“Last Weak I Cudn’t Even Spell “Enginnear’And Now I Are One.”
There should be one on his cork board in his office, he thought: “Last Year, I Didn’t Even Know What An Action Officer Was, But Look At The Now!”
And I am now possessed of knowledge, he thought, that would scare the shit out of those guys in the bombers. They have been told so often–by people who believe what they are saying–that the “box” tactic–which provided a theoretically impenetrable fire zone of.50-caliber machine-gun fire-is going to keep them safe from harm that they tend to believe it.
They question what they are told, of course. They’re smart enough to figure out–or have learned from experience–that German fighters will get past the fighter escort and then penetrate the box. But they hope that the fighter escorts will grow more skilled and the.50-caliber fire zones will be refined so that things will get better, not worse, and that all they will really have to worry about is flak.
I know that the Germans have flight-tested fighter aircraft propelled not by air screws but by jets of hot air. I know that these aircraft will fly two or three hundred miles per hour faster than our fighters, which means the Germans will be able to just about ignore our fighter escorts. And I know that the best aerial gunner in the world isn ‘t going to be able to hit a small fighter approaching at closing speeds over 800 mph.
And I know that unless we can stop the Germans from getting their jet fighters operational, there is going to be an unbelievable blood bath up here.
It is for that reason that I can intellectually, if not emotionally, justify sending Eric Fulmar into Germany. If we can find out from the guy he’s bringing out what the Germans need to build their jet engines, maybe we can bomb their factories out of existence before they can start turning out engines. In the cold, emotionless logic of my profession, that justifies dispatching an agent, even running the risk that if he is caught, the Sicherheitsdienst will begin his interrogation by peeling the skin from his wang, before they get down to serious business.
“Dawn Patrol Leader,” Douglass’s voice came over the air-to-air.
“Dawn Patrol Two. We just crossed the German border.”
Under the black rubber oxygen mask that covered the lower half of his face, Canidy smiled. What seemed like a very long time ago, when he and Doug had been assigned to fly patrols at first light looking for Japanese bombers on their way to attack Chungking, they had, feeling very clever about it, chosen “Dawn Patrol” as their air-to-air identity. Errol Flynn had recently played a heroic fighter pilot in a movie with that name.
“If you see Eric, wave,” Canidy said to his microphone. He immediately thought, Now, that wasn’t too smart, was it?
“No shit? “Douglass replied. This time Canidy didn’t reply.
Five minutes later, Douglass came on the air again.
“Blue Group Leader. We have what looks like two squadrons ofME-109s at ten o’clock. Baker and Charley flights, hold your positions. Able will engage.
Able, follow me.”
Canidy looked for the German fighters and found them, maybe twenty-five black specks in a nose-down attitude, obviously intending to strike the bomber stream from behind and above.
The Germans preferred to attack from above, preferably from above and to the rear, but from above. Diving at the P-38Fs on their way to the bomber stream beneath would give the Messerschmitts a considerable advantage.
With the American fighters between the B-17s and the Germans, the B-17 gunners would have their fields of fire restricted unless they wanted to run the risk of hitting the P-38Fs. And with just a little bit of luck, machine-gun and cannon fire directed at the P-38Fs might strike one of the bombers beyond them.
Canidy waited until Douglass was out of the way, then tested his guns (he had tested them over the English Channel, but it was better to test them again than to find himself nose up against a Messerschmitt with a had solenoid and no guns) and pushed the nose up and to the left and stayed on Douglass’s wing.