by Boris Senior
I muse about the force of air-sea rescue aircraft assigned to the operation, and I double-check my yellow Mae West life jacket. High above us are the two South African Spitfire squadrons, weaving protectively.
The aircraft of my flight form around us with practiced skill. Blue and Green flights of my squadron, in the middle distance are on the left and right of my Red flight, one slightly below and the other above. All seem suspended motionless in the haze. The hundreds of aircraft in the other wings are just barely discernible in the far distance behind our wing, which is leading the attack. Dive bombers, each carrying two 500-pound bombs or one 1,000-pound bomb, drone northward over the Adriatic toward our target.
From time to time the Spitfire escorts criss-cross gracefully above us as they search the sky for enemy fighters. It is insulting for us as fighter squadrons to be protected by other fighters while we are now temporarily relegated to a mission of precision dive-bombing, but our heavy bomb loads will make us vulnerable to interception and unwieldy in the dogfights that must follow.
FINGER OVER THE SEA
To the east across the sea is Yugoslavia, which we have attacked less often in these last few months of the war, for our maximum effort is concentrated now on Field Marshal Kesselring’s forces as they retreat to the north of Italy.
To the west, the setting sun helps us to pinpoint the twelve aircraft of the nearest squadron, which is divided like all the others into three flights of four craft like ours. Each flight is at a different altitude, separate yet together, each pilot watching the tail of the aircraft nearest to him, each flight watching the other two flights of its squadron, each squadron guarding the one next to it. At every turn the outside aircraft dives under its partner toward the inside of the turn to take up its position on the opposite flank, each flight in turn performing the same diving turn under its neighboring flight. A gigantic ballet in the sky, reaching into the distant haze.
This finger formation was introduced during the Battle of Britain and is dictated by the iron rule of self-preservation. Separated most of the time by the immensity of the sky, at other times there are moments of dangerous proximity during the long sliding turns. Your neighboring aircraft wheels under or over you, showing its graceful cockpit canopy or its underside streaked black by fumes. It’s a momentary surprise as you recognize the head hunched under its leather helmet with the oxygen mask concealing the features, and then arcing off into the distance and to anonymity again. You disregard the earth below until you begin your landing approach or until you are in trouble. And the sea, set in its freezing snow-covered shores, dominates the environment below us, waiting.
The comradely formation of the squadron breaks up in a split second when contact is made with enemy fighters, and a wild individual scramble starts. All the rules of good flying are cast aside as you maneuver for position, G-forces clutching at the flesh on your face and turning your limbs to lead while your vision dims.
The 1,400-horsepower Allison engine hums reassuringly in front of me. I check the oxygen flow, adjust the face mask closer to the contours of my cheekbones and jaw, and feel the cold seeping into my feet despite my thick fur-lined suede flying boots. Some pilots refuse to wear them, knowing that in case of a bailout, the violent jerk when the parachute opens will make them drop off, leaving you to try to get back to your lines shoeless. A trace of black smoke from the exhaust of one of the aircraft reminds me to adjust my mixture control as we gain altitude.
How attached one becomes to the aircraft one flies in combat. After having flown the Hurricane, Spitfire, and Mustang, I became a sworn advocate of the Kittyhawk, not only for its great flying characteristics but for its ability to take unbelievable punishment and yet make it back to base. Last week, the Canadian, Jim Duval, the only married pilot in the squadron, made it back to base in his Kitty with one-third of its starboard wing-panel covers gone.
I check the oxygen supply line and fiddle with my radio’s squelch button to ensure I will hear as clearly as possible in the din that will begin after radio silence is broken over the target. We have passed the front line now and are deep into enemy territory. On the left I see that we are past Lake Comacchio, and far ahead of my port wing the snow-covered coastline leads to Venice in the distance. As the coastline begins to turn east in a big loop toward Trieste, I see Venice with its anti-aircraft batteries.
