by Jeff Kildow
“Bombs away,” intoned their bombardier. Twenty-nine other B-29s followed his example.
“Tail end Charlie, report bomb strikes,” Johnson yelled into his mike as if shouting would help the radio operator on the last airplane in the formation hear better.
With bombers on the runway, maybe they can’t launch fighters, he said to himself, hopefully.
“Lead, tail end Charlie; we got good strikes right across the planes waiting to take off, lots of secondary’s, and it looks like we hit the runway pretty good too. Wait – aw, crap! They’re launching ‘109’s and Focke Wulfs downwind from the other end of the runway. We’re gonna have company soon, and how!”
“How many bogies, Charlie? What’re we up against?”
“Flack, too, Lead, and lots of it. We better scram now! Uh oh, it looks like three ‘109’s got off, looks like maybe five or six more may join in. Can’t see any more. Charlie out.”
“Lead, Yellow four. There are about eight Focke Wulfs taking off from an auxiliary field.”
On Johnson’s urgent command, the formation began a graceful, if ponderous, turn to the left, back toward Iceland. He didn’t need to tell the pilots to go to full throttle.
“Oh, man, here they come, and they’re madder’n hornets! Blue Two, on your port side! Look out!”
“Yellow 5, on your tail!”
“Get him! Get Him! Good shooting!”
“Gotcha, you dirty Nazi SOB!”
“To your left! To your left!”
The radio chatter flew as the angry Messerschmitts darted in and out of the formation. The Focke Wulfs joined moments later. Johnson felt the guns on his own ship pounding away. A gray-green blur flashed past the cockpit, then another, and in an instant, both were gone.
Without warning, a B-29 rolled onto its back and in a huge ball of bright red fire, dove straight down.
“Bailout! Bailout!” someone shouted, but the stricken craft smashed into the icy sea with no parachutes. A German fighter cartwheeled across the sky, leaving a crazy corkscrew trail of smoke and sparks; a second turned back toward land, trailing a thin line of smoke. As suddenly as the battle began, it was over.
“Close up the formation. Tail gunners, keep a sharp eye for long range fighters; we’re still in range for ME-410’s. Aircraft commanders, give me casualty and damage reports,” Johnson commanded.
They had drawn blood, but not without cost, Johnson knew. There had been eleven men on that B-29, and he had known most of them. Three other bombers were damaged, and might fall short on the return trip. He clenched his jaw as they flew west through darkening skies; he had some very difficult letters to write.
Chapter 94
26 June 1945
Luftwaffe Headquarters, Berlin
Generalleutnant Wever’s office
1830 Hours
New Assignment
A staff Colonel waved a dispatch as he walked briskly into Generalleutnant Wever’s office “Have you seen this—this outrage, General?” His face was red with anger.
“No, Horst, I haven’t, you haven’t let me see it yet,” Wever replied evenly.
“The Americans attacked Stavanger-Sola with those B-29 Boeings, and destroyed most of I/JG 77s Messerschmitts, and at least twenty of KG 30s JU-88s! Can you imagine it? And JG 77 lost several FW-190s as well.”
Wever tapped the ash from his cigarette, “Did you think, Horst, that Norway is our private playground? If the British attack us there, why not the Americans? Let me see that.”
Wever shrugged; he’d been expecting retaliation for the destruction of the big new American planes. He’d already decided what units to take planes from to restore Stavanger. He initialed that he had read the dispatch, and wordlessly passed it back to the outraged Colonel. The man took it from him a bit briskly, and stamped self-importantly out. Wever put the event out of his mind; he had more important issues to resolve.
To his astonishment, the General Staff was far more disturbed by his Colonel’s report than he was. Even more amazing, he was ordered to attack Iceland with heavy bombers as soon as could be arranged.
He sat at his desk rubbing his forehead, pondering, then suddenly knew exactly who should be given the task: von Schroeder! Schroeder had accomplished little since the first American raid; Wever had forbidden him to fly any more of the transatlantic attacks. The man needed an assignment, so he wouldn’t grow stale. The more he thought about it, the more attractive the idea became. He reached for the telephone.
