by Stuart Slade
FV-2 Shooting Star Starbright
Jim Nichols was trapped. His FV-2 was in the middle of a group of German fighters that had boxed him in. He was unable to climb out of the formation and unable to break clear without giving the lethal cannon on the Ta-152 a clean shot. That left him fighting to survive. Nichols barrel-rolled his aircraft then flipped away; a wingover that lead to a steep dive. That was a mistake, the Ta-152 was aerodynamically clean and its low drag meant that it picked up speed fast in a dive. Too fast, an inexperienced pilot could stall his aircraft out. Then, that low drag meant it picked up speed so fast in the post-stall dive that it hit compressibility. At that point, its controls locked and it dived straight into the ground. The pilot was no more than a helpless spectator.
That didn’t happen here. The German pilot was good; he allowed his aircraft to build up enough speed to close the range on the diving FV-2 and no more. Nichols saw the Ta-152 sweep in behind. Its nose and wings started to flash just before the blows of the cannon shells started destroying his aircraft. Starbright burned as it spun out of control, Nichols felt the searing agony as the cockpit filled with fire. Then the jet exploded in mid-air.
Ta-152F Green-Five
Out of the corner of his eye, Hans Braun saw the Shooting Star explode. He swept around to try and emulate the feat. It was hard, terribly hard. The FV-2s were all over the German fighters; slashing at them, ripping with their fast-firing .50s. As soon as he got into position to take a shot, another pair of FV-2s would dive on him. They forced him to turn and leave his prey. Agility was all very well but only the Ami novices were hanging around to dogfight with the German fighters. The experienced pilots made slashing passes through the formation. They picked their men and shot them out of the sky. Braun had no idea what the losses were like. All he could see was the skies filled with the midnight blue jets. Glimpses of Luftwaffe gray were getting rarer.
Another FV-2 was heading away from the fight, trailing black smoke from the fuselage. A cripple waiting to be killed. Even better it is below me. Braun racked his Ta-152 around and started to dive on the damaged fighter. Then he cursed. A section of four Ami fighters had seen him and streaked in to protect their crippled mate. Braun hung on for a few seconds, hoping to finish the cripple off. The Ami jets were too fast. They reached out to him with their tracers. He had to turn, to escape the flashing lights that surrounded his aircraft. It was no good. There were too many Ami fighters. Braun realized the days of attacking were over. Now, he was desperately trying to survive.
FV-2 Shooting Star Flicka
Clear of the swirling furball below, Talen breathed a sigh of relief. He was wringing wet, sweat running down his face, puddling in his G-suit. At least, I hope it is sweat. He wasn’t sure. He’d found the slaughtering match with the Germans so terrifying that he had an honest feel that he’d lost control of his bladder sometime during the wild gyrations. Still, he had escaped and had a split second or so to think. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t done that before. He’d been flying by instinct; reacting to the maneuvers without conscious thought. He realized something else. Somehow, he knew exactly where every aircraft in the wild furball was, both absolutely and in relation to his own aircraft. He dismissed it as a freak, as something he needed not worry about Talen didn’t understand that the two characteristics together made him a natural fighter pilot.
Below him, a Ta-152 had tried to pursue a damaged Flivver but been forced to turn away as a quartet of FV-2s closed in on him. The pilot is watching the new threat, not the hawks poised overhead for the kill. A chance, a vulnerable enemy. He pushed his nose down and started the streaking dive towards the twisting German fighter. Talen carefully lined up his guns. Then, he squeezed off a long burst. He saw his wingman did the same, and as if in slow motion, he saw the streams of bullets intersected with the doomed Ta-152.
Ta-152F Green-Five
Braun twisted away from the FV-2s behind him. Jets or not, they couldn’t match his ability to turn. He had a chance. They are committed to their dives, they can’t match or respond to my turns. All I have to do was reverse mine and the Ami would go straight past my nose. With his battery of heavy cannon, that mistake would be fatal. Braun started to reverse his turn. Then flashes started to appear all around him. His fighter echoed with the drum-like roll of bullets smacking into the airframe. Above and to one side, two FV-2s were diving on him, closing the range terrifyingly fast. Braun realized his mistake, a novices mistake. I was so concentrated on pulling my ambush that I’ve become the hunted. Now I’m paying for it. Then, he felt heavier, more painful thumps. Somehow the sky seemed to turn red.
