28,000 ft above the synthetic oil refineries of Mersburg, Germany.
November 2nd, 1944.
The air temperature outside the cockpit of Captain James Sully.
Sullivan’s P-51D Mustang is 60° below zero.
It is a cold so profound that if he were to take off his glove and touch the canopy latch, his skin would instantly fuse to the metal.
Inside the cockpit, the heater is struggling against the vacuum.
Sullivan can smell the peculiar metallic scent of high alitude ozone mixed with the hot oil of his Packard Merlin engine.
He is 24 years old, a former farm boy from Iowa who now commands blue flight of the 352nd Fighter Group.
His job is simple in description and impossible in execution.
Protect the big friends.
A combat box of B17 flying fortresses lumbering at 160 m per hour toward the most heavily defended target in the Third Reich.
Sullivan checks his mirror.
His three wingmen are tight on his tail, their silver wings glinting in the harsh, unfiltered sunlight of the stratosphere.
They look invincible, but Sullivan knows the math.
The math says they are already dead.
Bandits, the radio crackles.
It’s the controller back in England watching the radar plots.
Big gaggle.
30 plus miles closing fast.
Sullivan squints through the bulletproof glass.
At first, he sees only the curvature of the Earth and the haze of the lower atmosphere.
Then he sees the dots.
They are not maneuvering.
They are not circling in the classic luie wheel.
They are flying in a rigid terrifying line of breast.
It is a ster grub.
German tactics have evolved.
In 1943, they dogfought.
In 1944, they realized that dogf fighting American Mustangs was a losing equation.
So, they changed the variables.
They took the FWolf 190, a brutal butcher bird of a plane, and bolted heavy steel plates around the cockpit and engine.
They added third cannons loaded with mining grass, high explosive mine shells.
These armored monsters are heavy.
They fly like bricks.
They cannot turn.
They cannot climb.
But they don’t need to.
Their doctrine is a sledgehammer.
Ignore the fighters.
Form a wall.
Drive straight through the bomber formation from the rear.
Absorb the defensive fire with the armor and blow the bombers out of the sky at point blank range.
Sullivan watches them form up.
There are 40 of them.
A flying failank of iron.
If you want to understand how a handful of pilots defied the laws of probability to save thousands of airmen, you need to hear this story.
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The Sturm Grup is maneuvering for a stern attack on the lead bomber box.
11 B17s carrying 110 men.
The Germans are positioning themselves at the dead position.
Standard American doctrine says, “Attack from the rear, get on their tail, match their speed.” But Sullivan knows that doctrine is suicide against a ster grub.
He has seen Mustangs empty their50 caliber guns into the rear of these armored wolves with zero effect.
The bullets bounce off the steel plates.
And while the Mustang pilot is wasting his ammo, the German wall smashes into the bombers.
If Sullivan follows the manual, 110 men die in the next 3 minutes.
Blue flight drop tanks, Sullivan orders.
The silver external fuel tanks tumble away.
The Mustangs leap up, light and lethal.
Sully, we can’t catch them from behind.
His wingman, Lieutenant Miller, radios.
They’re too close to the bombers.
We’ll be firing through our own guys.
We aren’t going behind,” Sullivan says.
His voice is flat, devoid of fear, filled only with calculation.
“We’re going to the front.” “The front? That’s a collision course, Sully.
Do it.” Gate power.
Follow me.
Sullivan pushes the throttle past the wire stop.
War emergency power.
The manifold pressure gauge jumps to 67 in.
The engine screams.
He pushes the nose down, diving not at the Germans, but beneath the bomber stream.
He is gambling everything on a theory of relative velocity.
The B17s are cruising at 160 m.
The Stormgrup is closing from the rear at 350 m.
Sullivan divies his flight of four Mustangs below the bombers, accelerating to 500 m in the opposite direction.
He is creating a closing speed of nearly 900 mph.
He flies into the shadow of the lead bomber squadron.
The air is turbulent here, churned up by the massive radial engines of the B17s.
