I haven't seen a damn airplane, nothing but smoke and flames." "They came in low; our 109s have caught up with them in Cancer sector, course 240, southwest of Ploesti." A low-level attack; the worst possible thing for Josten's fuel-gulping jet. Even if he found them now, he'd only have time for one or two attacks—he couldn't stay airborne more than forty minutes at low altitude. As he turned he caught the silver glint of Lee's formation streaking north. "Achtung. Liberators heading off to the north. Attacking." It was not a pell-mell, hell for leather attack like the old days. The thoroughbred 262 needed careful handling. In a 109 he could have rolled over and pulled back on the stick, letting the airspeed build as fast as possible. Not with the 262—a steep dive could compress the very air, stiffening the controls and perhaps leading to a breakup. Instead he swung around in a wide circle, throttle just slightly retarded, planning to arrive just below and behind the bombers.
