A Bomber Called Curt – 1947
ANADYR AIR BASE ANADYR, RUSSIA DECEMBER 27, 1947
"Ted Howell!!!"
A lanky American turned, and his eyes went wide.
"Ken Clancy, how the heck are you?"
Ken Clancy, standing five-eight and 170 pounds, shook the hand of his best friend from flight school. "Not bad, Ted. Just headed back from an exchange tour with the Russians a little further south."
"How'd it go?" Ted asked.
"Nine kills."
"Wow... the Japanese must really be starting something," Ted said.
"Yeah, but the Russians and our guys are finishing them. You headed out there?" Ken asked.
"Flying the new MiG-9," Ted said.
"Well, mine was with some Lend-Lease F-74s. The real important thing is to keep aware, and to work with your wingman. Remember the trick that Navy guy cooked up - Thach, I believe - well, the Japanese are suckers for it every time."
Ted nodded. The "Thach weave", as it had been called, had been developed by the Navy when the Me 262s were around, and the Navy had been conducting its strikes. The F4Us the Navy at the time were outclassed, but that Navy guy had turned the predatory instincts of fighter pilots against them - using them to lead the pilot into a lethal trap. If a 262 got on the tail of a Corsair, the pilot would call for a break with his wingman.
The two planes would turn towards each other, and often, that gave the wingman a good shot at the 262 after one or two iterations. It was just as good - if not better - against propeller-driven planes like the FW-190s. After two or three encounters in which Thatch's unit had emerged without losses from scrapes with Me-262s in their Corsairs, the brass had ordered Thach to head back to the States immediately. They'd had to detach a cruiser - the Savannah - to do so. What was ironic was that she had been sunk by a U-boat on her way back to the task force. Most of the crew got off, but in the week it took to rescue them, the sharks had feasted on them. The captain had been court-martialed.
A fighter pilot had to feel for Thach. The poor guy never even had the chance to make ace, but he'd gone from training field to training field, and the time he had spent teaching that maneuver had saved more pilots than he could have flying from the deck of a carrier.
"What are we facing?" Ted asked.
"Fighters? The real deadly one is the Kendra, a Me-262 copy. There's the Layla - don't believe what you've heard - it's got to have some vicious flaws. The Jane is another fighter - that one's been around for a decade - or so some guy named Chennault has been saying. Back in 1941, when they were trying to take China, he was saying that you shouldn't dogfight a Jane - the Japanese called it a Zero - you should dive down, and hit them hard. When Russia loaned the Chinese some P-40s, those tactics worked - bought plenty of time for a lot of folks to escape to Mongolia," Ken said.
Chennault had been one of those, leaving on the last plane out - after getting a direct order from the President. Even then, a bunch of good men had not made it out - Tex Hill, Ed Rector, James Howard, Robert Scott, and a bunch of others had gone down in flames or had been captured and later beheaded. Ken Clancy had not gotten enough payback for that, and had wanted the tour extended, but Air Force Chief of Staff Curtis LeMay's rule had been clear - 100 missions on an exchange tour was it, unless you had four, and then you had the chance to go for ace - and you flew home the instant you were done with the mission that you got number five. One guy, Robin Olds, had four kills, but had assiduously only been claiming probables - he was at 138 missions and counting, but sooner or later, he'd get a number five that he couldn't call a probable, and he'd be on the way home.
"What about bombers?" Ted asked.
"Two major types. The first is the George - twin-engine job, but had long range. We can't even reach their bases. But the George will go up if you get a hit. I don't think they've armored those planes. The new one's a high-flying bastard - we call it the Curt," Ken said.
"Scuttlebutt has it you got three of those Curts in one mission. How?" Ted wanted to know.
"I don't want to talk about it too much..." Ken said.
"Tell," Ted said.
"Okay," Ken said. "They sent in some Kendras and Kates on a sweep. The Russians proceeded to send their lend-lease F-74s and Yak-17s after them. Began bagging them very quickly. Turned out they were a distraction. They were planning on conducting a reconnaissance sweep over Vladivostok. I caught a glimpse of them, and broke off in pursuit in my F-74."
"How tough are the Curts?" Ted asked.
"Not as tough as I thought," Ken said. "My F-74 had over a hundred miles an hour on them, and the first pass was at about a 30-degree angle off their nose. First pass, I fired my fifty-calibers, and got hits around the cockpit. That plane began diving, and I broke left to get an angle on the second guy. I opened up at about four hundred yards. Got the engines on the left wing."
"Last one?" Ted asked.
"Pure tail-chase. It was diving to get some airspeed, but I could get more. Opened up at three hundred yards and shot off its right wing. At that point, Russian F-80s arrived, and chased off the incoming Laylas, whose pilots really seemed ticked off. The Russians had my butt covered -"
"I'm glad they did," came a gruff voice.
Ken and Ted turned and snapped a salute. "General."
"Gentlemen, mind explaining where the 'Curt' came from?" General LeMay asked.
"All I know is that's what the intelligence guys call that bomber, sir," Ken Clancy said. Mentally, he was sweating bullets - at least they won't be able to put me on the front lines, he thought.
"Very well, carry on. And Captain Clancy..."
"Sir?"
"Make sure you pass on everything you can to your friend. I want you both back alive," LeMay said.
"Yes, sir."
Curtis LeMay walked off, and left the two officers to continue their conversation. It was time to get to the bottom of this when he got to Khabarovsk.
HEADQUARTERS, MILITARY ASSISTANCE COMMAND, RUSSIA
THE NEXT DAY
"I want answers, Colonel McCoy."
Colonel Frank McCoy squirmed as he took in the look on the face of the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force. "Sir, about five years ago, it was my idea to start giving the Chipanese planes code names. We were not really getting any real consistent data on designations or anything else, but we needed to let pilots know what they were dealing with. My guys sweated over aircraft that only existed in the minds of teenagers in a couple of cases. So, we decided to use codenames. Bombers were given male names. Fighters were named after girls. Transports were named after plants. Single-syllable names for prop-driven planes, multi-syllable names for jet or rocket propulsion."
"I see. Whose idea was it to name one of the bombers after me?" LeMay growled.
"I couldn't tell you sir," McCoy said. "It happened on my watch, and the responsibility is mine," he added.
At that, the civilian adviser with LeMay cleared his throat. McCoy would not admit it at that point, but he got the creeps around this guy.
"Something you want to say, Mr. Stuyvesant?" LeMay asked. Stuyvesant - he preferred to be called "Seer" - didn't always speak, but when he spoke, it was worth listening to. Usually, it had saved LeMay from making big mistakes.
"Colonel McCoy's idea has merit. One word to convey information about a potential opponent in a clear manner," the Seer said. "Could save a lot of bomber crews if push comes to shove..."
"It has its uses," LeMay said. The anger over the nickname was fading... taking McCoy's head off would be a poor way to repay someone who had just come up with something that could save his crews' lives. It had worked. He'd heard those two fighter pilots talking - the code names had gotten the job done. That Clancy guy... his brother had just gone to Texan Lady, Dedmon's bird. Ken had wanted to stick with fighters... and he was a good teacher. Red Sun, perhaps?
And McCoy... LeMay knew he'd need to make McCoy's life miserable a little, yet he also had to reward him for an idea. Something high-visibility, which would look good, but wouldn't exactly be pleasant... he had just the thing.
"Colonel McCoy... I could use a Congressional liaison back in Washington." LeMay said. "I want you for the job. Turn things over to your XO, and get there as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
With that, LeMay and his aide left. McCoy slumped into his chair and moaned.
"Dealing with Congress? I'd rather go to Alaska."