Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (17 page)

The Meteors had entered combat on July 27 but were still waiting to draw their first blood against the flood of German buzz bombs that flowed from Occupied Europe. Winston Churchill and the few top Allied leaders who had access to the Enigma reports had immediately recognized the gravity of the threat, for Hitler had authorized a
program that would fire eight thousand of the flying bombs against England every month, beginning in January 1944. The Germans had not reached this goal because a mammoth bombing campaign—sometimes as much as 40 percent of all Allied effort—was directed against factories known to manufacture the components of the weapon and the “no ball” sites from which they were launched. These sites were long, narrow concrete ramps, surrounded by a few buildings and a compass rose, all pointing like malignant fingers to the heart of London. The buzz bombs were catapulted along the track until they reached a speed that would sustain their pulse-jet engines as they headed for Great Britain.

The extensive bombing had delayed the first combat launches until the night of June 14 and vastly reduced the number of weapons and of launch sites available for use. Great Britain had become spoiled, accustomed for the last three years to dishing out punishment to Germany, not receiving it. Now it seemed as if the blitz bombing of 1940 and 1941 had returned, and the unexpected loss of civilian lives to German air attack in mid-1944 was bad for British morale.

While Whittle was in the hospital, his doctors had tried to sequester him as much as possible, keeping all bad news from him, and letting him learn of big events, such as the D-day invasion, only after their success had been confirmed. He was especially eager to learn about the new weapon because it was jet-propelled.

Wilson brought them into an austere office on the flight line and showed them a provisional drawing of the buzz bomb.

“The Germans call it the V-1 for ‘vengeance weapon number 1.’ They have another one, the V-2, but it is a rocket-powered ballistic missile. They haven’t fired it yet, and when they do, I don’t see how we will stop it. But we can stop the V-1.”

Whittle studied the drawing. No more than a thousand
kilogram bomb with simple wings and tail, it was equipped with a pulse-jet engine. He knew the theory—it was jet power simplified to the extreme. Instead of a complicated compressor and turbine system, as in his engine, a panel of shutters at the front of a long tube was sucked open to admit air. Fuel was injected into the incoming air and ignited. The resulting explosion blew the shutters closed, the flames and heat were exhausted out the rear of the jet tube, propelling the aircraft forward, and the cycle was rapidly repeated. Despite its apparent simplicity, Whittle knew that it must have taken an enormous amount of work to make it effective.

Hooker asked, “What kind of speed and altitude do they fly?”

Wilson replied, “It varies, but usually no more than three hundred or three hundred and fifty mph. Some have been clocked at four hundred, but that may be an error. They come over somewhere between fifteen hundred and three thousand feet. They are not controlled in flight; they just fly a pre-set course, using a gyro stabilizer. They have a simple air-log timer that cuts off the fuel at a pre-determined point, and shuts down the engine. That’s why they are not dangerous as long as you can hear their engine running—they’ll keep on going. But if the engine quits—look out below.”

Whittle had flown fighters long enough to know that even at 300 mph, the buzz bombs would be difficult to intercept in a tail chase. If you were not positioned to make a quartering attack from above, they would be an elusive target. If the first attack missed, it would be almost impossible to catch them before their timing mechanism sent them on their fatal plunge.

“The Jerries are methodical, you know, like to keep regular hours and all that. We expect to see a salvo in about an hour. Let me have one of my pilots run you out to a likely spot where you might see them come in—and see us go after them.”

Wilson introduced him to a smiling young blond pilot officer, Richard May, who slid into the front seat of the Rolls to direct the chauffeur, while in the back Hooker and Whittle discussed the pros and cons of the buzz bomb.

“It’s damn ingenious. What else can the fellow do? He cannot put a bomber over England without it being shot down. The bloody things must be cheap to manufacture, a few hundred man-hours at most. I understand that the Germans were planning to fire eight thousand a month at London! Even as inaccurate as they are, that would be devastating.”

Whittle was still working out the engineering details. “I don’t see how they can keep the blasted things together! The vibration must be incredible. The pulse engine is just a tube, a pipe, containing a series of explosions,
bang, bang, bang
!”

