Chapter 547: Black

If you were to choose a color to describe the unyielding German spirit, many people, without a second thought, would certainly choose black. The black Iron Cross and the black SS uniforms would instantly make one remember the cold, hard Germany.

Iron is black, so Germany uses the Iron Cross as the totem of its faith, as the repository of its spirit. That black, which seems to absorb all light, is both fascinating and exceptionally solemn.

Hartmann’s plane had a black nose, a stark contrast to the gray camouflage on the fuselage. His entire nose was black. The tips of the black propeller were embellished with yellow, and the edge of the black nose was outlined in the shape of a tulip, a pattern he personally liked.

But at this very moment, in the eyes of the Soviet pilots, that black-nosed German plane was no different from the god of death. It easily shot down its opponents’ aircraft, rampaged through encirclements and at low altitudes, and showed not the slightest regard for the numerically superior Soviet planes.

He had already shot down seven aircraft, a veritable god of war in the sky. It had to be known that these P-40 fighters were the elite, hand-picked from among the Soviet pilots. Now they were being kneaded and squeezed like dough, ravaged at will by their opponent.

Even a clay bodhisattva has a bit of a temper, let alone a group of soldiers who pride themselves on their ferocity and fighting spirit day in and day out. These Soviet pilots were also seeing red. They felt that if they did not shoot down this German plane today, it would be a disgrace to their mission. Everyone was out here fighting for their motherland. If you alone take so many lives, what are the others supposed to fight with?

Just as they once again centered the crosshairs of their sights on the fuselage of the Ta-152 piloted by Hartmann, they even had a desperate thought—this plane won’t suddenly change its trajectory again and disappear from our sight, will it? How many times has this been? Can’t this fighter just fly in a straight line and let us shoot it down?

In fact, the Soviet pilots themselves were not just flying in a straight line. It was just that their opponent was simply too strong, leaving them with no ability to shake off the entanglement of that black god of death. It is common for one pilot to have the flying skills to suppress an opponent, but if this pilot is also flying a fighter whose performance surpasses the opponent’s, isn’t that even more despairing?

This black German fighter once again rocked its wings, changing its flight state. It circled upwards like a goshawk, performing an unpredictable aerial display. But it was not performing a futile, useless act, but was using a series of complex maneuvers to shake off its opponents, widen the distance between them, and also the altitude gap.

Anyone who has fought against German pilots knows that once the opponent has pulled away and regained altitude, the advantage is once again on the German side. At the same time, the increase in altitude and the widening of the distance also indicated that another round of the German fighter’s attack was about to begin.

The four Soviet fighters immediately pulled away a short distance, then continued to circle, waiting for the German plane’s incursion. They had decided to settle the score on the next pass, to shoot down this detestable opponent who had been toying with them for almost half an hour in one fell swoop.

In the cramped cockpit, Hartmann gently caressed the control stick, feeling the feedback from the handle with his fingertips. He did not hesitate, because although he seemed a bit crazed at this moment, his heart was a sea of calm. What he had to do now was very simple: just shoot down those opponents.

In the clouds, he found an opportunity. In fact, the Soviet fighter formation was very well maintained, but in this state, Hartmann’s eyes saw opportunities everywhere. The once seemingly impenetrable Soviet formation was now like a sieve, full of holes. He smiled slightly and began the Ta-152’s specialty: a high-speed dive.

The pistons inside the engine, pushed by the exploding fuel, began to pump more and more violently, like a series of miniature cannons arranged in parallel, burning and roaring under the engine cowling. They worked in unison to turn the engine, which in turn spun the propeller at the nose, tearing at the surrounding air.

This was the fastest piston fighter, the strongest fighter in the world right now, and the most threatening weapon in the hands of the entire German Air Force. The target was rapidly approaching. Hartmann could already see the opponent’s dark gun barrels, but he was in no hurry to open fire, because he had his own idea.

Traditionally, the German Air Force’s preferred attack strategy was to use their weapon caliber advantage to intimidate the opponent from a distance, and then, after the opponent’s formation was in disarray, to close in for the attack. This theory had been proven in actual combat to be a very effective tactic, bringing countless victories and honors to the German fighter pilots.

