The Landing at Ypenburg Air Force Base (Gotty)

[Hfw. Fritjof Kjeldsen]

The loud, brisk sound of the engine in Fritjof Kjeldsen’s Bf109 sent a comforting vibration through the cockpit, making the pilot feel at home in his skyward abode. He was riding on a plane of air that rushed underneath the wings of his beloved fighter. He was returning from a bomber raid over London and escorting the Ar232 bomber from his squadron. Dieter Mannreich was in the other Bf109 from his squadron in addition. A member from another flight group was flying in the provisional Flügel tonight, Feldwebel Gottfried Schmitt in his 109. It had been a successful bombing; no one wanted a dogfight at night, so the Spitfires stayed out of the air for fear of running into the 109s. The British had to be contented with firing anti-air guns at the bombers, instead.

There was technically a radio-silence rule, but usually the British knew when the bombers were coming and it was a commonly ignored rule. Fritjof spoke into his radio. „Spieß spricht. Gut gemacht, Drache. Sie auch, Steiger. Wir haben den Britten die Nachrichten gegeben. Bereiten Sie sich auch fürs Anlanden. Yperburg ist nur 100 Kilometer weg. Das heißt zwanzig Minuten bis Luftziel.“ He checked the instruments on his panel and took everything into account for his calculations. Speed was about 285 kilometres per hour, altitude was at a steady 2500 metres, throttle was at cruising speed levels, and there was still enough fuel to fly to the other side of the Netherlands without a problem, even though the airfield was near the Hague in the west.

It was when Fritjof looked at the engine temperature gauge when the horror of night flying struck: the gauges, all of them, instantly flipped the maximum of everything. The altitude gauge showed the plane at 5000 metres, speed was on the cusp of 500 kilometres per hour, the engines were overheating, the plane was on full fuel, and all the other gauges had gone haywire. He had felt no sudden lurch in any direction and looking outside, the moon consistently shined through the clouds. He was still on course.

„Spieß spricht. Meine Anzeiginstrumenten sind kaput. Alles ist am höchsten und ich weiß nicht, ob ich etwas tun kann. Spieß fragt Hilfe um das Ziel in Gesamtheit zu erreichen ab. Ich werde meine Lichten einschalten, so dass Sie mich sehen können. Aus.“

Just as Fritjof returned from radioing his message, he watched as the lights behind the gauges flickered and then went black, plunging the entire cockpit into darkness. Fritjof knew his plane however, and he reached out his hand to the wingtip-light switch and flipped it up. He turned on the radio transmission button, looked out the cockpit window to see that his lights were on, and relayed information to the Wing. „Spieß spricht. Meine Flügellichten sind ein, aber die Anzeiginstrumentenlichten in der Kanzel sind allen aus.“

Once the transmission was done, Fritjof took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the joystick. He immediately loosened the grip, and put himself in a state-of-mind for a problematic landing. He had had many landing issues in his years of flying. Spain had been an ordeal when he was returning to an airfield after a bombing raid and the Republican fighters had managed to damage a wing. He could still fly, but he had to land heavily on one side, risking running his wing into the ground and then dragging the engine into the ground after it. Rather than take that kind of risk, he ordered his wingman to shoot the other wing, so he could make an even landing. He had also had to make a landing without his engine, because his fuel had run out in North Africa. He had also been shot during the Phony War. He landed a plane with a shattered propeller and a flaming engine. He had been too low to eject his seat when he was shot, and the engine had caught fire during the return. Amongst his comrades, Fritjof came to be known for his landing luck. This time would hopefully be just as lucky.

Translations:
„Spieß spricht. Gut gemacht, Drache. Sie auch, Steiger. Wir haben den Britten die Nachrichten gegeben. Bereiten Sie sich auch fürs Anlanden. Yperburg ist nur 100 Kilometer weg. Das heißt zwanzig Minuten bis Luftziel.“
-Spieß speaking. Well done, Drache. You too, Steiger. We’ve sent the British a message. Prepare for landing. Yperburg is only 100km away. That’s 20 minutes until arrival.

