Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 726: The Destruction of Avalon

The turboprop-powered fighter zipped through the skies above Greenland. A negotiation between the Nordic countries and the German Reich had long since established military access as part of their agreements.

Because of this, a German fleet, air wing, and marine detachment were permanently stationed in the region.

Their objective, deter aggression from Allied powers seeking to interfere within the area.

Since the sinking of the Canadian Destroyer within these territorial waters two years prior, the Canadian Navy had not trespassed beyond its own borders.

Yet, their navy and aerial forces were always watching from just beyond the boundary.

It was a time of war. The Allied Powers had begun staging forces in North Africa after the defeat of France and Britain within the opening weeks of the war.

And had been doing so for a year now.

What they did not expect however was that the Germans would remain sitting by and waiting for their attack.

Though it was the midst of the day, the darkness of storm clouds, and the rain which trickled out of them, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for the blood about to be spilled, did a considerable job concealing the fighters and bombers that now took to the sky.

The Luftstreitkräfte pilot at the head of this phalanx was a man by the name of Leutnant Maximilian Keller, or Max Keller for short.

Trained under the tutelage of Great War legends like the Red Baron and the Blue Max, both of whom came out of retirement to ensure the next generation of fighter pilots were ready and able to defend the Reich a second time within this turbulent century.

Max had been present during the Battle of France where he was credited with a shocking 32 confirmed aerial kills, and the sinking of one destroyer attempting to flee, with a well-placed air-to-surface missile that struck an already damaged fuel bay.

He was among the Reich’s current crop of most promising Aces, and had been chosen to lead the vanguard of this bombing run, ensuring that their P.1108/I turboprop powered “Fernbombers” reached their target without interception.

The radio chirped within his headset as he looked down past the painted wing of his Focke-Wulf PTL-8 “Falke” fighter.

“Eta arrival at target, HMCS Avalon, thirty minutes, buckle in boys, the ride is about to get bumpy….”

Max did not bother pressing the receiver or responding. He knew the feel of his cockpit better than he did his own wife.

To him it was pure intuition at this point. No need for complex calculations, he already understood they would reach the vicinity of their target within the expressed timeframe.

And he was likely anticipating heavy fighting. This would be the Reich’s first strike across the Atlantic.

The objective was simple: total destruction of Canada’s naval base in Newfoundland which enabled its ability to project force across the Atlantic.

The clouds broke open like a wound as the first shapes descended.

On Keller’s altimeter the needle wandered and snapped back, but he didn’t watch instruments so much as watch the world, the sea below, a dark mirror, was riddled now with the tips of masts and the pale wakes of ships turning to face him.

Below and ahead, the first flashes answered them.

Anti-air batteries plucked at the sky with the thin, surprised staccato of men whose morning had become nightmare; shells fell short and spat white, then bloomed into orange puffs that threw birds of spray into the clouds.

The Canadians were not alone, two squadrons of American had climbed from beyond the limit line and now streaked toward them, black shapes spitting contrails, voices in Keller’s headset suddenly alive with a raw, adolescent edge that came from facing fear and knowing the only cure was action.

“Bogeys, out of twelve o’clock low! Interceptors descending!” came a shout.

Keller rolled his PTL-8 into a shallow dive.

Rain pelted the windscreen like gravel.

The Falke’s turboprop screamed. He eyeballed the formation, long, elegant wings of the Fernbombers trailing behind, loaded like iron beasts, their bellies glinting with the promise of ruin.

He would not lose one.

Across the line, amidst smoky tracer, a Canadian Spitfire supported by an American Warhawk tore free and dove at the lead bomber.

Keller thumbed his throttle and followed, the knife-edge of his fighter slicing through cloud.

He let the Warhawk think he was after it, then slid under and came up behind, his sight picking the seam between fuselage and tail.

He squeezed the trigger.

The Falke’s cannons barked, short, precise bursts that chewed at the Warhawk’s tail until it smoked and slewed, a red star blooming on its flank.

It went down in a corkscrew, parachute small and grotesque against the gray.

There was no time for triumph.

Two more allied fighters were on his tail.

Keller wrenched the Falke into a tight, practiced turn, feeling the blood in his ears, the rain like a drum, and the PTL-8 obeyed.

Its control surfaces a thought translated instantly into motion.

He found a seam in the attackers’ pattern and threaded through it, the world a blur of metal and thunder.

He glanced at his left wing and saw Hans’ machine, his wingman, trading paint with a Spitfire fighter over the flank of a bomber.

Hans flared and rolled and yelled something ragged in his throat, and then dove to take up position again.

They were a machine, two men bolted into the same purpose.

Below, the sea answered with its own violence.

The AA gunners found their rhythm, and the sky filled with a lattice of bursting shells.

But to no avail. The Fernbomber’s altitude was too high for the allied Flak guns to succeed in hitting.

Forced to rely on their fighters, the allied pilots fought with the ferocity of men defending what remained of their world.

They came in low, then high, banking hard and streaking past with slashes of sun on their wings.

Keller met one and another and another.

He felt the kick of a hit in his left wing as splinters of tracer chewed past; oil smeared his windscreen but the instruments still read green.

Blood pooled at his knuckles where he gripped the stick; for a wild second he thought he was bleeding from the lip, but it was only the grit shading his teeth.

“Bombers on target!” crackled the voice from the lead bomber, clipped and monochrome. Keller keyed his mic and answered. “We are with you. Hold tight.”

They pressed. The Fernbombers, naked under the storm, opened their bellies and let the ordinance go.

Keller saw the arc of bombs fall, a slow and terrible curve, and then the shore answered with a white geyser as the explosives found the base’s munitions stockpiles.

The fleet was not spared as fire licked across its decks. Smoke rose in thick ropes as their twisted hulls churned beneath the waves of the sea.

For a moment, there was silence.

Nothing but a sea of fire remained from the attack.

Until Keller’s radar flicked with returns; more interceptors were climbing, likely from an airbase not far beyond the horizon, like gray knives, a squadron of heavier Allied bombers arrived to provide cover.

The engagement widened. The ocean below churned with wakes and smoke, lights flickering where men fought ashore and afloat.

Keller dove again, this time to meet a pair of enemy fighters attempting to cut the Fernbombers’ retreat.

His wings thrummed. He felt a heavy thud along the fuselage and the Falke shuddered, another hit, but still flyable.

He thought of his children once, a thought that slid in and out like a phantom, then hurled himself into the fight as if to atone for all thoughts that were not of the mission.

He danced with death and found in that cold calculus an odd clarity.

When the gun smoke lessened and the sky cleared to a bruised, indifferent blue, the tally was bitter.

The Canadian naval base lay in a tattered bloom of fire.

From the flank, the Allied fighters limped away on ragged wings.

Keller scanned the horizon for his men. Hans answered on the radio, voice ragged but alive. “We’ve taken losses,” he said. “But the route’s open.”

Keller let his Falke cut the engines to idle and drift with the formation for a while.

The rain had slowed to sifted threads. The sea below was a map of wreckage and smoke.

His headset filled with fractured reports: survivors being picked off by rescue craft, the long, bureaucratic clatter of damage reports, the quiet names of the dead murmured like small liturgies.

As they turned for home, Keller looked back at the ruins of Avalon, reduced to a smoldering wreckage and felt something older than patriotism or triumph.

It was the old, raw recognition, war was not a brilliant line on a map but a ledger of lives and choices. He steadied the Falke, thumbed the mic, and said into the blank morning: “Hold fast. We did our duty.”

And duty, in that rain-swept moment, was all that remained to carry them back across the ocean.