"This was not going to work"
This was not going to work. But my options were limited. The Jerry behind me in the Messerschmitt was not going to go away on his own, so I pulled the stick back hard, and dropped the flaps.
The Mustang just sort of stopped, like it had been pulled up short on its reins. The Texas Bitch did what I asked of her, even if it wasn’t in the manual. The German hot shot must have been as surprised as I was by the move, as he ducked under and below me, unable to bleed of airspeed as fast as I had. I did a bunch of thing all at the same time, slammed the stick forward, sucked in the flaps, and put fire walled the throttle. As the nose of the Texas Bitch dropped, I flicked the gun trigger and sent The Jerry a present. All 6 Browning’s thumped and a row or tracers reached out for the 109. I saw a bunch of them hit the outer wing as he rotated right, out of my sights.
The sudden demand on the engine was too much for it, and the big Allison coughed, sending a plume of black smoke and sparks from the exhaust stacks.
I eased back on the throttle, and pulled the Mustang in to a sweeping right turn, following my adversary.
I was supposed to be escorting a beat up B-17 back to base, since I had to abort as well, my left drop tank not coming loose as it should have, and even now I could feel its drag on the plane, and ever so often it would make some a banging noise like it was trying to rip the damn wing off. I was hoping it would just come off, but it was well and truly stuck.
We had been easing home when this single Jerry in this gaudy yellow and black ME109 came down on us from our 6. I admit he surprised the hell out of me, and must have the guys in the ‘Fort since they never got a shot off before the Jerry’s nose cannon tore the left wing clean off, and the big bird just turned over and fell out of the sky. I didn’t get a chance to see if anybody made it out as I pulled hard up into him and tried my best to shoot this son of a bitch down and quick.
We had been told last week that there was some sort of Kraut “gunslinger” in the area, one who could operate alone and pick his own targets. But none of us in the 23rd had seen him so we figured it was some sort of rumor.
Well, that rumor had just downed a ‘Fort, and was gunning for me, and I was pulling horseshoes out of my ass to keep from being added to his tally.
I swung in behind him, the Mustang easily keeping up. I would have liked a bit more altitude, but I would have to work with what I had.
He jinxed left and I started to follow, the pulled right a bit, sure enough, he came back right and I managed to put at least a few rounds into his tail.
I stayed with him. As he flew the shit out of that Me109, I saw it. He would twitch the rudder a bit in the opposite direction them turn, He telegraphed his moves. I had him.
Sure enough, he twitched the rudder right, and I swung left, pulled the trigger and he walked right into all 6 .50’s. They walked the length of the 109, smoke blossomed out of the nose and a engine panel flew off, he pulled up, and as I passed him I saw him step out of the cockpit and do something I will never forget,
He saluted me, before disappearing into the distance.
I swung around, and saw the 109 auger into the countryside, and his chute hung in the sky.
I turned toward home, feeling a bit relieved, when the damn drop tank came loose finally.
The problem was now it was leaking fuel from my wing tanks, and I was not going to have enough to make it home.
I clawed for altitude, hoping to get up in the light air where I could ease up on the throttle, when the rest of my day went to shit.
I don’t know if I had taken a round in the engine earlier, or just had done some damage myself, but the Allison, normally a real trooper, just gave up the ghost with a bang and a strange grinding sound. Oil covered my windscreen, and I knew I was done for.
I eased the Mustang over, and popped the canopy and yanked my ass out of the stricken fighter.
“So long ole’ gal” I yelled as I cleared the tail.
I pulled the cord and floated on the breeze for a few minutes.
I watched the Texas Bitch roll over twice more as she raced toward the ground.
I didn’t see her go in, as I was a bit busy getting hung up in some trees.
The next 3 weeks were a blur, being rescued by the resistance, and smuggled out of France in everything from a horse cart to a milk truck.
I was handed over, dazed and confused, to some British SAS guys who got me across the channel.
I walked into the ready room to a standing ovation. Seems I was the new hero, a modern day Roy Brown, for shooting down the new Red Baron.
Evidently the Jerry I had downed had racked up a real tally, and now out of the game, since the partisans had grabbed him and traded him to the Brits who had him hidden away somewhere.
The fact that he had made it to England in less than a week kind of pissed me off.
I got a new ship, a D model, which I named Texas Bitch II, and added 3 more kills which made me an ace, and got me sent home.
I got a job at North American as a test pilot, and when they got into the missile business, I went to work for American Airlines.
It was a summer day in 1973, I was based out of LAX, when I got a call from a friend of mine over at United, who said he had somebody I needed to meet.
So I drove over to the United side of the airport.
I walked into the pilots lounge and was greeted by a bunch of young pilots standing around a older guy, about my age, as he recounted a flying story,
I listened to him he had a slight accent, but the story seemed familiar.
He paused and looked at me and did what he had done so many years ago. He saluted me.
His name was Karl Bucher, and he was the German ace I had shot down so many years ago.
He shook my hand, and the years faded away.
Karl and I became fast friends, and stayed in touch over the years and the distance.
I was there for his funeral in ’91, and as I stood next to his son, grandson, and great grandson, I remembered that single fleeting thought.
This was not going to work.
Thank God it did.
