Flames in the Sky: Epic stories of WWII air war heroism from the author of The Big Show (Pierre Clostermann's Air War Collection Book 2)

by Pierre Clostermann

  The chief problem was where to put the two cumbersome G.E.C. exhaust impellers. If they were put in the fuselage the result was a monstrosity, quite apart from the probability of the pilot being roasted alive. If they went behind the engines, the shaft would mess up the trailing edge of the wing. Finally the only logical conclusion was reached by sheer elimination; suppress the main fuselage and extend the engine units by means of two booms which would carry the tailplane.

  The cockpit ‘egg’, containing the pilot and the armament specified—four machine-guns and one 23-mm. Madsen cannon—was placed in the nose. The wing, incidentally, was a very successful design, and an enlarged version was eventually used in that superb plane, the Constellation. Finally, as a last bold stroke, a tricycle undercarriage was designed, the first to be fitted to any American plane.

  When the blue-prints and the scale model were finished, the Air Corps technicians came to examine them. After shying at first—officials on principle dislike accepting revolutionary ideas—they placed an order for a prototype. This was in June 1937.

  The young Lockheed engineers now had to face a series of resounding technical setbacks. The first wing behaved disquietingly in the wind-tunnel. A second, designed and constructed in eighteen days, could not take normal flaps at more than 110 m.p.h. without an alarming change of attitude. Finally Fowler came to the rescue with his variable aspect-ratio flaps, which had just saved another of the firm’s initial failures, the Lockheed 14, from which the R.A.F. Hudson was later derived.

  The front wheel of the tricycle undercart, when it was tested under a two-ton weight towed at 75 m.p.h., developed a terrifying judder, and, to cap all, the two prototype engines—900-h.p. Allisons—proved to be extremely temperamental on the test bench.

  As the Lockheed team were really keen, they did not let all this get them down. The firm even managed to dig out a test-pilot from among the out-of-work suicide specialists from the Cleveland Air Races.

  At last, on 27th January 1939, Lieutenant on Reserve (now Colonel) Ben F. Kesley, succeeded in getting the XP-38 into the air, watched by the chief engineer, Hall Hibbart, and the entire personnel massed at the foot of the control tower on March Field in California.

  Just as they were all patting each other on the back over a perfect take-off, the trouble began. As Kesley tried to pick up his flaps, a control-rod came unstuck. Shaken by terrific vibrations, the plane started to swing all over the place. The pilot hesitated whether to bale out, but obeying the unwritten code, ‘bring the kite home at all costs,’ decided to try to land her. By an incredible feat of airmanship he succeeded in putting her down all of a piece in a ploughed field on a hillside.

  The plane was repaired and the next ten flights went off without a hitch. In the meantime, however, the Air Corps technicians had changed their minds and announced that they did not now intend to persevere with the project. Lockheeds decided that drastic measures were called for, and on 11th February Ben Kesley took off from March Field for New York. Beating all transcontinental records, Kesley was over Long Island in seven hours and two minutes. Tired by his journey, and the exceptionally difficult atmospheric conditions, Kesley throttled back too far when he came in to land and flooded his engines when he opened up again too roughly. Left with two dead engines, he had to belly-land in a ravine.

  The only witness of the accident telephoned the press first and the airfield second, in the best American tradition. The next day’s papers were plastered with photographs of the XP-38, and the first result of this unforeseen publicity was, curiously enough, an initial order for thirteen aircraft.

  The technical big-shots whose hand had been thus forced got their own back by inflicting on Lockheed’s poor harassed engineers no fewer than 3897 modifications. It was therefore not till July 1941 that the first P-38 came off the assembly line.

  The first forty were sent to the R.A.F. under Lease-Lend, but minus their superchargers, as these were still considered to be top-secret. As without them the P-38 was practically useless, the R.A.F. politely but firmly declined to use its pilots as guinea-pigs on them (just as it did with the P-39 Airacobra). The P-38 therefore continued to be produced for the exclusive use of the U.S. Army Air Corps.

  Then the war caught up with the United States, and the first operational flight on a P-38 was carried out in June 1942 by a Captain Karl Polifka. It was a reconnaissance flight over the Japanese fleet, from Australia. After that the P-38 totally vanished from circulation and was not heard of again till the North African landing in November 1942, when the name ‘Lightning’ began to figure in communiqués.

