Alright, here’s what I’ve been able to come up with. 4000 words exactly, minus the title. It has been weeks in the making, and I hope people enjoy.
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Clash of Generations
Northwest Berlin was unusually calm for this late February day in 1945. Only a few clouds were dancing across the sky, leaving a nearly perfect birds-eye view of the countryside from above. If it wasn’t for the war, this place would seem like paradise for anyone looking for peace and quiet.
The serenity was short-lived, as the droning sound of piston engines filled the air. Twenty-thousand feet above, a sight that had become grossly familiar to any German soldier or citizen appeared.
It was a formation of Allied aircraft. With it being daytime, it had to be an American group; the British had their duties at night. If someone was able to stop time and count every bomber in the formation, they would have been able to identify 100 separate aircraft, all of them B-24 Liberators. This was a relatively small group, considering that most formations consisted of 200 or more bombers.
While many groups were sent to bomb key German industrial targets, such as factories or oil refineries, this group was different. One might have considered it a decoy group, meant to divert the Germans’ attention and focus their air power away from a later, much larger formation. This was partly true; this group’s mission was to bomb a German airfield a few miles away from a tank assembly plant, destroying as many fighter aircraft as possible. If the mission was successful, it would pave the way for a second, much larger wave, preparing for a bombing run on the factory.
5000 feet above the bombers was a group of 32 P-51D Mustangs, another familiar sight for anyone who was able to see them from the ground. Ever since their introduction to the Allied bombing campaign, they had become invaluable. Thanks to their incredible range of close to 1400 miles, they were able to escort bombers from bases in England, to targets as far as Eastern Germany, and back again. With a top speed of over 400 miles per hour, and equipped with six .50 caliber Browning machine guns, they could both outrun and outgun most adversaries. At this stage of the campaign, the whole ‘escort mission’ idea had become far more than routine, to the point where pilots and bomber crews alike began to call them ‘milk runs.’
Such was what Lieutenant Kyle Evans, the #3 Mustang pilot in a flight of four, was thinking. Sure, he always wanted to fly aircraft and do his part in the war effort, but lately it had become quite a bore.
“Damn, I’m getting sick of this,” Evans blurted out to no one in particular. “When is this war ever going to end?”
“Quit your whining, Hawk Three,” the flight leader, code-named Hawk One, replied. “You knew what you were signing up for when you chose to fly that thing, so deal with it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hawk Four chimed in. “We’ll be done with this assignment soon. Then we can go off and do our own thing.” By that, he meant attacking separate targets - such as railroad lines or fuel and ammunition dumps - before returning to base.
Evans shook his head and groaned. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, his commander was right. He loved the way the Mustang looked; from its unique airframe to the way its bubble-like canopy gave him a near 360-degree view of everything around him. He also liked the way the cockpit felt; it was as if everything he needed was easily accessible, right at his fingertips. There were two other things that made him love this aircraft. First, he had been able to shoot down four enemy planes so far. Second, he had recently gotten permission from the commander to paint the sides and wings of his P-51. His plane was now sporting black racing stripes to go along with the standard checkered flag design on its tail. It’d be the closest thing he had to a racecar until after the war ended.
But as much as he loved his Mustang, there were things about it he didn’t like. The droning of the engine sounded like a chainsaw ready to conk out and die. Without a heating system of its own, the cockpit was freezing at the high altitudes required for these kinds of missions. In addition, thanks to overextended periods of radio silence, he couldn’t even hum to himself to keep his mind distracted. The missions themselves were taking a serious toll on his body as well as his mind. It was all more than enough to make things maddening.
The other members of his flight weren’t exactly help in this situation, either. Hawk Two, real name Lieutenant Duncan Dupree, was the logic center of the flight. When he wasn’t shooting away at Me-109s or Fw-190s, he was skimming through the various books provided by the Air Force. He was preparing to go to Yale for the spring ’42 semester before the U.S. entered the war. Dupree ended up getting drafted, and while he didn’t like it at first, he zipped through the ranks faster than most, earning his wings with flying colors. Evans could always count on him to come up with some kind of ingenious plan to come out on top.
