The tracers were almost tickling the edge of his cockpit and only then did Gentile throw the Thunderbolt hard to port, with his left foot hard down on the rudder pedal and the stick far to the side. It was a dangerous manoeuvre and he felt his battered aircraft straining, but just as he was on the edge of falling into a spin he pulled out. But his enemy was still there, sending bursts of tracer towards him. Gentile let the process happen all over again: the tight turn, the deflection shooting from the German, watching the tracers getting ever closer and then the flick hard to port.
Then suddenly, in a turn, his Thunderbolt flicked over and he was upside down looking down at the Forest of Compiègne, almost brushing the tops of the trees. Hurtling along at over 300 m.p.h., he flicked the Thunderbolt back the right way, so close to the forest it seemed as though the foliage was in his cockpit with him, but his trick worked, because he was flying alongside the German and, at last, clear of the angle of fire of his guns.
‘Help!’ Gentile now screamed into his radio. ‘Help! I’m being clobbered!’14
‘Would the individual with the screaming voice please give us his call letters and tell us his exact position as to altitude, longitude, and latitude,’ came a muffled reply. But Gentile couldn’t tell him because he had his eyes glued on the German pilot in the Focke-Wulf. For a moment they continued flying alongside each other, then the German turned in towards him and Gentile turned in towards him too, which gave his enemy little time to shoot. Still the German wouldn’t give up and turned back again as Gentile passed him so that once more they were flying alongside each other. And again, he turned towards him and Gentile followed suit, praying that a lucky shot wouldn’t finish him. This went on for quarter of an hour, as both reversed turns from head-on attacks. All Gentile had to do was keep going until his enemy ran out of ammunition. ‘And that’s what happened,’ he wrote later.15 ‘He used up his last bullets and then went home, and I climbed with a great surge into the sky.’
When Gentile touched back down again at Debden, he was weak from fatigue and for a few minutes sat there in the cockpit. Exhausted, he was also euphoric. That day, he had become an ace, an ambition that had driven him from the moment he had arrived in England. He also knew that on that flight he had passed a vital test. ‘It showed me what I had learned and it taught me what I was,’ he said.16 ‘After it, I felt there was no German alive anywhere who could keep me from killing him when I had an even break in the fight; or if the breaks went against me and he got them all, I felt I could keep him from killing me.’
Now his crew chief was up on the wing beside him. ‘Boy, are we glad to see you, Captain,’ he said. ‘We heard you were a goner.’ His Thunderbolt, he added sadly, was going to take a little while to patch up. Gentile nodded silently, then gingerly took off his helmet, pushed himself up out of the cockpit and on unsteady legs, clambered down.
CHAPTER 17
Little Friends
IN CONTRAST WITH the fighter units desperately defending the Reich, those of VIII Fighter Command were finding life considerably less perilous. On 20 January, the 56th FG lost their only pilot all month when Allen Dimmick was shot down and killed on his first combat sortie. Dimmick had been wingman to Les Smith, who had been chasing after two Focke-Wulfs at the time. Bob Johnson had seen it all: Smith hammering away and then two more 190s bursting out of a cloud. Johnson shouted at them to break, but they didn’t hear, or didn’t respond quickly enough. Johnson opened fire, hoping to put the enemy pilots off their stride, but he was too far away and he knew it, and so, it seemed, did the Germans. Helplessly, Johnson watched one of the Focke-Wulfs close in to almost point-blank range, open fire with his cannons and knock Dimmick out of the sky. By this time, however, Johnson had caught up and opened fire in turn. His blood was up and he watched with grim satisfaction as his bullets tore into the Focke-Wulf. ‘I wanted that German, I wanted to kill him,’ he wrote.1 ‘I’ve never before been so badly afflicted with the urge to kill as I was at that moment.’ The German pilot dived, twisting and turning as he did so, but Johnson hung on his tail, firing off short bursts, and eventually the Focke-Wulf flipped over and plunged down into the ground.
On the 30th, the targets were Brunswick and Hanover. Kepner had refined his fighter tactics further after Doolittle had formally introduced his more aggressive approach nine days earlier. From then on, each fighter group would provide two squadrons on close escort duty while the third would be the ‘bouncing’ squadron, flying higher and given licence to dive down after enemy planes and to remain low in order to roam and hunt any trying to form up for future attacks.