I recall yesterday’s mission in which we roamed at low level, searching for moving transport. We strafed and destroyed vehicles on the roads and barges in the canals and rivers. I recall a woman running in panic to her farmhouse as we suddenly appeared over the fields with a deafening roar. I got a glimpse of her white petticoat as she ran, and I quickly stopped firing my six guns.
MESTRE
The coast is partly veiled by low clouds and haze and runs parallel to our course. Now we fly deeper into enemy territory, weaving as we guard against getting jumped by German fighters from their bases in southern Austria. I glance at the coastline to the left in an effort to read our exact position relative to the target. When we are sure of our location abeam Venice, we level out at 9,000 feet and turn toward land to get into position for the bombing dive. I make a final check of fuel mixture, propeller pitch, and fuel tanks before pulling the lever to arm the bombs. As I await the carpet of anti-aircraft shells through which we have to dive, the tension increases. More than seventy guns protect our target in Mestre, not counting those around Venice itself.
The wing commander gives a signal with his raised fist and we move rapidly into echelon formation preparing to dive. Another few seconds and the ack-ack will begin to explode around us. I see the rest of my squadron advancing with me toward the target, the aircraft bobbing up and down in the turbulence, and I feel close to them. I am comforted by their presence, though there is nothing much we can do for each other if things go wrong.
Now that the enemy knows we are here, we break radio silence, and I mark the tension in our voices. As we get nearer the target, the anti-aircraft shells begin to explode around us, white for the Bofors at about 6,000 feet. They appear to be harmless but are the most dangerous. The oily black patches from the 88mm guns burst much higher and so are less dangerous for us.
I keep my leader in view and stay as close as possible without crowding him. I know that this is the big one, the best-defended city in northern Italy. This raid on Venice is the climax of our campaign, and its defenses make it a dangerous and difficult task.
Before entering the dive, I give a last quick glance upward and note the Marauder fIak ships flying through the bursts of fire from the 88mm guns. They continue on their course as though they are oblivious of the firing and I realize that there is not much they can do about it because they are much slower and less maneuverable than our Kittyhawks.
We make a sharp, wheeling turn to the left, and the squadron moves into echelon formation behind us. Without warning, we run into anti-aircraft fire; I weave wildly, changing direction and height every two or three seconds to dodge the gunners and their predictors. It’s my good luck to be number two to the wing commander and to dive right behind him. It will take the ack-ack crews a few more minutes to get their sights set, and by then I’ll be into my dive and climbing away.
With radio silence gone, my earphones snarl with orders and staccato phrases interspersed with the static. The bursting of the anti-aircraft shells all around us and the deafening shouts on the radio from the rest of my wing confuse me as I get ready to enter the dive. The flak now looks thick, but my fears recede as I remember that I have already flown forty-five missions and made it back to base every time. As the flak gets thicker, we weave violently as we try to confuse the German gunners below. Hell, I’ve never seen stuff like this before. And we have to dive through it all.
Through the haze and smoke of the flak bursts, I make out a large ship berthed at the dock with what looks like a big torpedo boat and a tanker on the outside of the pier with massive sheds and warehouses. We are to concentrate on the big vessel,
the Otto Leonhardt, and to leave the tanker and the shore installations for the following squadrons of dive-bombers. Hopefully one of us will hit the large ammunition dump in the port area and cause great damage. I can make out some of the gun emplacements spread out around the target area and the flashes from their guns.
I see another quick signal with his fist from the wing commander on my left as he pulls up and rolls over onto his back and down into the long dive. I select full-rich mixture for the lower altitude, and with a quick glance at the red gun sight, I follow him down in a near-vertical dive of 8,000 feet.
I see him in his diving left turn right under me, and I see a big, black ship far below as I roll my Kitty into the long dive, stamping on the left rudder pedal as the increased air speed causes the craft to slew to the right. Despite the strong pull to the right with the speed increasing furiously, I keep the black ball of the turn-and-bank indicator in the center. This is proof that I am not skidding to one side and ensures that my bomb will fall along the correct trajectory to the target. The Kitty shudders and shakes from the buffeting air, and the scream of the slipstream becomes so loud that I pay little attention to the flak bursting around me. Suddenly, there is an explosion nearby and my fighter lurches to the left. Another and another, and then a sickening thump as I feel a hit near the tail.
