Authors: Robert Jackson
Mosquito Squadron (17 page)
The Mosquito reared up suddenly, went over on its back and almost completed a loop before it struck the ground with a vivid flash.
The Focke-Wulf, joined now by two or three others which had managed to get off the ground, closed on the other two Mosquitos like angry wasps. Pearce’s aircraft took two 20-mm shells in its starboard wing, shattering part of the aileron and causing the flaps to break away. Using all his strength, the pilot managed to retain control and release his bombs over the fuel dump; then, with the aircraft threatening to wind itself into the ground at any moment, he flopped it down on its belly a few hundred yards further on. As he did so, the rocket fuel tanks in the dump exploded with a brilliant white glare and an explosion that could be heard for miles. A great pillar of white flame shot a thousand feet into the air.
Van Kleve, who bombed the dump a few seconds after Pearce, saw the latter’s Mosquito flop into the snow. Snatching a glance back over his shoulder, he saw pilot and navigator struggling clear; then he was away, speeding low over the far boundary of the field.
The Focke-Wulfs pursued him relentlessly and his Mosquito was hit time after time. He went up to three thousand feet, intending to turn and fight, but suddenly the controls went slack in his hands as a burst of cannon fire slammed into the rear fuselage, severing the control cables. He yelled ‘Get out!’ to his navigator, who punched open the roof hatch and clawed his way through it, his face white with fear.
Van Kleve tried to follow him, but the Mosquito was now spinning wildly and the ‘g’ forces held the Belgian glued to his seat. Praying hard, he managed to grab both sides of the escape hatch and then, with his feet planted on the instrument panel, he made a last supreme effort and levered his head and shoulders out into the icy air. The slipstream plucked at him and buffeted him, tearing away his senses. Half in and half out of the hatch, gripped relentlessly by the forces that had seized the plunging aircraft, he closed his eyes and waited for the end.
When he opened them again, he was lying in a deep snowdrift, his half-deployed parachute spread around him. The telescoped wreckage of the Mosquito lay fifty yards away, smouldering.
Wincing with the ache of bruised limbs, Van Kleve struggled to his knees. Pulling off his flying helmet, he knelt bareheaded in the snow and gave thanks for his deliverance.
Meanwhile, the ten surviving Mosquitos of Red, Blue and Yellow Sections were well on their way towards the Dutch border, thirty miles from Zwischenahn, the aircraft sliding into their well-rehearsed combat formation as they joined up with the leader. There was about four-tenths cloud over Holland at 15,000 feet and Yeoman took the formation in a fast climb towards it, knowing that it could save their lives if they were attacked. And Yeoman knew for certain that they would be attacked, for their homeward flight would take them close to several enemy fighter airfields — including the three they had hit on the squadron’s first daylight operation, four months earlier.
Fifteen miles into Holland, near the village of Berger, they lost another aircraft. The voice of the Terry Saint, flying number two to Yeoman now that Miller had gone, suddenly came up over the R/T.
‘We’re in trouble. Oil temperature’s going off the clock on both engines. Must have caught some flak.’
Yeoman looked round and saw Saint’s Mosquito dropping away out of formation. Even as he watched, its starboard propeller windmilled to a stop, and there was an intermittent trail of smoke from the other motor.
‘We’ve had it. Both engines gone. Baling out now.’
‘Okay, Terry. Good luck.’
There was nothing else to say. Half a minute later, Olafs-son, bringing up the rear of the formation, reported that he had seen two parachutes, far below. Yeoman sighed with relief; it was good to know that the happy-go-lucky New Zealander and his navigator were safe, even if a POW cage lay at the end of their road.
The enemy fighters hit them a few minutes later, coming at them from ahead, slanting down hard and fast to cut off their escape route. Yeoman, seeing at once that there was no possiblity of making a run for it or of reaching cloud cover before they were, attacked, ordered the Mosquitos to form a defensive circle, each aircraft covering the tail of the one ahead.
Below, in the streets and fields, people stopped work to watch the desperate merry-go-round that developed high over their heads, heard the chatter of cannon and machine-guns. They saw a Mosquito drop out of the circle, flame pouring from its wings, and disintegrate into spiralling fragments. A moment later it was followed by a Messerschmitt, a dense streamer of white smoke marking its fall.
Yeoman had seen Olafsson die, his aircraft pulverized by the merciless assaults of two Messerschmitts, and almost instantly his own shells had torn a wing off one of the enemy fighters. Then he glanced at the western sky, and his heart sank. Coming at them, in three compact formations, were at least fifty more fighters.
‘Now we’re for it, Happy,’ he said quietly. He knew that he was almost out of ammunition, and he knew that the other Mosquitos must be in a similar plight.
The navigator made no reply. He was leaning forward in his straps, peering intently at the fighters which were pouring down on them like an avalanche. Suddenly, he gave a yell that almost split the pilot’s eardrums.
‘Thunderbolts! Jesus, skipper, they’re Thunderbolts!’
Wild elation surged up inside Yeoman as he saw that Hardy was right. The tubby, radial-engined American fighters fell on the Germans like a pack of wolves, and within a minute savage battles were flaring up all over the sky.
Yeoman looked at Hardy, grinning and wiping the sweat from his face. Then he pressed the R/T button and called up what was left of the squadron.
‘All right, chaps, that’s it. Let’s go home.’
He looked around, identifying the battle-scarred Mosquitos by their code letters.
McManners and Romilly; Laurie, tucked in close to his own wingtip; Sloane, Lorrimer, Hudson and Carr. Was that really all that was left?
Together, they headed out towards the sanctuary of the open sea.
The two men stood on the vibrating deck of the destroyer, watching the sun-drenched rock of Gibraltar receding astern. Ahead of them lay the broad reaches of the Atlantic; behind them, four months of danger and hardship.
The long winter was over, and the spring of 1944 now spread its gentle balm over war-torn Europe. The two men stared at the wake of the destroyer, hardly daring to believe that their ordeal was over; that the weeks of hiding in fear, from Holland to southern France, were little more than a bad memory.
They owed their liberty to so many ordinary people. The steelworker in Amsterdam; the guides who had led them over the border into Belgium; the housewife in Brussels, who had sheltered them in her attic while the tread of the German patrols echoed in the cobbled streets outside.
And there was the woman who had shepherded them through the long, arduous journey across France, from village to village and house to house. A beautiful woman with red hair and wistful green eyes who, amazingly, spoke perfect English with an American accent and whose name was Madeleine.
Terry Saint and his navigator were going home.
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Mosquito Squadron
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