The Soviet aircraft belonged to the 32nd Guards Fighter Regiment, so that added combat experience and skill to the mix.
None the less, the breakneck dive of the FW’s deflected the Soviet regiment, even though no hits were apparent from the first pass.
Both sides jockeyed for position, the fifteen Lavochkin’s favouring an approach that brought them nearer to the bombers, the FW’s moved anywhere that gave them a chance to hack the enemy from the sky before they got at their charges.
Neither side were wholly successful.
The close escort Mustangs now had their own issues, as two regiments of Yak’s appeared from the south, boring in hard on the squadrons behind the 401st.
Further Mustangs from the top cover relocated, moving to assume the close escort position.
A flash occurred in Kreuger’s peripheral vision as one of the Lavochkin’s fireballed, the disciplined voice of a Luftwaffe veteran calling the kill in.
Within as many seconds, two more Soviet fighters were knocked out of the fight, both streaming away with smoke pouring from them, pursued by hardened men not inclined to mercy.
An FW came apart in mid-air, its yellow impeller leading the front section forward, the severed fuselage and wing section fluttering downwards like a sycamore seed.
Two Lavochkins closed upon the flank of the B-17’s, their triple Berzarin cannon seeking out and finding a target.
The Mustangs failed to intercept them, a swarm of Yaks barrelling into them as they dived.
The ‘Lady Loo’ took seventeen solid 20mm hits, of which six were in her cockpit, reducing the flight crew to bloody offal.
The large silver aircraft rolled over on its back and described a curve all the way to the ground, burying itself and its green ‘first mission’ crew deep in German soil.
The US bombers screamed out for help, but a quirk of fate had robbed the 16th Jagdstaffel of its English-speakers before they had deployed to combat height.
None the less, the language of fear is universal, the tone and pitch of the transmissions searing into the Luftwaffe pilots’ brains.
Kreuger ordered his aircraft to protect the bombers, breaking off from the fighters in order to get back closer.
Another of his FW’s was missing, its pilot skilfully gliding away with a dead engine, right up to the moment he dropped into a defined flak zone. Soviet anti-aircraft gunners enjoyed the slow target and plucked it quickly from the sky.
Two more Lavochkins were attacking the rear B-17 in the American defensive box, and their success was apparent as the tail plane simply came away, leaving a slender upright section.
However, the B-17 was renowned for its ability to take punishment. A waist gunner underlined the aircraft’s ability to resist by lashing the engine and cockpit of the Soviet fighter with his .50 cal.
The La-7 dived and rolled away, its robust design also ensuring its survival, although the pilot was made of more vulnerable material. His eyesight was taken by fragments from his instrument panel, and he flew blindly away from the combat.
Kreuger hauled his FW round in a tight arc to get behind an attacking Lavochkin, only to find another FW had got there first, selecting short bursts with its 20mm MG151 cannons.
The pilot was missing badly and the Lavochkin scored hits on the target B-17.
Yells of alarm had preceded the attack and continued afterwards, the defensive machine guns engaging both the La-7 and the FW.
Kreuger screamed into his radio, “Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen!”
An American voice excitedly replied in schoolboy German, “You shot at us, you fucking assholes!”
Responding angrily in his own language, Kreuger pulled his fighter round and up in a rising hard port turn
“He was engaging the Russian fighter!”
Air combat rarely gives a man opportunity for conversation and Kreuger had exhausted his time, flicking right as an La-7 dropped in behind him.
A comrade overshot the dangerous Lavochkin without engaging, leaving Kreuger to manoeuvre hard to shake the obviously experienced enemy pilot.
The American-German voice cut in again, this time with even more anger and urgency.
“Bastards! Stop shooting at us! You killed Woody!”
Hauling back on his stick and executing a perfect loop, Kreuger lost his tail and stole a look at the B-17’s. The formation’s corner Fortress was smoking badly from both starboard engines.
Thinking on his feet, he ordered the Staffel not to close the bombers but to engage the fighters further out, passing that on to whichever of the bombers it was that spoke German.
A sixth sense made him roll away, the air he had occupied cut with tracers as an La-7, probably the one he had shaken off previously, attacked from below.
The Soviet airman made a mistake and turned the wrong way, the veteran Luftwaffe pilot taking the offer of the Lavochkin’s belly and transformed the sleek craft into a jumble of fiery pieces with one sustained burst.
The American-German screamed across the air waves.
“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus! You kraut bastards!”
Kreuger sought out the stricken plane, its whole right wing a mass of flames, smoke also pouring from the waist gunners hatches, as fire progressed through the crew spaces of the dying Fortress.
He also noticed that the killer was still firing.
He also noticed that it was an FW-190.
‘Götz?’
“Götz! Cease fire, you fucking idiot,” which OberFeldwebel Götz did, but only because the B-17 was already doomed.
It was Götz who had flown into the attack before, deliberately missing the La-7’s to hit the bomber beyond.
‘Bastard.’
Keying his mike, Kreuger spat out his words.
“Achtung! Götz in nine is a communist! He’s shooting at the Amerikanski! Take him down immediately!”
Only two of the German pilots responded immediately, the idea of shooting down a comrade, even a traitorous one, too much for the others.
Neither was successful and Götz, showing a skill not previously witnessed, slid underneath a third B-17, walking his cannon shells along its belly, the doors still open from when the 401st other junior crew had dropped their bombs.
The La-7’s were still in play, but the FW’s seemed to be on top of the situation, and the whirling mass of fighters started to fall behind.
The three FW’s now bore in on the one rogue aircraft, all seeking to preserve their new allies.
A tail gunner on ‘Rock of Ages’ saw his opportunity and took the wing off an FW neatly, a long burst severing it at the root.
Kreuger screamed into the radio.
“Nicht Schiessen! Friendly aircraft shot down!”
The other FW hauled off, the situation beyond him, as those he sought to protect hacked his friend from the sky.
Götz, having got off a burst at ‘Rock of Ages’, pulled up and rolled back right, determined to make another attack on the fortress.
By his estimation, he had very little ammo left, so he decided to close to where he could not miss.
Kreuger, approaching from the rogue FW’s starboard flank, saw his opportunity and pressed the button.
Silence.
‘Verdamnt!’
2nd Lieutenant Dominic Di Mattino could see the eyes of the German pilot, but was powerless to act. Both his arms had been shattered by the first attack, so his rear gun station, although perfectly positioned to knock the kraut out of the sky, stayed silent.
In slow motion, the yellow impeller came from left to right as he watched incredulously, smashing into the other FW even as it fired its cannon.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
Sacrificial.
Courageous beyond measure.
The collision took place fifty yards from his face and Di Mattino watched as the impetus crushed the cockpit of the rogue FW, bending the aircraft like a reed, as the other Focke-Wulf came apart, wings folding together like hands clapping.