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Some Time in the Future
by Flytiger

The "snob" coffee in the fancy cardboard cup is starting to cool beyond the point of palatability. I definitely didn't get my money's worth this morning, and although I could put it in the microwave and reheat it, well, there just isn't a moment to lose . . . duty calls . . .

Pre-dawn found my ground crew getting the camouflage paint off the P-51C - yesterday's snowfall had blanketed most of Belgium and western Germany in white. The crews knew bare aluminum greatly improved our chances of bring ourselves and the planes home from the now winter-colored terrain.

The briefing from our squadron commander was harrowing. We were ordered to engage in a combined low-level attack against two Luftwaffe airfields near the maximum limit of our range. We'd have to rendezvous with the 56th Fighter Group - Hub Zemke's "Wolf Pack" and their P-47's to the South of London, then head westward and into Luftwaffe territory. For our exit, the British would also have two squadrons of Spitfires flying top cover from their base in France, and getting all this to come together at the right time at the right place was going to be a challenge - we'd been at this sort of thing for nearly a year now but we still had a lot of rookies in the cockpits and there had been a lot of accidents.

According to our Squadron CO, Stinger2, Intelligence said the Axis was massing a huge number of Ju88's, Bf-110's and even some older Stukas for a major push against the recent allied armor advances near the western border of Germany. They apparently had been moving men and aircraft into position for several days, and we were sending nearly 50 aircraft out to sneak in and destroy as many as we could on the ground.

We had to be over the targets, sweeping in low out of the early morning sun in order to achieve success, which meant we had to take an indirect course that would make it really tight on fuel for the trip home. My guess was that even with drop-tanks, some of the P-47's were going to end up in the drink if they made more than a single pass over the target.

Takeoff in the dark is always risky, but we managed to get into the air without serious incident. Five minutes later we could see the exhaust flames from the big radials of the P-47's slightly above us and thankfully, no one had to waste fuel orbiting in wait. The first waypoint turn was a little hairy - it was still dark and we'd never had this big a formation (if you can call it that) to maneuver with. The orders to focus our attention on our lead took hold and although we were strung out all over the place, we didn't run into each other.

The rest of the cruise went well, and as the sky directly in front of us started to show a tinge of lighter blue, we reached the next waypoint to turn south-southeast. The increased visibility gave us a much better feeling and our formation tightened up considerably as we began a gradual descent to 17,000 feet that would take us over the coastline defensive positions with engines at low power settings. Minutes later, forty-eight miles inland and still apparently undetected, we were at 5,000 feet and commenced a turn to the west, then started getting into attack formations. The 56th turned away slightly northward; our better range dictated we attack the southernmost of the two fields.

My wing leader and I were in the third finger-four formation, backing off in speed slightly to achieve the necessary spacing but still accelerating as we descended to 1,500 feet, the sun now about to peek over the horizon. The white blanket below us was dotted with stands of trees that had shaken off the snow, and every few seconds a road or fence line could be seen. Concentrating on my leader, I didn't take a lot of time to sightsee, but noted more than once Axis military vehicles sitting idle. Apparently we still had the advantage of surprise - but we were still several minutes from the airfield and the hopefully inactive Axis aircraft.

Throttles up. 325 IAS. Down to below 300 feet and we leveled off. With a bluing sky, the terrain was really visible now and I got a sense of speed for the first time during the mission. I wasn't watching the instruments and I was hoping our flight leader wasn't either. I held my breath as we crossed a couple of low rises then felt cold fear as I saw machine gun tracer fire rising from the ground ahead of us. Whoever it was had been caught by surprise and had missed the two formations ahead but was now about to turn and fire into our path. The order for me to fire came instantly - I was directly in line. We dipped down. Seconds later, several short bursts sent the machine gunner running for cover - we'd be far to his west before he could even regain his feet, but surprise was out of the question.

Up again and just above the tops of the trees, we now started looking in earnest for other aircraft - we had been spotted and were still four minutes from the target. We all started thinking about how long it would take for the Axis pilots to get their planes into the air - or worse, how many of them were already up. The tension only got worse as we sped over a long line of vehicles - moving vehicles with troops in them.

Because we had only one real opportunity for strafing and because few of us had a lot of successful ground attack experience, the instructions were to make our initial run at only 250mph, maximizing our accuracy. Two of our six .50 calibers were belted with armor-piercing ammunition and our objective was to do as much damage as possible in a single sweep and then get the hell out of there.

