Mustang Escort

Ahead of him, Mustangs had already begun to taxi. One by one they snaked toward the perimeter track, propellers flashing in the pale February sunlight. Ground crews stood aside, watching their airplanes leave. Marc counted the Mustangs ahead of him, checking codes on the side of them, waiting for his position in the stream. When his spot came Marc eased the throttle forward. Daisy-Mae began to roll.

The tailwheel bumped over the uneven concrete as he followed the fighter ahead, weaving gently left and right to see around the long nose. The Merlin’s steady rumble echoed across Boxted, mixing with dozens of others until the entire airfield became alive with sound.

At the end of the runway the squadron formed into pairs. Aircraft lined up in disciplined order, stretching into the distance. Marc brought Daisy-Mae to a stop. The first of the sixteen P-51Bs from the 355th.

A green flare erupted from the infield off to the side. Ahead of him, one by one, the Mustangs began their takeoff rolls. As soon as one left the ground another started moving. As each departed the procession slowly moved forward with the next Mustang taking its spot at the end of the runway.

He ran through the final checks from memory, then glanced down at the checklist to confirm he completed everything. Fuel boost, tank select, mixture control. Finally it was his turn. The runway stretched ahead like a gray ribbon disappearing into the morning haze. Checked instruments, advanced the throttle, RPM set. The Merlin answered with a rising roar. Daisy-Mae accelerated. Sixty, seventy, eighty knots. Ninety knots. Slight push forward to bring the tail wheel up. Daisy-Mae leapt into the sky.

Daisy-Mae clawed into the cold February sky, its Merlin pulling hard as the runway fell away beneath him. Boxted shrank into a patchwork of dispersal pads, hangars, and snow-dusted fields. The Essex countryside stretched away in muted browns and greens beneath scattered morning mist. Gear up. He reached for the lever. The familiar thump came through the airframe as the landing gear folded into the wings. A glance at the indicator — three lights out.

He eased the stick back, holding the climb at one hundred seventy knots. The Merlin settled into its steady rhythm, the vibration now a familiar comfort.
Up ahead the Mustangs of the 356th disappeared into the cumulus above. Marc scanned his instruments. RPM, climb speed, VVI. Everything was where it needed to be. He looked over his right shoulder. The squadron strung out behind him, the last of the 355th’s Mustangs had just departed Boxted. His gaze went back to the front. Instinctively his hands tightened on the stick and throttle. Relax, he told himself.

In an instant the world went from the dull gray of early morning to a solid gray-white as he entered the cloud. All he could see was the nose of his P-51, the spinning propeller, and barely each wingtip. Long moments passed. The altimeter kept climbing — six thousand, seven thousand, seventy-five hundred, eight — and then Daisy-Mae broke free of the cloud all at once. The sunlight came down blinding and sudden, bright enough that he squinted until he got his tinted goggles down over his eyes. A few more scattered puffs of cumulus still hung over England ahead of him, but the worst of it was behind him now.

Strung out in front of him he could see the other two 354th Fighter Group squadrons forming up. Marc glanced over his shoulder. Other Mustangs of his squadron popped out of the cloud behind him, one after another. He counted — one, two, three . . . fourteen, fifteen. Everybody had made it. His hands relaxed on the controls.

The squadron gradually assembled into its familiar shape, four flights forming a disciplined procession across the sky. Above them the winter sun glittered from dozens of canopies. Marc glanced outside again. In the formation every airplane held nearly perfectly steady. Marc made tiny corrections, a touch of rudder, just a little stick pressure. He saw slight movements in the P-51s on either side. A little movement of an aileron, a small movement of an elevator.

The weather only improved as they turned east-southeast. Below, the slate gray Channel slid past scattered with small, isolated puffs of cumulus, above it the sky opened into a flat winter clarity that made the whole formation look painted onto the air — every canopy throwing back a hard point of sunlight, every contrail a clean white scratch. Marc settled into the rhythm that would carry him through the rest of the day. A sweep above the horizon. A glance at the gauges — all normal. Back outside. He could just make out land to the east now, a gray–green smudge resolving slowly into a coastline. Occupied Belgium. Time to go to work.

He layered a new pattern over the old one — a glance over one shoulder to check behind Daisy-Mae, then the other, then a glance back to confirm Bill was still tucked into his position as Bluebird Two. A slow scan of the horizon, a pause near the sun where German fighters liked to hide in the glare. Instruments. Then start it over again.

It was a beautiful winter morning. The sky was a hard, brilliant blue, scrubbed clean by cold February air. The sun hung high overhead, bright enough to glint off every canopy in the formation. Wisps of cirrus drifted far above, so thin they looked like brushstrokes across the heavens. At twenty-five thousand feet the air was smooth, the only movement the faint vibration of the Packard-built Merlin humming through the airframe.

Marc rested his gloved hands lightly on the controls of Daisy-Mae. He checked his watch, then his map. They should be near the rendezvous point south of Frankfurt, where they’d pick up the bomber stream. His eyes swept the horizon for the telltale smudge of contrails. There — eleven o’clock, a faint smear above the horizon.

