Ryk had been covering the action from above, on the sunny side. Seeing no German fighters, he directed Gabe toward a second Junkers, which was now fleeing at low level toward the southern coast. Gabe was soon on its tail, closing rapidly and firing several short bursts before the telltale spew of tracers warned that he was running out of ammunition.
There was no apparent effect on the German. Gabe shouted to Ryk, who assured him there were no German fighters to be seen. Gabe suggested that Ryk have a go at the fleeing German; Gabe would move to the wingman position and keep a lookout.
Ryk dove toward the German. Gabe's bullets had been ineffective; Ryk would get closer. Two bursts, and still the German refused to go down. Ryk closed up further. 200 yards. 150. He fired a long burst—too long; two of his guns jammed. Still the German flew on; Ryk's fire had been too widely scattered to bring the bomber down. He closed up even more, and fired another burst. Again, he seemed to be spraying bullets all over the sky. Then he, too, came to the tracers that signaled the end of his ammunition. He shouted in frustration to Gabe, and the two returned to base.
In their debriefing, they complained bitterly to Rozek; the fire of the eight machine guns was too dispersed to be effective. Rozek was aware of the problem, but had had the armorers check. The guns were set according to specification. They converged 650 yards in front of the fighter.
“
Six hundred and fifty yards
. That's damn near half a mile.” Gabe was incredulous. And furious.
“I know. But those are the specs.”
“What jackass set the specs?” Gabe wanted to know. Well, actually, he didn't want to know. But, in his anger, he was ready to settle the issue, one on one. The damn fool could have his guns set for 650 yards, and Gabe would set his much shorter. Then they would see who survived. Perhaps that was unfair; the fool had probably never seen the inside of a cockpit. “You've got to have the bullets converge to rip a plane apart. You can't shoot at a target half a mile away. It wasn't so bad with the Hurricanes; their guns are clustered close together just outside the prop. But for a Spit, it's critical: the guns are spread along the leading edge of the wing. Stupid specs are ruining a great plane.”
“I wonder,” said Ryk, trying to smooth over Gabe's fury. “We don't have much leverage with the RAF. But the Brits need us. I bet if you told the Armaments Officer to set the guns for a shorter convergence, he'd do what you want, no questions asked.”
“What do you suggest?” Rozek wondered. “Say, 500 yards?”
“Closer, closer,” replied Ryk. “That's still a third of a mile. I'd say 350 yards.”
“Still not close enough. 250 yards, and not an inch more,” insisted Gabe. “At least, not if you want me up in the air again.”
The hint of mutiny surprised Ryk; he suddenly realized how tired Gabe must be. How exhausted they all were getting!
Rozek ignored the threat. He would talk to the Armaments Officer, and get him to have the machine guns reset for a 250 yard convergence for any pilot who asked.
They all did.
There was more good news. They would be getting new, more effective ammunition. Of the four guns on each Spitfire wing, one would be loaded with armor-piercing bullets, and one with incendiaries.
The Spits, the new ammunition, and the decision to reset the guns paid off. During the next two weeks, the 303's toll of German aircraft doubled. Gabe alone had three kills—two Messerschmitts and a straggling bomber that he picked off on his way back to base.
One Saturday morning, when heavy clouds and an intermittent drizzle were conspiring to keep the Luftwaffe at their home bases, Ryk took the opportunity to sleep in; he was exhausted. As he lay half asleep, he heard machine-gun fire in the distance.
Not so distant. It was very close
. He pulled on his clothes and jacket and stumbled, half awake, out toward the hangers.
He saw the source of the commotion. Joe had persuaded his ground crew to hoist the tail of his Spitfire up onto the bed of a truck, and two of them were holding the tailplane in an effort to steady it. Joe was shouting encouragement—in a mixture of Polish, Czech, and English—to his armorers, who were adjusting his guns toward a makeshift target. They signaled that they were ready for another test, and Joe squeezed the fire button. The guns erupted. Spent shell casings danced and bounced off the tarmac like heavy hail. The bullets converged perfectly on the target.
Its distance: 100 yards.
Joe noticed Ryk, waved, and jumped down out of the cockpit. As he approached Ryk, he smiled broadly.
