Stuka Ace: Crete Mission 2

22 May 1941

Airfield outside Argos, Greece

III/StG2 Ju 87s departing Argos to attack shipping off Crete, 22 May 1941

Hauptman Brüker delivered the pre-dawn operations brief personally. 

“You did well in that complete shit-show of the last 2 days men. That drop on Heraklion was a mess, but no worse than the other three. We surpressed the defences as best we could and the fallschirmjaeger got their boots on the ground. It’s up to them now and while other Stukas will support them, today we have a different mission.

"We are going to sink the Royal Navy!”, which was met by cheers and whistles and Brücker smiled at their boyish enthusiasm 

 "British naval forces, mostly Light Cruisers and Destroyers are playing havoc out there and we have a troop convoy that needs covering. 

"We are going to focus on the Kithera and Antikithera Channels - the eastern approaches to Crete from Greece and see if we can put a dent in their plans. There’s at least one Battleship out there, the WARSPITE, and two carriers including the FORMIDABLE, through they are likely to be standing off to the East and sending their Fulmar fighters in to cover the lighter naval forces. 

Be in no doubt, ships are difficult and manoeuvring targets. Keep your dives sharp - their AA guns on orders ships don’t traverse up as high as they would like to be more effective. We want to make sure the hits we do get leave a dent so the ground crews are loading 1000kg bombs. You’ll be slow and sluggish while you have them but I understand the fireworks at the end are worth it!” 

"The bad news is: no fighter cover. All the Messerschmitts are assigned to CAP over Crete - protecting our strike bombers as well as the boys on the ground. The Royal Navy is rather protective off its lovely ships so if we find ships, we WILL find enemy fighters, sooner or later. Keep your formations tight and your eye peeled - Good Hunting!” 

As they formed up at high altitude to search for British ships, Andreas was way more excited than he thought Oberleutants probably should be. He didn’t care he decided, grinning under his mask, this was a great mission! He felt the extra drag and load of the bomb bomb he carried and was determined to place it somewhere where it would do the most good. 

Looking about, he dipped his port wing to get a better look at the water below that wing. What that a ship's wake? No, just more whitecaps. Smoke haze from the battle, coupled with some morning cloud was impacting visibility. And it was getting thicker. His radio cracked - it was Brücker 

 “Andreas - take your Staffel beneath this muck and be my eyes. The Royal Navy doesn’t hide ships in clouds but it certainly does beneath them” Voss clicked in acknowledgment, signalled his Staffel and pushed the stick down. 

 Emerging from the cloud he saw two things immediately. First was an empty expanse of water containing no warships The second was a pair of Hurricanes hiding beneath the cloud and waiting for somebody to poke their head down below the clouds. They committed immediately, barrelling in at high speed. 

 Voss screamed a warning to Milo as he kicked the rudder to start an evasive manoeuvre, scattering his staffel with a radio burst. The lead Hurricane winged over and dove down on Voss as he slewed his tail around and gave Milo an angle. Milo didn't wait, spraying tracer out in the general direction. Barrel warm, he then settled his MG15 onto the bearing and squirted off another burst with barely a pause. The cockpit flooded with the acrid smoke and the stink of expended ammunition.

The RAF pilot was either green or low on ammo because he hadn’t opened fire yet, and compounded his error by driving directly into Milo’s tracer. As if he’d been stung by a bee, the Hurricane reared up and pulled off high and left, black smoke streaming from his engine. 

“Take that you Tommy Bastard!” Milo cackled gleefully. Voss watched the RAF fighters brake off the action to lick their wounds and took the opportunity to get back above the clouds to high altitude. \

“That was some good shooting Milo” Andreas praised him. 

 “Well you don’t keep me around for my charm and good looks Boss. Pity he didn't come back so I could finish the job though” 

 “Careful what you wish for my friend!” Andreas replied. At that moment, though a break in the cloud, Milo saw something 

“Smoke at 3 o'clock on the horizon - could be a ship” Andreas reported the sighting to Brücker, who got one of the better placed Kettes to investigate. Brücker was soon back on the radio 

“All Gruppe Elements, smoke is confirmed warship - possible Town Class light cruiser. Prepare to attack and watch out for escorting destroyers as well as more fighters!” Instructions follow regarding attack direction and sequence - Andreas was disappointed his Staffel wasn’t first to attack but mollified at being second. 

HMS GLOUCESTER manoeuvring to avoid Dive Bomber attack, 22 May 1941

The first wave went in and the skin burst into like with FLAK and tracer. Circling with his formation, Voss watched with great interest as the ship ducked and weaved, her stern skidding across the waves- desperately avoiding the bombs while spitting a continuous barrage up at her tormentors. It was clear to Voss that the higher the release, the more time to dodge the ship had. There was only one way to fix that. Brüker was back on the radio: 

“Andreas - you’re up. Full Staffel attack - go!go!go!” 

In they went, and Voss knew exactly what he had to do - drive his precious 1000kgs bomb almost into the ship’s deck with the lowest possible pullout. He warned his gunner 

“Milo - we have to reduce their time to weave away from the drop. I’m going for a minimum altitude release and pull-up - Hold On!” Milo grunted as if he didnt expect anything else. After 2 years of flying together, he likely didn't. Voss went through the familiar pattern: invert, reacquire, dive! 

In they went He lined up with the front of the ship, which seemed to skid less when the ship turned. AA Fire licked up at him but it was mostly tracer - the bigger guns not seeming to be able to traverse high enough. 

closer. Closer! CLOSER! With the masts and stack of the ship reading up for him, Andreas pulled back and felt the release of the large bomb as the Gs kicked him. As the nose came up he heard Milo whoop: 

 “DIRECT HIT - YOU GOT HIM!!!!! When he finally emerged from his attack run,Andreas had time time to look back and see the plume of smoke coming from the ship’s front end (didn't sailors call that a foc’sle or something?) Even as he regained altitude he saw his first kette going in on the slowing ship to replay the sequence. Some missed, some exploded close alongside and slowly but surely the smoke plume built and the ship began to keel over. Voss was ecstatic! 

“Great job everyone - let go home for Schnapps to celebrate!” Brüker radioed. 

HMS GLOUCESTER sinking, 22 May 1941 off Crete

As they turned for home, Voss saw a lone Merchantmen, a tramp streamer really, fleeing from Greece in the direction of Crete- no doubt packed with escaping British troops going to reinforce the defenders on the island. Voss cursed his lack of ordnance - shooting it up with MGs wasn’t going to do much. He was still considering the value of giving it a go anyway when Milo screamed a warning 

“Achtung- Fighters!!!! Voss whipped his around to see two Fulmars barrelling in- no doubt called in to and save the mortally wounded Cruiser and now wanting to extract vengeance. Tracers spat and Voss threw his Stuka around to get out of the way. The first Fumar broke left to go after the Staffel’s first Kette but his wingman shot overhead - and as he did so, Milo unloaded into his belly. Smoke immediately belched form the Fumar, which inverted and began a terminal dive. Amid Milo’s triumphant hooting, Andreas was pleased to see a white chute seperate and bloom before the Fulmar crashed into the sea. 

