shred of tobacco. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘when they do come we shall be waiting for them. The whole of Fighter Command on the Western Front is on the alert, and with any luck we’ll hit the Amis so hard that they won’t stick their noses into Germany for a long time.’
He was interrupted by the clamour of the telephone on his desk. He lifted the receiver, listened for a few moments and then spoke in brief acknowledgement before replacing the instrument.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that was Divisional Headquarters. A few minutes ago, a small force of RAF Mosquitos carried out a low-level attack on the airfields of Twenthe, Hoogeveen and Eelde, in Holland. They inflicted considerable damage. Divisional HQ is of the opinion that the attack was designed to create maximum confusion among our Fighter defences in the north-west — to smash a hole through the wall, in other words. We might not have much time. I suggest that you bring your squadrons to immediate readiness.’
The four squadron commanders snapped to attention, saluted and left Sommer’s office, heading for their various dispersals. Richter looked up at the sky, dappled here and there with high cloud. It was a beautiful morning, too beautiful for young men to die. But die many of them inevitably would, on both sides, before the sun reached its zenith.
*
The great formation of B-17 Flying Fortresses droned over the coast of Holland, glittering metallic insects sailing through clusters of flak. The time was ten o’clock, and the bombers were now almost four hours behind schedule. There were 147 of them, flying in seven tight boxes of twenty-one aircraft, stepped up between 17,000 and 19,000 feet. Any fighter seeking to penetrate any one of those boxes would have to run the gauntlet of up to 168 .5-in calibre machine-guns, for each Fortress was formidably armed with eight such weapons. There were no significant blind spots.
Above and ahead of the leading Fortress groups flew their fighter escorts, tubby P-47 Thunderbolts which would shepherd them as far as the German border — but no further, for that was the limit of the Thunderbolt’s radius of action even with auxiliary fuel. There should have been another group of P-47s, watching over the rearmost Fortress elements, but it had failed to make rendezvous because of a timing error. And it was the rearmost Fortress groups which were most vulnerable to attack.
To make matters worse, the rear groups began to trail badly as the formation flew deeper into Holland, until there were fifteen miles between them and the leading elements.
At 1017 the first enemy fighters were sighted. They were the Focke-Wulf 190s of No. 1 Fighter Wing and they shadowed the trailing Fortress groups at a respectable distance, making no move to attack. They had plenty of time. In just a few more minutes the Thunderbolt escorts would have to turn for home, and that would be the moment for the fighters to pounce.
The bomber crews sweated, and waited. Every few seconds, nervous gunners checked and re-checked their turrets and gun mechanisms, the long belts of ammunition that festooned the interior of the Fortresses like bronze snakes.
The leading Fortress groups changed course, heading southeastwards now as they approached the German border. Like a shoal of silvery fish, the Thunderbolts swung away from them on a heading that would take them back to their English bases, pushing down their noses to gather speed. Even if they were attacked, they would be hard pressed to defend themselves, for their margin of fuel was hardly sufficient for combat manoeuvres.
But the Focke-Wulfs were not interested in the Thunderbolts. As the latter turned for home, the German fighter leader issued curt orders over the radio and the 190s broke away in pairs, plummeting down towards the rear Fortress groups. They attacked head-on, concentrating on the lowest squadron, and the American gunners had only a fraction of a second in which to bring
He was interrupted by the clamour of the telephone on his desk. He lifted the receiver, listened for a few moments and then spoke in brief acknowledgement before replacing the instrument.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that was Divisional Headquarters. A few minutes ago, a small force of RAF Mosquitos carried out a low-level attack on the airfields of Twenthe, Hoogeveen and Eelde, in Holland. They inflicted considerable damage. Divisional HQ is of the opinion that the attack was designed to create maximum confusion among our Fighter defences in the north-west — to smash a hole through the wall, in other words. We might not have much time. I suggest that you bring your squadrons to immediate readiness.’
The four squadron commanders snapped to attention, saluted and left Sommer’s office, heading for their various dispersals. Richter looked up at the sky, dappled here and there with high cloud. It was a beautiful morning, too beautiful for young men to die. But die many of them inevitably would, on both sides, before the sun reached its zenith.
*
The great formation of B-17 Flying Fortresses droned over the coast of Holland, glittering metallic insects sailing through clusters of flak. The time was ten o’clock, and the bombers were now almost four hours behind schedule. There were 147 of them, flying in seven tight boxes of twenty-one aircraft, stepped up between 17,000 and 19,000 feet. Any fighter seeking to penetrate any one of those boxes would have to run the gauntlet of up to 168 .5-in calibre machine-guns, for each Fortress was formidably armed with eight such weapons. There were no significant blind spots.
Above and ahead of the leading Fortress groups flew their fighter escorts, tubby P-47 Thunderbolts which would shepherd them as far as the German border — but no further, for that was the limit of the Thunderbolt’s radius of action even with auxiliary fuel. There should have been another group of P-47s, watching over the rearmost Fortress elements, but it had failed to make rendezvous because of a timing error. And it was the rearmost Fortress groups which were most vulnerable to attack.
To make matters worse, the rear groups began to trail badly as the formation flew deeper into Holland, until there were fifteen miles between them and the leading elements.
At 1017 the first enemy fighters were sighted. They were the Focke-Wulf 190s of No. 1 Fighter Wing and they shadowed the trailing Fortress groups at a respectable distance, making no move to attack. They had plenty of time. In just a few more minutes the Thunderbolt escorts would have to turn for home, and that would be the moment for the fighters to pounce.
The bomber crews sweated, and waited. Every few seconds, nervous gunners checked and re-checked their turrets and gun mechanisms, the long belts of ammunition that festooned the interior of the Fortresses like bronze snakes.
The leading Fortress groups changed course, heading southeastwards now as they approached the German border. Like a shoal of silvery fish, the Thunderbolts swung away from them on a heading that would take them back to their English bases, pushing down their noses to gather speed. Even if they were attacked, they would be hard pressed to defend themselves, for their margin of fuel was hardly sufficient for combat manoeuvres.
But the Focke-Wulfs were not interested in the Thunderbolts. As the latter turned for home, the German fighter leader issued curt orders over the radio and the 190s broke away in pairs, plummeting down towards the rear Fortress groups. They attacked head-on, concentrating on the lowest squadron, and the American gunners had only a fraction of a second in which to bring
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