They were still talking when the Rolls slowed down to turn in a freshly made gravel road for half a shaded mile, then came to a stop. They were led to a clearing, not two hundred yards from one of the hundreds of anti-aircraft batteries that had been redeployed from the defense of London to positions on a line that ran along the coast from Beachy Head to Dover, smack across the V-1 routes. A second line of defense was allocated to fighters, and just on the outskirts of London was a third line—a huge balloon barrage. It was an old-fashioned defense, reaching back to World War I, but it was still effective against a low-flying aircraft that charged blindly ahead without deviating from its course.

May told them, “It will be pretty noisy here, sir, but when it quiets down, you’ll know that an RAF fighter is moving up from behind to attack.”

Hooker signaled to the chauffeur, who retrieved a basket from the Rolls’s trunk. Whittle looked on without much pleasure as sandwiches were laid out, a fruit bowl provided, and a bottle of champagne uncorked. He felt as if he had not eaten well for years, and he was ashamed that his once
sturdy body had become so frail. Yet the champagne was going down uncommonly well until he dropped the glass when the anti-aircraft battery let loose a wild barrage.

No one had heard the incoming V-1. It passed serenely through the seemingly impassable barrier of anti-aircraft shell bursts and went on; when the battery ceased firing, they then picked up its odd popping sound, as if an old Austin were backfiring continuously. The flying bomb continued on its course until the buzz died away. May handed them binoculars. “Keep a watch to the west, sir. That’s where the fighters will be.”

Hooker yelled, “Frank, here comes another one now.”

They turned to look to the east, and in the distance, still not audible, they saw a tiny cross advancing, a black stream of exhaust trailing it. Whittle glanced over to the anti-aircraft battery and was surprised to see them standing around, staring as he was. Then he saw why. A Gloster Meteor—it had to be from 616 Squadron—was diving down in a curving approach. They heard the first engine noises as the Meteor settled down, some three hundred yards behind the V-1, to fire.

Nothing happened and the anti-aircraft crew ran to their stations. The Meteor’s four 20mm Hispano cannon must have jammed, and the gunners were going to take over when the Meteor pulled away and the buzz bomb continued on its course.

But both the V-1 and the Meteor continued straight forward, the fighter gaining position, then sliding into formation with its target. With infinite care, the Meteor pilot slipped his right wing under the V-1’s left wing and with a short movement tipped the V-1 up and over. It rolled into a screaming full-power dive to explode not four hundred yards from where Whittle and Hooker now lay facedown, their heads covered, their champagne spilled.

Then they were on their feet, screaming with the same excitement as the gun crew, for the Meteor now appeared low on the horizon, boiling straight for them, so low that
it disappeared beneath the distant hedges, reappearing ever closer until it roared right at them, dust curling up behind its headlong rush. They fell to the ground again, and the Meteor pulled away almost vertically up into the sky, rolling as it went.

May was on his feet dusting himself off and saying, “That would be Pilot Officer Dean, sir. He’s very keen about flying very low.”

Whittle turned over on his back, watching the Meteor disappear, concentrating on the circles of flame held so tightly within the jet orifices, outlining the black streams of exhaust pouring from the engines that he had brought into being. Tears poured from his eyes as he looked up and said, “Hooker, I don’t care if they did steal my damn engine! Seeing that V-1 go down made it all worthwhile.”

Hooker reached in his sleeve, handed Whittle a handkerchief, then moved to block the view of May and the chauffeur. They did not need to see the man who had started a new age in aviation cry like a child.

October 20, 1944, Burbank, California

Vance Shannon sat in Bob Gross’s expanded and far more luxurious reception area, remembering how austere the offices had been only ten years before. He sipped a cup of coffee as he read an internal Lockheed bulletin that summarized the world events of the previous weeks. For the most part, the news was good. The Allies had long since broken out from their invasion beaches. The Germans had suffered catastrophic losses, with fifty divisions being destroyed on the Eastern Front and another twenty-eight on the Western Front.

