It was a few seconds after we sighted the airfield at Abbeville that we saw our bombers ahead, and almost at the same time, the first FW190’s.
I heard Blakeslee on the RT. ‘There’s a million of them, 190’s … down there. Horseback Leader to Horseback; continue to join up with the bombers. I’m going down. Goody, give me top cover!’ ‘Horseback’ was the Fourth’s call sign at the time.
Blakeslee started his diving turn as he started to speak. By the time his brief message was over, his P-47 was in an almost vertical dive. He wanted to get down to attack the 190’s before he lost them, and he needed the speed. I knew immediately that, if I was to stay with him, I had to move as fast and dive as steeply as he had. The rest of Don’s flight hadn’t reacted as fast, and a gap opened up between them and their leader. I realised I had to try to catch Blakeslee or he would be on his own. I went into a vertical dive, glancing behind, every so often, but never losing sight of the leader.
I saw him pull out of his almost vertical dive to come up under two 190’s. I pulled out of my dive as hard as I could to cut the corner, almost blacking out. He was closing on one of the 190’s. I knew he wouldn’t fire until the last moment. He admitted to being a poor shot. But he left it too late. They had spotted him, and flipped over onto their backs and dived away in their classic evasive manoeuvre. But Blakeslee was after them, and me after Blakeslee, and Wehrmann after me. Our speed had hardly slackened in the few seconds we had levelled off, and now I was diving vertically again. The speed was building up well over 500 mph as I tried to catch up, and the plane was shaking violently. We flashed through a squadron of Spitfires, but there was nothing they could do but watch. They could never follow us at our diving speeds.
Suddenly we were in the hornets’ nest; there were 109’s and 190’s all around. We still had more diving speed, but I saw that Blakeslee’s two 190’s were easing out of their dive, and he was following them. At the same time, I saw three 190’s screaming down on Blaskeslee and cutting in behind him to take him off the tail of their two buddies. ‘Horseback Blue One to Horseback Leader; three coming in on you at 3 o’clock high. I’m trying to cut them off.’
I tried to pull out of my thundering dive, but the controls were rigid. All my strength wouldn’t move the stick and I knew I was in the so-called ‘terminal’ dive from which many P-47’s pilots never were able to pull out. I dare not pull back on the throttle in case the nose went under in the start of an outside loop. I reached for the small winder that set the trim of the plane for take-off and landing, hoping that the little servo edge on the tail-plane would ease it up, but not fast enough to buckle the wings.
It worked. I blacked out, and felt as if my back was broken, but when my vision cleared I saw the 190’s ahead of me, much closer, but still out of range. I was gaining on them thanks to the terrible speed I’d built up, but they were gaining on Blakeslee, and he was doggedly pursuing his prey.
I pressed my mike button. ‘Break, Horseback Leader, break hard right!’
It was just in time. Don broke into a tight right turn, but the 190’s turned with him. We were well under 10,000 feet by now, where the FW190 could out-turn a Thunderbolt. But it gave me the chance to cut the corner, and zoom up under the last 190. He was intent on what was going on ahead of him and it was easy for me to close to where I could see the yellow nose and the black crosses on the fuselage and wings.
My first burst scored hits, so I gave him three more in quick succession. I was hitting him mostly around the starboard wing root. Suddenly there was a flash and a puff of smoke and his wing came fluttering off. The wing and the wildly spinning plane tumbled past me. I took a quick glance behind. Incredibly Wehrmann was still there, and I blessed him for it. There were other German planes above, but not dangerous – yet.
The danger was up ahead. Blakeslee was twisting and turning in a desperate effort to shake the leading 190, but the German was sticking with him like glue and he was scoring a few hits. The second FW was pulling up to close the trap on what he still must have thought was a lone Thunderbolt; but I was closing on him fast. My attention was on the lead German and Blakeslee in their deadly duel. ‘Hang on, Horseback, I’m gaining on him!’
I had plunged the stick forward to pick up more speed. Soon I was right under the second 190. I pulled up, laid off deflection aiming in front of his engine, and fired. I was too close to miss. The fire was concentrated. Flashes appeared on the engine and continued down the under-belly in four long bursts. The engine must have stopped, because I hurtled past him. The FW went straight into a vertical dive, trailing smoke, and exploded in a field not far below.
