Chapter 238: Bloody Sky

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For Galland, the Red Baron, Manfred von Richthofen, was his idol. He even deliberately imitated the legendary pilot, who had shot down 80 planes, in his daily speech.

Galland loved flying, just as Richthofen had loved flying. He loved the roar of the engine, he loved looking at the cotton-candy-like clouds through the glass of the metal cockpit, and he loved the thrill and pleasure of the chase and the hunt in the air. To him, the liquid-cooled Fw-190D fighter, with its yellow nose and the Mickey Mouse painted under its cockpit, was as beautiful and sexy as a naked woman.

Although the Fw-190 could be said to be an incredibly ugly fighter—the plane did not have a good downward view, the huge engine cooling vents made the plane look not very streamlined, and its slightly short and stubby body was no better looking than the British and French planes. Even the plane’s original designer thought it was too ugly and had given it the nickname “the Shrew.”

But in the eyes of the German pilots, it was simply the most beautiful of lovers. It had a top speed of 550 km/h, a sturdy and durable engine, and reliable flight performance. It had a 30mm cannon in the nose, and the wings could be equipped with either four 13mm machine guns or two 20mm cannons. Top-tier power performance paired with ferocious firepower—this was simply the ultimate fighter choice that the air forces of all countries yearned for.

Now, Galland was piloting this advanced fighter, which filled him with a sense of security, and was leading the charge toward the French air force fighter formation that had come to engage them.

“Wingman, stick to my tail,” Galland reminded him over the intercom.

The wingman’s voice came through the headset. “No problem. I’ll cover you.”

“All units, begin to climb. Find an attack position. Don’t let the Frenchies get past to attack our Stukas,” Galland ordered as he climbed.

The German fighters began to climb, and the French fighters also began to increase their altitude. But it was clear that the German fighters’ rate of climb was superior. The two forces, which had been at roughly the same altitude, soon found themselves in a situation where the German planes were higher. And the distance between the two sides’ planes was getting closer, leaving no time for the French pilots to make any further adjustments.

“Attack begins!” Galland gave the order to attack. The German fighters began to dive in batches to gain more speed. The roar of the engines and the sound of the fuselages cutting through the air was like a symphony, exhilarating and stirring.

The French fighter pilots seemed unwilling to just sit and wait to be killed. They immediately broke formation and began a spiraling descent, wanting to drag the German fighters into a low-altitude turning fight to compensate for their own planes’ lack of speed with low-altitude, low-speed combat.

This was one of the few reasonable tactics that the slower side could adopt in an air battle. It seemed the French pilots were indeed well-trained. They were more experienced in combat than the Polish air force on the Eastern Front and were better at dealing with various unfavorable situations.

“Two-plane elements. After you break them up, pull up immediately! Do not get into a turning fight with them at low altitude. Disengage immediately after attacking…” Galland commanded with a frown as he dived. More than half of his men were newly assigned pilots. After the Polish campaign, the German Air Force had nearly doubled its number of aircraft in one go, so many of the fighter wings with glorious combat records had had nearly half of their pilots transferred out.

Fighting a high-level opponent with a group of rookies was not a pleasant thing, but Galland didn’t care that much, because he preferred to fight alone most of the time.

Dive, a frantic dive, diving to the limit of speed, a speed that broke human limits, with the whistling of the wind, pushing the speed to over 600 kilometers per hour. With this speed, they charged into the opponent’s formation with lightning speed, relying on their invincible firepower to tear their targets to shreds. They were the eagles of the sky, and their opponents could only be considered sparrows.

“Rat-tat, rat-tat-tat.” The cannon in Galland’s nose opened fire. A tongue of flame shot out, and the bullets drew beautiful lines in the sky, then slammed into the body of the French plane, piercing the fuselage, shattering the frame inside, destroying the fuel lines, wrecking the equipment inside, and then continuing to rage with their remaining energy until they broke through the other side of the fuselage and flew off arrogantly.

Galland hit a French plane. Watching it trail thick black smoke and begin to fall, he immediately yanked the control stick hard to the left. His plane immediately began a violent barrel roll. This sudden maneuver evaded the pursuit of another French plane and also caused his speed to drop sharply.

