. The Technician always had annoyed him.

He scanned over the instrument panel, then lowered the canopy and pressurized the cockpit. He wasn’t wearing a flight suit or a helmet, he hadn’t the time, but the Me-262 held pressure and the environmental system was operating perfectly.

The radio on the console before him came to life as Generalleutnant Kuratz’s voice rang out.

Kesslar slid on the earphone and microphone, “Good afternoon Herr General, welcome to my demonstration of what this plane is capable of,” he touched a control and leaned down to wear the remote override control box was located, predictably set to shut down a fighter should anyone attempt to steal it. Kesslar pulled the box connection wires free. Normally not a possibility, but the technician hadn’t finished installing some of the components.

He sat upright and dropped the wires onto the floor, making sure that Kuratz could hear it. “Please make sure your seats are in their full and upright position.” He brought the Jumo-004 jet engines online as the hanger doors behind the fighter slid open as Luftwaffe guards spilled out.

“Fasten your seatbelts,” Kesslar breathed as he opened the throttle of the Jumo-004’s and slammed the throttle forward.

The Me-262 exploded out of the hanger. He was shoved quickly into the rear of his seat by the acceleration. A glance showed him blasting along at a high speed, the fighter shuddering as it continued to force itself forward. And as he pulled back on the stick the fighter arched gracefully around for a strafing run on the Nimitz’s ventral side. Commander Kuratz was still screaming over the comm. Channel, and Kesslar rolled the fighter using the dim morning horizon as a guide, and examining his options.

The old bombers would soon be out of his range, and he wasn’t about to let those murdering bastards get away from him. He hammered the engines after them, the first Jet fighter screaming after the bombers as it streaked after them with murderous intent.

He thumbed the safety off of the trigger and he depressed it, sending Mk-108 30mm cannon blasts into one of the trailing bombers. He was within the bomber squadrons Point defences but the slower B-17 was an easy target. He had made similar runs on flying targets in piston driven fighters hundreds of times.

The Fighter dipped and rose as it curved up and over the squadron, rolling again, keeping in their midst to avoid the B-17 squadrons firing arcs. The next bomber was clearly framed in his gun sights as he acquired his next target. A tell tale red lines of tracer fire indicated that the B-17’s was trying to shoot him down. Extremely difficult for them when he was simply too fast for them to track. Kesslar thumbed the appropriate toggle, as the four Mk-108’s on the nose of the fighter opened up and the 30mm slugs streamed out. One impacted with the tail guns of the bomber, the rest tearing along its fuselage. With a satisfying bang the B-17 broke apart screaming into a spiral dive that would result in its death somewhere over the North sea. The Me-262 buzzed the smouldering bomber, before the fighter roared out to sea again, coming back in a tight loop, arching down towards the remaining bombers.

He saw them as the cloud cover broke for a moment above him, and the rising sun illuminated them, venerable P-38’s. No doubt the fighter escort making its way to link up with the bombers on their return from bombing his homeland. He smiled as he barrel rolled the fighter, and pulled her into a boosted climb, rising up and over the cloud cover to their level before spiralling away from a B-17’s tracer fire that streaked skywards.

“Nice try.” He breathed, diving down at the pair of P-38’s that were trying to climb after him.

Gamblers four and seven were unprepared as the Me-262 roared towards them. The Jet fighter’s design rendered their antiqued fighters obsolete, and they frantically tried to line him up in their sights as he rushed towards them. Kesslar didn’t give them the chance; the four 30mm cannons carved the pair of them to pieces. One attempted to eject, the canopy coming free in the nick of time. The second erupted into a ball of expanding gasses as it collided with one of the B-17’s both died spectacular deaths.

Kesslar played with his raido, surprised when he actually found the frequency used by the Gamblers. One Captain Walker was sounding desperate, “Gambler Five from Three, we just lost four and seven!” Walker screamed, near a panic. He was all alone now straight in the Me-262’s sights, the other fighters were too far out of position.

Without support, Walker would soon join his comrades.

Kesslar smiled, “Aces over three’s,” He murmured as the Mk-108 30mm cannons spewed forth a volley. Amazingly Walker’s P-38 jinked as he curved around one of the remaining B-17’s fuselage before climbing sharply away. Up to the cover of the B-17 Anti-aircraft arcs. The tracer rounds of the B-17’s were going to be problematic for the German Ace, but he would concern himself with that later, right now he had turkey’s to shoot.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose a split second later, And on instinct he cranes his head around to see one of the other p-38’s at six o’clock, He pulled the stick over as the one on his tail fired his own cannons. Kesslar was fortunate; most of the Gamblers hadn’t had time to realize what was happening, let alone do anything about it. That was a mistake as Kesslar reefed his fighter over to the left. He was able to evade the P-38’s slugs that had shot at him just long enough to get the other fighter to over shoot. A snap assessment of the situation showed there were five Gamblers remaining, and only one of the B-17’s.