  Its beginnings were not too brilliant. The American pilots not only lacked combat experience, they had not quite got the hang of their twin-engined machines, and furthermore suffered from a pronounced feeling of inferiority vis-à-vis single-engine fighters. The Focke-Wulfs had a wonderful time. The first three P-38 squadrons were to all intents wiped out within a few weeks, and at one stage they even had to be escorted by P-40s, which could hardly keep up with them.

  Gradually a special combat technique was elaborated by the Langley Field experts. Special flaps were fitted which were lowered 8 degrees during combat to facilitate turns, and fighter-pilots learned to exploit the advantage of having two engines.

  Thanks to its speed, its great range and, above all, the extreme toughness and reliability of its air frame, the Lightning eventually became a firm favourite. The wings could be festooned like a Christmas tree with an assortment of auxiliary tanks, bombs, rockets, even torpedoes, according to the requirements of the moment; and of course also a collection of cameras for taking vertical and oblique photos.

  Its armament being concentrated in the nose, it was ideal for strafing targets on the ground. Hence the name of ‘two-tailed devil’ given to it by the wretched Wehrmacht infantry, mercilessly harried on the roads of Normandy. Its speed made it quite a respectable reconnaissance aircraft (Saint-Exupéry was flying the F.S. Photo version when he disappeared). But as a straight fighter it was never as good as the P-51, or even that big brute the P-47 Thunderbolt. A very few pilots—Bong and MacGuire in the Pacific (forty and thirty-eight successes), and Jenkins and Thomas White in England (sixteen and twenty-two successes)—took on the standard single-engine fighters successfully, thanks to a special and difficult team-work technique, but they were exceptions. At Fassberg in 1945 I saw a combat film of Hans Phillip shooting down the four Lightnings of a section one after the other. It might have given budding P-38 pilots something to think about, but luckily the war was over.

  6900 Lightnings were built, and, after successive modifications, by 1945 this aircraft—officially a fighter—could carry two tons of bombs 600 miles, i.e. half a ton more than the Flying Fortress. That represented a three-ton overload since the original blue-print.

  In 1945 the P-38s engines developed 1600 h.p. each, or almost double the power of the 1938 Allisons. In March 1944 Ben Kesley dived a Lightning at 800 m.p.h. in a test. A second experiment of the same kind in May 1944 nearly ended in disaster. Kesley’s wings folded up at 23,000 feet and he only managed to jump clear in the nick of time. After that he had to have six months’ ‘furlough’ with a P-38 squadron operating in the Pacific. .

  The particulars of the Lockheed P-38J were as follows: wingspan 50 feet, length 38 feet, wing area 330 square feet, weight unloaded 5-7 tons, maximum loaded weight 8-2 tons; maximum speed 414 m.p.h. at 25,000 feet; radius of action without drop-tanks 360 miles; armament, four 13-mm. machine-guns and one 20-mm. Hispano cannon; all metal construction.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  COLONEL PIJEAUD

  At the beginning of 1941 Rommel’s tactical air support in Egypt consisted of sixty-five Messerschmitt 109s, eighty-four Stukas (Junkers 87s), forty-two Messerschmitt 110s (long-range fighter-bombers) and a few Junkers 88s—never more than twenty—used for armed reconnaissance. These two hundred or so aircraft were laboriously kept supplied with petrol and ammunition (German supplies of these two essentials in the desert
never did reach an adequate level) by Junkers 52s and big Savoia Marchetti 82 ‘Kangaroos’, hurriedly recalled from Crete and the Balkans.

  About 250 aircraft of the Regia Aeronautica d’ltalia were also available—Cant 1001s, Savoia 79s, Fiat 42s and, in addition, a handful of Macchi 202s which were, however, mostly reserved for the Battle of Malta. For special strategic operations Rommel could also call on units stationed on Rhodes.

  Air Marshal Longmore, who commanded the R.A.F. in Egypt, had an even more difficult problem than his adversary. With only a very small strength in aircraft he had to try and make up for the obvious inferiority of the British ground-forces, particularly in armour.

