It’s June the 12th, 1942
and inside the cockpit of a Bristol Beaufighter,
Flight Lieutenant Alfred “Ken” Gatward
tightens his grip on the stick between his knees
as he checks the controls for takeoff.
Stuffed into the Beaufighter’s claustrophobic rear seat,
Sergeant Gilbert “George” Fern fidgets with his maps
and fingers the damp collar pushing against his clammy neck.
In the pilot’s seat, feet firmly planted on the brakes,
Gatward orients the Beaufighter along the runway’s centerline
and feathers the controls until at nearly 2,900 rpm
the twin Hercules engines are humming away at full-throttle.
Gazing east and noting the ominous cloud cover stretching to the horizon,
he’s startled by the crackling radio.
It’s command – they’re cleared for takeoff.
slowly at first, but its speed increases steadily until just past 80 knots
when it lifts into the air.
When the plane has its legs,
Gatward makes a sweeping turn toward the channel,
and once at altitude eases back on the throttles to conserve fuel
and allow the engines to cool.
Despite heavy weather around Thorney Island in West Sussex,
the twin-engined Bristol Beaufighter
hurtles across the English Channel at nearly 300 mph.
The conditions are far from ideal,
but this pair of friends have made a pact,
turning back isn’t an option.
As if by providence, sunlight bursts through the cockpit windows
jarring Gatward from his daydream.
Before long they’re over Rouen in northern France,
then the suburbs of Paris.
According to reports from the Special Operations Executive,
Germans form up for a parade down the Champs-Élysées
daily between 12:15 and 12:45.
Such predictability in a time of war
is either the height of lunacy or just demonstrating the aloofness of the occupiers.
Strapped into a warbird and tasked with strafing Nazis,
the audacious plan is so daring,
the British have only sent one plane so as to limit the risk of loss
and give a greater chance of completing the mission undetected.
If there’s a better way to while away a summer afternoon,
Gatward and Fern are unaware of it.
Gatward checks his altimeter
and descends even further as cracks and muzzle flashes erupt below them.
German anti-aircraft gunners are good,
exceptionally good,
and all that protects Gatward and Fern from the hissing bullets and lethal artillery shells
are thin sheets of aircraft aluminum and flimsy steel seats.
Dead ahead the Eiffel Tower appears like a beacon,
and like a switch has been flipped the ground fire disappears,
or perhaps it’s only mercifully drowned out
by the adrenaline coursing through the men's veins.
The Beaufighter circles the tower
and both men look in wonder at the famous landmark
as the Parisians and Germans look back
in equal wonder at why a lone Bristol Beaufighter is speeding
in a tight bank around the tower in broad daylight,
but mid-turn Gatward notices a small black mass
coming right at them.
He dips the starboard wing to avoid impact,
but a bird slams into the Hercules engine
with a resounding thud.
It’s bad.
Losing oil pressure or engine compression at low altitude is usually fatal,
thankfully after a splutter or two the stout powerplant shrugs off the impact
and they continue onward.
Flying low and fast, skimming over the Parisian rooftops,
so low now, that it rattles the buildings below.
The buildings disappear, and the Seine is there,
and then gone again in a flash.
The Arc de Triomphe looms large ahead and to the right.
It's their first target of the day.
Gatward flies past it and puts the plane into a hard right turn.
Pulling hard the men feel the G force pushing them into their seats.
Fern is ready though,
and just as they pass at the last moment he releases his payload.
It's away!
The French tricolor flag flutters gently down in the wind.
and to the immense joy of the locals
drapes itself over the Arc de Triomphe.
The ultimate monument to French military victory.
Now appearing like a giant trench stretched ahead of them,
is the Champs-Élysées.
Gatward descends below building height and into the trench for his attack run.
Fern has time to snap off a few photos on the way.
Powering low and fast, the Beaufighter streaks along the open boulevard
scaring the wits out of the locals taking their coffee
and throwing up dust and paper in their wake.
But to the surprise of Gatward and Fern,
the Champs-Élysées is exactly where it's supposed to be,
but there are no Nazis and definitely no parade.
Just short sleeved Parisians enjoying a pleasant summer day
trying to forget the fact they are under German occupation.
Approaching the end of the Champs-Élysées Gatward thinks:
"Stay on target... Stay on target..."
and soon their second target is filling the view.
At the end of the Champs-Élysées sits the Kriegsmarine headquarters.
Lining up the shot and ignoring the remarkably close buildings all around
he presses the trigger unloading a hail of cannon shells.
He's on target.
The Kriegsmarine HQ is blasted as cannon shells
rip through its windows and masonry facade
like they’re made of French Butter.
Even the sentries turn tail and run in horror
at the sight of the blistering Beaufighter bearing down upon them.
The last run complete, Gatward pulls up.
Fern with perfect timing lets loose a second French tricolor…
Gatward and Fern allow themselves a moment of celebration
at the offense they’ve caused to the German occupiers
and the hope they’ve given to the French.
The Germans are furious.
Gatward and Fern land safely at RAF Northolt just before 14:00 hours.
Inspecting his plane for damage,
Gatward finds a dead crow lodged near the starboard engine’s cooler.
As the only allied casualty on that day
the French crow is laid to rest
with all due reverence and honors.
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