Time was, when the gulls floating in great rafts outside Cherbourg harbour would scatter in panic on the approach of a seaplane. But nowadays they seemed barely willing to leave a channel wide enough for the Heinkel 59 floatplanes of the Seenotdienst to pass through. On this day in late August a gentle swell distorted the otherwise smooth, glassy surface of the southern Channel. Leutnant Muller gunned the twin BMW engines and surged away on a westerley take-off run. The rescue plane wallowed skywards, streams of brine flowing back from the chines of the twin floats.
Gerhardt Muller consulted the patrol flight plan as he had done many times before and again hoped that they would not encounter RAF fighters as he set his course. In the rear gunner position Leutnant Hans Stachel considered the fates that had brought him thus far and regretted the events which had deprived him of his dream to fly the Messerschmitt 109. He was fortunate to be serving in any type of aircraft given the extent of injuries received in the climbing accident of the previous year. As the aircraft reached operational height he warned the others, jerked back the cocking handle of the MG17, and fired a short burst into the sea.
Yes indeed, lucky to be flying and lucky to be alive. As the rock fixing gave way he started to slide, and shouting to his companion roped below, passed over him to roll and bounce into the gully. Otto had his grip torn away and he too fell heavily. Lying in the snow, Otto regained conciousness within a few seconds but his broken leg told him that he would not be the one to alert any rescue party. It took an agonizing ten minuted for hime to inch the few yards alongside Hans, still unconcious and bloodied. The snow was again falling and being driven harshly against his face while he tried to ascertain the extent of his companion's injuries. Down in the valley, lights were already appearing to herald the approach of night. Spend it here?...God help us he thought. Time passed by, then, as if in a dream, a shout came from beyond the crags and a tall slim man came scrambling hurriedly towards them over the icy slabs. 'We saw you fall - nearly half an hour ago - sent my friend for help' he gasped. 'Don't try to move him. The others won't be long'. 'Thank God you saw us. I'm not too bad but Hans is in a bad way. My name is Otto! You're English aren't you?' 'Yes. My name's Bellman...just call me Jim! Cigarette?'
The conversation was continued in the local hospital later that evening but it would be several days before he was allowed to visit Hans who's injuries wre extensive. To what extent they would affect his acceptence into the Luftwaffe was his main concern. 'You English', he teased. 'You are still flying biplane fighters! When are you going to get into something like our 109?' Jim smiled from the bedside. 'We've had this conversation before....with your friends at the ski centre - during many a convivial evening in fact. Yes - I'm afraid that's true for our squadron. We are still on Gladiators but our Hurricanes are in service and we just can't wait to get our hands on the new Spitfire! Then we'll show you what a real fighter is', he chuckled. Ah yes! The Spitfire!' Hans replied. 'Isn't that the overpowered sports plane job?' More laughter, but Hans's mirth was strictly controlled by a couple of compound fractures. Hans clasped Jim's arm. 'But thank you again my friend - what you did for us - I will not forget it. Take good care and next year, when we meet again, we will have a part to remember!' Do you think there will be a 'next year?', Jim replied, now with an earnest tone in his voice. 'I mean with this deteriorating political situation.... is it to be peace or war...which does Hitler want?' 'No my friend. Be assured. There will be no war. Not with you British at any rate. The Feuhrer has only admiration for the Royal Family and the British people!', exclaimed Hans. Jim gazed out through the wide balcony window to the mountain panorama. He did not feel convinced.
But war did come and the many winter resorts of Switzerland lacked much of the usual youthful spirit when the season began a year later.
Hans was destined never to fly his beloved 109 and only just scraped through the bare minimum for operational flying in Goering's modern Luftwaffe....and so, now found himself as gunner in a slow biplane with floats - not much faster than a Western Front Fokker, an aircraft from a previous war.
Weiss in the radio compartment was trying to tune into the BBC Home Service when he suddenly cut in. 'I don't like this! Look up there at 3 o' clock...Lots of planes with elliptic wings - curving away east at about 4,000 metres'. 'Right! I can see them', confirmed Muller. 'Spitfires all right. Watch them!' But Hans was watching something else. His voice came over with urgency...'Forget them! Two fighters coming in at 4 o' clock...very low, about two kilometres!' They were Hurricanes and now curving into a rear attack smoothly and gracefully. The all white Heinkel stood out starkly against the blue-green sea and marked with huge red crosses which denoted an air-sea rescue aircraft. Hans' tongue was was already bone dry and cloven to the roof of his mouth as he began firing. The first Hurri fired back - just a short burst, less than a second. Then he banked to the right. 'Why did he do that! Why didn't he keep on firing!' shouted Hans to no-one in particular. Mercifully, this Hurrucane was out of ammuntion from a previous engagement but his number two was boring in. On he came, wallowing unsteadily and firing. The first burst hit the sea below the right wing, whipping up fountains of spray. Muller saw the second burst pass over the cockpit but much of the third hit the right wing and engine as he desperately fishtailed just above the waves, trying to put the enemy off his aim. The Hurricane was almost upon them now and Hans could plainly see the squadron codes as he tracked him in, rapping out short bursts of 5 or six rounds, the way he had been taught. Now so close, unable to pass beneath or above the Heinkel he banked hard right barely missing the Heinkel's wing - and as he banked he lost height. Muller flinched as a great explosion of white filled his vision to the right. Hans watched in disbelief while the receding mass of spray hung in the air and descended slowly, mixed with bits of wreckage from the fighter. In the years to come, whenever Hans saw a rainbow, he would recall the one he saw on this day - in the midst of the Hurricane's death-splash, incongruous and surreal.
The animated conversation in the Heinkel can best be imagined as they flew unsteadily back to Cherbourg shedding fragments of fabric and bits of engine panel - barely staggering to safety. The gulls were waiting to greet their return. That evening there would be a celebration with Hans holding forth to describe the eventful patrol. He would be reminded more than once, that the 109 was no great loss to him - he could achieve a similar result in the Heinkel 59.
Many miles out in the Channel and 30 fathoms down, a young man lay, still strapped in the remains of his bullet riddled cockpit. There would be no party for him to enjoy. One day a memorial would appear in the village where he was raised and his name included on the Runymede Memorial to the Few....Pilot Officer James Edgar Sebastian Bellman.
'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'
