Jon Merz - Raider X

The Channel itself yawned before them now and Thatcher, twisted in his seat to try to see what was happening thought the view was magnificent. But his back ached and he couldn’t keep himself oriented to the front. He tried rotating the turret and the guns swung around as he did so. Now he was facing front and felt a measure of relief.

At least I can see what’s coming at us, he thought.

“When we get into it,” said Simpson then, “make sure you turn those guns to the rear. The Jerrys will fly past us and you’ll be able to get a good shot at them.”

“All right.”

“Just don’t shoot down any of my mates in the process. You got me?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Thatcher. “But I’ve never operated guns like this before.”

“There’s a first for everything.”

Thatcher’s mouth felt dry as Simpson spoke with the squadron leader. He could hear the conversation, but he didn’t think he could speak and be heard except by Simpson. That was probably for the better, he decided. The last thing Thatcher wanted was to be known at this point. He was going to have a helluva time just trying not to shoot down any friendly planes, let alone being able to take out a Nazi bomber.

As he looked toward the east, he detected a slight rise in Simpson’s voice and the plane veered once more. The radar had pinpointed the attacking squadron of German bombers and now they were on a collision course with them and their fighter escorts.

Simpson’s voice crackled in his ear once more. “You ready, mate?”

“No,” said Thatcher.

Simpson laughed. “At least you’re honest. I’ll give you points for that, at least. Just remember to breathe and keep your wits about you. Any of these fuckers get on our six, you let me know immediately or we won’t last for sure. Understood?”

“Y-yes,” said Thatcher again feeling a need to vomit.

“Good stuff,” said Simpson. “Because here they come.”

They were on them in an instant, a swarm of angry hornets buzzing about the sky while the slower-moving German bombers tried to gain elevation. The Messerschmitt fighters zipped this way and that, their guns already blazing at the Defiants that had risen en masse to destroy the bombers. Thatcher marveled at their maneuverability as they twisted and dove and rose again with bullets shredding the sky as they did so. Within the first minute, they had knocked out two of the Defiants that somersaulted over and fell from the sky toward the ocean below.

But then the Spitfires and Hurricanes joined the fight and gave the Messerschmitts a bit of a challenge. Thatcher didn’t have time to watch their dogfighting, however, because Simpson was jockeying the Defiant for position under the belly of a large German bomber. Thatcher had no idea what type it was, just that it was probably laden with high explosive incendiary bombs that it would be dropping on London or some other target within minutes if they did not stop them.

His heart pounded in his chest and his breathing came in spurts as Simpson eased them up closer toward the belly, drawing them to within about two hundred yards.

“Get those guns ready!”

Thatcher spun the turret, lining the Browning machine guns up until he had the target. As soon as the belly of the bomber came within view, he opened up without Simpson prodding him. The noise of the four guns firing thundered within the plane. The four barrels smoked as lead poured out of them and Thatcher looked up at the underside of the bomber, noting that the heavy rounds were stitching across the belly of the beast in a deadly line.

“Wings, mate, get the wings!”

Thatcher adjusted his aim and as soon as the first of his bullets hit the wings, the smoke that poured from them was black and ominous. Thatcher got into the firing and maneuvering of the machine guns now, easing his aim and ripping rounds back and forth from the main fuselage to the wings. A burst of flame erupted from the left wing and then the entire craft slowly turned over on its right side and then banked toward the sea far below, yawning as more smoke belched from its underside.

“That’s the stuff!”

Thatcher felt a moment of elation. He had done it! Let Hewitt pin a medal on his chest for that bit of heroic display, he thought as pride surged in his chest.

But it was short-lived when he spotted something directly behind them and then heard a rip of gunfire come arcing across the tail section. Most of the bullets missed but two of then struck the rear flaps.

“There’s one on our tail!”

Simpson didn’t respond but immediately put the Defiant into a steep dive. “Shoot back!”

Thatcher tried his best to line the guns up as Simpson dove this way and that trying to shake the hunter behind them, but the Defiant’s guns seemed specifically designed to attack bombers, not be of help in a dogfight. Thatcher couldn’t adjust their elevation and the Messerschmitt on their tail seemed to know that. It stayed level with them rendering firing the guns nearly useless as Simpson started calling for help on his radio from any other pilots in the area.

Out of the setting sun to the west, Thatcher saw a Spitfire break across the rear of the Messerschmitt and open up with its guns. The line of rounds screaming through the sky moved from empty air to across the canopy of the Messerschmitt and Thatcher could see them impact the pilot who almost exploded within the glass canopy into a red spray before falling forward and causing the Messerschmitt to go into a steep dive toward the sea.

“Got him!”

Simpson brought the Defiant back to level and put it on another bomber that had continued to lumber along. “We’ve lost a bunch of fellows,” said Simpson then.

Thatcher looked and saw that while the Spitfires and Hurricanes were continuing to fight with the smaller German fighters, the rest of the Defiants had suffered tremendous losses. Of the thirty or so planes that had risen with them, half were gone now. And worse, the Messerschmitts continued to dive this way and that while they danced with the British defenders, aiming to punch the Defiants out of the sky before they would need to break off and head back to occupied France because of low fuel.

Thatcher lined up another bomber in his sights and sent volleys of rounds into it. More and more of the German bombers fell from the sky as the Defiants did their work. But there seemed to be so many of them, blotting out the sky like a giant shadow moving from Hitler’s Fortress Europe toward the city of London.

Which was when Thatcher saw another black shape on their tail again. “Messerschmitt!”

Even as he said it, an explosion of gunfire erupted from the German fighter and it stitched across the back of the Defiant. Instantly smoke poured from the wound and Thatcher shouted when he saw it. “He got us!”

“I know it!”

Simpson drove the Defiant down and then tried to regain altitude. The Defiant spun over in a barrel roll and Thatcher saw the entire world go upside down, felt his stomach lurch, and then steadied himself as Simpson brought them level again.

“I can’t control her anymore. I’ll try to get us some altitude and put us closer to the land.”

“What does that mean?”

But Simpson was already yammering away into the radio that they’d been hit and were going down. Thatcher’s mind raced. Going down? Did that mean-?

“Turn that turret to exit it,” said Simpson then. “We’re going to have to bail out.”

Thatcher started panicking, feeling himself gasping for breath as he tried to work the turret.

But it wouldn’t move.

“It’s frozen!”

“The bullets must have hit the hydraulics,” said Simpson. “Look down to your right and you’ll see a manual crank. Grab that and turn it to turn the turret. Hurry, mate, you don’t have much time!”