Mosquito Squadron by Robert Jackson Read Free Book Online

night.’
    He got up suddenly. ‘I’m off outside for a breath of fresh air,’ he said. ‘Are you coming?’
    He made his way to the door, pausing to kick a stool from under the feet of a leather-jacketed pilot who was draped across an armchair, snoring gently. ‘Wake up, Lodz, you lazy sod,’ he snapped. ‘Stick your head out of the door and yell if anything happens.’
    He went outside, followed by Schumacher, and stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing moodily into the dusk. A short distance away, darkly aggressive and silent, stood the fighters, a mixed bag of fifteen Messerschmitt 109Gs and Focke-Wulf 190s, the latter ungainly on their long, stalky undercarriages. They comprised the equipment of No. 2 Squadron, Fighter Wing 301, which Richter now commanded. Six of them were unserviceable, despite the trojan efforts of the squadron’s mechanics; they were patched-up, worn-out machines drawn from other units, and those units seemed to have been only too glad to get rid of them. Just a couple of hours earlier, Richter had been approached by Flight Sergeant Handke, the squadron’s senior engine fitter, who had told him despairingly that three of the aircraft would never be fit to fly. God only knew, Handke had said, how they got here in the first place without falling apart.
    Although he had only known Handke for a few days, Richter had sensed at once that he was a good and experienced NCO who knew what he was talking about, so he had ordered him to ground the three suspect fighters and use them for spare parts. Such a move really needed the signature of a senior technical officer, but there wasn’t one, and anyway as far as Richter was concerned the proper channels could go to hell. Until replacement aircraft could be found, the cannibalized machines would help to keep the others airworthy.
    ‘Any more news on when we can expect the other squadrons to move in, sir?’ Schumacher asked. Two more ‘Wild Boar’ units had been scheduled to arrive at the airfield, a hastily-prepared strip a few miles from Munster, three days ago, but there had been a hold-up somewhere along the line. Richter shook his head.
    ‘No, thank heaven. When they do arrive it will be absolute chaos. Can you imagine it — a complete group operating out of this dump? Christ, they haven’t even finished digging the latrines yet.’
    Schumacher grinned. ‘Yes, even Sicily was more civilized.’ His face suddenly became serious. ‘I’ll bet it isn’t now, though. That’s one battle we seem to have lost. The Yanks and Tommies will be in Italy in no time.’
    Richter looked at him sharply. ‘Careful, Johnny. That would be called defeatist talk in most circles.’ He drew his forefinger across his throat in a meaningful gesture. ‘Still,’ he went on, ‘I know what you mean. I think, however, that our opponents will find Italy a tough nut to crack. I hope they get bogged down in those damned mountains forever, and have to divert all their bombers there.’
    He peered at his watch, and then at the sky. There was a high overcast against which it would be relatively easy to spot enemy aircraft. ‘If they come, that is,’ he remarked absentmindedly. ‘Well, we should know in another hour or so.’
    He was right. Exactly seventy minutes later, the telephone in the flight hut — the direct line to Fighter Control — began its clamour and the pilots raced for their aircraft across the dew-heavy grass. Richter hurled himself into the cockpit and a mechanic did up his straps while he began the starting-up procedure. The big three-bladed propeller turned a few times and then the Daimler-Benz 605 engine burst into harsh life, causing the aircraft to throb with sudden vitality.
    As he taxied towards the dimly-lit flarepath, Richter felt a sudden urge to sing. The Messerschmitt 109G-6 was the latest version of that famous fighter, and he was sitting behind more power than he had ever known. The DB-605D engine had a powerful supercharger and a