Call to Duty (52 page)

Ruffy hesitated then settled the issue. The navigator’s left hand flashed out and hit the arm switch, returning it to the safe position, disarming the guns. “Not with me!” he shouted. “Not with me!”

The simple words hit home with a force Zack couldn’t believe and they scarred his soul. He had temporarily lost his humanity in a killing rage and had almost machine-gunned a wounded man. As they overflew the German pilot, Zack wagged the wings in tribute to the man’s survival and pulled off. It saved their lives. Galland had broken off the stern conversion he had started and was going for a high-angle deflection gun shot to drive away the Mosquito that was about to strafe his old friend. When he saw the Mosquito’s wing wag, he hesitated, improving the angle for the shot and also clearing Fips. He mashed the trigger. At that same instant, Zack jinked to the left, Galland’s blind side. Two of Galland’s thirteen-millimeter bullets hit
K for King
’s right wingtip, splintering it.

Zack tightened his turn and dove for the ground, trying to brush his antagonist off on a treetop. It was not to be. He did manage to kick the Focke-Wulf out enough in the turn to deny the German another shot. When he saw his pursuer, he pulled back on the stick and hit the nitrous oxide switch again. The Merlins bellowed in pain but responded as they outdistanced the Focke-Wulf in the climb. Zack had every intention of separating, gaining distance and altitude, and then reversing to reengage the Focke-Wulf. And the general was more than willing to continue the engagement. He waited.

But Zack had asked too much from the engines and the number twelve piston on the left engine collapsed from the overpressure. The gudgeon pin that held the piston to the connecting rod sheared and the rod fell free. The rest of the engine still continued to generate over fifteen hundred horsepower—thanks to the supercharger and nitrous oxide. The crankshaft rotated the connecting rod and on the next
stroke the end of the rod gouged the side of the cylinder. On the following stroke, the tip of the connecting rod caught in the gouge and was driven through the cylinder wall. The jolting pressure transferred down the connecting rod to the crankshaft and loaded the rear main bearing. The bearing cap that held the main bearing and crankshaft together exploded under the pressure and the crankshaft literally twisted free of the engine.

The engine exploded in a mass of flames and smoke.

Galland’s face was frozen into a rigid mask as he closed.

Zack’s hands automatically flew through the tasks he had practiced so many times in the quiet of his room: feather the dead prop, close the throttle, close the radiator flap switch. At the same time he yelled, “Fire extinguisher! Port engine.” Ruffy hit the button on top of junction box B on the right wall of the cockpit and discharged the Graviner extinguisher into the left engine. “Hold together, baby,” Zack pleaded as he rolled and ruddered
K for King
over to the right, into the good engine, and dove for the ground.

The eruption of smoke and flames from the Mosquito’s left engine and the sudden course reversal broke Galland’s tracking solution and he had to follow the Mosquito around. He made a mental note to mention the admirable single-engine performance of the British warbird in his combat report. He fell in behind.

“Bandit! Six o’clock!” Ruffy shouted.

Galland squeezed off a short burst of twenty-millimeter cannon rounds just as Zack pulled up and skidded the Mosquito to the right, destroying the shot. The general swore when the cannons stopped firing; he released the trigger and mashed it again. Nothing. Jammed. An electrical or mechanical fault, he reasoned. He selected the two MG-131 machine guns mounted over the engine and squeezed off another short burst. This time, the guns worked properly and he watched the shells rip into the aft fuselage and tail fin of the Mosquito. But nothing happened. He could plainly see the holes the shells had punched into the fuselage with little apparent damage. That would not have happened with the twenties. He nudged the controls and repositioned for another pass, this time aiming for the cockpit.

But Zack had other ideas and Galland was learning from
firsthand experience why his pilots were having so much trouble with the Mosquito. In many respects, the twin-engine aircraft was the high-tech wonder of its day: fast, light, maneuverable, long-ranged, and capable of carrying out numerous different missions. But at the same time, it was an anachronism—hopelessly out of step with modern aircraft because it was made of wood. Yet it could take certain types of battle damage and still fly because of the inherent strength and unique qualities of wood. Galland’s small-caliber shells had splintered and punched holes in the fuselage and tail, but the wooden structure had not ripped or sheared as would a similar metal-framed aircraft. And even on one engine, the Mosquito was still flying at over 210 mph.

