The Red Tailed Devils
by
Paul V. Cozens
- 1 -
The mottled, gray over blue, camouflaged Bf-109G Messerschmitt fighter flew above a tall, cotton ball, cloud cover. Below the German fighter, a khaki green, P-40N Warhawk, flew straight and level within the tall columns of white fluff, not skewing from side to side in what was a standard evasive maneuver. Hauptmann ( Captain ) Otto Kruger watched the American plane below him and thought to himself, “He has to be a novice... I can’t believe it! He isn’t even aware of my presence!” The few years Otto had spent at the Russian front, in the Bf-109E variant of the Messerschmitt fighter, had taught him to always position himself up-sun from his intended prey. Otto smiled and thought, “This will be an easy kill…” He cocked his head and looked forward and down through the glass side panel of his cockpit. The young Captain keyed the radio button, attached to his joy stick (control) and spoke softly into his throat mike.
“Achtung! Achtung! Herman... Do you see him?”
“Yes, Hauptmann!” Herman Wagner, flying off the wing of his squadron leader, nodded his head, even though he knew the Captain wasn’t looking at him. “It looks to be an obsolete Pea-forty Warhawk... a fighter-bomber.”
“What makes you think it’s a fighter-bomber?”
“The Pea-forty's aren’t good fighters... But they’re very good at ground attack and the American’s use them effectively in that role... He could be on a reconnaissance mission but I don’t think so.” Leutnant, (lieutenant) Herman Wagner, adjusted his throttle to maintain position in the two plane, rotte ( formation ).
“I agree, Herman!” Otto grinned at his wingman’s obvious attention to detail.
“This one’s going to be my sixtieth kill. Stay on my wing and don’t get lost.” Otto pressed his joy stick to one side, then forward. The nimble fighter responded instantly, rolling into a steep dive while the young pilot centered the Warhawk in his reflector sight. As the American fighter-bomber grew in size, Otto began to apply pressure with his thumb on the gun switch which would activate the two cowling mounted machine guns and the 20 mm cannon that fired through his propeller shaft. He didn’t see Herman’s airplane suddenly burst into flames and then disintegrate from a combined, point-blank burst of .50 and .30 caliber machine guns.
As Otto began to fire his own weapons, the Khaki Warhawk that filled his sight, snap-rolled to the right and disappeared from view. The German pilot started to follow by rolling to the right, but bright orange tracers streaked down the same side of his canopy. Otto’s mind reeled. “What the…? Instantly Otto halted his attempt to follow his intended victim and he snap-rolled the Messerschmitt in the opposite direction. Projectiles from the unseen enemy’s guns pranged into and through the aluminum skin of his fighter. Otto’s face broke out in cold sweat. “Where did he come from?” He stomped on the right rudder pedal, and applied opposite aileron pressure. The little Messerschmitt skidded right, then left, and rolled into a split-S evasive maneuver to put Otto into a steep dive for the earth below. The sweat on Otto’s forehead seeped between the seal formed by his goggles and his skin and began to run into his eyes. Otto swore, “How stupid of me... I’ve been trapped like a complete novice...” Otto tried every trick he’d ever learned in combat on the Russian front.
More tracers streaked past his canopy and he skewed the Messerschmitt in the opposite direction. However, it wasn’t fast enough to prevent more of the lethal projectiles from penetrating his mount and cutting through control cables, hydraulic and fuel lines. The slab sided canopy shattered from several hits and the instrument panel erupted in a shower of glass splinters. The pretty blue and gray Messerschmitt began to roll out of control and a thick, cloying, smoke filled the cockpit. Otto didn’t hesitate, “...time to get the out of this bird...” He released the shattered canopy to allow it to flutter away in the slip-stream. This allowed hot, burning oil from the damaged engine to spray onto his face as he stood on his metal seat and then hurled himself out of the cockpit. Once free of his mount he began to tumble end-over-end as he watched bright orange flames erupt from the space where only moments before he had been sitting. Otto waited for several more seconds, just make sure he was clear of his doomed fighter and then reached for his parachute deployment ring. As he pulled the ring he caught a glimpse of two, khaki colored shapes streaking past him. Then the bright yellow canopy blossomed above him, jerking the young officer to an abrupt, but slowly oscillating, descent. “What stupid, luck... to be shot down by a lousy fighter-bomber... It’s embarrassing!”
* * * * *
“Hauptmann, Kruger!”
“Yes, Oberst ( Colonel)!”
“You’ve never fought the American’s before?” Oberstleutnant (Lieutenant Colonel ) Karl Schmidt asked the question, his lips forming a straight line while his eyes narrowed and glared at the young veteran from the Russian front.
“No, Oberst!”
“Yet, you allowed yourself to become suckered into a trap, Otto!” Karl looked down at the report on his desk, then up at the young Captain. “Not only did you fall into their trap, but you lost your wingman... How many kills do you have to date?” Karl already knew the total but Otto needed to be reprimanded.
“Fifty-nine, Oberst!”
“Fifty-nine!” The Lt. Colonel of the German fighter group nodded his head and then slammed his fist onto the desk. “Fifty-nine! A record to be proud of... Ten, Russian utility-observation planes, twenty-two, Russian Stormavik’s, six, Lend Lease American Pea-thirty-nine Air cobra’s, nine, Yak’s, seven, Mig’s... and five, Lavochkin La-five's... Very impressive... and how many times were you shot down during your tour of the Eastern Front, Hauptmann?”
“Two times, Oberst!” Otto maintained his stance and stared straight ahead.
“By flak or in aerial combat?”
“Once by flak, Oberst! The second time by an La-five with victory stars all over the side of his plane.”
“And this last incident makes it three times?”
"Yes, Oberst!”
“You’re lucky, Otto... Very lucky to be alive.” Karl Schmidt shook his head from side to side. “But your luck’s just run out!”
“I don’t understand, Oberst?”
“I have orders to transfer you to a special Jagdgruppen
(fighter-group ) authorized by Reich Marshall Göring himself. Your to report to, Stürmgruppen Four (Special Fighting Group IV), commanded by GruppenKommandeur (Group Commander), Major Wilhelm Moritz.” Karl watched Otto’s face blanch with recognition. “That’s right, Hauptmann… Specifically you’re being assigned to Stürmjäger Three (Special Fighter Squadron III).”
“May I ask the reason, Oberst!”
“You may, Hauptmann.” The tall Lt. Colonel, stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of his subordinate. “We both know that these special squadrons were formed as a means of disciplining certain flying officers who were and are guilty of various infractions against the Reich... Some of your superiors in Berlin feel that you’ve lost the will to fight!”
