A Thousand Suns

Chapter 47 Mission Time: 6 Hours, 22 Minutes Elapsed

Max heaved a sigh of relief. The coast of France had been left behind them. The only hint of its presence being a thin, grey line on the horizon, the thick cloudbank that had seemed to end where the Atlantic started. The heavy skies seemed to be for Europe only, blue skies for the rest of the world.

They had been flying on a steady course of two-seventy degrees, due west, at an altitude of 4500 feet, just low enough that they’d been able to do without the oxygen system.

Max was certain that the Americans would have scrambled several squadrons of fighters to deal with them. They surely had to have some stationed near enough to the airfield they’d just left to easily intercept them before they flew beyond fighter range. All of them had kept a silent vigil, scanning the skies behind them intently for the first signs of an avenging Vee-formation.

‘That was bloody hairy,’ said Pieter over the interphone.

Hans was the first to reply. ‘Whose piece-of-shit idea was that?’

‘Well it’s not like we had a lot of choice,’ Max replied wearily. ‘Given the way things turned out, it was lucky we did.’

‘I’m sure there must’ve been an easier way,’ grunted Hans.

Stef’s voice piped up. ‘Sir, I’ve been doing—’

‘For Christ’s sake, Stef, you can call me Max now.’

‘Yeah,’ added Pieter, ‘I reckon you’ve earned that by now, Baby Bear.’

‘Ahh, shit, Pieter, can you stop calling me that!’ answered Stef, his boyish voice rising angrily.

Max nodded. ‘Cut him some slack, eh?’

‘Thanks, sir… Max.’

Pieter cast a sideways glance at him. ‘Aha… the boy’s finally learning.’

‘He’s old enough to fiddle with his balls and scratch his arse now,’ Hans added helpfully.

‘Hans, you’d know, wouldn’t you?’ said Stef.

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘You’re always scratching and rubbing your arse.’

‘Not all the time!’

‘Errr… you do, Hans; we’ve all seen you at it. You can never leave your arse alone,’ contributed Pieter.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t sniff your fingers afterwards.’

‘Yeah? Well, you little red-haired weasel-boy, when we’re done today I’m going to ram my fist down your throat, then you can taste it for yourself and see.’

The rest of his crew laughed lightly. Max smiled; it was good to hear the banter pass to and fro between them once more. It had been a while since he’d heard them fool around like that. He looked out of his side window to see Schröder’s fighter out to one side maintaining a steady position a hundred yards out from their port wing-tip.

He switched to radio. ‘How’re things with you, Schröder?’

‘Fine… fine.’ His voice sounded flat, neutral. He knew Schröder was dwelling on those of his men he had lost back on the ground. Certainly they had not long been acquainted, and in no way was it the pilot’s fault that they had been caught in that explosion. But as the leader of a group of men it was his burden to feel responsible for them.

‘That was a close-run thing,’ said Max.

‘Yes, very hectic.’

‘I’m sorry. You lost a lot of good men, Schröder.’

‘Yes… the best.’

‘That’s never easy.’

‘No.’

Schröder didn’t elaborate, but Max knew he was replaying the appalling scene in his mind. The churning sea of flames, those men flailing slowly in agony… unpleasantly slowly. When he replayed that image in his mind, it struck him that some of those poor bastards had been struggling for thirty seconds before they’d succumbed. It had probably been one of the worst things he’d ever witnessed during this war. And that was saying a lot.

‘We needed to make that stop, it was necessary, Schröder.’

‘You think so?’

‘If it hadn’t been for that airfield, this mission would be over. That would have been an end to it. We’d never have made it across on the fuel we had.’

‘Well, maybe, we’ll see if it’s all been worth it when you’ve dropped your bomb,’ Schröder replied tersely.

Right now it sounded like he wanted to be left to himself.

Max couldn’t blame him. In the sky, one on one with a squadron of American fighter pilots flying their superior P51s, Schröder and his men had magnificently displayed their skill, their experience and courage, taking only one casualty while inflicting nine. On the ground, amidst the confusion, he had lost nearly all of his men to a single well-aimed bullet.

‘What’s your fuel situation?’

