THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel Page 17

  The word “Brest” was all the Royal Navy needed. A Coastal Command Catalina flying boat—provided by the United States and piloted by an American officer “on loan” to the British—soon located the German battleship. Ancient Swordfish biplanes took off from the Ark Royal, their fabric wings fluttering in the breeze and their baling-wire struts straining under the load of single torpedoes. Although obsolete, they had an unforeseen advantage: they flew too slowly for the Bismarck's modern, automated fire control system to lock on. One scored a lucky hit, clipping the very end of Bismarck, jamming its rudder and sending it in circles. The crew struggled to control the ship, using only one propeller in an attempt to straighten its path. But to no avail. Then night fell—sleepless hours of hopeless terror. Quietly, in small groups, men talked, passing pictures of their families and reminiscing of their time as school boys, then lapsing into pensive silence. Too soon the dawn, and the nervous scanning of the horizon for British battleships.

  Anna and Yvonne were off in a corner of the dining room having lunch when a Navy Commander clinked his glass and called for quiet: “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have an announcement. Shortly after daybreak this morning, the Royal Navy engaged the Bismarck. As a result of heavy fire from HMS Rodney and King George V, plus torpedoes from the Dorsetshire”... he paused for effect... “the Bismarck has been SUNK!” A cheer went up.

  "I only hope," murmured Anna, "that Jeschonnek never finds out."

  14

  Fire in the Sky

  You might think that it would take a lot of courage to jump out of an airplane with only a parachute.

  Actually, if the plane is on fire, it doesn't take any guts at all.

  A veteran of the Battle of Britain

  For Ryk, it was no easy matter to get out of Sweden. Unlike Anna, he didn't have the remotest claim to British citizenship. The Swedish authorities met his story—that he was a simple Polish businessman—with amused and well-justified skepticism, particularly when he was unable to provide the name of even one of his Swedish clients. Somehow, they suspected that he might be a member of the Polish armed forces! As neutrals, they would have an obligation to prevent him from passing through Sweden to a belligerent country. He finally solved the impasse by making the rounds of the waterfront bars in Stockholm, where he arranged passage on a tramp steamer to Ireland. Thence, it was on to England.

  As a result of the delays, he didn't arrive in England until June of 1940. But, all in all, his timing could have been worse. France had just fallen, and the British in their lonely solitude now faced the full force of the Nazi war machine. Ryk was accepted with enthusiasm into the Royal Air Force—with qualified enthusiasm, to be sure. He was assigned the rank of sergeant. Naturally, he was disappointed. In the Polish Air Force, he had been the equivalent of a Flying Officer.

  Perhaps his low rank was understandable. There were British pilots with months of combat experience who were still sergeants, and many of the refugee pilots from other countries—not only Poles, but also Czechs and Frenchmen—were made sergeants in the RAF, regardless of their earlier ranks. Maybe this was a hangover from the First World War, when many British pilots had been sergeants. Especially in the early days of 1914 and 1915, pilots were not like captains of ships, but rather chauffeurs to the gentlemen officers in the rear seats, who were doing the “important” task of observing German troop movements.

  Furthermore, there was a huge hole in Ryk's training: he had never flown one of the fast, new, single-wing fighters. He was immediately assigned to the Polish 303 squadron, where he spent two weeks in intensive training. Only one day was devoted to flying in close formation—the sort of flying he had done in Poland, which looked so impressive in air shows. But the fighting in France had quickly taught the British that this was no way to fly in combat. It was too easy for German fighters to pick off one wingman, then the other, and then attack the leader in quick succession.

  Perhaps because of their experience in the Spanish Civil War, the Germans had developed a much looser formation, with the wingman several hundred yards off to the side, usually the sunny side, a thousand feet higher, and somewhat to the rear. There, he would be visible to his comrades, providing reassurance. He would be in an excellent position to protect them from any attack out of the sun, and any attack on the wingman would provide timely warning to the others. As the wingman's job was to provide protection, not initiate an attack on the British, his first responsibility would be to continuously scan the sky; he would be hard to surprise in the first place.