“But, Oberst!” Otto stood at attention, his mind reeling with rage. “It’s a death sentence... what have I done to deserve this?” Otto’s body trembled with rage. “This amounts to nothing less than a death sentence. I’ve heard that they have special orders to
attack the American bombers and if necessary, to revert to ramming in order to achieve a victory!”
“Rightly so, Hauptmann!” Karl placed his hand on the young veteran pilots shoulder. “And it’s true… If you don’t return with unrefutable proof of a victory, it will be seen as an act of cowardice and treated accordingly.”
“Oberst!” Otto started to protest, then went silent as he shook his head and thought, “Their out of their minds in Berlin!”
“Fortunately, Otto...” Karl smiled at the young fighter pilot. He knew exactly what was going through his mind. “Clearer heads have regained a degree of sensibility... Headquarters has decided even this measure to severe a punishment... Fighter pilots, especially veteran pilots, are in short supply these days... So the need for ramming is no longer necessary... and these squadrons need leaders...” Karl removed his hand from Otto’s shoulder. “You’re being assigned to the Third Squadron as the Staffelfüher (Squadron leader)... Fortunately for you, the fifty-nine victories you achieved on the Eastern front, weighed heavily in your favor when they made their decision.”
“But, it’s still a death sentence, Oberst!”
“Not really, Otto...” For the first time in the conversation, Lt. Colonel Schmidt smiled. “In some ways, I envy you. Headquarters, in their magnanimous decision, have given you the opportunity of a lifetime. You will be allowed to fly one of the Reich’s best fighters, the equal to any fighter possessed by the Allies... The Focke-Wulf... One-ninety A-six, in combat against the American heavy bombers. Actually, you’re very lucky, Otto. You’ll have little difficulty in raising your victory score for the Fatherland... It seems the American’s are now flying beyond the range of their escorting fighters... Shooting down a great, big, lumbering American bomber should be easy compared to going after their fighters.”
“Somehow, I don’t see it as being so much of a blessing, Oberst!”
“Never-the-less, Otto… You have your orders. ” Karl returned to his desk and sat down. Without looking up, he waved his hand in a form of dismissal and added a verbal order with it. “Dismissed!” Karl didn’t even look up as the young Captain closed the office door.
* * * * *
Otto stood in front of the map, mounted on a tripod in the primary briefing tent of Special Squadron 3, and looked at the young, eager, faces of the assembled fighter pilots. His face was grave as he began to speak. “Gentlemen! You all know why we have been assigned to this squadron. For various reasons, most of “Leutnant?” Otto couldn’t remember the name of the officer, a new replacement to the unit, as were most of the men in the squadron. It would take time to learn their names. In some cases, he’d never get the chance as many of them would not return from the mission.
The young officer blurted his inquiry as if a statement. “To attack an American bomber box is nearly tantamount to suicide, Hauptmann!”
“To attack it individually, or even in a two plane rotte, is exactly that, Leutnant.” Otto smiled at his vocal subordinate. “I haven’t had time to learn your name... Leutnant?”
“Leutnant Wilhelm Frölich, Hauptmann.”
“Thank you, Frölich... I’ll remember it.” Otto paused, waiting for the stifled chuckles to stop, then he pulled down a silhouette, depicting a B-17 bomber, and continued. “The American Bee-seventeen eff has a total of twelve guns for defense. Two, point fifty caliber machine guns... ” As he spoke he used a pointer to draw the attention of his pilots to a specific point on the depicted aircraft. “Which are strategically located in the top turret... the belly turret... the tail position and one fifty in each waist position... a point thirty caliber machine gun is located in a ventral position atop the bomber here, which is useless but it gives the radio operator something to do when they are attacked.” This comment which are for insubordination, we have been given the opportunity to redeem ourselves in the eyes of the Füher. He has provided us with the best fighter Germany has to offer... The Focke-Wulf one-ninety A-six, which is equipped with four, twenty millimeter cannon in the wings and two, heavy, fifteen millimeter machine guns in the cowling. In addition, our particular version is equipped with a nitrous-oxide power boost, capable of giving us a quick, although short, burst of acceleration which will allow us to climb away after a firing pass and to re-position ourselves for another attack. We will use this to our advantage against the American bomber formations.” Otto paused as he watched as the various faces of his squadron pilots break into wide grins. “All of us have signed the oath, swearing to obtain a victory every-time we enter into combat, even by ramming if we must... ” Otto flashed a smile at the young men in his squadron. “It doesn’t have to come to that... These aircraft are worth more than you are, so I expect you to bring them back, along with yourselves, in good working condition.” The assembled pilots looked at their new squadron leader and chuckled at his attempt at levity.
“Our targets, as you have already surmised, will be American bombers which are flying deep penetration raids...” Otto was interrupted as he spoke.
“Hauptmann?”
“Leutnant?” Otto couldn’t remember the name of the officer, a new replacement to the unit, as were most of the men in the squadron. It would take time to learn their names. In some cases, he’d never get the chance as many of them would not return from the mission.
The young officer blurted his inquiry as if a statement. “To attack an American bomber box is nearly tantamount to suicide, Hauptmann!”
“To attack it individually, or even in a two plane rotte, is exactly that, Leutnant.” Otto smiled at his vocal subordinate. “I haven’t had time to learn your name... Leutnant?”
“Leutnant Wilhelm Frölich, Hauptmann.”
“Thank you, Frölich... I’ll remember it.” Otto paused, waiting for the stifled chuckles to stop, then he pulled down a silhouette, depicting a B-17 bomber, and continued. “The American Bee-seventeen eff has a total of twelve guns for defense. Two, point fifty caliber machine guns... ” As he spoke he used a pointer to draw the attention of his pilots to a specific point on the depicted aircraft. “Which are strategically located in the top turret... the belly turret... the tail position and one fifty in each waist position... a point thirty caliber machine gun is located in a ventral position atop the bomber here, which is useless but it gives the radio operator something to do when they are attacked.” This comment was met with chuckles from the assembled pilots.
