Ørland Main Air Station, Norway, 28th March 1942
Three taps on the blackboard finally woke Scheer up.
“…damaged, and limping. Those ships still out there are carrying tanks, guns and
bullets that will be used against our men fighting now in Kharkov. We sank three of
them, but the other fish are still swimming. We may still have an opportunity to strike
before they get within the protection of Russian land aircraft.”
A voice ahead of him rung out, Scheer unable to point out its identity through the low
hush of whispers.
“We have one unconfirmed torpedo hit on the cruiser, though the convoy presents an
enormous anti-aircraft presence.”
Chatter could be heard in the meeting room as Scheer’s groggy senses finally
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recovered, his co-pilot whispering as he shook him from sleep. “Kommadant, we
know you hate the new lieutenant. But don’t miss this.”
Another tap. “Not a problem. The cruiser will be weaker from expending ammunition
and damage from navigating the snowstorm two days ago.”
Dissenting voices could already be heard, no doubt from the men who had faced the
fearsome Fiji-class cruiser in the last raid themselves. Four Condors had never
made it home— losses that were unheard of, and even more unacceptable. Scheer
already knew more were to come— he stood up.
“Leutnant, the men— “
Not giving him a moment of attention, the lieutenant continued. “If we sink this
cruiser, it will be help to our men at the front and a dent to the Royal Navy out here in
the North. Next morning, I expect all of you to be up.”
“Do we even know where they currently are?” His crew looked at him, astounded. It
was unlike the most seasoned bomber pilot of the squadron, having flown since the
Spanish Civil War, to refuse a mission— let alone so angrily.
“The men haven’t slept more than three hours. Trying to find a convoy without a single
report in the past day from a flying boat, without any radar contact, in a goddamn snowstorm—“
The Squadron Commander surveyed Scheer.
“There are only so many places they can be. Get it done.”