Купить игру Down In Flames

On January sixth I met one of the Luftwaffe old-timers, one of the toughest pilots I’ve ever fought. Near Coblenz the group raced in a dive after fifteen Focke-Wulfs. Gabreski locked onto a Kraut’s tail and the German’s wingman came hard after Gabby. I saw him swinging in, turned hard, and made a head-on pass. The Focke-Wulf jerked up steeply to the right, turning away. I threw the Jug into a roll and went after him. He put his fighter into a wicked turn, but I kept rolling and firing, sticking like glue to his tail. He steepened the climb, but with the new propeller the Thunderbolt never let go. I kept rolling, squeezing out bursts, scoring hits steadily. He turned, twisting violently to lose me. I stayed with him, following every move, still firing, still scoring. Abruptly he flicked over and dove, jerking from side to side to avoid my fire. He was terrific, one of the very best. But the dive was his mistake. Again and again the Germans tried to break out of a tough position by diving. Never did they learn! The moment my nose went down the engine and propeller wound up in a scream and narrowed the gap. I went in close, less than fifty yards, and squeezed out a long burst. The bullets tore into his cockpit and left wing root, flaming a fuel tank. The Focke-Wulf tumbled crazily, end over end, and tore apart. Number Eleven.