Mosquito Squadron (16 page)

Chapter Eleven

It was five days to christmas; the fifth christmas of the war. For nearly two weeks snow and sleet had fallen in an almost continuous blanket over north-west Europe, bringing air operations to a standstill, but now, on 20 December, the leaden clouds had lifted and watery shafts of sunlight poked through occasional rifts in the overcast. Runways were cleared, crews once again crowded the briefing-rooms, and the war-song of powerful engines resounded in the wintry sky.

The Mosquitos flew midway between sea and cloud, cleaving their way through the icy air, little rainbows of moisture dancing on the glittering tips of their propellers. There were sixteen of them, for a new flight of four aircraft had been added to the strength of No. 380 Squadron, such was the importance attached to this mission.

The new flight, bringing up the rear of the formation, was led by Wing Commander Rothbury; the other pilots were Flying Officers Pearce and Tilson and Sergeant Van Kleve, the latter a Belgian.

Apart from them, the formation consisted, more or less, of the old team. Yeoman, Miller, Saint and Laurie, leading in Red Section; Sloane and Lorrimer in Blue Section, together with two new pilots named Hudson and Carr, who had replaced Collins and Keen; and Yellow Section, with McManners, Reed, Romilly and Olafsson.

Looking out of the cockpit beyond the thumping windscreen wipers — it was necessary to keep them working, otherwise an opaque layer of ice crystals destroyed visibility — Yeoman scanned the murky horizon and felt anxiety building up inside him. The Met. people had predicted that an unbroken layer of cloud would extend all the way over the North Sea and deep into Germany, reaching from 1,500 to 8,500 feet above sea-level, but it was not working out like that at all. Ahead, over the North German coast, the clouds were already beginning to disperse, and a band of yellow light spread slowly over the sea as the sun struggled through.

The attack plan called for the Mosquitos to penetrate enemy territory near the island of Norderney, skirting Wittmundhaven airfield and covering the forty miles to Zwischenahn at low level. Oblique photographs, brought back by a Spitfire of the Photographic Reconnaissance Unit the previous day — its pilot dropping down from the clouds to make a single run before climbing into their shelter once more — had revealed that the enemy rocket planes were concentrated in a single hangar on the south-east edge of the airfield; open doors had obligingly yielded a glimpse of them. This hangar was to be attacked by the four Mosquitos of Yeoman’s section, while other airfield installations — particularly the hangars thought to contain the fighters of JG 301 — were to be hit by Blue and Yellow Sections. Wing Commander Rothbury’s Green Section, attacking last of all, would go for the fuel dump and plug any gaps left by the first three sections.

After the attack, the retreating Mosquitos — heading straight out across Holland — were originally to have been covered by four squadrons of American Thunderbolt fighters, but this supporting force had been called off at the last moment because of the weather conditions, the idea being that the Mosquitos would have the benefit of plenty of cloud cover.

All that was now changed; the weather forecast was proving completely wrong. The Mosquitos would have to fight their way out alone. But there was no time to worry about that now.

Ten miles from Nordemey, Yeoman knew with grim certainty that the element of surprise was lost. A German minesweeper, probably sweeping the approaches to the Ems River, threw some shells at them as they streaked past, skimming the sea; the shells were wide of the mark, but there was no doubt that the enemy vessel would be signalling their presence to bases on shore.

Flak rose to meet them in evil, twisting ropes of smoke as they sped over the coast, and claimed its first victim three miles north-east of Emden. A shell burst in front of the nose of Pilot Officer Reed’s Mosquito, flying number two to McManners in Yellow Section, and for a few moments it seemed that no damage had been done, for there was no smoke or fire and the aircraft continued to hold its station. Then, with awful finality, it turned over on its back and dived inverted into the bank of a river, vanishing in the explosion of its bombs.

Yves Romilly, in number three position, glanced back briefly at the funeral pyre. Then, his eyes.expressionless above his oxygen mask, he closed in beside the leader’s aircraft.

It was Van Kleve, in Rothbury’s Green Section, who broke radio silence.