Too late now, I’ll carry on the dive. I see the ship racing toward me, squat and ugly next to the pier and sheds. I keep the gun sight steady and slightly below the ship as I close in upon it. I pull back on the stick and edge the sight up through the center of the vessel, hold for perhaps half a second, and then press the bomb-release button. I feel a familiar lightening of the aircraft, and I pull back on the elevator with all my strength as she seems determined to stay in the vertical dive. Now I realize that my craft is badly hit, perhaps mortally. Knowing that the elevator controls have been hit, I pull back farther, one foot braced against the dashboard to gain increased leverage.
I am relieved as the nose comes up, though slowly and reluctantly. For an instant, I see masts ahead and I am shocked to see that they are above my eye level. I feel a tremendous, heaving lift as the bomb hits the ship, but far too close to my aircraft. My Kitty shudders from the blast of the explosives, and pieces of the bomb burst strike the belly and underside of the wings as I pass directly over the ship. Relieved to find I still have control, I begin to skid my machine wildly as I zoom up and away from the flak. As I turn out to sea, the Kitty mushes upward but too damn slowly, emitting a stream of white glycol coolant liquid.
HEADLONG FALL
I doubt I can make it back to base. I am too far from our lines, and if I bail out, it will be over the freezing sea. If I head back to land, I will become a prisoner of war. I can reach the German-held coast, but I decide to head out to sea in the hope of ditching safely in the water and getting picked up by our air-sea rescue forces. I give little thought to the consequences, my only worry now is how to cope with the immediate task of getting out of the aircraft in one piece. I find myself leaning forward and straining against my shoulder straps as though to urge the Kitty to greater height and distance. I scan my instrument panel, and as the airspeed drops rapidly, I ease the nose gently forward from its near-vertical attitude to a more-steady climb.
Breathing great gulps of oxygen from my mask, I try to gain altitude. The cylinder-head temperature gauge creeps into the red, and I know that I have only minutes before I have to abandon the aircraft.
Keeping my voice as calm as possible, I tell the wing commander in the aircraft ahead of me that I have been badly hit and am heading out to sea where I expect to bail out. I am comforted when I see the other three aircraft of my flight peeling off overhead and approaching to take up positions on either side of me.
The flak fades as I head out to sea, with only an occasional burst of 88mm above me. My engine runs roughly but the engine revs keep above 2,300. I watch the instrument panel as we climb through 5,000 feet. The cylinder-head temperature is at the end of the scale and decision time is near. I take a quick look down at the land behind me. The shore to the north and south of my position is covered in a white mantle of snow, portending an ice-cold ducking when I bail out. I have little time to weigh these two undesirable alternatives and hastily opt for bailing out over the sea in the hope of getting back to our lines if I survive in my dinghy.
Smoke pours into the cockpit. The engine runs rougher as the coolant streams out. Aiming for least resistance to the airflow, I pull the throttle back and move into full-course pitch to feather the propeller. My eyes behind the goggles smart and stream, and now I see a flicker of flame on the side of the firewall. Any minute now the fuel tanks may explode. The altimeter needle shows that the rapid climb has brought me up to higher than 5,000 feet. I am thankful my Kittyhawk can take this punishment. I see the cylinder-head temperature rising, and the engine runs rougher, thumping loudly.
