At this very moment, at an airport near Yarvik, the pilots of the 4th Assault Regiment were cramming into the regimental headquarters tent, listening to Delachenko Grigoyevich giving a mission brief.
“As you have seen, the General provided us with coordinates for an air raid, but since we’ve just arrived here, we’re not familiar with the surrounding landmarks and it’s uncertain whether we can reach the coordinates successfully. So, we have to slightly modify the General’s overly specific orders.”
Delachenko drew something resembling a water tower on the blackboard: “This is the airport windsock tower, with a wind direction flag you all can see. The coordinates are in this direction from the windsock tower. After takeoff, you’ll fly by the windsock tower, then head in this direction. In theory, as long as there are no significant deviations, you should definitely be able to find the target mentioned by the General.”
Immediately, a pilot quipped, “Is it even possible not to have significant deviations?”
Delachenko shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe you guys will have better luck today? Anyway, after takeoff, pass by the windsock tower, then turn towards this heading.”
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Delachenko wrote three digits on the blackboard, representing the heading.
“Then, bomb whatever you see, and if you encounter enemy planes, shoot them down. Remember, the new planes are not Yak-1s; don’t get entangled at low altitudes. Fly high, get in and out quickly. Descend to four thousand meters when going in, and at least three thousand when coming back. Leave the low altitude to the Allied Forces’ Yak-1s.”
Having finished, Delachenko threw the chalk into the chalk box and shouted, “Take off!”
The pilots immediately stood up.
Typically, Allied Pilots at this time would be holding a clipboard plastered with mission briefs, but Ant pilots don’t bother with such fineries; they simply fold the map, stuff it in their pocket, take a swig of vodka from their flask, and then strut out of the tent with heads held high.
Outside, the ground crew had already loaded the bombs onto the planes and the engines were running as they listened to the sound—a quick way to diagnose the condition of the engine. An experienced ground crew member could tell if there was any dust left uncleared in the engine just by the sound.
Delachenko approached his own plane with the tactical number 01 (the prefix 4 denoting the regiment number) and asked the head of the ground crew, “How is it?”
The leader closed the fuel cap, gave a thumbs-up: “Excellent! This isn’t one of our engines that’s always got problems. I bet this thing could fly for another 500 hours at least!”
Ant had acquired production rights for engines from Prosen and the Federation a long time ago, but the quality of engines produced by Ant itself was hit and miss, entirely dependent on the mood of the factory workers on that day. There were engines that could run for 4000 hours without a hitch, and others that needed major repairs after just 200 hours.
However, the engines of the 4th Assault Regiment were all original Federation engines, and their quality was unquestionable.
Delachenko climbed up onto the wing of his plane and then wriggled into the cockpit. He turned his head towards the team leader and said, “Then I’m taking off.”
The team leader picked up the wheel chock and stepped back a few paces, “Off you go!”
At that, Delachenko throttled up—the engine revving was not strong enough to move the plane with two “big potatoes” attached just yet.
The plane slowly gathered speed, gliding towards the runway.
Delachenko: “Control tower, control tower, 4th Regiment number 1 ready to take off.”
The tower replied, “Runway clear, ground wind speed 3 knots, visibility good, you are clear for takeoff.”
While talking, Delachenko’s plane slid onto the runway. He braked at the takeoff line, checked all the instruments, and took one more look at the wind direction flag on the windsock tower. Only then did he release the brakes and pushed the throttle to the max.
The P47, laden with bombs, roared forward.
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The Ant Air Force airport was close to the battlefield, but they didn’t have a tradition of close air support on standby, so they would take off from the airport after receiving intelligence reports.
The Prosen Air Force, on the other hand, liked to hover over the battlefield for extended periods, ready to provide close support immediately upon ground calls.
However, different planes carried different amounts of fuel, so their loiter time over the battlefield differed. Stuka dive-bombers would generally leave quickly to return to the airbase, while tactical bombers like the Do 215 would remain for a longer period.
A squadron of four Do 215s received a radio request from the Busse combat group, immediately starting their search for General Rokossovsky, who was personally conducting forward enemy reconnaissance.
They quickly spotted the dust clouds raised by a wildly speeding car.
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Wang Zhong was the first to hear the sound. He immediately adjusted his view and saw a squadron of four Do 215s heading straight for them.
“Prepare for anti-aircraft fire!” Wang Zhong shouted aloud.
All seven Willys Jeeps were armed with M2 machine guns, which could at least disrupt the enemy’s attack somewhat.
Wang Zhong himself grabbed the machine gun on his own Willys Jeep, swiveling the barrel to aim—while the others were still trying to discern the enemy planes’ approach direction by sound alone, he was already pointing directly towards them.
“Driver, follow my command, we’re going to dodge the enemy by maneuvering.”
No matter how small a plane’s turning radius might be, it was still over a hundred meters, simply because of speed constraints. Therefore, when cars and aircraft played a cat-and-mouse game, it wasn’t the speed that mattered, but the agility.
Thus when Xun Zong and Stuka engaged in a race, it actually boiled down to drifting skills. Xun Zong may not drive fast, but he was certainly adept at handling five consecutive hairpin turns, and perhaps didn’t even need to use the gutter run technique to outperform Takumi Fujiwara.
As Wang Zhong calibrated his own strafing trajectory with an external aim widget, he watched the enemy planes’ approach and, gauging that the enemy could no longer make minute adjustments, he shouted loudly, “Turn left! Give it some gas!”
The Willys Jeep sharply turned left, nearly throwing Wang Zhong off, but he was clinging to the machine gun.