Von Schroeder leapt to his feet holding the telephone, “Jawohl, General Wever! It shall be my honor, sir!” Already, his mind was racing, choosing mentally the pilots he would lead, because of course, with such an important mission, who else would lead it?
Before he could complete the thought, Wever said, “You are not to lead this attack, Gerhard; you are too valuable. Plan and execute this carefully, and I assure you, there will more missions in your future.”
Von Schroeder immediately began assembling a Besondere Aufgae Gruppe [special task group] for the attack, bringing together the best of his experienced pilots from the American raid, over the outrage of their current commanders.
“So, you would like to discuss this personnel issue with Generalleutnant Wever himself?” he asked an irate Oberstleutnant squadron commander mildly. The man sputtered, and hung up. Von Schroeder smiled, and placed another tick mark on his list.
Schroeder stayed up all night, planning, thinking, playing issues one against the other. By dawn, he had made his decision and drawn up his orders: sixty of the six-engine GO-460s of I/KS 17 would be dispatched to Norway; on 12 July, a counter raid would be launched against Reykjavik-East U.S. Army Air Base. He smiled in grim anticipation. He’d be there to watch them launch and return. Wever might forbid him to fly combat missions, but he could be there to cheer on his crews. They would bring him victory yet again.
At Reykjavik – East Army Airfield, the 513th Bomb wing had been reinforced with two full squadrons of new rocket-equipped Lockheed P-38s.
Chapter 95
12 July 1944
Stavanger-Sola, Norway
Early Morning
Retaliation
Von Schroeder stood wrapped in his leather overcoat, his arms folded, watching in pride as his Gothas taxied to takeoff. The crews he’d brought back together had quickly gelled into a tight, well disciplined unit, as he’d known they would. Many had become friends preparing for the America raid, and had worked together well then. There was no reason to think they wouldn’t this time.
With a great roar, the lead Gotha raced down the runway, and lifted gracefully into the air. Its landing gear had hardly retracted as a second bomber lifted off behind it. A continuous roar echoed off the mountains as all sixty took to the air. They were formed up nicely as they flew out of sight, von Schroeder noted with satisfaction.
“Let’s see now how they like a taste of my Gothas,” he gloated as the thunder of 360 engines faded.
Reykjavik – East Army Airfield
The RADAR operator jerked upright in his chair.
“Air raid! Air Raid! Bogies inbound at 3-2 thousand feet, heading 3-4-5 degrees at 2-7-5 knots. Estimate forty plus aircraft; returns indicate Gotha bat planes. Estimate in bombing range in seven minutes.”
The duty officer slammed his hand on the alert Klaxon button; a second button started the air raid sirens wailing. He reached for his phone.
At the alert area, thirteen pilots raced toward their P-38s, behind the crew chiefs and other crewmen. Across the airfield, anti-aircraft crews ran toward their guns.
First Lieutenant John “Jonnie” Johnson swung his P-38L into position, and roared down the runway. On the nose of his plane, his caricature grinned over the name “Jonnie Boy.” As he lifted off, he radioed, “Norse Green flight, form up on me.” Second Lieutenant Mike Phillips, his wingman, was on his left wing.
As Johnson’s flight climbed toward the attackers, a second group of P-38s raced skyward; Norse Yellow flight would
“tag team” with the first flight. The Gothas were in for a rough reception, if these pilots had anything to say about it.
Jonnie Johnson saw the stark white contrails being traced across the pure blue sky; the German bombers were leaving arrow straight lines.
There sure are a lot of them; I’m not sure we can get there soon enough to prevent the attack.
He took his flight above the Germans, and rolled into the attack.
“Norse Green flight, watch out for rocket guns. Don’t get too close – remember our rockets are longer range than theirs. Follow me down.”
Sure enough, the Gothas are firing rockets at us, he thought as he dove through the formation, his engines a thundering roar in his ears. Let’s see how they like our rockets!
With grim satisfaction, he watched his rockets blow chunks off the left side of a Gotha. He saw Phillips firing out of the corner of his eye, also to good effect.
