The blast threw debris and bullet casings through the opening, metal and wood fragments clattering against Hase’s helmet and shoulders, dust showering him through the smoke. Hands grasped his body roughly from the ladder, the soldiers behind coughing and spluttering as they tugged on his uniform, the young Hiwi whining in frustration as he fell backwards, his bloodshot eyes seeing an arm fall across the open hatch above, the clatter of an MP40 as it bounced on the upper step, then toppled through the opening.
Collapsing into a heap on the floorboards, he stared upwards through fearful dust filled eyes, wincing as the MP40 fell across his chest, debris still falling from the opening above, the shriek of a locomotive engine whistle in the distance, bursts of machine gun fire into the forest. Then another more distant whistle shrieking…the ambulance train from the east was finally approaching.
Chapter Seven: Interdiction before Bremen
Acting Leutnant Ernst Brandt’s eyes narrowed, the engine screaming on his FW190 in rapid descent as the brown green planes below began to get unnervingly bigger in his forward cockpit window. Adrenalin fuelled perspiration formed uncomfortably on his brow, his body jerking slightly as tracers erupted from the large aircraft below, the lights sweeping past wide as he targeted the front of the planes. The upper gunners swung their turrets round in response, the lack of forward support forcing side and frontal machine gunners to push their weapons to the maximum traverse sideways and upwards, the angle still too demanding.
Tracers swept upwards from the numerous American planes, several bombers following the forward aircraft attempting to engage the fighters as Ernst twisted the stick firmly, his FW190 twisting and spinning as the fighter screamed towards the American four engine planes below. Flashes filled his narrowing eyes as flak began to burst around and below the numerous aircraft, glowing cannon shells rising from ground fire before exploding, the air filling with smoke and flame, his nostrils engulfed by the aroma of burning shrapnel and ordinance. The adrenalin rush was overpowering as it swept through his tensed body, his finger slowly reaching for the firing button of the cannons, knowing the machine guns on the wings were virtually useless without unlimited ammunition against such large aircraft and used only once the chosen most effective projectile was exhausted.
His vision set on the targeting symbol before him, the American bomber filled his windscreen, his fingers tensing as cannon shells poured towards the large aircraft ahead, the screaming of the BMW engine filling his ears as flashes and glowing tracers filled his eyesight, shrapnel bursting around him, the clunks and clatters against the fighter hull deafening as he swept below.
Cannon shells swept through the B17 fuselage, flashes from severed electrical cabling and instruments startling and horrifying the terrified cowering crew. The upper gunner shuddered and shook violently as his shattered chest erupted in blood, the glass canopy imploding as a cannon shell swept through his chest and into the plane below. The B17 interior was engulfed in flame, black plumes of smoke pouring from two of the engines as the FW190 tore past, the pilot killed instantly as the co-pilot grappled desperately with the controls, the large plane beginning to twist in the air as it lost control. The B17 turned slowly on its axis, the shattered nose dropping downwards as flames filled the inside of the fuselage, fuel erupting in a fireball from the tanks into the enclosed interior space.
The plane began to twist and gradually turn to commence a downward spin, falling dramatically from formation as other bomber crews desperately grasped their controls, cannon shells from other fighters smashing into the forward hulls. One FW190 spun away sharply before the planes, its wings and engine burning as the pilot struggled with the canopy, the engine damaged from tracer fire as black acrid smoke and splattering oil enveloped the cockpit windows.
Two further lead B17s shuddered and began to gradually lose altitude, flames and black smoke billowing from two each of their engines, the propellers spinning briefly before stopping abruptly, sparks and burning fuel springing from the upper mountings, the pilots frantically struggling with their controls as their sturdy aircraft began to turn and bank onto their sides.
Lower and rear gunners twisted their own flashing machine guns, the men gasping as their muscles strained against the equipment, desperate to fire on the rapidly passing German fighters. The side gunners pushed the barrels of their weapons downwards, tracers spilling through the cold grey sky as the mottled camouflaged enemy planes swept past.
