The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots (52 page)

25th February, 1944

The Americans and British conduct their large-scale air operations in a way which leaves us no respite. They have rained hundreds of thousands of tons of high explosive and phosphorus incendiary bombs upon our cities and industrial centres. Night after night the wail of the sirens heralds more raids. How much longer can it all continue?

Once again Division Control reports those blasted concentrations in sector Dora-Dora. It is the daily waiting for the action call, the permanent state of tension in which we live, which keeps our nerves on edge. Every mission is now followed by some more pictures going up on the wall.

Concentrations in sector Dora-Dora! This report has now come to have a different significance for us: it is a reminder that, for the moment, we are still alive. The faces of the comrades have become grave and haggard.

Concentrations in sector Dora-Dora! Today it will be the same story again. In silence we prepare for take-off. One by one we again retire into the can. That is also part of the same routine. No laxatives are needed to assist the sinking feeling Dora-Dora creates.

Take-off at 1600 hours.

The Squadron circles the airfield until it is assembled in formation.

“Climb to 25,000 feet on course due north,” calls base. “Heavy babies approaching over the sea.”

At 15,000 feet over Lüneberg Heath we are joined by the Flights from our Third Squadron. It is cold. I turn on the oxygen.

20,000 feet: we maintain radio silence. Base periodically gives the latest enemy position reports, “Heavy babies now in sector Siegfried-Paula.”

22,000 feet: we fly strung out in open formation. The monotonous hum of the code-sign in our earphones: Di-da-di-da-di-da-di-da . . . short-long-short-long-short-long. . . .

25,000 feet: our exhausts leave long vapour-trails behind.

30,000 feet: my supercharger runs smoothly. Revs, boost, oil and radiator temperatures, instrument check shows everything as it should be. Compass registers course three-six-zero.

“On your left . . . watch for heavy babies to your left.”

There is still no sign of them. Nerves are tense. I am suddenly very wide awake. Carefully I scan the skies. Vast layers of cloud cover the distant earth below as far as the eye can see. We are now at an altitude of 33,000 feet: it should be just right for bagging a few enemy bombers or fighters.

Vapour-trails ahead. There they are!

“I see them,” Specht reports with a crackle of his ringing voice.

“Victor, victor,” base acknowledges.

The bomber-alley lies about 6,000 feet below us – 600 to 800 of the heavy bombers are heading eastwards. Alongside and above them range the escorting fighters.

And now I am utterly absorbed in the excitement of the chase. Specht dips his left wing-tip, and we peel off for the attack. Messerschmitt after Messerschmitt follows him down.

“After them!” The radio is a babel of sound, with everybody shouting at once.

I check my guns and adjust the sights as we dive down upon the target. Then I grasp the stick with both hands, groping for the triggers with my right thumb and forefinger. I glance behind. Thunderbolts are coming down after us.

We are faster, and before they can intercept us we reach the Fortresses. Our fighters come sweeping through the bomber formation in a frontal attack. I press the triggers, and my aircraft shudders under the recoil.

“After them!”

My cannon-shells punch holes in the wing of a Fortress.

Blast! I was aiming for the control cabin.

I climb away steeply behind the formation, followed by my Flight. Then the Thunderbolts are upon us. It is a wild dog-fight. Several times I try to manœuvre into position for firing at one of their planes. Every time I am forced to break away, because there are two–four–five – or even ten Thunderbolts on my tail.

Everybody is milling around like mad, friend and foe alike. But the Yanks outnumber us by four or five to one. Then some Lightnings come to join in the
mêlée.
I get one of them in my sights. Fire!

Tracers come whizzing in a stream close past my head. I duck instinctively.

Woomf! Woomf! Good shooting!

I am forced to pull up out of it in a steep corkscrew climb, falling back on my old stand-by in such emergencies. For the moment I have a breathing space. I check the instruments and controls. All seems well. Wenneckers draws alongside and points down at four Lightnings on our left.

“After them!”

Our left wing-tips dip, and we peel off. We hurtle down towards the Lightnings as they glisten in the sun. I open fire. Too fast: I overshoot the Lightning. I wonder what to do about my excessive speed.