Confirming that the other Fulmar was breaking off, Voss radioed his Staffel “Thats enough for one day men - lets go home!” 

Back over occupied Greece, the trip back to their strip outside the ancient city of Argos was uneventful. The landing was procedural and Voss prioritised two of his Kette’s ahead of him due to fuel state, before making his own landing. 

As the front wheels touched the ground, the port housing immediately collapsed. Clipped by the Fulmar’s cannons or the Cruiser’s AA guns , or maybe structurally weakened by use, it didn't really matter - the result was the same. 

The Stuka’s left wing immediately dipped and grounded, slewing the whole aircraft off the strip. Careening out of control into the rougher ground, the aircraft was catastrophically unbalanced. The wing dug deeper into a patch of soft earth and the residual momentum of the plane flipped the Stuka - hanging almost vertically for a second before coming crashing down upside down. The last thing Milo heard was the fire engine sirens before everything went dark. 

 ————— 

Pain. The light was painful. Andreas went to shield it from his eyes and immediately regretted moving it as a raft of other pains shots through innumerable parts of his body. A woman's voice quietly but firmly shushed him and tucked his arm away again. 

The next days were a blur in an out of consciousness. At one point he thought he was on a train, but he wasn’t sure. 

Slowly but surely, he regained consciousness then strength in the following two weeks.

German Military Hospital, Berlin 

Andreas was sitting up straight in bed in neatly ironed Luftwaffe pyjamas. 

Next to his bed sat his mother, holding his hand. His father stood on the other side of the bed, standing tall in his Sunday best. 

At the end of his bed stood Oberstleutnant Oskar Dinort in full uniform and sporting a wide, comradely grin. He had taken the time to come visit Andreas in hospital and had just formally presented Andreas not only with his silver wound badge, but also with the Iron Cross, 1st Class. Having completed reading the formal words on the certificate, Dinort added 

“We are all very proud of you Andreas- not just because you took out that British Cruiser almost by yourself - though I admit that was rather spectacular! - but for the leader you have become, in Belgium, France, though your advanced training, and most recently in Greece and Crete. Your men are lucky to have you and cheered loudly when I told them I was coming to give you this piece of tin!  Brüker and I are very proud of you too” Voss mumbled his thanks as his Mother squeezed his hand and his father patted his shoulder affectionately. 

“I’m told you’ll be discharged today, so here is a 3 day pass to enjoy Berlin or wherever you want to spend it, and we look forward to having you back at the Wing soon. There’s work to be done - and you’ve been malingering long enough!" And with that, Dinort cut a jaunty salute and walked away - off to visit other StG2 members who had ended up here in recent weeks.

His visitors left after more smiles and hugs, and Andreas was dozing contentedly when there was a sharp rap on the bed frame— firm, familiar.

Andreas looked up and saw Milo, freshly shaven, grinning like he’d just won a card game, and wearing his flight jacket over a pressed shirt with the top buttons undone. Andreas noted the new Wound Badge on the left pocket of his tunic.

“Took you long enough to wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” Milo said, strolling in as if it were just another morning briefing.

Andreas laughed — a real one this time, despite the sharp pain in his ribs. They were quiet for a few beats, the kind of silence only shared by men who’ve seen death skim past them and then moved on.

“Ops over Crete and Greece are done and the Staffel’s been grounded for maintenance. Then we're redeploying back to Germany” Milo said

There was a knock, and a nurse popped her head in, politely but sternly reminding them that visiting hours were over.

Milo stood then paused. “Oh — and you owe me a drink when you’re out of this place for dragging your arse out of that wreck.”

Andreas chuckled. “Done.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Andreas with a quiet sense of peace. He wasn’t entirely whole yet but Milo was well, the Staffel was intact, and the war wasn’t finished with either of them.

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Historical Note: 

HMS Gloucester was one of the last batch of three Town-class light cruisers built for the Royal Navy during the late 1930s. Commissioned in August 1939 shortly before the war, the ship was initially assigned to the China Station and was transferred to the Indian Ocean and later to South Africa to search for German commerce raiders. She was transferred to the Mediterranean Fleet in mid-1940 and spent much of her time escorting Malta Convoys. Gloucester played minor roles in the Battle of Calabria in 1940 and the Battle of Cape Matapan in 1941. She was sunk by German dive bombers on 22 May 1941 during the Battle of Crete with the loss of 722 men out of a crew of 807. Gloucester acquired the nickname «The Fighting G» after earning five battle honours in less than a year.

I also found conflicting information about StG2's operational bases during this period. Brücker and 10 aircraft were moved to the island of Scarpanto but it is unclear which ones. The rest appear to have been operating from Peloponnese bases - for ease I've left Andreas at the base outside of Argos (and also because I've always loved the Greek mythos of Perseus, King of Argos and slayer of Medusa and the Kraken!)

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Game Notes

I was really looking forward to playing out more of the infamous Stuka Attacks on the Allied navies evacuating Crete, but thats the way the cards landed. Andrea's serious wound seems a good place to put a pause on this campaign and begin prepping for the next one: Barbarossa.

As I move to the Russian Campaign, I'm going to put a bit of a twist to my game mechanics...well in fact the game that I'm playing. I quite like Stuka Ace but its really a game about you as a pilot, and there is significant abstraction about the men you are leading. 

So I've picked up Storm of Steel, by Compass Games. Its also a Stuka game but its more focused on Staffel level management. Its also exclusively set in Russia. I'm going to see if I can merge the games a bit - and integrate the elements - should be a fun experiment!

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Crete Campaign Mission #5 - Light Cruiser

first time with a 1000kg bomb! Heavy Load penalty

Enemy Presence 0 = almost certain (RAF CAP over their Naval Force)

Weather Hazy - smoke and cloud from the battle impacting visibility

TOFF - NSTR

Approach

1. Dense clouds = LOW ALT

2. Enemy Contact! Hurricanes! Dogfight!

EVADE 2+6-1-1=Enemy HIT! Damage: Damaged, + 1 Stamina. Combat ends

Form SUCC = HIGH ALT

Target Reached - LOWEST Profile!

Dive 2+3=S AA 5+1=6 -1 REL 2+2+3-1=6 HIT 6+1 DEST!!!!

FORM ATT 3+2-1+1= DAM

Return

1 Opportunity Target MERSHIP I = No bombs! FORM Fail - remain loose

2 Enemy Contact! Fumar from HMS FORMIDABLE

3+4-1=6 Enemy Hit! Damage: SHOT DOWN!!! +1VP

Land = 12 - Crash! Seriously Wounded!!!