‘Fighters astern, seven o’clock!’

There were half a dozen of them, Focke-Wulf 190s, curving down out of a sky that was now almost completely blue, diving at high speed to overhaul the Mosquitos. Already, they were dangerously close.

In a fraction of a second, Rothbury made his decision. Telling Pearce to take over command of the section, he pushed the throttle levers through the gate to full combat boost and stood the Mosquito on its wingtip, pulling round steeply to meet the attackers. In the seconds before they were on him he opened the bomb doors, jettisoned his pair of 500-pounders, then snapped the doors shut again and headed straight for the leading Focke-Wulf, firing with cannon and machine-guns. The enemy pilot, taken by surprise, pulled up sharply and took the full burst of high explosive in his belly, splitting open like a ripe tomato. His wings folded and he plunged into the ground in a blossom of flame, crimson against the snow.

Rothbury was attacked simultaneously by two more Focke-Wulfs and he turned towards them, firing as one flicked across his sights. He thought he saw fragments break from it, and then the fighter whirled away out of sight.

The Mosquito shuddered as shells slammed into it. It was being attacked from all sides as the remaining enemy pilots came at it vengefully, the other Mosquitos temporarily ignored. The battle was so low now that the wingtips of the whirling machines were almost brushing the treetops, and Rothbury knew that he could not possibly survive for much longer.

The Mosquito’s port engine cowling flew off with a terrific bang and blinding flames streamed back. The pilot ruddered frantically, levelling the aircraft, barely able to control it. A small copse rushed to meet him and the Mosquito’s belly crunched through the tops of some pine trees. Rothbury closed both the throttles and, as the last vestige of control disappeared, covered his face with both arms.

The impact was suprisingly gentle. The Mosquito ploughed across a field, throwing up a great wake of snow, and embedded its nose in a drift.

Pulling his dazed senses together, Rothbury reached up and pulled a red lever in front of the roof panel, then undid his straps and pushed at the square of perspex with all his strength. It fell away to one side and snow trickled into the cockpit.

German snow, thought Rothbury, and followed his navigator up through the hatch, slithering on to the partly-covered wing. Smoke from the burning port engine drifted over them.

It was bitterly cold. There was a sudden fierce barking and a huge Alsatian came bounding through the drifts. Thirty yards behind it was a man, carrying a rifle. He stopped and raised the weapon to his shoulder.

Wearily, Rothbury and his navigator put up their hands.

The remaining Mosquitos thundered on, the roar of their engines dislodging snow in miniature avalanches from the roofs of the hamlets over which they passed. The surviving Focke-Wulfs had once more taken up the chase, but now they were well astern; Rothbury’s desperate sacrifice had bought thirty seconds of time, and it was enough. On the horizon, a small black patch against the white background, was Zwischenahn Lake. The enemy fighter would not catch the Mosquitos before they reached their target.

Joachim Richter was in Zwischenahn’s control tower, checking on the latest weather situation, when the red telephone that connected the field to Divisional Operations HQ shrilled. A lieutenant answered it, and immediately hit the button that set the alarm klaxons blaring all over the airfield. To Richter, he shouted: ‘Mosquitos! Heading this way!’

Not waiting to hear any more, Richter threw himself down the stairs and into a waiting staff car, telling the driver to step on the gas.

‘Where to, Herr Major?’ the man queried, as the car skidded away towards the hangars on the other side of the airfield.

‘To the nearest fighter!’ Richter yelled. ‘Focke-Wulf or Messerschmitt, it makes no difference!’

He cursed fluently. If only one of the Me 163s had been fuelled and ready to go! But the rocket fighters had not flown for several days, because of the bad weather.

Two flights of Focke-Wulfs, which were always held at readiness, were already beginning to taxi round the perimeter track to the end of the runway. Normally, in an urgent situation like this, they would have taken off straight from their dispersal area across the grass, but because of the snow this was not possible.