Shannon shook his head. How could they keep fighting with such losses? Only fanatics would continue when the war was so obviously lost. The Bulgarian and Rumainian forces—for whatever they were worth—had defected to
the Soviet side. The Allied advance was continuing in the Pacific, with the Caroline Islands operations moving forward as well. The only bad news was in China, where the Japanese had unexpectedly mounted a big eleven-division offensive intended to capture U.S. Fourteenth Air Force bases at Kwelin and Liuchow.

In the air, the news was much better than it had been a year before, when the Luftwaffe had wrested control of the air from the Eighth Air Force. Now the long-range North American P-51s were able to escort bombers all the way to their targets and back, and he was grateful, for it made Harry’s job safer. The German jets and rocket planes had begun to appear, but in much smaller numbers than expected. The Allies tried to minimize their threat by maintaining combat air patrols over their airfields, so they could catch them landing and taking off.

Vance was a little put out. He’d received a call personally from Bob Gross, asking him to come in as soon as he possibly could. Vance had made an appointment for nine o’clock, it was now eleven, and he was still waiting. The last thing he needed was idle time to think—for thinking meant worries about Madeline, about Tom, and about Harry. The “two boys” were grown men now, warriors, and he still felt for them as he did from the time they were born, wanting to make things go well for them and, most of all, keep them safe from harm.

The delay was very unlike Gross—something very important must have come up. He hoped Gross was not ill—like everyone else, he had been working long hours and was not really taking care of himself as he should.

The door opened and Gross flew in, ashen faced, his coat off and sweat beading on his brow. “Forgive me, Vance, a terrible accident. Milo Burcham just crashed in the gravel pit off the end of the runway. He was in a P-80 and it flamed out. Didn’t have a chance. Poor Milo! He was a wonderful man.”

Shannon tried to express his sympathy. It was a major
loss. Burcham was a top test pilot and a magnificent asset for Lockheed. “Bob, would it be better for you if I came back? I can arrange another appointment with your secretary.”

Gross shook his head. “No, just give me about ten minutes alone, to pull myself together. I’m going to go out and see Peggy.” Vance knew her well. She and her two sons would be devastated. Once again it occurred to him that jet aircraft were going to take a toll of many pilots before they were perfected. Jets were clearly the coming thing—they were even talking about jet airliners now—but lots of lives would be lost in perfecting them. Including, perhaps, one of his sons’. It was a horrible thought.

A few minutes later Gross poked his head out of his office and signaled Shannon to come in.

“I never get used to this, Vance, and I always blame myself.”

“I know the feeling, Bob. My two boys are flying now, and if something happens to them, I’ll never forgive myself for inoculating them with the flying bug.”

Gross pulled a crystal decanter from his desk and poured a minute amount of brandy into two glasses. They clicked glasses and Gross said, “To Milo.”

After carefully storing the decanter—it was the first time Shannon had ever seen Gross take a drink, even at parties—the Lockheed executive pulled out a leather folder and handed it over.

“Vance, you’ll remember that I had some contacts that I wasn’t too proud of in Germany?”

Shannon nodded.

“Well, this is the latest thing he has sent me. All the translations are paper clipped to the original documents. It is pretty disturbing, for it shows the blasted Germans are somehow increasing their jet aircraft production despite all the bombing we’ve done. He has the full dope on the new Arado jet bomber, and gives the specifications for both the V-1 and the V-2.” He was quiet, thinking of
Milo again. He shook his head and resumed. “More than a year ago, I told Hap Arnold about my sources of information, and after he chewed me out at the top of his lungs, he calmed down and told me to keep doing it.”

Shannon riffled through the papers. The Arado was a beautiful airplane, judging by the drawing, and its performance was sensational, almost as good as that of the Messerschmitt jet fighter. He knew quite a bit about the V-1, but the V-2 was fascinating, and this was the first official information he had seen.

Gross tossed over one more paper, obviously from the same batch. “This is the most distressing part. It is sick.” As Shannon read it, his heart sank. At a huge underground plant, the Germans were using slave labor to build the V-2, killing thousands of people in the process. There were even a few photographs attached, obviously taken covertly and smuggled out of the camp. They showed ragged skeleton-like creatures working on assembly lines.