The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots

by Jon E. Lewis

  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.

  The other seven Thunderbolts keep diving at me. They are firing. It seems a long way to the edge of the field and comparative safety. I finally roll into the shallow ditch and pass out again. I am at the end of my tether. . . .

  When next I recover consciousness, I become aware of a man standing motionless and staring down at me. He is as tall as a young tree – an American!

  I try to sit up on the edge of the ditch. The big fellow sits down beside me. At first neither of us speak. It is all I can do to prop my elbows on my knees and hold my splitting head in my hands. Then the Yank offers me a cigarette. I thank him and refuse, at the same time offering him one of mine. He also refuses; so we both light up our own fags.

  “Was that you flying the Messerschmitt?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wounded?”

  “Feels like it.”

  “The back of your head is bleeding.”

  I can feel the blood trickling down my neck.

  The Yank continues: “Did you really shoot me down?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t see how you could! Your kite was a mass of flames.”

  “Don’t I know it!”

  The tall American explains how he spotted me above the clouds and went down after me with his men. “It sure seemed like a bit of luck,” he added.

  I ask him in turn: “What was your idea in getting out in front of me when my engine died?”

  “Too much forward speed. Besides, it never occurred to me that you would still be firing.”

  “That is where you made your mistake.”

  He laughs. “Guess I’m not the first you bagged, am I?”

  “No; you are my twenty-sixth.”

  The American tells me that he has shot down seventeen Germans. In a few more days he was due to go home. He notices the ring on my finger, and asks if I am married.

  “Yes; and I have two little children.” I show him a picture of Lilo and Ingrid.

  “Very nice,” he remarks, nodding in appreciation, “very, very nice indeed.”

  I am glad he likes them.

  He also is married. His wife over there will have to wait for him in vain now. Rather anxiously, the big fellow asks what is going to happen to him.

  I explain that he will be sent to a special P.O.W. camp for American airmen. “Are you an officer?”

  “Yes; a Captain.”

  “In that ca
se, you will go to a camp for officers. You will be well treated. Our prisoners are just as well treated as yours.”

  We have a friendly chat for about half an hour. He seems like a decent fellow. There is no suggestion of hatred between us, nor any reason for it. We have too much in common. We are both pilots, and we have both just narrowly escaped death.

  A squad of soldiers from a nearby searchlight battery arrives, and we are covered with raised rifles.

  “Put away that damned artillery, you clods,” I call over to them.

  On the highway there is a truck waiting for us. Six Yanks from a Fortress are huddled in the back. They look rather gloomy. My Captain and I sit beside them. Although feeling like death myself, I try to cheer up the party with a few jokes.

  On the road we collect more Yanks who were shot down. One of them is badly wounded in the leg. I see that our men lift him up carefully into the truck.

  We are driven to the Brunswick airfield at Broitzum. There I say farewell to my fellow-sufferers, and we all shake hands.

  “Good luck!”

  “All the best!”

  “Auf Wiedersehen!”

  One hour later Barran flies over and collects me in an Aroda. The Squadron all returned without further casualties. I am the only one who was caught.

  Later, in the operations-room, I collapse unconscious again. They first take me to my quarters, where I develop a raging fever. During the night I am admitted to hospital.

  MISSION TO REGENSBURG

  BEIRNE LAY

  A view from the receiving end of Luftwaffe fighter attacks during World War II. Beirne Lay was a USAAF co-pilot flying B-17 bombers on raids over Germany.

  When our group crossed the coast of Holland at our base altitude of 17,000 feet, I was well situated to watch the proceedings, being co-pilot in the lead ship of the last element of the high squadron. With all of its twenty-one B-17Fs tucked in tightly, our group was within handy supporting distance of another group, ahead of us at 18,000 feet. We were the last and lowest of the seven groups that were visible ahead on a south-east course, forming a long chain in the bright sunlight – too long, it seemed. Wide gaps separated the three combat wings.

  As I sat there in the tail-end element of that many-miles-long procession, gauging the distance to the lead groups I had the lonesome foreboding that might come to the last man about to run a gantlet lined with spiked clubs. The premonition was well founded.

  Near Woensdrecht, I saw the first flak blossom out in our vicinity, light and inaccurate. A few minutes later, two FW-190s appeared at one o’clock level and whizzed through the formation ahead of us in a frontal attack, nicking two B-17s in the wings and breaking away beneath us in half rolls. Smoke immediately trailed from the B-17s, but they held their stations. As the fighters passed us at a high rate of closure, the guns of our group went into action. The pungent smell of burnt powder filled our cockpit, and the B-17 trembled to the recoil of nose-and ball-turret guns. I saw pieces fly off the wing of one of the fighters before they passed from view.

  Here was early action. The members of the crew sensed trouble. There was something desperate about the way those two fighters came in fast, right out of their climb without any preliminaries. For a few seconds the interphone was busy with admonitions: “Lead ’em more . . . short bursts . . . don’t throw rounds away . . . there’ll be more along in a minute.”

  Three minutes later, the gunners reported fighters climbing up from all around the clock, singly and in pairs, both FW-190s and ME-109Gs. This was only my fourth raid, but from what I could see on my side, it looked like too many fighters for sound health. A coordinated attack followed, with the head-on fighters coming in from slightly above, the nine and three o’clock attackers approaching from about level, and the rear attackers from slightly below. Every gun from every B-17 in our group and the one ahead was firing, crisscrossing our patch of sky with tracers to match the time-fuze cannon-shell puffs that squirted from the wings of the Jerry single-seaters. I would estimate that seventy-five percent of our fire was inaccurate, falling astern of the target – particularly the fire from hand-held guns. Nevertheless, both sides got hurt in this clash with two B-17s from our low squadron and one other falling out of formation on fire with crews bailing out, and several fighters heading for the deck in flames or with their pilots lingering behind under dirty yellow parachutes. Our group leader pulled us up nearer to the group ahead for mutual support.