On the way to Brunswick, the 56th’s bouncing squadron was able to surprise a large formation of enemy fighters, diving down on them with the twin advantages of height and sun. Bob Johnson went after an Me410 twin-engine fighter. ‘It was so easy it was ridiculous,’ noted Johnson. Closing in to 150 yards, he opened fire and tore the Messerschmitt to pieces. At one point, Johnson saw at least six German fighters plummeting to the ground trailing smoke and flames. In all, they claimed sixteen that day, which meant the tally for the month stood at thirty-nine for the loss of Dimmick alone. In all, on the two raids on 29 and 30 January, the Luftwaffe lost 109 fighters, most of which were to their American fighter adversaries.
For the Mustang fighter group, the scores at the end of January were fifty-three confirmed enemy aircraft shot down, but with losses of eleven. This was quite high, but the 354th were still new to combat and were flying further than any other fighter group. And they were still massively in credit. Dick Turner had managed to shoot down four and, across the board, the American fighter groups were demonstrating the huge advantage of having superior pilots. A second fighter group, the 357th, had been equipped with Mustangs and was now working up to go operational.
Among the recently arrived pilots of the 357th was Lieutenant Clarence ‘Bud’ Anderson, just turned twenty-two in January but already with more than 850 hours in his logbook, some eight times as many as a Luftwaffe pilot could expect before going operational. Raised on a farm near Newcastle, to the north-west of Sacramento in California, he had become besotted with flying as a young boy when a tri-motor Boeing Model 80 had crash-landed one December evening just before Christmas 1929 on a nearby farm. Anderson had gone to see it with his best pal, Jack Stacker. ‘After that,’ he wrote later, ‘all we talked about and dreamed of were airplanes and airplanes and airplanes.’2 Much of his childhood had involved tearing around with Jack in his dad’s old Ford V8 truck, going to watch aircraft whenever they could and earning as much as possible on the farm. In the autumn of 1939, he had enrolled at Sacramento Junior College Technical Institute for Aeronautics, which, he knew, would give him the academic qualifications to join the Air Corps. As matters stood, a young man had to be twenty years old to join, which was still more than two years away, so in the meantime he set his sights on enrolling in the Civilian Pilot Training Program, which he finally did in early 1941. By June he had his licence. His first passenger was Jack Stacker, who was a year behind him at college.
On 13 January 1942, his twentieth birthday, Anderson had signed up for the air force and was not only accepted, but within a week was called up and on 29 September that same year was awarded his wings, commissioned a second lieutenant. He had always wanted to be a fighter pilot. ‘I thought that if I was in a single-engine fighter,’ he said, ‘I would be in control of my environment.’3 He got his wish and was first assigned to the 328th Fighter Group flying P-39 Airacobras. Not long after, Anderson and four others were singled out to become flight leaders for a new fighter group that was being formed, the 357th. For three months it was based at Tonopah, in the desert in Nevada, where they worked hard, played hard and steadily added hours to their logbooks. Anderson discovered the fighter-pilot mentality beginning to take root. ‘Living close to the edge,’ he wrote, ‘sort of went with the job.4 Daring, audacity, creativity, flair – those things were as much a part of a good fighter pilot’s makeup as skill and sound judgm
ent, and were encouraged.’
In the early summer of 1943, the group split into their squadrons and headed to different bases. Anderson was assigned to the 363rd Fighter Squadron and posted to Santa Rosa, not far from his home in northern California, but was almost immediately sent on a two-week gunnery course in Texas, then back to Santa Rosa and yet more training in clear skies. Finally, on 23 November, they set sail from New York aboard the Queen Elizabeth and docked at Greenock on the 30th. By that time, Anderson’s friend Jack Stacker was already dead, although Anderson didn’t know it at the time. Stacker had joined up slightly behind him, but had been shipped overseas to join a P-38 fighter group ahead of his friend. On his fourth mission, on 13 November, he was shot down and reported missing. He had, in fact, survived his bail-out, but, badly wounded, had later died in hospital.