“Another thirty is located in the nose for use by the navigator or bombardier.” Otto paused, letting his men break into chuckles again as he reached down to the small table in front of him and picked up a mug of coffee, took a drink and replaced it onto the table. “The American bomber groups are comprised of four squadrons. Each squadron has a total of six aircraft, which fly in a defensive box formation. This box formation allows each of their aircraft to offer supportive firepower to the entire box... Wilhelm is right, gentlemen... to attack this box is tantamount to suicide as you would be facing twelve or more guns from any position, except this... ” The seasoned veteran slammed the pointer onto the silhouette with a loud snap. “By attacking the box from the front we face the fewest number of guns, and these will only be thirty calibers... ” Otto paused to take another drink from his coffee mug. “Our Gruppe ( Group ) will attack the American formation in a line-a-breast formation... Each Staffel (Squadron ) will attack a specific bomber box. For this sortie, we will have the honor of attacking the lead bomber box. The attack will be in two schwärmes (formations comprised of two or more rottes) of six aircraft each, flying head-on into their formation... This will bring our firepower to a total of twenty-four, twenty millimeter cannon, and twelve, fifteen millimeter machine guns. Flanking fighters will concentrate their gun-fire onto the outermost bombers, while the rest of our fighters will concentrate on the lead bomber in the box formation. You should achieve one or more victories on your first pass. Once you’ve finished your firing pass, you will use your nitro-augmented boost to climb above the American formation and then to position yourselves for another head-on attack.”
“What about American fighter cover, Hauptmann?”
“The American fighters don’t have the range to escort their bombers on these deep penetration raids... They can only fly to our border where they must turn back for lack of fuel... ” Otto smiled at his men and thought, “Their eager to fight. Most of these boys only messed up when they slept with the mistress of some fat, rear-echelon Oberst or when they got drunk after a mission and told some superior desk officer to bugger off during an argument...” Otto looked at the faces of his subordinates. “Some of these men, like myself, are simply being punished for being reckless during combat. None of them showed any signs of cowardice or a reluctance to enter into combat.“ The squadron leader continued to speak, “Without fighter cover, the American bombers are sitting ducks... Are there any questions?”
“Hauptmann!”
“Yes Wilhelm?” Otto liked the young officer, who he now remembered as having twenty kills… All of which were obtained on the Eastern Front.
“I noticed the armorer’s affixing a bomb to your aircraft... Why are you carrying a bomb if we are to attack bomber formations at high altitude?”
“It’s an experiment, Wilhelm... I don’t know if it will work, but it’s worth the try.”
“You’re going to bomb the bombers?”
“Not exactly, Wilhelm... The bomb will be attached to my aircraft by a long, tether... I intend to trail the bomb behind me into the bomber box where I will set it off electronically, or... should a bomber become entangled in the tether which will cause the bomb to snap upward and into the bombers side where it will explode.”
“That’s crazy, Hauptmann!”
Otto burst out laughing and nodded his head. “You’re right, Leutnant... a crazy idea which might just work... and you’re going to see just how well it works, or fails... because, as of now... you’re flying as my wingman.” He watched the young lieutenant blanch. “Let’s go to work... Gentlemen, man your aircraft.”
* * * * *
Otto sat in his cramped cockpit, looking out through the perspex windscreen and over the splinter camouflage scheme of dark green and brown which feathered into the light blue and grey splotched camouflage of the fuselage. He deftly dodged a fluffy, white cotton ball, cloud and tuned his radio to the preselected frequency of the radar control center.
“Gretchen Gruppen... Gretchen Gruppen... this is Potsdam Control...” The voice was female, with a nice tone, as it entered Otto’s helmet ear phones. “Enemy formation at six-thousand meters... vector two, eight, zero... Repeat... vector two, eight, zero.”
“Affirmative, Potsdam Control... Enemy formation at six thousand meters... Vector two, eight, zero... Gretchen Gruppen.” The group commander answered on the common frequency being used by the entire formation. “This is Gretchen leader... Assume attack formations... squadron three... take the high, lead box... squadron two, the right box... squadron one, take the left... I’ll fly high cover and then attack any damaged strays.” A series of clicks responded, indicating the orders were understood by the squadron leaders, while at the same time they formed into their line-abreast attack formations. Otto, accompanied by his new wingman, climbed above his squadron and released his 1,653 kilogram (750 lb.) bomb which trailed on the tether approximately 1,000 feet behind his ugly Butcher-bird ( German name for the Focke -Wulf). Otto knew it would be a dangerous experiment.
“Gretchen Gruppen... Gretchen Gruppen... Bombers... Bombers... Two, eight, zero degrees... Attack... Attack.”
* * * * *
Major Dwight J. Carpenter, pilot of Hell’s Choir Boys and mission lead, held his control yoke steady, listening to the drone of his four powerful engines. Suddenly, he jerked his head to one side as the intercom screamed in his ear.
“Bandits! Bandits!”
“Where!” Dwight felt a twinge of anger at the unidentified voice screaming the warning without giving vectors and probable strength. “Identify and give their location!”
“Bandits! Oh Mother! Look at them!”
“Location, Cartwright... Clock position!” A seasoned veteran with twenty-three missions, Major Carpenter quickly scanned the sky in front of his formation. He saw the tiny black dots as the new top gunner, S/Sgt, Jerry Cartwright, settled down and gave the proper report.
“Bandits! Three... No... at least four swarms of them... twelve-O’clock... level!”
“Got them... They’re Fw’s ( Focke-Wulf’s ), Jerry... ” Dwight knew from previous missions to look directly ahead of his formations line of flight, for the German’s liked to attack head on, in line abreast formation. It was the most vulnerable point of the bombers and the German’s knew it. “O.K., all top turret gunners... concentrate your fire upon the Fw’s attacking from the front... Don’t worry about any fighters attacking from above... at least on the first pass... The rest of you... Look alive... Especially you waist gunners... They’ll pass either to the left or to the right of our formation... Belly gunners... take on any fighters that dive below us. ”
“How about letting me fire directly at these guys as they attack!” Major Carpenter recognized the voice of his belly gunner. !”
“Good idea... we haven’t opened the bomb bay doors yet... That’ll give us some extra fire-power... Any identifying markings?”
“Can’t tell from here... they’re coming straight at us! Here it comes… They’ve opened fire.”
Dwight heard the prangs of heavy projectiles hitting Hell’s Choir Boys, and then the explosions as the 20 mm shells detonated. Metal flew outward. Hydraulic lines were severed as were fuel lines. One shell burst within a fuel cell, rupturing the rubber bladder. The hole was too large for self sealing and fuel spewed rearward from under the massive wing. A scream sounded in the Major’s ears. He didn’t know who had bought it. Then, Dwight felt, rather than heard, the jarring thudding from the two, .50
caliber machine guns of the upper turret.
“Got one of them, skipper! Got him dead on! Confirm! Confirm!”
“Confirmed, Cartwright.”
“Wow! Look at him burn!”
“We’ve been hit!”
“Who’s been hit?”
“It’s Lt. Smith sir!”
