The Phantom of Berlin: Germans thought he was a myth, one “invisible” pilot turned their night skies into a graveyard

The night of November 4, 1944, was an ink-black void over occupied Europe. At RAF Swannington, the moisture of the English autumn clung to the wooden airframe of a de Havilland Mosquito. Squadron Leader Brance Burbridge, a 23-year-old former conscientious objector, climbed into the cockpit. Beside him sat his “eyes”—Flight Lieutenant Bill Skelton, a navigator whose mastery of electronic warfare was about to turn the hunters of the Luftwaffe into helpless prey.

Burbridge was not a typical killer. Driven by deep Christian faith, he and Skelton had an unspoken pact: “Stop the machine, not the men.” Whenever possible, they aimed for the engines, giving German crews a chance to bail out. But tonight, the “machine” was winning. In October alone, the RAF had lost 217 heavy bombers to German night fighters. The Germans were using a terrifying tactic called Schräge Musik—upward-firing cannons that allowed them to slip beneath a British Lancaster and tear its belly open before the crew even knew they were being hunted.

Tonight, Burbridge and Skelton were the vanguard of No. 100 Group. Their mission was a $Code\ Red$ operation: Hunt the Hunters.

The Secret Edge: Serrate and the Mosquito

The Mosquito was a marvel of the war—a “Wooden Wonder” faster than almost anything in the sky. But its true lethality lay in the Serrate detector.

Most radars of the time looked forward to find a target. Serrate was different; it was a passive receiver that “listened” for the pulses of German Lichtenstein radar. Essentially, the German pilots were shouting in the dark with their radar, and Skelton was listening to the echo.

1904 Hours: The First Strike

As they crossed into German territory at 15,000 feet, Skelton’s screen erupted. “Contact, 4 miles out, crossing starboard to port,” he called over the intercom.

Burbridge banked the Mosquito, the Merlin engines roaring in the thin air. They closed the distance until, through his night binoculars, a dark silhouette appeared against the stars: a Junkers Ju 88. The German crew was searching for bombers, their radar sweeping the sky ahead, never imagining a ghost was sitting 400 feet behind them.

Burbridge squeezed the trigger. A three-second burst of 20mm shells hammered the Ju 88’s port engine. Orange flames licked the night sky. The Junkers rolled violently and dove into the clouds. At 1906 hours, the first hunter had fallen.

1917 Hours: Two in Eleven Minutes

There was no time for celebration. Skelton immediately picked up a second signal. This one was heading toward Bonn-Hangelar airfield, a major night fighter hub.

Burbridge pushed the throttles. The Mosquito surged to 280 knots. Within three minutes, they were in position. This Ju 88 was a newer variant, sporting the long aerials of the SN-2 radar array. Burbridge aimed for the starboard engine this time. The results were catastrophic for the Luftwaffe; the wing erupted in a fuel-fed fireball, and the aircraft inverted, crashing into open farmland. Two kills in eleven minutes.

1923 Hours: The “Insane” Choice

As they approached the skies over Cologne, Skelton’s screen became a chaotic mess of dots. “Multiple contacts, three to five miles, all converging,” he reported.

Below them, the lights of Bonn-Hangelar flickered. The Germans were “stacking”—circling a beacon while ground control prepared to vector them into the incoming British bomber stream. There were at least eight German fighters in the orbit.

Burbridge made a decision that would later be taught in flight schools as a masterclass in audacity: He joined the German landing pattern.

The Mosquito slipped into the clockwise rotation, sandwiched between two German fighters. To the German pilots, he was just another comrade in the dark. For 90 seconds, Burbridge and Skelton flew in formation with the very men they were sent to kill.

1930 Hours: The Triple Play

Burbridge selected a Messerschmitt Bf 110 ahead of him. He nudged the throttles, closing the gap with surgical precision. At 400 feet, he could see the twin tail-booms clearly. He fired.

The Bf 110’s port engine exploded, and it spiraled out of the formation like a dying moth. But the trap was sprung. The other German pilots saw the explosion and realized there was an intruder in their midst. The orbit shattered as aircraft scattered into the darkness.

1940 Hours: The Head-On Merge

One German pilot didn’t run. He turned.

A Junkers Ju 88G—the latest and most dangerous variant—charged directly at Burbridge. This was no longer a stealthy execution; it was a high-speed game of chicken. With a closure rate exceeding 400 knots, the two planes converged.

The German opened fire first, tracers arcing past the Mosquito’s wing. Burbridge held his course until the Junkers filled his entire gunsight. He unleashed a five-second burst—his remaining 200 rounds—directly into the nose and cockpit of the enemy. The Junkers staggered, both engines catching fire before it tumbled toward the Rhine.

Four German night fighters destroyed in 37 minutes.

The Mathematics of Mercy

When Burbridge and Skelton landed at RAF Swannington at 2032 hours, the ground crew was stunned. No one had ever recorded four kills in a single night fighter sortie.

But the true impact was in the statistics. Military historians later estimated that a single German night fighter averaged six bomber kills per year. By removing 21 fighters over the course of their partnership, Burbridge and Skelton saved approximately 126 bomber crews—over 1,260 RAF lives.

The Final Mission

After the war, both men made a choice as remarkable as their combat record. They left the RAF not for commercial aviation or politics, but for Theology.

Burbridge went to Oxford, and Skelton to Cambridge. The men who had mastered the art of the “Invisible Hunt” spent the rest of their lives as ministers, showing people how to find life after they had seen so much death. Burbridge often refused to speak about his medals, which were later sold to pay for his medical care in his 90s.

He died in 2016 at the age of 95, the deadliest night ace in British history, and the man the Germans never wanted to believe was real. He had proven that innovation and quiet principle were the ultimate force multipliers.

Note: Some content was generated using AI tools (ChatGPT) and edited by the author for creativity and suitability for historical illustration purposes.