Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (61 page)

Conversion to the brutish Hawker Typhoon followed and he arrived at 182 Squadron’s RAF base nearby the German town of Rheine, eager to get to grips with the enemy. That he arrived on the evening of 6th May 1945 was, for him, a personal disaster that he felt nothing could ever overcome.

XM-F, his aircraft, was the latest refinement, with a four-bladed propeller and Sabre IIc engine. A fine weapon to take to war to be sure and he had managed one operational take-off that following morning but the mission was aborted and he returned having never fired his weapons in anger, touching down as peace descended over Europe once more.

For some time now, he had been the subject of much ribbing by his comrades, partially about his lack of combat experience, partially because he moved with the grace of the proverbial bull in a china shop and partially because he was blessed with a shaggy mass of ginger hair that defied all attempts to control it. It was all good-natured, because his seasoned comrades realised that in Andy McKenzie they were in the presence of a true phenomenon; a born natural flier who could make the Typhoon do things they all considered unnatural at best, and bordering on witchcraft according to the older lags.

His Flight Lieutenant, Johnny Hall, had woken him and the rest of the quarters with little ceremony some time previously, agitated beyond measure, ordering all to the briefing room.

182 Squadron had been alerted by the ripples of response to General Clark’s message and was breaking out of its slumber to find a very different day developing around them.

As aircraft were prepared, the RAF Regiment personnel guarding the base readied themselves, not wholly aware of the circumstances surrounding their abrupt early morning reverie but understanding enough to believe that something big was happening elsewhere.

In the early morning half-light one patrolling section saw and challenged four men near one of the perimeter fuel storage bunkers and were brought under fire.

The nearby sound of automatic weapons gave urgency to the ground crews and it was not long before McKenzie and five others clawed their way into the developing morning, heading towards the headquarters of 21st Army Group at Bad Oeynhausen, from where frantic calls for help originated.

Behind them one RAF Regiment Corporal and two German black marketers lay dead, their attempt to steal fuel terminated by the unexpected early morning mobilisation of base security personnel. The other two, wounded and bleeding, lay on the ground and at great risk from retribution, for the dead Corporal had been a very popular man.

No-one will know if they would have suffered at the hands of the irate RAF soldiers, for the entire group disappeared in a fireball of exploding aviation fuel as the first of four Soviet manned P-39 D-2 Aircobras, devoid of any national markings, swept over the field. The aircraft dropped five hundred pound bombs from home built fuselage-mounted racks, copied from American originals, aiming to crater the runway before going about the business of destroying the then stranded aircraft below.

The first bomb skipped off the runway and ploughed on through the controllers van, killing all inside, terminating in the fuel storage bunker where it finally decided to function as it was designed. Everyone for eighty yards in all directions died in an instant.

Bombs two and three hit the runway and created deep craters, scattering stone and earth in all directions but did not deny its use.

Number four’s bomb refused to drop and so the aircraft banked around for a second attempt to release the weapon, which it stubbornly refused to do despite the pilot skilfully jinking the aircraft.

A 40mm Bofors gun on the edge of the strip started to hammer out its defiance but the well-trained and experienced Soviet pilots soon silenced it. Other guns joined the defence but the Aircobras worked over the field expertly, destroying aircraft at will, concentrating on anyone attempting to take off.

Parked on the western edge of the field, even the two defunct Me262’s perished, curiosities retained for fun by the RAF base personnel, relics from the airfields Luftwaffe usage by Kampfgeschwader 51. The four aircraft retired after seven minutes of intense action that left the field cratered, fuel storage facilities wrecked, buildings burning and every aircraft smashed beyond repair. Casualties amongst the ground crew and flight personnel were severe.

Only a single hit had been inflicted on the attacking Soviets machines.

0559 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, 182 Squadron RAF, airborne over Bad Oeynhausen, Germany.

Circling at low level over the Bad Oeynhausen Headquarters, the Typhoon pilots of 182 heard nothing of the drama at their airfield as Rheine’s means of communication had been smashed by the Aircobras attentions, or of the other numerous similar dramas being played out on RAF and USAAF airfields all over Europe.

Below them, they had all the drama they could cope with. Smoke and flames belched from the Hotel Konigshof, a former Gestapo HQ, now 21st Army Group Command building, and the telltale flashes of heavy ground firing became evident.

On the scene, one quick-witted RAF liaison officer had grabbed a radio and worked his way through his frequency book trying to find some way of communicating with the aircraft above him. He could see what they could not, which was a body of enemy troops retreating under the cover of the smoke, heading north for the forest.

A number of the locations he tried would never answer, struck down by either commando attacks or aircraft bombs. He was unable to raise Rheinbaden, the location of the headquarters of the British Air Forces of Occupation, formerly 2nd Tactical Air Force RAF and suspected, as was the case, that similar events had transpired there. US 9th Air Force headquarters in Wiesbaden had suffered the worst of all.

He managed to get through to an RAF controller in Bielefeld who was able to establish contact with the circling typhoons and connect the two.