“Smith?” Dwight realized it was his own bombardier. “How bad?”
“Dead, sir... took a twenty millimeter right in the chest... What a mess.”
“Is this Kowalski?” Dwight knew it was his navigator, who had been crossed trained as a bombardier. “Can you take over his position?”
“I’ll try sir... whole Perspex windscreen is gone. ” Dwight already had guessed what had happened. They had taken several 20mm hits in the left wing and a direct hit on the nose position, taking out the windshield blister, along with the bombardier. The ugly black shapes of the Fw’s were rapidly enlarging. Above his head, the twin 50's of Cartwright’s guns continued to chatter their own deadly tattoo. A fighter erupted into flames as pieces of it’s engine and fuselage blossomed outward. “Good shooting, Jerry...
that’s two of them!”
“Above us, skipper... what’s that Kraut doing?”
Dwight looked upward and saw the pale blue underside of a Focke-Wulf flash by. Then he saw the thin wire and finally, the black object attached to it. The veteran bomber pilot yanked the yoke hard over to the right, causing his massive B-17 to swing high on one wing and then pull into a banked turn. Behind him, the bomber box broke up. Some of the aircraft flying to the right, others to the left while others tried to dive to avoid Hell’s Choir Boys. The black object darted into the middle of the formation and erupted in a single blast of heavy explosive, sending shrapnel everywhere. Few planes in the bomber box were spared as the hot, deadly, shrapnel shards expanded outward. The red hot shrapnel ripped into wings, through the thin metal aluminum skin of the fuselages, then the cloth and soft flesh of the gunners and crews. More shrapnel cut through control cables and fuel lines, while the blast of the bomb ignited vaporized gasoline. A B-17 simply exploded in a ball of flame and black smoke. Another began to loose altitude, two engines frozen. Hell’s Choir Boys staggered through the air, her fuselage riddled by shrapnel holes.
“That Kraut set off a bomb right in the middle of our box! When do we get fighter escort?” Dwight looked at his co-pilot, then realized the red that was covering his face was caused by blood which was spurting upward from his severed jugular. The top turret guns had gone suddenly silent and Dwight realized Hell’s Choir Boys was in deep trouble.
“This is Lead... Our box is decimated... We... can’t continue... turning back... Those of you who can, join up on me for mutual support. ” Dwight didn’t see the second wave of German fighters hit what was left of his squadron, but two more aircraft began to spiral earthward, trailing thin streams of vaporized fuel. Black forms began to fall from the mortally wounded bombers, followed by thin, white streaks of parachute cloth. “Report damage... Nose... ” Dwight couldn’t hear the response to his command inquiry because of the howling noise of wind rushing through the unprotected nose compartment. He fought the controls as the effect of the wind entering his aircraft nose was like a massive air brake.
* * * * *
Above the stricken bomber, Otto looked down and back at the scattered remnants of the American bomber squadron and thought with glee. “It worked! The bloody idea worked. We’ve destroyed an entire squadron of bombers.” The destruction caused by his tethered bomb was beyond his wildest imagination. Only two bombers remained, the lead, which had turned 180 degrees and now was in a shallow descent, smoke trailing rearward from two feathered engines and a second, which was trying to join up on the first to offer some sort of mutual protection. Otto glanced to the right side of his aircraft and saw the shape of his wingman, flying in perfect position. “Frölich!”
“Yes, Hauptmann!”
“I want to take a look at those two bombers... to get an idea of just how much damage our bomb inflicted.”
“Hauptmann... They still have their protective guns... It could be risky.”
“Not as risky as you might think, Frölich!” Otto banked gently to the left, followed by the young lieutenant. “Even from here I can see quite a lot of damage... the waist guns are trailing in the slip-stream, and you can see the shrapnel holes caused by our bomb when it detonated.”
“I see them, Hauptmann... as well as the top turret of the lead bomber, which is shattered.”
“Good observation, Frölich!” Otto allowed his ugly, blunt nosed Fw to edge closer to the two plane formation. “I think the real danger would be from the belly turrets and the tail... they were the most protected from the blast... ” Otto increased his throttle and allowed his deadly Butcher-bird to move forward, until he was positioned opposite from the second bomber’s pilot. He saw the American turn to look directly at him, and then saw the raised fist with middle finger extended. “This American still has the will to fight, Frölich! Take up position for a quartering pass from the front... concentrate on the cockpit but pull away before you come under the guns from his tail.”
“What about the lead bomber, Hauptmann?”
“I’ll position myself higher so that I can shoot my cannon into that one... perhaps we can both get credit for a bomber kill.” Otto didn’t wait for his wingman to acknowledge, but instead, pulled back on his stick and kicked in his nitrous-oxide power. The sleek Fw fighter surged upward and forward.
* * * * *
“Looks like that German fighters going to finish us off!” Captain Harry Crenshaw, flying Mabel’s Crib, swore into his mike, not knowing who was listening to him. “Can’t do a damn thing to stop him... Bail out... Bail out... get as many of the wounded out as you can... but get out while you still can. The Captain reached down to place the heavy bomber on automatic pilot. Then he climbed out of his bucket seat and strapped on a belly pack parachute. He didn’t see his navigator-bombardier pop the access hatch to the bombers nose in order to tumble earthward, nor did he see the form from his belly turret gunner drop out of the ball-turret. Mabel’s Crib began to wobble as it approached a stall. Harry dropped down and through the open hatch, feeling the rush of cold air hit his face. He allowed himself to tumble earthward, wanting to fall well clear of the doomed bomber before engaging his parachute. As the stricken aircraft lurched forward in the rarified stratosphere, two, deadly shapes dove towards it, flashes coming from their wings and cowlings. The attack was completed at point-blank range. The 20mm projectiles tearing into Mabel’s Crib’s wing root, effectively severing it from the fuselage. This in turn caused the large bomber to slowly roll onto its back. Cannon shells now ripped into the exposed belly of the bomber and detonated the bombs carried within. The resulting explosion completed the destruction of the American bomber, leaving only the single wing remnant to flutter earthward.
Dwight, flying the severely damaged Hell’s Choir Boys, silently cursed. “You butchers!” He pushed forward on the control yoke to put his crippled bomber into a steep dive. Below, the white, fluffy tops of the clouds offered a possible place of concealment from the attacking fighters. However, if Hell’s Choir Boys didn’t hold together from the dive, it would all be for nothing. Wind shrieked into his cockpit, almost drowning out the roar of his two good engines. Dwight pulled back on his control yoke, sweat beading his forehead as he struggled to pull out of the dive.
