28,000 ft over Hamburg, Germany.
August 6, 1944.
The P-51D Mustang crees a mighty third hangs in the thin, frozen air like a suspended razor blade.
The sky is a blinding, featureless white.
A canvas of ice crystals and high alitude haze.
Inside the cockpit, Major George Prey is a biological anomaly.
He is 25 years old, but his eyes are older.
He is small, slight of build, a man who looks like he should be sacking groceries in Greensboro, North Carolina, not strapped to the front of a 1,700 horsepower Packard Merlin engine.
The P-51D is not just an airplane.
It is a weapon of energy management.
It is designed around the laminer flow wing, a mathematical perfection that reduces drag and allows the Mustang to slide through the air with terrifying efficiency.
But it is also unstable.
It has a fuselage fuel tank behind the pilot’s spine that when full shifts the center of gravity aft.
It makes the stick sensitive, the nose twitchy.
It requires a pilot who doesn’t just fly it, but wears it.
Prey is leading the 352nd fighter group, the blue-nosed bastards of Bodney.
Their noses are painted a deep, brilliant blue, a calling card to the Luftwaffa.
We are here.
Come and get us.
Today, the mission is massive.
A stream of B17 flying fortresses is hammering the oil refineries at Hamburg.
PR’s job is to clear the path.
White leader to white flight, check your oxygen.
Keep your eyes open.
Pretty’s voice is calm.
It is the voice of a man who has mastered the adrenaline dump.
He scans the horizon.
He knows the Germans are up here.
The radar controllers have been chirping about large gaggles for the last 10 minutes.
The difference between an ace and a statistic is often a matter of seconds.
We uncover the stories of the pilots who turned mechanical limits into tactical advantages.
If you want to ride shotgun on the mission that rewrote the record books for the P51 Mustang, make sure to like this video and subscribe.
The dog fight is about to start.
Bandits .
Hi.
The call comes from Blue 3.
Prey snaps his head up.
He sees them.
It is a massive formation of Messersmidt BF 109G6s, more than 30 of them.
They are flying top cover for a lower group of FWolf 190s.
They are positioned perfectly in the sun, ready to dive on the bombers.
The BF 109G6 is a formidable opponent.
It has a Daimlerbent DB 605 engine with MW50 watermethanol injection.
It can climb like a rocket.
It has a 20 cannon firing through the spinner.
And today they are flown by veterans of Jagishwaiter 53, the Ace of Spades wing.
Prey does not hesitate.
Doctrine says to maintain altitude, to stay with the bombers.
Prey ignores doctrine.
He knows that if he lets the 109s dive, the bombers will die.
He has to disrupt them before they commit.
White flight drop tanks follow me.
Prey reaches down and pulls the release handle.
The two 75gallon paper fuel tanks under his wings tumble away.
The Mustang leaps upward, shedding 1,000 lb of drag.
Prey pushes the throttle.
The Merlin engine screams.
He pulls the nose up into a vertical climb.
He is not diving away.
He is climbing into the enemy formation.
He is outnumbered six to one.
He has no backup other than his three wingmen.
And in a fight, this big wingman gets separated in seconds.
Prey picks out the leader of the German formation, a white-nosed 109.
The German pilot sees the lone Mustang rocketing up from below.
He is surprised.
He expects the Americans to be defensive.
He expects them to cower near the bombers.
Prey closes the distance.
The closure rate is 500 mph.
He checks his K14 gyro gun site.
It is a marvel of technology, a computing site that calculates lead based on geforce and range.
But Preydy doesn’t trust the computer fully.
He trusts his eyes.
He lines up the 109.
At 400 yd, the German fires.
Cannon shells sparkle pasty’s canopy.
Prey doesn’t flinch.
He holds the climb.
He is betting on the Mustang’s superior energy retention.
The 109 is diving.
Prey is climbing, but Prey has the momentum.
He squeezes the trigger.
650 caliber Browning M2 machine guns erupt.
The sound is a chainsaw roar that vibrates through the entire airframe.
Prey walks the tracers into the Germans engine.
He sees the cowl panels fly off.
He sees the white glycol smoke, the blood of a liquid cooled engine.
The 109 rolls over and explodes.
Splash one.
Pretty whispers.
But now he is in the middle of the beehive.
The German formation shatters.
30 enemy fighters break left, right, up, and down.
The sky turns into a swirling chaos of aluminum and fire.
Prey is alone.