A dead pilot at its controls, Green-Five flipped on its back and dived straight into the sea.
Ta-152F Blue-Three
Meissen knew it was over. He was dizzy from the constant maneuvering and frustrated from his inability to line up for a shot. All he could see were the dark blue Ami fighters swirling round him. As soon as he tried to line up on one, three more swept down on him and forced him to break away. He’d survived this long because they were afraid of hitting each other in the chaotic scramble. His GM-1 boost had run out. His MW-50 would do the same any moment. Once that happened, he would be easy prey. His cannon ammunition had to be running out as well. The fighter didn’t carry that much to start with. Big shells and a small airframe meant it couldn’t. He’d been firing almost constantly. Any second now, he’d press the firing buttons and be rewarded by the “clunk” of empty guns. With almost fatalistic despair he swung after an FV-2. With resignation saw it accelerate and separate from him. What he didn’t see were the two formations of FV-2s diving on him from behind. He, quite literally, never knew what had hit him. The hail of bullets from more than two dozen .50 caliber machine guns caused his Ta-152 to explode in mid air.
FV-2 Shooting Star Flicka
It was over. Try as he might, all Talen could see were the dark blue Flivvers forming up. No light gray German aircraft anywhere. Over the radio, pilots were calling in status. Their relief at surviving was obvious. Some voices were shaky. Talen counted them all; twenty Flivvers never answered. Eight more were heading home with damage so bad it was doubtful they could make it back to the carriers.
“Do we strafe the carriers boss?” Talen didn’t know who had asked the question, he was rather afraid it might have been him.
“Negative. All hawks return to the carriers. We’re on Bingo fuel already. Leave the strike to the Corsairs and Adies. We’ve done our job.”
Bridge, KMS Graf Zeppelin, Flagship, Scouting Group, High Seas Fleet, North Atlantic
Had it been a mistake to get the strike off? It had delayed the launch of the fighter reserve and the last dozen off the carrier had been shot out of the sky without standing much of a chance. Had those casualties made the difference between the slaughter of the fighter cover and staging reasonable defense? Brinkmann was uneasily aware that his orders had been specific, use his fighters for cover, use his dive bombers for scouting. He’d disobeyed them to set up his strike. If he hadn’t, he’d have had 48 fighters up ready to intercept the Ami fighter sweep, it would have given his fighter pilots a fighting chance at worst. But his way, he’d at least got a punch in at the Ami carriers, that had to count for something.
“Admiral, Sir, another wave of Ami aircraft approaching. They’ll be starting their runs in minutes. I can’t raise any of our fighters.” Was there a note of accusation in that report? “Admiral, Sir, another wave of aircraft behind this one, a big wave. I’d estimate it at least another hundred aircraft, probably more. As large as the first two waves put together.”
Brinkmann nodded as he digested the information. It made sense, the American Task Group probably had five carriers, well, I’m absorbing their air groups here. My fighters had mauled the jets that had conducted the fighter sweep, now my aircraft can hit the Ami carriers. While they do that, my anti-aircraft guns will chew up the inbound strikers. We will hand over a nicely weakened enemy to the battleships.
“Contact Admiral Lindemann, tell him that we’ve found the enemy, they’re on bearing 270. We are engaging their aircraft now and our divebombers are attempting to attack the Ami carriers. Get that off, highest priority.”
Flight Deck USS Stalingrad, Hunter-Killer Group Sitka
There were three types of CVE. There were the ones built on a freighter hull, the ones designed by Kaiser from the ground up as jeep carriers and there were the ones built on oil tanker hulls. Only the oiler conversions were really satisfactory for the North Atlantic. The first group bounced around too much and the Kaiser class were too small. The converted oilers had the advantage that they still had great fuel capacity and could refuel the destroyers that worked with them. The other advantage they had was that their flight decks were much larger. Today, every square foot of deck was needed.
