“Got the motherfucker! That’s one to the Arnoldman!”
In his joy, Sergeant Carnegie had failed to realize that his position was equally precarious.
‘Jenni Lee’ was on borrowed time.
Barnes was emitting low animal-like moans, his hands gripping the controls as best he could whilst his eyes swept the gauges, narrowed against the chilled air that flooded in through the shattered Perspex.
Both his feet had all but gone, and he touched protruding bone to the bits of pedals that were left.
He passed out, and the Superfortress started a last roll to the right.
Bradford checked his body for missing portions and surprised himself by finding everything present. Considering the state of what was left of the nose cone, he was lucky to be alive.
Moving back into the aircraft, he felt the roll to the right before he realized the cause.
Barnes had regained consciousness, but was fading fast.
Bradford had been in this situation before.
He grabbed the half of the co-pilot that still occupied the seat and slid it away, climbed in, ignoring the wet and sticky residue.
“I got her, Skipper. Give her to me now.”
Major Barnes held firm.
“Bomb-aimer to crew. I need someone on the flight deck now.”
There was only silence.
The ME 262 was also dying.
Djorov, more by luck than judgement, regained a vestige control of his aircraft and dived away from the Mustangs, who moved to the stricken bomber rather than pursue him.
Joy turned to fear as he realized there were others rising up towards him, and he battled with the tactical problems as well as tackling the issues presented by an aircraft trailing flame and smoke from one of its engines.
He tried his radio again, but it was still dead.
He knew it was there, he had used it, but it didn’t stop him wondering if the crew had removed that as well.
The thought amused him, but only until the right engine started to come apart, streaming pieces of metal behind him.
The streamlined aircraft was now flying like a house brick, but at least he was pointing in the right direction.
Keeping an eye on the vengeful Mustangs, he drove the Schwalbe as hard as he dared towards Baltiysk.
In the rear of the American aircraft, three gunners and the radar operator had no idea what was going on up front but, whatever it was, they knew it was bad.
The starboard waist gunner, Pops, had simply appeared to give up and die. There was not a mark on him, but he had gone to meet his maker none the less.
The cannon shells that struck ‘Jenni Lee’ had severed the communication system between front and back, as well as killed or wounded everyone of the air crew in the front section, save Bradford.
Both port engines were now stopped and feathered, the fire suppression system having done its job well.
Bradford surveyed the instrumentation and read ‘Jenni Lee’s’ doom in the ones that worked.
A hand touched his arm, making him jump.
“Are we gonna die?”
He snatched a look and saw the terrified face of one of the scientists, the man’s clothing covered with the blood of another.
“Not if I can fucking help it, Mister. Who’s left back there?”
The civilian was so far beyond his comfort zone that he couldn’t find the words.
He just shook his head.
“Ok, Mr Scientist. You get the aid kit and look after my pilot. Get them legs bandaged up, and get him laid down behind us here.”
The aircraft lurched, giving the petrified man impetus.
Bradford felt the pressure and applied more left stick to try and keep the aircraft level. Things were starting to deteriorate, and he knew they wouldn’t get back to Karup.
“Shit!”
The altitude had disappeared and he hadn’t really noticed. The water was so much closer and distinct, each wave top easily picked out.
Both starboard engines were giving up full power but ‘Jenni Lee’ was still dropping. Both starboard engines were also running very, very hot.
Bradford his decision.
“Mister Scientist, I’m gonna have to put her down in the wet while I’ve got some engine power left.”
“He’s dead.”
His head jerked around, taking in the wide staring eyes of the man who had been his best friend.
He concentrated on the aircraft again, using the moment to deal with the pain of his loss.
Ahead, through the tears, he saw something that offered hope.
“Mister, you better tie yourself into that seat, ‘cause God just offered us some hope.”
He nodded at the pilot’s seat, and watched as the scientist made a right hash of the buckles.
Once the man was secured, Bradford briefed him on what he intended to do.
“Look ahead there… see… an island. I’m gonna try and beach the ‘Jenni Lee’, or ditch her as close as possible, so we got a chance to swim or wade ashore, ok?”
The civilian’s terror knew no limits, and he started to rock uncontrollably.
“You’ll be alright, Mister. Now, sit back… and enjoy the ride!”
‘Jenni Lee’ descended until she was almost kissing the Baltic.
A dozen Yak-9’s had happened on the scene and an air battle ensued, the result of which, quite surprisingly, was in the balance. Four from each side had been knocked out of the sky, leaving the Soviet Fighter regiment with a two aircraft numerical advantage.
It also meant that the US fighter squadron had no inclination to chase Djorov further, so his approach to Baltiysk was unhindered, except for the fact that the Schwalbe was failing fast.
“I can’t get through, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Unsurprising, not that they knew it, for Djorov’s radio pack looked like Norwegian Jarlsberg.
The base commander was now in the control tower, the excitement and anticipation having filtered through to his office and broken into his traditional afternoon nap.
He had eyed the pile of roubles with suspicion at first, but allowed them to remain there, conscious that life for the tower crew had little excitement.
Or at least hadn’t had until today.
The small smudge on the horizon had started to grow, and it could only be Djorov returning.
“Get the fire tender moving.”
The Sergeant moved swiftly, conscious of the fact that the money had been spotted, and keen to keep the base commander happy.
The ancient fire truck moved off within a minute, its bell ringing for all its worth, the old men who comprised its crew trying desperately to remember which end of the hose was which. Baltiysk was a very quiet backwater, and their skills, such as they were, were rarely needed. In fact, never needed, until today.
The ME 262 was closer now, and clearly in a great deal of trouble.
Down by the runway, the officers and men of the 2nd Guards gathered to witness their leader’s return.
“Job tvoyu mat!”
The undercarriage refused his reasonable order to lower and engage. The hydraulics had been another victim to the heavy .50cal rounds that had ravaged his aircraft.
The balance between bleeding off speed, and not falling from the sky like a lead balloon, was consuming his attention, and Baltiysk was approaching fast.
There would be no chance of a second effort.
Djorov held the stick firmly, sensing the aircraft through its vibrations, adjusting as his instincts came more into play.
The Schwalbe dropped lower, and he applied a little more engine power.
The port turbofan changed tone dramatically, protesting at some unseen problem.