Using Milch’s list, however, Göring did not realize that one fighter prototype that had not been expected had made the trip from the experimental base at Rechlin after all, so there was an extra plane in the line and the rest had all moved forward one place. Completely unaware of this change, Göring now started introducing medium bombers as single-engine fighters, and fighters as bombers. Hitler, unimpressed, swiftly put him right. Soon after, they reached the new Me262 jet, at which point Hitler asked whether it could carry bombs. Before Milch could intervene, Professor Messerschmitt stepped forward and told him yes, it could carry either one 1,000kg bomb or two 500kg. ‘This at last is the aircraft I have been demanding for years!’ the Führer replied. ‘Here it is – but nobody recognized it!’ Although Göring had earlier argued vociferously that an aircraft such as the Me262 was a fighter and not a bomber, neither he nor Milch offered a single objection to this pronouncement. Once again, it looked as though Hitler’s absurd insistence on aggression and further bombing would trump sound military logic.
The display at Insterburg had also included new bombers, rockets and flying bombs. Hitler called these last ‘vengeance weapons’, but Allied attacks had taken their toll – the raid on Peenemünde had lost them three weeks’ development, while the raid on Kassel had forced the complete evacuation of the Fieseler works. Both rocket and flying-bomb projects were sucking up increasing resources, which could then not be used on aircraft production. Mass production of flying bombs still required the creation of a further seven hundred machine tools, one of the most time-consuming and resource-heavy parts of the production process.
Meanwhile, Adolf Galland was deeply frustrated that his current fighter aircraft were increasingly lagging behind those of the Allies. This had led to a spectacular clash with Göring at Burg Veldenstein, near Nuremberg, another of the Reichsmarschall’s properties. Pacing up and down in the courtyard of this imposing castle, Göring once again berated Galland for the perceived failures of the fighter arm. Although used to this, Galland rarely took these reproaches lying down. What was needed, he told Göring, was better aircraft and better training – then they might get somewhere. Göring brushed this aside and told him Hitler wanted the twin-engine fighters equipped for a 50mm cannon. The Führer had reasoned that it would pack a much bigger punch and could be fired from greater distances. Large-calibre, long-distance cannons would be a very effective way of improving the performance of the fighter arm. And in this, Göring told Galland, he was in agreement with the Führer.
Galland, however, pointed out that the proposed KWK 5 cannon was incredibly heavy, causing drag and reducing the speed of the aircraft, which was already inferior. Also, it could hold only fifteen shells, was prone to jamming and was most certainly not effective at 500 yards, let alone the 3,000 Hitler had been claiming. The discussion grew increasingly heated until Göring was shouting at Galland. Eventually, the General der Flieger offered his resignation, which Göring accepted.
Meanwhile, Galland’s fighter pilots continued to take off and meet whatever incoming American missions were launched into the bleak winter weather. II/JG11, which included Heinz Knoke’s 5 Staffel, was now based at Plantlünne, south-west of Bremen. On 18 November, he led his Staffel against another American raid, but they failed to make an interception and, when it was time to turn for home, the weather had closed in and the light began to fade. Worrying they wouldn’t make it back to base, Knoke radioed to the airfield of St-Trond in Belgium instead. Below, Holland and Belgium lay covered in snow after some heavy blizzards, and Knoke was concerned about icing: it could badly affect the weight of the aircraft as well as the controls. He could feel his breath freezing on the inside of his oxygen mask.
They headed north in close formation, but Unteroffizier Erich Führmann, who had been posted to his squadron several months earlier, was struggling and lagging behind. He was, he told Knoke over his radio, having engine trouble. They were all aware that in these murky conditions it was better to bail out than risk complete engine failure, but Führmann soldiered on. Knoke managed to bring the rest of the Staffel down to St-Trond through a welcome gap in the cloud, but Führmann was some way behind and by the time he finally touched down, it had begun snowing. The engine trouble was quickly resolved and an hour later he joined Knoke and the rest of the pilots as they huddled in a crew hut drinking hot rum punch and playing cards. Although he was invited to join the game, Führmann declined. As always, he was short of cash. One of the others lent him some and then something unprecedented happened: he began winning, over and over. Everyone was stunned. Hours passed and the room became heavy with cigarette smoke, the floor littered with empty bottles. Finally, they called it a night and Führmann coolly placed six 100-mark notes in his battered old wallet.
