by Jeff Kildow
The P-400s won’t be here for ten minutes or more. I’ve got no choice; I‘ve got to attack the Germans because nobody else can.
The German formation was stringing out, the lead plane miles ahead.
“CC, ACP 2. Taking direct action. Advise when P-400s available. Over.” That meant he was attacking the Germans himself.
He wasn’t exactly sure what his aim point should be on the big flying wings.
When you attack an ordinary bomber, you aim for the wing root, or the engines. This thing is all wing, and the engines are buried! Now what?
Deciding, he armed the cannons, and selected “single round”; that way he’d fire only one shot at a time, and maybe make better use of the few rounds he had. He gripped the control wheel hard, and slammed the throttles into Military Power.
When he liked the sight picture, he squeezed the trigger. The big guns were mounted just below his seat, and the noise and vibration was terrific. He was concentrating so hard, he scarcely heard them. The 30mm rounds were loaded one-in-five with tracers. He walked the tracer streaks across the center of the Gotha’s wing, toward the cabin. White rockets screamed past them, their roar terrifying audible.
How did they miss? They dove below the smoking enemy.
Joel turned left tightly, pulling a lot of G’s. Hillborne grunted into his oxygen mask. Johnson held the papers on his desk, and fiddled with the RADAR.
As they climbed back toward the formation, Joel saw the plane he’d shot was trailing thin white smoke. One of the propellers was feathered.
“Central Command, ACP 2,” he called tardily, “targets on heading 0-9-6, one trailing smoke. Over.”
This time, he attacked the Gotha from below, stitching the big rounds ahead of one of the props still turning. More white rocket rounds screamed at them. The smoke was heavier, and flashes of fire leapt through jagged holes.
He rolled to the right, almost inverted, and dove away. White rockets chased them, he saw in the mirror above his seat. They were near the shore line.
Where are those Marine F6F’s? And as he thought it, a swarm of the dark blue fighters whipped through the light cloud layer directly toward the invaders.
In anguish, Joel realized the Marine pilots were oblivious to the long reach of the German rocket guns as they raced to attack. First one, then another, then a third of the F6F’s were shattered as the rockets found their targets. The broken aircraft tumbled from the sky trailing smoke and fire. Joel didn’t see any parachutes. Other F6Fs dove on the German formation from above.
He quickly dialed the Navy frequency from memory, “Pawtuxent flight, APC 2. Hold your attack, I say again, hold your attack. The German rockets out range us. Stand down. ACP 2 out.”
Another F6F shot through the formation, already on the attack when Joel radioed. It was chased by a half dozen white smoke trails, but somehow wasn’t struck.
The Marine’s attack had not been in vain, Joel realized. One of the Gotha’s faltered, and nosed straight up. Almost instantly, it nosed down again, trailing an impossibly large smoke plume. Orange-red fire engulfed the entire center of the aircraft as it began to gyrate violently. The big airplane suddenly flew apart in a fiery rain of parts big and small, and smashed into the sea.
“Central Control, ACP 2. Marines scratched one bogey, loss of three friendlies. Out.” His own voice sounded shaky.
Maneuvering into position on the smoking Gotha he’d first attacked, Joel aimed for the upper rocket gun turret. In seconds the rocket gun was smashed, the gunner dead. The doughty Marines harried the German plane, drawing off its fire.
That’s a good tactic; gotta remember that.
“Now I’ve got you!” he shouted, as if the faltering bomber could hear him. He walked the 30 mm rounds across the center of the wing, from one inner engine cover to the other. Other aircraft in the formation fired at them, the smoky trails going wide.
“Good hits! Good hits!” Hillborne shouted excitedly, as he fired the four 0.50 caliber machineguns in their turret. Pieces of the Gotha flew off and nearly struck them. Joel glanced at the cannon round counter: empty.
Joel dove away to the left. Above them, the Gotha shuddered and skidded drunkenly. Sooty, black smoke poured from three of its engines.
