Mosquito Squadron (9 page)

Followed by his wingman, Sergeant Thiel, he rolled the Messerschmitt on its back and pulled on the stick, streaking down in a vertical dive and easing out of it on a level with the lowest squadron of Fortresses. The fighters sped like arrows at the leading flight of bombers. Richter picked a target and centred the luminous dot of his sight on the bomber’s nose. Spidery grey lines leaped at him from the Fortress’s front guns, flickered over his wings and cockpit. He resisted a desperate urge to shut his eyes and squeezed the triggers of his cannon, keeping them depressed until the very last moment. Then he pushed forward the stick and kicked the rudder bar, sending the Messerschmitt skidding under the bomber’s port wing, ducking involuntarily as its dark oil-streaked shadow passed a few feet above his head.

Richter held the fighter in the dive for a few seconds, building up speed, then pulled up into a steep climb, looking back. The Fortress he had just attacked was still in formation. He swore and sought another target, noting as he did so that Thiel had come through unscathed and was climbing up to join him. Both fighters levelled out, cruising a few thousand feet above and behind the formation. The other Messerschmitts were ripping through it, but as yet no Fortresses were going down.

‘There’s a straggler, Thiel, below and to the left,’ Richter radioed. ‘Let’s finish him off. Attack from astern.’

The Fortress Richter had singled out was dragging a thin streamer of smoke, barely discernible, from its starboard outer engine. He closed right in astern of it, ignoring the fire that poured at him from the bomber’s turrets, and systematically began to chop it to pieces with short bursts from his cannon. He saw his shells punch holes in the Fortress’s rear fuselage, and an instant later the ventral ball turret disintegrated in a tangle of perspex, metal and shattered human flesh as his shells found their mark there too.

The Messerschmitt shuddered and holes suddenly appeared in its port wing; the American rear gunner was a good shot, and Richter knew that he had to dispose of him. Taking infinite care, he lined up his sights on the man’s turret. His finger curled around the trigger.

A series of terrific bangs shook the Messerschmitt in rapid succession. The side panel of the cockpit canopy vanished in a spray of razor-sharp particles and the left side of the pilot’s face suddenly became numb. Simultaneously, something struck his left leg a violent blow, jerking his foot off the rudder pedal.

The port wing dropped sharply, and before Richter could correct it the Gustav fell into a tight spiral dive. He forced his foot back on to the rudder pedal and took recovery action; the Messerschmitt responded sluggishly and he managed to bring it back into level flight, although he had to keep the stick well over to the right to stop the port wing dropping again.

‘Elbe Leader, are you all right?’ Thiel’s voice crackled over the radio, urgently and full of concern.

‘Elbe Two, Victor … I think so.’

Cautiously, he explored the side of his face with his fingertips. They came away reddened with blood, but he felt no pain. There was just an overwhelming feeling of relief: thank God his eyes were undamaged. Looking down, he found a tear in the thigh of his flying overall and poked a finger through that, too, withdrawing it quickly when a shaft of pain stabbed through his whole leg. It was replaced by a strong tingling sensation, and relief came once again when he discovered that he could feel his foot. The damage did not appear to be too great, but there could be no question of rejoining the combat, for he was having trouble in controlling the aircraft. He had to find somewhere to land, and quickly.

‘Elbe Leader to Elbe Squadron, am breaking off.’

The voice that acknowledged him was that of Johnny Schumacher. High above, the other Messerschmitts were still tearing into the Fortresses, making the most of it while their fuel and ammunition lasted. Two of the big bombers had already gone down in flames before their guns, and Sergeant Thiel, having killed the troublesome rear gunner, was disposing of a third.

Richter glanced at his altimeter; he was at four thousand metres, nosing down through patches of cloud. He was flying over hilly, densely wooded country, laced with streams and tiny lakes. Far off to the left was the Rhine, with the smoky patch of Cologne on the northern horizon. Following the course of the river southwards with his eyes, he located Bonn and its neighbouring town of Bad Godesberg and decided to make for Bonn-Hangelar airfield. If he could not get that far, there was a chance that he might be able to put the crippled Messerschmitt down at Eudenbach, a small airstrip which lay on his route.