At midday the following day, they set off for home, the weather still overcast and cold. All made it back safely, except Führmann, who had once again been suffering with engine trouble. This time, however, he did not show up. Knoke reported him missing, increasingly worried. Darkness fell and then a call came through: an Me109 had crashed near Lütjenholm; a peat farmer had found the wreckage of wings and the tail, but the fuselage and cockpit, with the pilot still inside, had sunk into the marsh. The salvage crew recovered bits of uniform and a wallet filled with six 100-mark notes. ‘The comrades stare at me, frozen,’ noted Knoke.3 ‘I have a feeling that in future something will always be missing.’
A few days later, on 23 November, Knoke learned that Hauptmann Werner Dolenga had been killed in a crash too. On the wall in the crew room, they hung his picture alongside those of the others who had gone. Beneath each was their name, rank and date of death. Some had humorous dedications scribbled on them. Wolny, Steiger, Kolbe, Gerrard, Kramer, Dölling, Killian, Führmann, Dolenga … All from one Staffel, which usually amounted to just nine men.
Knoke wondered who would be next, while another of the pilots, Methuselah Barran, just sat in a chair staring at the picture of Führmann; the two had been inseparable friends. ‘He cannot get over his death,’ jotted Knoke in his diary.4 ‘He does not make a fuss or complain; but seems to find an outlet for his grief in quiet, bitter cursing that of all people it would have to be Führmann who went down in the northern moors.’
Knoke himself was struggling to make sense of what was happening to them. He was passionately addicted to the life of the fighter pilot – the thrill of flying his 109 and the adrenalin-fuelled excitement of combat flying, and the pride. He remained fiercely patriotic and loved the ethos of the fighter arm: there was, he believed, a code of chivalry that still existed in the battles that took place high above the clouds, while the prospect of death added to the intensity of life. ‘We regard life as a jug of delicious Rhine wine,’ he wrote, ‘intoxicated by the sense of compelling urgency to savour every last drop while we can, draining it to the dregs in an atmosphere of companionship.’5 He tried not to think of his lost comrades as dead but, rather, just gone away.
In the crew room, Jonny Fest spoke up. ‘Fellows, do you not think they would die laughing at the sight of our gloomy faces down here? You can bet that old scoundrel Führmann is just waiting for the next one to join him to start another card game.’6
Barran was not convinced. ‘It makes me sick,’ he said.7 He had written ‘Swearing is the laxative which purges the soul’ under his own portrait. ‘In case it, too,’ added Knoke, ‘has to join the others on the wall.’
One pilot who would have agreed wholeheartedly with Barran was Lieutenant-Colonel Don Blakeslee, who was well known for his liberal use of profanities. On 1 December 1943, he landed in his P-47 at Boxted in Essex, there to teach the greenhorns of the 354th Fighter Group – newly arrived with their shiny P-51Bs – a thing or two about combat flying and to lead them on their first-ever combat sortie. Blakeslee had turned twenty-six just a couple of months earlier and, while delighted to be given the opportunity to fly the new P-51B, he was equally frustrated that this bunch of Johnny-come-lately greenhorns had been given th
is stunning new aircraft rather than his veterans at the 4th Fighter Group.
