This is a short excerpt from "Operation Pointblank," a novel I'm about 130 pages into writing. In honor of HtC's gift to us of the Jug, I thought I might remind everyone of the significance ithis aircraft had in the European Theater. It's not meant as a slam on the Spit or the 109. Enjoy (and feedback, please; ego is the primary fuel source of the writer
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"The O'Club"
Rob Jenkowski and Gary Johnson walked into the O’Club to hear a boisterous voice booming over the hubbub of the gathered pilots.
“Why in hell’s name did we ever give up our Spits for this turkey?” a USAAF captain was complaining to a handful of other pilots gathered around a table. The man, Kelso was the name Rob recalled, was staring gloomily into his mug of warm beer. “I’d have nailed that kraut dead to rights if I’d been flying a real fighter plane. Instead, they stick us with this flying milk jug. Damn the Brass to hell and all!” He slammed his mug down on the table for emphasis.
One of the younger men in Rob’s squadron, Todd Marshall, looked up as he and Gary approached. “Hey, Sabre!” he called, using Rob’s call sign.
“Evening, Todd; gentlemen.” Rob nodded to take in the assembled pilots. “What are you grousing about now, Kelso?”
“Well, Major, I was just lamenting the poor choice of hardware by certain rear-area types who wouldn’t know a proper fighter plane if it shot them in the ass.” The other officers nearby busted out in laughter. “Let’s face it, Sir. The “Thunder-butt” is a flying pig. She can’t climb and takes all of Belgium to turn around. I’ll take my Spitfire back in a heartbeat.” Several of the other men were nodding their heads in agreement.
Rob chuckled good-naturedly, but inside he was frowning. This could easily deteriorate into a bad situation. A pilot had to have confidence in his plane, just as a cavalryman had to have confidence in his mount. Such confidence was only born of familiarity and understanding of a particular aircraft’s strengths and weaknesses. Without that confidence, a pilot would not be aggressive and press the fight. He would not push the envelope of his plane’s capabilities. At the best, he would fly too conservatively, letting the enemy escape to fight another day. At worst, he would die in a situation that needn’t have occurred. Once an aircraft developed a bad reputation with the airmen, it would take forever to turn that opinion around…if ever.
The fact is, Rob had been as repulsed by the ungainly appearance of the P-47 Thunderbolt as any other pilot in the Group. He had combated this instant prejudice by picking the manual apart and then putting the plane through its paces. What he’d discovered was that “jug” was in fact a remarkably versatile aircraft, with virtues that far outweighed any vices. True, it would never flat-turn with the Messerschmitt, or out-roll a Folke-Wulf at sea level. However, at high altitude it was superior in just about every category to the Luftwaffe fighters, and to the Supermarine Spitfire as well. It was a creature of the stratosphere. Not only that, but its eight 50-caliber machineguns put up a withering wall of fire. Finally, it had a huge advantage in combat radius over the British interceptor. He just had to convince a few of the veterans here. The younger men would take their cue from them.
“Tell me about this fish that got away.” Rob asked Kelso. No fighter pilot worth his wings misses a chance to describe a dogfight; Captain Kelso was no exception.
“It was over Reims, in northern France. We were tooling along at about fifteen thousand feet when we spotted a flight of four 109s. Heading east. We had enough fuel, so Major Driggs turns us around to follow.”
“Above or below you?” Rob cut in.
“Bout a 500 meters above us. Anyway, they were really moving, but we began to gain on them. They must have seen us, cuz they Immelman and start to go head to head with us. Just as I was about to fire at one it barrel-rolls neat as you please and blows right by me. I reef back on the stick and tried to loop, but I didn’t have the speed; all I managed was a chandelle turn. Before I’m halfway around he’s dropping right on my tail. The guy must have put twenty or thirty rounds in be, and managed to put one right through one of my cylinders. Anyway, I put the nose down to the west and beat feet for the channel. The rest of the flight did the same. I had to throttle back, on account of the engine was running a bit rough. If I’d been flying my Spit, that Nazi bastard would have been so much scrap scattered across France.” he concluded smugly.
Rob raised one eyebrow dramatically. “Reeaaallly?” he asked.
