April 22nd
Larissa Airbase, Greece
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| 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, addition addition 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!)
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| Reilly and I at Thermopylae, November 2019 |
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