“Now,” he said, “you can bring on the whole damn Richthofen squadron. I really am ready for that Hun in the sun.”
15
Tomorrow May Never Come
Life is a preparation for something that probably will never happen.
William Butler Yeats
Bomber Briefing. Fliegerkorps II. Amiens, France.
24 August, 1940. 14:00 hrs.
“G
entlemen, we are now about to enter a new stage in the campaign against the RAF. You've been wearing down Fighter Command. Now the time has come for the knockout blow.”
Lt. Emil Niehoff listened impassively, hiding his doubts. True, the Luftwaffe must have been inflicting heavy damage on the RAF fighter squadrons, attacking their bases. But as for wearing the RAF down—in spite of repeated statements of senior officers, he hadn't seen any decrease in the number of enemy fighters. On his last mission, as fighters were circling for an attack, his dorsal gunner sarcastically shouted: “Hang on tight. Here they come. The last twenty Spitfires.”
The briefing officer was aware that his upbeat statement might be met with a degree of, well, skepticism. “We recognize that the RAF is still a formidable force. Our job is to change that.
“The new campaign will have two new features.
“First, we recognize that our bomber losses have been greater than anticipated.” The audience shuffled uncomfortably; they were well aware of the fact. Their friends were being killed. “Consequently, in this new phase, we will use larger, more concentrated bomber formations, so that attacking fighters will have to face the combined fire from many bombers. Even more important: we will provide additional, and tighter, fighter support. They will accompany the bombers more closely.” Good news for the audience; there were scattered smiles. The briefing officer had even hoped for cheers, but the crews were too tired—and, not to put too fine a point on it, particularly tired of empty promises.
“Second, we will intensify our attacks on RAF airfields and supporting facilities. Bombing the fighter factories will be an even higher priority. Intelligence indicates that you have already inflicted heavy damage on the Spitfire plant in Birmingham. You will soon be receiving targeting information for this evening's raid on other factories.
“Finally, I repeat your standing orders. You are to attack only military targets. You are to avoid bombing within cities unless military targets have been identified. Most specifically, you are forbidden to bomb residential areas of London.
“You will pick up your fighter escorts over the Channel; their bases are now concentrated in the Pas de Calais, so that they will be able to stay with you more than 100 kilometers into Britain. Be in your bombers, beginning your preflight checks, by 15:00 hrs.
“And good luck.”
After the briefing, the fliers clustered around in small groups, discussing the new plans. Niehoff sought out his closest surviving friend, Lt. Ernst Heitz, and they were joined by an older—and well-connected—pilot, Capt. Jurg Kalbfleisch.
“This is crazy,” Heitz complained. “This emphasis on avoiding cities. When we're wandering around, above the clouds, how can be sure where we are?”
“We'd better take it seriously,” responded Niehoff. “The orders are strict—and they come directly from the
'Heiliger Berg'
(Holy Mountain).” He was using the irreverent slang for the bunker of Feldmarschal Kesselring, commander of the Air Fleet.
“Higher than that, much higher,” responded Kalbfleisch, glancing toward the ceiling. Then, to show he was one of the boys, he added, “from the little corporal himself.” That reference to Hitler would cause trouble if it ever appeared in his security file. But there was no chance that it would.
“But why?” Heitz wondered. “After all, he threatened to bomb Prague. And we flattened Warsaw. We got orders to bomb Rotterdam. Massively. In all three cases, we got a quick surrender.”
“Ah,” replied Kalbfleisch, “but those were different.”
“Different?”
“Very different, my dear Heitz. None of those three countries had bombers that could reach Berlin.”
“Anyone who bombs London will be in deep trouble with Göring, too,” added Niehoff. “He doesn't want to provoke the British. He's guaranteed that the RAF will never, ever bomb Berlin. If they do, people can call him 'Meyer.'”
F
ighter squadrons throughout Southeast England got the word: scramble, and climb to 16,000 feet. A massive German air armada was forming up near Calais, headed for the Channel.
Ryk had come to hate high-level combat. Messerschmitts had a big advantage at high altitudes—fuel injection. If a Spitfire did manage to get on a Messerschmitt's tail, the German could escape by pushing his stick forward until he began to rise out of his seat. If the Spit tried to follow, its carbeurated engine would be starved of fuel.
