Chapter 237: The French Airfield

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“We’ve found the airfield! They are taking off!” a pilot reported his discovery over the intercom.

“Galland, you protect us from high altitude. We are beginning the attack,” an air force commander in a two-seater command Stuka bomber assigned the tasks.

“No problem on the fighter side. You can begin your attack. Four fighters will follow your formation. The rest of the fighters will climb with me to find targets,” Galland’s voice came through the headset.

Soon, most of the Fw-190 fighters began to climb, while the Stuka dive bombers began to dive. An Fw-190 fighter, its nose painted with a yellow identification symbol and a cute Mickey Mouse emblem under the cockpit, was very conspicuous in the sunlight.

“Maintain formation. Split into four-finger combat formations, cover each other, and maintain vigilance over the entire airspace,” Galland assigned tasks as he climbed. The German pilots, who had long since become battle-hardened elites, quickly completed their adjustments. Soon, they had reached the altitude of the clouds. The planes, with their buzzing engines, climbed with a practiced skill and a chilling killing intent.

The weather today was very clear, almost cloudless, which was a perfect day tailor-made for the German Air Force. They liked to spot their opponents from a distance, then calmly dive to attack, using their superior speed and good high-speed dogfighting capabilities to instantly break their opponents.

“07, your formation is responsible for the airspace on the left. 09, your formation on the right,” Galland leveled his plane off and then looked into the distance. “Wingmen, you follow me. You’re responsible for the most dangerous area, directly ahead.”

“07 understands!” “09 understands!” “Wingmen, as you command!” A chorus of replies came through the headset.

At low altitude, the Stuka bombers had already begun their attack on the Belgian air force’s airfield. From the cloud layer, one after another, the Stuka dive bombers circled and descended like vultures that had found food.

Following that, the anti-aircraft gun positions around the airfield finally realized their dangerous situation and began a chaotic return fire. The Stukas dived through the flak, making that characteristic piercing sound of their wings cutting through the air. One after another, bombs were dropped, directly hitting the anti-aircraft gun positions that had opened fire. For a time, there was the thick smoke of explosions everywhere, and the sounds of cries and commands were a chaotic mess.

Amidst the deafening roar of the engines, a French air force pilot checked his instruments one last time. A ground crewman was standing in front of him, waving his hands, signaling for him to take off quickly. So the pilot worked to start the plane, adjusted the radio to channel 4, and waited for a call from the command post.

“Fighter 02, communication channel 4, order: heading 150, climb angle 25 degrees, please acknowledge if you hear me,” the anxious confirmation from the ground tower came through the headset. The surrounding anti-aircraft gun positions had already opened fire, but they were subsequently taken out by the German planes. The bombs dropped by these planes were very accurate, not showing the slightest bit of panic due to the anti-aircraft return fire.

In the radio room, the commander of the French air force unit stationed in Belgium was frantically ordering his planes to take off. But looking at the dense swarm of German planes in the sky, he knew that this kind of dying struggle was likely futile. But he had to try. Otherwise, the hundred or so fighters and bombers parked here would be destroyed. The thought of this depressing result, which might change the outcome of the entire local battle, made the French air force commander’s palms break out in a cold sweat.

“This is fighter 02, communication channel 4, heading 150, climb angle 25,” the French pilot replied mechanically.

Gripping the radio handset, the trembling in the voice from the ground tower could be heard. “Understood! Wind speed is normal, runway is clear, you can take off at any time. Hurry up!”

“Understood. I am taking off now!” the pilot replied as he accelerated the plane.

“Good luck to you all,” the tower said as a final word.

The French fighter began to taxi slowly on the runway, but at this moment, a German Stuka dived down through the hail of gunfire. Everyone saw the huge bomb slung under the Stuka’s belly being thrown clear of the fuselage by the ejector rack, and the several small bombs under its wings also left the plane at about the same time.

“Boom!” After a loud roar, a huge crater more than ten meters in diameter was blasted into the runway. The French fighter that had been trying to take off was overturned on the ground by the huge shockwave of the explosion. Its engine was spewing black smoke, and the wheels under its wings were still turning weakly.

The French ground crew on the ground hurriedly ran over, wanting to rescue the pilot, but they found that the entire cockpit had been crushed by the plane’s own weight. The glass was covered in blood. It seemed the pilot inside was more likely dead than alive. Before they could get close to the plane, the smoking engine burst into flames. Everyone had no choice but to back away to avoid being hit by the secondary explosion of the plane’s fuel.

In the sky above, the successful German plane did a somersault in the sky and flew away, leaving a group of French pilots looking up at the sky helplessly.

