Opening Moves

220th did not enjoy their success for very long. Their fighter cover was still keeping USAAF aircraft at bay and failed to spot the arrival of another four P-47’s diving on the retreating Ilyushin’s. On the 6th August, these aircraft had been in transit to the French coast where they were to fly to England, prior to the pilots returning to their homeland. Now, having been recalled to active service with the blessing of their government, four Brazilian pilots of Green Flight, 1st GAVCA of Força Aérea Brasileira, fell upon the Soviet aircraft and started to tear them from the sky.

1° Teniente-Aviation Alberto Morales made three passes and downed an enemy craft each time. His number two put two into the ground, three and four destroyed one each.

Morales, officially now an ace with six kills in total, swept back into the attack as the eight surviving Shturmovik’s desperately flew low and fast, screaming for their fighter cover to return.

Another pass saw Morales knock lumps off the rearmost enemy, causing it to lose speed, but the Brazilian ran out of ammunition before he could complete the job.

He rose higher to observe the rest of the attack and saw the damaged aircraft felled by his number two.

As his number three charged in Morales became aware of the sound of metal striking metal, the smell of hot oil and an indescribable pain as his aircraft shuddered under hammer blows from a vengeful La-7’s Berezin cannon. 20mm explosive shells chewed their way through oil and fuel lines, instruments and flesh. The cockpit became a furnace and Morales died quickly but horribly, his aircraft slowly rolling away and crashing into the Main River below.

The remaining fighters, both Brazilian and Russian, drew apart as if by silent agreement, and went in opposite directions, one side with no ammunition, and the other side running light on fuel. Returning to their bases without further incident one damaged Shturmovik skilfully landed wheels-up, saving the crew, but reducing the 220th Guards to only five serviceable planes.

All together, St Elisabethen apart, the day had been another huge success for Soviet air regiments the length and breadth of Europe, meeting Allied aircraft with a numerical advantage consistently and maintaining their undoubted air superiority.

Eisenhower watched the smoking P-47 disappear below his sightline, feeling true pain at the death of the young pilot he had watched destroy three enemy aircraft. He promised himself he would ensure the man’s efforts went rewarded and his memory was suitably honoured.

Climbing back into his staff car he went on his way to the airfield, only to find more delay as his allocated aircraft was a smouldering heap and a replacement needed to be brought in.

Waiting and feeling helpless, removed as he was from his staff and communications, Ike sat in his car chain-smoking his way through his thoughts, inevitably drawing the conclusion that the war was being lost and things needed to change.

The hour spent waiting was not wasted and by the time the replacement DC-3 touched down, Eisenhower had a change firmly set in his mind.

2019 hrs Wednesday 8th August 1945, 12th US Army Group Headquarters, Wiesbaden, Germany.

In Bradley’s headquarters, the task of overseeing the Allied Forces went smoothly, or as smoothly as it possibly could do.

The General was catching forty winks in his campaign chair when he was awoken by a Colonel bearing bad news.

“Sir, you need to see this.”

Bradley stretched himself awake and accompanied the staff officer to the map table.

“OK Colonel. What’s got you so fired up?”

The officer pointed at the map and spoke one word.

“Gottingen.”

An experienced eye followed the pointing finger and took in the dire situation in a minute.

Bradley winced at the thought of American units surrounded and surrendering, his mind reaching into its dark recesses to summon the spectre of the 106th Infantry during the Battle of the Bulge.

Quickly firing a few questions at his staff, he determined that getting the doughboys out was not going to be easy.

“OK, we have some work to do here.”

He paused, grabbing his chin, contemplating, and then acting.

“Looks like the new boys will have some work to do. Please get General Simpson on the horn straight away.”

One officer scurried away to be replaced by another waiting for his instructions.

“Please inform Air that we are counter-attacking here at Fritzlar,” the finger tapped the map, “And here at Bad Driburg,” this time the finger almost caressed the spot, betraying some inner struggle in the man.

Whatever the thought process was, it abruptly stopped as the phone rang.

“Bradley.”

A tinny voice could be heard at the other end of the line.

“Yes I know Bill and before you ask I don’t have anything else to send you at this time. I want you to relieve the situation. Seems to me the best way is a hit at Frankenberg with 3rd Tank-destroyer and the 79th Infantry.”

Clearly that was received without issue as Bradley continued.