Opening Moves

0608 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, 182 Squadron RAF, airborne over Bad Oeynhausen, Germany.

Whilst the ground attack section bore in, the remaining three typhoons climbed higher automatically, in order to protect their comrades better. No one knew what was going on yet but it did not take a genius to work out that a shooting war had started, deliberately or not.

Flying in perfect formation, McKenzie fumed as he stole glances at the three tiffies attacking below him.

As the formation commenced a turn, something caught his eye and he focussed in on four aircraft skimming along at tree height, heading east and flying over the TeutobergerWald, north of Bad Oeynhausen.

The four American-looking craft seemed to be boring into the attack on his comrades, who were unaware, distracted as they were.

Training took over and the contact sighting was given.

Johnny Hall, the flight leader, immediately organised a dive to the attack and shouted a warning over the radio to the others.

The unidentified aircraft opened fire, a few pieces being visibly knocked off the rearmost Typhoon but missing their enemies vitals who reacted just in time to the warning from above.

Hall was puzzled. “They’re Aircobras. The yanks don’t fly Aircobras anymore!”

Williams, the number two chipped in, his broad Scottish twang delivering a succinct response.

“No, but the fucking Russians do Flight!”

That comment drew a second or two of silence.

“Oh fuck.”

That just about said it all and the three arrowed in, positioning to attack the Aircobras.

Hall opened fire first, missing badly and then jamming his cannon, pulling away from his attack with curses.

However, his target Aircobra, Number 4, had dragged itself violently left when the first shells went past the cockpit, forgetting the bomb still attached and the problems that might have been caused by the thud he heard when attacking the airfield. The bomb’s weight and its effect on aircraft performance combined with the undetected damage to the bottom-most rudder hinge meant that control was suddenly lost when the rudder came apart and the aircraft flipped sideways, condemning plane and pilot to plough at high speed into the TeutobergerWald.

Williams came in second as the surviving Aircobras evaded, going as low as they dared.

Latching onto one enemy plane, he fired three short bursts but achieved only two shell hits with his 20mm. One hit the tail fin and did only superficial damage, the other hit pilot in the back of the head and decapitated him.

The Aircobra lazily lost height and spread itself in pieces through the treetops.

The three ground-attack typhoons, organised and marshalled by Hall from his position above, closed rapidly on the melee.

Turning to fight, the survivors must have known their chances were slim but they did not lack courage.

Hall gained height again and tried to control the battle as best he could. Williams played chicken with one Russian and both were lucky to avoid collision. The skilful Soviet turned his machine in a manoeuvre that defied the textbook and lashed out at Williams from a side angle. Shuddering under impacts, he dragged his aircraft around, feeling the G force build.

Unfortunately fatal damage had already been done.

The Typhoon had always had a tail section problem, which had sometimes resulted in catastrophic frame failures. Williams’ tiffie had been modified to prevent this from happening but the modification did not take account of direct hits from heavy machine guns. .50 cal bullets had bitten into the fuselage at the point of the modification and the high G turn finished the job. He didn’t have time to scream before his aircraft disintegrated around him.

As Williams died, so did the other Russian.

Hall watched as the young protégé used textbook flying to get into a firing position. In the mess later, Hall claimed that McKenzie fired for about half a second maximum. However long he fired, it proved enough and another Soviet aircraft fatally succumbed to the laws of gravity, diving in an ever-increasing fireball and striking the green field below.

Again, the young pilot pulled his aircraft around and located his last quarry. He guided his aircraft into firing position, vowing revenge for Williams. This enemy pilot was clearly experienced and kept out of the line of fire, side slipping expertly, all the time getting nearer to safety. However, McKenzie was remorseless, Hall would later say clinical, and bided his time until again a single burst of fire ended the action.

Too low to bail out, the dying pilot rode his burning charge into the River Weser.

It was later discovered that eighteen rounds had been fired from each of the Hispano Mk II cannon, representing less than two seconds of finger on button time.

Witchcraft indeed.

The five aircraft gathered themselves and headed back to their base, unaware that all was not how it had been when they left.