“Sure. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Is it? Anyone else think it’s obvious?” Rob’s eyes roved over the rest of the group. A few still shook their heads yes, but with not quite the same conviction they had a moment ago. It was clear that Rob didn’t think it was “obvious,” and his opinion was well respected. He grabbed the lapels of his service coat and assumed his most lawyer-like stance. He began to pace around the table as if addressing a jury in a courtroom.
Turning to Capt Jason Mussberger, a fellow Eagle squadron vet, he pointed his index finger and asked, “Major Mussberger, notice anything noteworthy about Kelso’s story? I’ll give you a hint: he said they turned to follow those krauts, aannnddd…”
“…and they gained on them.” Jason finished for him. “The Spit not as fast as a 109, but the P-47 is. In fact, it’s faster at some altitudes.”
“Right! Now let’s examine the witnesses statements in greater detail. Mr. Marshall, why do you think that German rolled out of the way when he got within gun range?”
“Because eight 50-cals will ruin anyone’s day.” Todd Marshall quipped with a grin. The lad was young, but no slouch.
Rob beamed. “Right again. If Jerry’s a good shot, he might risk a head-on with a Spitfire. He’d have to be crazy to try it against one of these Jugs.” He kind of liked the new nickname Kelso had unwittingly inspired. Like the P-47, the name conveyed a since of solid reliability. “You don’t have to be Sgt. York to hit someone with a shotgun, after all.” Even Kelso had to shake his head thoughtfully at that. Rob didn’t let up.
“Now, the witness states he put his nose down and dove away. Would that work with a Spitfire? No, of course not. The Messerschmitt will catch you every time. The Spit just doesn’t accelerate fast enough. With a 109 on you that hard, you’d be feeding the worms inside of a few seconds.
“Now, how many rounds did you say he put into you? Twenty or thirty?” Kelso shook his head. “That’s impossible, isn’t it? My God, man; I love the Spitfire too, but have you EVER heard of one taking a pasting like that and coming home? You’re either the luckiest man alive, a liar, or the Thunderbolt is one tough bird. You also said you took a round in the engine, a cylinder as I recall. Let’s face it: that would have killed an in-line engine like the Merlin. Yet you made it ALL the way back to England.”
Another one of the younger pilots broke in with “Yeah, Major, but the enemy managed to turn inside him. That still gives him an advantage.”
Gary took that one. “Lieutenant, have you read any of the reports from the Pacific? The Japanese Zero will out-turn anything we have, yet the Navy’s Wildcat has almost a seven-to-one kill ratio over it. The 5th Air Force is flying mostly P-40 in New Guinea and the Solomons, but is doing just as well. From what I hear, the few P-38’s in theater there eat Zeros for lunch. It’s all in using your aircraft’s strengths while exploiting the enemy’s weaknesses.”
“Plus,” Rob cut back in, “that turn-rate advantage the 109 has disappears above twenty thousand feet. The difference is even more pronounced with the Fw-190. What altitude do our bombers fly at, gentlemen?” No one had a counter to that argument. The B-17’s and B-24’s regularly flew at and altitude of 25,000 feet or better. Since the Thunderbolts’ primary job was to protect those bombers, the most likely scenarios for combat took place where the Thunderbolt was most at home. The thoughtful looks on the assembled officers – and their numbers had grown as Rob had made his case – spoke volumes. These men, even those that had come to accept if not embrace their new fighters, were seeing Republic’s creation with newfound respect. Still one last point to make, Rob thought.
“Just one last thing to think about, fellas. This engagement took place over Reims, France. Over Reims! That is about twice as far into France as any Spitfire has ever been…period. If you had been flying a Spitfire you wouldn’t even have been able to have that fight. Those extra couple hundred miles of combat radius puts that many more Luftwaffe fighter fields under out guns, and leaves that much less time for the enemy to hit our bombers without opposition. It also puts hundreds of targets in France and Belgium within range of escorted bomber strikes. My brother Rich is a B-17 pilot. He tells me the most depressing sight in the world is to see enemy fighters ahead just as your own escort turns around to go home for lack of fuel. Believe me, those extra few hundred miles of escort make a life and death difference to those bus drivers.”
Without further comment, Rob turned to head for the bar. He intended to make a silent toast to the aircraft designers at Republic Aviation. Because of them, both he, his men, and his brother had a marginally better chance of seeing home again.
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Sabre, a.k.a. Rojo
(S-2, The Buccaneers)
[This message has been edited by Rojo (edited 06-30-2000).]