But now a Lightning is on my tail. In a flash, I slam the stick hard over into the left corner. The wing drops. I go down in a tight spiral dive. The engine screams. I throttle back. My aircraft shudders under the terrific strain. Rivets spring from the wing-frame. My ears pop. Slowly and very cautiously I begin to straighten out. I am thrust forward and down into the seat. My vision blacks out. I feel my chin forced down on to my chest.

A Lightning passes me, going down in flames. There is a Messerschmitt on its tail.

“Got it!”

It is Wenneckers.

A few moments later he is alongside me again. I wave to him with both hands.

“Congratulations!”

“The bastard was after your hide,” he replies.

It is the second time Wenneckers has shot a Yank from off my tail.

After we land I go up to Wenneckers to shake hands, congratulate him on his success, and— But Wenneckers interrupts before I am able to thank him: –

“No need for you to thank me, sir. I only wanted your wife not to be made a widow by that bastard. Besides, think what a nuisance to the Flight it would have been to have had to dispose of your remains!”

All the mechanics standing around greet this remark with roars of laughter. I dig the lanky lad in the ribs. We go together into the crew-room. Meanwhile the others have also been coming in to land. This is one day we all come back.

29th April, 1944

“Concentrations of enemy aircraft in Dora-Dora!” Here we go again! The reorganised Squadron is ready for action.

Three Bomber Divisions are launching an offensive from the Great Yarmouth area. Our formations in Holland report strong fighter escorts. My orders are to engage the escorting fighters in combat with my Squadron, draw them off and keep them occupied. Other Squadrons of Focke-Wulfs are thus to be enabled to deal with the bombers effectively without interference.

1000 hours: “Stand by, the entire Squadron!”

I have a direct ground-line from my aircraft to the control room at Division. Enemy situation reports are relayed to me all the time. They pass over Amsterdam . . . the south tip of Ijssel Bay . . . north of Deventer . . . crossing the Reich border . . . west of Rheine.

At 1100 hours the spearhead of the formation is over Rheine.

1104 hours: “Entire Squadron to take off; entire Squadron to take off!” The order booms forth from the loudspeakers across the field. Signal rockets and Vérey lights are sent up from the Flight dispersal points. Engines roar. We are off! The Flights rise from the field and circle to the left, closing in to make up a single compact Squadron formation.

I turn on the radio and contact base. “Heavy babies in sector Gustav-Quelle. Go to Hanni-eight-zero.”

“Victor, victor,” I acknowledge.

I continue climbing in a wide circle to the left up to the required operational altitude . . . 20,000 . . . 22,000 . . . 25,000 feet.

North and south of us other Squadrons are also climbing. They are mostly Focke-Wulfs.

“Heavy babies now in Gustav Siegfried; Hanni-eight-zero.”

“Victor, victor.”

I have now reached 30,000 feet. The new superchargers are marvellous.

1130 hours: off to the west and below I spot the first vapour-trails. They are Lightnings. In a few minutes they are directly below, followed by the heavy bombers. These are strung out in an immense chain as far as the eye can reach. Thunderbolts and Mustangs wheel and spiral overhead and alongside.

Then our Focke-Wulfs sweep right into them. At once I peel off and dive into the Lightnings below. They spot us and swing round towards us to meet the attack. A pack of Thunderbolts, about thirty in all, also come wheeling in towards us from the south. This is exactly what I wanted.

The way is now clear for the Focke-Wulfs. The first of the Fortresses are already in flames. Major Moritz goes in to attack with his Squadron of in-fighters (
Rammjaeger
).

Then we are in a madly milling dog-fight. Our job is done; it is a case of every man for himself. I remain on the tail of a Lightning for several minutes. It flies like the devil himself, turning, diving, and climbing almost like a rocket. I am never able to fire more than a few pot-shots.

Then a flight of Mustangs dives past. Tracers whistle close by my head. I pull back the stick with both hands, and the plane climbs steeply out of the way. My wingman, Sergeant Drühe, remains close to my tail.

Once again I have a chance to fire at a Lightning. My salvoes register at last. Smoke billows out of the right engine. I have to break away, however. Glancing back, I see that I have
eight
Thunderbolts sitting on my tail. The enemy tracers again come whistling past my head.

Evidently my opponents are old hands at the game. I turn and dive and climb and roll and loop and spin. I use the methanol emergency booster, and try to get away in my favourite “corkscrew climb”. In only a few seconds the bastards are right back on my tail. They keep on firing all the time. I do not know how they just miss me, but they do.