One minute from the target and we could see the first wave of planes climbing steeply away, the brilliant sun glancing off the four Mustang's bare aluminum wings. Our leader signaled to set attack speed, and we tightened up the formation, trying to provide as narrow a field of fire as possible. Thirty seconds later we had the field in sight and could see the turmoil the previous eight aircraft had caused. As we descended to under 100 feet (my guess - I wasn't watching the instruments at all!) the order to break and take targets at will came over the radio - we had surprised them alright, but they had anticipated this kind of attack and didn't have aircraft lined up in any particular pattern.

The next fifteen or twenty seconds were a blur of machine-gun fire, bullets chewing into the ground, into vehicles and into at least three multi-engined aircraft that looked like bombers. Only one resulted in an explosion and it wasn't a giant fireball like you see in the movies. It dawned on me that I wanted desperately to climb, turn and make another pass - but orders were orders and command wanted me and my airplane back. Instead, I lined up on a building in front of me and put a short burst into it, watching the explosion of glass, metal and wood and realizing I had taken out the radio shack when I saw the metal tower begin to topple behind it - right into my line of flight!

Hard left and pullback on the stick (a left roll is always easier!) and some right rudder and I nearly closed my eyes as the falling metalwork disappeared from my line of sight. The stick nearly jumped out of my hand as the right horizontal stabilizer and elevator was hit by one of the antennae from the twisting structure. I discovered I was holding my breath as my leader called over the radio to see if I was still flyable.

Gingerly rolling back to horizontal and now wondering if the Mustang would do what I asked it to do, I was trying to see how much damage had been done when the flight behind us began their sweep. I should have been climbing out above the far end of the base, well above 2,500 feet by now, but instead, I was down low and suddenly realized I could be the recipient of some "friendly fire" if I wasted any more time. I could see that I was missing a part of the right HS, and when I pulled back on the stick, it was abruptly clear that this was not going to be easy. The Mustang seemed to have a mind of its own if I applied anything but the slightest backpressure on the stick.

Thankfully, Stinger2 had circled back down into position just to my 5 O'clock and radioed to me that my right elevator was still partially there. Now was not the time to wait, however, and we throttled up to max to get away from what was surely to come after us. With the damage, my max safe speed was just barely over 205mph - any faster than that and I was in real danger of losing vertical control, and it was still possible that the damage would become much more severe. At 205Mph and unable to climb at anything more than a hundred feet-per-minute, I was not only a likely easy target, but a serious liability to the rest of the squadron.

My thoughts drifted to options. Bale out? Over Germany? How far to the front? 200 or even 300 Miles? One hour or more in this thing with the Luftwaffe hunting us. Stinger2 had figured out the fuel situation for me. Down here at this speed if I was really lucky, the furthest I could hope to get would be within about 100 miles of a British forward area field - the one the Spitfires up there at 17,000' had come from. He ordered the rest of the squadron to follow their mission orders and return to base at best possible speed while he escorted me to the limit of my range and recorded the location for a rescue attempt.

A look upward and back into the startlingly blue canopy of dawn-streaked sky terrified me even more - tiny dark objects were scattered around, moving in what appeared to be slow motion - the Brits had come down and engaged the now pursuing Axis fighters. Three of them were even more alarming though - they were on a straight intercept course to us and were gaining rapidly in a descent.

I thought again of the crew removing the paint - thank God they had. Maybe the Axis pilots hadn't spotted us. Then the answer came - Stinger2 throttled up and pulled into a climbing turn to meet them. I was almost frozen in fear and had a strange feeling of admiration and rage all at the same time. The feeling didn't get any better as I noticed two of them had turned to engage the P-51 while the third kept on in my direction. Apparently they had figured out my situation.

I went lower - I really didn't know what else to do. All I could hope was that he would find it harder to drop me if I hugged the ground. Trees, farmhouses and barns, a railroad track and a few roads flashed by. I lost sight of him, concentrating on not colliding with the terrain. My palms were sweating. I was trapped and all I could do was fly the crippled plane as close to the ground as possible.