“Lead, two,” it was Bill. “Forts, eleven o’clock.”

“Roger, two, in sight.” Marc adjusted his oxygen mask and keyed his radio again.

“All Bulldogs, Forts eleven o’clock. Turn left, zero-five-zero, to intercept.” With a gentle movement of the stick he banked left. Rows upon rows of B-17 Flying Fortresses, a little under three hundred were ahead. Perfectly spaced combat boxes stretching across the sky until they disappeared into the haze. Marc had seen this sight many times. He still marveled at it. Hundreds of heavy bombers, each one carrying ten men, moving together with mechanical precision. White contrails forming behind them, turning the blue sky into a web of bright lines.
As they closed the distance the bomber stream slowly grew larger until individual groups became recognizable. Colored markings appeared on tails and wingtips.

Then he picked out the P-38s that had escorted the bombers this far.
Marc eased the squadron into position on the bomber stream’s left flank. Sixteen Mustangs settled in behind him, weaving gently to match the Fortresses’ slower speed.

Not long after, the 355th was near Würzburg. That’s when Marc saw them. Tiny specks just above the horizon. Finally. A month ago he would have had to watch them form up for their attack from the escort position. Not today. Now, when German fighters were spotted, the escorts were free to break off and engage. Marc’s heart started beating faster. His eyes narrowed on the specks. The first look had been right.

Marc keyed his radio. “Bluebird lead, tally-ho, bandits nine o’clock low. Drop tanks, follow me.” He toggled the drop-tank release, threw the stick left, and pushed the throttle to the stops. Daisy-Mae turned effortlessly and surged forward. Don’t get buck fever, he told himself. A quick glance to either side showed the other three Bluebirds right there with him. The radio erupted — half a dozen voices talking over one another, all of them wanting to know where.

“Which way, lead?”

“Bluebird, say again bandits’ position.”

“I don’t have ’em, I don’t have ’em — where?”

Marc smiled to himself. Right now only his flight and one other from the 355th had eyes on the Germans. The Germans sat slightly below him, climbing. He held his altitude. Keep the height. Let them climb. He already had a plan. All that was left was to see whether the Germans would cooperate.
More bandit calls came from around the formation. The radios were quickly overwhelmed. “Bandits, two o’clock . . . tally-ho . . . where? . . . one oh nines . . . one nineties . . . three o’clock . . . check six.”

About ten round-nosed Fw 190s flashed under him. Marc focused on one. Black nose, gray fuselage, black and white iron crosses on its wings. He rolled inverted, dove through a half loop. As he pulled up the g-forces pushed him back into his seat hard.

He got behind them. The 190s weren’t headed for the bombers anymore — they’d broken left and right, scattering — and Marc had a big speed advantage on all of them. A quick check over both shoulders. Bill held position off his right wing. A scan up ahead — he picked tail-end Charlie, the last 190 in the scattering formation. A slight turn right put his gunsight just behind the 190s’s tail. Wait. Another check left, then right — Bill still there, tucked in behind and to the side. Trust your wingman, he’ll keep you clear. Work the target. Daisy-Mae’s nose settled dead behind the 190’s tail. The German tightened his turn. Marc tightened his. Gravity pulled at him. Closing fast now. Inside a hundred yards. Pull him square in the pipper. Let him have it. Marc squeezed the trigger. The .50s thumped, the airframe shuddered. Tracers reached out and tore into the horizontal stabilizer and the right wing root. Pieces of the 190 came apart and hung in the air behind it for an instant before flashing past Marc’s canopy.
The 190 flipped inverted and dove for the ground. He might not be dead, but he was out of the fight. Okay, where’s Bill? Still to his right. Where are the bombers? Halfway to the horizon. No Germans were high, none were low.

No Germans right. Then left – four aircraft at nine o’clock heading away from him — a 190, then two P-51s, then another 190. Not good. Marc hauled Daisy-Mae into a hard left turn. The shoulder straps bit into him. Blood pressed toward his boots. His vision went gray around the edges. All four of the other aircraft were already in a hard left turn ahead of him. Stay fast. He saw flashes coming off the trailing 190’s nose and wing root. Tracers reached toward the second Mustang. The two Mustangs looked like Russ and Robby.

“Robby, break left, break left, he’s on you!” Marc’s speech strained under the g-load.

“Breaking!” Robby’s voice, high and tight.

The 190 was in such a tight turn that Marc found himself looking straight down at its top surfaces. Great. A high-deflection shot, the nose of his P-51 still well behind the German’s tail. No high deflection shots unless it’s to save somebody. He traded speed to horse the nose out in front of the 190. The crush of gravity grew, his vision got increasingly gray around the edges. Gotta lead him by a mile. The 190 was now obscured by Daisy-Mae’s nose. Marc pulled the trigger. Again, the airframe shuddered with the thump of the four .50s. The tracers arced out in a slow curve — at least they were passing in front of the German. He eased off the back pressure on the stick, walking the stream back toward where the 190 should be. The tracer stream created a curtain in from of the 190s flight path. The 190 had no choice but to fly through it. Marc caught a few sparkles of hits near the tip of its left wing. The 190 flipped over and dove hard for the deck.