“Continue the bombing run! Destroy those hangars,” the commander of the German Stuka bomber group said, seeing the entire burning Belgian airfield from his cockpit. He made a simple mark on the map to indicate the position of a destroyed airfield and then continued to give orders. “Planes without bombs, use your cannons to strafe all worthy targets. Don’t be polite.”

“Understood!” some pilots replied loudly in the headset.

With this reply, some of the bombers that had pulled up to regain altitude dived down again and began to fiercely strafe some of the high-value targets, such as anti-aircraft gun positions and fuel depots. The roar of their engines was like the howl of a demon, striking fear into the hearts of the French and Belgian defenders on the ground.

Soon, two more prepared French planes tried to take off. This time, they were much smarter. They used the thick smoke from the hit planes and equipment, attempting to evade the German planes’ line of sight and take off secretly.

However, their luck was really not very good. As they were taxiing to take off, they ran into the second wave of diving Stukas. Three Stukas let out a strange cry as they flipped and dived straight down from the sky, once again accurately dropping their bombs on their designated targets. The two planes were directly hit by the bombs and turned into a sea of fire. The fragments from the violent explosion even struck the fuselage of the German Stuka bombers, making a light clang-clang sound.

“Don’t let the pilots take off anymore! It’s too late! Take them to the shelters for refuge!” the French officer in the control tower commanded loudly. “Call the surrounding airfields and warn them that we are under a fierce attack by the German Air Force!”

“Evacuate personnel! Quick…” another officer was sweating profusely with anxiety.

And beside him, a sergeant who was answering the phone had a look of utter despair on his face. “Hello? Is this the airfield? What? Your airfield is also under attack? Speak up! Hello?”

He had just dropped this phone when another one rang. He had no choice but to pick up the other receiver. “What? You need air support? I’m sorry, there’s no more support possible! You’re on your own.”

But on the roof of this control tower, which they couldn’t see, a thousand meters high in the sky, three Stuka bombers, one after another, began to sideslip, entering their most ideal attack position.

The 20mm cannons on the wings of two of the Stukas spat fire, the tracer rounds drawing dazzling trails of light in the broad daylight, flying toward the unlucky targets on the ground. A plane parked next to the control tower was hit by the cannon fire and instantly broke apart, collapsing where it stood.

A fuel truck was hit by the cannon fire and instantly burst into flames. The fuel inside exploded, sending up thick black smoke. A dozen or so French ground crewmen were turned into burning human torches, writhing and struggling in agony. And their comrades around them, who wanted to rescue them, were helpless.

The pilot of the Stuka responsible for the main attack pushed his control stick, and the plane began to nose down and dive. In front of his plane, the two Stukas that had been providing cover had already begun to pull up. He slightly adjusted the control stick, aiming the nose of the plane at the airfield control tower he wanted to attack.

He adjusted again. On the instrument panel in his cockpit, the crosshairs of an optical sight locked onto the target. The huge G-forces of the dive pressed his entire body into his seat, but he remained focused, completely ignoring the shells and bullets that were whizzing past his plane.

Suddenly, he pressed the switch and dropped the heavy bomb. The plane shuddered slightly, and its speed seemed to increase. The response of the control stick also suddenly became more sensitive. He knew the bomb had left the plane and was flying toward the target. So he yanked the control stick. The plane’s speed suddenly decreased, and his whole body was thrown against the seatbelt by the huge inertia. His internal organs pressed against his stomach, but to him, this feeling was extremely exhilarating.

So he shouted as he pulled the plane up. His plane also responded with the most sensitive control, and after a sudden drop in speed, the plane began to quickly nose up. The ground that had been rushing toward him began to extend into the distance, and then the sky, which had been out of sight for a long time, appeared before his eyes again.

The bomb accurately hit the control tower. The explosion instantly destroyed the building. Everyone inside was unable to escape and was instantly torn to pieces. With the explosion and collapse of this tower, the thick smoke rising from the entire airfield became even denser. One after another, the planes on the ground exploded and burned. This airfield, like dozens of other French frontline airfields, had been completely destroyed by the German Air Force.

High in the sky, looking at the smoking airfield below, Galland snorted. He then looked at the sky in front of him. There, a dozen or so small black dots were rapidly approaching.

“Boys, our work has arrived,” Galland’s plane had already begun to accelerate. “Let’s make the Frenchies remember that even if they get off the ground, they’ll still be shot down.”

Behind his plane, his wingman also accelerated. Then the third Fw-190, the fourth, the fifth…