  I knew that we were already in a lively fight. What I didn’t know was that the real fight, the anschluss of Luftwaffe 20-mm cannon shells, hadn’t really begun. A few minutes later, we absorbed the first wave of a hailstorm of individual fighter attacks that were to engulf us clear to the target. The ensuing action was so rapid and varied that I cannot give a chronological account of it. Instead, I will attempt a fragmentary report, salient details that even now give me a dry mouth and an unpleasant sensation in the stomach when I recall them. The sight was fantastic and surpassed fiction.

  It was over Eupen that I looked out of my co-pilot’s window after a short lull and saw two whole squadrons, twelve ME-109s and eleven FW-190s, climbing parallel to us. The first squadron had reached our level and was pulling ahead to turn into us and the second was not far behind. Several thousand feet below us were many more fighters, with their noses cocked at maximum climb. Over the interphone came reports of an equal number of enemy aircraft deploying on the other side. For the first time, I noticed an ME-110 sitting out of range on our right. He was to stay with us all the way to the target, apparently reporting our position to fresh squadrons waiting for us down the road. At the sight of all these fighters, I had the distinct feeling of being trapped – that the Hun was tipped off, or at least had guessed our destination and was waiting for us. No P-47s were visible. The life expectancy of our group suddenly seemed very short, since it had already appeared that the fighters were passing up preceding groups, with the exception of one, in order to take a cut at us.

  Swinging their yellow noses around in a wide U-turn, the twelve-ship squadron of ME-109s came in from twelve to two o’clock in pairs and in fours and the main event was on.

  A shining silver object sailed past over our right wing. I recognized it as a main exit door. Seconds later a dark object came hurtling through the formation, barely missing several props. It was a man, clasping his knees to his head, revolving like a diver in a triple somersault. I didn’t see his chute open.

  A B-17 turned gradually out of the formation to the right, maintaining altitude. In a split second, the B-17 completely disappeared in a brilliant explosion, from which the only remains were four small balls of fire, the fuel tanks, which were quickly consumed as they fell earthward.

  Our airplane was endangered by hunks of debris. Emergency hatches, exit doors, prematurely opened parachutes, bodies, and assorted fragments of B-17s and Hun fighters breezed past us in the slipstream.

  I watched two fighters explode not far below, disappearing in sheets of orange flame, B-17s dropping out in every stage of distress, from engines on fire to control surfaces shot away, friendly and enemy parachutes floating down and, on the green carpet far behind us, numerous funereal pyres of smoke from fallen fighters, marking our trail.

  On we flew through the strewn wake of a desperate air battle, where disintegrating aircraft were commonplace and sixty chutes in the air at one time were hardly worth a second look.

  I watched a B-17 turn slowly out to the right with its cockpit a mass of flames. The co-pilot crawled out of his window, held on with one hand, reached back for his chute, buckled it on, let go, and was whisked back into the horizontal stabilizer. I believe the impact killed him. His chute didn’t open.

  Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, and still no letup in the attacks. The fighters queued up like a breadline and let us have it. Each second of time had a cannon shell in it. The strain of being a clay duck in the wrong end of that aerial shooting gallery became almost intolerable as the minutes accumulated
toward the first hour.

  Our B-17 shook steadily with the fire of its .50s and the air inside was heavy with smoke. It was cold in the cockpit, but when I looked across at our pilot – and a good one – sweat was pouring off his forehead and over his oxygen mask. He turned the controls over to me for a while. It was a blessed relief to concentrate on holding station in formation instead of watching those everlasting fighters boring in. It was possible to forget the fighters. Then the top-turret gunner’s twin muzzles would pound away a foot above my head, giving an imitation of cannon shells exploding in the cockpit, while I gave an even better imitation of a man jumping six inches out of his seat.

  A B-17 ahead of us, with its right Tokyo tanks on fire, dropped back to about 200 feet above our right wing and stayed there while seven of the crew bailed out successfully. Four went out the bomb bay and executed delayed jumps, one bailed from the nose, opened his chute prematurely and nearly fouled the tail. Another went out the left-waist gun opening, delaying his chute opening for a safe interval. The tail gunner dropped out of his hatch, apparently pulling the ripcord before he was clear of the ship. His chute opened instantaneously, barely missing the tail, and jerked him so hard that both his shoes came off. He hung limply in the harness, whereas the others had immediately showed some signs of life after their chutes opened, shifting around in the harness. The B-17 then dropped back in a medium spiral, and I did not see the pilots leave. I saw it just before it passed from view, several thousand feet below us, with its right wing a solid sheet of yellow flame.

  After we had been under constant attack for a solid hour, it appeared certain that our group was faced with annihilation. Seven had been shot down, the sky was still mottled with rising fighters and target time still thirty-five minutes away. I doubt if a man in the group visualized the possibility of our getting much farther without 100 percent loss. I know that I had long since mentally accepted the fact of death and that it was simply a question of the next second or the next minute. I learned first-hand that a man can resign himself to the certainty of death without becoming panicky. Our group firepower was reduced thirty-three percent, ammunition was running low. Our tail guns had to be replenished from another gun station. Gunners were becoming exhausted and nerve-tortured from the prolonged strain, and there was an awareness on everybody’s part that something must have gone wrong. We had been the aiming point for what seemed like most of the Luftwaffe, and we fully expected to find the rest of it primed for us at the target.