As ACUSA instructors point out, the nature of the fight changes when close to the hard deck. Here is an excerpt from the biography of Ben Drew, a P-51 Mustang ace, about a fight that went all the way to the ground.
The Germans were good. In one pass they flamed one Lightning and sent two down with smoking engines. The twelve plane Staffel pulled up and re-joined the formation. Ben had headed toward the P-38’s in an attempt to assist and now found himself pointing at the German flight. Another twelve – or were they the same? – came down at him. He called his wingman, “We’ll go straight at ‘em. It’ll be worse if we turn. Shoot straight and good luck.”
The crossing was mayhem. Two silver airplanes among a flock of dark green ones. All turning. All looking for a shot.
After he cleared the melee, Ben kept his nose up for altitude and kicked back in a rudder turn. Coming the other way was the staffel leader. Neither had a shot. They passed close. Ben threw a quick scan around him. No airplanes in sight except the black nosed Messerschmitt rolling into a hard bank. Ben tightened his own turn as much as he dared without stalling out.
The Luftwaffe pilot did the same.
Both airplanes were racked over in vertical banks. One wing pointed at the sky. The other pointed at the ground. The two machines went round and round like metal toys in a giant cylinder. From above their paths were a circle. From the side a spiral. No matter how hard the pilots tried to stay level they were descending.
Ben reached up with his left hand – the throttle would stay full forward – and quickly tightened the straps of the mask on his face. Then reached down and selected the 100% oxygen setting – he would need every bit of breath he could draw. He knew that in the other cockpit, his enemy was doing the same.
Ben lost count of how many times they had gone around. The sharp edge of sun shadow flooding the cockpit interior marked the revolutions. The distant, hazy horizon was a reference, not a direction. He had to keep his nose within a degree of where it was. Higher or lower, the geometry would change.
An airplane does not have to go slow to stall. A high speed stall can come at any time. Turning equals load factor. The higher the load, the higher the stall speed. That was the equation they were fighting. Pull too hard and the wing would shudder, about to lose lift. Do not pull hard enough and the other airplane cuts the distance. It is a fine balance. Delicate to maintain despite the forces racking airframe and human body.
Ben was breathing hard. He was a good athlete and in shape, but the constant G was exhausting. His arms were heavy. His grip on the control stick difficult. The parachute harness, life preserver, flight suit, his sweat shirt all grew in weight and pressed on his chest. His chest weighed more and pressed on his lungs. It was hard to breath. His neck was the worst. To keep his enemy in sight, he had to hold his head twisted over his shoulder and tilted up. His head was heavy. Helmet, goggles, earphones added their weight. The damned mask pulled on his face, cut into the bridge of his nose.
Around and around. Points on twined circles. Unchanging distances.
They were getting lower. Positions on opposite sides of the circle unchanged. Ben cracked open his flaps. Airspeed dropped. Turn radius decreased. The German cracked his too. The spiral steepened. The flaps went back into the wings.
Ben worried that another fighter would show up. He would be easy to attack from outside the circle. The German pilot had the same worry. Both hoped if there was a third airplane that it would be one of their own. Neither dared to look around. Their total concentration was on each other.
Sunlight directly on eyes. Down to the floor boards. Dark wink in canopy bar shadow. Wink, wink, then the sun angled out of cockpit until the next turn, and the next, and the next.
Ben was hot. He was sweating. Hot from the exertion of maintaining the turn. Hot from the way his canopy acted like a greenhouse, trapping the sun’s heat. Magnifying it. Hot from the heat of the Merlin engine inches in front of his feet. The engine had been at full power too long. The engine was hot. Ben guessed that the temperature gages were all in the high yellow, but he dared not look.
An unbidden, unpleasant thought came to Ben. What if he’s better than I am? He’s been perfect so far. Can I beat him? Is he a better pilot? Is the wrong mother’s son going home today?
He forced himself away from the thought. To let the doubt remain would have been fatal. He settled to his task.
Details on the ground were becoming clearer. Farm fields, wood groves, houses and barns. They were getting low. He could make out individual trees, fences.
Was the German lower than he was? He looked like it. Only maybe 100 feet, but it would be enough. He snuck a glance at the ground. It was mostly flat. Only the stands of trees changed the ground elevation.
The two airplanes circled. Circled again.
Ben’s arms ached. He was soaked. The mask hurt his nose. He was panting. He was fever hot. He did not notice any of it. All he saw was the black helmeted pilot, the black nosed Messerschmitt across the circle. He felt like he had spent hours staring at the top of the German’s wings. He had come to hate the two black, geometric Balkenkreuzes painted on the splintered camouflage.
The ground was closer. Soon, one of them would have to break.
The German was lower. He broke.
When Ben saw the 109 roll out he knew he had won. He continued his hard turn for another half circle. When he rolled wings level he was behind the German – closing the distance between them. The German pilot tried to throw Ben off. His propeller was clipping corn stalks, flattening wheat. He pulled up to clear one stand of trees. Went around another. Ben stayed on his tail.
In his cockpit Ben had the gunsight pipper on the dodging Messerschmitt. Its wings touched the side of the range circle. Ben squeezed the trigger.
Only one machine gun fired.
He frantically looked down and checked switches. They were set correctly. All were on, yet only the far right side gun had fired.
They flew around more trees. Ben re-aimed. He fired again, the one gun sounding lonely as it sent out 600 bullets a minute. It only took a few seconds. 162 bullets. The Messerschmitt nosed over and smashed into the ground.
Ben kept Suzy G down low and headed west. The North Sea was an hour away. England an hour beyond that. He was exhausted. Over the relative safety of the North Sea, he unsnapped his mask and turned it over. A splash of spit, sweat and drool poured out. He wiped the mask on his thigh before putting it back on.
The big Merlin engine came to a stop as Ben pulled the red mixture knob back. Suzy G’s crew chief was on the wing pulling the canopy open. The armament sergeant stood in front of the right wing shaking his head at the tape over the muzzle opening on the inboard gun. He had already noticed the tape on both left guns. The outboard gun had soot streaked back on the top and bottom of the wing. The guns in the early model Mustangs had a problem. The laminar flow wing was too thin to install the Browning machine guns upright. They were leaned over to fit inside the wing. This meant the ammunition belts had to feed upward into the breeches. The ammo chutes were also somewhat too lightly built. While pulling G they jammed. After what Ben had put them through, it was a wonder any of the four fired at all. For the D model Mustang, the wing was thickened and six guns installed. They fit. The feed chutes were beefed up and the problem went away.
Even the warm summer air felt good as it came into the cockpit. Ben slumped against the seat back, braced his legs and lifted his ass off the seat for the first time in five and a half hours. “Geezus Lieutenant, whatta ya been doing,” said the crew chief, “taking a swim? You’re soaked.”
Ben was wet. He tugged off his heavy leather flight gloves, black with sweat. His helmet was dark and wet. His socks inside his boots felt soggy. He was slow getting out of the cockpit.
“Hey Lieutenant, swing by the Doc’s office and weigh yourself.”
The Sergeant insisted and went with him. Peeled to his skivvies, he stood on the scale while a medic pushed the weight along the bar. Ben had lost nine pounds.