As Johnson pulled up to attack again, a broken P-38 plunged past, rolling wildly out of control as angry flames streamed from the right engine. There was no right wing. A stick figure man separated from the stricken craft, and a parachute opened. The aircraft dove straight down and slammed into the glacier in a spray of ice he could see from altitude.
The previously perfect sky was marred with twisting, swirling vapor trails as fighters from both Norse flights hammered the attackers. An ugly black smoke trail marked a dying Gotha as it fell nearly straight down to the pristine snow below. Another of the huge flying wings blew apart in the air, filling the sky with shiny, flashing shards. A third suddenly folded in the middle, its wingtips touching. It flopped awkwardly through the sky to smash into the ice below.
“They’re turning!”Johnson shouted. Resolutely, the German bombers were tracking for the American base and the defenseless B-29s. Before Johnson could get in range, bombs begin to fall.
The sight enraged him, and he shoved both throttles into War Emergency setting. He raced the sleek Lighting through the German formation from rear to front, firing at every bomber he could. Only a couple of German gunners dared to fire at him; they risked hitting their own planes. Grimly, he dove away to the right, twisting to throw off the gunners, coming back for another pass. His wingman was nowhere to be seen.
Climbing again to get above the Germans, Johnson saw the formation turning, heading to Norway. A glance revealed that Phillips had somehow found him again; the kid gave him a thumbs-up sign. Johnson pointed down, and they attacked the invaders again.
Post Attack Debrief
“Here’s what it looks like, sir,” Johnson grimly told his wing commander. His forehead still wore the red marks from his flying cap. “Green flight lost three – Arnold, Kingsborough, and Magee. Elliot and Fitzpatrick are wounded, but got back OK. Graysen is missing; somebody said they saw him belly in on the glacier, but we haven’t found him. I claim one bomber and Timmons another. Several were damaged, but I don’t know of any probables.”
“What about Yellow flight, Lieutenant?” asked the Lieutenant Colonel quietly.
“Sir, I lost four pilots – Greenberg, Anderson, Montgomery Jr. and Landers. Montgomery Jr. and Landers collided.” He stopped and swallowed, blinking back tears. “There are two of my flight missing – Potter and Evens. Neither was seen bailing out, but we haven’t finished searching. We got one Gotha – not sure who should claim it yet, and I agree with Lieutenant Johnson, we damaged a lot of them.”
“Not our best day, gentlemen: seven KIA, three MIA, two wounded, for three Germans destroyed and several damaged. We’re going to have to work up better tactics before we take these Jerrys on again.”
Aboard Retaliation Flight
200 Miles from Norway
“Tell me our losses, Berger,” Oberstleutnant Walter Pieper, the senior pilot said to his radio man.
“Three lost over the target, sir, and another dropped out of formation about twenty miles back. He may not make it back. Seventeen of our aircraft have damage, three severe, with possibly thirty-five wounded. At this point, the three severely damaged Gothas all believe that they can make it to Stavanger, sir, but may have to crash land.”
Pieper sighed, “These are not such horrible losses, but I fear we inflicted far too little damage for our trouble. Von Schroeder is not likely to be pleased.”
Chapter 96
17 July 1945
Millville Army Air Field Building 1, Colonel Joel Knight’s Office
1530 Hours
Discovery
“Well, I’ll be! Say, Joel, look! They found the German bat wing plant! You’ll never believe where!” Lieutenant Colonel “Chappie” Chapman was reading a classified intelligence dispatch from the secure teletype.
“Where, Chappie? What is this, ‘Twenty Questions?’” Joel teased.
“No, it’s in Spain! Spain, of all places! Fer crying out loud, no wonder they couldn’t find ‘em; they were lookin’ in France.”
“Spain? Really! Who would have thought of that? Boy, I wonder if we’ll declare war on Spain – that’s a violation of the Neutrality Act. That’d be another front if they do. Man, oh man! Where in Spain?”
Chappie said, “Near the town of “Boltana”. Where’s that?”
“No idea whatsoever. I’ll have Bill get us a map.”