It wasn’t because the Stalingrad was retrieving damaged aircraft. She’d done that often enough. There had been a time when the U-boats had been seized with the notion that staying on the surface to fight it out with attacking aircraft was a good idea. That delusion hadn’t lasted long but while it had, the U-boats had gone down, taking an honor guard of Wildcats and Avengers with them. The cripples had come back and found the larger flight deck a savior in times of desperate need.
But that was then, this was now. The big flight deck was useful today because the Bearcats were being rearmed and refueled on the deck as they landed. The pilots weren’t even shutting their engines down. They just let their R-2800s idle while the deck crews frantically poured fuel into the waiting tanks and fed new ammunition belts into the guns. It was against every regulation in the book, but the radar screens were an absolute answer to that criticism. They showed a German raid coming in. It was still 45 minutes out, but threatening nonetheless. The fighters didn’t just have to get up. They had to climb to meet the inbound attack and do so far enough from the carriers to protect them. There were 16 Bearcats up to meet that raid. The 16 more on the decks of Stalingrad and Moskva were needed as soon as they could be launched.
Lieutenant Pace saw another example of regulations being broken as he made his final approach. His was the last Bearcat in. The batsman gave him the “chop” signal just as another Bearcat started its take-off run. The two aircraft missed each other, somehow, Pace’s aircraft snagging a wire to come to an abrupt halt just as the other Bearcat accelerated out of the way. The grapes in their purple shirts were over his aircraft before it had stopped moving. They had it down to a fine art. They opened the bays in the wings, hooked the end of the old belt to a new one and fed the ammunition back into the tanks. Pace felt his aircraft rock as the fuelling crew pumped gasoline into his tanks. It seemed only to take a few seconds before there was a bang in the fuselage as a crew chief slapped it with his hand.
“GO!” Pace gave him a thumbs-up and slammed his bubble cockpit shut. Then throttles forward, brakes off and his Eleanor ran down the flight deck. She picked up speed and rotated with tens of feet to spare. Just eight minutes after he’d touched down, Pace pulled his undercarriage up and formed up with another late-comer from Moskva. The two jeep carriers had thrown everything they had into the fight. Now, they would see if they had enough air defense assets to survive.
Combat Information Center USS Stalingrad, Hunter-Killer Group “Sitka”
“Sitrep?” The question was a grunt. The truth was that Captain Alameda was getting worried. The little jeep carriers had somehow got themselves mixed up in the middle of a fleet action and they hadn’t been designed for that.
“Inbounds are 35 minutes out Sir. We estimate between forty and fifty aircraft. I’m vectoring the fighters we have up to take on their escort. The one’s we’ve just rearmed and launched can take on the bombers. Oh, I’ve advised COMFIFTHFLEET of our situation. TG58.5 is sending a squadron of Corsairs down to help us out. They’re burning sky to get down here in time but it’s a toss-up whether they’ll make it or not.”
“One squadron? I’d have thought Wild Bill could have spared a few more than that.”
“I guess he’s tied up Sir, TG58.5 is engaging the enemy carrier group and the Kraut main force will be sticking its nose out of the weather any minute now. Anyway, the Corsairs will be dealing with the rest of the scouts. They’re converging on us as well. That’ll add another twenty of so Stukas to the raid but they’ll be arriving in ones and twos. Those that survive that is.
Alameda nodded and gazed at the plot again. It was almost like a lightening flash. In the middle were the enemy carrier group and Hunter Killer Group Sitka, about a hundred and sixty miles apart. To the south and east of the enemy carrier group, forty to fifty miles further out was the enemy main body, the High Seas Fleet. And to the north and west, the long line of five American carrier task groups, TG58.1 through to TG58.5. That long line of carrier groups was the formation known throughout the Navy as “Murderer’s Row.”
F4U-4 Corsair Switchblade Over the Scouting Group, North Atlantic.
