Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  German proverb.

  Chapter 121 - DER SCHWALBE

  1239 hrs, Friday, 13th December 1945, approaching Baltiysk Airfield, USSR.

  Djorov had recovered his sense of humour, his November near-miss slowly becoming more distant in the memory.

  The problems with the Yakolev-9 meant that he asked for, and was given, permission to rejoin his command, whilst the engineers fixed the problems with the revolutionary plane.

  The 2nd Guards Fighter Regiment was Djorov’s pride and joy. Its pilots were veterans, all skilled in the arts and intricacies of flying combat aircraft and, most importantly, staying alive.

  2nd Guards had been spared from the blood-letting over the Baltic, set aside as a reserve by Red Air force Command, just in case of some allied lunge at the Motherland.

  2nd Guards was also very different to other Soviet fighter units, in that it flew all conceivable types of aircraft, testing, in battle conditions, the limitations and capabilities of each.

  Which brought Djorov and his men to the task in hand, conducting take-offs and landings from reduced length runways.

  Higher authority had decided that the results of using a full length runway, painted to set out a shorter length, would be unreliable, as there would be less pressure on the pilot to get the landing right.

  As is the way of such things across the armies of the world, Djorov and his men were not consulted on this decision, just given their orders, which permitted them to curse the leadership for their stupidity. However, secretly, some thought that it might be a reasonable point.

  Today, a flight of aircraft from the 2nd Guards was practicing on the runway at Baltiysk, having flown the short distance from their home base at Lugovoye, until recently the Luftwaffe airfield of Gutenfeld, set adjacent to Königsberg, some forty kilometres to the east.

  The Yaks, LaGGs, and MiGs had all landed safely, although that wasn’t always the case.

  The previous day had seen two old campaigners die.

  The first, a Hero of the Soviet Union, had crashed on landing when his Focke-Wulf Ta152 lost part of its landing gear.

  Half an hour later, another experienced pilot died when he failed to recover from an accidental spin.

  It was a hard double blow to a unit that had suffered very little in the new war.

  Those pilots that had already landed gathered to watch their commander perform the most difficult task of the first session.

  In the control tower, landing clearance was given, and the betting concluded.

  “Blyad!”

  Djorov knew he had messed it up again and hit the throttles.

  The twin Jumo turbojets roared in response to the call for additional power, and the ME 262 sprang back into the sky once more.

  In the control tower, a greasy hand swept up the handful of roubles, the winner permitting himself a throaty laugh before he considered the new proposition from the radio operator.

  “Deal.”

  More roubles were placed out and the tower crew turned back to see where the ex-German fighter was now.

  Djorov knew that he needed to clear his mind. Three failures in a row was too much, so he exercised his command decision-making powers and altered the schedule.

  “Svetlana, Svetlana, Swallow-One, discontinuing landing cycle… now on performance testing. Will return to landing cycle in two-zero minutes, over.”

  ‘Svetlana’ responded, eyeing the roubles on the top of his radio cabinet.

  “Swallow-One, Svetlana, Received. Out.”

  The radio operator eyed the old Sergeant suspiciously.

  “Leave it there ‘til he gets back then eh? It’ll keep, boy.”

  He nodded, leaning back to stare up into the bright snowless sky, hearing the ME 262, but not seeing it.

  With plenty of fuel onboard, Djorov had decided that an altitude test would help relax him before he tried the landing again.

  The problem was that the ME 262 needed at least one thousand two hundred metres to land on, whereas he was trying to put the aircraft down on one thousand and a bit.

  He had joked that the bit could be all important.

  As the Allies knocked out more and more airfields, the Red Air Force had turned to using roads and autobahns, just as the Luftwaffe had done in 1945.

  Those pieces of road that were of an appropriate length had also started to receive attention from enemy bombers, so the 2nd was ordered to find procedures to shave take-off and landing distances from all types of aircraft.