Suddenly, there was a brilliant flash, a huge fireball, and a heavy detonation they heard over their own engines. The big aircraft folded, wing tips all but touching. It gyrated crazily, in what was not quite a spin. A shower of parts flew off in all directions. A man was flung from the dying aircraft, his body silhouetted against the sky. He was followed by another, and then two men together. The wreck fell very fast, spinning as it went in a long, violent, twisting arc toward the ocean below. The smoke column was etched inky black against the grayness of the ocean.
Joel dove to follow and confirm its crash. Far below, the German airplane was suddenly swallowed up by the sea in a mighty splash. The smaller pieces spattered the sea’s surface like metallic rain. The smoke column hung over the spot like a towering tombstone.
Joel leveled off, looking for the crew.
There! Drifting towards land.
“Central Control, ACP 2, second bogey down. Three, correction, four parachutes visible, drifting to the northwest about ten miles off Rocky Point. Notify the 160th Search and Rescue. Enemy A/C is scratch. ACP 2 out.” “Scratch” meant the downed aircraft was not recoverable. The Joint Chiefs really wanted to get their hands on an intact example of this menacing weapon.
He advanced the throttles once again, turned, and began to climb after the disappearing formation. In moments, they caught a straggler. Roaring in from underneath the German, Joel gave Hillborne a target. He didn’t disappoint; the four .50 cal machine guns tore into the Gotha’s underside. The Gotha’s rocket turret turned toward them, but the aircraft suddenly rolled onto its back and dove toward the sea.
“ACP 2, CC. The P-400s should be there momentarily, call sign ‘Black Horse.’ Over.”
Joel switched radio frequency.
“Black Horse lead, ACP 2. Do you read? Over.”
The response was noisy, but discernable. “ACP 2, Black Horse lead, how do you read? Over.”
“Black Horse lead, I read you 4x4. Be advised, you are to use cannons only, I say again cannons only – the German rocket guns have a long reach. Be careful. Do you understand? Over.”
“Roger, ACP 2. We’re going in now. Black Horse lead out.”
Joel watched the olive drab aircraft move in on the Germans by two’s and saw the smoke from their cannons. Sparks flew up from the bomber they were attacking, but it continued on as if nothing had happened. The second pair of P-400s dove on the formation with similar results.
Suddenly, it hit him. Joel radioed, “Black Horse lead, ACP 2. What ammo are you loaded with? Over.”
“ACP 2, Black Horse lead. It’s AP, sir. Over.”
Joel shook his head. AP was armor piercing, designed to take out tanks. The thin aluminum skin of the Gothas didn’t even trigger the explosive on the 37mm rounds, they just punched holes.
“Black Horse flight, ACP 2 recommends you concentrate on the engines; shoot forward of the propellers. ACP 2 out.”
The P-400s circled for a few moments; only the lead aircraft could receive Joel’s commands. They moved away from the German formation, then dove in for the attack in groups of four aircraft.
White rocket trails flew at the attackers, but somehow the first batch of P-400s made it through unscathed. Not so with the bombers as one of the giants slowed and began descending toward the sea below. Immediately, a second set of P-400s fell upon the hapless aircraft and it was a ball of flames as it crashed into the sea. The last aircraft in the formation was the target of the next attack by the P-400s, and it too suffered a fiery fate.
“ACP-2, Black Horse lead. We’ve reached our service ceiling, and we’re low on fuel. Request permission to withdraw.”
“Black Horse lead, ACP-2. Permission granted. Good shooting. ACP 2 out.”
; The P-400s formed up and turned toward shore. Joel turned with them and watched as they disappeared. Two of the enemies were trailing smoke. Now it was all up to him.
When he brought the P-61 around again, the formation was well ahead of them, still climbing.
“Johnson, can you get a count of how many are left?”
“Only if you hold the nose steady, sir!” the young man countered, not meaning disrespect as he intensely concentrated.
“OK, how’s this?” Joel said, carefully holding the nose in the direction of the Germans.
“Come right about twelve degrees or so… hold it, there they are. I count… let’s see, twenty-seven fairly distinct returns. Many others are indistinct. May be more than twenty-seven. Can you get us closer, Colonel? I’m showing about ten miles range – that’s about max for this RADAR, and it’s tough to distinguish clearly They just don’t show up very well.”
