At 7 a.m., as dawn broke over the German-controlled Schursen Airfield, Major Imlmann rose promptly, slipping on a light uniform before stepping out for his morning run. This exercise routine had been a long-standing habit; he believed that a strong body was essential for a good pilot, as the cold winds and biting temperatures at high altitude demanded resilience.
Jogging along the snow-cleared road that bordered the airfield, he could hear the shouts of new recruits drilling and the sharp commands of instructors. The trainees here at Schursen differed significantly from those Joffre had gathered in France: every one of the 358 pilots, including over a hundred active flyers, already had so flying experience. They only needed brief training on newer models to qualify as full-fledged combat pilots.
This advantage was the main reason why Imlmann's 13 planes had so decisively triumphed over Joffre's 29 the previous day. Still, he acknowledged, this victory might have played out differently if they had faced Charles' flyers.
One mystery kept bothering Imlmann, however: he had heard that Charles couldn't actually fly. How could soone who lacked firsthand experience build such an elite air squadron? How did he set training exercises or strategize for air combat?
And yet, Charles had managed, and brilliantly so.
In contrast, Imlmann had to draw from his own experience in the cockpit, exhaustively testing tactics and strategies with his pilots before deploying them in battle. Perhaps this was the difference between natural talent and sheer hard work, he thought. Charles seed to be naturally gifted, while Imlmann, lacking that innate skill, compensated by putting in countless hours to keep up.
What Imlmann didn't know was that he, in fact, possessed the true talent. Charles's prowess ca not from raw skill, but from a thorough understanding of military theory.
After his run, Imlmann returned to his quarters, where an orderly was waiting with a fresh towel, a hot mug of milk, and so warm bread. Pausing before entering, Imlmann glanced up instinctively at the sky and noticed a cluster of small black dots on the horizon. His pulse quickened; though the shapes were distant and indistinct, his years of reconnaissance experience kicked in, and he imdiately sensed sothing unusual about them.
"Bring the binoculars!" Imlmann ordered the orderly.
The orderly sprinted into the quarters and returned swiftly with a pair of binoculars. Imlmann focused on the strange shapes, adjusting the lenses until ten large aircraft ca into view. They looked like transport planes—but that made no sense. Germany didn't have such a fleet, and the French wouldn't be sending supplies to German forces.
Imlmann lowered the binoculars, thinking carefully, then raised them again for a closer look at the undersides of the aircraft. He'd glimpsed sothing odd there before, and as the planes drew closer, the details sharpened. Rows of dark, round objects were strapped beneath each fuselage.
His eyes widened in shock. Bombs. Those planes weren't transports; they were purpose-built to drop bombs.
"Get out of the building!" Imlmann shouted, tossing the binoculars back to the orderly.
He took off running toward the hangars, shouting, "Scramble the planes! Scatter them now! The enemy is carrying bombs!"
But as only a squadron leader, Imlmann didn't have authority over the entire base. And his warnings went largely unheeded; those around him were puzzled by his urgency. So glanced toward the approaching aircraft with curious, even amused expressions, speculating on what they might be.
Imlmann hesitated briefly, then sprinted to a nearby phone booth. He needed to reach Colonel Klaus to get an official evacuation order…
But it was too late.
From the phone booth, Imlmann watched helplessly as the planes descended over the airfield, black shapes dropping from their bellies.
Boom!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The peaceful airfield erupted in fire and smoke. Several aircraft, just preparing for takeoff, were torn apart on the runway, while green trainees ran in every direction, desperate to escape the explosions.
Through the chaos, Imlmann noted with horror that most of the bombs were targeting the flight school buildings. The French aid not just to destroy the planes but to kill the pilots.
Then, from the direction of the fuel depot, an explosion rocked the airfield. A column of fire shot hundreds of ters into the sky, the shockwave shattering the glass around Imlmann's booth. Instinctively, he threw himself out and onto the ground.
When he raised his head, the airfield was a vision of devastation—burning wreckage, scattered bodies, and the smoldering remains of aircraft. Brave students, determined to save what they could, grabbed spades and shovels, trying to battle the flas.
"Leave it! Get back!" Imlmann shouted, knowing the effort was futile.
But his voice was lost in the roar of the flas. Neither the cadets nor the other pilots heeded his warning, charging in lines to the blazing hangars. They couldn't bear to see the fire consu all their planes, of which a hundred sat neatly lined in the hangars.
Boom!
The hangars erupted again in a chain of explosions, engulfing the would-be rescuers in a blazing inferno.
…
The report of the successful bombing reached the Paris command center about an hour after the bombers returned. Over the phone, Eric excitedly relayed the results to Charles:
"The operation was a total success, Colonel! Both targets were annihilated—our bombs left the airfields in ruins. At least a hundred planes destroyed, not to ntion the facilities and personnel."
"So German fighters tried to pursue us," Eric continued, "but it was useless. Our bombers outran them easily—and we even managed to shoot down two of their fighters!"
Shooting down enemy fighters with bombers was indeed possible. The Caproni bombers had rear-mounted machine guns, which could easily pick off enemy planes if they approached from behind. Unaware of the machine guns mounted on the Capronis, so German pilots had likely chased the bombers, only to be t with a surprise burst of fire.
Cheers erupted in the command center. Major Fernand clapped Charles on the back, laughing, "You kept even us in the dark, you bastard!"
Though his words were harsh, the look on his face was one of admiration. The secrecy made sense; the command center had a reputation for leaks, and the operation's success relied on discretion.
Gallieni nodded approvingly and then asked, "So, what exactly were those planes?"
"Specially designed bombers," Charles replied calmly. "Each one can carry 19 bombs, each weighing around 40 kilos, for a total payload of about 760 kilos."
As he spoke, Charles raised his chin slightly, hinting at what Gallieni should do next. The ssage was clear: Better put in an order before everyone else does.
(End of Chapter)
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