Sullivan’s Mustang bucks and kicks.
He fights the stick with white knuckled hands.
Wait for it, he whispers.
Wait for it.
He watches the German wall approaching the rear of the bombers.
They are disciplined.
They are focused entirely on the B17s.
They are expecting the Mustangs to peck at their tails.
They are not looking down.
The distance closes.
2 m, 1 mile, half a mile.
Sullivan sees the tracers start to erupt from the German line.
They are opening fire on the bombers.
Now Sullivan screams, “Pull up.
Pull up.
” He hauls the stick back into his gut.
The P-51D Mustang is the finest energy fighter of the war.
It doesn’t just climb, it converts speed into altitude with violent efficiency.
Sullivan’s flight of four erupts from beneath the bombers, rocketing vertically into the gap between the B17s and the attacking Germans.
It is a move of pure insanity.
Sullivan is placing his aircraft directly into the path of 40 heavy fighters firing 30 cannons.
The German commander leading the stern grub sees a silver flash explode from below.
He expects flack.
He expects debris.
He does not expect an American fighter plane standing on its tail, firing six machine guns directly into his face.
The geometry of the German attack relies on stability.
It relies on the pilots believing they are invulnerable from the front because no one is crazy enough to attack a wall headon.
Sullivan is that crazy.
He holds the trigger down.
The P-51 shutters.
The 050 caliber rounds incendiary and armor-piercing slash into the belly of the lead wolf.
The belly is not armored.
The fuel tanks are there.
Also, the pilot’s legs.
The German leader flinches.
It is a human reaction, faster than thought.
He yanks his stick to the right to avoid the mid-air collision.
His wingman, seeing the leader break, breaks left.
The wall shatters.
The discipline evaporates.
The stern grub, designed to be a single sledgehammer, fragments into 40 individual bricks.
They scatter to avoid the four screaming mustangs that have just appeared out of nowhere like avenging angels.
Sullivan flashes through the German formation.
The sound is a physical blow.
The roar of engines passing within feet of each other.
The wake turbulence snaps his head against the headrest.
He is through.
He shoots up into the blue, trading his speed for altitude.
He looks down.
The threat to the bombers is broken.
The wall is gone.
But now the real fight begins.
Sullivan is slow, hanging at the top of his Zoom climb, and below him, 40 angry, heavily armed German fighters are turning to kill the four men who just humiliated them.
Sullivan hangs at the apex of his climb, the Mustang’s nose drifting lazily across the horizon.
The airspeed indicator reads 140 knots, stall speed.
He is a sitting duck.
Split as go down, he yells.
He kicks the rudder and rolls inverted.
Gravity takes over.
The Mustang falls, regaining the energy it just spent.
The wind roar returns.
A comforting scream against the canopy.
Below him, the sky has turned into a furball, a chaotic swirling melee of aluminum and tracers.
The German pilots, denied their easy formation kill on the bombers, are furious.
They are aggressive and they outnumber Sullivan’s flight 10 to one.
Miller break right.
You’ve got two on your six.
Sullivan sees his wingman, Lieutenant Miller, dragging two fuckwolves.
The Germans are heavy armored rambgers.
They can’t turn tight, but they carry massive momentum.
If Miller tries to turn flat, they will cut across his circle and blow him apart.
Don’t turn flat, Miller.
Sullivan barks.
Take them vertical.
Miller pulls up.
The P-51, lighter and cleaner, rockets upward.
The heavy fogwolfs try to follow.
They point their noses up, their engines groaning under the weight of the armor plate.
It is a contest of physics, thrusttoe ratio.
Sullivan watches as the German planes stall.
They run out of energy at 20,000 ft, hanging helplessly in the air while Miller continues to climb.
Reversal, Sullivan mutters.
Now, as the Germans stall and fall away, Miller wing overs and drops onto their tails.
He is now the hunter.
He fires a short burst.
The lead foxwolf loses a wing tip and spins away.
But Sullivan has his own problems.