My wingman sticks to me like glue, either behind or alongside. I call him to “Stay right there!” whatever happens. “Victor, victor,” he calmly replies.

In what I think could be a lucky break, I get a Yank in my sights. I open fire with all guns. The crate goes up in a steep climb. Then all his comrades are back again on my tail.

In spite of the freezing cold, sweat pours down my face. This kind of dog-fight is hell. One moment I am thrust down into the seat in a tight turn; the next I am upside down, hanging in the safety-harness with my head practically touching the canopy roof and the guts coming up into my mouth.

Every second seems like a lifetime.

The Focke-Wulfs have meanwhile done a good job. I have seen nearly thirty of the Fortresses go down in flames. But there are still several hundred more of the heavy bombers winging their way eastwards undaunted. Berlin is in for another hot day.

My fuel indicator needle registers zero. The red light starts to flicker its warning. Ten more minutes only, and my tank will be empty. I go down in a tight spiral dive. The Thunderbolts break away.

Just above the clouds; at an altitude of 3,000 feet, I slowly level off. I estimate that I am probably somewhere in the vicinity of Brunswick or Hildesheim.

I look at my watch. Perhaps in another forty-five minutes I shall be over the “bomber-alley” again. Perhaps then I shall be able to get a fat bomber in front of my guns. . . .

Overhead, the sky is still streaked with vapour-trails, stamped with the imprint of that infernal dog-fight. Suddenly the wingman beside me flicks his aircraft round and vanishes into the cloudbank.

So what the hell . . . ?

In a flash I glance round, and then instinctively duck my head. There is a Thunderbolt sitting right on my tail, followed by seven more. All eight open fire. Their salvoes slam into my plane. My right wing bursts into flames.

I spiral off to the left into the clouds. A shadow looms ahead: it is a Thunderbolt. I open fire. Its tail is soon in flames.

Now I can see the ground. I jettison the canopy and am ready to bale out. There is another rat-tat-tat sound of machine-guns close to my ear and more hammer-blows hit my flaming crate. That Thunderbolt is there again, not 100 feet behind me.

Blast! I shall be chewed to mincemeat in his airscrew if I try to bale out now. I huddle down and crouch low in my seat, trying to make myself as small as possible. The armour plate at my back protects me from the otherwise fatal shots. Wings and fuselage are riddled. A large hole gapes beside my right leg. The flames are licking closer now: I can feel the heat.

Crash! The instrument panel flies into splinters in front of my eyes. Something strikes me on the head. Then my engine stops: not a drop of fuel left.

Blast! There is no chance for me now.

My forward speed, of course, rapidly decreases. This causes my opponent to overshoot and pass me. For a few seconds only he is in my sights; but it is a chance to take him with me. I press both triggers. I feel myself trembling all over from the nervous tension. If I can only take him with me!

My salvo scores a perfect bull’s-eye in the centre of his fuselage. He pulls up his smoking plane in a steep climb. In a moment he is in flames. The canopy opens and the body of the pilot emerges.

The ground comes up with a rush. Too late for me to bale out now. I cross some large fields. Down goes the nose and the plane settles. The flames come up reaching for my face. Earth flies into the air. There is a dull, heavy thud. The crate skids along in a cloud of dust, then digs its own grave in the soft earth. I throw up my arms to cover my face, and brace my legs against the rudder-bar. It is all over in a split second. Something crashes with stunning force on to my head.

So this must be the end! It is my last thought before losing consciousness. . . .

I have no recollection of getting clear of that burning wreck, but I suppose I must have done so. Coherent thought is beyond me: there is only that dreadful pain in my head. I remember bullets flying past my ears as the ammunition explodes. I stumble and fall, but somehow stagger to my feet again. My one idea is to get away before the final explosion. The bright flames consuming my aircraft contrast vividly against the dark smoke-pall rising into the sky behind it.

A second wreck is burning only a few hundred yards away. Dimly I realise that it must be my Yank. If only the pain would stop! My head! my head! – I hold it in both hands and sink to my knees. The world spins crazily in front of my eyes. I am overcome by recurrent nausea, until only the taste of green bile remains.