„Spieß spricht. Meine Anzeiginstrumenten sind kaput. Alles ist am höchsten und ich weiß nicht, ob ich etwas tun kann. Spieß fragt Hilfe um das Ziel in Gesamtheit zu erreichen ab. Ich werde meine Lichten einschalten, so dass Sie mich sehen können. Aus.“
-Spieß speaking. My gauges are kaput. Everything is at highest levels and I don’t know whether I can do anything. Spieß asks for help to reach the flight destination in one piece. I’m turning my lights on so you can see me.

„Spieß spricht. Meine Flügellichten sind ein, aber die Anzeiginstrumentenlichten in der Kanzel sind allen aus.“
-Spieß speaking. My wing lights are on, but the gauge lights in the cockpit are all out.

[Gottfried Schmitt]

Gottfried glanced out the window of her Bf 109, wondering what sort of vista they might be passing over at this moment. She and rest of the fighter squadron to which she’d been assigned for this mission were passing through the pitch black sky on their way back to base, their escort-bombing run completed successfully. It had been a quiet night, no British Spitfires braving the darkened skies to come after them. The trip had been, if anything, somewhat boring; crawling along in formation with the bomber meant the faster Messerschmitts had little to do but watch their instruments and keep an eye out for resistance once they got nearer the island. On the way back, radio silent while they were still flying over enemy territory, Gottfried had spent most of her time observing the night around her and imagining what the land below them must look like.

Night flying was something of a new experience for the young pilot; she had never made a voyage in darkness as a civilian. It was not until she’d enlisted that they had expected her to take a plane up under cover of darkness, and even now she was still unsure what she thought of the experience. In general one tended to encounter fewer enemy craft during these night flights, but that reduction in danger was more than compensated for by the increased risk provided by nature herself. Even this night, blessedly clear of interfering fog or rain, blanketed the air around them in an inky blackness which kept even the sharpest-eyed pilots glued to their instrument panel.

Gottfried gave a slight start as the radio crackled to life, wondering for a moment if the enemy might be spoiling for a fight this evening after all. Her suspicions were laid to rest just a moment later as the fighter squadron leader’s voice came through, calm and unruffled.

„Spieß spricht. […] Das heißt zwanzig Minuten bis Luftziel.“

This leader, one Hauptfeldwebel Kjeldsen, seemed quite likeable in his way. Gottfried had not worked with this squadron prior to tonight, and had they not been shorthanded at the moment, she probably would never have known this man or the other fighter pilot with him from Adam himself. They were good fliers, though, and had been very accepting toward her as the odd pilot on this flight. Thus it was with some concern that she listened to his next message, transmitted mere minutes after the first:

„Spieß spricht. […] Aus.“

She watched the fighter’s wingtip-lights flick on, wondering with concern what could cause such an untimely instrument failure in the man’s craft. Even during the day this would be a potentially dangerous situation; right now, without any landmarks or even the ground itself from which to judge one’s place in the sky, those unassuming gauges took place of the pilot’s eyes. She bit her lip, hoping nothing else would go wrong with the Hauptfeldwebel’s plane before they could make it back to the airstrip. A blind landing out here in God-knows-what terrain could be disastrous.

„Spatz spricht. Freigabe für den eigenen Flügelspitzen Licht. Spieß, Sie können mein Flugzeug als Bezugspunkt verwenden. Wir können Ihnen zur Landebahn Anleitung, Sir.”

Translations:

„Spatz spricht. Freigabe für den eigenen Flügelspitzen Licht. Spieß, Sie können mein Flugzeug als Bezugspunkt verwenden. Wir können Ihnen zur Landebahn Anleitung, Sir.”
(“Spatz speaking. Requesting permission to light my own wingtips. Spieß, you can use my craft as a reference point. We can guide you to the airstrip, sir.”)

