The brisk autumn wind swept across the expansive lawn, stirring up a few stray straws and carrying the crisp coolness of the season to those gathered on the airstrip. This particular airstrip was now home to seven newly deployed Luftwaffe fighters from the First German Air Wing, tasked with dominating the skies over the nearby battlefield. These pilots were well-acquainted with their aircraft, known by the codename Eagle, but officially designated as the ME-109 in military documents and training manuals. The ME-109 had recently made its combat debut in the Spanish Civil War, where it boasted an impressive record of downing seven enemy aircraft without sustaining any damage.
Due to fuel capacity limitations, the pilots engaged in the Spanish Air Warfare were restricted to flights not exceeding two hours. Consequently, pilots from the German First Air Brigade averaged three sorties each day, necessitating swift and efficient work from the aircraft technicians to repair, refuel, and reload the planes. The ground mechanics, most of whom were quite familiar with the ME-109, had been responsible for reassembling the aircraft after they were transported to Spain in pieces aboard Hercules-class transport ships.
In their downtime, these technicians often joined the pilots to enhance the aircraft's capabilities and test new modifications, such as converting external fuel tanks into makeshift incendiary bombs. By attaching small explosive charges to these tanks, they created a weapon that, upon release and impact, would ignite the residual fuel, causing a fiery explosion.
The camaraderie between pilots and ground crew was strong, often expressed through shared victories. Whenever a pilot shot down an enemy plane, headquarters would send a box of German beer as a reward. The pilots, in turn, would share their bounty with the ground crews, acknowledging their role in keeping the aircraft battle-ready.
On this particular day, a German technician, wiping sweat from his brow despite the autumn chill, looked up at the bright sun and muttered about the cold. Nearby, a second lieutenant, clad in a leather jacket, popped his head out from the cockpit of his plane, calling down to a technician fiddling with parts below.
"I think the gun's alignment is off to the right. Needs recalibration, maybe by a few millimeters, right?" he asked.
"No problem, just give me a moment to adjust it. It's quite simple, really—just a few screws," the technician replied, continuing their casual conversation. "By the way, weren't you supposed to let the Spanish pilot fly today? Why are you in the cockpit yourself?"
The pilot grinned, gesturing to three spades painted beneath the cockpit hatch, "Couldn't resist. See these? I shot down three enemy planes. Think they'll promote me to lieutenant if I down two more?"
The technician chuckled at the pilot's ambition. "Keep dreaming! Becoming an ace isn't that easy. But if you manage to shoot down two more, I'll buy you a beer in town."
The pilot's expression turned serious. "The last air battle was tough. The enemy knew our tactics, using low altitude to match us. Our ME-109's speed saved us, though. We were almost outmaneuvered."
"To train you guys, we handed the Soviets plenty of good tech. They can come up with some clever designs, even if not all their ideas are sound," the technician responded, acknowledging both the competition and the stakes.
"Head of State's counting on you, don't let him down," he added, half-jokingly referring to the high expectations placed on the pilots.
The pilot playfully slapped the aircraft's hull. "Speaking of talent, I heard Colonel Dick from the Second Air Force tried poaching you, but General Catherine sent him packing. Is it true you can diagnose a leak just by tapping on the tire with a wrench?"
The technician laughed off the pilot's teasing. "Where do you guys get these stories?" He quickly changed the subject, "Alright, let's see how the recalibration holds. Give it a quick burst."
The pilot ducked back into the cockpit, aligning the sights on a nearby wooden target. A short burst of gunfire later, the target was obliterated, leaving only splinters.
"Perfect! If you'd tuned it like this last time, I'd already be an ace," the lieutenant exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement and gratitude for the technician's skilled adjustments.
As they were wrapping up, a ground crew member approached, carrying urgent news. "Varna! Orders from above. We're to launch two planes for patrol. Ground forces are about to attack, and we expect enemy air interference."
"Let's get moving! Fuel up and ready the planes!" the technician commanded, pointing to the two ME-109s that were to be prepared for immediate takeoff.
Minutes later, the aircraft were lined up on the runway. "Control tower, this is Fighter 79, Pilot Varna Models, ready for takeoff," announced one pilot, while his wingman radioed in similarly.
The propellers whirred to life, spinning faster until they became a blur. The planes, after a brief taxi, surged down the runway and lifted off, climbing swiftly toward the clouds.
"This is Tower 1! Fighter 79, we've got reports of two Soviet biplanes attacking our ground forces in your sector. You're cleared to engage," crackled the voice over the radio.
"Understood, Tower 1. Heading to intercept," Varna responded, signaling his wingman to follow as they dipped below the clouds to scout for the enemy.
The mission was clear, but the skies were fraught with danger, hinting at the challenges and fierce aerial combat that lay ahead for the pilots of the ME-109s.
While reminding his wingman, Varna Mundles expertly maneuvered his aircraft into a dive, aiming to gain both speed and an optimal attack position. He was acutely aware of the peril his wingman faced, entangled with enemy fighters. If he failed to disrupt the enemy formation, his wingman might very well be shot down.
Glancing sideways, Varna saw his wingman maneuvering into a circling ascent, a move that leveraged the Me-109's superior aerodynamics to provide a significant combat advantage. This reassured Varna, allowing him to focus more on the enemy aircraft tailing his comrade.
