Magestic 2, p.58
Magestic 2, page 58
Hal sipped his coffee. ‘We’re a few years away from the war, and conventional war is no picnic for the civilians. And those guys at sea, the Atlantic convoys; imagine putting your head down in your bunk and trying to close your damn eyes! Throb of the engine, then boom – and you’re on you way to the depths. That could screw with your sleep pattern.’
I tipped my eyebrows and nodded. ‘How’re the jets?’
‘We get some flying done in the bad weather; cold but clear days – the jets don’t mind it. The twin-engine fighter is looking good, three prototypes buzzing around. It could hold its own with say … an F4 Phantom from 1980.’
‘And the bomber?’
‘Second prototype flies real smooth; get a calm day and she glides along. Had her up at forty thousand and she didn’t complain, and she’ll push six hundred at thirty thousand feet.’
‘Heavy to land?’ I idly enquired.
‘No, she has flaps like Dumbo’s ears - and wings that you could build a house under. She’s a classy lady alright.’
‘Secondary flaps, yeah?’
Hal nodded, sipping his tea. ‘Main flaps, then a second set, and vectored thrust. I can put her down and stop in four hundred yards.’
‘Take off?’
‘Different matter all together. Without the catapult and ramp she likes a good long run-up. Jimmy has asked the RAF to extend a few British airfields without explaining why, airfields in Scotland.’
‘Anything being done on the Huey?’
‘Just this week they fitted a new engine and gearbox, the engine made from a new alloy, so lighter. We have lighter blades and transmission, so she has the power; they’re testing her now – inside the hangar.’
‘Inside?’
‘It’s a big ‘ol hangar. They put sandbags in the back, and power up. So far so good, the equivalent of two pilots and eight men lifted.’
I sat upright. ‘That’s as much as she’ll ever need!’
‘She’ll need a full fuel tank, and men with kit,’ Hal pointed out. ‘And door guns. If not, she’s just a toy.’
‘Armour?’
‘As good as anything we ever had in Nam, if not a hell of a lot better!’
‘Did you consider a Cobra?’ I asked, easing back.
‘We’ve got a prototype working. All we did was rip apart a Huey spec, and make the girl real thin, and single seat,’ Hal explained.
‘Single seat?’
‘In my day they had a gunner because they had complicated weapons,’ Hal explained. ‘We’ll have a thirty mil cannon that you’ll need to point your nose at the enemy to fire. No pigging missiles!’
‘Thirty mil won’t stop a Tiger Tank,’ I pointed out.
‘No, but she’ll carry eight RPGs, and they’ll crimp a Tiger if you hit it in the right spot. And the new aircraft RPGs are bigger and better; blast launched as well as a small rocket, folding fins stabilising them. They have a lot of kinetic energy.’
‘So a Cobra could be a tank killer,’ I thought out loud. ‘And, with a night sight, an invisible tank killer.’
‘Invisible – but fucking loud!’ Hal reminded me. ‘And the nuclear scientists up there, they can’t make head or tail of the aircraft,’ he said with a smile. ‘We call it the newcomer silly stare. And the fucking Huey … that had a few atom bomb guys saying it was impossible, and would never fly, till they saw it. Fucking eggheads!’
I laughed. ‘When do you reckon that jet fighter will be at a point where it has a decent mission package?’
Hal made a face as he thought. ‘A year. Don’t get me wrong, she’ll do the business now, but there are lots of little things to change all the time. A year from now she’ll fly a good mission profile, but without any electronics – and that’s the downside; manual navigation, manual bomb aiming. Guy in the back needs to be good, or it’s just a toy.’
‘Against a formation of German bombers?’ I posed.
‘Completely fucking useless. They’re flying at two hundred and fifty, you’re doing six hundred. By time you see them you’re past them, and if she slows down she a big ugly target. I wouldn’t bother with her, but Jimmy has some plans.’