Now I could concentrate on taking the last 190 off Blakeslee’s tail. ‘I’m coming up, Don, hang on!’ He was too busy to answer. I wasn’t quite in range, but I was gaining. Each second like an hour. I saw more flashes on Don’s Thunderbolt. I had to try to hit his attacker even if I was out of range. I took careful aim and fired from dead astern. There were no hits. I tried two more bursts. Nothing. Then, on the fourth burst, I saw a flash!
‘I’ve got him, Don!’ I said.
‘The hell you’ve got him. He’s got me!’ was Blakeslee’s breathless reply.
Now I hit the 190 again, and was closing fast. He slewed around to see what was behind him, but then continued his attack on Blakeslee. He was either a very cool guy, or he mistook the two radial engined P-47’s behind him for his own wingmen.
I pushed the firing button again to finish him off. There was the start of the juddering burst of the machine-guns, then a sudden silence. At first I couldn’t figure it out; then I realised with a shock I was out of ammunition!
I looked back at Wehrmann, he was too far behind to be in range, and could never catch up in time. By now I was gaining fast on the 190, but he was still on Blakeslee’s tail, and Don wasn’t taking enough evasive action. Then I knew why.
‘I can’t see a damn thing! I’m covered in oil!’
I had to do something fast. I had no ammo, but I had speed, and was close behind the 190 now. I pushed the stick forward, dived under him, turned out to the side and up, to come up beside and a little ahead of him. I then turned straight into him. He must have been amazed to see a P-47 coming in on him at such close range, and the bluff worked. Probably almost by reflex action, he turned into the attack, rolled right on over, and split-essed for the deck. The ground was only a few hundred feet below us now, and I lost sight of him.
It was over, at least for the moment. It had seemed like a lifetime, but the whole action had lasted less than five minutes.
I pulled up alongside Blakeslee. His canopy was wide open, his goggles were on, and at times he peered out from behind his windscreen which was completely covered by black oil. The whole fuselage was streaked with oil. The big white letters WD-C on the side of his plane were practically obliterated.
‘Can you make it, Don?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Oil is spewing all over the place, and I have to keep the throttle wide open just to keep altitude. How far do we have to go? I don’t even know where we are.’
‘We’re about twenty miles from the coast and from there it’s another thirty miles across the Channel.’ What I didn’t mention was that we were almost in the traffic pattern of the Luftwaffe airfield of St Omer.
I took a good look at his plane and said, ‘I think you’ll make it. These jugs can absorb a lot of punishment. Steer five degrees further to the right.’
That way he’d avoid Calais and its flak, and cross out between Calais and Gravelines, and he’d be heading straight for the long emergency-runway at Manston on the south-east tip of England. The bad news was that that heading would take us closer to St Omer.
I was now weaving about and behind Blakeslee, straining my eyes to make sure no German fighters were following us out. The faithful Wehrmann had now caught up with us.
Suddenly I saw them. Two FW190’s coming in low from the direction of St Omer. They would probably have been ab
le to see us from the ground. Quickly I turned to meet the two 190’s before they could attack Blakeslee. Wehrmann was on my wing. As we attacked the 190’s broke and turned. That was good enough. I didn’t think they would be able to catch us again from their low altitude before we were across the Channel. In any case number one priority was to protect Blakeslee. Also, I was really worried about fuel now; the needle was flicking against zero.
We swung back to catch up to Blakeslee again. Soon I saw the coast and picked out his plane just as he crossed out. We were pulling up to join him when I saw what I thought was another P-47 coming in at Blakeslee’s level, but the next second, I knew the slim little stubby silhouette could only be an FW190. Once more Wehrmann and I wheeled down in a frontal attack; once more, he flipped over and dived for home. Once more we broke off and came back to escort our charge.
I pulled up alongside Blakeslee to lead him as straight as I could to the long Manston runway. It wasn’t only that he had no forward visibility, but I thought there was a good chance he’d been hit in the hydraulics, which would mean no flaps and no brakes. He’d need all the runway he could get.