VP 4(halved)=2+1=3

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Stuka Ace: Crete Mission 1

20 May 1941 – Mykene Airfield, outside of Argos, Greece. Crete Invasion Staging Area

Operation Mercury, Morning

Andreas Voss was in a foul mood.

It was already mid-morning and the invasion of Crete—Operation Merkur—was underway in full force. The skies were choked with aircraft: silver chains of Ju 52s lumbering south across the Aegean, their bellies full of paratroopers, flanked by buzzing Bf 109s, Stukas, Heinkels, and anything else the Luftwaffe could spare. The number of aircraft aloft here today, was impressive: 550 Luftwaffe Combat aircraft, plus another 50 from the Italians, and for troop transport 520 Ju52s and 70 DFS 230 gliders - well over a thousand aircraft!

Everything that could fly, was flying—except his Gruppe.

He and the rest of III./StG 2 had spent the morning standing idle on the heat-hazed tarmac, grinding their teeth as they watched their comrades in I./StG 2 take off one by one. Their Ju 87s banked over the bay and vanished into the southern sky, toward the battle. Voss had watched them go in silence, hands on hips, feeling that particular, impotent ache familiar to soldiers kept on the sidelines.

There wasn’t enough airfield space, the Ops officers had said. Not enough deck crews, not enough refueling trucks, and certainly not enough aerial capacity over the target zones. So III./StG 2 was grounded until the afternoon wave, stacked in reserve like the ground crews' spare tools.

Voss stood near the flight line with a cold enamel mug of ersatz coffee in hand, watching the glinting sky traffic above. It was a fine day for flying. Clear skies. A sea breeze. And he was pacing the gravel like a caged dog.

The reports coming in over the field radios were chaotic. HF chatter from the wireless tent painted a picture of hell: Fallschirmjäger units taking massive casualties, parachuting into withering fire from British, Australian, New Zealand, and even Greek troops. Someone had underestimated the enemy—again. The Royal Navy had apparently managed to evacuate Greece and reinforce Crete far more effectively than expected.

Frustrated, Voss crushed his cigarette under his boot and walked the line of aircraft, exchanging quiet words and half-smiles with his pilots. They were wound tight as piano wire. A walk, a joke, a cigarette shared—it helped. It reminded them who they were, and why they were here. It would help him as well.

At 1430 hours, the Gruppe’s senior officers were summoned to the Ops tent. Map updates, wind readings, and a new tone in the voice of Hauptmann Brücker. He got straight to the point.

“It’s a mess over there,” Brücker said, tapping a smudged map of Crete. “Initial waves on the Western end have run into fierce resistance. The transports carrying the paras we’re meant to support at Heraklion? They haven’t even launched yet. Their H-Hour has been pushed back.”

He looked up, letting that sink in.

“So instead of flying in behind landed troops to support them, we’re now clearing the way for them. Hit their flak, crush their barracks, silence the airfield. Whatever we knock out, our boys don’t have to fight through on foot. But we have to do it blind, without ground observers and troops keeping their heads down”

A young Leutnant from Voss's Staffel raised a hand. Andreas nodded in approval - he liked his men to be engage the commander and not be afraid to speak their minds. “So we’re flying in ahead of our own drops Sir?”

“Exactly. The Heraklion defenders won’t be expecting it. They’ve had no action yet today. All the fighting’s at Maleme and Chania—the western end. The RAF will be watching that sector. We’ll be flying in from the north, low and fast. With luck, we’ll have the element of surprise.”

He paused, then added grimly “Intelligence has underestimated the defenders. Big surprise. The Fallschirmjäger are doing the impossible—and paying for it. We owe them support. We hit Heraklion hard and clean, and open the gate.”

He pointed to a watch pinned on the mapboard. “Takeoff remains as scheduled. 1510 hrs. Time on target: 1600. Sunset at 1921. We will get a couple of runs in before dark.”

Brücker straightened.

“Let’s show them how wrong they are to think we’ve forgotten the eastern end of the island.”

-----------

Despite the significant and short notice change to the plan, the first sortie ran like clockwork.  Just as Brüker had said, the RAF was focused on the first 3 German waves on the Western end of Crete. The Weather was clear and the run into Heralkion was like a training run. Then the FLAK opened up as they approached the harbour.

The British weren’t amateurs. They had waiting until the echeloned formation entered their kill zone and then opened up with everything they could bring to bear. One of Voss’s Stuka’s had a near hit by something large calibre, damaging the aircraft badly. Voss ordered him to jettison him bomb and abort the mission. He really hoped he'd see that crew again once he got back to Argos. Focusing back on the Mission, he scanned the ground, and saw the defensive perimeter around the town - the primary target. Cueing his Staffel by radio, he led them in.

The memory of his botched run at the Hot Gates continued to rankle him and he wasn’t going to let this be a repeat. He needed to inspire his men for accuracy and excellence, if this parachute drop was to be successful. In he went and the Flak opened up- lighter calibre but accurate.

Down he went, down, down. The 40mm shells clawed up at him. One burst close off his standard wing, nudging him sideways

“Superficial. I think:” Milo said. Voss only had eyes for his gauges and the target, as he corrected their trajectory. Lower, and Lower still. He toggled the payload release and the bombs fell away and the Gs kicked him in the gut. A familiar if unwelcome acquaintance. 

A loud rumble behind him and Milo reported that the collection of 50kg bombs, now fitted with the new Dinort Rod mechanisms, were right on target. The staffle followed and was similarly accurate. Voss had no ideas what troops were below him - British, ANZACs, Greeks- but whoever it was wasn’t enjoying their damned “afternoon tea”. 

The trip back to Argos was challenging as they were routed away from the main fight to clear the parachute drop zone. Fuel was proving challenging and then their fighter escorts got pulled away to protect the JU52 transports from the RAF who was beginning to wake up. 

Then they were back. Refuelling and rearming while a ground crewmen checked his wing damage and reported it was nothing serious. Voss was pleased to see that the crippled Stuka that aborted the first sorties was sitting on the airfield - hastily pushed to one side to clear the area, but it meant the crew were safe. With the tank topped off and new bombs loaded, the next wave was quickly planned. Their target was the harbour AA batteries - the ones that had caught them on the way in the first time. 

“None of that daredevil shit against AA batteries Andreas”, Brüker warned him and emphasised with a pointed finger 

“You need to set a good example for the younger pilots on this one - no unnecessary risks”. 

Again the takeoff was uneventful but from there it got messy. The radio was jammed up with controllers changing plans but stepping on eachother’s transmissions so that it became garbled. They were rerouted twice and Voss was unsure of his Navigation when he saw the smoke plumes above Heraklion and steered for them. No doubt the AA batteries would announce themselves shortly also. 

This time there was no heroics. Standard release. By the Book. But as he led the formation into the dive, he saw the British had started fires - burning diesel he presumed - to obscure their positions. He managed to get his own bombs away but by the time his Kettes began their wing over dives, the smoke was impenetrable and they had to drop blind. No doubt they did some damage but there was no way to confirm the outcome, It was a clever ploy by the Tommies!