A yellow-nosed FW190 has picked him out.
This pilot is good.
He isn’t flying a heavy armor variant.
He’s flying top cover.
A standard fighter.
He is fast.
Sullivan feels the thud of hits on his tail.
Clang, clang.
It sounds like someone throwing rocks at a tin shed.
You want to dance? Sullivan grunts.
He doesn’t turn.
He pushes the stick forward, entering a negative G dive.
The blood rushes to his head.
His vision turns red.
The German pilot, startled by the sudden bunt, fires over Sullivan’s canopy.
Sullivan chops the throttle and deploys his combat flaps.
The Mustang acts like it hit a wall.
It slows rapidly.
The German carrying too much speed shoots past him.
The overshoot is classic.
Sullivan slams the throttle back to the firewall.
He retracts the flaps.
He pulls the nose up and locks onto the German’s tail.
“Fox 2,” he whispers, though he has no missiles, only guns.
He squeezes the trigger.
The K14 gun site computes the lead.
The 050 caliber bullets saw through the Germans elevator.
The enemy plane pitches down violently, losing control.
It disappears into the cloud deck.
“Splash two,” Sullivan says.
He checks the bombers.
They are plotting on two miles away now.
They are safe for the moment, but the Sturm Grup is reforming.
The German leader, a new one having replaced the man Sullivan shot up, is firing flares.
Red, green, red.
It’s the signal to rally.
They are ignoring the Mustangs.
They are going back for the bombers.
They’re reforming Sully.
Miller calls out.
They’re going for the stragglers.
A B17 trailing smoke from an earlier flack hit has fallen behind the formation.
It is the lonesome lady.
She is wounded, slow, and alone.
10 German fighters peel off from the dog fight and line up on her.
They smell blood.
Sullivan checks his fuel.
He has burned 60 gallons in 10 minutes of combat power.
He checks his ammo.
The counters show he has about 15 seconds of fire left.
Blue flight on me, Sullivan orders.
We have to intercept.
We can’t take 10 of them, Sully.
Miller says we’re almost out of ammo.
We don’t have to shoot them, Sullivan says, his voice hard.
We just have to make them flinch.
He banks the Mustang toward the line of German fighters.
He is not setting up a firing pass.
He is setting up a collision course.
He aims his aircraft at the lead German.
He flies straight and level, offering himself as a target.
Come on, Sullivan whispers.
Look at me.
Don’t look at the bomber.
Look at me.
The German pilot sees the lone Mustang charging at him.
He has to make a choice.
Continue his attack, run on the bomber, and risk a head-on collision with the crazy American or break off to save himself.
It is a test of will.
The German is flying for the Fatherland.
Sullivan is flying for the 10 guys in that B17.
At 800 yd, the German opens fire.
Cannon shells sparkle around Sullivan’s cockpit.
He doesn’t flinch.
He holds the line.
At 400 yd, the German nerve breaks.
He yanks the stick left.
He breaks off the attack.
Sullivan flies through the space the German just occupied.
He pulls up, wincing as G forces crush his spine.
One down, he gasps.
Nine to go.
But the other Germans have seen their leader break.
The psychological armor is cracked.
They are hesitant.
They start to maneuver individually, looking for the Mustangs instead of the bomber.
Sullivan has done it.
He has turned a massacre into a dog fight.
He has bought the lonesome lady another 5 miles of life.
But now he is in the middle of 10 enemy fighters.
Low on speed, low on ammo, and tired.
The adrenaline is fading, replaced by the cold, leaden weight of exhaustion.
And then he sees the smoke.
It’s coming from his own engine.
The oil pressure gauge is flickering.
The needle dances between 40 and zero.
Sullivan smells burning rubber.
A stray 20 round from the head-on pass must have nicked an oil line.
The Packard Merlin is bleeding out.
Blue lead, you’re smoking.
Miller radios.
Get out of there, Sully.
Head for the deck.
Not yet.
Sullivan coughs.
The smoke is entering the cockpit.
