Well here is a pilot recounting what happened during the Germans Operation Bodenplatte.
Maybe recounting it doesn't have much to do with the Corsair, but it does show the dog fighting abilities of the Mustang again'st greater odds and how it could handle low alltitude, turn and burn combat without much of the "Energy" or "Bounce" or "Boom and Zoom" or "Suprise" or "Allied Superior Numbers" factor to gain kills. I'm sorry to be nit picky, but those are the factors which aviation fans say gave the Mustang it's undeserved reputation and not dogfighting. Sure, but it could take one-on-one as well. Maybe the Corsair could have performed better?
http://www.looksmartusa.com/p/articles/mi_qa3897/is_200502/ai_n9477885/pg_5?pi=obc
NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION
by 1st Lt Alden P. Rigby, 487th FS 352nd FG
None of us in the 352nd Fighter Group attempted to have a New Year's Eve celebration at our base in Belgium (called Y-29). It was so dreary, and the living conditions were so bad that it was a struggle to maintain our sanity and keep warm. Living on a forward air base only miles from the frontlines with big artillery barrages going off almost around the clock was excitement enough. But some alcohol would have helped, if we had had any!
When I awoke at 7 a.m. on January 1, 1945, typical European winter weather greeted me-gray clouds and lots of fog. I should have gone back to bed because I knew there wouldn't be a mission for us that day. Instead, I trudged over to the mess hall-not because the food was good, but because it was the only damn place that was warm! After breakfast, I wandered over to the operations tent, and it looked as if Lt. Col. J.C. Meyer was attempting to put a mission together.
Meyer was trying to get permission from 9th Air Force Command for a bunch of us to fly around the Bulge area and look for targets of opportunity. After some strong-arming and promises that would never be fulfilled, he got the go-ahead to have 12 of us go up on a short combat hop. At a briefing, we found out that we'd be going for a ride to look for anything German that moved; this would help the guys on the ground in the Bastogne area. We soon learned that we weren't the only ones who needed help!
I walked back out into the miserable cold through mud, snow and ice and made my way to the P-51Ds parked nearby. The fog still hung around, and I wondered how long we would be stuck on the ground waiting for it to lift. As I neared my plane, the unmistakable sound of many Merlin engines got my juices flowing. I had my own bird and named it "Eleen and Jerry" after my wife and daughter.
My crew had scraped the ice off the Mustang's wings and canopy and had it idling when I arrived. I felt the warmth from the North American heater as I strapped myself in. It was very pleasant inside the cockpit, and it looked as though I had a comfortable ride ahead. Boy, was I wrong!
Our fuselage and wing tanks were completely full of gas and our gun bays loaded with ammo as the 12 of us made it through the mud and fell in line to taxi. I was number four in "White Flight," which was to be the first flight off. Lt. Col. Meyer was "White One," and his wingman was "White Two." "White Three" was my element lead, 1st Lt. Raymond Litige. We had been sitting in our Mustangs for almost half an hour, just burning fuel from the fuselage tank and waiting for the fog to lift. At around 9 a.m. some 9th Air Force P-47s loaded with bombs and drop tanks took off ahead of us to look for German armor. Then it was our turn, and we taxied into position on the runway and waited for clearance from the tower. No one in the tower looked at us: all eyes were turned toward the east where a flak barrage was exploding over the end of the runway because of our defense perimeter guns.
"What the hell is going on?" I thought. "Those guys never shoot at anything." I heard Meyer call the tower and ask the same question. The tower had no idea either. I had enough presence of mind to turn on my gun heater and gun camera, just in case this was real. I looked up and ahead, and the sky was filled with birds-all German!
I picked them out about a mile northeast of the field. They were spread out low and flying fast. The scary thing about it was that, from all my combat experience, I knew they would take out the aircraft on the runway first, and I was in the front row! My row began to move as Meyer poured the coal to his Merlin.
We weren't about to wait for any green light from the tower, and we began to roll as Littge and I fought to control our Mustangs in Meyer's tremendous propwash in front of us. As I stayed glued to Littge's wing, I didn't even notice the 109s and 190s firing at us. We stayed on the runway longer than usual to get some extra airspeed and waited for Meyer to lift off. When we broke ground, I snapped up my wheels, and at 200 feet, an Fw 190 was waiting for us. He got between our flight and was on Littge's tail.