Zack timed his maneuver to perfection. When he judged the Focke-Wulf was about to fire, he ripped the throttle full aft and barrel-rolled into the good engine. As he came over the top, he jammed the throttle forward and hit the nitrous oxide button again. How much more could the Merlin take?

Galland could not credit the maneuver but dealt with it to avoid being shot out in front of the Mosquito. He rolled with the Mosquito but his depth perception was off. While he caught the sudden deceleration of the Mosquito, he missed its surge in speed as it came down the back side of the roll and then continued on under and accelerated for the deck.

He gave out a very English “Goddamn” as he flung his Focke-Wulf around to the left and chased the Mosquito. Much to his amazement, the pilot aerobatted the Mosquito again and was bringing his nose around to bear on him! Galland saw the cannons flash from underneath the nose but knew it was a wild shot, more to discourage him than anything else. The general broke hard to the right and then pulled up. He would come over the top to get behind the Mosquito. He clearly made out the letters
K
and
EG
on the fuselage that told him the Mosquito was
K for King
from 487 Squadron. A Kiwi, he thought. Then he saw the Mosquito’s objective. The pilot was running for the leading edge of the bad weather that was moving in off the Channel.

The general checked his rounds counter: two hundred rounds left, enough for two more healthy passes. But the Mosquito would probably reach the protective shelter of the clouds in front of them before he could make the second pass.
He would have to make the next firing pass do. Again he closed, this time from the right rear quarter. He sent a stream of shells into the right rear side of the cockpit. He could see pieces of the fuselage shred into the slipstream and the perspex canopy shatter as the Mosquito twisted away.

The shells tore into the rear of the cockpit, most striking the armor plating behind Ruffy’s seat. The remainder of the burst walked off to the right and ripped into the right side of the cockpit, destroying junction box B in a shower of electrical sparks. The bomb sight seemed to explode in Ruffy’s face and metals shards cut into Zack’s chest and face. The angle of the bullets’ trajectory was from the rear right to the front left and bullets shredded Ruffy’s right leg and the instrument panel. The carnage behind the seats was total and the ammunition boxes in the nose were punctured. But luckily, nothing exploded. Zack fought for control as gas fumes filled the cockpit. One of the pipes in the fuel gallery underneath the floorboards had been cut.
K for King
responded.

Galland let out another “Goddamn!” The Mosquito was still flying! Determined now to make the kill, he chased
K for King
into the clouds.

Dark gray wrapped around
K for King
as they penetrated the cloud. A light turbulence buffeted the aircraft and water streamed into the cockpit from the numerous bullet holes that had riddled the cockpit and fuselage. Zack hauled the throttle back and checked the flight instruments. No altimeter and no airspeed. The artificial horizon was tilted at a crazy angle that indicated they were going straight up. Only a hole remained where the direction indicator had been. At least the climb and descent indicator seemed to be functioning along with the turn and bank gauge. The lower left of the instrument panel was okay; he had the rpm, oil pressure and temperature, coolant temperature, and the boost pressure gauges. But most important, he still had the compass sitting untouched, nestled safely in front of the throttles.

He decided to trust the climb and descent and turn and bank indicators. They were flying straight and level in the soup probably at about twenty-five hundred feet. He mentally calculated their airspeed using rpm and boost pressure. The airspeed should be about 150, he reasoned. Only when he was sure the aircraft was under control did he turn his atten
tion to Ruffy. It was a matter of doing first things first and nothing would kill them quicker than an out of control aircraft.

Ruffy’s condition was horrific and at first he doubted if his friend was still alive. His face was a mass of hanging flesh and blood. Zack felt for his neck, trying to feel a pulse. It was there, weak but steady. Zack reached down beside the seat and jerked the first aid kit free and pulled it into his lap. He opened the lid and pulled out a compress bandage. By holding the stick between his knees, he was able to tie up the gushing wound on Ruffy’s right leg. But the bandage was immediately soaked with blood. He had heard too many stories of wounded crew members bleeding to death and pulled out the tourniquet strap. His hands were slippery with blood as he set the tourniquet. Then he wrapped another bandage over the first one. The worst bleeding had stopped.