Hawk Four was a different matter. Ensign Keith Logan, the resident comedian, recently joined the squadron. No one really knew who he was or where he came from, just that he had transferred from the Pacific Theater. What they did know about him was that he was a born F4F Wildcat pilot, and had plenty of experience in the air. While he never shot down any Japanese planes while on the other side of the world, he was telling everyone that his time would soon come. The adjustment to the P-51 wasn’t easy, but everyone knew he would manage. This was his first ‘milk run’ with the bomber train.
Hawk One, or Colonel Henry Smith as he was otherwise known, was the natural-born leader. From what Evans heard before joining the squadron, Smith had started out in the P-47 Thunderbolt. With it, he became an Ace, having shot down 5 German aircraft in less than two months of combat. Soon after he switched over to the P-51, he became a Double-Ace. It was perhaps the one thing Evans liked about him; Smith was everything he wasn’t, what he wished he could be. On the negative side, Hawk One reminded Evans of the ‘mean old boss’ archetype, to the point where he did almost nothing but order everyone around. However, deep down he was just looking out for his fellow pilots; their lives were in his hands.
Evans sighed, trying his best to tune out the background noise and focus on the skies ahead of him. It was by this time that something came to him. “Hey, something’s not right here…”
“What’s wrong this time?” Dupree called.
“I don’t know,” Evans said. “It’s just that something feels...out of place. Usually we’d hear confirmation of German fighters by now.”
Smith saw what he meant, and immediately got a hold of the lead bomber on his radio. “Messenger One, do you see anything on your end of things?” He asked.
“Negative,” the bomber pilot replied. “There’s nothing but clear-blue skies ahead, and a trail of bombers following behind.” Other bombers in the formation gave the same report.
“Okay, this is really weird,” Dupree said. “Where the heck are they?”
“Maybe we have the element of surprise, for once,” Logan suggested.
“I doubt it,” Smith said bluntly. “They ought to know by now that they should expect bombings at this time of day.”
“Maybe their aircraft are spread thinner than usual,” Evans said. “With the beatings we’ve been handing the Luftwaffe lately, they may not have the planes to actually counter us.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Dupree thought out loud. “Maybe we should scout ahead and…”
“Objects approaching from 11 o’clock!” The lead bomber called. The Mustang pilots had to squint because of the sunlight, but they were able to spot several objects a few miles away. They looked like aircraft, but not German Me-109s or Fw-190s; whatever they were, white smoke trailed behind them.
“What the hell are those?” Logan exclaimed.
“Whatever they are,” Smith said, “they’re heading straight for us. Move in to intercept!” Evans and the other pilots moved their throttles forward, and the Mustangs took off for whatever was ahead. A second flight of Mustangs followed behind them, ready to give support.
It took less than a minute to reach the merge, and the American pilots got their first look at their adversaries. There were sixteen aircraft in all, and they were roughly the same size as the P-51s, but that was where the similarities ended. These planes were painted camouflage green, with black leopard spot patterns on the sides. Their nearly streamlined fuselages made them look almost like sharks. Their wings were swept back, and pod-like structures protruded out from underneath them. It turned out that the trails of smoke were coming out of these ‘pods.’ But that wasn’t the only unusual thing about them…
“What the?!” Logan exclaimed. “No propellers?”
There was no time to react to that question, as cannon rounds belched out of the mystery crafts. Logan had his left wing sheared off and his cockpit blown apart. The Mustang went into a flaming death spiral, disappearing from view. Even as the other Mustangs tried to take evasive action, the propeller-less planes zipped past them like they weren’t important at all.
“Goddamn, these things are fast!” The lead Mustang from the other flight exclaimed.
“After them!” Smith barked. “They’re heading for the bombers!”