Daisy-Mae hung at ninety degrees of bank. He looked up, searching for the other two P-51s. He found them — no more 190s in sight. He scanned the sky around him; it had gone empty of aircraft as suddenly as it had filled with them. He keyed his radio. “Bluebirds, if you’re unengaged, form back up.” He checked and found Bill tucked in behind and to the side, right where he needed to be to clear Marc’s tail.

“Bluebird lead, three, we’re at your seven o’clock.” It was Russ. “Closing on you.”
Marc looked left and saw two P-51s closing in.

Russ again came on the radio, “I think you chased that last one off Robby’s tail.”
Marc smiled at that. There was a time and place for high-deflection shots.

A few minutes later Bluebird flight returned to its position covering the bombers. Over the radio he heard other Mustangs calling out German fighters and peeling off the bomber formation to run them down. The Germans had changed tactics too — instead of massing into large groups before attacking, they were coming in loose gaggles of four to sixteen, hoping one group could pull the escort away long enough for another to slip through to the bombers. Today there were enough fighters that the trick rarely worked.

The rest of the way to Regensburg German fighters kept coming up to challenge the Forts, Mustangs, and Thunderbolts. With every call of “Tally-ho!” the radio exploded. For a minute or two there was frantic noise. Then silence for long minutes. Marc and his Bluebirds got no other chances to engage.
About fifteen minutes out from the target the German fighters vanished all at once. Marc’s hands tightened on the controls again. Five minutes later the first black bloom popped up ahead. Then another. Then another. Within moments the sky was thick with the bursts of anti-aircraft shells. Flak. For the next twenty minutes it never let up, most of it walking through the bomber boxes rather than the fighters riding escort beside them.

A flash off the right. One Fortress lurched sideways. Fire erupted from the outboard engine. The wing folded upward almost lazily. Then the bomber simply came apart. It rolled over and started falling. “Come on . . .” Marc willed the crew to bail out. “Come on . . .” His lips moved inside the oxygen mask. “Get out . . .” One parachute. Then another. A third. Finally a fourth. Six never appeared.

Finally the bombers were over the target. A large black cloud billowed up from the ground. Marc saw tiny specks begin to fall from first one, then all of the Forts behind the lead B-17. The sky was filled with bombs falling towards the target. Long moments later the ground was pockmarked with silent lines of explosions. The fresh rain of destruction added to the hundreds of bombs dropped by proceeding bombers.

Just past Regensburg the bomber stream turned for home, and almost as quickly as it had started, the stream of bombers flew out of the flak. Marc knew what that meant and widened his scan for fighters. Over the radio it was Russ this time. “Bluebirds, tally-ho, bandits, eleven o’clock.” Again, the radios exploded into chatter. Marc’s eyes snapped left of the nose. There — buried in the ground clutter. Bluebirds three and four raced past him to engage. He rolled wings level and then pointed his nose slightly to the right of the Germans, holding his altitude again. As they flashed past at his nine o’clock he caught the twin engines on the small airframes. He smiled. Me 110s — more than eight of them. He checked ahead for any fighters trailing them, then rolled into a tight turn and dove. He grunted against the pull of gravity in the turn.

The 110s were far slower than the 190s, but better armed, and every one carried a rear gunner. “Bill, take the one on the right.”

“I got him,” Marc could hear the joy in Bill’s voice.

Marc checked over his shoulder to be sure nothing was on his own tail, dove until he was below the 110s, and picked out the trailing aircraft again. He closed, then pulled up until the 110 filled his gunsight. These guys were coming in dumb, or they hadn’t seen him yet. Closer. Get closer. Close enough now to make out oil streaks running back along the engine nacelle. The rear gunner finally noticed him. Too late. The .50s roared. His stream of tracers tore into the left engine and walked right toward the fuselage. Flame erupted from the engine as a flap tore loose and spun away. The 110 rolled hard left. Marc rolled hard right to clear it.

Off to his right a smoke trail spiraled down. His throat tightened until he made out two engines on it. Not a Mustang. “I got one!” Bill’s voice, sharp with adrenaline.

“Good job, Bill.” Marc looked around the sky. As quickly as it had filled with airplanes, it had gone empty again, “Bluebirds, check in.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

Russ and Robby, checking in. Marc banked to parallel the bombers’ course and searched the sky until he found them — two o’clock. “Okay, Bluebirds, form up, and let’s get back in position.”

Not a bad day at all so far. Bill got one. He could confirm it. Maybe Russ got lucky too? Marc had one clear kill, one probable, and one damaged. With his gun camera footage he was sure that this would bring his official total to seven.