“Buck up, lad! Olin said, clapping Aren on the back. “The fact is you’re alive, with the chance to shove it right back in their Yankee faces tomorrow.” Brezinski concluded, trying to re-inject some levity back into the mood.
Hermann watched with relief as the younger Dortmann’s face slowly underwent a transformation. Gone was the deep despair, to be replaced by understanding and resolve.
“All right then, you god-like experten, what should I do next time?” he asked, but the sarcasm was light-hearted now.
Olin took that one. “You’ve got a couple of choices, my young apprentice. First of all, the P-47 does only two things well; it dives like a brick, and it puts up a wall of lead the size of a barn door. It cannot climb, and it turns like battleship. If you have some separation, a spiral climb is a good bet. To the right is preferable, since the torque of the Thunderbolt’s engine is much more pronounced than the Gustav’s; particularly at slow speeds. If they’re foolish enough to try to follow you up, you’ll gradually gain angles on them. Right at the point they’re ready to stall, roll over on your back and dive on them. With them hanging on their propellers, you should get a good shot at one. They may be tough birds, but a gun burst into the cockpit will ruin anyone’s day.
“On the other hand, if they manage to get in close like they did on you, a high or low break turn is the answer. Suicide against the Spitfire, of course, but against a cow like the P-47 it’s a synch. Even their instantaneous turn rate is pathetic. The high break turn is the better way to go if you’ve got decent speed on. The Messerschmitt’s maneuverability is just too superior to the P-47, particularly in the vertical.” His lesson concluded, he then looked slyly at Hermann and added, “Of course, there is one pilot I know who has managed to turn the tables on those flying panzers by diving.”
“Now, now, Olin.” Hermann chided. Let’s not be teaching the boy any of my bad habits.”
“Oh, come on now, Hermann. Tell him how a real experten does it.” Olin looked at Aren, but pointed his finger at the elder Dortmann. “You are looking at a Luftwaffe pilot who took out two Thunderbolts without firing a shot, not to mention sneaking away from another four that had him clean. And he did it doing exactly what we’re all told never to do; by diving.”
Aren eyed his big brother somewhat skeptically at this revelation. He’d endured his fair share of leg-pulling and practical joke by both of his older brothers to be suspicious.
Hermann met Aren’s quizzical gaze by simply shrugging. “It was really not that big of a deal.”
“NOT THAT BIG OF A DEAL?” Olin shouted boisterously. “My GOD, man! You mean you’ve never told your own brother about that fight? All right,” he demanded good-naturedly. “We must have the story! I’ll brook no arguments, my friend. Now, now, now…” he began to chant, slamming his stein on the table with each ‘now’ until the beer in it began to fountain out all over the tabletop. Soon everyone, Aren included, was pounding the tables or stomping their feet.
“All right, ALL RIGHT!” Herman shouted over the tumult. The room became instantly quiet as the crowd gathered about the flyer. “I can tell when I’ve been bounced.” That elicited a round of chuckles from the gathered airmen.
“Well, we had already tangled once with Allied P-47s. They were part of a sweep flight clearing the path for their bombers. They caught us as we were climbing, and knocked one of ours down on their first pass. Burlefson, wasn’t it, Olin?” The other man nodded his agreement. “The rest of us landed, refueled, and took off again, heading northwest toward where the ground controller told us the bombers should be.
“Our two schwarms got separated going through some clouds, but we pressed on. After about twenty minutes, I noticed a lone fighter headed east, so we closed to investigate. I came in behind and slightly low,” Hermann said, using his two hands to show the relative positions of the two aircraft, “and experienced a bad moment. With the boggie flying directly into the rising sun, I couldn't tell if it was a friend or foe. Luckily, he turned slightly, I guess to check his 6 o’clock position, and I found myself tucked neatly into the blind spot of a P-47. I must have opened fire at less then 200 meters, and he exploded. BOOM!” Herman threw his hands out wide to pantomime the explosion. “We then resumed our search for more game.
“I must admit, I was feeling rather full of myself at my easy victory.”
“Now there’s an odd notion,” one of the other pilots piped in. A fighter pilot feeling rather full of himself? Will wonders never cease?” The assembled officers roared with laughter at that, and Hermann simply folded his arms across his chest and stoically wait for the jocularity to die down.
After a few moments, he remarked dryly, “May I continue now? Danka. Now where was I? Oh yes. My schwarm met up with our other schwarm, and we headed towards the North Sea again. Safety in numbers, ja? We Swept all the way to the coast at about eight thousand meters, and suddenly found ourselves with a half-dozen Indians on either side of our flight. "Oh, ****!" I thought, now what?”
“Ja,” remarked Zigfreid Benzler. “First he said it, then he did it.” More laughter erupted.
Dortmann was nonplussed, picking up the thread of his tale without missing a beat. “I broke right into the nearest couple of Indians, taking a snap shot as a P47 dashed under my nose. I turned to follow, then became aware of two salient points almost simultaneously. First, the rest of my the staffel had broken left. Second, that I had become the object of attention of no less then six Thunderbolts, co-altitude and none to friendly. Although I’m quite sure they were ridiculously happy to see me.” Moans and giggles rippled through the group in equal measure.
“I immediately nosed over, taking advantage of the superior negative elevator response of the 109 to gain a few hundred meters of separation. The Thunderbolts were on me like a pack of jackals. I began a rolling vertical scissors, holding myself just on the verge of blackout. Tracers were all around me, as my kite began to shudder into compressibility. We dropped all the way to sea level, and I managed to pull out with only a few meters to spare, tearing NE over the water.”
“But Olin said you destroyed two of the Thunderbolts, and without firing at them. How?” asked Aren, fully immersed in the drama of the story.
“Well,” answered Hermann. “Most of the Amis managed to pull out, one trailing black smoke. I suppose I may have actually hit that P47 earlier. However, two of the enemy pilots had pushed it too far. The only thing I can think of is their controls locked up. We had an intelligence report that said the Thunderbolt enters into compressibility very quickly at high altitudes, you see. Instead of breaking up like our 109s, the controls become completely frozen.
“Anyway, both plunged like cliff divers, straight into the water in my wake. I ran at wave top level away from England. It was amazing, really. I could look up behind me and see that pack of enemy fighters searching all over for me. Either they lost sight of me against the water, or thought the plane that crashed into the sea was mine. I managed to land at a Luftwaffe feeder field with about a teacup of petrol left in the tanks.”
“To Dortmann!” shouted Olin, raising his beer stein high. “Author of the latest Luftwaffe training manual, ‘How to Turn Thunderbolts Into U-boats.’” The pub shook with enthusiastic “Hurrahs.” Some one began singing and soon everyone was singing and stamping their feet in unison. Aren sang too, with all the gusto of his fellow jaegerfliegers. He drank in the camaraderie, used it to shore up his soul and banish the ghosts of those lost. For the first time in his life he felt part of something larger and grander than himself. He resolved then and there to live for the here and now. The past was gone, the future clouded by the impenetrable fog of war. Only his fellow pilots mattered; he would fight on for them.
The end...for now.
From “Operation: Point Blank”, a novel under construction, by Sabre
