NIGHT FLIGHT OVER FORTRESS EUROPE
BY LEIF N. GREGERSEN
It was a chilly summer night at the Southern England Air Base in July of 1942.
Frank Hereford sat in his private quarters, reading over the specifications and
other information with regards to the new Spitfire mark ix he was going to fly at
any given moment. He was waiting to be given orders and though he had a good
idea of what they were going to be, secrecy had to be kept until the very last
moment.
Flying was a game Frank knew well, he had been at it for fifteen of his 35 years. Wealthy parents and a lust to navigate the skies allowed him to pursue his goal of being a topnotch pilot when most people in England were lining up for soup or other handouts. It was not a fair system, but now that most of those soupeaters were able to keep two feet on the ground and live in relative safety compared to him, flying missions all over Europe, his life at the mercy of his own skill versus that of the enemy, he felt as though justice had been served.
Commander Hereford was actually quite pleased at the specifications about the new Spit, it looked like it could fly faster and turn quicker than the ME109 and even the German’s newer plane, the FW190. He was a bit ticked off that there would be no chance for him to test fly the plane, he was simply given manuals and expected to react to flying it as if he had been flying it all along. This was something that could get dangerous, especially if aerial combat was a possibility.
As he was admiring the new plane and mentally going through what it would be like to pull a fast turn on a German plane and move in for the kill in it, a knock came at the door. He had known it would be coming, but he would have much rather been sleeping the night away and waking up next to his wife than having to fly another mission. His stomach tightened and
he felt the taste of bile in his throat, despite the fact that, with his experience, he was possibly the most deadly ace in England.
“Commander Hereford Sir?” Came the voice with the knock.
Frank opened the door to see Thompson, one of the brighter young LAC’s he had taken up in twoseaters and had more than once thought of recommending for flight training. They said he was too young and hadn’t completed his secondary school so Britain would have to pass on another candidate for the one big thing they lacked: pilots.
“Yes Thompson, what is it?” He said in a bit of an annoyed tone. He knew he was going to be summoned but this was his own way of sounding off that he didn’t like being chosen for these tricky assignments that always turned out to be dangerous. It didn’t do him any good, but it often kept people edgy when they were around him, especially the lower ranks, which he liked to do. To him, this was one of the Godgiven privileges that officers had over lower ranks.
“I have orders for you Sir, from the Squadron Leader.” Thompson replied, being careful not to let on that the Commander made him nervous.
“Very well, very well, give them to me and don’t stand there like I’m going to tip you.”
“Sorry Sir, my instructions are to give you the orders and watch you destroy them.”
“I suppose burning would be good enough.”
“That would be what was intended in the order Sir.”
“Well, I don’t smoke man. What am I supposed to do, eat them?”
