In my on-going attempt to allow newbies to learn from my mistakes (boy, it would be one voluminous tome, if ever I put them all in one book), I must recount this story from last night. It falls under the heading of “You can’t assume he’s out of the fight until you see a chute,” or “Don’t look now, but there’s a dead guy behind you!” 10Bears is still probably laughing at the kill I handed him last night. There was a raging fight right over D42 last night. I hoped in a P-51D to escort my wingie, fGonzo, who was bravely trying to level D42 in preparation for capturing it from the Axis. I could see that the fight was all low, with Fw190 after Fw190 spawning from the middle of the depot, and protected by two or three Flakpnzrs. So split-S’d down to see if I could collect a couple scalps (I was saving up for a Me262, you see:)). I made a couple of passes through the fray, coming up empty each time. The targets were disagreeably twisting and turning, but I was patient. I was waiting for just the right set up, and was in no hurry to get anchored.
On my third run, a 190 on the tail of another Allied fighter turned just the right way to set him up for a gun pass. The enemy fighter continued the turn, but it was leisurely enough that I could follow, so I was able to rake him with a good burst of 50-cal fire. I was instantly rewarded with a shower of debris and black and white smoke from my prey. He appeared to be mortally wounded, and pulling up and to the left; my closure was such that I passed by him a 150 to 200 yards off his right wing.
Here’s where I made my mistake. I had lost a bit of E in the turn, so my closure with the Fw was not all that great. Instead of pulling up in a zoom, or breaking hard to the right to gains lateral separation from my “victim,” I drilled straight ahead. I was scanning for other threats/targets, and didn’t realize the speed difference between myself and the guy I’d just hosed was so low. Thus, the hunter became the hunted. I glanced behind to see the smoking 190 pull back in behind me barely 250 yards back! The range began to open, but slowly…way too slowly. I put my nose down and began a barrel roll in the vain hope of spoiling his shot, but to no avail. Cannon rounds began to disassemble my Pony, and a scant three seconds later I was a flaming lawn dart.
Salute, 10Bears! That was a great shot. I only hope you didn’t hurt yourself laughing.
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And now for something less embarrassing…
I used to wonder why hunting is such a popular sport. After all, it’s not like the poor beast can shoot back. Indeed, if the hunter does his job right, the critter never knows what hit him. Nevertheless, a successful hunt, which begins with spotting the unwary prey and ends with a single shot that takes the game down in its tracks evokes a powerful emotional response in homo sapiens. Near as I can figure, it’s got to be some kind of genetically imprinted response, from the age where humans hunted to survive. Back then, the beasts were often better armed than the humans hunting them. A surprise attack not only prevented the prey’s escape, but was the best way to insure survival of the hunter. But I digress…
I lifted in my trusty Typhoon from the Allied base approximately one sector north of V33, a German-held base on the west bank of the Rhine. I suppose you could call it an armed-reccie mission, as I was packing bombs, but was by myself. I figured I’d drop the VH and ack at V33, in case anyone had a mind to bring some troops and capture it. I got no response on green-channel to my request for goon support, but pressed ahead anyway. I climbed to about 8,000 ft and headed into the target. My first pass I took the VH down, then pulled around into a shallow strafing run to kill the guns. That accomplished, I then egressed the target area.
As I still had nearly a full load of ammo, so I turned southwest towards the nearest German airfield. Sector radar indicated that was were the Luftwaffe was launching from, so I figured a little lone wolfing might break up their operations a bit. I hedge-hopped the whole way, staying in the valleys where possible and hitting ridgelines perpendicularly, to minimize exposure above the horizon. I noted high dots in the distance; I surmised they were Luftwaffe fighters, headed to V33 to protect it from capture. I swung south of the German airfield, in order to approach it from the German side of the front lines. Up ahead I spotted what I was looking for…a single dot low on the horizon. A German aircraft had just lifted from the base, low, slow, and (hopefully) feeling secure this close to home.
I skirted dangerously close to the VH at the base, less than fifty feet off the deck, and the AAA gun there began to fire at me. I jinked up and down minutely. Fear of discovery warred with my fear of being hit while so low to the ground. The range to my target shrunk quickly. An Fw190! For an instant I wondered if he’d seen me, as he turned slightly left and skirted very close to a low hill. At my speed (over 300 kts and WEP engaged), he could easily roll and pull out of my way. I might get lucky with a snapshot, but I wasn’t banking on it. If he began a hard turn, I had already decided to run for home. There were other bandits in the area, and even a one-turn fight would spell my death.
The range ticked down, and the aircraft before me began to swell in my windscreen. My heart began to pound and my breathing to quicken. A tingling began in my fingertips and toes, spreading up my arms and legs. A silent litany began to repeat over and over in my mind, faster and faster: “Just a few more seconds just a few more seconds just a few more seconds. My whole world focused down to pin-point clarity as the range wound down…800 yards…600 yards…400 yards. At 350 yards I the Focke-Wulf began a gentle turn to the right, at the exact instant my index finger exerted the required pressure on the trigger to unleash the full fury of my four 20-mm cannon. My tracers barely missed to the enemy’s left, and I quickly slewed my nose to the right with the rudder. I was rewarded with a half a dozen or more bright pixy flashes along the Fw’s fuselage and right wing. Debris showered in all directions and an instant later the entire aircraft bloomed into a fireball. By plane flew right through the conflagration, emerging singed but otherwise unscathed from the other side.
“Kill of Hazed awarded to Sabre” intoned the emotionless radio buffer message. Two minutes later my pulse and respiration were just returning to nearly normal levels. I came off boost and adjusted course slightly to keep me clear of a direct path between the enemy base and my own. I checked my fuel. Enough to get home? I think so. Oops, probably not. I began a shallow climb, pulled back the power and reduced RPM to conserve fuel. The engine sputtered and windmilled to a stop seven miles from final. There was a convenient patch of farmland just ahead, so I set up for a wheels-down landing on the dirt track bordering a freshly tilled field. I set it down easy and rolled to a stop. For once, I was happy to walk home. Salute Hazed. Hope I didn’t startle you too badly:D.
Newbie lesson number 2 for today: “This ain’t the MA, boy! The only place it’s safe to drop your SA is at your favorite stool in the O’Club.”
Sabre
CT Team