At dawn the next day the German’s lifted off, thirty-six Bf109 fighters. They headed straight for Malaga, the Royal Navy tipping off the base. But the Germans flew in three staggered groups, the formations at three thousand, six thousand, and eight thousand feet respectively, a mile apart; an attack on one group would result in a swooping counter-attack from another. The Germans were thinking at last, no doubt thinking about what failure meant for their commanding officer.
Our fighters turned their props, closed canopies, the signal given to take off. They took off one behind the other, little room for error, and flew straight toward the advancing German formations. Climbing at full power, our planes reached eight thousand feet … and kept going. The Germans met our daring dozen head on halfway to Malaga – and broke formation, expecting a diving attack. None came. The Boeings, high and fast, kept going, the highest German aircraft now a few miles behind them.
Our aircraft nosed down, a gentle angle, and picked up speed, the Germans scratching their heads, radios being jammed by a Royal Navy ship sat two miles offshore. The 109s turned to follow our aircraft, knowing we only had the twelve. Our aircraft were slightly faster and had the height, and in this race that mattered; the Germans could not catch up.
A crazy air race ensued, the Germans now on a course back to their own base, unable to radio ahead, but ground units had signalled the German base of the aircraft movements. By time the Boeings reached the German base, Good Morning grenades were going off at the perimeter, fifty cal sniper fire incoming. Heads were ducked, men running about. Our planes reached the German strip at full speed, at a thousand feet, and with eight improved RPGs on the wings.
Without a pause for thought, our planes fired down from five hundred feet, RPGs loosed off every second at enemy aircraft parked on the deck; it would have been hard to not hit something. Spanners were dropped, maintenance crews running for cover, anti-aircraft batteries opening up. Six Heinkels and two Dorniers on the ground blew apart. Trucks, fuel tankers, they all blew apart a second before the Boeings pulled up, one a little late and hitting the tallest building at over three hundred miles per hour. The uppermost floor of the building, used as a makeshift air traffic control centre, exploded, a dozen German staff officers killed, the building collapsing and on fire.
The other aircraft managed to get their noses up in time, skimming over the Germans at rooftop height and climbing steeply at full power. Smoke rose from the German base. At eight thousand feet the Boeings grouped and turned, the German formations all below three thousand, having tried to catch the Boeings. Our planes turned for home, unmolested.
Sat with Big Paul, I said, ‘If your planes fly higher and faster, make use of that fact.’
He answered the phone. Placing down the receiver, he said, ‘One crashed into the German control tower, and one crashed on landing. Pilot got out, but the plane is toast.’
‘So, down to ten aircraft. Still, there’ll be a few raised voices in the Fatherland today.’
‘We hit around ten aircraft on the ground, made a right old mess.’
I glanced at the map. ‘But when does the ground attack begin?’
‘If they go all out for the air strip we’ll lose it, but the planes can take off from fields or roads – so no big deal.’
The newspapers got their headline story again, as well as news of the death of a pilot. They listed another twelve men dead, those deaths being down to either being shot in the back by double-agents, or men being shot in their sleep; it was hard to know which of the locals to trust.
The next morning the Bf109s again took to the air, but this time their staggered formations were spaced two miles apart, in groups of four, one group of four planes stretching their limits and trying to nose over nine thousand feet. German ground defences were now ready and manned, and their spotters were set up miles away from the airfield – but subject to intermittent sniper attack.
We couldn’t know what was going through the minds of the Germans at their base, or the leadership in Berlin, but they pressed home their attack. Our planes took off in plenty of time, flying in a wide arc over the sea and climbing. At eleven thousand feet they nosed down at the highest Bf109 formation, a flight of five aircraft. Those aircraft now broke formation, whilst trying to maintain their height. Two Boeings pursued each fighter, two Boeings left circling above whilst using their radios to coordinate the action, no jamming in effect today.