At this stage of the war, no one among the Allies had expected the Germans to pull a possible winning weapon out of their hats, especially considering what a disadvantage the Axis nation was at.
But these propeller-less planes weren’t magic - they were a quantum leap in technology.
They were Messerschmitt 262s, the world’s first operational jet fighters. The Germans had these aircraft in development for years; however, thanks to Hitler believing that the war was already won, plans to actually use them in combat were shelved until late 1944, when the tide had already turned against them. Equipped with four 30 millimeter MK 108 cannons, a well-placed burst could blow any plane out of the sky.
It seemed that the Allies’ worst fears had finally been realized.
While the Mustangs were turning around, the Liberators at the head of the bomber train opened fire on the 262s with their forward-facing guns, but to no avail. Four jets on either side of the group split off, heading to the outskirts of the sky, while the others attacked the bombers head-on. The pilots and crew of the leading Liberator cried out in horror as the bomber was shot to hell by the strike. It fell out of formation, spinning downwards several hundred feet before exploding in a ball of fire.
“Evasive maneuvers!” The second-leading B-24 pilot yelled. “I repeat! Evasive maneuvers!”
Outside the swarm of Allied aircraft, the 262s that had separated from the main group began their attack. Going full-throttle, they rushed in like a pack of ravenous wolves, strafing the bombers with cannon fire. Another Liberator fell victim to the attack, while the others fired back frantically. However, the 262s were too fast for the gunners to accurately track, and they whizzed away as quickly as they appeared.
“Where did they go?” A Liberator pilot asked. “Damn, they’re going so fast, I lost them!”
“Okay, since when have we lost our edge?” Evans asked, as the Mustangs finally reached the bombers.
“We haven’t!” Smith snapped. “They just took us by surprise, that’s all! Messenger Two, can you identify what these things are?”
“Negative,” the second Liberator replied, “I’ve never seen anything like them before! They’re moving too fast for us to shoot down!”
“Heads up!” Another bomber pilot called out. “They’re coming around again!”
Evans, while a pure fighter by nature, was shaking in his boots. Sweat was running down his face at the thought of facing the same fate as his wingman. Based on what had just happened, it looked like he wouldn’t last very long. But this was not the time to think about odds. The bombers needed all the help they could get.
“Coordinate fire!” Smith ordered. “We’ve got to split them up and bring them down!”
The P-51s charged the jets head-on, letting loose with their .50 caliber machine guns. The 262s scattered, easily avoiding damage.
“Watch it! You’ve got one on your tail!” Dupree yelled out to a fellow Mustang in Flight 5. The P-51 pilot was doing everything he could to dislodge the enemy fighter from his tail, but to no avail. The 262 opened fire, cannon rounds slicing into the Mustang. Everyone could hear the pilot’s screams before his radio cut out.
In another part of the sky, two warring adversaries were circling each other violently. In this turning fight, the Mustang was actually winning, as the pilot was edging his plane closer and closer to a good firing angle. Just as he thought he reached it, the 262 broke out of the turning fight and began to climb higher into the sky. The Mustang chased after him. Things went into the vertical as the Mustang let loose. Because of poor deflection, the machine gun rounds passed harmlessly underneath the jet.
The 262 wasn’t just a faster aircraft - it also had an excellent rate of climb, although this fact wouldn’t be found out until later on.
The same could not be said for the Mustang, as it stalled out at the top of its climb, spiraling out of control. In the meantime, a nearby Me-262 was able to make easy pickings out of the helpless P-51, shooting it to pieces.
Smith grit his teeth as he dived, focusing on a 262 making another pass on the bombers. The jet unleashed a long volley, but was unable to connect with any of its targets. For some reason, the pilot became careless; as he pulled out of his attack, he turned too tightly, something any pilot would have difficulty getting out of. As he tried to right himself, he fell under the guns of Hawk One.