‘Not bad… let me talk with Günter and Will.’

Just three of the fighters had managed to make it off the ground, bursting through the wall of flames above the fuel truck, only seconds behind them. Just three. If they came across another squadron, Max didn’t fancy their chances.

‘We all have about the same amount of fuel, approximately a quarter of a tank each… we didn’t have time on the ground to fill up properly.’

‘That gives you about two hundred miles before you need to go back. I’ll have Stef call out a warning at one hundred, one-fifty and final warning at one-seventy-five.’

Schröder was some time responding, but he eventually came back just as Max was about to repeat his last message. ‘Fine.’

Max had suspected the landing was going to be risky. They all had. But none of them suspected it would be that bad. Rall, starved of good local intelligence, had been forced to make an assumption that there would not be troops stationed close enough to respond so quickly to the airstrip being taken.

It had been bad luck. Koch’s men had done well to keep the Americans at bay for so long. He hoped the young captain had managed to bail out of that fuel truck before it went up.

‘Max!’ Hans shouted over the interphone. ‘We’ve got some coming in on our four o’clock!’ Pieter leaned forward and looked out of his window, craning his neck to look backwards.

‘He’s right, looks like about six or seven of them, fighters… I can’t see what type.’

‘Okay, Pieter, this time you better take the bombardier’s gun. Stef?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘I want you on the waist-gun. Hans, you’re on the tail-gun. ’

Hans had trained himself to use the tail-gun, which was the only gun that had not been replaced with MG-81s, and remained duel Brownings. ‘Training’ had been little more than reading the tail-gunner section of the B-17 Flight Crew Manual and firing off a few dozen rounds of the limited supply of 0.5 inch ammo the plane carried. But he was ready to use it in anger now.

It was sensible for Stef to be in the comparatively safer waist-gun position, with fuel and range now the most crucial variable of the mission; he needed their navigator alive and well to ensure the most efficient route across. They could scarcely afford to lose him and drift valuable miles off course.

Or maybe he was just trying to keep the young lad out of harm’s way.

Both Hans and Stef confirmed their orders and began to scramble to their positions.

‘Schröder, bandits, four high.’

‘We’ve seen them. Listen, we will have to engage them close to you, so that you can bring your guns to bear on them. My men and I are low on ammunition.’

Schröder was right. They stood a better chance if the dogfighting went on within range of the B-17’s gun positions — the bomber’s guns had plenty of ammo to burn, and the additional firepower would go at least some way towards levelling the playing field.

Max debated whether to lock the plane with the autopilot and man the forward-gun position. He had fired an MG-81 several times, but was, by no stretch of the imagination, a good shot. He might not hit anything, but the additional firepower couldn’t hurt. But then, if the plane took damage to any of the engines or flaps, there would need to be someone in control to react immediately.

He decided he would be better remaining in his seat.

‘Schröder, we jettisoned our belly gun and our starboard waist-gun, you need to lead them in on our port side, or to the rear of the plane, to get the benefit of our guns. Have you got that?’ he called to Schröder.

‘Uh-huh. I’ll try. Good luck.’

Max switched back to the interphone. ‘This one’s going to be nasty. We’ve only three of our little friends looking after us, and six of them coming in. Schröder and his men are bringing the fight close to us so that we can back them up with our guns. Hans? You in position yet?’

‘Yeah, just about,’ he grunted as he squeezed his large frame into the cramped confines of the tail-gunner’s position.

‘Hans,’ called Pieter, ‘any tips for me and Stef?’

‘Yeah… yeah, just make sure you draw a good lead. Ten yards in front of the target for every two hundred yards target range. Fire in bursts no longer than two seconds, the heat causes the guns to lock.’

‘Thanks, you big ape. Make sure you save some for me and Stef.’

Max decided to quieten them down. ‘Let’s keep the comm. clear. I want to hear sightings and confirmed kills, nothing else until we’re out of this.’

His crew murmured assent.

A moment later, Hans’s voice came across loudly. ‘I can see ’em now. Spitfires! Goddamn Spitfires! Three of them are engaging our boys, three splitting off and coming for us!’

Oh shit… here we go again.