He was wrapping a bandage around Ruffy’s face when the dark gray that had wrapped them in a welcome obscurity lightened and they punched out of the cloud. Zack jammed the throttle full forward and looked frantically around him for the Focke-Wulf. His inner alarm, that strange sixth sense that had warned him of impending danger was clanging at full volume. Then the Focke-Wulf followed them out of the cloud, less than a half mile behind. For a fraction of a second, Zack considered turning hard into the Focke-Wulf and retreated into the cloud. But that was the wrong way and led back into France. He raced for the next bank of clouds, which appeared to be thicker and more developed. And that was the way home. He hit the nitrous oxide button and again the Merlin responded, screaming in anguish at the overboost.
K for King
accelerated and then suddenly, the wailing engine returned to its normal pitch. The nitrous oxide bottle was dry.

Zack did the only thing he could think of. He nosed the Mossie over and headed for the deck. How much altitude did he have to give away? he thought. Maybe his pursuer might give him a clue by breaking out of the dive. He bumped the rpm up to 3,100 and raced for safety. For a fraction of a moment, he thought they were going to make it. He saw the Focke-Wulf close and sawed at the rudder pedals, skidding across the sky and then rolling. But Galland would not be denied and he sent a stream of shells into the right wing. In des
peration, Zack turned into his dead wing, anything to break the German’s aim. It worked and the bullets walked off the right wingtip.

Galland pulled up and away and then rolled to his left to check on the Mosquito. He clinically analyzed the destruction he had wrought on the aircraft and seriously wondered if
K for King
had some sort of special relationship with the gods of war. He watched as four feet of the right wingtip ripped away. There was a huge hole on the right side of the fuselage just aft of the cockpit that a man could crawl through and that was getting bigger. Then the Mosquito disappeared once more into the clouds. He glanced at his rounds counter—six left. Could he find the Mosquito again and shoot it down with only six rounds? “
Vielleicht ein anderes mal
,” maybe another time, he muttered. He turned and headed for Abbeville.

Blood was streaming down the right side of Zack’s face and blinding his right eye when he eased the throttle back and dropped the rpm down to 2,650 and set the boost at seven pounds per square inch. His right leg burned and ached and his right foot felt warm and sticky. He wiped the blood out of his eye and removed his helmet and oxygen mask. He felt for the gashes on his head. He was hurt much worse than he had first thought. He looked down into the first aid kit that was still in his lap and felt dizzy. He had to do something about his own wounds before he passed out. He bandaged himself up as best he could, again holding the stick between his knees. His fingers explored his right leg, carefully working their way down. He found a long wooden splinter embedded in his calf just above the top of his flying boot. It stuck out on both sides and blood was seeping into his boot.

Only his training and experiences boxing in the Golden Gloves saved him from panic. He had been mauled before in the ring and had overcome cuts and blood. He didn’t move the splinter and poked wadding around both sides, sealing off the blood. Carefully, he put his right foot back on the pedal and pressed. He could work the pedal without brushing the splinter. Then he checked on Ruffy. He was still unconscious and breathing regularly. But he was bleeding about the face. Nothing more he could do about that. He checked the tourniquet and bandage on the navigator’s leg. No change.

“Now fly the goddamn airplane and get us home,” he told
himself. He worked the problem. Altitude—unknown but low. Should he climb? Probably. He eased back on the stick and started a gentle climb, watching the climb and descent gauge. The weather grew darker and the buffeting increased. He dropped back down into the lighter portion of the cloud. That was a definite improvement. Judging by what he could see below him, they were between layers. But how low were they? Don’t worry about it. The turn and bank indicator was centered and they were not climbing or descending. They must be straight and level. The rpm and boost were still the same so their indicated airspeed had to be between 150 and 170.

But where were they? Must be over the Channel, he reasoned. He checked his compass heading. They were going almost due north. He tried to reconstruct what had happened during the flight. They had been on a northwesterly heading when they engaged the Focke-Wulfs and the fight had turned toward the northeast. How long had it lasted? Four or five minutes before they found refuge in the weather. They had probably coasted out between Abbeville and Dunkirk and were now headed directly for Manston on the coast of Kent.