Right after leaving the French coast we saw those welcome white cliffs of Dover. I’d done a lot of flying over this tip of England, over which most of the Battle of Britain had been fought. Its airfields, Lympne, Hawkinge, West Malling and Manston had been home to me in the early days.
I heard Blakeslee say, ‘Where the hell are you taking me?’
We had passed Dover and I could see St Margaret’s Bay on our left. ‘We’re dead on course. The longest runway in England is about ten miles ahead of you. You can go straight in.’
When we were passed Deal and were coming in over Pegwell Bay, I pulled out a Very pistol, pulled back my cockpit canopy, and shot off a red flare to make sure Manston was ready for an emergency landing. Ramsgate was on our right, Sandwich and its golf courses on our left and, dead ahead, the long runway.
‘Drop your wheels, Don!’ I was flying right on his wing now, and he was watching me, as I was watching him. Both of our undercarriages came down at the same time.
‘OK! They’re down.’
I waited till I knew he could reach the end of the runway before saying;
‘Flaps.’
I put mine down, and he started pulling ahead of me. No flaps!
‘No problem, Don, we’re in good shape!’ I raised my flaps, caught up to him, eased back the throttle and flattened the approach.
‘OK, Don, cut your throttle, you’re almost on the end of the runway.’
I was a few feet from the grass at the side of the runway. I opened the throttle, poured on the power, raised the wheels, pulled up to go around again, and prayed there was enough juice for a tight circuit. As I pulled around, I saw Wehrmann coming in on his approach. He probably had even less gas than I had.
I made a tight Spitfire circuit, dropped the Jug on the start of the runway, and let her roll down to the end where Blakeslee and Wehrmann had stopped. I pulled up beside them, cut the engine, and clambered out.
Blakeslee was walking around his plane inspecting the damage. Both of them were covered in black oil.
‘You OK?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, but I don’t know how they missed me. Look!’
The sturdy old P-47 was riddled all down one side. He turned to me ‘That was real good shooting.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I don’t mean you; I mean that bloody 190! What the hell took you so long? I thought I’d had it.’
‘Oh, I took the scenic route. Anyway, I knew the old bastard could take it,’ I said.
‘Yeah!’ he said patting the oil-streaked side of the P-47. ‘This old gal can sure take it!’
‘I don’t mean the plane; I mean you!’
I walked over to where Bob Wehrmann’s plane had pulled up. He was still sitting in the cockpit in a daze. I climbed up on the wing, clapped him on the shoulder, and said: ‘Damn good! I don’t know how you stayed with me!’
The sweat was still running down his face, as he said with feeling, ‘Neither do I!’
‘Thanks!’ I said as I turned away.
He nodded, then called after me: ‘Say, Goody, let me know when you’re planning the next milk-run.’
Blakeslee was looking over my plane. ‘Do you want to fly her back to Debden?’ I asked.
‘Not on your life! Do you know you’ve bent the wings?’ I had noticed the wrinkles in the skin of the wing-roots. It wasn’t surprising considering the velocity of that dive and the terrific strain on pulling out.
‘Yeah, but it still flies all right. You take Wehrmann’s kite.’
‘My God!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ll see you back at the Mess, if you make it – I want to buy you a drink. After all, you saved my ass!’
‘Everyone’s entitled to one mistake!’ I said.
I got my drink; and, some time later, the Silver Star – the third highest decoration for valour!
So we gradually earned respect and a grudging affection for the P-47; but, from the very moment we transferred, every man in the group had one fervent wish: to get the ‘Mustang’. They were joined in their prayers by the bomber crews who were taking horrible losses as soon as their escorting fighters had to turn back, so that only ten percent were surviving their twenty-five prescribed missions. Their bitter comment on the need for fighter escort all the way to the target and back was: ‘Hell, we’ve got it now: Spitfires and P-47’s to the German border and FW190’s and Me109’s the rest of the way!’