His wingmen are engaging other targets.
He is surrounded by enemy aircraft.
Most pilots would dive out.
They would use the Mustang’s superior dive speed to escape, regroup, and fight another day.
Prey doesn’t dive.
He turns.
He spots a second 109 trying to turn onto his tail.
Prey uses the Mustang’s combat flaps.
He drops them 10°.
The lift increases.
The turn radius tightens.
He cuts inside the Germans turn.
He is pulling 6gs.
His guit inflates, squeezing his legs to keep the blood in his brain.
The world grays out at the edges.
He pulls lead.
He fires.
The second 109 flies right into the stream of bullets.
The tail section shears off.
The plane tumbles away.
Splash two.
Prey is breathing hard now.
The physical exertion is immense.
Wrestling a P-51 at 400 m is like wrestling a bear.
He checks his mirror clear.
He looks down.
He sees the main body of the German formation diving toward the bombers.
They are ignoring him.
They think the lone Mustang is finished.
Prey pushes the stick forward.
He bunts the Mustang into a power dive.
He is going after the whole pack alone.
20,000 ft.
The dive.
Gravity is the ultimate weapon.
Pretty uses it now.
He is falling at 500 mph.
The Mustang is shaking as it approaches the speed of sound.
The controls are stiffening due to compressibility, but Prey knows the limits.
He knows exactly how much muscle to put into the stick to keep it true.
Below him, the gaggle of BF 1000s is leveling out to attack a straggling bee.
They are focused on the bomber.
They are fixated.
Prey is coming from the blind cone high in .
He picks his third target, a gray 109 flying on the left flank of the formation.
Prey closes to 300 yd.
He is moving so fast that he has to throttle back to avoid ramming the enemy.
He fires a short 2- second burst.
The 050 caliber rounds loaded with incendiary and armor-piercing tips tear through the Germans wing route.
The fuel tank inside the wing ignites.
The 109 becomes a fireball instantly.
Splash three.
The other Germans see the explosion.
They panic.
They break formation.
They turn into the attack looking for the intruder.
They see only one Mustang.
To the German pilots, this is confusing.
One plane attacking 30.
They assume it must be a trap.
They assume there is an entire squadron diving behind him.
They hesitate and in air combat, hesitation is death.
Prey uses their confusion.
He doesn’t slow down.
He pulls up into a high yo-yo.
He trades his massive speed for altitude, rocketing up above the turning Germans.
He hangs there for a second, looking down at the chaotic circle of enemy fighters.
He spots a fourth target.
Another 109 trying to climb away to the east.
Prey wing overs.
He drops down on the German.
This is a deflection shot.
The German is turning hard right.
Prey has to aim well ahead of the target.
He trusts the K14 sight this time.
He lines up the pipper.
He squeezes the trigger.
The bullets fly through empty air, intercepting the German plane perfectly.
The canopy shatters.
The pilot slumps forward.
The 109 enters a slow, deathly spiral toward the ground.
Splash four.
Prey is now an ace in a day in less than three minutes.
But the fight is changing.
The Germans have realized he is alone.
They are angry.
Three 109s coordinate an attack on him.
One comes from the left, one from the right, one from above.
They are trying to box him in.
Prey checks his energy state.
He is fast, but he is low on altitude.
He is at 15,000 ft now.
He cannot outturn three of them.
If he turns left, the right one gets him.
If he climbs, the top one gets him.
He has to do something unexpected.
He spots a layer of cloud below him at 10,000 ft.
He dives.
The Germans follow.
They think they have him.
They are diving faster, their lighter airframes accelerating quickly.
Pretty heads straight for the cloud deck.
He enters the white mist.
Blindness.
For 5 seconds, he is flying in milk.
He watches his artificial horizon.
He keeps the wings level.
Then he does the unexpected.
He chops the throttle and stomps the left rudder.
He executes a skidding turn inside the cloud.
It is dangerous.
Without visual references, he risks vertigo.
He risks spinning out.
But he trusts his inner ear.
He trusts the Mustang.
He turns 90° to the left inside the cloud.
The Germans, expecting him to continue straight or dive deeper, fly right past his position.
Prey pops out of the side of the cloud.
The three German fighters are now in front of him and below him, still diving, looking for the target that vanished.
Prey pushes the throttle back to war emergency power.
The Merlin roars.
He drops onto the tail of the trailing German.
The German pilot never sees him.
He is looking down, searching the ground clutter.