  As a number of ME 262s had fallen into Soviet hands, it was considered important to get them into combat as soon as possible. Pilots were in training for the task, and Djorov was expected to present his written report on new procedures before the end of December, hence the additional pressure he felt.

  For now, that pressure was lifted by the sheer joy of uninhibited high speed flight.

  Enjoying the sunlight, not totally believing the reports that most of Europe lay under a blanket of snow and afflicted by record lows, he drove his aircraft upwards, gaining height easily as the big turbojets consumed fuel, further lightening the aircraft.

  The ceiling for the ME 262 Schwalbe was supposed to be eleven and a half thousand metres, but issues with the quality of fuel had kept the three birds that 2nd Guards operated to well below eleven thousand.

  The latest fuel issue had promised much, the recently discovered ex-Luftwaffe stock instantly set aside purely for the jet fighters.

  And so it proved, Djorov’s delight at soaring past eleven thousand growing as the Schwalbe exhibited no signs of slowing.

  It was a beautiful day to be a fighter pilot.

  On the ground at Karup, the mission had seemed more than reasonable.

  Now, literally in the cold light of day, the bomber crew felt less than happy.

  Captain Barnes pushed the aircraft as high as he could, but it was probably still within the capabilities of most Soviet aircraft.

  Of some comfort was the full squadron of Mustangs that flew beneath the single aircraft, and the two groups that were sweeping ahead.

  One of his crew had already witnessed a fireball a few thousand feet below, where a single Soviet interceptor had met a premature end at the hands of the escort.

  Enemy activity was light, in fact, they had been told to expect none of note.

  The true bonus for the men of the misleadingly named ‘63rd Reconnaissance Training Section’ was that Spectrum Red had hammered most of the Soviet units that could have sprung to the defence of their ‘target’

  The mission could have been run over friendly territory, with different parameters, without the fanfares that had accompanied the briefing; most certainly without the two scientists onboard.

  However, the hierarchy had decided to conduct the dry run over enemy air space, a decision on which Barnes and the rest of his crew had not been consulted.

  Never a man to take things for granted, Barnes was on the case of his gunners, making sure that no one would sneak up on his pride and joy, ‘Jenni Lee’.

  Since he and his crew had landed at Maaldrift in Holland, the brand new silver-plate B-29 had been secreted away on the edge of the large air base, shrouded in secrecy, permitting a small work team to work on further converting the already modified bomb bay.

  On the 3rd of December, ‘Jenni Lee’ had made the short trip from Maaldrift, landing in total secrecy at Karup Airfield, Denmark.

  Today, the B-29 was tasked with making a high altitude precision run against the city of Königsberg, not releasing, but testing the procedures for release for a city attack.

  Once the attack practice run was complete, the weapon would be released on a small Soviet airbase at Baltiysk, where its six thousand, three hundred pounds of Composition B explosive filler was expected to do good work.

  It was a pumpkin bomb, a device that resembled the real thing in every dimension and detail. Whilst the Pumpkin was a deadly device in its own right, the weapon it mimicked was far more lethal.

&nbs
p; The bomb bay contained a substitute for an Atomic bomb.

  “Navigator to Pilot. Standby for course change. Come right to 102° on my mark.”

  The mission, when it came, would require pinpoint navigation, so it was practiced constantly.

  “Navigator to Pilot, course 102°. On my mark… five… four… three… two… one… mark.”

  The B-29 dropped its right wing as Barnes moved the ‘Jenni Lee’ onto a course of 102°, and a rendezvous with the city of Königsberg.

  The rate of climb had slowed dramatically and Djorov levelled his Schwalbe out.

  ‘One-one-six-seven-five metres? Not bad at all!’

  The new fuel had obviously done wonders.

  It was the best he had achieved to date.

  Perhaps the ground crew’s efforts at polishing the fuselage and lightening the load had also not been in vain.