On his first pass the pilot of the Fw-109A proved himself to be something of a novice. A couple of bullet strikes on the starboard wing did no damage and he had clearly overestimated my speed. After the shallow, diving pass, he pulled nearly vertical right in front of me, and it was then I realized how stupidly confounded I had become in the situation - I had forgotten I was still fully armed - nearly immobilized, but still carrying enormous firepower. Without further hesitation, I got off a burst as I managed to raise the nose with a sickening roll-off from the lack of a complete elevator. I assumed I didn't do any damage - there couldn't have been more than fifty-or-so rounds in total and it was a late shot, at that. To my stunned amazement and fascination (which nearly cost me my life as I neglected my altitude), he leveled off, turned lazily and continued away due south.

I regained my marginal control of the Mustang and began limping higher to give me a larger margin of error in terrain judgement. My thoughts turned to Stinger2 and what had to be going on against two Focke Wulf fighters. I got my answer moments later over the radio:

"Two confirmed. Rejoining Flytiger, ETA 10."

I clicked the mike button gratefully in acknowledgement, then was stunned by the next message from a British pilot: "You bloody-well bagged a 190, Flytiger. We gave him a bit of a chase after he buzzed you, but he flew true into the ground before we got a round off."

All I could do was say "Thanks!" as I swiveled to see the Spitfires somewhere above and behind me.

"Looks like you're missing some empenage old boy - bad luck, there eh?"

"Case of dumb pilot," I responded.

"You're in a bit of a spot, here, sir. We'll watch you as far as you can go. Looks like you're CO is on his way as well. You may want to come to two nine zero if you can. Shorten your trip a bit."

Grateful for the corrected heading, but especially the company, we turned to two nine zero and I eventually managed to get up to 12,000 feet, where the big V-12 could run more economically and the Mustang wasn't fighting the thick air below. The Brits stayed with me while Stinger2 climbed to 18,000 for economy sake. The next few minutes passed mostly in silence, keeping watch for enemy planes and running through winter survival and evasion training sessions in my mind. I'd never wheel's-up landed a P-51 - I'd crashed a few back early on in the war, but I had a successful streak going and did not want to end it with a disastrous and fiery death.

The fuel situation was now dictating my future. Stinger2 and the Spitfires would make it to the British forward area field, but I was going to be putting this thing down either behind, or very close to the German lines, depending on how the brutal ground battles were going today.

I began a controlled descent, nearly losing it when the speed climbed up above 225. The first fuel warning came on as I passed through 7,000. If I didn't find a spot soon I'd be flying a glider, and the Mustang is not a good glider. Tension came back. Maybe it was the proximity to the enemy again, maybe it was having to continuously man-handle a crippled airplane, maybe it was because I was trying to stay alive.

There were no really good options below me, but as I came through 1,000 feet, my stomach wrenched at the sight of Axis armor maneuvering below me, firing at unseen targets further off to my right . . . off to my right! Allies somewhere over there were within range of tank cannon fire. With a gasp of grateful hope I radioed Stinger2 that I had reached what had to be the front lines and was going to put down behind Allied forces. I cautiously turned toward the apparent friendly forces, not really seeing them but knowing the Axis armor wouldn't be wasting shells on ghosts or trees.

The pinging and clanking sound of small arms ammunition hitting the P-51 foretold more problems and almost instantly smoke started streaming out behind me. The rapid drop in engine RPM was ample evidence of how vulnerable low-flying aircraft are to ground fire, and it wasn't long before additional rounds banged into the armor behind me.

In seconds, I was no longer really flying a modern fighter - it was wallowing like a sled and I felt the urgent need to open the canopy for some air, but the oil slick forming on it changed my mind. I remembered to get the flaps and gear down, but I was still too close to the Axis troops - bullets kept dinging the airframe, smaller ones, clearly from rifles, not the machine guns mounted on vehicles. I wanted at least another few miles to get away from the ground-pounders. It wasn't to be. The engine seized, the propeller stopped and I was indeed, flying a homesick glider. 155mph. Then 130mph. Then sickeningly the needle swept past 12 and I quit looking at it and tried to see where I was going to crash-land. At least there were no more bullets peppering the plane, but for the first time, I noticed a couple of bullet holes in the canopy and one was all too close to where my head normally was.

A few of the Allied troopers were running for their lives as I swooped over their position, touched down then bounced across an open field and nearly ground-looped the P-51 into a row of bushes, finally coming to rest against a row of wooden shipping containers. Shaken but not hurt, it was one very happy pilot that greeted the troops that surrounded the smoking, ticking and bullet-riddled Mustang.

.. . . then that one very happy pilot looked up from the screen long enough to see that I was going to be late for a meeting!!!