Prey closes to 100 yards, point blank.
He fires.
The 109 disintegrates.
The engine block separates from the fuselage.
Splash five.
Pretty pulls up hard to avoid the debris.
The G forces slam him into the seat.
His neck muscles strain to keep his head up.
He checks his ammo counters.
He is low.
He has perhaps 15 seconds of fire left.
He checks his fuel.
He is burning gas at a rate of 100 gallons an hour.
He should go home.
He has done enough.
He has destroyed five enemy fighters.
He has saved the bombers.
But George Prey is not wired to go home.
He is wired to clear the sky.
He sees one more 109.
This one is fleeing.
The pilot has seen five of his comrades die.
He is diving for the deck, heading for the safety of the flack fields over Braaymond.
Pratty checks his six clear.
He pushes the nose down.
Not today, he whispers.
5,000 ft.
The chase.
The chase is on.
The BF19 G6 is fast on the deck.
The denser air feeds its supercharger.
The German pilot is pushing his engine to the breaking point.
Black smoke streaming from his exhausts.
Prey is pursuing.
The P-51D is faster, but only marginally at this altitude.
The drag of the air is like molasses.
Prey checks his manifold pressure.
65 in.
He pushes it to 70.
He is risking a blown cylinder.
The Packard Merlin is a tough engine, but even it has limits.
The gap closes slowly, 800 yd, 700 yd.
The German pilot stays low.
He is hugging the trees, hoping to lure Prey into the flack.
Prey knows the trap.
If he follows the German over an airfield or a city, the ground gunners will rip him apart.
He has to end this now.
He checks his guns.
Two of his six machine guns are jammed.
He is down to four guns and low ammo.
He has to be surgical.
The German pilot starts to He weaves left and right, trying to throw off PR’s aim.
Prey doesn’t follow the weave.
He flies a straight line, cutting the angles.
This is pure geometry.
He anticipates where the German will be when he crosses the center line.
Prey waits.
He needs the German to make a mistake.
The German makes it.
He pulls up slightly to clear a line of high tension power lines.
That slight climb bleeds off 20 m of air speed.
Prey pounces.
The gap snaps shut.
400 yd 300 y.
Prey fires.
Nothing happens.
He curses.
He reccococks the guns manually.
He pulls the charging handle in the cockpit.
He tries again.
This time the guns roar, but only two of them.
He is down to two guns.
The tracers are sparse.
He has to aim perfectly.
He aims for the cockpit.
The bullets strike the Germans canopy.
Glass shatters.
The German plane lurches violently to the right.
It rolls inverted.
It doesn’t recover.
The 109 slams into a plowed field at 400 mph.
It creates a furrow of dirt and fire 300 yd long.
As Blast Zigs, Prey pulls up.
He climbs away from the ground fire that is now starting to pop around him.
Black puffs of flack appear off his wing tip.
He is alone in the sky.
He is exhausted.
His flight suit is soaked in sweat.
His hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold the stick.
He checks his compass.
He is deep inside Germany.
He is 400 miles from base.
He throttles back to cruise.
He leans the mixture to save fuel.
He looks around.
The sky is empty.
The bombers are gone.
The Germans are gone.
It is just him and the hum of the Merlin.
He realizes what he has done.
Six planes in one mission without a scratch on his own paint.
It is a feat that defies statistical probability.
It defies the mechanical limits of the guns and the engine.
He radios base.
White leader returning.
Low on fuel, low on ammo.
Copy white leader.
What is your status? Status is clear.
Prey says he doesn’t brag.
He doesn’t list the kills.
He just says clear.
The flight home is a battle against fatigue.
The adrenaline crash is brutal.
Pretty fights to keep his eyes open.
He hallucinates.
He sees 109s in the clouds.
He hears voices on the radio that aren’t there.
He forces himself to focus on the instruments.
Air speed, altitude, heading.
He crosses the channel.
The white cliffs of Dover appear.
They look like salvation.
He lands at Bodney.
He taxis to his hard stand.
His crew chief, Staff Sergeant Bill Mitchell, runs up to the plane.
He sees the gun ports.
They are blackened with powder burns.
He sees the empty shell ejection shoots.
Prey climbs out.
He slides down the wing and lands on the grass.
He can’t stand up.
His legs are jelly.
Mitchell catches him.
Major, you okay? Pretty nods.
He points to the plane.
She needs a drink, Bill.