Again by comparison, the return trip was uneventful as they left the aerial scrap behind them. As they flew North then West, Voss saw a British Merchant Ship, no doubt packed with war material, steaming towards Crete. The irony of having wasted all their bombs only to find a great target now with nothing to throw at it rankled him. Back at Argos, the landing was rough. Really rough. All the additional takeoff and recoveries today, including the laden Ju52 transports, had torn up their temporary airstrip. Voss now landed in a new rut, jarring and bouncing the aircraft badly. They was a crashing noise behind him and a grunt. Then nothing. 

As soon as the Stuka was stopped and the engine spooling down, Voss was ripping off his harness to look behind him. Milo was slumped in his harness and the MG was askew. It looked as if it had come off its mounting during the landing and hit Milo in the head, knocking him unconscious. Voss yelled for the medics, who quickly arrived and dragged him to the ground. Voss was relieved when they told him Milo was just unconscious, probably had a mild concussion, but was otherwise OK. Nothing serious - nothing permanent. But out of today's fight.

When Voss got the Ops tent it was as abuzz with reports and wireless traffic and field telephones jangling as it had been earlier in the day. Brüker was there, face dirty and still wearing his flying helmet.“We’re going back to finish off those AA batteries Andreas - they are giving the transports hell. At least half a dozen shot down, probably more. Let’s go” When he got back to his STUKA, Voss saw that the MG had been replaced and strapped in behind it as his temporary wireless operator/gunner was young Feldwebel Habel - the aircrew from the Ju87 damaged in their first attack that day. 

"Hope you don't mind Sir, but I heard you had a spare seat and I've been missing all the fun today. Remembering his bad mood that morning all too well, Voss knew just how he felt, He gave him a hearty slap and began his start-up sequence. They were airborne shortly afterwards. 

Visibility was deteriorating. The combination of low sun, cloud and the pall of smoke that now hung over Crete was making things difficult, right at the time when Andreas was feeling fatigue kicking in. Finally, as the cloud thickened nearer the target, he had to give up and drop to low altitude. Their accuracy would differ, but it was that or not find their targets. 

The AA Batteries were again obliging in announcing their presence, and the puffs began to bloom around them. But the visibility was poor and the low altitude gave no time for the pilots to adjust on their shallow dives. Voss’s experienced hand was able to put his ‘eggs in the basket’ but he saw that his greener pilots weren’t able to do so. Still, it gave the British gunners something else to shoot at for awhile instead of Ju52s -Voss saw at least a half dozen of them scattered around Heraklion. Broken and burning.

Heraklion under Luftwaffe attack, 20 May 1941

Operations Tent 21:45 hrs

The air was humid and smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and dust.

A string of bulbs swung from the ridgepole, casting long shadows over the map table, where Brücker stood hunched, one hand planted on Crete, the other holding a pencil he hadn’t used in twenty minutes. The corners of the canvas walls snapped in the breeze outside. Radios squawked occasionally—ghost voices from Heraklion, Maleme airfield and other drop zones. Each one brought more bad news.

Andreas Voss sat on a camp stool nearby, helmet off, uniform jacket unbuttoned. A tin of sardines sat untouched on the crate beside him, next to an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes. He watched the flame of a Zippo dance as a young Staffelkapitän lit another with shaking hands.

Hauptmann Brücker broke the silence.

"Fourteen Ju 52s confirmed shot down at Heraklion, most before dropping their paratroopers. More unaccounted for. We've still got paras landing without air cover. It's a verdammt meat grinder over there!"

No one responded.

A staff Feldwebel entered with a clipboard "Haupman Witzig’s team is scattered across a vineyard outside Knossos. Some stuck in trees. Some captured. They say British artillery is already repositioning."  Voss remembered Witzig well - he had captured Fort Eben-Emael last May, while Voss and his Kette had flown in support. Witzig had won the Knight's Cross that day, and thoroughly deserved it.

Brücker just nodded silently.

Someone handed Voss a mug of coffee. He sipped it. It was more mud than drink, but it was hot and it gave him something to hold. He looked around at the other men: young, sunburned, silent. 

A field telephone jangled in the corner. The feldwebel picked it up, mumbled a greeting, then stiffened.

“Sir… it’s Fliegerkorps HQ requesting a status update on the suppression sorties.”

Brücker took the phone and turned away. His voice was calm, clipped. “Yes, General. Direct hits on two batteries, partial suppression on the others. Yes, we can return at first light. Weather permitting.”

He hung up and turned back to them.

“We’re flying again at dawn,” he said simply. “Briefing at 0430. Try to get some sleep.”

He didn’t sound hopeful.

Voss stood slowly, joints aching. “Milo’s still out cold,” he muttered. “Doc says he’ll wake up sometime soon and likely just have a bad headache.”

Brücker looked at him for a long moment. “Good. He’s one of the sharp ones.” Then, softer: “Get your boys ready, Andreas. Crete isn’t broken yet.”

Crete Cuff Title (Ärmelband Kreta)

Historical Notes

The delay in the Heraklion attack, and Hauptman Brücker leading a Gruppe level attack at 1600 ahead of the drop is all historically correct

Game Notes

WOW - what a Mission! Easily the most tense I have played thus far. Damage aplenty, almost lost Milo, and barely pulled out of dives...twice!

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Sortie 1 - 4 x 50kgs bombs

TOFF NSTR

Approach

1 Enemy presence - NSTR (all occupied Western end of island ?).

2 Clear sky - draw a card -  (all occupied Western end of island ?).

3 enemy ? no

4 Altitude check

Target

1. FLAK! Structural damage - FORM EFF -1 (now 2)

LOWEST! DIVE 3+2+1=S AA 3-1=NE REL 5+1+3=9 HIT 9+1=DEST PUP3+6=9

FORM ATT 6+2+1 = DEST

Return

1 Low Fuel - lose stamina

2 Support fighters in dogfight

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Land & refuel - launch with 6 cards, 4 stamina

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Sortie 2 - AA Battery - 500kg + 2 x 50kg bombs

TOFF NSTR

Approach 

1 Form up = SUCCESS

2 RADIO Coord FAIL = +1 Approach

3 NSTR

4 Nav check 5+1-1=SUCC

5 ALT Check = PASS

Target

1. Enemy Contact! Nil

2. near profile! 

DIVE 3+1=S AA 5+2=7 2 STRUCDAM REL 3+0+2=5 HIT 5+1+1=DEST PUP 2+1-1-2+4=4!

