manoeuvres were because they thought the Mustangs were Krauts. But then you’d have to be one hell of a jittery pilot these days to be worrying about Germans. Those guys were an endangered species, like buffalo.
Ferrelli had been hoping, since his posting to England, to chance across one of their Luftwaffe boys in the skies over Germany. But then he’d arrived at the party way too late to see any of that kind of action. Those poor bastards had been pounded out of the skies of Europe months ago. He had lived in hope though, occasionally fantasising an encounter with a lone rogue ace and duelling to the death in a clear blue sky.
Just one kill, that isn’t a lot to ask for, is it?
‘You going to try the radio again, sir?’ asked Jake.
‘Err… yup, might as well, I guess.’
Ferrelli flipped the frequency again. ‘Unidentified B-17 west of my position, at thirty-seven thousand feet… hey! Can you fellas hear me?’
There was still no answer. He found himself wondering once more what the hell was wrong with these guys. Either they were the USAAF’s most incompetent bomber crew, ever, period. Or there was some trouble aboard, perhaps multiple equipment failures, or…?
Or that’s Adolf Hitler flying a stolen plane and making a run for it.
Ferrelli smiled dreamily like a kid, like some junior league scruff assembling a fantasy baseball team.
‘Danny? What do we do now?’ asked Smitty.
‘Okay, listen up, guys,’ he announced. ‘I’m going to close in on them, see if I can establish visual contact with the pilot. I want you guys to stay in formation behind them. I’ve got a real funny feeling about these boys.’
‘You reckon they’re escaping Nazis, sir?’ asked Jake hopefully.
‘Don’t let’s get too excited here, son, I’m just being thorough is all. So let’s ease those little thumbs away from the triggers shall we?’
He heard a few of them laugh nervously. They were all as wired as he was. This had to be about the most exciting thing that had happened to them since they had commenced flying as a squadron. Weeks of patrolling empty skies and needlessly escorting cargo planes and bombers, and here they were squealing like kids at a tea party just because some dumb radio operator was probably sleeping on the job.
Chapter 37
Mission Time: 4 Hours Elapsed
6.05 a.m., 300 miles from Nantes
Hans watched the Mustang slowly approaching through the plexiglas of the tail-gunner’s blister.
‘It’s an easy shot, Max; he’s coming straight up behind us. One burst and I can put half a dozen shells straight into the canopy.’
His voice was loud with excitement, and Max’s headphones crackled from the volume. Max shook his head. Hans had a hair-trigger manner about him; fire first, think later.
‘We should see if we can bluff our way out of this, before we give ourselves away. They don’t look too worked up, they’re just curious.. so we’ll play along with them for now.’
Pieter turned to look at him. ‘How are we going to do that? You speak English all of a sudden?’
‘I’ll think of something, just give me a minute.’
The American’s voice crackled through their headphones again, a long sentence, entirely unintelligible to them. Pieter was still looking at him. Max knew he wanted to call in Schroder and his men to make a quick clean kill out of this. It wouldn’t be hard — these Yanks were probably all green, and it was unlikely that they had seen much action. Schroder and his squadron of seasoned vets would make mincemeat of the poor bastards.
But then the game would be up, and they would end up having to fight the rest of the way across.
Max switched from interphone to radio. ‘Schroder? What’s your position now?’
Schroder came back almost immediately. ‘We’ve swung in position behind and below their formation, you want us to move in on them?’
Positioned below… that was good. Schroder knew his squadron tactics. The Mustangs would be blind beneath the wing; more importantly, if they were planning to mount an attack on them from behind, they would need to be either coming down or rising up on them to avoid catching the B-17 in their crossfire.
‘Not yet… I just want to know you’re ready in case we need you in a hurry.’
‘We’re ready.’
‘All right, only on my command, is that clear?’
‘Absolutely.’
Hans’ voice came over the interphone. ‘He’s closing in, Max, pulling up alongside us on the left.’
‘Can you see the pilot?’ asked Max.
‘Yup.’
‘Well that means he can see you, Hans, for Christ’s sake smile, or wave at him, or something.’ Max turned in his seat and looked out of the left-side cockpit window. After a few seconds he could see the nose of the Mustang slowly edging into view.
‘What’s the plan, Max?’ asked Pieter.
The American’s voice could be heard again. From his tone the man was obviously asking them a question. He was probably after their bomber group designation, or enquiring what formation they were meant to be with. Surely at this stage the American fighter pilot could only suspect that they were simply lost. The cloud cover below was complete; it was easy enough in these conditions for a plane to lose its way.
Bluff it.
The Mustang’s cockpit slid into view and Max found himself staring directly at the American fighter pilot, only a hundred yards away. The fighter pilot waved, and spoke again. Max responded by waving back at him and tapping the earphone of his flying cap.
He heard Pieter muttering over the interphone. ‘That’s your bluff? Jesus… we’re in bloody trouble if that’s all you’ve got.’
The American pilot spoke once more, his voice again sounded like he was asking a question.
Max responded with the same gesture, he backed it up with a shrug of his shoulders. The American didn’t say anything more, he studied them, it seemed with a renewed level of suspicion.
‘I don’t think he’s going for it, Max, I really don’t.’
Pieter was right.
Max could sense the American was considering the next move. There were perhaps two things he could do next, either report a sighting of them, or attempt to shoot them down. Max had no idea what the state of alertness was amongst the Allied air forces. He knew by now a communication had been sent demanding a surrender. Whether that had trickled down to a heightened state of alertness for their airmen over Europe, he couldn’t guess.
If he pulls back into formation behind us, then they’re preparing to attack.
The American tried to contact them once more over the radio, this time Max didn’t even bother to respond with a gesture. He looked at Max and nodded courteously and then the P51-D gracefully slid backwards out of sight.
‘Hans, Stef, man the waist-guns, I think we’re going to have to engage these boys.’
Ferrelli eased away from the bomber, wondering what to do next.
‘What’s up, sir?’ asked Jake.
‘I got a bad feeling about these guys… this ain’t one of the planes up from Marseilles, that’s for sure.’
‘We’re not going to shoot ’em down, are we, Danny?’ asked Smitty.
‘I don’t know yet… lemme see… lemme see…’
‘Maybe their radio’s shot, that’s why they weren’t answering you,’ added Smitty.
‘Or maybe they’re Polish or something?’
‘Guys… guys!.. Shut up a second and let me think, will you?’ said Ferrelli. He slid back into the leading position of the Vee-formation.
What now? There was something wrong about that bomber. Nothing singularly told him that, just a host of
