bomber’s bowels.
There was a blinding flash, followed by a rolling ball of flame as the B-17’s bomb load exploded. The accompanying smoke cloud reached out to engulf the neighbouring Fortresses, which sheered wildly away from it. Richter saw the Fortress’s four engines fall from the cloud and drop like stones, each trailing its own ribbon of smoke. The tail section fluttered down, turning over and over, its silver surfaces reflecting the sun.
By this time the Messerschmitts were well ahead of the enemy formation.
‘Attention,’ he called over the radio, ‘Elbe Leader to Elbe Squadron, execute frontal diving attack in pairs. Concentrate on low groups. Go!’
Followed by his wingman, Sergeant Thiel, he rolled the Messerschmitt on its back and pulled on the stick, streaking down in a vertical dive and easing out of it on a level with the lowest squadron of Fortresses. The fighters sped like arrows at the leading flight of bombers. Richter picked a target and centred the luminous dot of his sight on the bomber’s nose. Spidery grey lines leaped at him from the Fortress’s front guns, flickered over his wings and cockpit. He resisted a desperate urge to shut his eyes and squeezed the triggers of his cannon, keeping them depressed until the very last moment. Then he pushed forward the stick and kicked the rudder bar, sending the Messerschmitt skidding under the bomber’s port wing, ducking involuntarily as its dark oil-streaked shadow passed a few feet above his head.
Richter held the fighter in the dive for a few seconds, building up speed, then pulled up into a steep climb, looking back. The Fortress he had just attacked was still in formation. He swore and sought another target, noting as he did so that Thiel had come through unscathed and was climbing up to join him. Both fighters levelled out, cruising a few thousand feet above and behind the formation. The other Messerschmitts were ripping through it, but as yet no Fortresses were going down.
‘There’s a straggler, Thiel, below and to the left,’ Richter radioed. ‘Let’s finish him off. Attack from astern.’
The Fortress Richter had singled out was dragging a thin streamer of smoke, barely discernible, from its starboard outer engine. He closed right in astern of it, ignoring the fire that poured at him from the bomber’s turrets, and systematically began to chop it to pieces with short bursts from his cannon. He saw his shells punch holes in the Fortress’s rear fuselage, and an instant later the ventral ball turret disintegrated in a tangle of perspex, metal and shattered human flesh as his shells found their mark there too.
The Messerschmitt shuddered and holes suddenly appeared in its port wing; the American rear gunner was a good shot, and Richter knew that he had to dispose of him. Taking infinite care, he lined up his sights on the man’s turret. His finger curled around the trigger.
A series of terrific bangs shook the Messerschmitt in rapid succession. The side panel of the cockpit canopy vanished in a spray of razor-sharp particles and the left side of the pilot’s face suddenly became numb. Simultaneously, something struck his left leg a violent blow, jerking his foot off the rudder pedal.
The port wing dropped sharply, and before Richter could correct it the Gustav fell into a tight spiral dive. He forced his foot back on to the rudder pedal and took recovery action; the Messerschmitt responded sluggishly and he managed to bring it back into level flight, although he had to keep the stick well over to the right to stop the port wing dropping again.
‘Elbe Leader, are you all right?’ Thiel’s voice crackled over the radio, urgently and full of concern.
‘Elbe Two, Victor … I think so.’
Cautiously, he explored the side of his face with his fingertips. They came away reddened with blood, but he felt no pain. There was just an overwhelming feeling of relief: thank God his eyes were undamaged. Looking down, he found a tear
There was a blinding flash, followed by a rolling ball of flame as the B-17’s bomb load exploded. The accompanying smoke cloud reached out to engulf the neighbouring Fortresses, which sheered wildly away from it. Richter saw the Fortress’s four engines fall from the cloud and drop like stones, each trailing its own ribbon of smoke. The tail section fluttered down, turning over and over, its silver surfaces reflecting the sun.
By this time the Messerschmitts were well ahead of the enemy formation.
‘Attention,’ he called over the radio, ‘Elbe Leader to Elbe Squadron, execute frontal diving attack in pairs. Concentrate on low groups. Go!’
Followed by his wingman, Sergeant Thiel, he rolled the Messerschmitt on its back and pulled on the stick, streaking down in a vertical dive and easing out of it on a level with the lowest squadron of Fortresses. The fighters sped like arrows at the leading flight of bombers. Richter picked a target and centred the luminous dot of his sight on the bomber’s nose. Spidery grey lines leaped at him from the Fortress’s front guns, flickered over his wings and cockpit. He resisted a desperate urge to shut his eyes and squeezed the triggers of his cannon, keeping them depressed until the very last moment. Then he pushed forward the stick and kicked the rudder bar, sending the Messerschmitt skidding under the bomber’s port wing, ducking involuntarily as its dark oil-streaked shadow passed a few feet above his head.
Richter held the fighter in the dive for a few seconds, building up speed, then pulled up into a steep climb, looking back. The Fortress he had just attacked was still in formation. He swore and sought another target, noting as he did so that Thiel had come through unscathed and was climbing up to join him. Both fighters levelled out, cruising a few thousand feet above and behind the formation. The other Messerschmitts were ripping through it, but as yet no Fortresses were going down.
‘There’s a straggler, Thiel, below and to the left,’ Richter radioed. ‘Let’s finish him off. Attack from astern.’
The Fortress Richter had singled out was dragging a thin streamer of smoke, barely discernible, from its starboard outer engine. He closed right in astern of it, ignoring the fire that poured at him from the bomber’s turrets, and systematically began to chop it to pieces with short bursts from his cannon. He saw his shells punch holes in the Fortress’s rear fuselage, and an instant later the ventral ball turret disintegrated in a tangle of perspex, metal and shattered human flesh as his shells found their mark there too.
The Messerschmitt shuddered and holes suddenly appeared in its port wing; the American rear gunner was a good shot, and Richter knew that he had to dispose of him. Taking infinite care, he lined up his sights on the man’s turret. His finger curled around the trigger.
A series of terrific bangs shook the Messerschmitt in rapid succession. The side panel of the cockpit canopy vanished in a spray of razor-sharp particles and the left side of the pilot’s face suddenly became numb. Simultaneously, something struck his left leg a violent blow, jerking his foot off the rudder pedal.
The port wing dropped sharply, and before Richter could correct it the Gustav fell into a tight spiral dive. He forced his foot back on to the rudder pedal and took recovery action; the Messerschmitt responded sluggishly and he managed to bring it back into level flight, although he had to keep the stick well over to the right to stop the port wing dropping again.
‘Elbe Leader, are you all right?’ Thiel’s voice crackled over the radio, urgently and full of concern.
‘Elbe Two, Victor … I think so.’
Cautiously, he explored the side of his face with his fingertips. They came away reddened with blood, but he felt no pain. There was just an overwhelming feeling of relief: thank God his eyes were undamaged. Looking down, he found a tear
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