Is the lonesome lady clear.
She’s crossing the IP.
She’s got flack cover now.
She’s safe.
Okay, Sullivan whispers.
Okay.
He pushes the nose over.
He needs to get away from the wolves.
He enters a spiral dive, descending rapidly through the freezing air.
The German fighters, seeing the smoke, assume he is finished.
They let him go.
They turn back to Germany.
Sullivan levels out at 5,000 ft.
The air is thicker here, warmer, but the engine is dying.
The vibration is getting worse.
A rhythmic thuting that shakes the instrument panel.
Blue flight form up.
Sullivan says, “Let’s go home.
” His three wingmen slide into position.
They are battered.
Miller has a hole in his rudder.
Lieutenant Kemp is missing a flap, but they are flying.
They cross the Channel Coast.
The oil temperature is pegged at the red line.
The engine is running on friction and prayer.
“Sully, you can’t make it to Debb.
” Miller says, “Put it down at Manston, the emergency strip.
Negative.
Sullivan says, “I’m taking her home.” It’s stubbornness.
It’s pride.
It’s the irrational bond between a pilot and his machine.
This plane, Missouri, saved his life.
He isn’t going to leave her on a strange runway.
He nurses the throttle.
He trims the aircraft for maximum glide efficiency.
He talks to the engine.
Just a little further, darling.
Just a little further.
They cross the English coast.
The green fields of East Anglia appear below.
It looks like a quilt.
It looks like peace.
But the engine has had enough.
With a final violent shutter, the propeller seizes.
It stops dead.
One blade pointing straight up like a tombstone.
The silence is deafening.
Mayday, mayday, Sullivan calls calmly.
Blue lead is dead stick.
5 miles out from Debbdon.
cleared straight in.
Blue lead.
Ambulance is rolling.
Sullivan is now flying a five-tonon glider.
He has one shot.
If he comes in too high, he overshoots.
If he comes in too low, he hits the trees.
He judges the angle.
He drops the gear.
The hydraulic pressure is low, but gravity locks them down.
Thump.
He lines up on the runway.
He is coming in hot 140 m to keep the air flow over the wings.
He flares.
The wheels touch.
The tires scream.
He coasts to a stop at the very end of the runway.
The silence returns.
He sits there for a long minute, unable to move.
His legs are trembling so violently he can’t unbuckle his harness.
He is soaked in sweat despite the cold.
The canopy slides back.
His crew chief, Sergeant Kowalsski, jumps up on the wing.
Major, you okay? Sullivan nods.
He points to the nose.
She’s thirsty, chief.
Oil line.
Kowalsski looks at the cowl.
He runs a finger through the streak of black oil.
She’s cooked, major.
Engine seized solid.
You’re lucky it didn’t burn.
Sullivan climbs out.
His knees buckle when he hits the tarmac.
Kowalsski catches him.
Easy, major, we got you.
A jeep pulls up.
It’s the group commander, Colonel Blakesley.
He looks at the smoking plane, then at Sullivan.
Report Sullivan.
Sullivan salutes, his hand shaking slightly.
Mission accomplished, Colonel.
The big friends got through.
We broke up a stirrup attack on the lead box.
How? Blakesley asks.
They were armored, Sully.
You couldn’t hit them from behind.
We didn’t go behind, sir.
We went vertical from the nose.
Blakesley stares at him.
You went head-on with 40 wolves.
It was the only way to make them turn, sir.
Blakesley shakes his head, a mixture of disbelief and admiration.
You’re crazy, Sullivan.
You know that.
Yes, sir.
But the bombers are safe.
They drive back to the debriefing hut.
The mood is subdued.
Other flights are reporting heavy losses.
The Luftwaffa was up in force today.
But then the phone rings.
The intelligence officer answers it.
He listens.
He looks at Sullivan.
That was the 91st bomb group, the officer says.
They just landed.
They want to know who was flying blue flight.
Why? Sullivan asks, fearing the worst.
Did we hit a friendly? No, Major.