Giving calm and precise instructions the young Squadron Leader organised a strike on the retreating Soviet paratroopers, ignoring the pain caused by the grenade wounds in both legs. Wooden splinters from what had once been chairs and tables protruded from his flesh like a myriad of porcupine quills.

Three of the Typhoons swept down, unloading their RP-3 rockets as directed along the west side of the River Weser, slaughtering the retreating men in the gruesome ways that only sixty pounds of high explosive can manage. Pausing only to let the smoke from their ordnance clear, the three swept back down to low level and began to mercilessly grind up the survivors with their 20mm cannon.

Having taken heavy casualties during their assault on the Konigshof, these elite Russian paratroopers could take little of this kind of butchery and they scattered, discipline gone, not returning fire, just in an all out attempt to find personal safety and to hell with everyone else.

As the British infantry pursued them, they initially rarely took prisoners, killing without mercy in the main. Soon they became more and more horrified at the detritus of men that the RAF aircraft had spread around the ground. With their sympathy growing, shocked and dazed Russians were gathered up almost compassionately until only the occasional diehard required swift and decisive terminal force applied. Exactly one hundred and forty men had commenced the assault on Montgomery’s Headquarters. Twenty-seven remained when the firing stopped, beaten, bloodied but alive.

0608 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, 182 Squadron RAF, airborne over Bad Oeynhausen, Germany.

Whilst the ground attack section bore in, the remaining three typhoons climbed higher automatically, in order to protect their comrades better. No one knew what was going on yet but it did not take a genius to work out that a shooting war had started, deliberately or not.

Flying in perfect formation, McKenzie fumed as he stole glances at the three tiffies attacking below him.

As the formation commenced a turn, something caught his eye and he focussed in on four aircraft skimming along at tree height, heading east and flying over the TeutobergerWald, north of Bad Oeynhausen.

The four American-looking craft seemed to be boring into the attack on his comrades, who were unaware, distracted as they were.

Training took over and the contact sighting was given.

Johnny Hall, the flight leader, immediately organised a dive to the attack and shouted a warning over the radio to the others.

The unidentified aircraft opened fire, a few pieces being visibly knocked off the rearmost Typhoon but missing their enemies vitals who reacted just in time to the warning from above.

Hall was puzzled. “They’re Aircobras. The yanks don’t fly Aircobras anymore!”

Williams, the number two chipped in, his broad Scottish twang delivering a succinct response.

“No, but the fucking Russians do Flight!”

That comment drew a second or two of silence.

“Oh fuck.”

That just about said it all and the three arrowed in, positioning to attack the Aircobras.

Hall opened fire first, missing badly and then jamming his cannon, pulling away from his attack with curses.

However, his target Aircobra, Number 4, had dragged itself violently left when the first shells went past the cockpit, forgetting the bomb still attached and the problems that might have been caused by the thud he heard when attacking the airfield. The bomb’s weight and its effect on aircraft performance combined with the undetected damage to the bottom-most rudder hinge meant that control was suddenly lost when the rudder came apart and the aircraft flipped sideways, condemning plane and pilot to plough at high speed into the TeutobergerWald.

Williams came in second as the surviving Aircobras evaded, going as low as they dared.

Latching onto one enemy plane, he fired three short bursts but achieved only two shell hits with his 20mm. One hit the tail fin and did only superficial damage, the other hit pilot in the back of the head and decapitated him.

The Aircobra lazily lost height and spread itself in pieces through the treetops.

The three ground-attack typhoons, organised and marshalled by Hall from his position above, closed rapidly on the melee.

Turning to fight, the survivors must have known their chances were slim but they did not lack courage.

Hall gained height again and tried to control the battle as best he could. Williams played chicken with one Russian and both were lucky to avoid collision. The skilful Soviet turned his machine in a manoeuvre that defied the textbook and lashed out at Williams from a side angle. Shuddering under impacts, he dragged his aircraft around, feeling the G force build.

Unfortunately fatal damage had already been done.

The Typhoon had always had a tail section problem, which had sometimes resulted in catastrophic frame failures. Williams’ tiffie had been modified to prevent this from happening but the modification did not take account of direct hits from heavy machine guns. .50 cal bullets had bitten into the fuselage at the point of the modification and the high G turn finished the job. He didn’t have time to scream before his aircraft disintegrated around him.

As Williams died, so did the other Russian.

Hall watched as the young protégé used textbook flying to get into a firing position. In the mess later, Hall claimed that McKenzie fired for about half a second maximum. However long he fired, it proved enough and another Soviet aircraft fatally succumbed to the laws of gravity, diving in an ever-increasing fireball and striking the green field below.

Again, the young pilot pulled his aircraft around and located his last quarry. He guided his aircraft into firing position, vowing revenge for Williams. This enemy pilot was clearly experienced and kept out of the line of fire, side slipping expertly, all the time getting nearer to safety. However, McKenzie was remorseless, Hall would later say clinical, and bided his time until again a single burst of fire ended the action.

Too low to bail out, the dying pilot rode his burning charge into the River Weser.

It was later discovered that eighteen rounds had been fired from each of the Hispano Mk II cannon, representing less than two seconds of finger on button time.