More cannon shells pranged into the diving bomber as it penetrated the protective, white mist.
- 2 -
The assembled men on the large grassy field looked upward, into the ominous gray clouds which threatened momentarily to release a torrent of drenching rain upon them. The drone of two heavy engines filled the air and the almost black shape of a Boeing B-17 staggered out of the cloying mist.
“Holy Cow!”
“Look at her!”
“Half her tail’s shot away!” Red flares streaked skyward from the stricken bomber.
“He’s got wounded!”
“Crash crew... Get them going!” Men began to run towards two, modified Dodge weapons carrier (3/4 ton) trucks, in which the fire bottles had been stowed. “Step on it... He’s going to try to land her here.”
“He can’t land here... This is a fighter base... Runway’s too short.”
“Don’t think he’ll take the runway... No gear showing... Look at the hole in his wing!”
“Good Lord! His entire nose is blown away!”
“Those poor s.o.b.s!”
“Well some of them must still be alive because somebody’s flying it!” The large, khaki green bomber settled lower to the ground, her glide a series of unsteady lurches.
“He’s trying for the grass!”
“Just keep that pile of junk away from our fighters.” On the flight line, a row of sleek P-51B and C, razor- back versions of the Mustang fighters sat in readiness. Meanwhile, the ground crews of the 86th Fighter Group, along with the pilots began to stream across the hard stand towards the touch-down location of the stricken bomber.
“Hope he pickled his bombs before he got here?”
Hell’s Choir Boys wobbled closer to the ground, floating on the ground effect cushion of air between her massive wings and the grassy field. Then she settled onto the sod, her
two working engines throwing up clods of muddy earth as the propellers cut into the heavy soil. The heavily damaged bomber slithered to a stop. For a few moments a deathly silence encompassed the entire fighter field. Then the crew began to tumble out of the waist hatch, struggling with their wounded, as wisps of smoke spiraled upward from the engines.
“Give them a hand with those wounded!” Men ran up to help pull the wounded out of the wreckage. “Get them all out before she blows up.”
“She won’t blow... ” Several men, who had tumbled from the fire trucks, CO2 fire bottles in their hands, were already covering the red-hot engines with freezing clouds of the inert gas, sending up voluminous clouds of white vapor.
One ground crewman looked into what was left of the nose compartment, turned pale and began to retch violently onto the ground.
“Pilot! Is the pilot out?”
“Yeah! He’s O.K... but his Co-pilot bought it.”
“Looks like the top gunner bought it too.”
“Get in there and make sure... He might be badly wounded!”
“What a mess... blood and guts everywhere!” The voice came from within the wrecked bomber. “Give me a hand here... top gunners still alive... just barely!”
* * * * *
“That’s right, Lieutenant!” Dwight glared across the debriefing table at the air intelligence officer. “They used a tethered bomb on us... detonated it right in the middle of the formation.”
“How many planes were damaged, Major?”
“How many... Lieutenant... We’re the only ones who got back... The only ones... and we were darn lucky.”
“I need to know how many bombers were destroyed or damaged in the initial blast?” The young intelligence officer tapped his pencil onto his note pad. “Can you be specific... how many were destroyed... how many damaged and how seriously?”
“Their first pass really messed us up, Lieutenant... Fw’s... line-a-breast formation... head on attack... blew my nose compartment and bombardier to pieces with their twenty millimeter cannon... also damaged two of my engines... we had to feather both of them... then that Fw came in from above... trailing a bomb, probably a seven-hundred pounder, attached to a tether... can’t tell if he set it off or if it hit a plane. He destroyed at least one bomber with the blast... possibly another... Obviously damaged Mabel’s Crib because she joined up on me when I turned back.” Dwight reached down and lifted the cup of coffee to his lips. His hands trembled and sweat beaded on his brow. “Those Fw’s are something special. They seemed to have some sort of power boost the way they accelerated after the first pass... two of them just flew up close... looked us over and then pulled away to come around for a coup-de-gras. ”
“They just flew up alongside of you? You didn’t fire back at them?” The intelligence offer looked at Dwight and shook his head. I don’t understand? ”
“Damn You!” Dwight slammed his coffee cup down onto the wooden debriefing table. “Both of my waist gunners were down... my radio operator was trying to save the right waist gunner’s life... top turret, Sergeant Cartwright, was killed during the action... by the way... you can credit him with two kills... my bombardier was blown to pieces... my navigator didn’t have any guns to fire... the belly gunner couldn’t bring his guns to bear... and the tail gunner could only sit and sweat it out. ”
“What about Mabel’s Crib?”
“She was in worse shape than we were… two, possibly three engines out... Can’t even guess many wounded or dead... and both Fw’s concentrated their fire on her. First Fw ripped her wing off with cannon fire on the initial pass. Second Fw hit her bomb bay when she rolled over.”
“So nobody got out?”
“My ball turret gunner saw two get out of the nose hatch... then a couple out of the rear of the fuselage before she blew. I’d say at least four chutes deployed.”
“But you didn’t see any chutes yourself?”
“You stupid s.o.b. ” Dwight jerked upward to stand over the rear-echelon officer. “I’m going to put in a request that all of you rear echelon bastards fly a few missions with us. Not the milk runs, but the real meat grinders. I was doing all I could just to keep
Hell’s Choir Boys flying. I was just able to make it into the clouds! I almost didn’t make it back.”
“You didn’t have any bombs? ”
“No! We pickled the bombs while we were in the clouds... then we dumped our guns and ammo over the side too just to reduce weight... Where were our fighters?”
“You know darn well, Major. The Mustangs of the Eighty-sixth just don’t have the range to escort you all the way on a deep penetration raid.”
“I thought that when they were posted to Ramitelli, they’d be close enough to escort us all the way in.”
“They could, but then they wouldn’t have enough gas to engage those Luftwaffe boys and get home themselves.”
“Then somebody had better think of something... because if we have to make any more of these deep raids into German airspace, those Fw’s are going to cut us to ribbons. This new tactic of using tethered bombs... Captain! We won’t stand a chance against them... and something else, Lieutenant!”
“What’s that, Major?”
“Those Luftwaffe boys were good. Real good. Seasoned veterans for sure. Disciplined pilots who knew just where our weak points were and how to exploit them.” Dwight looked at the intelligence officer and then sat down to retrieve his coffee cup. He took a pull on the Luke warm fluid and smiled at the debriefer. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Lieutenant... but it was bloody rough this time.”