The lead bomber deer said four Mustangs came up through his formation like rockets.
He said they broke the German line 10 seconds before the Germans would have fired.
He said he’s never seen anything like it.
The officer pauses.
He said all 11 ships in the lead box made it back.
No casualties.
The room goes quiet.
11 crews, 110 men.
Sullivan leans back in his chair.
He closes his eyes.
He sees the wall of German fighters.
He sees the tracers.
He feels the pull of the stick.
He doesn’t feel like a hero.
He just feels tired.
The war ends six months later.
Sullivan flies another 30 missions.
He survives the Battle of the Bulge.
He survives the jet fighters, the Mi262s that appear in the spring of 1945.
He ends the war with 18 confirmed kills, making him a triple ace.
But the mission he talks about on the rare occasions he talks at all is November 2nd.
He goes back to Iowa.
He marries his high school sweetheart.
He buys a farm.
He grows corn.
He raises three sons.
He is a quiet man, slow to anger, steady with his hands.
He never flies a plane again.
I used up all my luck.
He tells his sons.
The tank is empty.
But the history books remember the tactics.
Sullivan improvised the vertical break becomes a standard maneuver in the US Air Force training manuals.
It is studied by tactical analysts.
They calculate the closing speeds, the reaction times, the psychological impact.
They turn his desperation into a diagram.
In 1985, 40 years after the war, there is a reunion in London.
The surviving pilots of the 352nd Fighter Group meet with the bomber crews of the 91st.
Sullivan is there.
He is an old man now, his hair white, his hands spotted with age.
He stands in the corner of the hotel ballroom holding a glass of water.
An elderly man in a wheelchair approaches him.
He is missing a leg.
He wears the lapel pin of a B17 bomber deer.
“Are you Sullivan?” the man asks.
I am.
The man in the wheelchair grips Sullivan’s hand.
His grip is surprisingly strong.
I was in the nose of lead lady, the man says.
I saw you.
I saw you come up right in front of us.
I thought you were going to hit us.
I thought so, too, Sullivan admits, smiling faintly.
The Germans, the man says, his eyes tearing up.
They were so close.
I could see the pilot’s faces.
They were going to kill us.
I knew it.
I had made my peace with God.
He pauses, collecting himself.
And then you were there like a ghost.
You made them flinch.
The man gestures to a group of people standing behind him.
A woman, two grown men, a teenage girl.
That’s my daughter, the man says.
Those are my grandsons.
That’s my greatgranddaughter.
He looks Sullivan in the eye.
They exist because you pulled up.
Sullivan looks at the family.
He sees the generations.
He sees the lives that unfolded because of a split-second decision made in the freezing stratosphere of 1944.
He thinks about the math, the closing speed, the armor plate, the impossible odds.
He realizes that the manual was wrong.
The equation wasn’t about mass or velocity or firepower.
It was about the variable of the human spirit, the willingness to throw oneself into the fire so that someone else doesn’t have to burn.
It was my job, Sullivan says softly.
No, the man says it was a miracle.
Sullivan leaves the reunion early.
He walks out into the London night.
The sky is dark, silent.
No engines, no tracers, just the quiet hum of a city at peace.
He looks up at the stars.
He remembers the cold.
He remembers the fear.
He remembers the voice of his wingman, Miller, who didn’t make it home from a later mission in 1945.
He thinks about the turn, the pull, the G-forces crushing his chest.
It was the hardest physical thing he ever did.
It broke the capillaries in his eyes.
It cracked a rib against the harness.
It ruined his engine.
But standing there on the sidewalk looking at the same stars that watched him over Germany, Sullivan knows it was the only turn that ever mattered.
He walks to the subway.
He goes home.
He lives his life.
And somewhere in the archives of the Air Force Museum, there is a gun camera film.
It is grainy and black and white.
It shows a wall of German fighters filling the screen.
And then the horizon spins violently as the camera pulls up up into the vertical.
The Germans scatter like frightened birds.