As he approached 16,000 feet, he got a puzzling—and welcome—message: there were no German fighters to be found at that level, even by the few Spitfires that ventured out over the Channel. All the German fighters were far below, down with the bombers. Orders were changed. One British squadron was to stay on high-level patrol, to guard against attack. Everybody else: go after the Germans.
Ryk recognized the joyful whoop over the radio. Joe was on the loose.
The 303 Squadron got their orders: they were to take on the eastward section of German formation. The dirty job again. With the sun on their left, they would be in greatest peril from enemy fighters.
As he accompanied Gabe in a steep dive toward the German formation, Ryk could scarcely believe their good luck. Not only were the Messerschmitts at a low level; they were also going slowly enough to keep in loose formation with the bombers.
Gabe leveled out just below and behind the most exposed Messerschmitt, guarding the corner of the formation, and came up in his blind spot. Gabe held his fire, closing quickly. 400 yards. 250 yards. Two quick machine-gun bursts, and the German plane belched smoke. Three cheers for the reset guns!
Now came the exciting part. Aware of danger, the Messerschmitts accelerated rapidly, and began to bank sharply to turn on their attackers. Gabe picked the next most exposed enemy, and began his turn in pursuit. Ryk was having trouble following; he couldn't afford to turn so tightly he would gray out; he wouldn't be alert enough to protect Gabe from danger.
Gabe was now firing sporadic bursts every time he got the turning, twisting German in his sights. This one was tough. But finally the Messerschmitt began to trail smoke and slid off into a downward spiral.
Gabe was low on ammunition, and was heading home. Ryk could stay for the fun, if he wanted. Yes, he would.
By now, the sky was cluttered with circling planes, friend and foe—utter chaos. Ryk decided that the best attack was the most direct. He didn't want to stick around this tough neighborhood any longer than necessary. He took a deep breath and, with one eye on his rear view mirror, headed straight down the edge of the German formation at full throttle, firing a burst every time he could line up an enemy.
As he approached the front of the formation, he saw the telltale tracers; he was almost out of ammunition. He began a sharp turning climb—to the right! After climbing a thousand feet, he leveled off, to gain precious airspeed, and headed homeward, abruptly changing direction every few seconds and keeping his head on a swivel, looking for danger.
As he came in for a landing, he noticed that one of his wings had been neatly stitched by a line of machine-gun fire. He had no idea what damage—if any—he had inflicted on the enemy.
When he taxied up to the service bay, his adrenaline was flowing. He wasn't sure that his plane was still airworthy, and, at any rate, he didn't want to wait for it to be refueled and filled with ammunition. Was the extra Spitfire fueled and ready to go? It was. Had Gabe arrived? Did he want it? Yes, he had arrived, but no, he didn't want it. He wouldn't be needing an airplane. Today, or for some time. A machine-gun bullet had passed through his left calf and nicked his right leg; he was on his way to hospital.
Within ten minutes, Ryk was headed down the grass runway, taking off in his new Spitfire.
S
omehow, thought Niehoff, things are not working out right. It was very reassuring and all, to have the fighter escorts clearly visible off their wing tips. But, when the RAF attacked, things became decidedly dicey. The Messerschmitts gulped fuel in their dogfights and some were heading home early, while the bombers still had to fly on more than half an hour in daylight. The bomber formation closed up even tighter, for additional protection.
Fortunately, the Spitfires and Hurricanes were disappearing, too; they also had been gulping fuel. The Messerschmitts that had stayed with the bombers still had enough fuel to engage the remaining enemy fighters.
Nevertheless, several Hurricanes were nipping at the edge of the flight. The bomber next to Niehoff began to trail smoke and sank out of the formation. Now Niehoff was on the exposed corner.
“Wunderbar,”
he thought.
Another Hurricane attacked, in a shallow dive. Niehoff's top gunner opened up, and other bombers were also returning fire. The canopy of the Hurricane shattered, and it sank into a slow, smooth decline.
Niehoff's plane had taken hits, too. It would simply not be possible to continue to the target area. But they were in luck; they were close to a cloud formation, and banked sharply right. They would be on their own.