  For Ryk, his Hurricane was pure joy. Its ability to accelerate while climbing was a new and exhilarating experience. But he was warned: although the Hurricane could exceed 300 miles per hour in level flight, the Messerschmitt 109 was even faster. Furthermore, its advantage increased in a dive. There was one compensation, however: the Hurricane could dive more steeply and to a lower level than the Me 109, whose wings were weak; a sudden pullout from a steep dive could rip its wings off.

  Because of the Hurricanes' slow speed, their primary task would be to attack bombers. Faster, more maneuverable Spitfires would take on the Me 109's. But of course, Hurricane pilots would have to be prepared to fight Messerschmitts when necessary. Most of all, a simple message was drilled into the pilots: watch out for German fighters attacking out of the sun. A bold warning, “BEWARE THE HUN IN THE SUN,” was stenciled above Ryk's instrument panel, in both English and Polish.

  The third day, he was called in to see Squadron Leader Rozek, commanding officer of the 303. They would soon enter combat. The time had come for them to form pairs—leader and wingman. Was there anyone with whom Ryk would particularly like to fly? No; he really didn't know the other pilots very well.

  “Then let me suggest a wingman for you.” Ryk was pleased that he would be the leader; he wouldn't be the lowest man on the totem pole. “Sergeant Josef Frantisek. He will be arriving tomorrow morning.”

  “Frantisek? Doesn't sound Polish.”

  “He's not. He's Czech. When the Germans marched into his country, he jumped in his fighter and flew to Poland. Joined our air force and fought bravely. Survived three weeks of combat—quite an accomplishment. Fled again, to Romania, when our war effort collapsed. Then escaped from a Romanian internment camp.”

  “Sounds like a enterprising chap.”

  “Superb pilot. He shot down a Jerry last week.” Ryk wondered why Joe would be under his command; Ryk hadn't even had combat experience in Poland. Rozek shifted uncomfortably in his seat, apparently searching for the right word. “Just one... ah, problem. The Brits won't have him in their squadrons—say he's completely undisciplined. He doesn't want to join the Czech squadron—reasons unclear.”

  Ryk didn't know how to respond. Flying in combat would be dangerous enough with a disciplined wingman. Rozek could see his hesitation.

  “I don't need an answer right away. Why don't you see how the two of you hit it off?”

  They hit if off just fine. Instead of practicing loose formation flying, Ryk thought that the best way to spend the first few days was to take turns chasing one another around the sky. He could probably learn a thing or two from someone who had survived combat.

  He did. They started by choosing a place to meet—12,000 feet over a small town about 20 miles west of the airfield. They would play a game—see who could get on the other's tail, and how long he could stay there.

  Of the first five tries, Ryk managed to get on Joe's tail only once, and managed to stay there less then ten seconds—until Joe began a tighter and tighter turn. If he had been an enemy, Ryk wouldn't have been able to get a clean shot, once the circling began. In contrast, when Joe got on his tail, Ryk found it was almost impossible to shake him, no matter how sharply and erratically he turned.

  That evening, over beers, he quizzed Joe, looking for tips.

  “I cheat,” replied Joe. “I knew where you were going to be, because we'd already agreed to that. I came late to the rendezvous, and the first three times I came out of the
sun. Then, when I thought you would be looking toward the sun, I snuck up through a cloud and was able to get into your blind spot, just below your tail. That time, it was luck. Well, mostly luck. You flew straight and level for almost half a minute—not a good way to survive.”

  “And the turns. How did you stick with me?”

  “You're right handed?”

  “Of course. But so what?”

  “When you're trying to get away, you always turn left; I guessed which way you were going to turn. I noticed the tendency for right-handers to turn left back in Czechoslovakia, when I was in training. I'm left handed. In some ways, that's a problem. Whenever I need to keep my left hand on the throttle—particularly in takeoffs and landings—I use my right hand on the stick. But in combat, I'm more comfortable with my left hand on the stick. It's awkward to switch back and forth, but I rarely have to. In combat, I'm going full bore. I just leave the throttle alone—all the way open.

  “Being left handed has an unexpected plus. In combat, it's natural for me to turn to the right, which generally throws off the right-handers. If Jerry's on your tail, try turning sharply to the right instead.”