Seeing this, the rest of the convoy followed Wang Zhong’s turn. However, the dust raised by the fourth vehicle clouded their view, preventing them from noticing that the previous car had turned, leading the fourth Jeep to continue along its original path at high speed.
After a moment of hesitation, the driver of the fifth vehicle followed the third, ignoring the fourth.
The enemy aircraft strafed the ground, creating two transient rows of “fences” that caught up with the fourth vehicle still racing along its original path.
The guards in the vehicle were veterans; seeing that they were about to be hit, they jumped out immediately, leaving only the machine gunner and the driver.
The machine gunner was hit instantly, and the bullets that passed through his body struck the driver as well.
Thus, the vehicle swerved to the side and overturned on the ground.
Wang Zhong looked down from above at the two survivors, who appeared injured and were in obvious pain on the ground. However, the tall wheat fields conveniently concealed them. They could recover them once the enemy aircraft left.
He refocused his view and then noticed that the enemy aircraft had turned.
Wang Zhong immediately issued a command based on the enemy’s circling direction, “Turn right.”
At that moment, Wang Zhong felt as if he were navigating a battleship in the ocean, combating dive bombers with their air raids, constantly positioning the ship perpendicular to the enemy’s attack path to ensure the smallest possible target area.
The four enemy aircraft charged again.
Because of the circling, the speed of the enemy aircraft had noticeably decreased, so they had more leeway to adjust their course, launching more accurate attacks.
Wang Zhong gave the order to turn at almost the same timing as before, but the last vehicle was still hit by the enemy’s fire. The machine gunner and the co-pilot were killed instantly. However, the driver was unharmed and caught up with the convoy. In the back of the truck, the surviving soldier shoved aside his fallen comrades’ bodies and began to fire at the passing enemy aircraft with the machine gun.
Regrettably, in this dynamic, mobile state, and also attempting a lateral shot at the enemy aircraft, the firepower of an M2 “Big Mama” simply wasn’t enough.
Wang Zhong felt that one or two shots must have hit, but for a twin-engine tactical bomber of that size, a shot not hitting a critical spot was practically like missing the target altogether.
After the second attack, the enemy aircraft turned around once more.
Suddenly, Wang Zhong felt this shouldn’t continue.
Four had already been sacrificed, and two were severely injured.
The enemy was so bent on attacking his convoy that surely they were targeting him specifically.
Moreover, if he were alone, it would actually be more difficult for the enemy to hit him, especially since he had the upper hand with the ability to actively dodge.
What to do at this time was obvious.
If it were the Wang Zhong who had just crossed over, he definitely would not have made such a choice. Back then, he was an ordinary person from a peaceful society, who subscribed to the philosophy of “Don’t drag others down with you.”
But now he was a warrior returned from hell.
So he let go of the machine gun’s grip and said to Vasily, “Take over!”
Without a word, Vasily took over the machine gun.
Wang Zhong whistled, and Bucephalus, who had been running alongside the jeep, immediately speeded up and ran abreast with the racing vehicle!
Wang Zhong leaped onto the steed, then pointed at the red flag, “Give it to me!”
Grigori patted Vasily on the shoulder, “I’ve got this! You go give the boss the flag!”
Five seconds later, Vasily detached the red flag and threw it to Wang Zhong.
Wang Zhong almost didn’t catch it and cursed, hastening to secure the flag that was slipping from his grasp, then said to Bucephalus, “Back to the convoy, now!”
The stallion immediately turned around, making a nearly right-angled turn.
Wang Zhong, holding the red flag aloft, galloped across the grassland, keeping an eye on the enemy aircraft’s flight path in the sky.
The enemy aircraft split into two groups: two chased the convoy, while the other two headed straight for Wang Zhong!
Wang Zhong drew the pistol that had ended the lives of two generals and had been personally cleaned by Belinsky, aiming it with one hand at the enemy aircraft.
The enemy began strafing!
Without waiting for Wang Zhong’s command, Bucephalus swiftly turned, miraculously avoiding the strafing barrage.
Wang Zhong opened fire at the seemingly close enemy aircraft.
Of course, “close” was just an illusion. In reality, the aircraft must have been over a hundred meters from the ground, making it impossible to hit with a pistol.
In a split second, tracer bullets poured down from the sky, piercing through the wing of 215 and subsequently tearing it apart.
The timing was so coincidental, it was as if Wang Zhong’s pistol had shot off 215’s wing!
The P47, having completed its attack, pulled up with all its might, while its wingman began shooting at 215’s wingman.
The two 215s pursuing Wang Zhong trailed thick smoke as they plunged towards the ground.
Wang Zhong, with one hand holding the red flag and the other waving his pistol, cheered for the swiftly ascending P47.
Switching to a bird’s-eye view, it could be seen that the 215 chasing the convoy also gave up their attack and fled towards the Prosen airport, but another P47 had already taken an attack position and began its dive.
The 215s had circled so many times that their speed was very slow. In dogfighting, lack of speed was tantamount to being a sitting duck, whether it’s a fighter or a bomber.
The two “dive bombers,” still carrying bombs, easily hit their targets, and then began pulling up while still bearing their payloads.
The convoy also stopped, cheering for the departing fighter planes soaring into the sky.
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Delachenko heard over the radio his wingman asking, “What’s with this squad on the ground? How did they turn enough times to make the enemy’s 215 lose all its speed? How many circles was that?”
Delachenko responded, “Don’t know, but it couldn’t be General Rokossovsky’s reconnaissance team, could it? Focus, look for the enemy tanks! They should be nearby!”