  His mouth split so wide in its grin that the smile might have been seen from the ground had it not been immediately terminated as a flash told Djorov that he was not alone.

  The bombardier, Capt Philip Bradford, was one of the best in the business, which you had to be to get a foothold on one of the 63rd’s aircraft.

  His Medal of Honor had helped, well earned during the horrendous second raid on Schweinfurt.

  But his skill in the black art of dropping bombs was legendary, and the 63rd had come looking for him when it was first put together.

  His cat like vision now came into play, and he saw the threat.

  “Pilot, bomb aimer. Aircraft at 12 o’clock high. Type unknown, but he’s coming straight at us. Jeepers but he’s fast.”

  The plan had been that any threat would result in a mission abort, and the thing that was closing, seemingly at the speed of light, was undoubtedly a threat.

  “Radio, call the escort. Tell ‘em we got company and get ‘em up here fast.”

  Barnes gripped the controls firmly, assessing the approaching aircraft, realising that it was growing unexpectedly larger with each passing second.

  ‘Jeez but he’s fast!’

  “Gunners, pilot. We’ll pass him down our port side. Stay alert, cos he’s going like mustang that sat on a cactus!”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before the enemy aircraft had gone past.

  Not a gun was fired.

  “Port waist to Pilot. What the fuck is that thing?”

  Port waist had spent his war fighting the Japanese, so had only heard tales about the Schwalbe.

  The tail gunner had spent his time over Europe so was confident in his reply.

  “Port waist, Tail. I confirm that as a Messerschmitt two-six-two turbojet fighter. Aircraft recognition needed lessons for you, Arnie!”

  “Pilot to all positions, Keep it tight. What’s he doing, tail?”

  “Coming round, big arc… round to our starboard side. He’s too fast. Reckon he’s a new boy, skipper.”

  ‘Incredible!’

  Djorov had been flying the ME 262 Schwalbe for some time now, but never in combat, and the stresses, strains, and nuances, were very different.

  He had made a hash of his direct attack and now, repeated the error in his efforts to attack the rear of the huge bomber.

  As he struggled to sort out his manoeuvring issues, he went through the mental list he had recently read regarding the leviathan.

  ‘B-29 Superfortress, four engines… eleven crew… pressurized crew compartments for high altitude work… radar bombing sight… top speed three-fifty… something… errr…doesn’t matter… twelve to fourteen machine guns… up to ten thousand kilos of bombs… suka!’

  His eyes caught movement and he concentrated on it, discovering four Mustangs rising up to meet him.

  Still, he decided he had time for an attack, provided he could sort himself out.

  “Tail, Pilot. He ain’t read the notes for sure. He can’t seem to get into an attack position.”

  Barnes had seen the ME 262 streak past, heading back towards where it had come. Still not one shot had been fired by either side, but he was experienced enough to suspect that wouldn’t last.

  “Crew, Pilot. I’m going to drop height and turn towards our fighter escort. No sense in staying up here now… and we are turning for home.”

  The navigator had already fired off a position for the radio operator to report back, and now passed on the course needed to take them back to Karup.

  ‘Jenni Lee’ turned lazily and bled off height.

  The Schwalbe flicked around to port. Djorov, conscious of the rising fighters, suddenly realized that the lumbering heavy bomber was in the perfect line before him.

  Reacting quickly, Djorov decided to lose speed, something normally abhorrent to any fighter pilot.

  The momentum took the Schwalbe forward, but the lessening of the throttle gave him a precious extra second of time to line up for a perfect shot.

  The German aircraft was equipped with four Mk108 cannons, especially designed to knock American bombers out of the air.

  Normally, only four hits out of its sixty six round capacity had been required to knock a B-17 from the sky.

  The payback was that the range needed to be short and, for a fast mover like the 262, that brought other issues for the pilot.

  Djorov thumbed the triggers, and the maschinen-kanone spat out a mix of 30mm HE and AP shells.

