The following is an excerpt from the book, Thunderbolt!, by Robert S. Johnson
Two days later, on October tenth, the Group was assigned to provide withdrawal support for 132 heavy bombers attacking the marshalling yards at Münster. Again I found myself in a crippled airplane, in a sky swarming with German fighters. Our briefing took place at six in the morning, when we learned that we would pick up the bombers just as they swung away from the targets, the most likely time for a massed fighter attack.
The Germans didn’t miss a trick. We sighted the Big Friends west of the smoking city, suffering badly from savage mauling by a great number of single and twin-engine fighters. The moment the Fortresses hove into view we jettisoned our belly tanks. Someone shouted, “Forty bandits! Seven o’clock to the bombers, same level! Shaker Three, Out.” A swarm of German fighters raced at the Big Friends, noses and wings flaming as their cannon and machine guns tore into the Fortresses.
Not a second to waste! Jerry Johnson’s fighter rolled, dove under full power. This time it was our turn to bounce. At 30,000 feet, the sun directly behind us, we plunged from on high in a perfect attack, hidden from the Krauts, who could only see the glaring sun instead of our planes. Unknown to me, Bill Grovesnor, my wingman, no longer covered me. Something happened to his plane; he lost power and was forced to abort the mission. Only I never heard his radio call as he turned and left the formation in his crippled plane – which meant my diving into battle, convinced I was being covered by a wingman who was no longer there!
October 10, 1943; fifteen years ago. Again it is possible to slip back into time, to remember the moments of combat as if they were only yesterday, beginning with a Thunderbolt wing lifting up, rolling, gleaming in the sun, diving… g-forces pulling the skin tightly across my body.
Jerry Johnson rips after a Focke-Wulf, smoke streaming from each wing as his guns rip out short bursts. Bullets flashing through the air, magic leaps across space as they seek out the black crosses. Immediately a second FW-190 tears in, skidding into firing position. A wingman, frantic to protect his pilot. I turn into the fighter, throttle, rudder, stick controls moving almost by themselves. This German has no heart for a fight; the Focke-Wulf flicks like a sunburst, rolls into a dive and plunges for earth. The sky is filled with German fighters – targets everywhere! I forget the FW-190 running for safety, pull the Thunderbolt back up and around. Where the devil is Jerry Johnson? I swivel my head; he’s nowhere in sight. But the sky swarms with German fighters. Got to hit’em – take them off the bombers. There to my left – a Messerschmitt Me-110, escorted by two Focke-Wulfs. All three planes in a long shallow dive for the bombers, waiting to get into range for the Me-110 to lob its rockets.
Got to break them up, get in there fast. I kick the rudder, my left hand shoves the throttle to the firewall as I select one of the Focke-Wulfs. Both escort fighters see me; their pilots jerk up suddenly, whip the agile Focke-Wulfs into steep climbs. To hell with them. I line up on the Messerschmitt, fat and juicy in the sights. He tries to evade, twists and turns; my bullets flash into the big twin-engine fighter. I kick rudder, the eight fifties whipsaw back and forth across the fleeing airplane. The rear canopy dissolves in a spray of glass and metal, the gunner flings up his arms, collapses like a rag doll.
Hits all over the airplane; I know what the feeling is like! The pilot is desperate. He flings the airplane about, suddenly snaps the Messerschmitt hard over to the left. No good! My foot slams down on the rudder, easy on the stick, and the Thunderbolt skids cleanly. Now – roll! The P-47 responds like a thoroughbred, flicks around. Controls back, a sharp turn and the eight guns loom broadside to the target. One short burst, eight streams of bullets converge, and the Me-110 tears apart. I am so close the Thunderbolt shakes from the violent explosion. I hear sharp banging noises, the thud of pieces of metal striking my airplane. Debris from the Me-110, a cloud of smoke, flame and shattered airplane through which I plunge.
I haul back on the stick, throttle forward, trying for altitude. And only now do I notice that big empty space to my right and behind me – no wingman. At least I’m not alone. German fighters and rocket launchers fill the sky. Every-where I look I see the Focke-Wulf FW-190’s, Messerschmitt Me109’s, Me-110’s, the new Me-210’s, and small groups of Junkers Ju-88’s. They attack the bombers in a constant stream, diving, rolling slowly through the formations, disdainful of the hail of tracers flashing at them. Their own guns and cannon sparkle almost constantly; every few seconds long gouts of flame leap ahead of the twin-engine airplanes as rockets spin for the formations. It is a macabre sight, for there is other flame in the sky. Splashes of fire twisting and dropping to earth, fighters and bombers torn apart. Parachutes blossoming into being, tiny and white against the blue sky smeared with fire and whirling black dots and long, ugly streamers of smoke. Fighters everywhere; a half-dozen flights dive past me on my left, lunging for the harassed bombers. Not a man sights me; they look intently to their rear, alert for another bounce of Thunderbolts from the sun.
Three Focke-Wulfs, closer, coming in hard and fast. I spot them rushing for the rear of the bomber formations, several thousand feet below. I am the only fighter between them and the Big Friends. Good enough! I apply hard left stick, work easily on the left rudder. The Jug winds up like a banshee and hurtles to intercept the three enemy fighters. At our tremendous speed, I have little hope of scoring any hits, but I can break up their attack, keep them away from the Fortresses.
These boys want to fight! The Thunderbolt drops in a steep dive when one of the Focke-Wulfs breaks formation. The swift fighter zooms up in a steep, climbing turn, racing to intercept me, to leave the other two FW-190’s free to press their attack. I watch him from the corner of my eye. For some silly reason I am convinced that he can’t hit me in the dive. I continue pushing forward on the stick, steepening the dive. Eighty degrees, then 90, full vertical! Still I keep the stick moving forward, pushing over as in an outside loop while I open fire. The noise dips under the vertical; I want to keep my stream of bullets far enough ahead to hit the leader. It is almost a 90-degree deflection shot.
I make every move carefully, quickly, increasing the lead, just the right lead, the gentle trigger squeeze. The guns thunder, chatter, roar, all sounds at once. The wings flash scarlet and orange and fire. White flashes appear all over the German fighter, dancing motes of brilliance; the cockpit shatters, and the intense glare, the beginning of the explosion as the fuel tanks shred, begin their eruption into flame.
No time to watch! An explosion smashes at the Thunderbolt, the diving fighter lurches. That climbing fighter…. Four cannon hammering. The Focke-Wulf rushes in. A 20 mm. cannon shell tears through the metal tail as if it were butter, snaps the rudder cable. I almost stand on the left rudder. The Thunderbolt fights to roll. A flash before my face; not ten feet from the cockpit, mushrooming fire, the jerky motion of a body exploding outward. My target, the lead Focke-Wulf; vanished.
