Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Their bombs fell in and close around the tanks and armoured guns, their attack unopposed by flak. Some ineffectual heavy machine-gun fire opened up on them, but they pulled out comfortably above its range, to avoid flying into the surrounding higher hills.

  Hakka Leader called to say he was having to return to base to refuel and rearm, and they continued about their business of strafing without escort.

  “With a bit of luck,” Fiver told them, “we’ll get a crack at some 109s ourselves.” Yule and the rest wondered how they would fare if they did, for it had been so long since they had done any air fighting.

  They were on their way down to strafe a column of lorried infantry moving towards the Cava Gap when Sgt. Sampson, who in addition to his bombing expertise possessed the sharpest eyes, after Fiver’s, on the squadron, gave a warning. “Banco Leader... Yellow Two... there’s something at four o’clock, about 15,000.”

  In three seconds: “You’re dead right, Yellow Two... 190s... eight of ’em. Let’s go.” Fiver wheeled them to starboard and into a rapid climb.

  Yule wished he were somewhere else. They had all looked forward to the chance to try themselves out against Focke Wulf 190s in the days when they were operating as interception fighters. Now they had become a trifle rusty in that art, their appetite for an encounter with the vaunted 190 had much diminished.

  Most of their service had involved them in combats with the Messerschmitt Bf 109E with its indicated air speed of 350 mph and the 109F which had a maximum of 390 mph. The Fw 190A was capable of 408 mph. It was also smaller and lighter than a Spitfire, which made it more difficult to hit and to outmanoeuvre. For armament, it carried two 13 mm MG 131s above the engine, two 20 mm MG 151/20s in the wing roots and two MG 151/20 or 30 mm Mk. 8s in the outer wings. The Spitfire Mk. Vs that Fiver’s squadron flew had four .303 machine-guns and two 20 mm cannon, along the wings’ leading edges, and were slower in flight.

  The squadron, when they heard the “Tallyho” this time, wished very much that their escort were still around them.

  As pure fighters, they had always used the finger four formation that emerged after the Battle of Britain: aircraft operating in pairs and flying in units of four, line abreast; with the two men in the centre, each the leader of a pair, slightly ahead of the two wing men. It was the most flexible fighter formation ever evolved and overcame many problems of manoeuvrability and separation that were inherent in a threesome. For the past many weeks they had reverted to the old fashioned sections of three, in V formation, and this was another handicap to them. It was all right for dive-bombing, but not the best way to deal with enemy fighters in a dogfight.

  When they joined battle Yule’s fear left him. In the minute before the enemy came within range of their guns — and they of the enemy’s — he had felt a cramping pain in his stomach and his mouth became dry. As soon as the C.O. said “Section attacks... echelon starboard... go!” and he saw Vincent swing down from Warren’s left to take up position on his own right, he began to feel better: it was like hearing a referee say “Seconds out of the ring”, and Yule had done a fair bit of boxing in his schooldays. When Warren called the break it was the bell for the first round and all fear went.

  Outnumbering the 190s even though their aircraft could not outperform them left them with a convenient four spare men who could confuse the German pilots and draw their attention off their targets. Fiver was the first to open fire and with his customary immaculate placing he did so from just below and 50 yards behind the leading Focke Wulf. Its pilot had no idea how the Spitfire had got there. He had precisely two seconds in which to wonder, for that was how long it took for O’Neill to blast his tail off with one burst from his guns. The Fw 190 nosed into a steep dive and began to spin. No one saw the pilot manage to extricate himself.

  Yule saw it happen, before he pressed his firing button, and it brought him a surge of confidence mixed with pleasure at the knowledge that he was suddenly back at his real job, doing what he had joined the R.A.F. to do, fighting in the air instead of against people on the ground. The 190 he had selected fired a burst from head-on, and then they were whirling round, each trying to get on the other’s tail. They had fired their opening bursts simultaneously and both had missed narrowly.

  He had caught a glimpse of Vincent moving to the left to take up his place at Warren’s right wing, where he himself would have been if the Fw hadn’t singled him out and demanded his attention. He wished he had someone on his own tail.