"Littge, break left!" I screamed over the radio transmitter. The 190 followed him in a hard turn, and my gunsight was now filled with German airplane; I pulled the trigger and raked it from the tail through its nose. The 190 poured black smoke from its engine, rolled over and went in from about 500 feet. It was every man for himself as our flight broke up and went on the defensive. I quickly found another Fw 190 below me and latched onto him.
By the time I had dropped the few hundred feet to get behind him, he had put some distance between us. I fired at him using my gunsight, and the darn bulb that illuminated my gunsight burned out! As I closed on the 190, I walked my hits forward and eventually shredded the 190 and brought it down, too. I used way too much ammo on that guy and I began to draw tracers.
I knew how my guns were loaded, and when I saw tracers, it meant that less than 300 rounds were left in my six guns. Every shot had to count if I was going to survive. I quickly decided to head back to the field, which was only 10 miles away, and to land, reload and get back into the fight. I was in deep trouble: no gunsight, high on fuel and low on ammo, and I had only been airborne less than seven minutes. My next problem was dead ahead and in my way-friendly flak bursts.
At 1,000 feet over our field, our antiaircraft gunners couldn't tell the difference between a blue-nose P-51 Mustang and a gray Fw 190, and whatever flew over or nearby was fair game. As flak flew all around me, I dived away and saw a Jug below me in a scrape with a Bf 109. They were in a Lufbury going 'round and 'round, and I watched them for a little while as the P-47 began to get some hits on the 109.
I was a little concerned about that P-47 because he still had his belly tank strapped on, and at 700 feet above the ground, tight turning was not the Jug's forte. I was also worried about jumping in with my own limited ammo supply. My selfish thoughts quickly faded away when the P-47 mushed through a turn and lost the advantage. I had no choice but to help this guy as much as I could.
I zoomed up from beneath and between them and pushed my throttle forward. The 109 was only 50 yards ahead of me and I opened up with a short burst. I saw hits on the left wing and around the engine area, and coolant began to stream from it. At this close range, it was hard to miss with six .50s. I didn't think I had any ammo left, and if I got jumped, I would be down to hand-to-hand combat!
After the 109 crashed below, I became an innocent bystander, just burning off fuel and watching the other fights around me. Slightly southeast of the field I saw one helluva fight between two Mustangs and a Bf 109. This German was good-I mean really good! He was doing split-S's at less than 800 feet off the ground-tight turns, and he even got off some shots at the fellow P-51s who were trying to box him in. I watched this duel for about five minutes until they headed toward me.
It was a running battle as the two Mustangs chased him broadside and into me. When he was 30 yards in front of me, I pulled hard left, pointed my nose at him and squeezed off what was left in my guns. The 109's cockpit completely shattered as he flew through my hail of bullets. Not quite a hail because I didn't think I had that many left! The 109 nosed over and dived straight in. This had been the longest 25 minutes of my life; my trigger finger was sore, and I just hoped I would land safely back at Y-29!
I called the tower for permission to land and was told to follow the P-51 on a three-mile final. I watched him as he neared the runway, and instead of the usual 360-degree overhead break, this guy pulled up over the runway and did a victory roll. The antiaircraft gunners were still on edge, and they opened up on him and followed him right down the runway. Thank God, they missed!
I landed at last, and as I taxied up, my crew chief was waiting for me. He felt badly about the burned-out bulb, but I couldn't have done any better if the gunsight had worked. We checked the gun bays and didn't find any rounds anywhere. All 2,700 rounds had fired. This was truly a miracle at Y-29. Our squadron score was 24 to none-not bad for just a "short hop" over the Belgian countryside with the "Blue-nosed Bastards of Bodney!"
Author's note: the 487th FS was awarded the Distinguished Unit Citation, and individual decorations were presented to Lt. Col. John C. Meyer, DSC; Capt. William T. Whisner, DSC; Lt. Sanford Moats, DSC; Lt. Alden Rigby, Silver Star; Lt. Col. William Y. Halton, Silver Star; Lt. Raymond Litige, Silver Star; and Capt. Henry M. Stewart, Silver Star.
Copyright Air Age Publishing Feb 2005
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