FORM ATT 1+2-2+1 = nil

Return

1 Support fighters in dogfight

2 Opportunity Target MERSHIP II but no bombs left!

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Landing 2 STRUC DAM  - MG and Gunner Wounded

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Sortie 3 - 4 cards, 4 stamina

TOFF NSTR - no MGs, No Gunner. AA Battery - 500kg + 2 x 50kg bombs

Approach

1 Vis worsens - dust/darkness, smoke

2 NSTR 

3 enemy contact - nil

4 dense clouds - LOW Alt  FORM fail - remain at LOW ALT

Target

1. FLAK! NSTR

BASE attack DIVE 6+1=S AA 2+1=NE REL 1+6=7 HIT 7+1=DEST PUP2+1+1=4

FORM ATT 5+2-1-2=0 MISS

Return

1 AA Defences reduce fighters

2 FLAK NSTR 

Landing NSTR

VPs 2+1, 4 halved, 4 halved, = 3+2+2

Stuka Ace: Greece Mission 2

April 22nd 

Larissa Airbase, Greece

Junkers Ju 87B2 Stuka III/StG2 crew member doing his washing, Balkans 1941

Andreas looked around the base in wonder.

His Gruppe, along with I./StG2, had relocated here just days before, pressing close behind the retreating British. The enemy had left behind a small mountain of munitions, fuel, food, and even Officer’s Mess supplies — including some excellent whisky and a very average tinned drink that no descent German would call beer. Captured trucks and tents meant real shelter, real logistics. The ground crews were gleeful.

Nearby Volos — Thessaly’s largest city — had fallen. The Germans now dominated southern Greece. The road to Athens was open, and the Greek Prime Minister’s suicide had left the government leaderless.

But one obstacle remained: the ANZAC forces dug in at Thermopylae to stop them.

Thermopylae. Leonidas’s Hot Gates.

Andreas shook his head. History repeating itself in the most legendary of places.

---

Takeoff and forming up was uneventful, but shortly after reaching altitude Voss heard his engine cough.

The B-2’s more powerful motor was excellent — but dust in the air intake could ruin any flight. He tensed, listened… then exhaled as the engine settled back into its deep, reliable hum.

At the start of the isthmus, British FLAK opened up. But the puffs were wild — harassment fire. Voss realized the enemy gunners were shooting blindly through a low cloud bank. Trouble was, that same cloud bank was obscuring his own view.

The Hot Gates were narrow. This needed precision.

He led his Staffel lower. The approach angle was off — wind shear off the cliffs. Adjust. Reorient. Back up to attack altitude. Keep them safe.

He clicked the radio:

“We attack in standard order. Watch the crosswinds off the cliffs — they look strong. Don’t hang around at low altitude; the AA here is focused. I’ll go first. Follow me.”

He flipped his aircraft onto its back. Looked “up” toward the ground. There—his target. He nosed over and dropped into a steep dive, angling almost vertical as the ANZAC positions surged into view.

Tracer stitched the air. Black bursts followed — heavier FLAK. Then—

CRACK!

A shell detonated directly in front of him. The Ju87 lurched violently, shuddering sideways.

“Schisser!” Milo’s voice cut through the intercom, equal parts panic and disgust.

But Voss was locked on the reticle. Wind shear bucked the Stuka, and cliffs loomed on either side. He fought to realign, altitude spiralling down. Too far left. Too low.

He toggled the release and hauled back hard, his arms locking under the 6G load as the aircraft screamed in protest.

The bombs fell cleanly. Off-target.

“Missed,” Milo said — somehow managing to sound disappointed, reproving, and winded all at once.

Voss didn’t answer. He was fighting the controls, throttling up as a northerly gust tried to toss them into the stone teeth of the pass. With a final wrench of rudder and a burst of power, he cleared the cliffs and climbed to altitude.

Furious with himself.

The Staffel followed. Voss, scowling behind his mask, issued corrections over the radio — adjusting for the shear, the pull-out height, the crosswinds. One by one, his men rolled in. One by one, their bombs landed true. Secondary explosions bloomed across the ANZAC line.

He watched silently. Pride and frustration battled in his chest all the way back to base.

---

That evening, outside the operations tent, Brücker took him aside. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Andreas.

“You look like you swallowed a gallon of sour milk,” the Hauptmann said. “What’s wrong?”

Andreas exhaled slowly.

“I flew badly. Missed the target and almost slammed into a cliff on pull-out. Looked like a green pilot. The men deserve better from a Staffelkapitän.”

Brücker gave him a small, knowing smile.

“What I heard,” he said, “was a commander leading his men against a difficult, fortified position with a narrow approach. A commander who went first — and who corrected for conditions to help his team succeed.”

He took another drag.

“You brought all your men home. That’s what matters. They’ll follow you — and respect you — because you lead from the front. Even when the winds hit you sideways.”

Then Brücker chuckled.

“Besides, they need to see their boss is human. Go laugh at yourself. I suggest a round of that fine captured Scotch in the Officer’s Mess.”

Andreas managed a wry grin. Brücker wasn’t just his commander. He was a mentor — and today, exactly what Andreas needed. 

Game Note:

I used a France Theatre Mission Infantry Position, adding additional enemy presence for the RAF covering the evacuation. I also gave the Infantry Position AA of 1 instead of / to reflect the narrow approaches and better British AA weapons.

Historical Note:

ANZAC Forces did indeed dig in at the Hot Gates to defend the approach to Athens, though it was always intended to be a delaying action to cover the ongoing evacuation. Having visiting Thermopylae with Reilly (just before COVID) and being an Aussie, I just had to wind this into the narrative (but personally was rather glad Andreas didn't hit any Australian troops!)

Reilly and I at Thermopylae, November 2019

Stuka Ace: Greece Mission 1

6 April 1941 - Krainici, Southern Bulgaria

Junkers Ju 87B2 Stuka III.StG2 code B Balkans 1941

The German 12th Army's initial operations into Eastern Macedonia were against the Greek fortifications known as the Metaxas Line. Field Marshall List was throwing 2 Corps, including a Panzer Division, against the 4 Greek Divisions defending the approach to Thessaloniki. And smashing forts from the air was a game that Stukas excelled at, Voss knew.

Voss set his mug down on the operations map at the briefing table. He tapped it once to bring the room to order.

"All right, listen in.”

Voices stilled.  Engines already warming on the airfield beyond made a low growl in the background.

“As you know, we're going in at first light. Primary targets are Greek fortified positions along the Metaxas Line, north of Thessaloniki—concrete bunkers, artillery emplacements, trench networks dug into the passes at Rupel, Perithori, and Karakoli. Expect flak—both heavy and light—and rough terrain. No second passes unless absolutely necessary.”

He looked around at their faces. Young, but sharp. Many were replacements, but they’d trained hard since he joined them in France.

"Weather will be clear. Approach route will put the Sunrise at our backs—use it. I'll be with First Kette hitting Rupel Pass—four bunkers and an artillery battery. Second kette goes west to Perithori. Third Kette in reserve and targets of opportunity —bridges and mountain roads feeding reinforcements from Serres."

He paused, then softened slightly.