  But only for a moment… and in that moment Djorov realized where his crew had made some extra weight savings.

  Each kanone had only ten shells, and all of them were either in the air or buried inside the Superfortress.

  He ignored the metallic thuds, reacted like a cobra, and tweaked his wing position so as not to collide with the tail plane of the huge bomber.

  He streaked away, suddenly aware that the thuds had done something of note to his aircraft, the gauges for the right-hand turbojet all recording dramatic events within the cowling.

  “Got the motherfucker! That’s one to the Arnoldman!”

  In his joy, Sergeant Carnegie had failed to realize that his position was equally precarious.

  ‘Jenni Lee’ was on borrowed time.

  Barnes was emitting low animal-like moans, his hands gripping the controls as best he could whilst his eyes swept the gauges, narrowed against the chilled air that flooded in through the shattered Perspex.

  Both his feet had all but gone, and he touched protruding bone to the bits of pedals that were left.

  He passed out, and the Superfortress started a last roll to the right.

  Bradford checked his body for missing portions and surprised himself by finding everything present. Considering the state of what was left of the nose cone, he was lucky to be alive.

  Moving back into the aircraft, he felt the roll to the right before he realized the cause.

  Barnes had regained consciousness, but was fading fast.

  Bradford had been in this situation before.

  He grabbed the half of the co-pilot that still occupied the seat and slid it away, climbed in, ignoring the wet and sticky residue.

  “I got her, Skipper. Give her to me now.”

  Major Barnes held firm.

  “Bomb-aimer to crew. I need someone on the flight deck now.”

  There was only silence.

  The ME 262 was also dying.

  Djorov, more by luck than judgement, regained a vestige control of his aircraft and dived away from the Mustangs, who moved to the stricken bomber rather than pursue him.

  Joy turned to fear as he realized there were others rising up towards him, and he battled with the tactical problems as well as tackling the issues presented by an aircraft trailing flame and smoke from one of its engines.

  He tried his radio again, but it was still dead.

  He knew it was there, he had used it, but it didn’t stop him wondering if the crew had removed that as well.

  The thought amused him, but only until the right engine started to come apart, streaming pieces of metal behind him.

  The streamlined aircra
ft was now flying like a house brick, but at least he was pointing in the right direction.

  Keeping an eye on the vengeful Mustangs, he drove the Schwalbe as hard as he dared towards Baltiysk.

  In the rear of the American aircraft, three gunners and the radar operator had no idea what was going on up front but, whatever it was, they knew it was bad.

  The starboard waist gunner, Pops, had simply appeared to give up and die. There was not a mark on him, but he had gone to meet his maker none the less.

  The cannon shells that struck ‘Jenni Lee’ had severed the communication system between front and back, as well as killed or wounded everyone of the air crew in the front section, save Bradford.

  Both port engines were now stopped and feathered, the fire suppression system having done its job well.

  Bradford surveyed the instrumentation and read ‘Jenni Lee’s’ doom in the ones that worked.

  A hand touched his arm, making him jump.

  “Are we gonna die?”

  He snatched a look and saw the terrified face of one of the scientists, the man’s clothing covered with the blood of another.

  “Not if I can fucking help it, Mister. Who’s left back there?”

  The civilian was so far beyond his comfort zone that he couldn’t find the words.

  He just shook his head.

  “Ok, Mr Scientist. You get the aid kit and look after my pilot. Get them legs bandaged up, and get him laid down behind us here.”

  The aircraft lurched, giving the petrified man impetus.

  Bradford felt the pressure and applied more left stick to try and keep the aircraft level. Things were starting to deteriorate, and he knew they wouldn’t get back to Karup.

  “Shit!”

  The altitude had disappeared and he hadn’t really noticed. The water was so much closer and distinct, each wave top easily picked out.

  Both starboard engines were giving up full power but ‘Jenni Lee’ was still dropping. Both starboard engines were also running very, very hot.