“Believe me, Major Carpenter. ” The debriefer relaxed and flashed a smile at Dwight. “I really can sympathize with you on this. As for solutions. I don’t have any answers for you at present.” The Lt. looked down at his notes, then back at the Major. “However, I do have some good news for you. Staff Sergeant Cartwright made it... he took some shrapnel when his turret was hit... he’s in the base hospital now and he’ll recover.”
“Then... ” Dwight looked at the intelligence officer and grinned. “... I’m putting him up for a DFC ( Distinguished Flying Cross ). His getting those two Fw’s during the initial pass probably saved our lives.”
* * * * *
“You’re to be congratulated, Hauptmann Kruger!”
“Oh?”
“Three confirmed bomber kills... that makes your score sixty-three now, doesn’t it?”
“Yes Oberst!”
“We especially liked your tactic with the tethered bomb.”
“It was very risky, Oberst!” Otto stared at the lean fighter-wing commander and continued. “Our initial, head on, line-a-breast pass made all of their gunners concentrate their fire on that formation. It left us free to climb above their box to make our attack... However, I doubt if it will work again... their top gunners were obviously ordered to concentrate on the attacking fighters... if a couple of their top turret gunners had seen us and fired... I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”
“Still, a very brave act, Hauptmann.” Lt. Colonel Peter Trübenbach, commander of the special fighter wing, smiled at the young lieutenant. “You should be pleased to know that we are presenting you with a Knights-cross with swords.” He watched the squadron leader stare back at him, his lips compressed. Peter grinned at his subordinate. “And, you’re officially promoted to StaffelKäptain ( Squadron Commander ) for Special Fighter Squadron Three.”
“Thank you, Oberst!” Otto stood at attention, clicked his heels while saluting at the same time, and nodded his head.
“No need to thank me, Otto... You’ve done an excellent job as the Staffelfüher... You’ll make an excellent StaffelKäptain for the squadron.” The special fighter wing commander smiled and nodded his head in return. “Now get out of here and go celebrate your promotion... The knights cross is on your bunk... we don’t have time to give you a formal ceremony.” Otto wheeled about and quick marched out of the command headquarters office, a wide grin on his face.
* * * * *
The two pilots, still wearing their leather flying helmets, goggles positioned across their brows, trudged slowly down the muddy Marsdon matting of the tie-down apron to where their aging P-40 fighter-bombers had been parked. Mechanics swarmed over the Khaki brown aircraft, putting fingers into the accumulated holes acquired during the low-level bombing mission. More Warhawk fighter-bombers were still entering the base pattern and making their final approaches to a landing. Captain Conrad Harmmon hitched his parachute harness to one shoulder, unzipped his fleece lined flying jacket and then pulled off his flying helmet as he turned to look at the last of the Squadrons planes touching down on the muddy, fighter-bomber airstrip.
“Hey bossman!”
“Harold!” Conrad snarled at his wingman. “How many times do I have to tell you to address me as Captain.”
“Heck, bossman... Ah... Captain.” First Lieutenant Harold Wheelwright looked down, sheepishly. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”
“O.K., Harold.” Conrad grinned at his executive officer. “Spit it out!”
“When do we get to go home?” Harold looked up at the commanding officer of the 99th Fighter Squadron, based at Cercola, Italy. “I mean... I got fifty-eight missions... and most of the other boys, including you, have more than me... Aren’t we suppose to rotate home or something after fifty missions?”
“I’m glad you asked that question.” Conrad looked at his subordinate and dropped the smile on his face. “That’s what the briefings all about!”
“Hey! Then we do get to rotate home... pork-belly and grits... greens... girls... ”
“I got the word but you ain’t going to like it!”
“What do you mean... boss man?”
“Harold!”
“Sorry Captain... WE ARE GOING TO GET TO ROTATE HOME... AREN’T WE?”
“NO!”
“NO?” The young pilot, recently given the honor of flying off Conrad’s wing, stopped walking on the perforated metal matting and stared at his C.O. (Commanding Officer). “WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE DON’T GET TO GO HOME?” He didn’t notice that where he stood, the matting had formed a depression which allowed the rain-soaked Italian soil to form a large puddle of very adhesive mud. The mud now slowly rose up along Harold’s fleece lined flying boots and threatened to seep within the open zipper.
“Just what I said, Harold... ” Conrad shook his head as he stared at the young wingman. “Standard policy with regard to air units within the Army Air Corps has been to rotate combat pilots Stateside after they’ve flown their fifty missions. The idea was to allow these men, who are experienced in combat, to be assigned to advanced training squadrons so that they can impart their knowledge and skills to new pilots. Sort of give them an edge when they go into combat.”
“So... I got me fifty-eight missions... I more than qualify.” The mud entered Harold’s boots, saturating the wool fiber of the lining and filled the interior where his feet resided. Harold didn’t even notice, although unconsciously, he began to shuffle from one foot to the other. “So what’s the reasoning for not rotating those of us with fifty combat missions... Lord only knows... we’ve been shot at plenty of times by Jerry while flying that pile of junk they gave us.”
“Don’t knock the forty-seven... She’s built like a tank and she’s a darn good ground attack airplane.” Conrad shook his head from side to side. “But there’s a little problem when it comes to those of us who graduated from Tuskegee... We can’t be assigned to any squadrons other than those at Tuskegee!”
“Heck, Captain! That shouldn’t be a problem... Just send us home to Tuskegee... At least we can train our own... ”
“Not as easy as that, Harold!” Conrad looked steadily at his wingman. “Seems the civilian instructors at Tuskegee are on contract for the duration of the war... and the contracts can’t be broken!”
“You gotta be kidding!” Harold looked down at his feet and swore. “You mean they ain’t going to rotate us just because some lousy civilian instructor is on contract to the Government?”
“That’s about the size of it, Harold... The decision was made in Washington... combat expediency... courtesy of the United States Government... They’re just going to leave us in combat.”
“Those low-down, sneaky, carpet-bagging…”
“Now look at what you’ve done!” Conrad grabbed the young Lieutenant by his jacket and roughly pulled him out of the pooling puddle of sticky mud. “It’s going to take you a week to clean those flying boots.”
“Hey! When are we going to get hard-stand surfaces instead of these metal plates?”
“Never, Harold!” Conrad began to walk at a faster pace past several P-40's parked on the resurfaced hard-stand area. Behind these, on the perforated Marsdon matting, which kept the wheels of their parked aircraft from sinking into the mud, more of the Warhawk fighter-bombers rested. At several planes, ground crew were working to attach 500 pound bombs to the hard points located under the wings. “We’re not going to be here much longer... We’re being transferred to the Eighty-sixth Fighter Group where we’ll be getting some real fighters... Mustangs!”
