The sky above central Germany was a grey veil of smoke and contrails. It was late April 1945, the Reich collapsing from every direction, yet the bombers still came. That morning, over 250 B-17 Flying Fortresses of the 1st Air Division thundered eastward, their target the industrial remains of Magdeburg and the bridges across the Elbe.

At Brandis airfield, near Leipzig, a handful of pilots gathered for what they knew might be their final flight. Among them was Oberleutnant Hans Keller, one of the first men assigned to fly the new Junkers EF 128. The aircraft was still experimental, barely tested, but desperate times demanded desperate weapons.

Mechanics pulled the wheel chocks away as Keller throttled the HeS 011 turbojet to full power. The compact, swept-wing jet leapt forward down the short grass strip, rattling violently until the wheels lifted free. Within seconds, Keller was climbing into the thick clouds, his speed pushing beyond 900 km/h. Behind him, Feldwebel Karl Brenner in the second prototype V2 followed, the two forming the only flight-ready Notjäger detachment in existence.

Climbing above 6,000 meters, the German pilots sighted the formation: a shimmering armada of B-17s in tight combat boxes, flanked by darting P-51 Mustangs. Radio chatter filled Keller’s ears — warnings from ground control, frantic voices from other units. But he ignored them. His orders were simple: strike the bombers, whatever the cost.

Rolling into a shallow dive, Keller armed the four MK 108 cannons mounted in the EF 128’s nose. The stubby 30 mm rounds were designed to shatter heavy bombers with a single hit. As he closed from the rear quarter of the lead squadron, the sky erupted with defensive fire. Tracers streaked past his canopy, shattering against nothingness, while the roar of the jet drowned out the thunder of machine guns.

At 400 meters he squeezed the trigger. The EF 128 spat fire — four streams of cannon shells converged into the flank of a B-17. The Fortress shuddered, its starboard wing ripped open, engines coughing smoke. Another burst and the tail section of a second bomber exploded in a spray of aluminum. Both aircraft fell out of formation, spiraling downward.

But the attack had drawn the hunters. Three P-51 Mustangs broke from the escort line, diving after Keller. Warnings screamed across his radio — “Achtung, Mustangs! Drei Uhr!” Brenner tried to turn into them, firing a long burst that forced one Mustang to break away, but the other two pressed their attack.

Keller shoved the throttle forward. The HeS 011 screamed as the EF 128 surged ahead. His pursuers followed, but the jet’s speed saved him. Diving into the clouds, Keller disappeared, his contrails slicing into the grey mist. For agonizing seconds, tracers whipped past his cockpit, but then the sky was empty. He leveled off low over the Elbe, heart pounding, fuel warning light blinking.

Behind him, Brenner’s V2 never returned. Witnesses later claimed they saw the second EF 128 go down in flames north of Stendal, swarmed by Mustangs.

Keller landed at Brandis on fumes, the jet skidding across the field as the undercarriage protested the rough landing. Mechanics swarmed the machine, counting the holes and scorch marks across its fuselage. Keller climbed out, exhausted, his leather helmet streaked with sweat.

It was the first and only combat sortie of the Junkers EF 128. Two bombers downed, one prototype lost — and nothing changed the fate of the war. But for a fleeting moment on April 27, 1945, the Luftwaffe’s last experiment had taken wing in battle.