Most experts now agree that the P-51 Mustang was the most successful fighter plane of World War II. Those of us who flew Spitfires, Thunderbolts and Mustangs loved the Spit for its manoeuvrability and tight turns, but when the defensive air war of the Battle of Britain was over, and it was time to carry the war to the enemy, we knew that the short-ranged Spit had been overtaken by events. The P-51 could catch up with the Me109 straight and level, or in a dive, and it could hold its own in a dog-fight where I would say the best pilot would win; but, most important, the P-51 had this superior performances from 30,000 feet down to the deck, and 750 miles from its base. The Luftwaffe fighter pilots rated it the best, and most agreed with Hermann Göring that when Mustangs escorted bombers over Berlin, they knew the war was over.
Yet this remarkable plane came into being almost by chance and might easily not have been developed at all. As soon as England found itself at war, a purchasing commission headed by Sir Henry Self was sent to the United States to buy planes. Because of the urgency, they originally considered only those designs which were already in production or close to it. The only fighter, or ‘pursuit’ plane, available to them was the Curtiss P-40. Although this plane was manoeuvrable and relatively fast, its top speed of 340 mph could only be achieved between 12,000 and 15,000 feet. Its Allison engine was not supercharged, and, since it was common to the P-38, P-39 and P-40, was in short supply. The P-40 itself was in short supply, and Curtiss was having trouble meeting the requirements of the US Army Air Corps and the British and French who had ordered some 1700 by early 1940. A sub-contractor was needed, and the British Purchasing Commission contacted their old friends at North American, who had a good record supplying them with the AT.6 Harvard advanced trainer. James ‘Dutch’ Kindelberger, who headed North American, agreed, but the more he studied the problem, the more he became convinced that his company could design a better plane of their own. The British finally agreed on condition that it would meet their specifications, and entail no delays. The prototype was to be ready in four months. North American accepted this daunting challenge, and the P-51 was born. They boldly designed a slim, low-drag airframe, incorporating the relatively untried laminar flow airfoil wing. The large radiator necessary to cool the glycol coolant of the in-line engine was placed as far to the rear as possible to preserve the streamlining of the engine.
Even with the Allison engine, the new plane could attain 375 mph at 15,000 feet, 35 mph faster than the Spitfire V and,
with its four hour endurance, twice the range. Not only had North American designed a revolutionary, successful design, but they met their almost impossible time schedule. Strangely enough, the Assistant Chief Engineer at North American, and chief of the preliminary design group on the Mustang was Edgar Schmued who had started his career in aeronautics in his native Bavaria.
The weak spot remained the Allison engine which limited the Mustang to an effective ceiling of 15,000 feet, but the plane continued to be improved. In April 1942, Rolls-Royce test pilot Ronald Harker flew a Mustang at Duxford at the Air Fighting Development Unit and the idea of fitting a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine was born. This engine was already being manufactured under licence by Packard in Detriot. He had an enthusiastic backer in Major ‘Tommy’ Hitchcock, assistant air attaché at the US Embassy in London, World War I pilot in the Lafayette Escadrille, and, incidentally, uncle of Jim Clark, a leading pilot in the Fourth Group. Hitchcock was backed by ambassador John Winant. Again in record time the Mustang had a Packard-Merlin engine, a top speed of 433 mph and a ceiling of over 30,000 feet, and became the longest range highest performing fighter plane in the world.
Mustangs with Allison engines had been in service with the RAF, mostly on photo-reconnaissance for some time, but in December 1943 the 354th Group of the Ninth Air Force arrived in England equipped with P-51 Mustangs. Since they needed an experienced leader for their first combat missions, Kepner gave the temporary assignment to Blakeslee. He probably reasoned that this would give him a good appraisal of the relative merits of the P-47 and the P-51. If so, he got more than he bargained for. The few missions Blakeslee flew with the 354th confirmed his previous gut feeling. This was the plane!
He immediately stepped up his pressure on General Kepner to get Mustangs for the Fourth. He was backed by the entire group, who clambered over and around the sleek plane when Blakeslee flew it back to Debden after his missions with the 354th.
Kepner was opposed to the idea for only one reason. We were in the midst of an aggressive bomber offensive, and he could not afford to take the Fourth out of combat long enough for the pilots and mechanics to check out the new aircraft.
Tumult in the Clouds Page 8