The Westerwald, all variegated shades of greens and browns, crawled slowly beneath his wings. From time to time an alarming shudder shook the aircraft and his hand tensed on the stick, ready to take instant corrective action, but each time the tremor ceased after a second or two. The port aileron appeared to be buckled, responding only marginally to his control movements.

The side of his face was stinging abominably, as though it was suffering from a hundred small razor cuts. He put up an exploratory hand and found that the bleeding had stopped, thanks probably to the stream of air that flowed into the cockpit through the shattered side panel. His left thigh was also throbbing badly; it felt as though he had been kicked by a mule.

A wave of nausea swept over him and he turned his oxygen fully on, feeling his head start to clear as the cool gas played against his face. The needle of the altimeter unwound steadily. Below, a broad, straight autobahn sliced through the forest, running parallel with the Rhine and leading like an artery to the Ruhr Valley; he kept it in sight off his port wingtip, knowing that Eudenbach lay a few kilometres to the west of it. The Messerschmitt was becoming more difficult to control with every passing minute, and he now knew for certain that he was not going to reach Bonn.

Landing was going to be tricky. He had already tried the emergency frequency, but the radio had gone dead soon after he began his descent. With no chance of making a proper nonradio approach, he would just have to go straight in and hope for the best.

Eudenbach appeared ahead, a grassy patch surrounded by woods. Richter throttled back, changed the propeller pitch and pulled the undercarriage lever.

Nothing happened. There was no reassuring thud as the main wheels came down and locked into place. Two red lights on the instrument panel flickered on and stayed on, glowing at him mockingly. He pumped the lever several times, again with no result.

He began to sweat. Whether the undercarriage was still locked in the ‘up’ position, or whether it was partly down, he had no means of knowing. In the latter case, the Messerschmitt would certainly flick over on its back if he tried a belly landing. But he had no choice; he was now too low to bale out, and the degree of control was so marginal that an attempt to climb might prove fatal.

He took a deep breath and pulled at his straps, making them as tight as possible. Cautiously, he lowered a few degrees of flap and pointed the fighter’s nose at a point about one-third of the way along the grass strip.

Trees swept past on either side. As he crossed the airfield boundary, he quickly switched off the engine and feathered the propeller. There was a blurred glimpse of some buildings, with a few small aircraft parked beside them. The grass flowed under his wings and he began to ease back the control column, as gently as he could. The Gustav floated for what seemed an endless distance and then hit the ground with a crunch that jarred every bone in his body. The straps bit into his shoulders cruelly as the sudden deceleration threw him forward in the cockpit; he let go of the stick and raised both aims to protect his face. Something struck him a violent blow on the head, partly stunning him. The noise of rending metal was fearful.

He sat there, his shoulders hunched, his arms still crossed over his face, for long seconds before he realized that the noise had ceased. Opening his eyes, he looked around him dazedly. In front of him, the engine cowling was a crumpled mass of metal, with wisps of smoke coming from it. The port wing had broken off half-way along its length. There was an overpowering smell of petrol.

Stirring himself with difficulty, he yanked at the latch that secured the cockpit hood and pushed upwards at the metal frame. The square-cut canopy came free with a grating sound and dropped over to one side. Fresh air, mingled with the smell of aluminum and scorched rubber, washed over him. He struggled to unfasten his seat harness and parachute. Hands were reaching down into the cockpit, seizing him by the arms, dragging him clear. He tried to speak, but his mouth was so dry that he could only manage a faint croak. Two men each got one of his arms over their shoulders and helped him across the grass to an ambulance. A third rolled up the sleeve of his flying overall and tried to insert a needle into his arm; Richter shoved the man’s hand away, trying to tell him that he was all right, that his blood-caked face looked worse than it really was.

With a supreme effort, Richter pushed aside the restraining hands and managed to stand upright on trembling legs, fighting the throbbing in his thigh. Then the grass came up and hit him in the face and he knew no more.

*

‘Is the Major feeling better now?’

Richter opened his eyes fully and focused on the smiling face of the man who bent over him. He was a lieutenant, and his insignia showed that he was a member of the Luftwaffe’s medical branch.

He held out something in the palm of his hand and showed it to the pilot. It was a bullet, slightly flattened at the nose.