Anderson had earlier recognized that flying fighter planes – and in a war – was a dangerous business and that losing friends went with the territory. Pals had already been killed during training and early on in his career Anderson had resolved to control his emotions, no matter how hard this might be. It was a stressful occupation and he realized that men either coped or did not. Death was something he knew he had to get used to, so by the time he arrived in England he already had a tough protective shell around himself.
As with the 354th, Anderson and his fellows in the 357th were initially assigned to the Ninth Air Force but were then transferred to the Eighth, neatly swapping with a new Thunderbolt group. This was a direct result of a conference Spaatz had held on 24 January to regularize and prioritize which newly arriving aircraft and units would be going into which air force. Eaker, before him, had never corrected the earlier decision that all Mustangs should go to the Ninth, which was why the 354th was still officially only on loan to the Eighth and why the 357th had been initially posted to the Ninth. From 24 January 1944, however, all P-51s would be sent to the Eighth and, as they arrived, P-47 units would transfer to the Ninth, where, with their shorter ranges and rugged construction, they were better suited to the demands of supporting the lower-level medium bombers, as well as both ground attack and escort work closer to base.
As a result, the 357th, the Eighth’s second new Mustang group, moved to Leiston on the Suffolk coast. That evening they tuned in to German radio, on which they heard the presenter welcoming the 357th as the ‘Yoxford Boys’ to their new base. Yoxford was a small town some 5 miles from the base and it was slightly unsettling to hear this on enemy radio before they had even unpacked. On the other hand, they had been inadvertently given a nickname. The Yoxford Boys they would remain.
They were all chomping at the bit to get going, but, quite apart from the dismal weather, one of their biggest challenges was their lack of any combat experience. Clearly, it was essential the group, squadron and flight leaders all got some operational hours under their belts, so they were sent to Boxford to carry out some missions with the 354th. The first to go was Captain Joe Giltner, of Anderson’s 363rd FS, who had just become their fifth squadron commander in six months. The first had had sinus problems and left; the second had died in a mid-air collision; the third had pretended to be married when he wasn’t in order to get his girlfriend on base and had been caught out and fired; and the fourth had been just a stop-gap. The 363rd boys were beginning to wonder whether they were cursed, which wasn’t great for morale. Unhappily, on 24 January, his first mission, Giltner was shot down and made a POW. ‘The 357th,’ noted Anderson, ‘was off to a very poor start.’5
By 5 February, the 357th had some seventy-four P-51Bs and two days later Anderson headed to Boxted with half a dozen other pilots from the group. They had all assumed that after what had happened to Giltner they would be given a ramrod or some milk run to France, but instead the target on 8 February was Frankfurt.
Anderson’s heart was hammering in his chest as he strode out to his plane that morning. In the cockpit, he strapped himself in, attached his radio leads and tightened the harness, then sat there, alone, waiting for the signal to start. He now had a staggering 893 flying hours, of which nearly thirty-one were in Mustangs, but he was well aware that, no matter how good he was, combat flying was a new experience for him. Sitting there, it was neither dying nor getting hurt that worried him, but screwing up. It was, he was aware, difficult following another pilot as he twisted and turned across the sky. The Mustang could travel at over 7 miles per minute at full pelt, and Anderson knew that, travelling at those speeds and swooping all over the place, it could be very difficult to keep glued to the pilot he was supposed to stick to and very easy to find himself miles away, and then lost, with the odds of survival sliding.
They took off and climbed in fours through the cloud, then suddenly they were out in the sunlight and circling slowly while the others joined them. Mustangs would appear every half minute or so, in their fours, then join the sixteen-plane squadron. Once the three-squadron group had formed up, they headed out over the North Sea towards Germany.
Within an hour they found the bombers and climbed to 30,000 feet above them, then throttled back to around 230 m.p.h. and zig-zagged over them. Far down below, occupied Europe was white and grey, but, although it looked peaceful enough, Anderson was keenly aware that it was dangerous out there and full of people who wanted to hurt him. It was unsettling. He had a small knot of fear in his stomach.
Suddenly, he heard someone call out, ‘Bogeys!’ and he was immediately alert, the adrenalin kicking in. Anderson was determined to keep close to his leader, whose wing was already up and his Mustang sliding away. He was yelling something over the radio and Anderson realized he was after an enemy fighter. ‘I do what he does,’ he noted, ‘all the time looking around, looking down … and then there’s a Focke–Wulf 190, right there, a half mile off, maybe less.’6 Anderson was now almost upside down and looking straight down on the German fighter with its blue-grey camouflage and big black crosses. Glancing around him and behind, Anderson was aware there were now hundreds of planes swirling around, but his leader was pulling out of his dive and closing in on his target.