  “The circling.... How do you make it so tight?”

  “Start the turn sharply. Then, as you get into the turn, pull the stick back hard, until you gray out—until you can't see anything in color. Hold it there, in the gray twilight. The guy on your tail won't be able to turn any tighter, inside you. If he does, he'll black out completely. Use your rudder and power to maintain height. You've got to be careful, especially if you're not very high to begin with. In a tight turn, you can lose altitude very quickly. Fortunately, this is one place where you have an advantage over the Messerschmitt. He's more likely to lose altitude fast and hit the ground. In fact, once you get the hang of it, tight turns close to the ground are a good way to get rid of the Jerry; he may focus so much on you that he packs it in. But this ain't exactly a stunt for beginners.

  “There's one big danger. If you start your turn too abruptly, you can do a high-speed stall. Perhaps tomorrow we can go up to 15,000 feet—where there's plenty of time to recover—and see what a high-speed stall feels like. That's also a pretty safe altitude to practice tight turns.”

  The next morning—before experimenting with high-speed stalls and tight turns—Ryk went to see Sq. Ldr. Rozek. He'd be delighted to have Joe as his wingman. He'd never met such a skilled pilot.

  “Good luck,” was Rozek's only response—somewhat disconcerting, the way he said it.

  Ryk had his first encounter with the Germans ten days later, when Stukas were dive-bombing a convoy in the English Channel. Above, at 15 thousand feet, the contrails showed Spitfires and Messerschmitts engaged in a deadly dance.

  Ryk and Joe came in low; there was scattered cloud cover, and they darted from one cloud to another to hide from the German fighters above. Stukas would be most vulnerable just as they were pulling out of their bombing dive; they had automatic controls to pull out several hundred feet above the ground. They leveled out so sharply that the pilots blacked out.

  The game would be to catch the Stukas at this vulnerable moment. As the two Hurricanes broke from their cloud cover, Ryk could see several Stukas beginning their dive. He picked one, and calculated how wide his sweeping turn should be. He cut back on the throttle, so that he would not simply whiz past the slow German plane. Beginner's luck. He caught the Stuka just as it leveled out. Two bursts from his eight machine guns, and the Stuka began to trail smoke; it fell off toward the sea.

  Automatically, he glanced up toward the sun and was in for a shock. Two Messerschmitts were diving towards him, closing fast. He pushed the throttle to full power and headed for the nearest cloud. It was his lucky day; he made it.

  Flying through the clouds, he seemed to have lost Joe. He decided that, with his ammunition partly gone, it was best to return to base. He radioed to Joe: he was going home. No reply. Strange.

  Joe didn't turn up until 20 minutes after Ryk landed. As his plane taxied up, Ryk could see bullet holes in Joe's wing.

  “A spot of trouble,” was all that Joe would offer.

  That wasn't good enough for Ryk. “Where the hell were you? You damn near got me killed.”

  “Target of opportunity. Didn't want to miss it.”

  “But that made me a target for the Jerries. I don't like the trade.”

  Joe looked embarrassed. But it was the only satisfaction Ryk would get.

  Joe was more forthcoming with the operations officer. He had taken a wider circle than Ryk, allowing him to close on a second Stuka. He had time first to climb, then to make a diving attack on the Stuka just as it was about to drop its bomb. The results were spectacular—a huge explosion as both the plane and bomb blew up. But then he was jumped by a couple of Messerschmitts and just barely managed to escape into the cloud cover.

  Wasn't he supposed to be covering Ryk, not flitting around the sky? A sheepish grin was the only response the operations officer got.

  That evening, Rozek summoned Ryk; he wanted a full report. The commanding officer was annoyed that Joe had left Ryk unprotected. Ryk wasn't exactly happy. But he had had time to calm down; he was surprised to find himself defending Joe. After all, Joe got a Stuka too. Ryk repeated his earlier statement: Joe was the best damn pilot he had ever met.

