Bollocks is it.
Excerpt from The Big Show by Pierre Clostermann.
We were at 14,000 feet and kept straight on over to the left, as if we had no intention of attacking. I took a close look at the field: the small crosses parked just where we expected them showed up on the bright green grass of early spring. I particularly noticed one, two, four, seven flak towers. Their shadows clearly projected on the perimeter track by the sun
'Look out Filmstar Leader, flak at 6 o'clock!'
Sure enough, 200 yards behind us five big black puffs from 88 mm. shells had appeared. OK, five more seconds and then I would attack. The objective was behind us and we were facing the sun. Fear caught me by the throat and stopped me breathing. Aerial combat always found me calm -
after the early stages - but flak was quite different.
'Drop your tanks, Filmstar'.
My stomach contracted and a wave of nausea swept over me - the advantage of a single-seater is that you can pass out with fear without anybody noticing.
'Quick. 180 port, go.'
This would bring us back facing the airfield, with the sun at our backs.
'Diving--full out, Filmstar!'
My nine Tempests were beautifully echeloned on my left although we were diving almost
vertically.
'Smell of flowers,' came Bay Adams voice mockingly in the earphones. Flak! Christ, what flak! The entire surface of the airfield seemed to light up with the flashes from 20mm and 37mm guns. There must have been at least 40 of them. A carpet of white puffs spread out below us and the black puffs of the 37's stood out in regular string of eight.
What flak! Physical fear is the most terrible thing a man can suffer - my heart leaped into my mouth, I was covered with sweat, with sticky, clammy sweat. My clenched toes swam in my boots.
We dived desperately into the moke…explosions and tracer to left and right crossing over and under us….bangs around our wings and sinister dazzling flashes.
We were a mile from the perimeter, 150 feet from the ground. Men were running hither and thither.
'Lower for Christ's sake,' I yelled hysterically. The broad expanse of grass, carved by the gray runways, tilted up before my eyes and rushed towards me. We were doing over 450 mph. First a hangar … a bowser … then the Messerschmitts, perched clumsily on their narrow gear, about thirty of them, with men crouching under their wings. Too far to the left, unfortunately, outside my line of fire.
A group of a dozen Arados loomed up in my sight. I fired, I fired frantically, my thumb jammed on the button. My shells formed a ribbon of explosion worming its way between the Arados, climbing up the fuselage, hitting theengines … smoke …one of the planes exploded just as I was over it, and my Tempest was tossed up by the burning gust. A Tempest touched the ground and the fuselage
bounded up in a shower of fragments of smashed wings and tailplanes. More hangars in front of me. I fired a second burst-it exploded on the galvanized iron doors and the steel tanchions.
'Look out , Red 2' My No. 2 was coming straight for me, out of control, at a terrific speed. His hood had gone. At 470 mph 20 yards to my right, he went smack into a flak tower, cutting it in two beneath the platform.
The wooden frame flew into the air. A cluster of men hanging on to a gun collapsed into space. The Tempest crashed on the edge of the field, furrowing through a group of little houses, with a terrific flash of light; the engine had come adrift in a whirlwind of flames and fragments scattered in the sky.
It was all over … almost. One, two, three … the tracer bullets were pursuing me. I lowered my head and hunched myself behind my rear plating … twelve, thirteen, fourteen … I was going to cheat …a salvo of 37 burst so close that I got only the flash of the explosions without seeing the smoke…splinters rained down on my uselage…nineteen, twenty! I pulled the stick back and climbed straight up into the sky. The flak kept on.
I glanced back towards Schwerin, just visible under my tailplane. A thousand feet below a Tempest was climbing in zig-zags, the tracer stubbornly pursuing him. Fires near the hangars, columns of greasy smoke, a fireworks display of exploding magnesium bombs. The lone Tempest caught me up, waggled his wings and formed up line abreast.
'Hallo, Filmstar aircraft, reform south of target, angels 10.'
'Hallo, Pierre, Red 3 here, You know, I think the rest have had it.'
Surely Bay couldn't be right! I scanned the 360 degrees of the horizon, and the terrific pyramid of flak bursts above Schwerin right up to the clouds, hanging in the still air. No one.
1304 hours. We had attacked at 1303 hours. The nightmare had lasted perhaps 35 seconds from the beginning of our dive, and we had lost eight aircraft out of ten….
