Messerschmitt BF-109K

Messerschmitt BF-109K

Flight 233, a British Airways Boeing 757 from Glasgow to Paris was flying over the North Sea. It was a regional flight and flew at 41,000 feet. The pilots were First Officer Ted Clark and Co-Pilot Mike Tompson. They had flown together for the last three years and were a good team. On this flight something would happen that would change their views of what was ‘normal’.

For off their left wing was another aircraft. It was flying in formation. Because of its size it was very small. The pilot spotted it first. He was both shocked and curious.

“Hey, Mike, we have company. Another aircraft off our left wing. Look...” Pilot Ted pointed.

Mike peered over to look out of the left cockpit windows. He had to lean fully forwards to see the other aircraft from his seat. He shook his head. “I see him. What the hell? That can’t be right...”

“I know. A 109. I’ll radio him. He should have radioed us.”

“Must be that restored one on the way to an airshow in Europe.”

The pilot tried the radio on three different frequencies; there was no reply. “Nothing. Like he’s a ghost.”

“Maybe he has radio problems?” the co-pilot added.

Suddenly the Messerschmitt BF-109 changed position and flew right over the cockpit. He was so close they could see the oil stains and rivets and patched bullet holes. A green shoe was painted on the cockpit side and dozens of kill markings on the rudder. The plane’s propeller was a whirling almost invisible fan. He was a hundred feet above them.

“What the hell? I’m radioing Paris,” the pilot said and did so.

The reply was immediate. “We hear you Flight 233. Our radar only shows you. He has no transponder signal and is too small to pick up. Descend from FL41 to FL 39. Keep us informed. Over.”

Pilot Ted acknowledged and descended to 39,000 feet. The 109 remained at 41,000. He stayed there, above them and at the same airspeed, 550 miles per hour.

“The tail wind must be adding to his speed. There’s no way that a Messerschmitt 109 can keep up with us. And we are too high for him.” The co-pilot peered upwards at the small dot of the German fighter.

“We can find out who the pilot is when we land and ask him. Our speed is 550 miles per hour. If he had a speed of 410 and a 140 tail wind he would keep up with us. Not sure on the height though. I don’t know much about vintage warbirds.” The pilot went back to flying.

***

All was fine for a few minutes. Then it happened. The German pilot joined them! He appeared in the passenger cabin and passengers and cabin crew started screaming.

Co-pilot Mike left his seat to investigate. He looked through the spy hole on the armoured door. And rubbed his eyes and looked again.

“It can’t be. It simply cannot be...” he muttered. “He’s here. Inside the plane with us.”

“What? The German pilot? That’s impossible. His 109 is still there above us. Look...”

The blue painted 109 still cruised two thousand feet higher. It was impossible for a pilot to leave one aircraft for another while in mid flight.

“Open the door Mike. Be ready...” Pilot Ted ordered.

Co-pilot Mike unlocked the cabin door and was confronted with a chaotic scene. Passengers and several air hostesses cowered in fright from the German pilot. He was standing in the aisle facing forwards. He was wearing a black leather jacket, pilot’s helmet and flight suit.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing on my flight?” the co-pilot demanded.

“Who am I? Why I am Hauptman Gunther von Snitzel at your service.” The brave and confident looking German pilot offered his hand and the co-pilot automatically took it. It was ice cold! He took a step back and then noticed the cabin air was freezing.

“Who and what are you?” Mike was now scared but wanted answers.

“I told you, I am Gunther the pilot. In the Luftwaffe.”

“Yes, yes I know that you’re a German pilot. But what are you? How can you be here when your plane is two thousand feet above us? How the hell did you get in here?” The co-pilot asked what everybody wanted to know.

“Oh... that. I’m a ghost. I was shot down by a late mark Spitfire in the last week of the war. Now I forever fly the skies. It can be quite lonely. So please forgive me...” Gunther looked sad and lost. His earlier confidence left him. He looked out of a cabin window for a minute.

“A ghost? You were shot down by a Spitfire in 1945? Oh my God,” from Mike.

“I came for a vodka.” Gunther said, perking up and managing a smile.

“Give Gunther a vodka. Now!” Mike instructed a shaking air hostess, a girl called Emma, to do so. She opened a bottle of vodka and poured some into a glass with ice. The German took it. And the open bottle.

Gunther drank the ice cold vodka and smiled. “It’s been a long time. Thank you. Now I must go.”

Then in a puff smoke and flash of lighting he was gone. Passengers shook their heads, some prayed or cried. One or two had taken videos on their phones.

Mike ran back to the cockpit in time to see the small blue Messerschmitt bank steeply away and disappear from view. Ted was shaking his head and muttering under his breath. He radioed Paris to say the 109 had gone. He didn’t mention the visitation. Nobody would believe this for it was impossible. But video footage was already uploaded online and it was changing the world. For what had been impossible was now the possible...