BMW engines roared as the FW190s swept downwards, levelling and then banking sharply southwards, the inexperienced pilots accelerating to re-join their leader as their earphones crackled, ‘Form up…weave and follow before we go round and attack them again.’ Ernst’s trembling voice was full of adrenalin, the flak explosions buffeting their aircraft as they spun and twisted in the sky, his body soaked in sweat as he briefly glimpsed the stricken American bomber below, back smoke pouring from the shattered fuselage as it broke up, the frame disintegrating in a fireball.
Two other four engine planes were falling further from formation behind, acrid smoke trailing from the damaged engines as the co-pilots shouted desperately to their crews behind, several unresponsive and two survivors wounded as they crawled painfully along the perforated fuselages. Cold wind tore at their grim faces, their bloodied flight suits torn as they checked still countrymen, the pilots slowly turned the B17s, considering a long damaged flight back to England better than capture on the ground, a brutal realisation that further enemy fighters would be hunting the stragglers all the way back to the coast and perhaps even over the channel.
Twelve Bf110s twin engine fighter planes swept down towards the southern flank of the American bomber formation, their pilots and rear navigators gritting their teeth as tracers poured upwards to meet the new threat. The cannons of the German planes flashed as the engines screamed downwards, four more American planes belching smoke, another erupting in a flash of fire as a projectile cut through the fuel tanks, shrapnel spinning from the numerous hits on other planes. The Bf110s roared past their prey, clanks and cracks against their hulls from flying debris, tracers following them from terrified upper and lower machine gunners, a couple of the German machines bucking as they were hit, pilots thrusting their sticks further forward to escape the ferocious enemy fire.
The black and dark grey flak explosions thickened below, ground gunners frantically reloading their artillery pieces as their commanders shouted orders desperately, the numerous trails across the sky to the west approaching the home city they defended, their eyes widening in horror as they glimpsed the sheer number of enemy bombers above.
The twin engine German planes swept on and through into the black detonations, fuselages buffeted by deafening explosions, the shrieking of metal becoming unbearable briefly before the fighter bombers tore onwards, levelling and spinning away as the cumbersome American aircraft began to pass overhead.
As the flak found the range and altitude of the brown-green planes overhead, the American pilots and crews braced themselves, their bodies soaked in terrified adrenalin fuelled sweat as their bombers bucked and shuddered violently, the fuselages showered with shrapnel from the numerous detonations. Gunners ducked and swore as the clattering on the outer hulls continued, knowing at any second their individual lives could be ended by the zipping high velocity sharp steel.
Engines coughed and spluttered as the debris clattered against propellers and frames, paint and the surfaces of the wings torn and dented as the barrage continued, another four engine plane dropping from formation as three of the engines wheezed and coughed, debris shattering through the front propellers and tearing through internal parts, black smoke and flames extending from the useless mountings.
The FW190s swept round to the west in formation, the camouflaged upper hulls virtually invisible to the bomber crews overhead, American lower gunners staring down in fear gripped anguish as the planes above them shook and shrieked dramatically.
Ernst Brandt wiped his brow nervously, grasping t
he microphone as his voice trembled with rising excitement, ‘Follow me…we fire everything at the rear of the formation above us…machine guns and all remaining cannon shells…then land at Bremen to refuel once the bombers have passed, we won’t have enough fuel now to return to base.’ He shook his head briefly in bitter realisation, ‘We cannot stop them…the city is too close now and they are too many…but we can scare them and bring more down. Other formations will be gathering to attack once they head home…we must survive this and fight another day.’ He hesitated in grim resignation, ‘Let us hope they are all in shelters and safe below for the hell that is to come…’
Navigators in the American bombers stared down into their scopes at the distant grey buildings below, smoke and clouds obscuring some of their views. The large planes buffeted and shook as detonations filled the turbulent air around them, their noses filled with the intense overpowering aroma of cordite and burnt or scorched metal. The flak unbelievably intensified further, more ground guns belching flame upwards as the crews worked feverishly, the grey sky filled with black puffs, flashes and explosions.