"These aren’t like the French fields or Polish towns. These are fortresses, carved into mountain rock, and the Greeks know their ground. But they’re static. We’re not. We dive, we strike, we break them. Just like we did in Belgium along the canals."

He nodded toward the rear of the tent where Milo stood, already festooned in his flight harness, quietly reviewing coordinates. Voss gave him a subtle thumbs up, then turned back to the Staffel.

“One last thing—timing. Army units hit the line at 0600. We are their hammer. No delays. We'll be the ones who will start this war in Greece, where legends once fought.”

A long pause.

“We're ready - You're each ready. Mount up. Engines hot in ten.”

Voss picked up his mug, stepped back out into the Balkan dawn, and accepted his flying helmet and goggles from Milo.

They took off without incident, climbing quickly to high altitude in Echelon formation like the trained team they were, optimising for the ground attack to come. As they neared the boarder, sporadic AA fire began. Speculative rather than focused, fired at noise and glimpses in the dawn shadows. Voss thought he saw sunlight glint off a canopy in the distance. Enemy fighter? Maybe - he radioed the sighting back to Air operations and shortly saw his top cover Bf109s roar off in pursuit.

As the formation neared the start of the mountain peaks, the clouds began the thicken and Voss lost sight of his navigation marks. He waggled his wings to improve his observations below each top, unsuccessfully. He hadn’t flown here before and couldn’t afford to dive his Staffel into an adjoining mountain crest. Reluctantly he led his Staffel to a lower altitude, below the cloud base.

There! He checked the map and confirmed - that was the entrance to the pass - 10degrees off his nose. They had be pushed by the wind but now he corrected. Confidence restored, he led his Staffel back up to a height optimised for their upcoming attack runs.

And there was their target- the Rupel Pass gun emplacements. The wind was stirring but predictable and more predictable coming up the pass as it was.

“You’ve got this Andreas - just like all the other times. Just a few more lads following you this time, is all. Show them how its done” Mile said. 

Voss did. Just like he’d practiced at the advanced training school, and all those combat missions in France, Belgium and Poland. The AA was negligible and did rolled out on a textbook drop - watching his 500kg bomb hit dead centre of the battery. 

His Staffel rolled in, one after another. Textbook. Just like they had practiced. He couldn’t have asked for anymore. 

When the last Stuka had dropped its payload he reformed them for the return leg, which used an indirect route to keep the ingress route next for the next wave of strikes. The navigation through the ravines was difficult and took awhile and despite the presence of of a few unsuspected Greek AA guns, They returned to base, engines ticking down in the soft light of the Balkan dusk. Crews gathered instinctively around the map table and mess tent, the adrenaline wearing off but minds still racing. The day’s work had just begun.

----------

That evening, the Gruppe's aircrews gathered to debrief the day and share the lessons with each other as much as the intel staff. The hubbub was loud, a little excitable but professionally focused.

“That AA gun position is not a 40mm - its a heavy 9cm gun at least”

“That gun emplacement is further East, around 500 metres”

“You were a bit early on that pull-up Hans, wait until the needle hit 450 before you pull the stick back'

“Kurt’s kette got their eggs directly on that gun emplacement- I saw secondaries. Confirmed knock-out”

“No, Mein Herr, I didnt see any enemy fighters at all - British or Greek"

Voss listened quietly, pleased with the attentiveness of his teams during the day and the ease with which they amended maps and provided updates to the intelligence team. A soft tap on his shoulder made him turn, and see Hauptmann Brücker beckoning him to the tent door. 

“The men did well today Andreas - for some of them that was their first taste of combat flying. You’ve done well training them.” 

"Thank you Sir” 

“But more importantly, you did well leading them. I know that was your first outing as a Staffelkapitan with real bullets. You got them all home and it looks like you managed to suppress or neutralise most of you targets” 

Voss smiled 

“Keep it up, but don’t push it too hard. This is good experience and hard flying in these mountains, but the Army’s attack is not the main effort. Of they are fighting hard enough alright and those are tough boys. But when I was at the Corps HQ just now, I saw that the Panzers are pushing round the Western flank of the Metaxas line. Our infantry attack is to hold the Greeks in place while the Panzers due around behind them." 

3 days later, the lead elements of the 2nd Panzer Division entered Thessaloniki having used speed to flank the main defence, and the city surrender. 60,000 Greek soldiers were taken prisoner. Blitzkrieg had come to the Mediterranean.

Historical Note:

In the fight for the Metaxas line, StG 2 pilots considered that their ordnance was less effective against the Greek troops because it was detonating after hitting the ground and borrowing into the soil - reducing the blast effects. StG2's Commander Oskar Dinort designed a device - essentially a 40cm rod sticking out of the nose of the bomb - to hit and the ground before the bomb and trigger the fuse. The bomb thus detonated at chin/knee hight, turning it into a daisy cutter. These "Dinortspangel" devices (Dinort asparagus) later became standard use when striking infantry and unarmoured targets.

Game Notes:

Stuka Ace presents Crete as a new Theatre, but not Greece. Given the strong employment of Stukas in the invasion of Greece and the Balkans, I didnt feel that I could leave it out of my narrative (and it was a long stretch for Andreas nmot to fly from France to Crete!) I added two extra missions, using the existing EUROPE theatre Flight Cards and pre selected the targets types based on historical missions at the Metaxas Line and the advance to Athens. I used En Presence 6+ for these, to add some fear of marauding RAF fighters!

Stuka Ace: Greece and Crete

3 April 1941 – Krajnice/Belica Airfield, Southern Bulgaria

Ju-87 B-2 staged forward, Balkans, April 1941.

Briefing Room, Advanced Headquarters of Sturzkampfgeschwader 2 "Immelmann"

The heavy doors shut with a final thunk, sealing out the chill Balkan wind that had howled all morning across the airfield. Inside, the briefing room was thick with cigarette smoke, maps, and tension. Oberleutnant Andreas Voss sat in the third row, among the Staffelkapitäne and behind the senior commanders of StG 2, facing a canvas-draped map wall and the Geschwaderkommodore himself.

Oberstleutnant Oskar Dinort looked older than when Voss had last seen him before France. Yet he radiated energy, eyes shining with purpose—and with pride. The new Ritterkreuz at his throat, awarded after the French campaign, gleamed under the lamps. Everyone in the room felt it: his distinction reflected on them all.

Voss scanned the room. The Gruppe leaders were present—Brücker of III. Gruppe nodding to him subtly, murmuring with a signals officer; staff from I. and III. leaning over their notebooks. Eccenneres was absent, of course—now deployed with II./StG 2 across the Mediterranean, supporting Rommel in North Africa.

Dinort cleared his throat.

“Operation Marita has been approved and will commence imminently. The objective: destroy enemy resistance in southern Yugoslavia and conquer Greece—swiftly, and in full coordination with the Heer. Our job is to break Greek defensive lines and secure the southern flank for operations planned in late spring.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the room.

