Mosquito Squadron by Robert Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

methanol-water injection system which, when mixed with 100-octane fuel, boosted output to 1,800 hp. Flat out, the ‘Gustav-Six’ could do over 400 mph. It could also climb to nearly 42,000 feet, giving it plenty of room for manoeuvre in combat against American day bombers that sometimes operated at heights of 30,000 feet and more. Messerschmitt’s designers, by providing a longer tailwheel assembly and a slightly taller fin and rudder, had also managed to eliminate a tendency to swing savagely on take-off — a failing in earlier models of the 109 that had brought many an experienced pilot to grief.
    Above all, Richter liked the G-6’s armament. There were two 20-mm cannon slung in underwing gondolas, two 13-mm machine-guns mounted in the nose — and, finally, firing through the centre of the airscrew spinner, a massive 30-mm Mk 108 cannon that could virtually tear the wing off a bomber with a single shell.
    Richter pressed the radio transmit button on his control column and called up the airfield controller.
    ‘Starling, this is Elbe One. Taking off.’
    ‘Victor, Elbe One, when airborne change to Thrush on channel two.’
    Richter acknowledged curtly and opened the throttle. A slight forward pressure on the stick brought the tail up as the Messerschmitt gathered speed. The lights of the fiarepath streamed by in a continuous blur and then he was airborne, bringing up his undercarriage and climbing hard into the darkness. Behind him, invisibly, the other Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs followed.
    Richter changed the frequency selector on his VHF radio to channel two and contacted the fighter controller, code-named ‘Thrush’ in this particular sector.
    ‘Thrush, this is Elbe One. Do you have trade?’
    The response came back instantly. ‘Victor, Elbe One, couriers now in Gertrud-Gertrud, Roland three-seven, orbit Erika, altitude Hanni two-nine.’
    The controller was telling Richter that enemy aircraft were crossing the coast near Emden at 22,000 feet, and that he was instructed to circle at 25,000 feet over a radio beacon ten miles south of Lingen. Doing a rapid bit of mental calculation, the pilot reasoned that unless they changed course in the next few minutes, the enemy must be heading for Essen or one of its neighbouring towns in the Ruhr Valley.
    At 18,000 feet Richter popped up through the cloud layer and found himself under a clear, velvet sky, spangled with brilliant stars. The moon had set, but the starlight alone was sufficient to illuminate the clouds; they stretched beneath him like a continuous white blanket, with a small peak jutting up here and there like the tip of a hidden mountain.
    Richter continued to climb, levelling out at 25,000 feet, homing towards the radar beacon by the steady pulse of dots and dashes in his headphones. The cloud crawled slowly beneath him; he had a strange sense of being suspended in time and space.
    When the tone in his headphones became continuous, telling him that he was directly over the beacon, he brought the Messerschmitt round in a wide circle and radioed the fighter controller again, asking if there was any further information. He was told that the incoming aircraft were now in sector Gertrud-Lore, course one-nine-zero, holding their height of 22,000 feet.
    Richter frowned. Unless the controller had made a mistake, the raiders had come a long way in the last few minutes. They must be doing close on 300 mph — much too fast for Lancasters or Halifaxes.
    Suddenly, Richter knew with grim certainty what was happening. Calling up the fighter controller once more, he asked for an estimate of the size of the raid. The reply came back straightaway:
    ‘Elbe One, this is Thrush. Am unable to comply. Radar is being jammed.’
    Richter wasted no time. Switching to the common fighter frequency, to which the pilots remained tuned when not actually in contact with one or other of the control stations, he shouted:
    ‘All aircraft, all aircraft, this is Elbe One. Watch out for