  Longmore had under him five bomber squadrons (45,113 and 55 equipped with Blenheims, and 38 and 70 equipped with Wellingtons) and five fighter squadrons (3, 274, 73 and 4 ‘South African’ equipped with Hurricanes, and 5 ‘South African’ equipped with Tomahawks). In all sixty-eight Blenheims, twenty-nine Wellingtons, eighty-eight Hurricanes and Tomahawks and seventeen army co-operation Lysanders.

  Two more bomber squadrons were added to these, both South African. One was equipped with Junkers 86s, old German planes fitted with radial engines, and the other with Glenn Martin Marylands.

  With these figures in mind, one can easily appreciate the importance of the contribution made by the Free French Air Force, represented by the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron, equipped with Blenheims, and the GC1, a squadron of Hurricanes. In addition, Free France provided the only direct route for supplies and reinforcements. In three months no fewer than 147 aircraft were transferred to Egypt via Takoradi, while only ten Wellingtons, five Blenheims and two Beauforts had arrived via Malta.

  Unfortunately, out of these 147 planes 72 were Tomahawks (Curtiss P-40s) for the Australian squadrons in process of formation, and they had to be drastically modified before they could be risked against Messerschmitt 109s. The workshops in Alexandria had to provide them with new armament, modify the cooling system, fit carburettor filters, oxygen, different sights, and improve the tail-trimmer.

  During this same period the R.A.F. lost 184 planes!

  These meagre R.A.F. and F.F. Air Forces had, unaided, to sustain the heroic effort on which the fate of the world struggle depended at that time. It is difficult to resist the temptation to pause and consider the attitude of the French leaders in Africa at this juncture.

  In August 1940 they had at their disposal an impressive number of warplanes. In all there were fifteen fighter and bomber squadrons equipped with American planes, plus five squadrons of Dewoitine 520s—first-class planes in 1940—and five squadrons of Lioré-et-Olivier Le O 45s, which ultimately did a good job in Tunisia in 1943. At a pinch ten more squadrons could have been added, of reconnaissance Potez 63s and Bloch 175s, plus eleven other squadrons equipped with an assortment of other types. In all forty-six squadrons, manned by first-class crews who would have liked nothing better than to go fighting for France.

  If only their chiefs had listened to de Gaulle, what an avalanche would have swept over the rear of the weak German and Italian forces in Libya, the Fezzan and Cyrenaica. It is easy to visualise what might have happened—the complete reversal of the situation, the repercussions in Greece and in Crete and even, in 1942, in the Far East. One thing is certain: the Germans would never, even with Franco’s help, have been able to cross the Mediterranean. That excuse must be dismissed once and for all—that North Africa had to be safeguarded to prevent the Germans immediately seizing it! How could they have seized it? No, it won’t do!

  It took the Luftwaffe three months to recover from the Battle of France before it could start the attack on Britain.

  Three out of every five of Rommel’s supply ships were getting sunk in January 1941 by the two solitary torpedo-bomber squadrons based on Malta, and later in 1942 the proportion rose to nine out of ten.

  Let us not forget that the entire merchant tonnage available in the Mediterranean would have been insufficient to transport six enemy divisions with full equipment and keep them supplied for a year. Furthermore, our French Navy, the quality of whose ships and crews excited the admiration of the whole world, was quite ready to fight alongside the Royal Navy. The Royal Navy in the Mediterranean, which kept the powerful Italian Navy at bay and trounced it regularly in every engagement, consisted merely of an old 1918 battleship, three cruisers and seven destroyers.

  What a fine role France could have played!

  Yes, I know that our ships had little A.A. and ammunition—enough all the same to fire on the Americans in 1942. I know, too, that our Air Force was short of spare parts for its planes. But something else I know is that we had some squadrons equipped with American planes, and that for three years the R.A.F. used Bostons, P-36s and Marylands earmarked for us and which even had French instrument panels. In 1940 these planes were in American docks, waiting for the word from us.

  As for the squadrons equipped with French planes, they could have fought for a few months and kept going by cannibalisation. After all, how did American units manage in the Pacific in 1942? How did the South Africans manage for a whole year in the front line with their Junkers 86s? Does anyone suppose that the Luftwaffe sportingly supplied them with spare engines?