“Intelligence confirms the Greeks are dug in across the mountain passes north of Thessaloniki. They’ve had time to prepare—fortifications, artillery, and rugged ground. The British, including Australian and New Zealand troops, are reinforcing with units moved from Egypt, and the RAF is already harassing our Italian allies. Mostly Fulmars but also Hurricane fighters and I'm sure you all remember those bastards from Southern England last year.”

Many face grimaced with unpleasant memories as another briefing officer stepped forward, pointer in hand.

“StG 2 will support 18th Mountain Corps, pushing south from Skopje and Strumica. Our airfields here and at Sandanski and Petrich are operational. Initial targets include fortified strongpoints, artillery batteries, and known troop concentrations along the Metaxas Line. Once the passes are breached, we shift to interdiction—bridges, convoys, ports along the Aegean coast - as well as on-call support to the Army."

Voss scribbled notes. He had already studied the terrain—narrow valleys, steep escarpments, switchback roads. Dive-bombing here would be no less dangerous than France—possibly worse, with unpredictable mountain winds complicating accuracy and recovery, while making their approaches more predictable to AA gunners.

A Group Operations Major added:

“Diplomatic efforts have failed with the new junta Government in Yugoslavia. WeThe Fuhrer has ordered that they be brought to heel. The Army will invade concurrently using formations advancing from Germany, Hungary, and Romania. StG 77 will be supporting them while we focus our operations on Greece.”

A grim silence followed. Everyone heard the subtext: this wasn’t just about the Balkans. This was about clearing the board for something far larger.

Dinort leaned on the table’s edge, hands braced.

“Gentlemen, we need to win this quickly. This is not a Balkan quagmire—this is a stepping stone. High Command is preparing something far larger for late June or July. You'll be briefed as required. For now—we destroy Greek and British resistance. Support the Italians—who, let’s be honest, made a complete hash of things. Their invasion failed, and they were pushed back into Albania. Now the Fuhrer has to pull Mussolini's britches out the fire - very embarrassing!”

He straightened as the assembled men politely chuckled.

“First sorties: dawn, 6 April. Target confirmations within 24 hours. Make your final preparations. Good flying men!”

As the officers rose and began to file out, Voss lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the topography of northern Greece. A mountain war. Another test. But this time, he would not be sharing the campaign with his brother.

Johann’s division—formerly the 2nd (Motorised) Infantry—had gone back to Germany after France and reorganised as a Panzer Division. In his last letter, Johann had written with pride of his new role as a Panzer-Grenadier. He spoke of new equipment, endless drills on the plains of East Prussia, and hints of something massive coming to the east.

Andreas was proud of him—his brother was now part of the armoured spearhead, the tip of the Army's future. But it meant they would not see each other this spring. While Voss descended into Balkan passes, Johann was preparing for something altogether different—a campaign whispered about in briefings, still months away.

A hand clapped his shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts. Behind him, Brücker’s voice:

“You’ll be flying lead again, Andreas. We’ll need your touch in those valleys. Your boys are coming along well—but they haven’t flown in terrain like this. They’ll need your judgment. And your confidence.”

Voss nodded silently, then turned to go. At the back of the tent, half-shadowed by a canvas support pole, he caught a glimpse of Milo. Quiet, watchful, but unmistakably present.

Voss met his eyes and gave the slightest nod. Approval. Trust. A silent pact renewed.

This was no longer just about flying.
It was command—and the war was far from over. 

New Acquisitions

 A few birthday treats for myself today!

 

    Raiders of the Deep: a WW1 submarine game I've been looking at for over a year (based on Gregory Smith's excellent Hunter's and , ) the U-Boat War of the Great War period was quite a different beast, especially in the early days.

https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/227995/raiders-of-the-deep-u-boats-of-the-great-war-1914

 Storm of Steel: another Stuka Game, this one focusing on running a staffel and specifically focused during Barbarossa. It will be interesting to see if I can get some fusion and cross-over between this and Stuka Ace, possibly playing both in tandem.

https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/368088/storm-of-steel-ju-87-stuka-eastern-front

Now its true that I had been planning to get some new boardgames while in the US (and avoid international shipping) but these are also a bit of substitute for a lack of local table top gaming action thus far. Of course, I've left the vast majority of my models some 5,000 miles/8,000kms behind, which is constraining!  Considering the new edition of Kill Team maybe.

Stuka Ace: Staffelkapitän

September 1940

Luftkriegsschule, Werder Luftwaffe Base

The anniversary of the start of the war passed quietly, the months in training consumed in books, written examinations and aerial exercises. It was immersive, interesting and rewarding work, but between classes Andreas read every scrap of news from France and the English Channel. The wireless reported ceaselessly of the pounding England was taking from the Luftwaffe. With his combat experience in Poland and France, Andreas was able to picture what that probably looked like.  He missed his comrades.

October 1940
Döberitz, Germany – near Berlin

The Lehrgang für Stabsoffiziere at Döberitz was a different world again — quieter, more deliberate, and colder in spirit than the Luftkriegsschule. Here the war was spoken of in graphs, ratios and logistics, not in flak, wounds and missing men. Lecture halls in grey stone buildings echoed with the voices of seasoned Obersts, some fresh from the front, others returned from years in staff billets. They taught with the sharp edge of experience, but Andreas still found himself growing restless.

He missed the noise. He missed making decisions that came fast and unrelenting, not weighed by adjudicators in war-games with chalkboards. Especially when he knew others were out there doing it in his stead.

Then the news came: a courier brought it to him personally during an afternoon planning an exercise Panzer support operation. It was from Milo.

Hauptmann Adler had been wounded in action

The note was brief. The Wing was hit by Spitfires over the Thames Estuary on the return leg of a bombing mission, with an emergency landing in the Pas-de-Calais. Initial care in Boulogne-sur-Mer, then airlifted to Berlin’s Lazarett am Urban, the largest Wehrmacht hospital in the city.

Andreas requested a weekend pass that same day. It was granted without question. 

Sunday Morning
Lazarett am Urban, Berlin

The hospital was clean, vast, and heavy with silence. Its courtyards still smelled faintly of antiseptic and burning coal. Rows of men moved slowly with bandages, crutches, wheeled chairs. Some without limbs. Some with eyes covered. Most without words.

Andreas was directed to the east wing—aviators, officers, the worst cases kept from the press. He passed through two guards and a nurse station before a young orderly guided him to the right room.

He stopped in the doorway.

Adler was thinner. Pale and drawn, his right arm bound in a thick brace and his face marked with burns that hadn’t yet fully healed. But his eyes were clear. Sharp. Watching.

And when they met Andreas’s, the old smirk returned—crooked and tired, but genuine.

“Andreas! Come to check I’m not malingering?”

Andreas stepped close, relieved and unsure all at once. “Hauptmann.”

“Don’t Hauptmann me while I look like this,” Adler muttered. “Sit. You’re making the place look too formal.”