“Hammer down!” The Mustang’s six machine guns fired simultaneously, striking the 262. One of its engines belched out black smoke as it caught on fire. The jet rose into the air as its pilot opened the canopy and bailed out.
One down, fifteen to go…
“I officially do not like this!” Evans moaned, as he fired burst after burst against any enemy jet that got into his sights. “These are not like the 109s I’m used to!”
“Step up and get used to it!” Smith snapped as he was barely able to get out of another 262’s sights. “If you don’t do your job, you’re going to get shot down by these things!” Evans growled, refocusing his attention on a 262 that zipped past him.
The dogfight raged on, with no side getting a clear advantage over the other. A Mustang was coughing up smoke from its engine from a jet’s strafing run, but the enemy didn’t come around and finish the job. Many bombers had taken serious damage, but they managed to stay in the air.
Why were the jet fighters beginning to get sloppy? Perhaps it was a case of believing that nothing could stop them. Then again, if one had a superior aircraft, they may feel a little overconfident. However, this was no excuse for losing focus, as many of the 262s were doing.
For example, one jet went for another strafing pass, not realizing that a P-51 was right underneath him. As the 262 riddled a Liberator’s rear sections with cannon fire, the Mustang fired at near point-blank range, igniting the jet’s fuel tank. The resulting explosion was enough to shake up both the Mustang pilot and the bomber that had been fired upon. Both Allied aircraft took damage, but they’d survive, for now.
Evans was taking all of this in, dozens of thoughts running through his mind. In the three years he had been flying in planes like the P-51, he had never been involved in a dogfight like this before. He was so used to taking on prop-driven planes like the Me-109 - not to mention having the superior aircraft - that the mere thought of being at a disadvantage was near impossible. He felt out of place, like a fish out of water. Something had to give; otherwise things were going to get much worse…
“I can’t shake him! Someone give me a hand here!”
Evans snapped out of it, hearing the voice of Hawk One. Looking down and to his right, he saw Smith’s Mustang dodging and weaving, a Me-262 right behind him. The P-51 was taking hits, but it was refusing to get shot down at a time like this. For some reason Dupree was nowhere in sight. He wasn’t responding to calls on the radio, so one could only fear the worse.
“Hang on, I’ll be right there!” Evans called.
“Hurry!” Smith yelled. “I can’t keep this up!”
But just before Evans could act on his proclamation, he gasped as white projectiles the size of golf balls flew over his canopy. Looking back, he saw another 262 on his tail, lobbing cannon shells at him.
His mind seemed to freeze at this point. This situation was one of the many things he dreaded. He was so sure of his abilities that he didn’t think an enemy fighter would actually get behind him and try to shoot him down. He had been living in a dream world, where everything would go his way sooner or later. As a result, he had never shown any real responsibility for anyone or anything. With this attack from behind, Evans realized that the dream was over. It was high-time for him to take action and step back into the real world before his life was taken.
Evans may have been a fighter, but he was also a gambler. Well, I guess it’s time to go for broke, he thought to himself.
He forced the control stick to the right, causing the Mustang to flip upside-down and go into a steep and sudden dive. The trailing 262 chased after him. As Evans’ speed increased dramatically, he kept track of the 262 chasing Hawk One, trying to time his next move just right. As he went to right himself, the other jet opened fire.
Evans felt a few rounds impact his plane as he pulled out of the dive, but he didn’t let that stop him. The quick maneuver caused the pursuing 262 to overshoot and forced it to continue its downward flight, leaving Evans the perfect opportunity to latch on to his target. Because of the dive, the P-51 was going much faster than normal, but he wasn’t paying attention. He lined up the 262 and fired all six of his machine guns. .50 caliber rounds slammed into the jet, wounding its pilot. The smoking remains of the 262 disappeared into the clouds; there was no sign of a bailout.
It was a long time coming, but this was kill number five for Evans. He was now officially an Ace.
Smith gave a sigh of relief. “Thanks for the assist, Hawk Three,” he commented. “I owe you one.”