Joel again advanced the throttles to the “Military Power” setting. With the two-stage engine superchargers in the “high” setting, they leapt upward, climbing steeply as the engines roared lustily. Within minutes they were five miles from their enemy, and closing.
“Come left three degrees, pilot. Good. Good. Hold it there as steady as you can; I’m going to high magnification.” With the RADAR screen set at its highest magnification, the slightest movement of the aircraft was amplified, making Johnson’s job all but impossible.
“OK – OK. I now count fifty-six targets. They are very smooth at 223 knots, heading112 degrees, altitude is … 26, 500 feet.”
Joel glanced at the instrument panel. Fuel was getting low and they had to be 200 miles off the coast.
“Good, Johnson, very good. We’re gonna go out in front of them, and do a head-on attack, then we’ll head for the ranch.” He climbed through the thin cloud layer and raced out ahead of the formation.
They were a mile ahead and 5,000 or 6,000 feet above the Germans as Joel rolled into a dive toward the front aircraft in the German formation.
“This’ll be all you, Hill,” Joel said over the intercom. “I emptied the canons.”
“Roger, sir.”
They were closing fast, and Hillborne broke in anxiously, “My trigger’s dead! The fuse must have blown! Take it, Colonel!” Joel quickly switched his “fire selector” switch to “pilot,” and flipped on the “pilot’s gun sight rheostat,” and prayed that the blown fuse didn’t affect his trigger.
It didn’t. At Joel’s touch, the four 0.50 calibre machineguns thundered, smashing the Gotha’s cockpit glass. Joel held the trigger down as long as he dared, then rolled sharply to the left, to avoid a collision.
Terrifyingly, a white rocket reached out for them, and slammed into their right wing. Bang! The aircraft jolted, and twisted, the noise very loud. Joel glanced to his right and thought he could see damage to their wing tip. His heart leapt into his throat, and beat even faster.
Behind them, the stricken Gotha turned uncontrollably to its left, and collided heavily with the airplane flying beside it. In an instant, they locked together and began a grotesque, twirling dance of death to the sea below.
“They collided! Two Germans collided, and they’re gonna crash!” shouted Johnson.
“Watch them hit, or we’ll have to call them ‘probables,’” Joel told him. He was busy switching fuel tanks.
“I can’t see ‘em any more! The clouds got in the way!” Johnson shouted.
The aircraft was shaking as Joel established their course toward Millville.
“Central Command, ACP 2 inbound. Confirm five, repeat, five enemy A/C scratch. Two probables. Unknown total friendly losses. Last known heading of formation…,” he repeated what his RADAR operator had told him. “ACP 2 inbound to Millville with moderate damage. ACP 2 out.”
The aircraft continued to shake and was getting worse. He felt a definite pull to the right as well. He ran his seat up, his head pushed against the canopy, and peered down the top of the right wing. A piece of the wing tip seemed to be fluttering in the slipstream. He couldn’t tell how bad the damage was, but it just didn’t feel right.
“Boys, I’m going to slow us down. We got hit on the right wingtip and I can feel it banging around out there. Let’s see if 200 might be little smoother.” The aircraft slowed, and the vibration lessened.
“Colonel, we took shrapnel in the left wing leading edge outboard of the engine. Are we leaking gas?” Hillborne asked him, concern in his voice.
Joel scanned the instrument panel – “Everything looks fine, Hill. Keep an eye on it. Let me know if you see anything leaking. Johnson, take a look at the underside of the wings and the tail booms, especially the right side – see any damage?”
Johnson responded immediately, “Ah, yeah, sir, there’s something screwy with the right wingtip, alright. Big chunk hanging and flapping around. It’s more than just the wingtip. It’s a good four to five feet inboard from the tip. It’s a pretty ragged hole. I can see structure, so we’re missing skin—”
Bang! They all felt it as much as heard it. Johnson shouted, his voice suddenly high pitched, “Wow! We lost the whole wingtip! It’s just gone! And the pieces are really flapping around now!”
Joel didn’t need to be told. The airplane jerked and bumped in several different directions at once. The aircraft wallowed first to one side, then jerked back, like a fast train on very bad track.