In forty minutes First Sergeant Bill Madsen not only found a map of Spain, but neatly highlighted the little town. The map was shaded to show terrain. Boltana was in the Western foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains. Madsen stood silently as the two officers poured over the map.
“Doesn’t make sense, Chappie. Why build an airplane plant in the mountains? How do you fly them out once you built them?” Joel wondered out loud.
“Sir, pardon me, I think you’ll find a plateau there between two of the ridges. Looks like plenty of room for a plant and a runway,” Bill interjected.
Lieutenant Colonel Chappie Chapman said, “Say, those Jerrys are too clever by half. Even if we’d flown right over the border, this place is behind the ridges and we probably would never have seen the plant, even if we looked in its direction. How’d they ever find it?”
“I heard some scuttlebutt at the NCO club, Colonel,” Bill said offhandedly, as he inspected his fingernails.
“And just what was that, pray tell, First Sergeant?” Chappie said, cocking his head skeptically. In truth, he knew that Army Master Sergeants, like Navy Chiefs, had a grapevine that somehow distributed even the most secret information hours before official channels got it; he knew not to question the “how” of Bill’s information.
“Sir, the story is that a teenaged German soldier at the Spanish base went AWOL, got to France, and was caught by General Donovan’s guys. The kid was a guard at the plant, and he sang like a canary. He just wanted to surrender, because he thought they’d let him go home.” He shook his head at the naiveté.
“Interesting scuttlebutt, Bill,” Joel told him, “any confirmation of that cock and bull story?”
Bill smiled inscrutably. “The next dispatch will confirm it, sir,” he said with confidence. It did.
Chapter 97
19 July 1945
Andrews Army Air Field
0710 Hours
Conference
The big, four-engine Douglas C-54 transport dropped out of the misty overcast and landed smoothly. Such landings were common, but the attention paid to this arrival was far from normal. Within minutes, a triple-tailed Lockheed C-69 military passenger plane landed; as it taxied in, a Consolidated Aircraft C-87, the passenger version of the B-24, also landed.
A line of Packard and Lincoln limousines, and formal Cadillac sedans waited for the passengers to disembark. The left side propellers had hardly stopped turning on the Douglas as Army enlisted men pushed wheeled stairs into position. At the foot of the stairs, a two star general and his full colonel aide waited. The aircraft door was opened and latched into place. Several senior officers began their decent.
The general and his aide came to attention and presented parade
ground perfect salutes, “Good morning, General Eisenhower. Welcome to Andrews Army Air Field. I hope you had a pleasant trip, sir.”
Eisenhower returned the salutes wordlessly, his face solemn. He and his entourage entered two of the cars and were whisked away. Behind them, other senior U.S., British, and French officers were escorted to the waiting cars and followed Eisenhower. The last aircraft began disembarking passengers as well; the general couldn’t remember when he’d seen so much brass all arriving at the same time; something big was up.
The Pentagon
The room was tension-filled as everyone awaited the cars from Andrews. The protocol officer was working overtime setting up the polished oak table. He had to contend with the President, the Secretary of War, the Joint Chiefs, and senior British officers. And the French – he rolled his eyes; they were especially difficult.
It still wasn’t clear who all had come from Europe, but the sweating Lieutenant Colonel knew that at least General Eisenhower, General “Tooey” Spaatz, General Patton, and Field Marshall Montgomery were confirmed. One of French General Charles de Gaulle’s senior colonels was rumored to be on the last plane. The Colonel was working out the relative dates of rank and position in the Allied command structure so none of the delicate personalities would be offended.
“Sirs, may I have your attention, please? General Eisenhower and company are in the building.”
Harry Truman watched Eisenhower closely; it was the first time he’d seen him since the invasion.
He’s a good man, he thought, but the strain is showing.
The greeting civilities over, a grim faced Dwight Eisenhower began his briefing. His aide had set up an easel with large maps.
“Mr. President, Mr. Secretary of War, gentlemen of the Joint Chiefs, Field Marshall Montgomery, General Sir Burns, Colonel Piccard. Good morning. With your kind permission, Mr. President, I’d like to begin with an overview before getting into specifics.”