They were still taxi-ing when the first Mosquitos arrived overhead in a thunderclap of sound, their coming heralded by a mighty anti-aircraft barrage that covered the northern sky in black cauliflower clusters of shellbursts. The attackers sped on, skimming the airfield boundary, boxed in by the angry constellations of twinkling flashes, blossoming smoke and the glowing lines of tracer, and it seemed impossible that they could survive, yet survive they did.

Yeoman fought to hold his aircraft steady as it rode the concussions, his thumb pressed on the gun button, using the fountains of snow kicked up by his shells and bullets to help him gauge the distance to his target — the low camouflaged hangar that sheltered the rocket fighters. The Mosquito’s bomb doors gaped wide, and the pilot’s gloved finger hovered over the bomb release. The hangar swept towards him, and his fingertip moved down sharply. At that precise moment, a giant hammer struck the Mosquito, hurling it brutally to one side. There was a stunning, fearsome crash and the sound of splinters, rattling on wings and fuselage in a deadly drum-roll. Instinctively, Yeoman pulled back the stick, knowing that the bombs must have missed their target.

Behind him, the second shell in the salvo that had almost brought Yeoman to grief exploded squarely under the nose of Flight Sergeant Miller’s aircraft. The Mosquito bucked, and Miller felt a terrific blow in his stomach. Blood spurted over the instrument panel, but in the last seconds of his life Miller did not comprehend that it was his own.

His last conscious act was to push the stick forward again, sending the crippled Mosquito hurtling towards the hangar; his last conscious thought being one of regret that he could no longer speak, could not tell Sillitoe that he was sorry.

Shedding a trail of wreckage, the Mosquito plunged through the hangar doors and exploded in the middle of the floor. Streams of burning petrol splashed out to engulf the Me 163s. A split second later the Mosquitos flown by Saint and Laurie howled overhead, their delayed-action bombs plummeting into the middle of the inferno with deadly accuracy.

All six bombs erupted almost simultaneously. The hangar swelled like a balloon and then collapsed in on itself in a pile of tangled metal, crushing everything and everyone inside. A huge column of smoke billowed up, shot with tongues of flame.

The Mosquitos of Blue and Yellow Sections, meanwhile, arrived over the airfield just as the first Focke-Wulfs were taking off. Ignoring the enemy fighters — there was little that could be done about them without deviating from the attack plan, in any case — the pilots headed straight for the hangars, cannon and machine-guns blazing, spreading out as they came so that their bombs would achieve a wide arc of destruction.

A line of 20-mm shells from one of the hurtling Mosquitos tracked across the airfield and the pilot, Romilly, his lips stretched tight in a mirthless grin, gave a touch of rudder so that his cone of fire reached out towards a staff car, speeding round the perimeter track. Geysers of snow burst upwards, obscuring the vehicle, and when he saw it next it was lying on its side.

The shells, in fact, had not hit the car; the damage had been caused by Richter’s driver, who had skidded and overturned in his frantic efforts to get out of the line of fire. Both men were flung out, but the snow heaped by the side of the perimeter track cushioned their fall and they picked themselves up, unhurt apart from a few bruises. Crouched in the shelter of their vehicle, they had a grandstand view as the Mosquitos systematically destroyed the airfield. Explosion after explosion crashed out from the wrecked hangars, each sending a fresh column of smoke spurting into the sky to join the black pall that was already covering the field.

Overwhelmed by the disaster, Richter stared dumbly at the heap of crushed and flame-seared metal that had been the hangar housing the Me 163s. The precious prototypes would never fly in combat now, and it would be weeks before others could be made ready.

All the Mosquitos of Blue and Yellow sections miraculously came through the storm of flak without serious damage and curved away to the west, jinking as the red, green and yellow lines of glowing shells pursued them across the snow-covered ground.

The three surviving aircraft of Green Section, however, were not so lucky. Bringing up the rear, and trailing some distance behind the rest, they were just coming up to the airfield perimeter when the first of the pursuing Focke-Wulfs, its engine at full boost, caught up with them. The enemy fighter opened fire, a straightforward no-deflection shot, as Flying Officer Tilson’s Mosquito came within range. Its shells punched into the port engine, which immediately began to stream white smoke, and ended up in the cockpit.