Evans gave a chuckle. “Any time, sir. Any time.” He was so busy celebrating the moment, he failed to notice that the 262 that had been chasing him was quickly and viciously approaching from underneath.
By the time he realized it, it was too late…
…or so he thought, as the jet was suddenly engulfed in flames as a result of a stream of bullets. As the 262 nosed over into its final dive, a familiar P-51 emerged out of the trail of smoke, falling into formation next to Evans.
“Dupree!” Evans exclaimed.
“Thank god you’re alright!” Smith shouted happily.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Dupree called. “One of those stupid things shook me up pretty bad, and my radio has been on the fritz. It seems to be working okay now, though. Would have come back sooner, but I had some business of my own to take care of.”
Evans smirked. “You mean bringing down the bastard that shot you up, eh?”
Dupree laughed. “Damn right.”
“We have the airfield in sight!” Messenger Two announced. “Steady…steady…bombs away!” Like a group of synchronized swimmers, the Liberators opened their bomb bay doors and delivered their payloads. Hundreds of 1600-pound bombs fell to earth, impacting on the airfield’s runways and hangars. Whatever aircraft were on that base wouldn’t be taking off, and any plane in the air wouldn’t be landing there again.
“We’ve got confirmation from the rest of the bomber train,” Messenger Two called. “The remaining enemy aircraft are retreating. We should be safe, now.”
“Either they ran out of ammo,” Evans commented, “or they ran out of confidence.”
“Either way,” Smith replied, “we need to be wary. If whatever those are becomes the new standard in bomber interception, we may not have many more ‘milk runs.’”
Evans wiped his brow in the silence of the moment. He then spoke up. “Sir…sorry about what I said earlier. I was in no position to complain like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Smith replied. “I feel the same way. The sooner this war ends, the better.”
“But if there are more of those things out there,” Dupree said, “that may not be any time soon.”
Evans was left with several thoughts as the formation headed back to England. The first was facing down an enemy so far out of his element. It was a miracle he was able to make it out alive. His thoughts shifted to Logan. Even if he knew he had shot down the very 262 that killed his fellow pilot, it wouldn’t bring him back. Becoming an Ace didn’t make things better, either. In fact, he felt terrible; Logan had said his time would come, but he meant getting his first victory, not having his own life claimed. It was one fact of warfare that Evans needed to keep in mind; at any place or time, in any situation, the heavens above can cut you down. If he didn’t remember that, it would be a guarantee that he’d meet a similar fate as Logan.
Deep down, he kept telling himself that things could have been much, much worse.
In all, five B-24s and six P-51s were lost in the conflict. It was a minor setback for the unit, but a loss for those with comrades in the planes shot down. Eight Me-262s were confirmed shot down, with two more damaged. In the end, the mission was still a success, and the next wave of American bombers would be cleared to go in; however, they would have to do so with great care. These new jets, if they were deployed in large numbers, could easily take control of the skies. In order to counter this new threat, aerial combat strategies would have to be rewritten. Fighter pilots and bomber crews alike would have to train harder and better prepare themselves. If they didn’t, the tide could easily turn in favor of the Germans…
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No one knew it at the time, but the Me-262 would never be a war winner. By war’s end, of the 1,400 or so jets produced, it was estimated that less than 300 ever saw combat. Also, they arrived on the battlefield too little, too late to make a difference in the war’s outcome. What they did do, however, was create a new benchmark for future aircraft to follow. The era of propeller-driven fighters was coming to an end, and the Jet Age would soon begin.
What felt out of place then would eventually - and inevitably - become commonplace.
The September 2008 Writing Contest
Originally Posted by Gavin Luper
Thank you Saffire Persian. (Complete list coming soon)
I hope it's not too short - is the 4000 word an upper limit or is it absolute?
So sorry about the childish Disney-esque themes ^^; I revised the story before posting it, but I'm not so good at plot-based revisions until someone makes a comment about it.