He reduced the throttles and keyed his mic.
“Millville Control, ACP 2 is declaring ‘emergency.’ I say again, ACP 2 declares emergency. We have significant damage to our right wing. Request straight in approach with crash trucks standing by. Over.”
“Roger, ACP 2, understand you are declaring ‘emergency,’ what’s your ETA?” [Estimated Time of Arrival] Over.
“ACP 2 estimates fifteen minutes. Be advised, we may have to slow to just above stall because of the damage. Over.”
“Roger, APC 2. Keep us informed; advise when you make landfall. Do you want an alternative field? There are three fighters inbound to Millville also in emergency status; be prepared to divert as necessary. Over.”
“Negative on the alternative, Control; we’ll go for Millville. ACP 2 out.”
The aircraft’s shaking got worse. The control wheel felt like a wild animal in his hands. Joel slowed down even more, praying as he did so, keeping a close eye on the airspeed indicator; the last thing he needed was a stall. At their airspeed and weight, he mentally estimated the stall speed with full flaps as about eighty-five miles per hour. He kept them just above ninety. Carefully, he lowered the flaps part way. “Johnson, do the flaps look OK? Do you see any vibration in the right one?”
“Looks pretty normal, Colonel. ‘Course, with the flaps down, I can’t see the wing.”
This was a case where being an engineer meant he knew more than he really wanted to. The slipstream was tearing away the broken aluminum skin and it would continue to tear away as long as they were flying. He’d seen wings with most of the skin torn off because of the slipstream: on the wrecks of crashed airplanes.
I could probably go slower with full flaps, and drop the landing gear for more drag, if I have to. The engines are unhurt, so I could throttle up to overcome the drag and still not go too fast. The thoughts raced through his mind. Sure sounds good! Yeah. Oh, Lord, please have mercy on us all!
He keyed the intercom again, “Listen up, you two. I want you to tighten up your parachutes and be ready to jump if I tell you. Johnson, you remember how to open the escape hatch?”
“Yessir.” Johnson’s voice was thin, nervous.
They crossed over the coast at last, and Joel told Millville Approach their condition had worsened.
“Millville acknowledges, ACP 2. Two of the P-400s are on the ground, the other bailed out. Runway 1-4-0 is clear, winds out of the southeast at1-6. Recommend approach from northwest. Crash trucks are standing by. Millville out.”
Holding his breath, Joel lowered the landing gear, and dropped the flaps to full down. The Black Wi
dow was still wallowing, but more slowly. The nose came up a little, and he bumped the throttles to compensate. Airspeed was steady at ninety. His controls felt a little better. They were descending, passing through 10,000 feet.
“OK, boys, your call. I think I can put this busted eagle on the ground, but you can jump if you want to. Need a decision now.”
“I’m staying.” Hillborne said firmly, immediately.
“Uh, me, too,” Johnson added, less forcefully.
“OK, here we go.”
Their flight path took them north-east of Millville; in case they had to abandon the ship, he didn’t want it coming down in town. They saw smoke rising from the base, and from the nearby town as well. Random craters in the farmland showed that some of the German bombs overshot their targets. More smoke columns caught his eye, and Joel suddenly realized they were from Stanton Township. The errant bombs had struck the town where Susan lived! Suddenly, he was very attentive, hardly daring to breathe. Alexander Hamilton Junior High School came into view. To his shock, it was a smoking ruin. His anguish poured out.
“Oh, Dear God! Don’t let it be Susan! Oh, Lord, don’t let her be hurt!”
0827 Hours
Safe on the Ground
Joel concentrated fiercely, making his approach as perfect as possible. There was just no way to know if this damaged bird could stand the stresses of going around for a second try if he messed up the landing, and a hard landing could break up the airplane. Carefully, he flared, reaching, reaching, for the runway surface, as if the airplane was an extension of his body. To his relief, the main gear tires gently touched down almost at the same time. Carefully, he lowered the nose until the nose tire chirped. Tentative braking brought no sudden surprises, so he took the first runway turn off they came to and brought them to a halt.