Andreas pulled the chair close. “They told me you got jumped over the Thames.”

Adler nodded slightly. “Four of them. Spitfires. Quick bastards. We lost two Stukas, mine barely made it back across. Got clipped in the oil system—fire on landing. Most of this—” he gestured to his bandages, “was from that. Not the flak.”

“They say you’ll recover?”

“If I don’t catch gangrene or other infection. I’ll never fly combat again though. They’re already whispering about moving me to a training command in Vienna. There I can bark at green crews and fail physicals in peace.”

Andreas frowned. “You deserve better”

“I deserve exactly that,” Adler said, wincing as he sat straighter. “Men like us don’t fly forever, Andreas. We lead. And if Wotan sees fit to remove me from the cockpit alive, then maybe I’m lucky.”

There was silence for a time.

Adler looked him over again. “You look different. Straighter. Tighter. They turning you into a General already?”

Andreas smiled. “Just a Leutnant. But they’ve got me drawing arrows on maps now.”

“Good. We need men who know what those arrows mean.”

They spoke for nearly an hour. About old comrades. About what might come next.

When the nurse insisted Adler rest, Andreas stood to go. At the door, Adler stopped him.

“Voss.”

He turned.

“You’re ready for more than you know.”

Andreas nodded once. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now get out of here before they make you clean my bedpan.”

Döberitz, November 1940

The mess hall clattered with the sounds of cutlery and low conversation. Voss sat at the edge of a table, half-listening to a pair of Oberleutnants from a fighter unit chatting over coffee.

“—whole Gruppe’s being sent to Sicily, from StG 2. Heard it from a signals officer at Luftflotte 2,” one said.

“Sicily?” the other blinked. “To help the Italians?”

“Yes, and to hunt the Royal Navy,” came the reply. “Enneccerus's mob. Going after convoys and cruisers.”

Voss paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.

II/StG 2. His unit.

They were going to the Mediterranean, to hunt warships, to a new front.

He said nothing, but inside, something tightened. Pride. And a quiet ache.

He finished his meal in silence, the clatter around him suddenly distant.

Döberitz Air Academy – Mid December 1940

The wind cut across the frozen parade square, stiff and unforgiving. Frost rimed the flagstaffs and clung to greatcoats as the assembled officers stood in formation, breath rising like steam. Snow threatened but held off, casting a heavy grey light over the assembled ranks of the modest graduating class.

It was graduation day—culmination of months of tactical schooling, war games, and aerial evaluations. At the centre of it all stood Generalleutnant Johannes Fink, Inspekteur der Kampfflieger. A lean, straight-backed figure with a hard, weathered face, Fink had served as an infantry officer throughout the Great War, earning decorations in the trenches before transferring to the Luftwaffe in the 1930s. Now, as inspector of the bomber force, he bore responsibility for the readiness, training, and tactical doctrine of Germany’s dive-bombers and level bombers alike.

He moved down the line with practiced severity, reading names, awarding citations, shaking gloved hands. When he stopped before Andreas Voss, his voice carried crisply.

“Leutnant Andreas Voss,” he said. “Cited as Student of Merit in dive-bomber tactics. Combat distinction in Poland and France. Recommended by instructors for field leadership.”

He raised his chin.

“Congratulations Voss. You are hereby promoted to Oberleutnant, effective immediately. Orders issued for reassignment to III./StG 2 in a Staffelkapitän role. Your former Wing I believe."

He offered a sharp nod. “Your new Gruppe remained in France when the others left, but you wont be there for long. Get them ready and lead them well.”

“Jawohl, Herr Generalleutnant.”

The handshake was brisk—approval earned, not given lightly. Followed by a salute.

Later, amid the warmth of the officer's mess and the hum of a coal stove, the news passed between cups of hot coffee and a modest celebratory schnapps. A week of Christmas leave with his family, then back to France. Back to Immelmann, but at a different Staffel. Voss folded his typed orders carefully and tucked them into his tunic. The war wasn’t over. It was merely shifting. 

4 January 1941 – Forward Airbase, Northern France

The wind on the airstrip had a milder bite than in Germany, but damp with Atlantic spray and the missed scents of fuel and scorched oil. Oberleutnant Andreas Voss stepped down from the staff car, greatcoat buttoned high, peaked cap angled just so, and approached the operations building that now served as HQ for III/StG 2.

Inside, the heat from a cast-iron stove battled against the winter draft. Files cluttered desks, flight charts curled at the edges, and the air buzzed with the sound of radios and typewriters. War, paused only briefly for Christmas, was ramping up again.

Voss was ushered into the office of Hauptmann Heinrich Brücker, the new Gruppenkommandeur of III. Gruppe, who had taken command as France fell. Brücker was in his late 20s, sharp-eyed and a legend from his time in Spain with the Condor Legion. He wore the scars of command not on his body, but in his weary gaze.

“Welcome Andreas” He extended a firm hand. “I’ve read your file. Decorations in Poland and France. Tactical school top of class. Great to have you back with us, just in time."

Voss nodded. “Ready for duty, Herr Hauptmann. Good to be back.”

Brücker gestured to the map-laden table beside him. “We’ve got replacements to fill the gaps the RAF tore through us. They are keen but green, though they are getting better after the last few weeks of drills and formation training. You’ll take one of the Staffels. They’ll follow you, and you'll show them how to survive so they can be effective. That’s the currency here—survival.”

“Yes, sir.”

"We've also been re-equipped with the new Berta-2s, so there is some familiarisation to be done."

Voss nodded. He'd studied the new model at Werder, and flown it a dozen times. The more powerful 211D engine and new propeller gave the nose a different shape, but allowed significantly more ordnance to be loaded, including the larger 1000kg bombs. That suited him just fine.

“You knew Adler?” Brücker asked, more softly.

Voss’s voice steadied. “He was my Staffelkapitän.”

“He spoke highly of you. Before he was wounded. Said you had a nose for battle, and the spine to hold a line.” Brücker gave a faint smile. “I've no cause to doubt his judgement. You'll be glad to know that he has been discharged from hospital and on convalescent leave.”

"Take a look around and let's catchup over dinner in the Mess. See you at 7."

With a nod of dismissal, Voss saluted and turned to leave. The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air—and a familiar voice:

“You took your time, Herr Oberleutnant.”

Voss blinked, then grinned as he recognized the speaker—Milo, bundled up in battered flight gear, leaning against the HQ hut, arms folded, the ever-present smirk on his windburned face.

“Milo! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Sicily!"

“I got myself reassigned.” Milo’s grin widened. “Filed the papers while you were still marching around Döberitz learning how to look clever. No one puts me in a Stuka with a greenhorn. Besides,” he clapped Voss on the shoulder, “someone has to keep your head out of the clouds.”

Voss exhaled, the tension of the return easing.

“Good to have you back, Milo.”

“Good to be back, Herr Oberleutnant. Now let’s go see what kind of mess they’ve left us.”