Chapter 1129: A Bloody Exchange

On one hand, there was the revitalized Chinese Air Force. On the other, the Japanese Army Air Force (JAAF), swearing revenge. The animosity between the two sides was thick. After completing their preparations, the Japanese transferred several genuine pilots from the front lines and, once again, escorted over a dozen bombers to launch an attack on the Wuhan region.

To lure the Chinese Air Force into scrambling, the JAAF again used a small formation instead of a massive air raid with hundreds of aircraft. However, just to be safe, this time Japan dispatched only 15 bombers but used a full 15 Army Ki-43 fighters as escorts.

This time, Lieutenant Colonel Ozawa personally took to the air, piloting a Ki-43. He accompanied the Army’s slow and old-fashioned “Donryu” Rikkō (land-based attack bombers) on their mighty push toward Wuhan. The Japanese term Rikkō means ‘land-based bomber’—correspondingly, the Navy’s bombers are called Kanbaku (carrier-based bombers). The distinction is clear and obvious.

“Grandpa, Grandpa! The Jap planes! The Jap planes are here!” A young boy in a sleeveless shirt burst into the house. As soon as the Japanese aircraft crossed the front line, they were spotted by local civilians organized for air defense spotting. The old man, who had been lying on the kang (heated brick bed), scrambled to his feet, ran into the courtyard, and lit a neatly stacked pyre of firewood.

It was precisely with this “backward” air defense system that China’s early warning network proved surprisingly more reliable than radar. Some of the civilian spotters, who regularly counted Japanese planes, could even distinguish the number of attacking aircraft at night just by the sound of their engines. While it couldn’t match the speed of radar, this was the early warning system the Chinese Air Force relied upon for its very survival.

“Beacon fire!” A Chinese soldier standing on a high ridge saw the beacons being lit one after another in the distance. He cranked the air raid siren, its shrill wail echoing across the sky. On the airfield, plane after plane began to scramble, their engines roaring to life. Wang Guangfu climbed into his aircraft and gave his wingman the hand signal for takeoff.

An air battle—an ambush—was about to erupt. The Chinese side scrambled 4 ME-109C fighters, followed by 10 P-40 fighters. The aircraft roared, splitting into high and low waves as they climbed to intercept the invading Japanese formation. They flew without hesitation, fighting to protect their nation’s airspace.

Flying through the clouds, Wang Guangfu soon spotted the dense Japanese formation. Ten Ki-43 fighters were flying close escort on the bombers’ flanks. He frowned. His experience told him this formation was odd. He warned his teammates over the radio to be extra careful: “Something’s not right. The Japanese haven’t flown close escort in a long time!”

Unlike Japanese pilots, Chinese pilots were considered more precious than their aircraft. For a long time, Chinese forces had preferred to endure Japanese bombings rather than scramble their planes for a war of attrition they couldn’t win. This led the JAAF to believe they had eliminated the Chinese Air Force, and they subsequently transferred large numbers of pilots to the Pacific theater.

By the time Japan’s pilot pool was depleted, leaving only rookies, Chinese aircraft reappeared in the skies. The men flying the repaired ME-109Cs and the American-supplied P-40s were veterans of the Battle of Shanghai. They were far more experienced and familiar with air combat than the new Japanese pilots. Naturally, the Chinese pilots had the advantage and could even achieve local superiority.

Heeding Wang Guangfu’s warning, the 4 ME-109Cs that first reached the intercept altitude decided to hold off. They waited for the 10 P-40s to catch up before launching a combined attack. The seconds ticked by. The dogfight between 14 Chinese and 15 Japanese fighters erupted abruptly.

By the time the P-40s engaged, Lieutenant Colonel Ozawa realized he had, after all, underestimated the strength of the Chinese Air Force. He had assumed the Chinese had only 10 or so flyable fighters. But now, 10 Chinese planes were engaging in front of him, and he still hadn’t seen the deadly ME-109Cs.

He knew the 10 Ki-43s flying close escort for the Donryu bombers had almost no real combat ability; their pilots were all rookies with no experience. The only ones who really could fight were his own “hunter-killer” flight of 5 veterans, flying top cover. Clearly, if he didn’t dive down to help, the Japanese were about to suffer another defeat.