Kesslar smiled coldly as one of the fighters flashed in front of his nose, and he fired his own cannons and watched them hit the overshooting interceptors. The fighter incinerated easily as the first slug tore into his fuselage and the second connected with the fighter’s fuel tank. Gambler five died.

“Home base, we need cover fire, we’re getting shot to pieces out here.” Walker called desperately. The other fighters broke for a higher altitude, hoping to lure Kesslar away from the defenceless B-17.

Kesslar shook his head as he swept back under the bomber throttling back just a little to get a clear shot at his target, the Lone remaining B-17. That was what he wanted, blood for blood. They would pay for the destruction they had wrought on his hometown. They would send more bombers, but he was certain that none of these would ever see their homes again.

The manoeuvre worked for the Bomber though, he had missed his attack run on it, and would have to line up for a second pass. He curled about, as the B-17’s turret opened fire, this wasn’t the same rookie gunners he had been fighting up to this point, to use those cannons at an angle so close to the planes fuselage required a precision that was beyond the capability of most Americans. He was dicing with time now; the slugs were sweeping to and fro with a murderous intent. Firing at angles that punctured the heavy armour of the B-17’s’s hull in the attempt to hit him.

“Mien Gott, your good!” Kesslar muttered aloud, as he weaved the fighter at full speed through the pattern of fire, lining up for his one and only shot at the bomber. He squeezed the trigger, and the cannons of the Me-262 slammed into the bomber, tearing great holes in its fuselage. The anti-aircraft fire from the bomber fell silent, as its crew rushed to bail out of the crippled bomber.

A wolfish grin spread over his face, the cover fire that had handicapped him was gone. He thumbed the throttle and climbed, affixing the surviving Gamblers squarely in his sights. This was becoming enjoyable.

Gambler Three spiralled away, as the fighters frantically called for help. They were outmatched in the air, and they knew it. Gambler Six vanished as Kesslar fell into a tight chase, sticking to the fighter like glue, and nothing Six could do would shake him. He rolled left and Kesslar followed, doing his damndest to stay behind him. He rent the fighter open with a series of strategic hits to its fuselage.

“Children playing a mans game.” He commented aloud over an open channel, “Who dies next?”

A roaring overhead alerted him to another plane, a quick glance told the experienced Luftwaffe colonel that a British Spitfire had joined the fight. Where the newcomer had come from Kesslar was unsure, but it was a threat.

“Ah, some one interesting...” He murmured, engaging the afterburners and shooting the Me-262 out of range of the plodding P-38’s. He needed room to manoeuvre if a British Spitfire was out to play.

The stark differences between the Me-109 and the Spitfire were two fold, firstly the Spitfire was another Piston driven fighter, born out of a need to replace the older fighters of the early war, so was equipped to deal with the Me-109’s, in many ways they were considered superior to the German planes. Kesslar had fought them before in the battle of Britain. The second difference was manoeuvrability; the Spitfire could out turn the Me-262 at slower speeds. But this wasn’t a 109, it was a 262, faster, meaner. The future of aviation. The vaunted RAF would soon be chased from the skies by metal war birds just like this one.

“Good morning Herr Englander.” He said quietly turning the Me-262 fighter about and readying himself for a real dogfight..

The radio crackled with a distorted voice, “Time to teach the teacher.”

The Spitfire roared towards him, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise again. He spared a look over to where the P-38’s were quickly regrouping. It was just the two of them for the time being.

Kesslar slammed the throttle open and broke; hauling the fighter into a loop more violent than any he had ever tried.

As the G’s forced him into his seat, he strained for a glimpse of Kuratz. The Spitfire was closing on him fast, sticking to him turn for turn as he reefed the fighter back and forth in a desperate attempt to keep from getting flamed. The Spitfire had the distinct advantage of having a very large field of fire. It’s cannons were mounted on the wings and were supposedly more accurate, making it a very hard fighter to dodge. Kesslar had flown against the Spitfires before. An experience that gave him a cold respect for the fighter. Only divine intervention had spared him that afternoon, and Kesslar hoped that the divine was on his side that day.

He swept up and rolled, throttling back fully, allowing the Spitfire to rocket up and under him. Flying at exactly the same velocity the two fighters flew parallel to each other. Kesslar could see straight into the Spitfire cockpit, and frowned, that wasn’t an RAF uniform in there… He didn’t recognize the uniform at first; the realization dawned on him when he saw he was dog fighting with a Canadian.