I call the wing commander and try to sound cool as I say, “Topper Red Two heading for the rendezvous point, but I have to bail out. Please watch me.” As I say this, the engine seizes up and I see the fire to the front and left of the windscreen. I keep the nose pointing to the southeast toward our front lines in the distance, all the while losing height. I know now that I cannot make it to our front lines. The smoke from the dead engine obstructs my vision. I continue to breathe oxygen through my mask but have difficulty seeing my instruments. I cough and wheeze as fumes penetrate my mask. I breathe smoke mixed with burning oil vapors. When I realize there is no hope, I unlock the canopy hood and roll it back. I take off my helmet and from force of habit drape it over the stick. I take a last look at the hostile coastline to the east and see the burning warehouses of Mestre as I unlock the harness. I see the dashboard with its instruments and my oxygen mask hanging uselessly from my helmet. Outside my cockpit the wings with the camouflage paint and the RAF roundels fill the view of my trusted kite. The Kittyhawk shudders violently as she enters the final phase of her death throes, and I try to abandon the aircraft. A moment of panic comes when I find I cannot move, until I realize that I have forgotten to release the shoulder straps. A quick tug on the release pin, and as I put my aircraft into a slow diving turn to the left, I glance at the sea far below, looking calm and peaceful, almost inviting.
I leave all systems operating and hesitate for a few agonizing seconds before I abandon the Kitty. I grip the cockpit side and clamber over the left wall of the cockpit. Now, the sea looks dark and threatening as I dive head first into the gaping void 5,000 feet below and think, Just let me miss the tail and I’ll have a chance if the chute opens. I feel a searing pain in my foot as it glances off the tail. My life now depends upon a piece of equipment I had been sitting on for many hours of flying, something I had slung casually over my shoulder and dropped on the floor like a sack of potatoes. I had treated it with no more respect than a pair of old boots. I wish in those few moments of free fall that I had taken better care of my parachute. I wait a few more seconds with my hand on the cold metal parachute handle, delaying pulling the handle to ensure that the chute will not get entangled in the tail of the plane. Then a quick jerk on the handle and the chute opens above me, wrenching my body around but stopping my headlong fall.
After the frenzied tumult I have left, it is calm and an uncanny silence. I feel as though I am suspended in that huge sky, only the cool breeze blowing over my cheeks and upward through my hair, freed now of the leather helmet, which makes me realize that I am falling. The silence is broken by the deep thump of bombs and the sharper cracks of ack-ack over Mestre a few miles to the west. But at the same time, I have a feeling of utter loneliness as I look for my stricken aircraft. A minute later, I see the Kittyhawk plunge into the sea in one final dive, and as the sea closes around her, I feel I have lost something dear and close.
The big, incredibly beautiful canopy of the chute bulges above me as I sway gently below it. Over to one side below me but dangerously close, the docks of Venice exude clouds of smoke and dust w
ith the sky above it peppered by antiaircraft fire. I am close enough to make out the campanile of St. Marks and the Lido. In spite of dread at the fate in store for me, I am glad we have succeeded in our mission to destroy the main Axis port in Italy.
ALONE WITH MAE WEST
My thoughts quickly return to my own predicament and I prepare to hit the icy Adriatic. I look at the sea far below. With momentum gathering deceptively slowly, it seems to loom toward me, and I realize that I shall soon plunge into it. I turn the parachute harness button and hold my fist in front of it ready to hit it smartly for releasing, knowing how many pilots have made a safe landing in the water, only to choke and drown in the harness and shrouds. I inflate my Mae West life jacket with a twist of the lever from under the flap and note with relief the shiny yellow material swell as the gas fills the life vest. I decide to wait a little and continue to fall. God, it’s a good thing I didn’t release. I must still have been a thousand feet up. Then a sudden shock as I hit the freezing water. All at once I hear a ghastly sound of retching and groaning.
I look around in astonishment for the source of the inhuman racket, only to realize that the source is me as I spew water from my lungs, all the while pushing and dragging the parachute away from my head. When I finally get free of it—just moments ago my salvation but now a threat to my life—I search blindly in the water under my buttocks until I find the dinghy package whose hardness I cursed on every flight. By the time I find the inflation bottle, my fingers are numb. I remember Rusty who had bailed out six weeks ago into the same sea east of Lake Comacchio only to be found frozen dead inside his dinghy two hours later.