“‘Baka!’ (Damn it!)” Gritting his teeth, Lieutenant Colonel Ozawa finally decided to dive and deliver a fatal blow. “Follow me! We will shoot down these Shina-jin (Chinese) fighters! Long live the Great Japanese Empire! Long live His Majesty the Emperor!”

He shoved his control stick forward, putting his plane into a dive. The Japanese pilots behind him followed his command, hurtling down toward the Chinese P-40s. The roar of his engine filled his ears as he began to select which Chinese plane to shoot down.

The Chinese P-40 formation, which had initiated the attack, clearly didn’t see the danger from above. They were still mauling the Japanese escort flight, and had already set one of the bombers to smoking. The Japanese rookie pilots had very limited combat experience and could only perform a few predictable evasive maneuvers, making it easy for the Chinese pilots to find an opening.

Soon, a Ki-43 was hit by a Chinese P-40. It began to trail smoke and descend. A Chinese pilot relentlessly dove after it for the kill. But at that moment, a warning screamed in the P-40 pilot’s headset: “Jap planes! They’re diving! Break! Break! Li…”

Before the warning could even finish, the P-40 piloted by the airman named Li had its wing torn off by cannon fire. The Japanese fighters that had just joined the furball were clearly on another level. In a single pass, two Chinese fighters were trailing thick smoke and plummeting toward the ground.

Wang Guangfu, piloting his ME-109C, also dived, latching onto the tail of the last Japanese fighter in the dive. The enemy pilot had clearly spotted the ME-109Cs plunging from the clouds. He began to roll, trying to use a high-speed turn to shake the heavier ME-109C.

But Wang Guangfu didn’t hesitate, rolling right along with his opponent, perfectly matching the high-G maneuver. The G-forces made Wang Guangfu’s vision blur, but he fought through the discomfort, struggling to pull his nose onto the enemy, who was already in range.

He focused his aim, then squeezed the trigger. The trajectory of the ME-109C’s nose-mounted cannon was perfect. Tracers etched a graceful arc through the sky, punching one hole after another into the Japanese plane’s wing. Wang Guangfu’s fighter then overshot, and his angle made him lose sight of the plane he had hit.

“Captain! Beautiful shot! You got him! You got him!” his wingman shouted gleefully over the radio. But he had no more time to celebrate. Lieutenant Colonel Ozawa’s fighter had latched onto the wingman’s tail and was raking the seemingly easier target with machine-gun fire.

Wang Guangfu pulled his fighter up, yanking it around onto his wingman’s flight path to aim at Ozawa’s fighter. But his opponent, after damaging his target, immediately broke off and, very cunningly, began to climb back into the clouds. Wang Guangfu watched his wingman bail out of the burning plane. He had no choice but to turn his nose, lock onto another nimble Japanese fighter, and set up an ambush from its flank.

He quickly scored his second victory of the day. The Japanese plane, busy dogfighting with a Chinese P-40, never saw the danger coming. Wang Guangfu raked it from end to end. The pilot, his face covered in blood, slumped over his instrument panel. The plane instantly fell out of control and plunged toward the earth.

Before Wang Guangfu could even savor his two victories, Lieutenant Colonel Ozawa, having regained his altitude in the clouds, came diving back down. He had climbed precisely to use his speed to re-enter the fray. And he had found his target: Wang Guangfu’s ME-109C.

He laid the crosshairs of his gunsight on Wang Guangfu’s fighter and, with a vicious smile, squeezed the firing trigger. His nose guns spat fire. Tracers streamed toward Wang Guangfu, but just as they were about to hit, Wang’s plane snapped into a hard right bank, dodging the worst of the volley.

The two planes flashed past each other. A bullet had punched a hole in Wang Guangfu’s canopy, and his wing was riddled. He glanced at his bleeding shoulder, then fought to bring his damaged plane back to a stable flight. By this time, two P-40s had shot down two other Japanese Ki-43s. The sky was filled with the smoke trails of falling aircraft—both Chinese and Japanese. Both sides, it seemed, had paid a price they could not afford, losing irreplaceable pilots and aircraft that had been so painstakingly assembled.

Ozawa banked his plane in a tight circle and quickly found Wang Guangfu’s damaged aircraft. He didn’t know what responsibility he would ultimately bear for this operation. All he could think about now was shooting down his opponent and redeeming himself from the humiliation.

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