He swore as he pulled the fighter up and away, as one of the p-38’s streaked out of the cloud cover and cut loose with it’s own guns. On instinct the German ace tried to pull up, but the damage was done, the slugs thudded into his right wing and his right Jet engine exploded into flame, rocking the whole fighter

His fuel advantage was gone, and there was a Spitfire out there. Piloted by someone he didn’t know. It became serious all of a sudden, and he needed to get the advantage back. He saw the coast of France and hammered the engines. Daring the P-38 to follow him into the arena of his choosing.

But the enemy fighter wouldn’t give up, and as the engine on the left wing spluttered and died Kesslar realized it was over. He murmured a final curse, and closed his eyes.

“Heil Hitler.”

The Me-262 exploded into the cliffs of France, the first Jet fighter to see action died a quick and violent death along with the man that had stolen it.

* * *

Walker watched the strange new fighter that had single headedly decimated the B-17’s meet its own fiery death, before he turned his P-38 and headed back out to sea. He didn’t want to be caught in range of the German anti-Aircraft guns that protected Occupied France.

"Ker-thunk." The plane was hit! Walker didn't even know he had been fired at. No flak, no tracers, no indication of any enemy fire at all.

Aluminum skin over the wheel well on left wing was buckled up. Inside was a raging fire. Every pilot’s reaction to such an emergency is to check his controls, and he kicked the rudder pedals. He looked up again in shock as the fire spread along the length of the wing.

What did he do? he could fire-wall the throttle and try to go back on the deck and pray the fire wouldn't get so bad he'd have to bail out. If it did, there wouldn't be time to gain enough altitude to jump. Another problem was, he couldn't remember if there was a bulkhead between the wing root and gas tank under the seat. If he guessed wrong the plane could explode and he would be just as dead.

Then there was the coast of France. He guessed it was about two miles due west of his position, and if he made it the German’s would probably shoot him down long before he could try to land.

His other option was to go up through the 5,000' of cloud cover on instruments, then head for England. At least he'd be able to jump if the plane didn't blow up first. But Walker was a lousy instrument pilot, and with the plane on fire, he would probably be watching the fire and not my instruments. It just wasn’t an option really.

The next choice was to jump. The decisions took less than 10 seconds before he started his bailout procedure. He ripped off his oxygen mask, ejected the canopy, and rolled the plane upside down; ready to drop out, exactly as the book said.

Problems: First, he hadn't rolled the trim tabs forward to keep the nose up, when the plane was upside down, and it kept diving towards the ground. Second, Jumping out of a plane going 150 miles and hour over the English Channel. Even if a pilot tried to just drop out the air stream would keep a person jammed in the cockpit. Third, upside down, he was kicking at the stick to keep the nose up, while struggling to get out against slipstream, and he saw he was still hooked to the radio umbilical.

Then, like a cork from a champagne bottle he flew free. He had wriggled out just far enough for the slipstream to grab him instead of holding him in. It was the fastest he'd ever gone anywhere, anytime - the radio umbilical didn't slow him down one bit. Forever etched in his memory is the image of the left vertical stabilizer going right between his legs. It was a thought that later would still make him cringe.

Flight school didn't include practice jumps; from now on it would be on-the-job-training. At best, he was at 1200' and didn't dare observe the nicety of counting to ten before pulling the ripcord. He yanked it. The chute snaked out and opened with a lovely "WHOOMPH." and had he been there Walker would have kissed Sergeant McElroy, the parachute rigger.

As the plane flew away-engine roaring-he suddenly felt like two people; one, a stranger, parachuting into the English Channel. The other, who was going to get back into plane and fly back safely to the base, it was a total disbelief that anything could happen to him, an Ace on his Sixtieth mission. When the plane crashed into the sea in a huge explosion, he knew he wasn't going back to the base-and he became one person.

Suddenly, everything became quiet, almost serene. The first sounds to filter into his consciousness were of the birds singing beneath him. It was eerily disorienting, but beautiful. As he drifted down, he wondered if he would drown in the water, tangled in the parachute. It was a very real fear; there were so many horror stories of exactly that happening to a friend of a friend. But he didn’t have much choice, unless he cut himself free of the chute and swam for it.

He pulled on the parachute shroud lines, to control his descent, but he feared if he pulled too hard he'd dump the air from the chute and crash to the water so he gave it up.

The water in question was coming up faster, and he drew a tight breath and reached for his knife, a lock blade his father had given him years before. His Daddy would be proud to know it saved his sons life, and as the last strap severed Walker plunged into the icy cold depths of the sea, the knife slipping from his fingers and vanishing beneath him.