The Big Show: The Classic Account of WWII Aerial Combat by Clostermann Pierre

Author:Clostermann, Pierre [Clostermann, Pierre]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Silvertail Books
Published: 2019-02-13T16:00:00+00:00

AN UNNECESSARY DISASTER

You have to be careful of those bloody Huns—you never know who you are up against.

1730 hours. We were attacking a lorry convoy near Bény-Bocage, led by our new Wing Commander. With these low clouds and the flak I took a pretty dim view of the new system of flying in two sections—one of two planes and one of four. I was flying that day with an excellent section; Jimmy as No. 2, Bruce Dumbrell as No. 3 and Mouse Manson as No. 4. No need of long explanations over the radio with them. Just a waggle of the wings and they went into line abreast—pursuit and battle formation.

‘Hallo, Pierre. Two aircraft at 11 o’clock!’ came Jimmy’s voice.

They were far ahead to the left, flying at treetop level. At 2 miles range I could identify them as Focke-Wulfs. I warned the Wing Commander who didn’t answer. My section dropped its auxiliary tanks and increased speed. We easily gained on the Jerries. They must be escorting something on the road, probably big priority convoys of petrol bowsers for the panzers hemmed in near Bény-Bocage. A thousand yards from them I left the shelter of the ground and went into a steep climb to put the section in battle formation. The Huns saw us and immediately climbed towards us.

At that precise moment the Wing Commander and his No. 2 cut slap into us and passed through us just as if we weren’t there. To avoid a collision I had to break, but the formation of my section was shattered. The two Huns boldly attacked vertically from below. They were pretty hot stuff, those two. Their daring manœuvre took me completely by surprise. I had meant to cut them off from the clouds, but I hadn’t expected to see them on top of us so fast. The new Wing Commander’s boob had made me lose my initial advantage. Before I had time to take the slightest avoiding action an enormous radial engine appeared in my windshield and a stream of tracer came straight for me. Instinctively I pushed the stick forward and felt his slipstream on my tail-fin. I just avoided a tree. I turned desperately, stick right back, in time to see a terrific flash on the ground near a farm and a big black cloud. A Spitfire wing bounded up into the air, torn off at the root.

The Wing Commander and his No. 2 had disappeared.

The second Focke-Wulf was chasing a completely panic-stricken Spit which succeeded in reaching the clouds but not without collecting three or four shells on the way. I engaged the Hun, who turned so tight that I almost touched him, without being able to get a sufficient correction to shoot him. A chap who knew the ropes.

‘Hallo Max Red Section, Red Two here, please help me; I have had it.’

It was Jimmy calling for help.

The Focke-Wulf came back in a vicious side-slip and I had to break so violently that I stalled and only righted myself by a distinctly risky half-roll just above the treetops.

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