“Wingman! I’m pulling up! Stick with me,” Galland said, pulling back on his control stick, his back pressed hard against his seat. The engine of the Fw-190D roared as it began to output its steady power. The whole plane, like a leaf in the wind, swayed left and right in the sky, and with a touch of stubbornness, it tilted its nose up and flew toward the heavens again.

He spiraled to the left, once again aiming his nose in the direction of the French formation. He wiggled the control stick slightly, felt the feedback from the plane in his palm, knew that there should be no problems with his aircraft, and so Galland once again accelerated and dived, locking onto his second target.

“Sir! I can’t keep up with you! I can’t keep up! I’m adjusting my flight attitude. Can I continue to pull up? Can I continue to pull up?” the anxious voice of his wingman came through the headset, breaking up. But Galland couldn’t be bothered to reply. The opportunity was fleeting, leaving no room for hesitation or thought.

He calmly squeezed the trigger. The 13mm machine guns on the wings spat out bullets. Soon, the struggling French fighter was hit in the wing. Seeing that the position was just right, Galland once again gave a short squeeze to the cannon’s trigger, firing off a few cannon shells.

“Thump! Thump-thump!” The cannons roared again, directly destroying the already riddled, fragile wing. A bird without wings will fall to the earth, and a plane without a wing will also spin and return to the embrace of Mother Earth.

Galland once again shot past the French formation. He looked up and saw that his wingman, while following him down, had been hit by a French plane. The bullets had hit the cockpit. He could clearly see the moment the glass shattered, and the blood spraying out of the cockpit.

He did not call his wingman again, because his wingman was already falling in a cloud of black smoke not far away. The sound of his own plane’s engine pulled Galland back to reality. He immediately began a spiral climb, using the maneuver his plane was best at to shake off the French planes that had already latched onto his tail.

Saying anything was useless now. A rookie dying on the battlefield was as normal as a child choking on a fishbone. Galland knew that now was not the best time to hold a memorial service for his wingman. So he continued to climb, and climb, flying toward the sun—until the power of his plane’s engine weakened slightly, and he knew he had regained the advantage.

At low altitude below 5,000 meters, and at speeds below 200 miles per hour, the Fw-190 was very vulnerable. Therefore, the German pilots’ flight manual very clearly stated that pilots were forbidden from engaging in combat under these conditions. If someone encountered this situation, the choices were not many: flee or accelerate and climb.

Galland made another turn at an altitude of 17,000 feet, looking at the two French planes below that had been forced to give up their pursuit due to the altitude. A demonic smile appeared on his cold face. The plane, following its pilot’s control, slightly changed its angle and, like a swift that had spotted an insect, dived down at high speed.

His speed had already reached its limit. The machine guns and cannons on the plane then burst into a roar. The bullets easily flew into the cockpit of the French plane. Just like Galland’s hit wingman, the cockpit of this French plane was instantly turned into a hell of shattered glass and blood. Galland did not slow down. He shot past this French plane and continued to pursue the other one that had turned to flee.

Soon, he caught up to this slow French MS.406 fighter. He then squeezed the trigger and opened fire without hesitation. Even Galland himself did not know if it was because of his anger over his wingman being shot down or the madness caused by the excessive adrenaline from the continuous combat. He poured out more than half of his ammunition, turning the plane into a ball of exploding flames in one go.

He banked his plane and flew past the flames of the explosion. At this time, he looked up to search for the French plane whose cockpit had just been hit and saw that it was spiraling downwards, but had not lost control.

And in the sky below, where the fierce dogfight was taking place, there were already very few French planes left. The German Air Force, after all, had more combat experience than these French pilots and also had better combat weapons. So the final result of this battle was not unexpected. When the last French plane was trailing thick smoke and falling to the ground, the German Air Force had only lost one fighter plane and one pilot who had just joined the air force.

“Continue the patrol! Find all flying French planes and take them all out,” Galland said, steadying his plane and giving the combat order in a cold tone.

“7th Stuka Bomber Squadron calling Hindenburg Fighter Squadron. Our bombing mission is complete. Preparing to return to base. Are you heading back?” the commander of the Stuka squadron, having completed his attack mission, asked over the headset.

“Understood! We will escort you back to base! All planes, all planes, attention. We are leaving this damn place,” Galland said after a two-second silence, accompanied by the buzzing roar of his plane’s engine.

Yes, leave this damn place, and return to base. It was just that when they had come, there were twelve fighter planes. When they went back, there were eleven.