The aircraft shuddered with the impact and moved a few feet to the left as the heavy bowser dragged it.
He moved away in search of other targets and found them without too much trouble.
His windscreen shattered where bullets struck the glass, his cheek wet and sticky as a shard sliced him through to his teeth.
His compatriot smashed the rest of the windsfreen out with the butt of his Sten and fired a burst without result.
The next B-29 lost two propellers and had a bath in aviation fuel before the bowser moved on.
The whole base was alive now and Hoosen could sense the indecision in those responsible for security. Most held their fire, conscious of the huge bomb that was driving around the base. Some made the decision that if it blew, it blew, but maybe there was a chance to save something.
Hoosen’s three other communist fighters started firing from different positions around the perimeter, adding to the confusion.
Back at the second aircraft, one of the wires damaged by the crash dropped and shorted, creating a small set of sparks. Where the fuselage had ripped the top of the tank, a small amount of fuel had slopped inside and it was this that hungrily welcomed the ignition source.
The nose of the B-29 started to burn.
The instruction booklet for the bombsight, normally kept in a pocket on the sight’s mount, had been displaced and, soaked in fuel, it started to burn.
It was balanced on a damaged aluminium strut and, as the flames consumed one side, the weight and gravity combined to make it fall from to the ground, where the puddles of fuel lay waiting their turn.
The fire developed at a terrific rate, the fumes almost creating a cloud of orange and red as they ignited.
Much of the fuel trail had fumed off, but sufficient remained for the fire to spread in two directions and, within a minute, aircraft one and three were also alight.
Hoosen increased speed, driven as much by a need to fulfill his task as by the thought that he was still spilling aviation spirit and that fire can spread pretty fast when the circumstances are right.
The concrete aprons and runways had been cleared of snow and the soft joints between the heavy pads proved inviting for the fuel to flow into, creating large rectangles of fire.
Someone, somewhere, gave the order and return fire started slamming into the bowser.
A rear tyre went and, even though he was slowing to take out his fifth aircraft, Hoosen nearly lost control.
The B-29 succumbed to the bowser’s attention and he moved on, smashing into jeep containing three MPs, crushing them and their vehicle without losing an ounce of momentum.
The jeep caught fire and ignited fuel spilling from the bowser.
His comrade took a round in the shoulder, dropping his sten on the floor of the bucking vehicle. As the man bent to retrieve it, he was hit half a dozen times.
Hoosen, suddenly terrified, increased his speed and sped towards the next target.
A bullet clipped his hand; a second entered the door and stuck in his calf.
From the other side, two bullets smashed the side window, one of which grazed the back of his head.
He yelped in pain, but held the bowser steady, despite the growing orange fire in his side mirrors.
Up on the control tower, the base commander watched as the extremely valuable silverbird squadron was destroyed one by one, by nothing more complicated than man’s old adversary; fire.
The tender bore a charmed life, as did Hoosen.
Four more bullets had struck him, but none vitally so, his ability to steer intact, although his clutch leg now felt too numb for words.
Whatever it was that was going on, off-duty or not, Riley wanted a piece of it.
Rousing his ten man section from their pits, he got them into order and deployed them in defence of their small building.
Nipping up onto the roof, he was able to observe the destruction of the Superfortresses and, more importantly to him, what it was that seemed to be causing the mayhem.
Almost like a cartoon, the Grenadier Guardsman looked at the moving bowser, then at the B-29 nearest him, the last in the line and, as yet, untouched
Looking back at the weaving fuel bowser, Riley made a decision.
“Right lads! Push up to the apron there, next to the marker.”
Faces were raised and they noted where the big Sergeant was pointing.
“You two,” he selected Jones and Newton, “Grab the Vickers and get it set up on that small rise to the side. You, get the daisy chain. Now move!”
The section moved as swiftly as they could and deployed towards the apron, setting themselves between the end B-29 and the now fiery bowser.
Hoosen saw that the fire had followed his progress like a faithful dog, the early morning sky and its snow filled clouds orange in reflected light. Everything was on fire; aircraft, men, the very earth itself.
His breathing was labored now; a single bullet had taken him under the rib cage and hammered the breath from him.
‘One more, just one more.”
He pushed the bowser on, cornering on the point of the revetment and turned hard left towards the final bomber.
He screwed his eyes up, his vision impaired by fumes, by smoke and by blood loss.
“Fire!”
The Vickers started lashing the bowser with .303s, the front tyres simultaneously giving up the ghost.
Perhaps if they had done so independently, the result might have been different but, with the destruction of both came a sort of balance to the steering that enabled even the weakened Hoosen to control.
The radiator suffered under a number of hammer blows, and steam and scalding water spurted from the holes.
A single rifle bullet struck his shoulder, wrecking the ball joint and making him scream in agony.
The vehicle lurched and a stream of .303 bullets wrecked the passenger side, visiting more damage on the corpse by his side.
But Hoosen’s luck was holding out until the last.
The lurch took the bowser away from the daisy chain of mines that would have stopped it dead.
The lurch also took the bowser straight up and over the small rise on which the Vickers was positioned.
Newton and Riley were pulped in the blink of an eye.
The trailer bounced up and over the hump, coming down with such force that it split at two of the numerous damage points, allowing a greater flow, almost emptying the few gallons still left behind in an instant.
Unable to control the vehicle, Hoosen just did what he could with the steering wheel, now unable to see anything but a hazy shiny shape some distance away.
The front wheels, devoid of rubber, struck the concrete of the slipway and generated enough sparks to light a thousand fires.
Only one was needed.
The trailer disintegrated with explosive force, the fireball shooting out the ruptured rear end like a flamethrower, removing Riley and his men in an instant.
The momentum of the bowser carried it forward and it closed the small remaining distance to the surviving silverbird.
Hoosen coughed clots of blood and his eyes went glazed, the totality of his wounds meaning that he did not survive to see the bowser come to rest against the bomber.
Nor did he live to hear the first of many huge explosions, as bomb loads cooked off.
All but one of the communists guerrillas was killed, the wounded survivor taken prisoner. His captors assured of the most horrible existence until they knew all that he knew. He lasted two hours.
By the end of the incident, Maaldrift was wrecked, its silverbirds were all destroyed, and over four hundred casualties were either in the morgue or being cared for in the makeshift hospital, set in one of the hangars.