And some new guns.
How many, sir? Mitchell asks, looking at the gun camera film cassette.
Prey holds up six fingers.
Mitchell’s eyes go wide.
Six? You got six? Yeah, Prey says softly.
I got six.
The ground crew gathers around.
They touch the plane.
They look at the pilot.
They know they are looking at history.
But Prey doesn’t feel like a legend.
He feels like a survivor.
He walks to the debriefing hut.
He sits down.
He drinks a cup of coffee.
His hand shakes, spilling the hot liquid on the table.
He draws the diagrams for the intelligence officer.
He explains the climb, the dive, the cloud trap.
The officer listens, stunned.
He writes it all down.
Major, the officer says, do you realize what you’ve done? This is a record.
No one has shot down six in a Mustang in one go.
Pretty shrugs.
They were there, he says.
I just cleaned them up.
The story of August 6, 1944 becomes the stuff of legend.
The news spreads through the Eighth Air Force.
The blue-nosed bastards become celebrities.
Prey is nominated for the Medal of Honor.
He is the top scoring Mustang ace in the world.
But George Prey doesn’t change.
He remains the quiet, unassuming kid from North Carolina.
He doesn’t swagger.
He doesn’t boast.
He focuses on the machine.
He spends hours with his crew chief.
He polishes the wings of Krypa Mighty.
He waxes the leading edges to reduce drag.
He harmonizes his own guns, setting the convergence point to his specific liking.
He treats the P-51 not as a vehicle, but as a scalpel.
He tells the new pilots, “Don’t fight the plane.
Let it fly.
It knows what to do.
You just have to show it the target.
” He teaches them the energy trap.
He teaches them to fight in the vertical.
He teaches them that altitude is money in the bank, and you only spend it if you have to.
But the war is not over and luck is a finite resource.
December 25, 1944, Christmas Day.
The Battle of the Bulge is raging.
The Germans are making a last desperate push.
Prey is leading a mission over the front lines.
He is flying a new Mustang Kripes a mighty fourth.
They spot a German FW 190 on the deck.
Pretty divys.
He is doing what he does best.
He is aggressive.
He is relentless.
He chases the German over the treetops.
He is setting up the kill.
But he is flying over American lines.
The American anti-aircraft gunners are nervous.
They have been strafed by the Luftwaffa for days.
They hear an engine.
They see a low-flying plane.
They don’t see the blue nose.
They don’t see the white star.
They open fire.
A quad 50 caliber battery on the ground tracks the lead plane.
Prey is hit.
It is not a golden BB.
It is friendly fire.
The 050 caliber rounds fired by his own countrymen tear through the belly of the Mustang.
The plane doesn’t explode.
It doesn’t disintegrate.
But Prey is hit.
The bullets sever the coolant lines.
They pierce the cockpit.
The Mustang rolls over gently.
It crashes into a snowy field near the village of Langer.
George Prey is killed instantly.
He was 25 years old.
The title’s 20 is a thematic nod to the youth of these men, but PR’s maturity in the cockpit belied his age.
The tragic irony of his death shakes the Air Force.
The man who could defeat six Luftwaffa veterans in a single fight could not defeat the panic of a 19-year-old gunner on the ground.
His legacy, however, is not the crash.
It is the textbook.
The tactics he used on August 6, the vertical entry, the energy management, the use of clouds, became standard doctrine for the US Air Force.
He proved that the P-51 Mustang was superior, not just because it was fast, but because it could fight in three dimensions better than anything else in the sky.
He proved that a single pilot with the right machine and the right instinct could dismantle a formation.
Years later at the Air Force Academy, cadets study the preddy engagement.
They look at the diagrams.
They run the simulations.
A young cadet asks the instructor, “Sir, how did he survive the merge? He climbed into 30 planes.
” The instructor smiles.
He didn’t survive the merge cadet.
He dominated it.
He made them react to him.
That is the secret.
Pretty never waited for the fight to come to him.
He took the fight to the enemy.
On that cold August day, six German pilots woke up thinking they were the hunters.
They didn’t know they were flying into the airspace of a man who had turned his Mustang into a weapon of pure will.
George Prey remains the top P-51 ace of all time.
26.83 aerial victories.
But the number doesn’t matter.
What matters is the image of that lone blue-nosed Mustang climbing vertically into a swarm of enemies refusing to turn away.
It is the ultimate definition of the fighter pilot spirit.
Attitude is everything.