  “Behind you, Toby...” Sammy’s voice... this must be a hell of a mix-up, if Sammy was somewhere behind him... he tightened his turn and tracer drifted by. He greyed out, vaguely aware of a flash of light somewhere close astern and a bump under his tail that tipped his nose down. Hurriedly reducing his rate of turn he saw a 190 right in front of him. A quick look at his mirror showed another on fire several hundred yards behind and just emerging from a hard turn. He probably had Sammy to thank for picking that chap off. He saw the one ahead bank around, and, on a silver platter, present him with an opportunity to make a classic quarter attack. He jabbed at his firing button and his aircraft shuddered, its speed falling by 25 mph under the recoil of guns and cannon as he dived shallowly and turned with his target. He had picked no particular aiming point, but saw his De Wilde ammunition splashing all down the starboard side with characteristic yellow flashes. All the way down to the engine cowling. The Fw 190’s propeller stopped with gobbets of smoke spurting from the engine. Yule remembered to look in the mirror, but the air behind was clear. When he looked again at his victim the enemy aircraft was already several hundred feet below, smoke writhing back as it twisted in a long curve to the ground. Its pilot’s parachute opened as he watched. Yule made a quick orbit, searching everywhere. There was no aircraft in his immediate vicinity: the fight had sprawled over several square miles of sky. He had an impulse to take a look at his Jerry, and dived towards him. The German half-raised a hand. Perhaps the poor devil’s wetting himself, wondering whether I’m going to take a squirt, Yule thought. He circled him and waved reassuringly; then called Warren for instruction.

  “We’re over a fork of the Sele River, south of Battipaglia, where the road bridge crosses it. If you’ve nothing better to do, you might care to join us.” Warren sounded displeased.

  “Who’s ‘we’? Is Green Three with you?”

  “He is. Out.” Warren was definitely displeased. He was inclined to be unreasonable about Number two’s who hared off in search of glory instead of sticking to the job of guarding their leaders’ tails. What would he have done if the 190 had picked on him, instead of me? thought Yule.

  O’Neill called them one by one to check their numbers. It was a sobering roll call: three of them didn’t answer.

  Afterwards, piecing the story together for Tustin to assemble his Intelligence picture from their combat reports, they remembered that one pilot had been seen to bail out safely south of Salerno, just offshore; another was known to have gone down with his aircraft; and a third had had no chance at all, because his Spitfire had blown up and almost taken Sammy, who was hard alongside, with it.

  The Germans, it seemed, had not been much demoralised by the Italian surrender after all.

  Chapter Ten

  In the final helter-skelter withdrawal to the last few square miles left to the Axis armies in the north-east cape of Sicily, as the relentless battering rams of the British forces coming up the east coast and the Americans moving along the north coast thrust them into the sea, Sgt. Ferugino’s regiment was swept along willy-nilly.

  There had been a time when he and Sarti had believed in their plan to let themselves be cut adrift from their battery and make their way back to the cave (evacuated now by Anna, who was happily, busily and gainfully occupied in the many-cubicled house at Catania). Then the dam of mountains and men holding back the Allied flood had been breached and, figuratively, the waters pelted through sweeping all before them.

  A week before the end Sarti had urged, “Let’s
clear off now, Salvato’: it’s finished here... once they get across to the mainland they’ll never bother to come looking for... stragglers...”

  “Deserters. And you know what happens to them if ever Fate and the military authorities do catch up with them. It could just happen, you know...”

  “Never! The Germans are done for and we’ll surrender pretty soon.”

  “The impossible happens in war. Besides, just think a minute: when the British and Americans have all gone, where will we get our black market supplies? And whom will we sell girls, and curios, and booze... and girls, to, then? We could be better off over there.” He jerked a thumb towards the Straits of Messina.

  Sarti sounded shocked and looked tearful. “But there will be soldiers and sailors left behind in the ports: Augusta... Syracuse... Palermo... Messina... we can make arrangements to get supplies from them... food, blankets, clothing... they’ll command good prices...”