The fight was uneven, our aircraft ticking all the boxes; speed, altitude, rate of turn. The Germans had the numbers, but we had the height. The first three 109s were shot down, the fourth diving down towards his buddies. With good radio coordination, the Boeings eased their altitude lower in their pairs – lead plane and wingman, swooping towards the 109s and firing from five hundred yards out. After each attack they pulled their noses up, the power turned on, the 109s unable to follow, the spiralling duellists slowly loosing altitude after each attack.
At four thousand feet, eight 109s had been shot down, three damaged and now withdrawing. And our pilots kept their nerve, and their strategy. They kept turning and attacking, any 109s nosing up being chased, the Boeings getting the height first and opening up. By time the remaining 109s scattered they were down to seven aircraft from thirty-six.
Big Paul said, ‘Power, speed, height. If our boys stick to the plan they’ll win.’
I noted, ‘They can fly sixty miles an hour faster, climb faster, and can nose over ten thousand, the 109s can’t. It’s as simple as that.’
‘This time, but the Gerrys ain’t stupid.’
‘No, they’ll change tactics. Maybe … high altitude night bombing.’
‘They’d hit fuck all, the bombs dropping miles from the target!’
‘Then they’ll try a ground attack,’ I suggested.
‘I’ve pulled the Americans back to Malaga.’
‘Just … the Americans?’
‘Just the Americans, and the reporters.’
‘A crucible,’ I noted, keen to see the newspapers – when they arrived a day or two after printing, brought up on a scheduled Goose flight.
A day after the fateful air battle, a bomb went off next to a plane in Malaga; the Fifth Column were now out in force. Locals were banned from the airstrip, extra guards posted. A bomb also went off in the Colonel’s hotel, while he was in the bathtub. He appeared with nothing but a hat and pistol, asking for some clothes.
The following night the local tavern exploded, killing six of our soldiers and twenty locals. The volunteers were dispersed, forbidden from using local facilities, and to stay hidden around the town or in the hills. Four more of our men were killed the next evening, but this time by ladies who had seduced them; the ladies had opened a back door to Franco’s agents during the night. Fraternising was now banned as well, men grouping in tents out in the open, sentries posted.
Frustrated and angered, the Colonel ordered his men to their planes. They flew out to sea in daylight, straight out five miles before turning northeast. Coming in at wave-top height at full speed, they nosed up a mile from the German airbase, banked and nosed down, strafing the airfield, hitting planes on the ground.
This time, however, a flight of 109s had the height, and swooped down. One Boeing crashed, the rest landing with at least one hole each. The Colonel’s plane had been hit six times, but managed to keep flying. Seeing the damage, he said to his number two, ‘Got any sticky tape?’
The aluminium skin was folded back into place, taped over, and finally painted. It would have to do. Two cockpit canopies had been shattered, and the next flight would be breezy for their pilots. Discipline had gone, and it had cost us. Fearing an attack whilst refuelling, the Colonel radioed the units hidden near the German base to create a diversion. A daylight attack was launched, long range sniping started.
By 3pm our people above the German base were noticing men on the hills behind them, hundreds of men. They were surrounded, the German snipers now firing down as they advanced. It was a mess. A radio call went out for help, a few hours to sundown and a chance of escape; thirty men were surrounded by three hundred.
The Colonel uttered a few rude words, and took off with RPGs loaded, machinegun ammo topped up. This time they flew north over the hills, onto the plain beyond and dropped to the deck. Finding a nice hill, they circled around it at fifty feet, a new heading that would take them to the German base. They arrived an hour before sundown, and burst over the hills above the base, loudly announcing their arrival. Turning, they could see our people, signs laid out on the ground, and strafed the hills above at length, RPGs fired into groups of what appeared Germans or into farm buildings.
It was a mistake, a brave and foolish move. The 109s took off, circled and gained some height, then fell upon the Boeings as our planes bravely tried to help their colleagues on the ground. Our aircraft strafed the hills at length, firing at men moving around below – but ineffectually.