  What about the Malta boys, who fought four against a hundred in Spitfires kept in the air by soldiers who learned about aircraft maintenance more or less as they went along? And what about the 3200 trucks handed over to Rommel, and captured when he was strangled by the R.A.F. at the end of 1942? Might they not have equipped French motorised units to fight the enemy, when Wavell had just about 500 vehicles to beat Graziani’s forces in Libya?

  Of course it would have made things tougher for the French in France, but so much was at stake—would it not have been worth it? Our moral fibre would have been in better shape in 1945, and we should have had even more right to our Allies’ gratitude and respect.

  It is precisely because of all this that men like Pijeaud got themselves killed, and that our comrades at Bir Hakeim were massacred to stop Rommel. Thanks to them, we could still hold our heads high.

  This chapter is dedicated to Jean-Claude and Françoise Pijeaud. They know what the honour of France cost them.

  * * *

  Gambut, 20th December 1941

  The Free French (Air Forces) ‘Lorraine’ bomber squadron was based at Gambut, a vast stretch of dust and stones in summer, a marsh in winter. The French shared it with a mixed British wing of Hurricanes and Blenheims.

  All round the airfield the flying and ground personnel camped in extraordinary shanties knocked together out of empty cans, packing-cases and patched bits of tent-cloth. At night the cold was arctic, by day the sun roasted you. When it rained the men were devoured by insects and floundered in the mud, while the planes got bogged. After a couple of fine days you sank up to the ankles in a flour-like dust.

  The men lived in conditions of hardship recalling those of medieval hermits and eastern slaves. Water was severely rationed and they had to fight the flies for the slice of corned beef which turned up regularly at every meal. The extremes of temperature, the lack of vitamins and chronic amoebic dysentery told on the crews. The infernal sand forced the fitters to work like slaves in hell. After thirty hours’ flying-time an engine was worn out, the cylinders pitted, the valves eroded, and all the oil in the sumps got used up in a few hours. The salt damp rotted the cables inside their sheaths, the control-rods gave way and the oleos[8] seized up. Tyres had to be kept covered with moist cloths to prevent them bursting in the sun, and that made a big hole in the meagre water-ration. The petrol vapourised in the tanks, which burst at the joints—hence a constant risk of going up in flames in the air.

  Taking off in a cloud of dust, which caked on the perspex charged with static, was an exhausting performance. The hot, dancing air, seemed unable to carry the planes and they would drop a wing at the slightest excuse. The superchargers vainly sucked in the warm rarefied air, and lost half their effectiveness.

  Sometimes a d
ust-storm rose on the horizon, veiling the sun. The opaque wall would hit the airfield at 60 m.p.h., smothering the men and equipment in a whirlwind of gritty sand. The sand penetrated everywhere, in your eyes, between your teeth, in the tool-kits, in the food, even in the petrol cans. It scraped the paint clean off the wings like emery paper.

  When the elements let up, the Stukas and Junkers 88s would come along, bombing and strafing mercilessly. The tracer pierced the walls of the buildings and the splinters mowed down the men and set fire to the planes.

  Sometimes, in the treacherous half-light after sunset, Messerschmitt 109s skimmed in over the dunes, zooming over the field like comets, their engines and guns roaring.

  On top of that, there was the uncertainty of a fluid front. The men’s nerves were strained to the limit by months of lightning attacks succeeded by disorderly retreats. The ‘Lorraine’ crews remembered how their mates in GC1, the Free French fighter squadron which had been left with their Hurricanes at Halfaya as rear-guard, had taken off under the fire of German tanks.

  At night the slightest growl of an engine, the slightest sound of chains, reverberating in the silence of the desert, brought everybody immediately to their feet. It could be an enemy armoured column stabbing over the limitless plain.

  A fortnight earlier Colonel Corniglion-Molinier had handed over as O.C. Lorraine Squadron to Colonel Pijeaud, who had previously been the first C.-in-C. of the F.F.A.F. in Great Britain and had come out to North Africa at his own wish. The twin-engined Blenheims of the French squadron each bore a large Maltese, i.e. Lorraine, cross on the fuselage, to distinguish them from the British planes. The same proud emblem was embroidered on the shoulders of Koenig’s men in the Free French Division which later defended Bir Hakeim, and of Leclerc’s, whose column ranged over Tripolitania, as far as Tripoli itself.