  Rozek was torn. The story was even more complicated than Joe had reported to the operations officer. From Joe's gun camera—which had been specially mounted on his plane so that the Squadron Leader could keep track of what he was doing—Rozek got a good view of the exploding Stuka; it really was spectacular. But Joe hadn't simply tried to escape from the Messerschmitts. He had taken the two of them on, damaging one before running out of ammunition. Ryk smiled; somehow, he wasn't surprised. Rozek summed up his problem. Good pilots were scarce. They couldn't be casually discarded. But they couldn't be permitted to do anything they wanted; it would needlessly imperil others.

  “I'm not so sure,” was Ryk's reply. He'd spent the last two hours thinking: What should be done about Joe? The problem on which the British had given up.

  “Not sure? Really? You were lucky to get out alive.”

  “Anytime he sees a German plane, he has only one thought. Attack. He's absolutely fearless. No wingman will be able to keep up. Or have the nerve to try. Joe wants his private war with the Germans. Let him have it.”

  And so it was. Joe ceased to be part of the squadron and simply became a “guest.” The squadron would service his plane. But he would fight alone, when he wanted and where he wanted. He would come and go as he pleased; he would at last have his very own private war.

  A very successful little war it turned out to be.

  Ryk now became the wingman for Pilot Officer Gabriel (Gabe) Polonsky. His new job would provide more than enough excitement.

  Strangely, they didn't see action for more than a week. After the British stopped using perilous coastwise convoys to transport coal—which was now sent by rail—there was a brief respite. During the lull, the 303 Squadron had a pleasant surprise: Spitfires began to arrive to replace the Hurricanes. The 303 would be shifted to a more demanding task, taking on German fighters. Their heroism and skill were being rewarded. They were shooting down twice as many enemy planes as the average British fighter squadron.

  The Czech “guest” managed to get the first Spit. Somehow, Ryk wasn't surprised. But he was surprised—and pleased—when he and Gabe got the next two.

  The timing could not have been better. The next phase of the Battle of Britain was about to begin, moving from the Channel to England itself. Göring assured Hitler that he could sweep the RAF from the skies within a few weeks, setting the stage for Operation Sea Lion—the amphibious assault on England.

  His strategy was the one used so successfully on the continent: attack the airfields, and destroy planes either on the ground or in combat. One of the first assaults was on the fields southeast of London, including the home base of the Polish 303. Fortunately, Ryk, G
abe, and most of the others were already in the air.

  In attacking the airfields, the Germans relied on the twin-engine Junkers 88 dive bomber, which, unlike the abysmally slow Stuka, came in very, very rapidly, gaining speed in its shallow dive. Luckily, Gabe, Ryk and half a dozen other Polish pilots were almost directly overhead when four of the Nazi bombers approached their field. The Poles dove quickly at the attackers, but had seen the bombers too late; even the Spitfires were not fast enough to catch the Germans until they had dropped their bombs.

  If they could not prevent the attack, they could at least exact retribution. Just as the bombers cleared the trees at the far end of the field, Gabe closed on one of them. He fired two bursts from his machine guns. The German kept climbing. A third burst, and smoke began to trail from one engine. The plane slowly lost altitude and crashed. There were no parachutes; the plane had been too low.

  Ryk had been covering the action from above, on the sunny side. Seeing no German fighters, he directed Gabe toward a second Junkers, which was now fleeing at low level toward the southern coast. Gabe was soon on its tail, closing rapidly and firing several short bursts before the telltale spew of tracers warned that he was running out of ammunition.

  There was no apparent effect on the German. Gabe shouted to Ryk, who assured him there were no German fighters to be seen. Gabe suggested that Ryk have a go at the fleeing German; Gabe would move to the wingman position and keep a lookout.

  Ryk dove toward the German. Gabe's bullets had been ineffective; Ryk would get closer. Two bursts, and still the German refused to go down. Ryk closed up further. 200 yards. 150. He fired a long burst—too long; two of his guns jammed. Still the German flew on; Ryk's fire had been too widely scattered to bring the bomber down. He closed up even more, and fired another burst. Again, he seemed to be spraying bullets all over the sky. Then he, too, came to the tracers that signaled the end of his ammunition. He shouted in frustration to Gabe, and the two returned to base.