Certainly, Dick Turner and his fellows were impressed to see Blakeslee that first December morning, which, for a change, was bright and sunny. Wasting no time, as was his way, Blakeslee got them all airborne for a training flight in which initially he merely observed them. That afternoon, before they were due to take off for their first combat mission, he had them all in the briefing room. Turner was struck by his presence and his steely, penetrating pale eyes. ‘He was all business,’ wrote Turner, ‘and the business was killing.8 In the briefing, he let us know that he was a master of his craft, and that he would brook nothing less than perfection from those who flew with him.’ He underlined the vital importance of radio and air discipline and left Turner wondering whether it was scarier to meet the Germans or displease Colonel Don Blakeslee. He also talked about tactics: the importance of speed and height, which gave the attacker such an advantage, and one it was vital to maintain. One piece of advice that particularly struck Turner was to never, ever turn away from a head-on attack. There was a short silence after this proclamation, until one of the young pilots tentatively asked what would happen if a German pilot proved every bit as bull-headed? Blakeslee smiled, then fixed his eyes on the pilot. ‘In that case, son,’ he said, ‘you’ll have earned your extra flight and pay.’9
Briefing over, they headed to their waiting Mustangs. Turner clambered in, parachute pack strapped on, then clipped his harness and attached his radio and oxygen leads. Cockpit checks followed: trimming tabs 5 degrees back, rudder 5 degrees right and aileron neutral. Propeller: speed control fully forward. Fuel: check content of tanks. Flaps: up. Supercharger: auto. Radiator shutter: automatic. Oil cooler shutter: automatic. RI compass: on. Then it was time to fire up the Merlin, which ticked over then fired, brief flames spurting from the exhaust tabs before the propeller whirred into life. Airframe shaking, engine roaring, he taxied forward towards the assembly area at the end of the runway. Turner was leading his flight of four, with Bob Klopotek on his wing. The weather had turned – blue skies gone, with a new front sweeping in, so that Turner couldn’t see the end of the runway through the mist. That meant they would be on instruments the moment they were airborne. ‘Every pilot who took off,’ noted Turner, ‘would feel the cold play of fear, for no one took off blind in a fighter without fear unless he was too stupid and unimaginative to recognize the possible dangers involved.’10
Suddenly it was Turner’s and Klopotek’s turn. A thousand feet down the runway, they were airborne, Turner trimming up, then gingerly raising the nose and beginning a gentle turn, praying they would not crash into someone else. As he concentrated hard on the instrument panel in front of him, they continued to climb for what seemed like an eternity. He was feeling increasingly tense, but just at the point where he felt he could stand the suspense no longer, suddenly they broke into the clear at some 12,000 feet to find others already circling and waiting to form up. In what seemed like a miracle to Turner, everyone made it safely up through the soup and then, in brilliant sunshine and with deep blue skies above them, they headed across the Channel towards Holland, each squadron at a different height and in staggered line abreast. Each squadron split into four flights of four: red, blue, white and green. Red was the squadron leader, and green was the flexible group designed to ward off any potential enemy attack before rendezvous with the bombers, although all pilots were expected to keep a sharp look out at all times.
Turner made sure he kept his eyes peeled, swivelling his head constantly, but there was no sign of the enemy out there and gradually he began to feel the earlier tension ease away. A few bursts of flak as they crossed the Dutch coast reminded him they were now over enemy territory for the first time, as did the constant undulating whine in his headset – this was the effect of German radar on their radios and another warning that, down below in German operations rooms, their path was being watched and plotted every step of the way.
But although they found the bombers they saw no enemy fighters and after around forty minutes started heading for home. The mission had been a milk run – but it was a start. The demystifying of combat flying had begun and an hour and twenty minutes after take-off they were all back down again, safely through the cloud, their first mission complete.
Captain James Stewart had been ordered to London to face the press on Thursday, 2 December. He had been promised this would happen only once. The questions were ridiculous and he found the exercise painful and embarrassing, but then he returned to Tibenham to get on with being a squadron commander.
On Sunday, 5 December, a sergeant came to Robbie Robinson’s hut and told him and his crew-mates to prepare – briefing at 9 a.m. and ready to fly. It was to be a ‘shakedown’ flight – a training flight to see whether they were ready for combat operations. Out by Bullet Serenade, they were just getting ready to move off when a Jeep pulled up and Captain Jimmy Stewart stepped out. ‘Fellas,’ he told them, ‘I’ll be riding with you.’11
On board, Stewart went to the flight deck, but once they were airborne he came back down, speaking to each of the crew, then went back to the cockpit. Over the intercom, Robinson listened to him asking questions of every man. ‘What are you doing now, Sergeant Robinson?’ he asked.12 ‘What do you see out of the waist window?’ Robinson told him. More questions followed. ‘Can you see the supercharger gate position? Are the exhausts smoking? What colour is the engine exhaust? How much fuel do we have on board? Are you checking it? Are the fuel gauges off and drained?’ He then called them up in turn to the cockpit. Robinson, like the rest of the crew, had gone through incredibly thorough training. Although a waist gunner, he was a fully qualified flight engineer and even had sixty hours’ piloting in his logbook. The idea was to ensure there was always back-up if anything happened to the main operating crew members. ‘Robinson,’ Stewart asked once he had reached the flight deck, ‘can you fly as first engineer?’ He also wanted to know whether he could man all gun turrets and arm the bombs. It was quite a grilling, but Robinson was impressed. ‘Stewart really knew this airplane,’ he noted. ‘He wanted us to know it too.’