  Ferugino made dismissive gestures. “It will be more difficult when they settle into base areas than when they are on the move. On the mainland, they will leave huge quantities of supplies of all kinds behind when they advance. The Military Police will have their hands full with military crime and traffic control. Pickings will be much easier over there than here.” He added leers and knowing grimaces to his gesticulations and whispered: “Besides, we shall be on our own... no Capo to take our hard-earned money away from us.”

  Sarti looked impressed. “Now you are talking better sense. I hadn’t thought of that. But will it be safe to defy the...?” He left it unsaid, discreetly. The unmentionable were the senior members of Cosa Nostra who preyed on the lesser.

  “So we’ll go across as soon as we can,” Ferugino said. “Moreover it’ll be a lot safer over the water: the shelling and bombing around here are getting a bit too hot for my taste.”

  “That makes sense, too.”

  “As the area we’re holding shrinks, the troops still left in it are going to cop hell: imagine all those shells and bombs falling on a few hectares packed with the rearguard... not for me, amico mio.”

  “Don’t talk about it: the mere thought makes me shudder.”

  “What’s more, remember we’ve got a very valuable favour to reclaim from the R.A.F. for saving the life, or at least the liberty, of one of their pilots. That’ll get us off to a fine start.”

  “If we can ever find the squadron he belongs to.”

  “Don’t be a pessimist: that’ll be no problem; there aren’t so many airfields they could operate from.”

  Sarti made convulsive movements of combined admiration and despair. “Not any more: the Americans can turn any flat piece of ground into an airstrip in a couple of days; they build them as easily as... as... as the girls in your casino at Catania drop their knickers... and think no more about it, either.”

  Ferugino, derisively: “I haven’t ever known you to exactly hang back (there are no split infinitives in Italian, but if there were he would have split them) when a girl’s dropping her knickers: so shut your trap.” He was outraged at the implication of his sister’s loose morals, like all Sicilians and southern Italians. It was all right to send one’s womenfolk out on the batter, but a knifing matter if anyone else alluded to it.

  Sulkily, Sarti said, “All I’m saying is, the Americans conjure airfields out of nowhere in the blinking of an eye: so how are we going to find Flying Officer Yule as easily as you say?”

  His friend had had enough of this argument. He was Sarti’s superior, both in the Army and the Family. He snapped at him impatiently: “I need a sidekick, and I’m used to you now, damp squib though you are. You can either come with me across to the mainland or take your chances here, with the Family looking for you: and you know what that would mean.” A bullet in the head, for failing to obey his Mafia superior; and Ferugino would make sure the Mafia started hunting him the minute the Germans and Italian forces had evacuated the island. The word “friendship” has connotations in that organisation which differ from what is commonly understood.

  Sarti, ingratiatingly: “You know I’ll stick with you, Salvatore. Through thick and thin.”

  “You’d better, if you know what’s good for you,” was the gracious acknowledgment.

  The next few days were a nightmare of turmoil and terror under the Allied lash. A maelstrom of noise that could hardly have been worse, they both thought, if Doomsday were upon them. When they slept through the din of incessant bombardment it was only because they were stupefied by fatigue. At last, at 2 a.m. on 14th August, their regiment was hustled aboard a chain of lighters, already listing from the misplaced weight of their field guns, and towed across the Messina Straits. Immediately, they were ordered to take up a position in the foothills to prepare to repel the inevitable Allied onslaught on mainland Italy.

  By dawn on the 15th the regiment was, although half-heartedly, at battle readiness. Ferugino greeted the new day with the disgusted comment that this was a fine way to spend Ferragosto, the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady into Heaven, one of the happiest in the liturgical calendar and traditionally celebrated in Italy as the festa on which firework displays are held. In many parts there are competitions between villages, for money prizes, to put up the finest performance. “We won’t lack fireworks,” Sarti reminded him gloomily. “And we’ll be lucky not to get our tails singed.”