The electrical whine of opening bomb bay doors filled their ears as the steel shields extended downwards, several navigators reaching for the button that would release their payloads, their hands resting on the protective guard plate over the mechanism.
Commanders were screaming frantically at their gunner crews on the ground on the outer edges of the city, sweating loaders rushing forward with extra shells from underground stores as the 88mm Flak guns belched flame and fired continuously upwards, the weapons jolting on their housings and in emplacements as discharged smoke swirled around the crews. Their eyes bloodshot, the artillerymen occasionally glanced fearfully upwards in dread, the numerous vapour trails across the sky to the west seeming endless as the barrel muzzles above them barked and flashed with flame.
At the large Bremen Focke-Wulf works the engineers and workmen were running across the assembly shops and yards, heading for reinforced underground shelters, their eyes glancing nervously upwards into the grey sky as the city sirens wailed ominously overhead. Foremen and supervisors waved their staff frantically to safety, their smeared and oil spattered overalls stained further with sweat. On the walled roofs of several low bunkers surrounding the larger engineering structures, nervous energy swept through the Luftwaffe gun crews, the barrels of their guns rising quickly as the factory sirens started sounding. Fellow crew members rotated their handles and wheels to elevate the muzzles desperately, the battery commanders staring upwards with raised binoculars as frantic shouts filled the emplacements.
Through the warehouses, the last of the work crews lunged from the half assembled aircraft, the light grey plane fuselages in lines missing cockpit mountings and machine guns, several with open engine cowlings. A couple of men grasped for their personal tools as engines revved outside, some of the almost completed machines being driven away in lorries as Luftwaffe officers shouted frantically, gesturing in desperation for the drivers’ to accelerate, the trucks gathering speed towards the open gates of the despatch yards.
On the test field, seven unpainted dull grey FW190s without machine guns and cannons bounced forward, their brand new BMW engines roaring, the complex’s pilots having communally decided several weeks ago over late night drinks where their safest place would be in the event of a heavy enemy raid…none were intent on languishing in underground bunkers as heavy ordinance fell on their workplace…it was not in the nature of flyers to submit to dark confinement.
Half unloaded Opel Blitz delivery lorries swept from the open gates at the front of the complex, uniformed sentries waving them through as they began to seek cover themselves, the sudden thumps of guns firing out from within the manufacturing complex causing the soldiers to abruptly stare upwards, the distant drone of engines seeming to get nearer by the second.
The FW190s swept forward, tearing across the cold grey sky, seven fighters finally sweeping round behind the vast American formation, the young pilots eyes widening in horror at the sheer number of enemy bombers.
Ernst Brandt stared in disbelief at the grey city to their right and east as he clutched his microphone tightly, his voice shaking as he glimpsed flashes from the defensive gun batteries, ‘Their rear and underbelly machine gunners will concentrate fire if they see us…shoot quickly and then bank sharply downwards, spin and twist…just stay alive!’
The nervous trainee pilots clicked their microphones, the second officer and wingman speaking unannounced in a low adrenalin fuelled tone, ‘If one of us falls…follow the other…Herr Major, my apologies…’
Ernst grinned, used to his new comrade’s breach of protocol if the instinctive young man considered his commander had potentially missed something, his microphone crackling, ‘Not at all, Dieter, good point…we attack two at a time, then break, that will limit the effectiveness of their guns…’ Still smiling, he pulled the stick to his right, the engine roaring as the plane banked sharply, his voice rising in adrenalin fuelled intensity, ‘Remember…aim for the rear Amerikanisch aircraft…then dive away!’
His shoulder shunted left, back pressing into the flight seat as the FW190 shot forward, the other planes banking sharply behind and lining up in formation. Air streamed over the wings as Ernst gritted his teeth, his eyes dropping to the control panel briefly before staring back through the forward cockpit canopy.