“Then we’re finally going to get to fly air combat missions?”
“Looks like it, Harold... Mustangs are too vulnerable to ground fire... but in air to air combat, there’s none better.”
“Mustangs... Boy! That really takes the sting out of the no rotation decision... and there’s not a man in the Ninety-ninth who wouldn’t volunteer for another fifty just to get a crack at Jerry in the air.”
“We haven’t done so badly, even with the Pee-forty beast we’ve been flying... The squadron racked up five kills the other day... and that wuz while using that obsolescent piece of garbage against one of the Luftwaffe’s best fighters.”
“Yeah, boss-man... but think of what we can do with a Mustang... Wow! I can’t wait.”
* * * * *
“O.K... You men of the Three-oh-second. Get the lead out!” The officer in charge of transportation screamed at the assembly of milling men. “These trucks are your transportation to your new station... Mount up!”
“What about our planes, Major?”
“Forget your precious planes, Lieutenant... ” The Major, wearing a dark brown leather flying jacket snarled at the young Lieutenant. “Those Pee-thirty-nines wouldn’t last ten minutes against Görings Luftwaffe.”
“Seemed like a pretty good plane to me, Major.” The Lt. heaved his duffel bag into waiting hands within the truck. “That thirty-seven millimeter in the nose packs a big punch.”
“Listen, Rookie!” The Major snarled as the young Lt. caught another duffel bag and tossed into waiting hands within the truck. “It’s not the one-oh-nines that you have to worry about, although they’ll kill you just as fast... it’s the Fw’s with their twenty-millimeter cannon. They can match any plane we have in both speed and maneuverability. You meet one of those and you can kiss your rear end goodbye because the war will be over for you.”
“So what are we going to fly, Major?”
“We’re giving you our Thunderbolts.”
“Thunderbolts!” The Lt. swore and shook his head. “Ground attack!”
“Not a chance, Rookie!” The Major laughed loudly. “My Three-twenty-fifth group is getting re-equipped with brand new Mustangs... the new bubble canopy, version... We’re giving you guys our old Thunderbolts because you’re going to be flying escort for the bombers at high altitude and the forty-sevens have heaters in the cockpits.”
“What do heaters in the cockpits have to do with what we fly?”
“Came down from headquarters. You guys from the Three-thirty-second can’t stand the cold at high altitude. You have to have heaters in the cockpits in order to stay warm.”
“That’s pure baloney, Major!”
“No baloney, Lieutenant. Headquarters says you can’t stand the cold at altitude so you get the forty-sevens. Now get into that truck before I make you walk to the base.”
“Can you believe that garbage!” Lt. Vernon Ghest shook his head as he accepted the helping hands of his squadron mates.
“We’ve been getting that kind of talk since flying school, Vernon.”
“At least we’re getting to fly fighter combat instead of ground support.”
“I suppose that’s a break.”
“The Jug’s ( P-47 ) suppose to be a real good fighter, Vernon.”
“It’s a piece of garbage!”
“Not really, Vernon.” The voice came from one of his fellow pilots deep laying on the piled duffel bags. “It’s got a lot of punch with those eight fifties.”
“And it can out dive anything the Kraut’s have.”
“But can it dog-fight?”
“Remains to be seen.” The truck, the last of several, jerked into motion and began to jar the pilots of the 302nd fighter squadron into a bone weary semblance of boredom.
“Does anybody know exactly where we’re going?”
“Some place called Capodichino.” The identity of the responder was unknown. “I overheard a couple of the drivers talking about it... We’re to join up with the One-hundredth.”
“Hey! Those are Tuskegee boys too! That means the Three-thirty-second will be fighting as an all Tuskegee group.”
“I don’t see that we’ll be seeing much combat. Italy’s almost rear-echelon these days. Besides, we can only escort the bombers so far, then we have to turn back for lack of fuel and no Kraut with a grain of common horse sense is going to follow one of our bombers into Italy.”
“I hear these Itie wimmin are hot!”
“Is that all you can think of?”
“Why not? Maybe I can change my luck!” The last was met with several deep chuckles from the men within the confines of the truck.
* * * * *
“MUSTANGS!”
“That’s right! Mustangs! Pee-fifty-ones! Real fighters for a change. Now we can really put it to the Germans.”
“O.K. guys! Listen up!” Captain Harmmon stood on the podium in the small Quonset hut used by the 99th Fighter Squadron for briefings. “The planes we’re getting are the Cee models. Razorbacks with a green-house canopy but they have a Packard-Merlin power-plant rated at fifteen-hundred horses. They’re just as fast as those new Dee’s with the bubble canopy.”
“So why don’t we get the new Dee version, Captain?”
“The Dee’s are brand new birds, fresh from the States... Lieutenant.”
“Thought we were getting new planes, Captain?”
“The planes we’re getting are a lot better than what we’ve been flying.”
“Yeah! A bunch of cast-off-war-wearies from some lucky fighter-jock squadron who are getting new Mustangs from the States!”
“Bend over and spread your cheeks boys! Yah-all’s getting the shaft once more!”
“I could arrange for you to continue flying the Pee-forty, Lieutenant Russell.” Conrad glared at the angry 1st Lt., but inwardly he sympathized with his verbalized questions. The Lt. was right. The Mustangs the 99th would be getting were war-weary-cast-offs from other combat squadrons. “But I don’t think you’re going to request a Pee-forty... Are you?”
“No sir!”
“Then here’s more news for you... After we’ve gotten a chance to get use to our new birds, we’re being transferred to the Three-thirty-second Fighter Group... Commanded by Lieutenant. Colonel Benjamin O. Davis, Jr.” His news was interrupted by cheers from the assembled men for Lt. Colonel Davis had briefly been their C.O. in the Sicilian Campaign as well as one of their class-mates during their flight training at the Tuskegee Institute.
“Hey boss-man!”
“Address me as Captain!” Conrad couldn’t help but grin at his men. “What now?”
“What other squadrons are being assigned to the Three-thirty-second?”
“The Three-oh-first, the Three-oh-second as well as the Hundredth!”
“Hey! Them boys is all rookies! Are you telling us we gotta get into bed with a bunch of rookies?”
“That’s right! All of them Tuskegee trained.” Captain Harmmon cracked a wide smile. “Lots of formation flying... touch and goes... formation flying... aerobatics... and more formation flying.”
“Bet they can march really good too... I’ll bet they’re all real nice marchers?” Chuckles came from the assembled men, each remembering their own experiences in the States while training at the Institute.