He adjusted the nose of his plane, targeting a Soviet I-16 fighter jet that was aggressively firing at his wingman, Seller. The I-16, while robust with a strong engine and constructed from high-quality wood, suffered from design limitations influenced by World War I tactics. It featured an open cockpit and lacked impressive aerodynamic performance. Furthermore, due to limited industrial capabilities, the Soviet Union had to replicate British civilian engine designs, which did not translate well into military applications. This resulted in the I-16's performance being notably inferior to its German counterparts, achieving speeds only up to 290 kilometers per hour over Spain, compared to the 340 kilometers per hour of those used by the Soviets themselves.
With the speed advantage gained from his dive, Varna rapidly closed in on the Republican aircraft. His Me-109 sliced through the air, approaching the I-16 from above in a swift, menacing descent.
"Seller! After you climb, find a position to cover me! I'm diving in!" Varna shouted over the radio, then pulled the trigger of the machine guns mounted on his plane's nose.
The Me-109 shuddered slightly as it spat out flames. Tracer bullets drew brilliant arcs across the sky, each round accelerating as it spun out of the barrel, tearing into the enemy aircraft with lethal precision. The I-16 was brutally dismantled mid-air; its tail severed and fuselage smoking as it spiraled down. The pilot inside was visibly thrown about by the centrifugal force, his fate ignored in the heat of battle.
Having neutralized the threat, Varna quickly adjusted his trajectory, soaring past the falling debris of the enemy aircraft. His altitude was low, around 1000 meters, but his speed remained high at 450 kilometers per hour, far surpassing the I-16's capabilities.
"Varna! Thanks for the cover! I'm gaining altitude now! Watch out, two more enemy planes on your tail! They're turning to chase you!" Seller's voice crackled through the intercom.
"They have four in total! Watch out, one is following you!" Varna responded, pulling up his aircraft. The G-forces pressed him into his seat, yet he managed to maintain control over the joystick, his confidence bolstered by the aircraft's responsiveness.
"I'm diving to attack! Taking out the two behind you, Varna!" Seller called out.
"The ones behind me can't catch up!" Varna replied, focusing on regaining altitude and scouting for his wingman. They were now spread out, a risky situation in aerial combat.
"I've swooped down! If you're high enough, you should see me! God, I've locked on! I've hit him! Haha!" Seller's exhilarated voice filled Varna's headset, likely audible even to the monitoring room back at the tower.
"I still can't find you! Seller, where are you?" Varna climbed, his eyes scanning the vast skies. He had managed to shake off the two I-16s tailing him, but Seller's shouts indicated that only two enemy planes remained.
Suddenly, Varna spotted an I-16 attempting to climb into the clouds, likely the one that had been pursuing Seller. "Seller! I see an I-16! It looks like it's trying to escape! I'm going after it! Can you handle the rest?"
"I'm not sure! I'm gaining altitude! No enemies in sight here, they can't keep up!" Seller responded.
Ignoring Seller's reply, Varna plunged into the clouds, only to lose sight of his target. Realizing his mistake, he pushed the joystick forward, descending rapidly. Circling back, he easily spotted the remaining I-16. Without hesitation, he engaged again, his confidence surging as his Me-109 felt like an extension of himself, turning the battle into a hunt.
This time, Varna didn't conserve his ammunition. He fired his 13mm machine gun before unleashing the 20mm cannon. The fuselage trembled with each shot, the cannon shells clinking as they were ejected. The power of the 20mm cannon was devastating; the I-16 was obliterated, bursting into flames and disintegrating mid-air.
With a swift maneuver, Varna avoided the debris, his aircraft screaming past the fiery explosion. He then spotted Seller above him.
"Maintain your heading, Seller! I'm coming to join you!" Varna radioed as he began a climbing turn, searching for the two old Republican biplanes that had served as decoys. It seemed they had realized the futility of their situation and had fled the airspace dominated by the Me-109s.
"Long plane! I saw the crash! You took down two! Incredible!" Seller's voice conveyed his amazement and elation over his first successful engagement.
With a slight smile, Varna nodded, though Seller couldn't see. "I did hit them. Took one apart completely."
"One got away, what a pity," Seller lamented.
"No pity needed! I can't see the two old biplanes the Republicans used for ground attacks. Can you see them from up there?" Varna asked.
"I can't see them! I think they've flown off!" Seller replied after a moment's search.
"Fighter 79 to command tower!" Varna and Seller, now reunited, circled over the battlefield before contacting headquarters. "The two old aircraft were enemy decoys. We were ambushed by four I-16 fighters, likely piloted by Soviets. One escaped, the rest were downed by me and Seller."
"Varna Mundles! This is your fourth enemy downed! Congratulations on becoming an ace pilot!" The congratulatory message from the tower crackled through the headset. "Fighter 79, Fighter 53, you are cleared to return. Immediate return approved!"
In the distant sky, a Soviet pilot in an I-16, his face marked by fatigue and battered by the wind, lowered his altitude and slowed down, his sigh lost amidst the engine noise and the wind. Above Spain, a secret war raged, with the German Luftwaffe and Soviet Air Force clashing in skies unacknowledged in official records. Dozens of aircraft engaged daily, with some trailing black smoke as they fell, their last moments igniting the earth below.
That winter, the soil of Spain became the final resting place for 61 Soviet pilots and 4 Germans, their sacrifices unrecorded and largely forgotten. Yet, in the preceding months, over 15 Luftwaffe pilots had been decorated with the Spanish Cross by Franco, some for reasons as trivial as placing third in a race.