‘Mustang, Mustang! There’s one on your tail!’7 Anderson now heard in his headphones.
Anderson wondered whether this meant him. Looking around frantically, he saw nothing, but again came the warning. ‘Mustang! Mustang! He’s still on your tail!’
Again Anderson looked around but could see nothing, while his leader opened fire at too far a range. Had he known better, Anderson would have told him not to worry – that the warning was not for them – but he was green and new and so didn’t. Instead, the warning came yet again, so he flung his plane around, desperately looking about him, then heard a loud clunk. I’m hit! he thought. He pulled back on the stick, put his Mustang into a tight turn, felt himself start to black out from the forces of negative g, but could still see no one. Then his brain engaged and he remembered the clunk would have been caused by the supercharger cutting out after diving through 16,000 feet and more. He cursed, feeling like an idiot and, even worse, realized now he was alone.
Anderson, like Bob Johnson, was fortunate to be blessed with exceptional eyesight and he spotted an aircraft in the distance. As he drew close, he realized it was his leader. Joining him, they then headed back to England. At Boxted, they reckoned someone must have thought Anderson was an Me109, but no one else was admitting to having given the warning. ‘Man, was my flight leader pissed!’8 recalled Anderson. ‘He could have gotten that Focke-Wulf and he wanted the victory. It was one more German pilot who would live to fly and fight another day.’ Anderson felt bad, but he had gained some much-needed experience and at least he hadn’t got the shakes or panicked. And he had made it home, which was more than could be said for his pal, Lloyd Hubbard, with whom he had joined the 357th. The next day, Hubbard flew with the 354th and on the way home they strafed an enemy airfield as per Doolittle’s orders. Hubbard was the last of four in the strafing run. ‘That morning,’ wrote Anderson, ‘some German gunner blew him out of the air.’9
/> Next in line to receive Mustangs was the 4th Fighter Group. Don Blakeslee had never much liked the Thunderbolt, but he absolutely loved the Mustang from the outset and, having been lent one with which to lead the 354th FG on their first few missions in December, was determined the 4th should get them too. Blakeslee had even gone to General Bill Kepner in person and pleaded. Kepner was sympathetic, but pointed out that it would take too long for the 4th to make the switch because almost certainly they would be needed in the air rather than out of action while both pilots and ground crew learned how to use their new planes.
‘No, sir,’ Blakeslee told him. ‘Most of these boys flew liquid-cooled types in the RAF.10 It won’t take them long.’ He also pointed out that the mechanics were used to Spitfires and also to Merlin engines. ‘General, give me those Mustangs,’ he pleaded, ‘and I give you my word – I’ll have ’em in combat in twenty-four hours. I promise – 24 hours.’ It was a deal. By the end of February, the Blakesleewaffe, as the 4th was starting to be known, would be the third fighter group to get Mustangs.
By mid-February, the Eighth was in a position to mount the best part of a hundred long-range P-51s on every bombing mission and nearly seven hundred fighters of all kinds, most of which were superior to those of the enemy. Technical advantage counted for nothing, however, if the pilots were not up to the challenge, yet by February 1944 every man had a lot of hours in his logbook, while good combat experience was spread through the entire VIII Fighter Command. Great efforts were made to share this knowledge and expertise. Group, squadron and flight leaders were issued with tactical notes ‘which every pilot should know’.11 The finger-four was the flying formation to be used. Number 1 would be ahead of the others with his wingman, Number 2, on his left and slightly behind. Numbers 3 and 4 would be on the leader’s right and also behind, rather as in the ends of the fingers of an outstretched hand. ‘No. 1 is free to look all around,’ stated one of the tactical memos.12 ‘Nos. 2, 3, and 4 must guard the rear of the Section by looking across and behind. Cross over turns should be practiced.’ The advantages were that formations could fly straight and level without much fear of being bounced and it helped conserve fuel. The big disadvantage was that a pilot had to rely on another to guard his tail – but that was where training, trust and confidence all played a vital part.
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