  “You’re such a comfort,” Ferugino told him. “I’m giving you an hour off duty: go and find the nearest church and put up a candle for each of us, to the holy Madonna, to protect us on her Festa day.” As he spoke, he was reaching for the charm against the evil eye that dangled from his neck, to give it a rub as double insurance.

  By the time the news broke on the evening of 8th September that the Italian Government had signed a peace treaty with the Allies and deposed Mussolini, the regiment had moved much further inland, its place at the coast taken by Germans. When the Allies landed at Salerno, Ferugino and Sarti, with their regiment, were somewhere in the Foggia plain on the east coast.

  *

  The 975th Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment, U.S.A., had led as perilous and hectic a few weeks as O’Neill’s squadron and the Italian regiment of field artillery of which Sgt. Ferugino and Pte. Sarti were such reluctant ornaments.

  Once the Gornalunga River had been crossed and the Plain of Catania forced, Maj. Corrado’s battery, with the rest of the regiment, returned to their own fold and were enveloped in the forward dash of General George Patton’s 7th Army: through Enna and Petralia and Santo Stefano they careered. They were at the taking of Sant’Agata on the night of 7th/8th August, and when Brolo was captured three nights later they were not far behind the first wave, to set up their guns in defence against enemy air attack.

  For them, as for Sgt. Pienze’s cousin Salvatore Ferugino, these were weeks fraught with intense physical and mental discomfort and discomfiture. Gone were the ‘nursing assistants’ who had, with amorous chuckles and squeals of excitement over C rations and stolen pork and chickens, provided them with some solace amid shot and shell. Still squealing and giggling, a lot cleaner than when the battery had taken them on, plumper on the rich diet, if a trifle weary from over-demand on their complaisant charms, the gaggle of dark-eyed, large-bosomed cuties had been sent on their way with a bounty of a pack of 200 Camels each, when Catania was open to them and the battery had to veer away in the opposite direction.

  “I sure miss my long-haired bunkie,” Tech. Sgt. Pienze sighed to Maj. Corrado one night as they prepared to snatch a little sleep in the ruins of a roofless village house.

  “Maybe your cousin will find some way to replace that bunch,” was his Commanding Officer’s sour retort. “I don’t doubt he has a piece of the action in some cathouse in Messina: we’ll find out in a coupla days, when we get there.”

  “See here, Pete: Salvatore don’t peddle broads for a livin’; this action he’s got going in Catania’s just something on the side.”

  “A pimp is a pimp is a pimp,” the major said.
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  “You got your share.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  There was little time to spare for thoughts of the creature comforts they had lost. Although the R.A.F. and U.S. Army Air Corps had won air superiority over Sicily from the Luftwaffe and Regia Aeronautica, the occasional bomber or fighter-bomber or ground-strafing fighter slipped through to harass them; and their preferred targets were anti-aircraft gun sites. The battery had lost half a dozen men in these hit-and-run raids. The ever-present danger came from artillery barrages and, when the advance was swift, mortars of the enemy’s advanced defences. As anti-aircraft gunners they had never expected to be so far forward.

  One dawn when the Germans put in a fierce counterattack against American positions which had been static for a full day in the face of stubborn opposition, Corrado had such a biblical premonition of extinction that the other men in the command post heard him repeating under his breath, “Armageddon... goddamn Armageddon”. The command post that sultry morning was in a trench surrounded by low rubble walls and roofed with fallen timbers and a tarpaulin. Maj. Corrado leaped out of it with commendable courage to expose himself to the same dangers as his gun crews: the enemy had come so close that the anti-aircraft men were firing at them, over open sights, at point-blank range.

  Instead of seeing their shells burst in the sky or against enemy (and sometimes friendly) aeroplanes, they watched them explode in the faces of German infantry; and on the fronts of German armoured cars and tanks which had swept right past the leading American infantry foxholes, leaving them salient behind the German front. There had been no provision for such an event in any training manual Corrado had ever read. “We’re not paid to do this kind of work,” he called to his men, managing a smile while his bowels quaked, “but if we can’t hold these guys, those dog-faces in the foxholes up front there are going to get it right in the back. So let’s go.”