Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

Hans watched through the left waist window as two of the Mustangs climbed around the side of them in preparation for another approach from behind. He aimed his MG-81 at a space forty feet in front of the leading fighter plane, but decided the shot would be wasted, they were too far away. In pursuit, and taking a shallower arc, was Schroder. Hans watched with growing respect as the pilot gained on the two American planes, their inexperience showing as they made their way in a lazy, careless curve towards the rear of the bomber.

Hans knew what Schroder was waiting for; he was waiting until they rolled on their sides dipping their left wings to pull them round into a position behind the bomber. It would expose to him the largest possible profile. The leading P51 rolled predictably and began to swerve down and to the right, taking it towards a perfect tailing position, when Schroder opened fire on it.

Hans watched as the glass canopy shattered, and several fragments of plane and pilot showered out of the cockpit. A moment later the entire plane disappeared within a ball of fire and smoke. The flames mushroomed lazily up into the sky, while half a dozen large, tattered portions of the plane spun downwards, trailing spirals of smoke behind them.

‘Fuck, Schroder’s good!’ Hans shouted into the interphone.

‘What’s up? Have they bagged another?’ he heard Max ask.

‘Yes, it just ripped open. He must’ve hit the fuel tank.’

Stef shouted across the noisy waist compartment. ‘Hans, the others are coming in again! They’re coming in on my side!’

‘Swap guns!’ Hans shouted back, and shuffled awkwardly past Stef on the floorboards now littered with brass shell casings. He pulled the MG-81 round to face towards the rear and saw three of the P51s lining up behind each other and approaching from the rear. ‘I can’t bring the gun round on them. They’re drifting in right behind us!’

They’ve worked out there’s no one operating the tail-gun.

‘Okay, Hans, when you think they’re close enough, I’ll pull to the right — ’

‘No, left, I’m manning the left waist-gun.’

‘The left, then… that should bring them round into a position for you to get a clear shot.’

‘Right,’ Hans replied.

He leaned towards the window, looking back as best he could, but the P51s had drifted behind the tail fin and out of sight.

‘Stef, can you see them?’

Stef leaned over the right-hand waist-gun, nearly poking his head out into the roaring wind; he looked back and managed to see the tip of one wing beyond their tail fin. ‘They’re right on us!’

Max heard Stef’s warning and pulled the plane sharply to the left. As he did so the P51s momentarily fell within the arc of fire of the left waist-gun. Hans immediately took the opportunity to fire at the leading fighter as it roared towards them, now no more than a hundred yards away. The heavy-calibre bullets ripped into the underbelly of the fighter and almost immediately smoke began to spout from it. The American pilot fired a responding burst towards the waist-gun and a stream of bullets stitched a row of ragged holes either side of the window as Hans simultaneously let go of the gun and dropped to the wooden floor. The fighter plane screamed close over the top of the bomber’s mid-section, the end of the volley over-shooting them.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Hans shouted as he hugged the rough wooden planks, a coarse splinter embedded in one cheek.

That was one of them; there were two more behind it. A second volley raked along the mid-section of the plane and another row of ragged holes appeared along the roof of the fuselage.

Stef dropped to the floor beside Hans, eyes widened with shock. He lay beside Hans, hugging the floor, eyes locked on him.

‘You all right?’ Hans shouted amidst the roar of whistling air. Stef only blinked.

They heard the volley from the third fighter plane pass over the top of the plane harmlessly, followed by the roar of its passing.

His engine was making an unpleasant whining noise, and he could hear the clatter of something loose rattling against the underside of his plane. Ferrelli knew he’d taken some damage, but so far the plane wasn’t telling him anything too bad. He just prayed whatever was loose and dangling beneath his Mustang wasn’t a part of the landing gear.

He looked back over his shoulder to see the bomber swiftly receding. Jake was behind him, and behind Jake, now passing over the back of the bomber and rising to join them, was Joe Lakeland. His two boys seemed to be in good shape, although Jake’s left wing was leaking aviation fuel.

Jesus… all that’s left of my squadron.

Beyond the B-17 he saw the two Me-109s that had been guarding it getting ready to pursue them, and in the distance, emerging from the clouds below, the other German fighters were returning.

Ferrelli clamped his jaw angrily. The whole bloody dogfight had lasted little more than four or five minutes, and nine of his young men were dead or missing. He hoped one or two of them had managed to bail out of their planes, but it seemed unlikely. The attack had been ferocious, the German fighters it seemed had been determined to not just disable them, but ensure none of them got away. They had pursued those two guys relentlessly, at the risk of exposing the bomber. Ferrelli guessed they were keen to ensure that nobody walked away from this exchange alive to spread the word.

Keeping a low profile, it seemed, was pretty high up the agenda for these sons of bitches.

Screw this.

‘Guys, we’re getting the hell out of here,’ he muttered into the radio. ‘I don’t think they want anyone crying wolf.’

‘Yes sir,’ replied Jake and Joe simultaneously.

‘When we hit the clouds, we’ll head north… let’s go.’

Ferrelli pulled his stick hard and rolled over into a steep dive towards the clouds below and the last two men of his squadron swiftly followed suit.

Pieter watched the Mustangs disappear below them. ‘You know, I think our bloody cover’s blown now,’ he said to Max.

Max nodded.

It had been a relatively easy victory for them. Veterans versus raw recruits. Schroder’s boys had made a short and ruthless job of them and they’d done well to prevent all but three escaping. But that would be enough to raise the alarm. He wondered how quickly the information would filter back. If the Americans and British were already on some kind of high alert, the news would travel fast. It would all be down to how many planes they had deployed in this part of France as to whether they would have another run-in. Surely, there were very few planes in the area that could respond at short notice to look for them?

Right now, Max decided, they needed to concentrate on making for the airfield outside Nantes. The 109s would be on the last of their fuel by then and, having seen how effective they had been, he didn’t want to contemplate flying for long without them close by.

Max switched to radio. ‘Schroder, what’s your status?’

‘We lost one, Jonas. Everyone else is fighting fit.’

They’ll have burned a lot of fuel during that dogfight.

‘What are you all showing for fuel?’

It was a few seconds before Schroder responded, clearly conferring with his men first. ‘We’ll make it. It might be a close-run thing, though.’

Max consulted briefly with Stefan on their position; they were about ninety minutes away from the west coast of France. They would arrive sometime around eight in the morning. He hoped those snow soldiers on the ground were in position and ready to go.

Mission Time: 5 Hours, 25 Minutes Elapsed

7.30 a.m., an airfield outside Nantes

Koch tore another mouthful from the loaf of bread. It was good; the dough was dense and chewy, almost rubbery, while the crust crumbled in a brittle, flaky way, like pastry. It was so different from the bread he was used to, it amazed him how much a basic food substance, such as bread, could vary so much from place to place.