With the spectacle of over one hundred vapour trails above them, the single seater planes roared towards their prey, the pilots staring forward grimly as their stomachs twitched in anticipation and rising fear.
The rear and lower American gunners were scrutinising with narrowed eyes the terrain below and sky around them nervously, the bombers shaking and shuddering violently as shrapnel cracked against the sides and underbellies, the eruptions deafening as side crews peered out, glancing into the grey heavens above for the signs of black dots that would signify the next attack.
Then one of the rear gunners noticed the distortion behind, the marks sweeping across the distant terrain, shaking hands rising to the microphone, ‘Enemy planes...incoming…’ Tracers burst from his guns, the lights zipping towards the oncoming fighters, the single engine machines twisting and turning in the sky as other tracers joined the first, the rear gunners opening fire frantically.
Flak flashed around their cockpits, the black puffs of smoke expanding outwards as debris clattered against the hulls, Ernst ducking instinctively as the cockpit glass cracked loudly to his right, the plane weaving and spinning as he gritted his teeth. His thumbs pressed hard on the fire buttons as his eyes narrowed, flashes passing the canopy as bullets and tracer fire poured past.
The BMW engine was deafening as the fighter bucked and spun, cannon and bullets tearing forward towards the B17 before him, his eyesight blurred in terror as shrapnel and debris from the aircraft ahead smacked against the wings and fuselage around him, the guns of the FW190 blazing.
Then the fighter rose slightly, the power dropping abruptly away as oil splattered across the windows, Ernst swallowing hard as his body shook, black smoke engulfing the outside of the cockpit as the stricken FW190 turned over on its side, then began to fall, the pilot’s body thrown sideways against his harness.
Ernst Brandt could vaguely hear the shouts of his wingman, the clatter of debris and cracking of bullets against the wings almost drowning the other pilot out, ‘Herr Leutnant…jump…get out! The fighter will flame…’
Then the damaged fighter fell away, twisting and falling from the other planes, Ernst struggling as the cabin rapidly filled with smouldering smoke, the stench of burning filling his panic enlarged nostrils, his gloved hands reaching desperately for the catches on the canopy above.
The six other FW190s swept in towards the large American planes ahead, the flashes of tracers sweeping past their cockpits as sweat filled their brows, a couple blinking in shock as bullets and cannon shells spewed from their guns. Fragments of the bombers ahead flew around the lone pilots as
their planes slewed back and forth, two twisting away as smoke billowed from their engines, the damaged aircraft banking downward as the surviving FW190s tore away from the large formation, their planes dented and battered.
One American bomber slowed, black smoke lines pouring from the engines, another banking low and beginning to turn sharply to head back towards the west, two more pilots struggling with their controls, one with a shattered tailfin, the other carrying several dead crew members, the flaps inoperable with internal cabling severed.
Ernst Brandt felt the cold air grip and tear at his exposed features, the canopy cracking behind as it fell away, the FW190 spinning uncontrollably as he winced, hot smoke billowing around him as warm oil splattered across his face and flight suit. Gasping as the bitter cold air tugged across his chest, he grappled with the controls, attempting to stabilise the fighter to enable him to release his straps, his senses reeling as the single engine plane continued to spin, the vision of green fields and trees below filling his widening eyes.
Sucking air, his nervous tension and fear mounted as the stick and controls seemed unresponsive, his training and previous experience of other flyers having taught him that jumping blinded without injury in a spinning plane was rare, the likelihood he would recover in time and deploy his chute remote.
Then he felt some tug in the stick, his hands grasping it tightly and pushing back and against the spin, the fighter seeming to buck and jolt, his breath nervously held as the plane twisted over, hands jerking instinctively at the stick harder, the spinning reducing slightly and angle of descent becoming less as Ernst’s heart pounded.
Bloody Citadel Page 10