"Sean McMullen - The Devils of Langenhagen" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

over as I strapped myself into the cockpit. The starter spun my port turbine, paraffin began to pump, the
magneto spat, then the engine caught and came to life with a mixture of rumble and whine.
 Once the other engine was started I taxied onto the dispersal track, following Schwartz. The
flying-wing was behind me. Row after row of deportees stood watching us pass. I was now almost
everything they were, except starving. Their suffering had prepared my path. Tired, hungry, dirty and
frightened, I now had to pilot a metal thunderbolt against the vast formations of Allied bombers.
We lined up at the end of the runway. The fitters aligned my jet as Reissel, Weber and Schwartz took
off. My turn. I revved the turbines, 6000, 7000, 8000 rpm, then began to roll forward. The surface was
rough, and my jet shuddered as I sped over the newly filled craters. As I passed 120 mph I bounced,
lurched, and lifted slightly, then thudded back to the ground. My wheels slammed and rattled on the
hastily repaired surface. The airstrip was too rough, and I was running out of distance. I opened the
throttle all the way and pushed the flaps right over, and at nearly 200 mph, I became airborne. Barely
clearing the bushes at the end of the runway, I brought my wheels up, then climbed in a spiral. Below me
Gestner's Horten took off using barely a third of the distance that I had needed.
I remember feeling not so much afraid of the enemy as of looking foolish in front of the other pilots. As
we formed up and began to climb to intercept the bombers, I was perspiring heavily, with my stomach
full of ice and my heart hammering. I had to show Gestner. I had to show him that grimy, hungry Willy
Hirth in his Me 262 could be a brave, effective fighter pilot. In a way, I had to show myself as well,
because somehow I never felt totally in control of the jet. Fighting the enemy was all split-second timing
and reflexes, with my own aircraft to be fought no less than the enemy.
We climbed to 30,000 feet, then levelled off. Though it was now bitterly cold, I still perspired inside
my leather flying suit. Below us all was haze and fires in the still spring air. Then we saw the bomber
formation, 10,000 feet below us.
It was a vast block of aircraft, stretching back as far as we could see. Fighters flew at the edges of the
formation, while flack burst within. Schwartz gave the order to attack, and I armed my rockets and the
ejector seat. Down, down, gaining speed all the time, 590 mph, 600 mph. We spiralled through the
Spitfires and Mustangs and they scattered in consternation, dropping their spare fuel pods. I streaked
through a canyon of heavy bombers, tracer bullets swarming like angry wasps. There was a strange
elation, and my speed seemed to make me immune to all danger. Targets danced in my sights for only
moments at a time. I sprayed a Liberator with rockets and cannon shells, then swerved to avoid the
smoke and metal confetti that was my victim. Swerve, swerve, and more bombers flung themselves into
my sights. Another salvo tore a wing from a B17. Not good aim, but another kill. Then I was passing
fighters like a boy on roller skates among elderly pedestrians.
I turned, climbed, then made a long, shallow, corkscrewing dive through the fighters, bombers, clouds
of tracer and machine gun smoke. Gestner went by in his Horten and was lost from view. My rockets
slashed into a B17, snapping it in two. I was later told that part of the wreckage brought down another
bomber. Weave to miss a broken wing, swerve, roll, unleash the last of my rockets into the huge, silver
blur in my gunsight, then a long dive took me clear of all those men who were trying so hard to kill me.
Minutes later everyone but Gestner rendezvoused above the Aller River.
"Did anyone see the Horten go down?" Schwartz asked.
"I saw him put most of his rockets into a Lancaster," said Weber, but nobody had seen him after that.
Low on fuel, we returned to Langenhagen, circling high over the inferno that was Hanover. I landed
first, Schwartz covering me, then the other two landed. I had reached my hangar when Schwartz began
his approach-- then the antiaircraft guns opened up. He raised his wheels, banked and climbed, the RAF
Tempest roaring after him. Schwartz rolled and twisted into a climb, evading the other fighter, then his
fuel ran out as he tried to straighten up. The Me 262 glides like a brick. He came down too steeply,
bounced very hard, cartwheeled, and crashed into a bank of earth. The deportees were sent to dig out
his body.
Reissel was the new Schwarmf├╝hrer now. He called us together for debriefing: two jets had been lost
for sixteen bombers confirmed destroyed. It was pointed out that the Tempest pilot would report that jets