Harry Kellogg III - The Red Sky - The Second Battle of Britain

IL 10 Pilot

2nd Day of the Attack

Near Boscom

The wind had shifted for a minute and the Bofors could see their targets. The machine guns did not have much effect on the IL10 Beast but the 40mm Bofors did and the three that were free from the smoke took down four of the squadron in quick order. On the next pass the smoke was behaving much better and revenge was in order. Ah, the never ending cycle of revenge. You killed my brother in arms and now I will kill yours or you. An eye for an eye and a horrid death for an excruciating one. The Beasts in this squadron were caring the pods that spewed flame. Dropping their external fuel tanks after they got an extra 200 miles range from them, they were free of that burden. They then scorched the earth in V shaped formations spewing flame and death. They came back and waited for the smoke to clear to finish any survivors off and to catch any RAF planes foolish enough to try and land while they were still making their circle of death runs. The circle of death was a technique use on the Eastern Front with Beast after Beast following each other looking for targets of opportunity and then taking a wide turn and doing it again. It was similar to a flock of vultures but with a human brain and a little choreographing at work.

In the “Circle of Death” attack, a Sturmovik group would flank around the enemy and then peel off successively, each Il-2 making a shallow diving attack, then pulling up and around for another pass. The beauty of the Circle of Death was that it kept the enemy under continuous fire for as long as the aircraft had fuel and ammunition. Even when the smoke clear for a short period, of time the attacks were continuous, with no respite for the AA gunners and loaders.

The 280 2.5kg PTAP bomblets contained internally had been very effective as well and destroyed quite a wide path of soft targets. Targets made out of things like flesh and bone. Thank or curse Mr. Shrapnel depending on if you were giving or receiving for his contribution to the art of war. The current PTAP could penetrate 70mm of armor so the tin and wood coverings placed over installations and control rooms and targeting radar are no match for them.

The four 23mm cannons took care of many of the rest of the targets at the airfield. Not much can hide from that kind of fire power. The RAF or any of the NATO forces had never experienced their own creation… napalm. The Soviet version was very similar and just as deadly killing with excruciating pain if death does not occur instantly. The arms race continues with more and more deadly and horrible ways to kill each other. It appears to be a never ending cycle for human beings. At least the males of the species.

How many of those pilots, gunners and ground personnel being killed that day had children or even infants. Some might have newborns. They would die and were dying for those children yet they were willing to kill other fathers and mothers as well as other children in the belief that they were protecting their own.

What an absurd way of thinking. What an absurd way to live. What an absurd way to continue a species thought Yuri. I’m told by my leaders that if I don’t kill them… the enemies men, women and even children, that my women and children will perish. This is just plain crazy. Yet here I am following orders and spewing death on men just like me who have children and who honestly believe that by killing me they are saving something near and dear to their hearts. Would I kill them if they were not trying to kill me? Of course not. I rather liked the Americans and Limeys I met near the end of the war. Yet here I am burning possibly one of those men to death and all because he is trying to kill me and because someone down there killed Ari. When does it stop? When are the scales balanced… not today!

John Dunellen was a double ace and he was in deep shit. He was slowly gaining distance from the pack of Yak 9s chasing him but he was running out of time and space. His wingman and squadron mates had been separated during takeoff. It was hard to take off when Tu2s Bats were circling overhead and just waiting for you to show yourself. It was almost impossible to count on a safe haven to refuel and rearm. The anti-aircraft guns had gone silent one by one. The Soviets had targeted them specifically before they even attacked the planes on the ground landing or taking off. Their main focus for the first week had been the guns and gunners. They had died by the thousands. Horrible deaths and now many airfields throughout Britain were defenseless. Defenseless from marauding flying tanks and medium bombers loaded down with all manner of mayhem.

Dunellen tried something new this time he came back to the airfield with a third of a tank. He pretended that he was getting ready to land and waited for the Tu2 Bat to lumber on to his tail then he gunned it and turned inside the medium bomber and caught him with a deflection shot from his 20mm cannons. The bomber went down in a satisfying fireball. But he then found himself low and slow with three Yak 9s were on him like white on rice.

Dunellen was good. You don’t get to be a double ace in a ten day period if you aren’t good. He kept the Yaks at bay for another 10 minutes. Twisting and turning, dipping and weaving even a few barrel rolls. No one did barrel rolls anymore so maybe that’s why they worked.

He knew if he flew straight for even a few seconds he was dead. All the twisting and turning made it impossible for him to gain altitude and to use the superior straight line speed his Spit possessed. While fighting for his life he saw his precious fuel being burned at a prodigious rate. He could even feel it. His plane became more responsive the lighter it got. The lighter it got the closer he was to death. Then the first cough happened.

It happened on a hard turn to the right. It was a real tight turn and almost caused him to black out. He would have got the Yak 9 with the 14 little swastikas on the side if he had been able to stay in the turn but the Yak’s wingman was doing his job and he had to break off the turn. The wingman’s 20mm cannon round took off the tip of his right wing. No harm no foul at this height. If his opponents had been Yak 3s he would have not made it this far. The Yak 3 could outturn even a Spitfire. Against the Yak 9 the best pilot would have won. Against 3 Yak 9s all bets were off.

Then his engine coughed again and this time he was not in a tight turn. But he had to turn to avoid the tracers coming from the Russian aces plane. His luck ran out and his skill could no longer defy physics. The air flow over his laminar flow wings could no longer create the lift needed to keep the 2400 odd kilograms of aluminum in the air. In the last seconds of his life just before the Spitfire hit the ground and exploded something caught his eye for a moment.

It was a very little boy standing among some wreckage calmly waving at him. He had no pants on and looked like he had never been washed. Time froze as they stared at each other for a fleeting moment. Their eyes locked and he though, what was a little boy doing here surrounded by all this death? It made him think of his own family. Dunnellon’s last thought was of his new born daughter’s smile. Not a bad thought to die on.

The boy watched the sky in awe. He was mesmerized by the swirling machines with winking lights in their nose and wings. When they came close to the ground and the flashes came from the wings there would be little explosions on the ground ahead of the plane, little explosions that where linked back to the plane by fiery trails. It was wonderful to watch and he was enthralled. He had been doing it for days between finding food to eat and sleeping. The area he was in seemed to be teaming with planes whirling and turning after each other and occasionally crashing with great noise and fireworks. It was wonderful… just wonderful and thrilling to his 3 year old eyes.