The surviving five bombers hugged the landscape and paid for it, the junior pilot clipping a church tower and fireballing into a row of houses.
Four now, as low as they dared, trading speed for height, or lack of it, safety the golden target.
Back over Soviet lines there was no chance of flak, so each pilot concentrated on the ground and the enemy who still pursued.
And then they were gone, the sky suddenly empty of the death bringers.
The surviving pilots flew on, leaving seven of their aircraft and twenty-nine of their comrades behind.
Each aircraft had a four man crew, the extra loss being a reporter from the ‘Pravda’ newspaper, who fell for the ‘easy mission’ briefing of the Divisional Commander, and who died cursing the man’s name.
The Lightning P38-J was an upgraded version of the famous twin-tail fighter, and much improved compared to the aircraft that had tested the Luftwaffe in the early days of the American commitment.
The general type was unknown to the crews of the 21st, not having been supplied within the lend-lease programme, although a few ex-USAAF models had been found damaged and made airworthy in the later years of the Patriotic War.
In the last years, the USAAF in Europe had mainly used the Lightning for reconnaissance, but now the ground attack and interceptor roles were more required, with other aircraft set aside to do the photo-recon work.
This particular unit was formed from training unit personnel and given a brand-new designation, that of the 601st Fighter Squadron.
Their first mission, a ground attack strike in support of a defensive battle north-east of Bretten, had been carried out with all the hallmarks of men either unused to combat, or rusty from an absence of it. Twelve had flown out and ten had come back, two aircraft lost due to mechanical failure, safely landing in friendly territory.
The 601st contained both sorts of pilots, new and veteran, and it took time to gel properly.
Their second mission had been an escort assignment, remarkable solely for a total no-show by Soviet fighters. Again, the entire squadron of fourteen aircraft returned.
This was their third, and they had thirteen birds in the sky.
‘Tanya’ was performing well, her twin engines sounding perfect as the squadron settled into line for the ‘Carousel’ attack.
Senior Lieutenant Istomin was checking the ground, observing numerous palls of smoke from the target area, markers of his comrade’s success.
Like the veteran he was, Istomin calmly searched for something of note, his mind registering the tracers rising from the German town, suggesting the presence of military, and therefore justifying it as a target.
Istomin heard the call through a positive deluge of messages, the common radio channel sharing the destruction of the 9th Bombers, as well as adding a realistic commentary to the deadly fighter battle going on above them.
His head swivelled and his eyes tried hard to adjust to the approaching shapes, not knowing what exactly they were, but knowing exactly what they were about to do.
The bomber leader gave instructions for the ‘Carousel’ to commence and screamed into his radio for fighter assistance, receiving some hazy reassurance of ‘help on its way’.
No help would come.
The Soviet fighter flight leader who acknowledged was already spiralling down in a fireball, dead before the bombers commenced their attack.
Istomin could see a disaster in the making, the regiment lined up preparing to follow the lead aircraft into a bombing attack, the enemy aircraft closing at high-speed.
“Zirafa-two-three to one-one, enemy fighters attacking head on, type unknown, over”
He made the call, even though the commander had to have seen them.
The man was a fanatic, and determined to discharge his duty, so he gave no countermanding order as he dived on his target.
‘God fucking help us.’
Possibly God did help the 21st at that moment, although if he did it was by guiding the AA fire of the ‘Camerone’ flak unit into the regimental commander’s diving aircraft, the 37mm shell striking the port engine on the propeller boss, its explosive power spent in wrecking the engine and sending fragments of itself and the propeller in all directions.
The Tupolev was a tough airframe, and the commander’s aircraft almost seemed to shrug off the strike, continuing on its attack dive.
The regimental commander, the pain excruciating, his intestines already spilling out over the flight controls and pedals, issued one last order.
“Zirafa-one-one to all, continue the attack for the Rodina. Good luck comrades.”
The 20mm quad flak guns now started to chew pieces off his aircraft, ending his suffering, and that of the three other crew, all victims of the shrapnel from the engine strike.
As the stricken Tu-2 buried itself in the ground, the second and third aircraft virtually came apart in the air as the enemy fighters struck.
Istomin acted.
“Zirafa-two-three to all, jettison bombs, break away, left, left, ground level, over.
Wide-eyed soviet bomber crews watched as the beautiful twin-hulled aircraft swept past them, more bullets striking home from quadruple .50cals mounted in each US aircraft’s nose cone.
The tail end Tupolev received special attention from one of the three Lightnings that also had their 20mm Hispano cannon in place, the explosive shells biting deep into the wing spar and destroying the starboard wing’s fuel tank.
For anyone on the Soviet radio scheme, the next few seconds were too horrible for words, and more than one pilot switched channels, be they in a bomber with Lightnings closing, or in a Lavochkin fighting for its life in the sky above.
Those who could observe, married the sight of the burning Tupolev losing height gradually with the animal screams of those being incinerated inside the metal tube.
Even those USAAF and Normandie pilots who caught sight of the aircraft immediately understood the suffering of those within, but none sympathised any more.
‘C’est la Guerre.’
Four of the Tupolev’s were either down, or going down, and the 21st Regiment had not even started to get itself down and heading back home.
The Normandie pilots concentrated on their own prey, pursuing the Il-4’s away from the target area.
The 601st swept round and bore down again.
“Zirafa-two-three to all. Get down fast and turn left, course 100. Come on, comrades!”
Another Tupolev went, more spectacularly than the rest, cannon shells coming into contact with something that didn’t respond well to the marriage, the sturdy aircraft disintegrating in the resultant explosion.
“Two-three, break left, now, now, now.”
The column shifted instantly, the Tupolev no longer occupying the air now being thrashed by .50cal bullets.
A shape swept past Istomin and he instinctively flicked the aircraft to follow, pressing the firing button for his forward firing ShVAK cannon.
Whilst not as spectacular as his comrade’s death, the shells did deadly work on the tail plane of the Lightning. Large pieces of the control surfaces fell behind in its wake, and the pilot quickly jumped out of his aircraft, taking to the air in silk.
Istomin jumped instinctively, the metallic rattle of bullets striking home on ‘Tanya’ preceding the anguished cries of one of his crew as the hot metal hit home.
Jinking the Tupolev left, he noticed no change in its performance following the enemy attack.
Sparing a look at his gauges, he saw no issues of note, the rise in engine temperatures because of his altitude and additional applied power.