However, Hartmann felt that there was no need for him to do so, because he was confident that he could seize an opportunity using his superb flying skills. There was no need to waste his limited ammunition. He found that he preferred to attack directly at close range, using short bursts of fire to achieve the most efficient attack.

So he charged once more, like a gladiator, like a knight on an ancient battlefield, charging towards his opponent with overwhelming momentum. At the closest moment, he would thrust out his most deadly lance, cut down the enemy before him, and use the enemy’s life to achieve his own immortal glory.

In the terrified eyes of the Soviet Air Force pilot, his plane was like a fierce tiger pouncing on its prey, like a black dragon soaring in the sky and diving down. At this moment, this German plane was like the black eagle on the German national emblem, with an air of untamable arrogance, looking down on all living beings.

After one dive, another Soviet fighter disintegrated and exploded in mid-air. Another pilot lost his life without even having the chance to bail out and open his parachute. Another miracle was born here.

Hartmann piloted his plane, circled around, and pointed his nose at the Soviet planes again. At this moment, the Soviet pilots had already lost their fighting spirit, their momentum, and even the courage to face Hartmann head-on. They deliberately avoided the nose of the German plane opposite them, as if being targeted by it was a very terrible thing.

As Hartmann approached, the opponent finally collapsed in despair. A Soviet plane broke formation and began to fly into the distance. Hartmann did not know where that Soviet plane was trying to go. He just made a slight adjustment and pointed his nose at another Soviet plane.

He continued to close in, continued to feel the subtle pleasure brought by the slight vibration of the fuselage and the roar of the machinery. At this time, there were no F1 racing cars, nor were there any popular “men’s sports.” But there were more exciting things for men to vent the wildness and brutality in their hearts. This was not a competition, not a simple contest. Everyone was fighting for their lives here. The one who survived was the strongest man—without a doubt!

The cannon roared again, drowning out the roar of the engine. As Hartmann fired, he made an emergency pull-up, avoiding the flames of the exploding Soviet fighter. The violent explosion even caused some parts to hit Hartmann’s fuselage. He could feel the slightest discordant sound on his plane’s body, as if this plane were an extension of his own.

This was the ninth fighter he had shot down today. In less than 40 minutes of intense air combat, he had shot down nine enemy aircraft, almost turning his kill count from zero to double digits in one go. The squadron commander, high above, could hardly believe his eyes. He even felt that he might be dreaming.

He reached out and pinched his thigh. Only then did he know that he was not in a dream. The plane that was chasing the last Soviet fighter on the battlefield did exist, and it was indeed being piloted by that Hartmann.

Just as the squadron commander had confirmed that he was not in a dream, an even more incredible thing suddenly appeared before his eyes. The Soviet plane, which had been on Hartmann’s tail, had, before Hartmann could even lock on and open fire, made a move that made one unsure whether to laugh or cry.

The pilot of that Soviet fighter had actually reached out, opened his cockpit canopy, and then jumped out of his plane. This Soviet pilot, who had been scared out of his wits, did not even dare to try to shake Hartmann off his tail but had directly chosen the humiliating option of bailing out to leave this sky that was destined to be remembered by history.

“…” The squadron commander at this time did not know what to say. This was the first time he had seen an enemy pilot bail out prematurely out of sheer terror, and it was also the first time he believed that someone could shoot down an enemy plane without using bullets.

“Hartmann calling lead! Red 1, this is Black 1, calling!” Hartmann’s slightly immature voice suddenly came through the headset. The squadron commander’s chaotic thoughts finally gathered. “I hear you. This is Red 1. Hartmann… you… what is it…”

“Does this plane count as my kill?” Hartmann asked with some trepidation. If anyone had heard his voice at this moment, they would never have associated it with the fighter that had just fought one against ten in the sky. At this moment, Hartmann’s voice was like that of a child, a child asking if others were satisfied with his work.

“It counts…” the squadron commander replied, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He really wanted to return to base and have a good think about the incredible things that had happened today. Every moment of Hartmann’s fighter’s performance was replaying in his mind, and his heart simply could not calm down.

Published: 2025-09-04T04:10:50.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2025-12-22T14:29:43.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c547-black-138089664

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