‘We dug that out of your thigh,’ he said. ‘You were very lucky. It must have spent itself as it entered your aircraft’s cockpit; it was lodged just under the skin. The cuts on your face were only superficial, too. We’ve cleaned them up. However, you got a nasty bang on the head when you crash-landed, that’s why you passed out. You might have a headache for a day or two, but there’s no permanent damage.’

‘Is there anything to drink?’

The lieutenant offered him a small glass and he drank the contents down in a single gulp, coughing slightly; it was neat brandy.

‘That will bring the blood back to your cheeks,’ the lieutenant said. ‘There’s also some coffee in the pot over there, on the table. You can get up, if you want to. Take it easy, though; you’ll probably feel a little groggy.’

Richter threw aside the blanket that covered him and swung his legs over the side of the bunk, wincing as he did so. His head hurt abominably and his thigh was stiff; there was a bandage round it.

‘You’ll have quite a bruise there, sir,’ the lieutenant said cheerfully. ‘Your uniform is over there, in the locker. We’ve already been in touch with your unit, and we’ll arrange an aircraft to fly you back later this afternoon. In the meantime, perhaps you would like something to eat? I can easily arrange for some food to be sent over from the mess.’

Richter dressed and went outside. An orderly brought a chair and he relaxed gratefully in the warm afternoon sun, eating a little cold meat and salad. Eudenbach, he soon discovered, was used by a communications flight consisting of six aircraft, a mixed collection of Fieseler Storches and twin-engined Focke-Wulf Weihes; their comings and goings did little to disturb the peace. After a while, he dozed off.

*

The two hundred and thirty Flying Fortresses bound for Schweinfurt came thundering in over the mouth of the Scheldt, and this time the squadrons of Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs did not wait for the Thunderbolt escort to turn back, but came boring in from high altitude to take on both bombers and fighters. They dived out of the sun, streaking through the top groups of Fortresses and continuing down through the American formations to strike the lower groups at a speed that took them clear of the gunners in seconds. The first B-17s tumbled from the sky to scatter their smoking wreckage over the Dutch countryside; the rest closed up the gaps in their ranks and droned on, their crews conscious that their ordeal was only just beginning. Many of them would reach the target; but after that would come the long flight back across north-west Europe, fighting for survival every inch of the way.

The massed roar of their engines shook Richter from his doze and brought him stiffly from his chair, peering into the bright southern sky. Far to the south, glittering in the sun, he clearly saw the crawling procession of metallic dots and followed them for several minutes before they were lost to sight. Not all of them, for a twisting streamer of black smoke, barely thicker than a thread of cotton at this distance, marked a bomber’s last plunge.

A squadron of Focke-Wulfs howled overhead, climbing hard, heading at full throttle for the battle that was raging four miles over Germany, for the victorious squadrons of the Luftwaffe, the day was far from over.

*

Nor was it over for the Mosquitos of No. 380 Squadron. Early in the evening of that bitter, tragic 17 August, they were ordered into the air to patrol the route of the homecoming bombers over Belgium, quartering the sky in pairs at up to 25,000 feet. The sky was full of fighters; squadrons of American Thunderbolts and Lightnings and RAF Spitfires, all hurrying to the assistance of the hard-pressed bombers.

Yeoman, whose Mosquito was flanked by Miller’s, saw them first as he flew high to the south of Brussels. The bombers were leaving broad vapour trails, and as he headed towards them Yeoman saw that their formations were split by the more slender streaks left by the speeding enemy fighters. Twisting air battles were going on all around the battered Fortress groups as the Thunderbolts, well out in advance, went full tilt at the Luftwaffe as though seeking to make up for their absence during those terrible, hard-fought hours over Germany. From all directions, the allied fighter squadrons were converging on those few tortured square miles of sky; Yeoman counted at least seventy Spitfires at various points around the clock, and on one occasion a squadron of Lockheed Lightnings, easily identifiable by their twin tail booms, their noses painted with crimson sharks’ teeth, sniffed inquisitively at the Mosquitos before making off. It was a timely reminder that, from certain angles, the Mosquito could look uncannily like a Junkers 88; they would have to watch their step, especially when they got near the bombers, for the gunners were likely to be exceptionally trigger-happy.