[Hfw. Fritjof Kjeldsen]

A strong wind began to pick up behind the planes headed toward their Dutch home-base, pushing them even faster toward their eastern destination. „Spieß spricht. Also, Spatz, Sie dürfen ihre Flügellichten einschalten. Steiger, Drache, gehen Sie weiter vor uns und anlanden Sie sich. Spatz und ich werden gleich nach Ihnen ankommen.“ Just as Steiger and Drache switched their wing-lights on, Fritjof could see them pulling forward, ahead of the two fighters that would maneuver the instrumentless landing. Fritjof heard a crackling from the radio once more, “Drache spricht. Glückwunsch. Es freut uns auf, dass Sie es machen müssen, und wir nicht. Wir sehen sie gleich am Anlanden, Haupfeldwebel.“

It was about five minutes before the landing would have to happen. The other two planes would be landing one after the other in just a minute. Fritjof slowly pushed his joystick forward and dropped altitude and spoke into the radio, “Spieß spricht, Spatz, Sie können sich am selben Flughöhe wie ich fliegen. Sagen Sie mir wie viele Meter hoch wir fliegen.” He felt the frame of the plane shake as a huge gust of wind blew from the starboard side of the plane, off the Channel farther south. Sheiß! He thought as the wind picked up a little more when he descended.

It was at that moment that he reminded himself of the concentration needed for the landing in these conditions; he had done it before, with his previous haphazard landings. Taking a deep breath, he lightened his grip on the joystick and put all of his energy into his senses. Continuing to breathe deeply, he slightly lowered the throttle and concentrated on the lights of the plane just ahead of him. Perhaps, if he finished this landing he would begin to tally them alongside his kills on the side of the fighter. A small grin crept across his face at the thought, as he lowered the altitude more.

Translations:
„Spieß spricht. Also, Spatz, Sie dürfen ihre Flügellichten einschalten. Steiger, Drache, gehen Sie weiter vor uns und anlanden Sie sich. Spatz und ich werden gleich nach Ihnen ankommen.“
-Spieß speaking. So, Spatz, you may turn on your wing-lights. Steiger, Drache, go farther ahead of us and land. Spatz and I will come in right after you.

“Drache spricht. Glückwunsch. Es freut uns auf, dass Sie es machen müssen, und wir nicht. Wir sehen sie gleich am Anlanden, Haupfeldwebel.“
-Drache speaking. Good luck. We’re glad you’re the one landing, not us, Hauptfeldwebel.

“Spieß spricht, Spatz, Sie können sich am selben Flughöhe wie ich fliegen. Sagen Sie mir wie viele Meter hoch wir fliegen.”
-Spieß speaking, Spatz, you can fly at the same altitude I am and tell me how many metres high we are.

[Gottfried Schmitt]

Gottfried flipped the switch for her winglights the second Kjeldsen gave permission to do so. A high wind rattled past the planes, hinting at the unfavorable weather conditions she had been hoping to avoid on this flight. She was a bit higher than the Hauptfeldwebel, a fact she corrected in due speed, radioing their current altitude to the blind pilot.

Truth be told, she was not relishing the thought of trying to land a pilot instrumentless like this. Though having another pilot along from which to reference certainly increased their odds of getting the Hauptfeldwebel home safely, landings were tricky at the best of times. It was one thing to help one stay in level flight and quite another to get them back on the ground, especially with a brisk tailwind like this. When Drache spoke up to wish his leader luck, Gottfried could not help but silently share his sentiment. This would not be a relaxing affair; she was glad to only be offering support and not actually flying in the Hauptfeldwebel's shoes.

As they approached their home airfield, Gottfried edged in as close to Kjeldsen’s plane as was safe for a landing. The two fighters in front of them kept their wings lit up even as they landed, acting as a beacon to light the way. She could see the level ground beneath them light up as they closed in, and she marveled for a moment at the sight of ‘home’ so near at hand. They had made it this far; now all they had to do was land.

