The bombers were still tiny and far beyond range when Franz looked up and saw a sight that made his eyes bulge. Flying straight toward him and his comrades, high above, was a flock of silver fighters. He knew the silhouette—long noses, straight wings, and narrow tails. He had shot one down the prior April. It was the fighter the Germans called “the Flying Cross,” the one the Americans called “the Mustang.” It was the P-51, and there were at least one hundred of them. Franz knew he was in trouble.