Four Boeings were shot down, the rest damaged, and they limped home, only saved by the setting sun ahead of them. Landing, the aircraft were in a sorry state, several men wounded. The reporters flocked around, the story recanted, a few stiff drinks downed by the men.
The drone of heavy aircraft registered little more than twenty minutes later, fires deliberately started near the base by spies - to help the German bombers aim. Our Colonel calmly sat with a drink in hand as the bombs fell, people fleeing. Only one aircraft was hit, but one other picked up shrapnel damage. Malaga was ablaze, the people terrified, and all because of a tactical error.
Two aircraft were left operable, their pilots taking off in the dark and chasing after the bombers. They caught up with the bombers, shooting down three and damaging two more before random fire from a rear gunner caught one of our planes. It spiralled down out of control. One aircraft limped back in, hit a hole made from a bomb and ending nose down, tail up, the pilot with broken collar bones.
Dawn brought a scene of devastation, a flypast by 109s confirming that fact. During the night, random falling bombs had killed thirty men, wounding thirty more. We were taking a beating. The reporters photographed the scene, the guy with the movie camera filming the aftermath.
The mood in the hotel was off, people walking around with heads lowered, everyone glancing at Jimmy. He could turn this around in a moment, but we wanted the casualties and the news. I finally cornered him.
‘I know what the plan is, but this really sucks.’
He blew out. ‘We got the photographs we needed, and we got the coverage. So yes, I’ll end it today.’
‘How?’ I puzzled.
‘An hour ago, our Canadian Rifles began an assault on Franco’s headquarters near Seville.’
‘You distracted them,’ I realised.
He nodded. ‘Franco believed our forces to be in Malaga, or east along the coast, and that they were getting knocked back; it lowered his guard a little. So, we wait a telegram. And, right now, a hundred Battery Grenades are going off around Seville, street to street fighting. Those of our men that survive the night will be picked up at dawn by Buffalo, at a pre-arranged spot. Oh, and the German Embassy in Madrid will need a paint job, probably some new staff as well I guess. And, the vast majority of the senior officers of the Spanish Army are by now … quite, quite dead.’
I informed those of the gang that still had long faces, cheering them. And the next morning we received telegrams. Two hundred and fifty men had gone after Franco, two hundred and ten made it out, thirty wounded. They had levelled many buildings, and Franco and his staff were now very dead, the news sent around the world – we made sure of that.
With the Canadians, the British, and the remaining Americans grouped north of Malaga, they moved east in convoy along back-roads, away from the coast, arriving at the German airfield two days later. It had been abandoned. They split up and spread out, hunting for pockets of Spanish soldiers holding out. A month later, and with a new government in power - a unity government, our people withdrew to Malaga and boarded ships.
Jimmy commented, ‘We gained Spain for the war, but we gave Hitler a flying lesson that he’ll learn from.’
When our Colonel finally returned by Super Goose, Jimmy requested him at the hotel. The man appeared down hearted and beaten. We sat him down with a whisky.
‘You made a mistake, and it cost a few lives, Colonel,’ Jimmy began. ‘But a good man would learn from that, and a great leader would use that like a knife in his side; always reminding himself of what happened. That experience … can be a great source of strength, and the pain of the memories we carry around help to remind us of a few realities. I don’t blame you for the deaths of anyone, you did a good job, and I want you to stay with us. If you want to avenge those men, teach the next group how not to make mistakes; brave, foolish, but magnificent mistakes.’
We gave him his back pay, a bonus, and told him to take a holiday for a few weeks. But we failed to mention the film now being rushed through, our Colonel the star of it.
The great untold story of the fight, one that would etch itself into the hearts of the Germans and enter into legend, was that of the thirty SAS men caught in the hills. A year later I would be shown an article attributed to Hitler: ‘These Americans fought like dogs, never backing down, fighting to the last man. With rifles, with pistol, with grenades, with knives, and then with their bare hands – and no surrender, spitting and cursing with their last breath. Thirty men killed or wounded a hundred and sixty of our best men. Magnificent.’