It was during this brief second that she felt the first gust blow across her craft, signaling a change in wind direction. Her hands tensed, keeping a tight rein on the fighter as the wind fought to bring one wing up and move her out of formation. Verdammt noch mal, she mentally railed, als ob wir brauchten keine Probleme mehr hier. Her breath caught as she glanced to the side, eyeballing the distance between herself and the Hauptfeldwebel. The gust hadn’t shaken them too far out of line, but it was still a matter of concern. She throttled forward just slightly, realigning herself, then reported their altitude again. Though they had lost much of their height already, they were just now beginning the true descent; soon there would be no time to pull up for a second attempt should the wind catch them at the wrong moment. The numbers came frequently now, a steady countdown to the moment during which the Hauptfeldwebel would pit his flying skill against fate. So far they had managed to avoid major disaster, even crippled as the lead pilot’s plane was. She took a second from the radio to breathe a hasty prayer before resuming the job, hoping for Kjeldsen’s sake that his landing skills were more impressive than his luck.

Translations:

Verdammt noch mal, als ob wir brauchten keine Probleme mehr hier.
(For fuck’s sake, as if we needed any more problems out here.)

[Hfw. Fritjof Kjeldsen]

The excitement grew as gust of wind threw the planes out of their path slightly on the way to the airstrip at Ypenburg Airforce Base. It was darker, now that the clouds were blocking the moonlight. There were few lights along the runway Fritjof was to land on, but he could see the lights of the bomber and fighter planes that landed ahead of the two fighters in the rear.

Schmitt was flying ahead of Fritjof, leading by way of his wing lights. "Spatz, landen Sie sich vor mir. Ich werde Sie folgen. Wenn Sie landen, bleiben Sie an der rechten Seite, während ich am linken gehe." The adrenaline reached his heart and he was suddenly feeling more alive than ever before. It was like all the other times he had been in hard landings. He lived for these moments; he lived for the action of flight and the risk pushing the edge of the envelope. He would like nothing more than to be a test pilot, but fighter pilots were in high demand on all three fronts.

Keeping his eyes concentrated on the lights in front of him and feeling for the slightest changes in wind direction and speed, Fritjof entered an almost Zen mindset, as though he were one with the plane and could feel the tips of the wings cutting into the air and pushing it underneath the rest of the body. He could feel every swing of the tail in the air, no matter how miniscule and he adjusted the position of the plane with his joystick; it was second nature.

Next, was the landing.

Translations:
"Spatz, landen Sie sich vor mir. Ich werde Sie folgen. Wenn Sie landen, bleiben Sie an der rechten Seite, während ich am linken gehe."
-Spatz, land ahead of me. I will follow you. When you land, stay to the right, while I go to the left.

[Gottfried Schmitt]

The wind continued to gust around the two fighters, fighting against them for control of the birds. The wings which lifted the pilots skyward like Icarus and his father caught them now and tried to drag them back into the sky even as they descended ever groundward. But they could not afford to rise toward the moon as the ancient Greek men to the sun on this night. Those heroes of legend might have been made famous by their folly, but Gottfried had no intentions of letting herself or her superior follow them into the afterlife yet. She could see the other fighters resting far ahead of them, pushed away from the incoming planes and illuminated by approaching ground crew, and it was towards these lights that she aimed her craft.

"Spatz…gehe."

The younger pilot nodded, though she knew Kjeldsen could not see it through the pervading gloom. Adjusting the plane accordingly, she shifted toward the right side of the runway before leveling out.

„Ich bin in der Position für die Landung, Hauptfeldwebel,” She radioed over. After a pause to gauge again the runway in front of them, she added, „Viel Glück, Sir.”

Even this close to the ground her heart kept beating fast, not calmed by the wind which nipped at her wings and threatened to pull her off course. The roar of the fighter’s engine echoed through the cockpit as its reverberations bounced off the surface below them, and Gottfried held her breath. With a little wobble which belied the heavy winds above, she touched down and rolled to a stop. Motions ingrained through countless repetition released her from the cockpit straps. She opened the glass tomb with record speed, shrugging out of her parachute and clambering over the side of the craft. Groundcrew jogged toward the parked Messerschmitt, torches in hand, but she paid them no mind. Their eyes followed hers skyward, and all watched in anticipatory silence as the winglights of the ailing aircraft approached.

Translations:
„Ich bin in der Position für die Landung, Hauptfeldwebel,“
(“I am in position for landing, Hauptfeldwebel,“)

„Viel Glück, Sir.“
(“Good luck, Sir.“)