They were due to form up on the lead ship, which was painted orange with black checks, but it never showed up. Despite this, they flew on, Stewart checking everything, including how well their electric flight suits were working; outside, it was –30°C. Wright made a smooth landing after four hours and fifteen minutes.
‘Well,’ said Stewart after they had drawn to a halt back on their hardstand, ‘I suppose you fellas are going to make it okay together.13 I just don’t know where the, uh, forming airplane went today.’ They had passed the test. Soon enough they and the rest of the 445th would be heading out on their first mission.
The weather remained wretched. Up at Leeming, Bill Byers got so down because of the endless grey and fog and rain that he took his crew out on a test flight just so that they could get up above the clouds and see some sunshine. Operations continued, however: a short hop across the Channel to hit U-boat and E-boat pens on 5 December, which gave Dick Turner and the rest of the 354th FG their second official mission. Then early morning on the 11th the target was Emden, a port on the north-west German coast. Bob Johnson, Gabby Gabreski and forty-six other men of the 56th were among nearly four hundred fighters escorting the biggest effort the Eighth had mounted since Schweinfurt – some 583 bombers dispatched that day. These were the kind of numbers to deflate the stoutest German hearts, and because the target was north-west Germany, it meant the bombers could be escorted all the way. Also joining the American fighters for the first time over German skies were forty-four P-51s of the 354th Fighter Group, although Dick Turner was not among them; it was his turn to sit one out. Even so, this was a shallow-penetration raid, not the heart of the Reich or indeed the German aircraft industry.
As they headed out over the North Sea, the bomber formation presented an awesome sight. Bob Johnson, looking down, could only wonder at how all those squadrons, bomb groups
, wings and divisions managed to get themselves into formation, majestically droning over the sea in their staggered boxes. From 30,000 feet, he saw the bombers as little more than dots, streaming long contrails of vapour across the bright, deep blue sky high above the cloud.
The 56th had been ordered to support the first two boxes of the 3rd Bomb Division, which would take them to the limit of their endurance. The three squadrons of the 56th were only over the Frisian Islands off the Dutch coast when they spotted a formation of around a dozen enemy fighters above and away from them, and it looked as though they were in the mood for fighting. As far as Johnson was concerned, it was a sign they might be running into some of the more experienced and aggressive Luftwaffe pilots.
The men of the 56th kept flying and then, when the Germans were abreast and with the sun behind them, down they came. Orders now arrived through their headsets for the 62nd Fighter Squadron to take the enemy on, but for the 61st – Johnson’s and Gabreski’s squadron – and the 63rd to stay out of the fight and rendezvous with the bombers as planned. ‘Which is exactly what the Krauts were trying to prevent,’ wrote Johnson.14 ‘They hoped we would be stupid enough to commit all forty-eight fighters to a brawl with the dozen airplanes, eliminating the escort our Big Friends needed so desperately.’ The sixteen Thunderbolts of the 62nd turned in towards the enemy, with four soon disengaging and joining the other two squadrons. This left thirty-six Thunderbolts in the group now swinging north at 35,000 feet towards Bremen in a wide turn. It was bright up there, with the sun reflecting off the puffs of high cloud and making it hard to see. Turning is a difficult manoeuvre in a finger-four formation, because the outer aircraft has to increase speed and the inner one drop off the pace, and then the two swap places. Halfway through this procedure two of the aircraft in the flight directly in front of Johnson drew together and, before he could shout out a warning, one had sheared the wing off the other, fuel tanks had exploded and the two planes were torn apart in a blinding explosion. He watched two parachutes billow out, but his relief quickly turned to horror as he realized only pieces of the two pilots remained to swing gently downwards. ‘Just like that, two good men lost,’ noted Johnson.15 ‘We couldn’t help either Larry Strand or Ed Kruer by watching the wreckage fall. There was nothing to do but to hold our course and continue towards our rendezvous with the bombers.’
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