little things. They weren’t responding to radio contact. They were on their own in an area of sky that didn’t normally get B-17 traffic. There seemed to be hardly any crew. He’d seen only the two pilots and the tail-gunner, no belly- gunner, upper-turret-gunner, no bombardier or navigator, neither waist-gun seemed to be manned. Then there were the earlier evasive manoeuvres. It was all suspicious, but Ferrelli wasn’t sure he wanted to be the author of a mistake that might cost the lives of at least three of his compatriots.
And what if it is escaping Nazis? You want to be the dope who dropped the ball?
That decided him.
‘Okay, boys, here’s what we’re going to do… we’re going to wing this bird so she has to ditch. If I’ve made a stupid mistake here, then at least nobody’s killed; on the other hand, if there are Krauts hiding inside, well then I’m sure they’ll get picked up quick enough. You guys understand me?’
A chorus of ‘Yes sirs’ crackled over his earphones.
‘You guys with me on this? Because if I’m wrong, I’m going to have to do some explaining why I decided to shoot down one of ours when we land. It’s gonna help with the paperwork if you boys can vouch I didn’t go all crazy on you.’
Ferrelli’s men voiced their support. ‘We’re with you, Danny,’ said Smitty.
‘Okay, then let’s do it,’ said Ferrelli. ‘Listen up, boys, I’m going to aim a burst of fire at engine one, then move on to engine two, then three, then four, so she’s got no power and they’re forced to bail. If the tail-gunner starts popping at me, you have my permission to concentrate fire on that… but only if he fires first, you got that?’
The men confirmed the instruction.
‘Right… here I go.’
Ferrelli swung his Mustang to the left and lined up with the outer port engine of the bomber with his gun sight. His thumb slid onto the trigger on his flight stick and he readied himself to press down.
‘Schroder, come and get them,’ said Max over the radio.
‘Right. We’ve jettisoned our drop tanks and we’re moving in now. When we start firing, dive and pull right so you’re well clear of the crossfire,’ Schroder responded calmly.
‘Understood.’ Max turned to Pieter. ‘You want to take the roof turret?’
‘You bet,’ he answered, smiling. He unplugged himself quickly and scrambled out of the cockpit towards the back, eager not to miss the start of the imminent show-down.
‘Hans and Stef… Schroder and his boys are coming in any second now, when they open fire I’m going to push us into a steep dive and pull out to the right, so be ready to hang on to something.’
Both men confirmed they’d understood.
Chapter 38
Mission Time: 4 Hours, 5 Minutes Elapsed
6.10 a.m., 300 miles from Nantes
Ferrelli looked up at the B-17 in front of him; a last, hasty assessment before committing to his decision to bring her down.
‘If I’ve made a mistake, I’m real sorry, guys,’ Ferrelli muttered.
His thumb rested on the trigger and he was preparing to release a short burst of fire when he heard the thud of half a dozen bullets impact the underside of his fuselage.
‘What the fu-?’
A Messerschmitt Me-109 roared upwards just in front of him and continued in a steep climb several hundred feet above.
‘Where the hell did that come from?’ he shouted.
He saw eleven more Me-109s either side of the first rocketing up in front of the Vee-formation and watched as they banked around for another pass.
‘Ahhhhh! shit-shit-shit!’ he heard one of his boys shouting.
The P51 to his immediate left lost a wing amidst a shower of fragments and bullets and swerved violently towards him. He had to pull up hard, out of the formation to avoid it. ‘Break! Break! Engage targets at will!’ he heard himself bellowing.
The Vee-formation instantly disintegrated as each of the Mustangs pulled out of the formation and attempted to find a valid target, meanwhile the B-17 suddenly dropped into a steep dive leaving the skirmish behind it.
‘Bastards! You goddamn Krauty bastards!’ he heard Smitty screaming angrily.
Ferrelli’s evasive action put him up on the same level as the Me-109s, now curling around to descend on the disorganised P51s below.
Oh my God, my boys are going to be shot to pieces.
He pulled his plane round to follow the banking German fighters and found himself lining up nicely behind one of them.
‘No-o-o-o — ’
The voice sounded like Jeff’s. It cut off suddenly and he saw in his peripheral vision one of the P51s erupt into a ball of fire. Ferrelli let his cannons fire in anger for the first time, and the tracers whipped forward, clipping the right wing of the Me-109 ahead of him. A twisted sliver of metal broke away from the wing and spun towards him, clattering noisily off his canopy and thankfully not shattering it. The Me-109 feinted to the left and then pulled sharply to the right. Ferrelli acted quickly enough to keep on the German pilot’s tail, but the German had extended the distance between them.
‘Fuck! Oh Jesus!’ The voice of one of his boys.
‘Give us a goddamn chance, you shits.’ That was Smitty’s voice.
‘You okay, Smitty?’ he shouted instinctively. There was no answer back, but that probably meant the guy was too busy to talk right now.
He let off a second burst. This time, despite the increased range, some of the bullets found the body of the plane and he was rewarded with another spinning shard of metal hurtling perilously close to the canopy, and a spray of oil that spattered against his glass like greasy rain. The Me-109 was now leaving a faint trail behind it, not smoke unfortunately, but oil.
‘Got you, you sonofabitch!’ he shouted so loud his throat rasped painfully.
The German dived and broke left, pulling away from the skirmish. Ferrelli decided not to follow him. ‘Damaged’ was as good as ‘out’ in this ball game. Instead he decided to see whether he could help any of his boys out. He quickly scanned the sky around him.
Jeeez, it’s a fucking massacre.
He could see three planes from his squadron descending away from the epicentre of the battle, trailing thick columns of smoke. Another was being tailed by two Me-109s and as he watched, the combined firepower of both planes disintegrated the tail fin and stabilisers. The Mustang spun along the length of its fuselage and quickly dipped down into a dive, continuing to spin furiously, shedding debris like a wet dog shaking off water, as it began its two-minute journey towards France. He heard a protracted scream over the radio that quickly became a high- pitched whimper of despair and eventually faded into a wash of static.
He hoped that wasn’t young Jake, but it had sounded like the kid.
In the distance he saw the B-17 levelling out, at a quick guess, three or four thousand feet below.
These Me — 109s are protecting it. Ferrelli decided that his unlikely suspicion had been right, the plane had to be carrying something or someone important. Perhaps carrying some high-ranking Nazis to safety, perhaps even Hitler himself.
I was right, goddammit!
‘Who’s alive, for fuck’s sake? Call in, call in!’ he shouted angrily into his radio.
‘I’m still here, sir.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Wally, sir.’
‘Me too!’
‘Jake?’