The 32 Corsairs from Valley Forge and Shangri-La had moved ahead of the Adies. That was the plan. The job of the F4U-4s was to suppress anti-aircraft fire and soften up the German defenses. That process was about to start. The Corsairs were cruising at medium altitude. The ships below were small lines at the end of the white streaks of their wakes. As formation leader of one of the eight four-plane sections making up the wave of fighter-bombers, it was the job of Lieutenant Calvin James to give the signal. He rocked his wings, then rolled his F4U into its long dive. As he did so, the sky erupted into a maze of black flowers. The anti-aircraft guns on the ships had opened fire.
It was a pretty mediocre display by U.S. Navy standards. The Navy philosophy was to fill the sky with so many shells that if they didn’t hit the inbound aircraft, the inbound aircraft would hit them. The German barrage was thin by those standards but it could still be deadly. James watched one of the Corsairs from Valley Forge develop a thin stream of black smoke. It thickened and spread until it had swallowed the whole rear of the aircraft. Then, it tumbled and fell from the sky. Another Corsair lost a wing. The aircraft seemed to fold up on itself, the aircraft’s remaining wing wrapped around its fuselage. Then it came apart in mid-air. There may have been more, James guessed there were, but now he had other things to do.
The F4U-4 wasn’t a dive bomber. It couldn’t manage the screaming, near-vertical dives of the old SBD. James was bringing his aircraft down in a 45 degree dive, still steep enough by any standards. It made his wings tremble with the onset of the dreaded compressibility. He’d picked his target already. His dive had been left a little late for a destroyer, but there was a larger target off to his left. As it grew in his sights, he took in the details. Two triple turrets aft, one forward, a light cruiser. There was something odd about her, the aft turrets weren’t center-lined, they seemed pushed out to the ship’s side. Most of the heavy anti-aircraft fire was came from the area just in front of them so James ran the red dot of his sight to coincide with the area. Then, he gently squeezed one of the firing buttons on his joystick.
Six five inch rockets streaked out ahead of him, leaving the Corsair standing still in the sky. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of his wingmen firing almost simultaneously. The rockets headed down leaving trails of black smoke that wreathed the dark blue Corsair. The rockets wobbled and weaved as they closed the gap between the F4Us and the cruiser underneath. Nobody would ever accuse the American five inch rocket of being accurate. James saw his six vanish in orange flashes and clouds of smoke. At least two had hit the ship, the rest had either hit or gone off alongside. A split second later, the cruiser’s bridge vanished under more orange flashes and clouds of black smoke.
James’ fingers moved slightly. He squeezed the firing button for his .50 caliber machine guns. All six roared. The brilliant streams of tracer lashed at the center-section of the cruiser. Now was the dangerous bit. Pulling out. All too many pilots got so intent on lashing their targets with gunfire and rockets that they forgot to pull out.
Not James. He timed his pass to perfection. By the time he was in level flight, he was skimming barely a hundred or so feet above the sea. Behind him, the cruiser was covered in smoke, some from the rocket hits, more from its own guns. There were bigger flashes on her as well. James guessed that some of the Corsairs that had followed him in had dropped their 1,000 pound bombs on her. If so, she would be hard put to survive. Early in the war, before Halifax had pulled his treasonous coup, a group of British dive-bombers had sent a German light cruiser down with just three 500 pound bombs. How many thousand pounders had hit the one behind? Two? Four? Plus all the rockets of course.
James looked ahead. The sheer sides of an aircraft carrier were approaching frighteningly fast. Anti-aircraft lashed out from the gun positions down her sides but they were manually-swung weapons. They were hard put to track the racing Corsair. James stared at his bombsight intensely, his fingers shifting again on the control column. This would take timing but if it worked, the effects would be deadly. His machine guns fired again, raking the anti-aircraft positions. More black smoke trails from rockets shot past. Some of his wingmen must have held their rocket fire on the cruiser in order to drop bombs on her instead. Now those rockets tore into the carrier’s anti-aircraft guns amidships. The streams of fire slacked as the gun crews were cut down.
