their sights to bear as the Focke-Wulfs flashed through the formation at 400 mph.
The bombers shuddered to the recoil of their machine-guns. Spent cartridge cases sprayed across the floors and the air inside the vibrating fuselages was thick with cordite fumes.
Intercoms were choked with excited, high-pitched voices as the gunners called out the positions of the fighters, now coming in from all round the clock.
A Fortress dropped slowly out of formation, its fuselage shattered by cannon shells, its controls shot away. It went over on its back and fell earthwards in a ponderous spin, shedding fragments of wing. Two parachutes broke clear, to vanish almost instantly in a great burst of smoke and flame as the bomber exploded.
Two more Fortresses dropped away within seconds of each other, both streaming flames from their wings. Long columns of black smoke marked their final plunge.
The fighters made three savage, high-speed attacks and then were suddenly gone, dwindling against the drab earth as they headed back to their bases to refuel and re-arm. Two of them had been shot down by the Fortress gunners; it was impossible to fly through that storm of fire and emerge completely unscathed.
Away to the right of the American formation, higher up and well clear of the guns, flew a lone Junkers 88, This was the Fighter Director, whose task was to report any sudden changes of course and also observe any weak spots which the Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts might exploit. Already, dozens more were climbing hard to join the battle.
The time was 1032, and the Fortresses were now entering Germany.
*
Joachim Richter was sprawled in a deckchair, dozing fitfully in the warm sunshine within easy sprinting distance of his Messerschmitt, when the alarm klaxon sounded. Instantly wide awake, it took him only seconds to cover the intervening yards of ground and swing himself into the cockpit, before the Gustav’s big three-bladed propeller spun into life,
Rheine airfield was a confusion of taxi-ing aircraft. There must have been at least forty of them, Focke-Wulf 190s, Messerschmitt 109s and a few twin-engined Messerschmitt 110s — the latter with 21-cm rockets mounted in underwing tubes — all jockeying for position. There was no time for the niceties of an orderly take-off, flight by flight, squadron by squadron; the thing was to get off the ground as quickly as possible and climb like hell in order to get above the incoming Fortresses, the fighters sorting themselves out into combat formations on the way up.
The latest report was that the Americans had made a series of course alterations, taking them well to the south of their expected route. They were now in the vicinity of München-Gladbach. Richter made a quick mental calculation and ordered his squadron on to a heading that should permit them to intercept the bombers some distance to the south of Cologne.
They caught up with the rear groups of Fortresses at 1055. Still climbing, Richter brought his squadron round in a wide curve, passing right over the top of the American formation to place his Messerschmitts ahead of it and several thousand feet higher up.
Dropping one wing briefly, he looked down and, from his vantage point, gained a clear impression of the havoc already wrought on the Fortresses by the non-stop fighter attacks. It was easy to pick out the great gaps in the Americans’ ranks, particularly among the lower squadrons, and he could see smoke trailing from the engines of at least two other B-17s.
Even as he watched, he saw a Messerschmitt 110 make a beam attack on three Fortresses, its pilot flying straight and level through meshes of tracer. Plumes of smoke burst from behind the 110’s wings and for an instant he thought it had been hit, but then he realized that it had launched its salvo of rockets. The missiles’ white smoke trails, clearly visible, bridged the gap between the fighter and one of the Fortresses with incredible speed and disappeared into the
The bombers shuddered to the recoil of their machine-guns. Spent cartridge cases sprayed across the floors and the air inside the vibrating fuselages was thick with cordite fumes.
Intercoms were choked with excited, high-pitched voices as the gunners called out the positions of the fighters, now coming in from all round the clock.
A Fortress dropped slowly out of formation, its fuselage shattered by cannon shells, its controls shot away. It went over on its back and fell earthwards in a ponderous spin, shedding fragments of wing. Two parachutes broke clear, to vanish almost instantly in a great burst of smoke and flame as the bomber exploded.
Two more Fortresses dropped away within seconds of each other, both streaming flames from their wings. Long columns of black smoke marked their final plunge.
The fighters made three savage, high-speed attacks and then were suddenly gone, dwindling against the drab earth as they headed back to their bases to refuel and re-arm. Two of them had been shot down by the Fortress gunners; it was impossible to fly through that storm of fire and emerge completely unscathed.
Away to the right of the American formation, higher up and well clear of the guns, flew a lone Junkers 88, This was the Fighter Director, whose task was to report any sudden changes of course and also observe any weak spots which the Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts might exploit. Already, dozens more were climbing hard to join the battle.
The time was 1032, and the Fortresses were now entering Germany.
*
Joachim Richter was sprawled in a deckchair, dozing fitfully in the warm sunshine within easy sprinting distance of his Messerschmitt, when the alarm klaxon sounded. Instantly wide awake, it took him only seconds to cover the intervening yards of ground and swing himself into the cockpit, before the Gustav’s big three-bladed propeller spun into life,
Rheine airfield was a confusion of taxi-ing aircraft. There must have been at least forty of them, Focke-Wulf 190s, Messerschmitt 109s and a few twin-engined Messerschmitt 110s — the latter with 21-cm rockets mounted in underwing tubes — all jockeying for position. There was no time for the niceties of an orderly take-off, flight by flight, squadron by squadron; the thing was to get off the ground as quickly as possible and climb like hell in order to get above the incoming Fortresses, the fighters sorting themselves out into combat formations on the way up.
The latest report was that the Americans had made a series of course alterations, taking them well to the south of their expected route. They were now in the vicinity of München-Gladbach. Richter made a quick mental calculation and ordered his squadron on to a heading that should permit them to intercept the bombers some distance to the south of Cologne.
They caught up with the rear groups of Fortresses at 1055. Still climbing, Richter brought his squadron round in a wide curve, passing right over the top of the American formation to place his Messerschmitts ahead of it and several thousand feet higher up.
Dropping one wing briefly, he looked down and, from his vantage point, gained a clear impression of the havoc already wrought on the Fortresses by the non-stop fighter attacks. It was easy to pick out the great gaps in the Americans’ ranks, particularly among the lower squadrons, and he could see smoke trailing from the engines of at least two other B-17s.
Even as he watched, he saw a Messerschmitt 110 make a beam attack on three Fortresses, its pilot flying straight and level through meshes of tracer. Plumes of smoke burst from behind the 110’s wings and for an instant he thought it had been hit, but then he realized that it had launched its salvo of rockets. The missiles’ white smoke trails, clearly visible, bridged the gap between the fighter and one of the Fortresses with incredible speed and disappeared into the
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