For the Fatherland

In early February 1945, all hope of victory for Germany had long been shattered.  The 8th US Army Air force had obliterated its opposition both in the skies, and on the ground. Germany was in complete chaos. With the Russians closing in from the east, and the rest of the Allies squeezing from the west, it was an assured collapse, and everybody knew it. Still, the fighting went on.

Gunther Scholl was a young man of only eighteen years. His once bright blue eyes had already aged into the look of a tired old man. The country that he loved most, had grown up in, and cherished, had crumbled before his eyes in the last few years. Constant bombing raids had flattened Berlin, his place of birth. Most everyone he knew from his childhood had been killed long ago. His two older brothers joined up in the early days, and were killed in the Battle of Britain. His mother was killed in an air raid on Berlin, and his father had been missing in action somewhere on the eastern front since early 1944. He hadn’t heard from his girlfriend for months.

This was a man who didn't have much to live for, had no real love for the Nazi’s, and knew he probably wouldn’t survive much longer. This did not stop him from carrying out his duty for his country, and for his people. He had just earned his wings, and was cleared to fly on his first mission.

The Luftwaffe had been decimated so badly that even though they could make enough planes, they simply could not get enough pilots. More and more loops were cut from training as the war went on to speed up new pilot arrivals. By this time it had gotten so bad, they were sending mere children with only a couple of hours in a fighter up into the dangerous skies to defend Germany. Lack of aviation fuel, lack of pilots, and lack of pilot experience crippled the Luftwaffe.

The date was February 3rd, 1945. Gunther hadn’t had a warm shower in weeks. Their makeshift base was strafed often by American fighters. Worse of all, the horrifying sounds of the distant ground war drew closer every day. Though he had yet to go into combat, he had been around long enough to see how few actually made it back each day. Nobody talked much. They all felt as though they were dead men already. The usual playful attitude of the pilots had completely disappeared. Now it was just an airfield of grim men waiting for their time to come.

All Gunther could do was wait for the call to go up. Distant artillery was heard constantly. Every night the sky would flash throughout, as the bloody fighting went on. His whole world was closing in on him. Even if he managed to survive, nothing could ever be the same. It helped when he considered himself as already dead. That way his fear would never get the best of him. At least, that is what he hoped.

They were so out numbered in the sky, he felt as though his antiquated 109 would be the only coffin he would ever get. The experienced pilots were given jet fighters, and the more powerful 190s, but he was just a scared kid in a group of inexperienced pilots and low grade aircraft.

Not long after the sun had begun to rise, the call came in. Most of their communications were broken, but there were still some rudimentary ways of getting the fighters into combat when they were needed. There was a massive force of American bombers and fighters heading toward them. The target was thought to be Berlin itself.

Gunther ran out to his aircraft, which had already been pulled out of the camouflage nets set up by the ground crews. He was strapped in, and with his heart pounding out of his chest, his first mission was underway. Only eight 109s were able to be sent up from his group. He was to be fourth in the formation.

The fear of it all was overpowering. His whole body shook violently, and he had trouble keeping in formation. They could be attacked at any second, and from any angle. His eyes kept a constant watch all around as they gained altitude. It had been a long time since their base was a safe place to be. This was now Mustang country.

The flight searched for close to forty-five minutes and hadn’t spotted anything. The Americans had been sending close to a thousand aircraft in their raids lately, and it was still amazingly difficult to find them sometimes. In the meantime, they climbed as high as they could, for any altitude advantage they could get could mean the difference between life or death.

The time ticked slowly away for another 15 minutes until the words Gunther had been dreading were called out by his flight leader.

“Attention, bombers, ahead, slightly lower. Stay fast, make one or two passes, and get the hell out of there,” the flight leader said, without emotion.

As they got closer, the scene was impossible to accurately describe. The B17 Fortresses were streaking through the sky as far as the eye could see. Gunther figured there must have been over a thousand of them. His modest flight of eight 109s could do almost nothing. Each Fortress had thirteen machine guns, and the bombers flew in specially designed formations to protect one another. If there truly was one-thousand bombers out there, their flight of eight would have potentially thirteen-thousand guns pointed at them, not to mention the fighter escorts.

Gunther throttled up his 109 and prepared for the attack. If he brought down even one bomber, it would be that much less bombs dropped on his city. His fear had vanished. His mind was now focused only on his attack, and there was no room for anything else. There was no time for anything else. He wanted to make his brothers, who had fought so bravely over England, proud of him. He wanted to do his part in protecting his people on the ground, and if nothing else, he was ready to die for the Fatherland.

The closer he flew, the more awe-inspiring the B17 formations became. It was just endless. Wave after wave was on the way to flatten Berlin even further. He could see friendly fighters from other groups engaged. Tracers shot about wildly in all directions. He could see two Mustangs hot on the tail of a 190, but he could not help. He was too far away, and the bombers were the only important targets.

The clear blue sky was filled with bullets, and fire. Several B17s exploded as they spiraled to the ground. Men were getting shot down everywhere. A massive trail of parachutes followed the bombers. As Gunther streaked in to make a head on pass, his fingers gripped the trigger tightly. As soon as he was close enough, he cut loose with everything he had. His heart was pounding his entire body, he was screaming as loud as he possibly could, and just when he could almost make out the eye colors of the terrified bomber pilots, he released the trigger and pulled up into the clear sky overhead. He felt like every single one of those guns were aimed on him as bullets slashed at his plane. Somehow, none seemed to find their mark.

It was the most incredible rush he had ever experienced. He had no idea if he hit anything, but he was still alive, and that meant he could still fight. Gunther rolled his plane over from the steep climb and began to dive on another bomber formation. This time, he watched as his bullets ripped through a wing on one of the massive planes. It wasn’t enough to take the Fortress down.

As Gunther pulled up for his third pass, he caught a strange glimmer out of the corner of his eye. He looked back, and if he thought his heart was already thumping hard, it must have tripled its rate as the mean looking nose of a Mustang was rolling on to his tail.

He instinctively put the 109 into a steep dive. The fighting was up around twenty-thousand feet, so he had plenty of room to escape, or so he hoped.

The Mustang roared down in defense of the B17s with the fierce aggressiveness of a mother bear protecting her cubs. He was gaining on Gunther. Soon, the Mustang began firing. Bullets riddled the 109, and there was suddenly a loud pop. Gunther’s engine began to detonate and whine as it sped past its redline. The two aircraft were in a completely vertical dive, both pilots giving everything they had, both planes struggling to keep from ripping to pieces at the incredible pressure.

The battered 109 began to break up first. Gunther watched in horror as oil was spit all over the windshield. He tried pulling out of the dive, but the controls were locked. He could no longer see the ground in front of him. His life was flashing before his eyes. The 109's right wing ripped from its root and this sent the plane into a death spiral. Gunther blacked out from the violent force of the spin, and never again regained consciousness.