“What are they going to be flying? Them Pee-forties that we trained on in the States?”
“No! They came over with their own Pee-thirty-nines!”
“PEE-THIRTY-NINES! Those things are worse than the Pee-forty!”
Conrad shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sure, Colonel Davis can arrange for them to get a better mount.”
“I suppose we’re expected to hold their hands... take them to the latrine... wipe their noses and all that?”
“That’s right, Lieutenant Pfitzer!” Conrad stared at the young pilot, who had four confirmed Messerschmitt 109 kills to his record. “It’s going to be our job to teach them how to fight... ”
“Aw... boss-man! A bunch of green rookies? ”
“Green-horns!”
“Cherries!”
“Bull!” Conrad laughed aloud, looking at the protesting pilots in his squadron. “You guys would-of given your eye teeth to have had someone with combat experience take you under their wing to teach you combat tactics when we first came over?” Conrad smiled at the assembled men. “But, instead, you had to learn the hard way... on-the-job... without anyone to tell you what not to do! Well, we’re not going to let these new boys get shafted like we were are we? We’re going to take them by the hand and teach them right... wipe their noses when they cry and pat them on the back when their
scared. Then we’re going to show them how to kick some German butt. And at the same time, we’ll be showing those red-necked carpet-baggers in Washington that we... the Three-thirty-second Fighter Group... know how to fight!” The cramped hut exploded in cheers. “It’s going to be our job to make the Three-thirty-second the best darn fighter group in the Fifteenth Air Corps. ” Conrad paused for a moment, allowing his men to settle down. Then he continued. “And we’re going to do it by scoring more kills than any other fighter group in the entire ETO
(European Theater of Operations )!” The room erupted once more in a deafening cheer.
“So when is all this transferring going to take place, boss-man?”
“For the moment, we’re being attached to the 86th Fighter Group. They’re getting brand new Pee-forty-sevens... with the new bubble canopies... fresh from the States. We’re getting their cast off Pee-fifty-one-Cee Mustangs.”
“Don’t like the idea of flying a war-weary into combat, boss man!”
“Think positive!... These birds have been broken in for you.”
“Oh yeah! Broken is the operative word here!”
Conrad let the remark slide. “ We’re going to strip the paint, inspect their innards and just maybe boost the engines a smidgen.” A number of the assembled pilots chuckled. A few of their ground crew had been top mechanics in the stock-car racing circuits back home. The result was that more than one of their old P-40N’s had been souped up beyond the recommended manufacturers specifications. In fact, if the truth were known, their recent kills could be directly credited to the special field modifications to their engines.
- 3 -
The young Freya ( long distance search radar ) operator stared into her display and mentally picked up the brighter blips from the obliterating, snow (clutter), which was caused by bundles of aluminum foil strips (called chaff), being tossed out of the waist
hatches in the lead American bombers as they approached their target. She picked up her telephone set and spoke quickly into the mouthpiece. Moments later the alarm was issued to the home defense fighter groups, deep within Germany.
“Achtung! Achtung! Enemy formation reported heading for sector seven... Eight-thousand meters... Scramble!” The loudspeaker screamed as the alarm klaxon blatted its own raucous alarm warning from its position where it was attached to the eaves of the ready room shack. German pilots, wearing faded khaki colored flying coveralls jumped up and ran towards the camouflaged revetments where their respective fighters sat in readiness. Even as they approached their mounts, the ground crews were manually turning the centrifugal cranks which would allow the 1,700 hp BMW engines to start once the electrical switch in the cockpit was activated. Other ground crewmen stripped away the camouflage netting used to conceal the ugly Butcher-birds from any enemy fighters intent upon strafing the German airfield. Plane captain’s adjusted parachute harness straps and restraining shoulder harness, so that the pilot could simply jump into the cockpit and in moments, strap in and start the massive engine of his fighter.
Lt. Wilhelm Frölich leaped up onto the wing root of his fighter, slipped passed the lead mechanic and entered the cockpit effortlessly. As he slid into position his hands automatically pulled the parachute harness over his shoulders and snapped the buckles of his leg straps in place. The mechanic leaned over to snap his shoulder harness to the lap belt. As he straightened up, Wilhelm reached forward and pushed the ignition switch to the on position. The massive BMW engine coughed once, then rumbled to life as the wheel chocks were pulled from under his wings. Free of its restraining barriers, the evil looking Fw rolled forward, out of the revetment. As his last act of the scramble litany, the mechanic closed the clear, Perspex canopy and snapped it shut with one hand and then tumbled off the trailing edge of the wing. Wilhelm didn’t wait to taxi to any runway. The German airfield was nothing more than a large, grassy field which had been graded level and then planted with sod in preparation for the use by the fighter planes.
Captain Kruger, as squadron commander, pushed his own throttle all the way forward, letting the BMW of his own Fw roar with take-off power. The blunt nosed Butcher-Bird accelerated across the hard packed sod of the field, undulating up and down as the undercarriage coped with the uneven surface of the ground. Otto’s tail lifted off the ground. The fighter momentarily encountered the ground effect cushion of compressed air and lifting ever so slightly off the ground. The airplane sagged momentarily and then began to rise into the air over the field. Behind Otto, Wilhelm’s fighter joined up on his right wing.
“Potsdam Control! Potsdamn Control! Gretchen three flight climbing to eight-thousand meters... Request vector to enemy formation!”
“Affirmative, Gretchen flight... Heading Two One Zero degrees... climb to eight-thousand meters... ” The women voice sounded pleasantly in Otto’s ears. He momentarily allowed himself to wonder if she were attractive.
“Hear that, Frolich?”
“Yes, Hauptmann.” Wilhelm adjusted his throttle to keep his position in the climb.
“Gretchen flight!” Otto keyed his radio mike, turning his head rearward to see the entire squadron forming up on his aircraft. “We’ll attack as briefed... line-a-breast... head on... the lead bomber box... one pass only... then look for strays and cripples.” The answer came as a series of clicks, as each pilot in the squadron keyed his mike switch once to signal he understood. “Frolich and I will take high position, above their box to co-ordinate our attack with yours.” More clicks signified they understood. The schwärme of deadly Focke-Wulf fighters climbed through a cloud layer, momentarily concealing each plane from the next. As they broke out into clear sunlight Otto saw the thin contrails of his intended prey, flying straight and level at 24,000 feet. The intercept would be perfect for them. Below and to his right, Otto watched as the special squadrons that comprised the group, broke clear of the overcast cloud layer. By the plan previously agreed upon, they would attack the trailing bomber box simultaneously in a slashing pass.