A Thousand Suns

Chapter 37 Mission Time: 4 Hours Elapsed

Hans watched the Mustang slowly approaching through the plexiglas of the tail-gunner’s blister.

‘It’s an easy shot, Max; he’s coming straight up behind us. One burst and I can put half a dozen shells straight into the canopy.’

His voice was loud with excitement, and Max’s headphones crackled from the volume. Max shook his head. Hans had a hair-trigger manner about him; fire first, think later.

‘We should see if we can bluff our way out of this, before we give ourselves away. They don’t look too worked up, they’re just curious… so we’ll play along with them for now.’

Pieter turned to look at him. ‘How are we going to do that? You speak English all of a sudden?’

‘I’ll think of something, just give me a minute.’

The American’s voice crackled through their headphones again, a long sentence, entirely unintelligible to them. Pieter was still looking at him. Max knew he wanted to call in Schröder and his men to make a quick clean kill out of this. It wouldn’t be hard — these Yanks were probably all green, and it was unlikely that they had seen much action. Schröder and his squadron of seasoned vets would make mincemeat of the poor bastards.

But then the game would be up, and they would end up having to fight the rest of the way across.

Max switched from interphone to radio. ‘Schröder? What’s your position now?’

Schröder came back almost immediately. ‘We’ve swung in position behind and below their formation, you want us to move in on them?’

Positioned below… that was good. Schröder knew his squadron tactics. The Mustangs would be blind beneath the wing; more importantly, if they were planning to mount an attack on them from behind, they would need to be either coming down or rising up on them to avoid catching the B-17 in their crossfire.

‘Not yet… I just want to know you’re ready in case we need you in a hurry.’

‘We’re ready.’

‘All right, only on my command, is that clear?’

‘Absolutely.’

Hans’ voice came over the interphone. ‘He’s closing in, Max, pulling up alongside us on the left.’

‘Can you see the pilot?’ asked Max.

‘Yup.’

‘Well that means he can see you, Hans, for Christ’s sake smile, or wave at him, or something.’ Max turned in his seat and looked out of the left-side cockpit window. After a few seconds he could see the nose of the Mustang slowly edging into view.

‘What’s the plan, Max?’ asked Pieter.

The American’s voice could be heard again. From his tone the man was obviously asking them a question. He was probably after their bomber group designation, or enquiring what formation they were meant to be with. Surely at this stage the American fighter pilot could only suspect that they were simply lost. The cloud cover below was complete; it was easy enough in these conditions for a plane to lose its way.

Bluff it.

The Mustang’s cockpit slid into view and Max found himself staring directly at the American fighter pilot, only a hundred yards away. The fighter pilot waved, and spoke again. Max responded by waving back at him and tapping the earphone of his flying cap.

He heard Pieter muttering over the interphone. ‘That’s your bluff? Jesus… we’re in bloody trouble if that’s all you’ve got.’

The American pilot spoke once more, his voice again sounded like he was asking a question.

Max responded with the same gesture, he backed it up with a shrug of his shoulders. The American didn’t say anything more, he studied them, it seemed with a renewed level of suspicion.

‘I don’t think he’s going for it, Max, I really don’t.’

Pieter was right.

Max could sense the American was considering the next move. There were perhaps two things he could do next, either report a sighting of them, or attempt to shoot them down. Max had no idea what the state of alertness was amongst the Allied air forces. He knew by now a communication had been sent demanding a surrender. Whether that had trickled down to a heightened state of alertness for their airmen over Europe, he couldn’t guess.

If he pulls back into formation behind us, then they’re preparing to attack.

The American tried to contact them once more over the radio, this time Max didn’t even bother to respond with a gesture. He looked at Max and nodded courteously and then the P51-D gracefully slid backwards out of sight.

‘Hans, Stef, man the waist-guns, I think we’re going to have to engage these boys.’

Ferrelli eased away from the bomber, wondering what to do next.

‘What’s up, sir?’ asked Jake.

‘I got a bad feeling about these guys… this ain’t one of the planes up from Marseilles, that’s for sure.’

‘We’re not going to shoot ’em down, are we, Danny?’ asked Smitty.

‘I don’t know yet… lemme see… lemme see…’

‘Maybe their radio’s shot, that’s why they weren’t answering you,’ added Smitty.

‘Or maybe they’re Polish or something?’

‘Guys… guys!… Shut up a second and let me think, will you?’ said Ferrelli. He slid back into the leading position of the Vee-formation.

What now? There was something wrong about that bomber. Nothing singularly told him that, just a host of 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.

‘Schröder, 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,’ Schröder 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… Schröder 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.