Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series) (90 page)

He quickly rectified it.

“
What can I say, Knocke? The French are fools and I see a lot of paperwork
, which is why I also don’t need the revision of your
Corps Order of B
attle.”

“Rear-line soldiers.”

Knocke’s simple statement was sufficient to portray his disgust, and
also
hide the smallest of lights in his eyes, put there
by
a possible
error on the
Russian
’s part.

‘
The German
bastard
is
getting the idea
.’

Kowalski relished the superiority of his position.

Knocke
lit a cigarette to help gather his thoughts.
By his right hand was a prepared and slightly sanitised version that he had
set
ready
,
once he had been informed that the Russian was on his way.

“So, you have no more use for me then
,
Kowalski?”

The laugh that greeted that statement bore no humour in it.

“O
h but we still have great use for you
,
Knocke. My next order to you is quite simple.
Do not take your unit north of the
River
Enz.”

“That will be impossible. I will have orders...”

“Fuck your orders Knocke. You will ensure that your men do not step over the water. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the consequences
.”

Knocke conceded the point, his dangerous game best played with fewest words.

“If you relocate
,
I will come and find you
,
but use the relay here until then,” and anticipating Knocke’s protestation he held up a hand, “And don’t tell me you can’t because we know you can, even if it is just to get your favourite pastries.”

Knocke methodically stubbed out his cigarette, using the dead end to bring together a coned-shaped pile of ash.

He dropped the butt, almost seeming to notice the agent for the first time.

“Was there anything else
, Mai
or?”

“Just to say that if I don’t report in regularly
,
the man in the photo will carry out some unpleasant orders. Don’t forget that
,
Knocke.”

The French pilot’s
sense of betrayal made them dangerous enemies and, combined with their knowledge of Soviet aircraft capabilities, they would soon establish a reputation second to none in air-to-air combat.

Having written briefing documents that were now circulating from frontline squadrons all the way to training units in
Canada
, the group of skilled aviators
were
determined to seek combat against their betrayers.

Finally, they were given some Mustangs, fresh from British service, the RAF pilots of necessity reverting to another type of which they had previous experience, brought out from mothballs because of the chronic shortage of aircraft and spare parts.

After some conversion, the ‘Rapier’s’
were let loose on the battlefront, finally achieving their first air victories of the new war on 4th September.

The Il-4’s were ripped apart, the fighters immediately going for the soft underbellies where they could attack with relative safety.

Four Ilyushin’s were knocked down in the first pass, the commander screaming into his radio, partially to get help
,
and partially to
vent
his fear.

He ordered his Regiment to go lower, trying to remove the present attack option
,
and was immediately rewarded with the repulse of a hasty attack, the Mustang driven off smoking.

It was the sole victory he saw, his urgent radio transmissions stopped in mid-sentence as .50cal bullets smashed through his cockpit and
exited
the glass nose beyond.

Dazed and coughing blood, the Major could find no strength to move as his aircraft lazily rolled onto its back. He watched in petrified fascination as the ground came increasingly closer.

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 disast
er in the making, the regiment l
ined up preparing to follow the lead aircraft into a bomb
ing 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, b
reak left
,
now
,
now
,
now.”

The column shifted instantly, the Tupolev no longer
occupying
the air now being
thrashed
by .50cal bullets.