by Stout, Jay
As a precaution against Birtciel being a German spy, an RAF officer was assigned to escort him. “He was with me full time,” said Birtciel. “They finally took me to an airfield northeast of Brussels and flew me to London. Once we got there the 55th sent one of the pilots down from Wormingford and he confirmed that I was who I said I was.”
Birtciel was anxious to return to duty and finish his combat tour. “When I got back to the base, the flight surgeon asked me if I had been knocked unconscious at any time when I bailed out. I couldn’t remember being unconscious because I was unconscious, so I told him, no. I flew my next mission on April 7.”
Righetti, his time and energy again consumed by his administrative duties, missed the mission of April 7. It is virtually certain that he wished he hadn’t as it delivered the sort of excitement that at least some of the men had been craving. Although the 55th’s pilots did not know it, the day marked the desperate launch of a last-ditch Luftwaffe attempt to knock the Allied air offensive back on its heels.
Hans-Joachim “Hajo” Hermann was a veteran German bomber pilot, and one of fewer than two hundred recipients of the Knight’s Cross with Swords. He first saw combat during the Spanish Civil War and following the start of World War II flew more than three hundred bomber missions on multiple fronts, to include action during the Battle of Britain. Later, during the autumn of 1943 while Righetti was training pilots and Kyle was teething and Cathryn was sewing chair covers, Hermann achieved notoriety as the creator of the Wild Boar night fighter tactics that so badly savaged the RAF’s bombers. Flying night fighters during this period he was credited with nine aerial victories. Now, during the closing months of the war, he was a colonel and commanded 9. Flieger-Division (J), headquartered in Prague.
An ardent patriot, Hermann was a leading advocate of the Rammjäger concept—the use of fighters to ram American bombers. He rationalized it with a memorandum, Mathematical Justification for Suicide Missions, which essentially declared that good results could be obtained using less fuel and neophyte pilots, while experiencing only a marginally higher fatality rate than was then the norm with traditional fighter tactics.7 To his mind, the concept wasn’t actually suicidal as the pilots were intended to smash into the more fragile sections of their targets and then abandon their aircraft, assuming they survived.
The notion, although desperate, was not totally devoid of logic. The problem for the Luftwaffe was that, aside from all the other talent that was required to fly a frontline fighter, the aerial gunnery skills necessary to shoot down another aircraft were quite complex and required extensive training. On the other hand, simply crashing a fighter into a large aircraft that was flying a steady course required much less skill. And the physics of mass and force virtually guaranteed that the targeted aircraft would suffer mortal damage.
So, by early 1945, with Germany critically short of skilled pilots, the idea of neophyte pilots smashing themselves into American bomber streams made some rational sense even if the moral case was not compelling. Hermann planned to solicit volunteers from the ranks of green pilots who had recently completed training, or whose training had been forestalled by the chaos that marked the closing phases of the war. In fact, neither Hitler nor Reichsmarschall Göring, Hitler’s deputy and the head of the Luftwaffe, liked the idea. Despite assurances that the Rammjäger pilots would not technically be committing suicide, the likelihood that they would be killed was believed to be quite high.
Still, Hermann campaigned enthusiastically for men, and aircraft, and permission to use them as a Rammjäger shock force. He reasoned that if a massive number of bombers were knocked down, the Americans might curtail operations long enough for the Luftwaffe to field a meaningful number of Me-262s and other advanced fighters. He outlined his thinking in a memorandum to Göring: “The time until Me-262 operations can be expanded must be bridged; the time is also approaching by which the conventional fighter force, which, as is known, has only a slight prospect of success, will be completely exhausted and grounded.”
Hermann also underscored the need for a single crushing blow against the Americans: “We need to achieve success of such numerical significance that the enemy will change both the frequency of his attacks and his methods. We need the consequences that only success can bring.”8
However, there was the pesky reality that simply receiving and setting aside the fifteen hundred aircraft he wanted, as well as the necessary pilots, mechanics, administrative support and fuel, was not a foregone conclusion. Apart from the Allied bombing raids, roving bands of fighter aircraft—such as Righetti often led—made it ever more difficult to move anything during the day by rail, air, road, or river. Such an undertaking would demand virtually every resource the Luftwaffe could muster.
Nevertheless, with the situation essentially hopeless and with nothing worthwhile to lose, Göring finally gave Hermann permission to put the plan in motion. In the call for volunteers that he issued on March 8, Göring declared: “The fateful battle for the Reich, our people and our Homeland has reached a critical stage. Almost the whole world is against us. They have sworn to destroy us in battle and in their blind hate, to wipe us out. With one final effort we must stem this threatening wave.”9
The message went out mostly to training organizations, but also to a few frontline units. No particulars were given and the men were told only that they would be volunteering for a mission of great importance—one that had the potential to change the course of the war. They were also told that their chances of survival would be slim. Notwithstanding the paucity of details and the likelihood that their probable reward would be death, the response exceeded Hermann’s expectations. More than two thousand men, including veteran flyers, put themselves forward. In fact, there were more volunteers than could be used and many of the combat veterans were refused as they were considered more valuable in their conventional units.
The men volunteered for roughly the same reasons. Aside from the fact that they came to manhood during a time of war and ultra-nationalistic fervor, many of their families, or parts of their families, had been displaced or killed by the Allied bombing. Then, there were those whose training had been sidelined by the lack of fuel. They saw the call as an opportunity to finally get into combat; it was their chance to make a difference. Further, like young men everywhere, some volunteered simply because their friends did. Finally, because so little was divulged about the nature of the special mission, some of the young men certainly must have believed they were going to be put at the controls of a new wonder weapon.
The first of about 250 volunteers began reporting to the airbase at Stendal, about fifty miles west of Berlin, on March 24. By this time, Hermann had received the unhappy news that rather than 1,500 fighters, he could expect to receive no more than 350. It wasn’t nearly the number of aircraft he needed to strike the sort of catastrophic blow he envisioned. Still, he pressed ahead with the plan, hoping that an initial success with the smaller number of fighters might serve as the proof he needed to get the enormous formations of aircraft he really wanted.
The following day, March 25, Hermann shared the details of the planned mission with the assembled volunteers, now officially organized as Schulungslehrgang Elbe, or Training Course Elbe. It was a cover name and the group was more informally known as Sonderkommando Elbe, or Special Command Elbe. They had been selected largely because they had at least a few hours’ experience flying the Me-109. The plan was for them to fly Me-109s that had been stripped of weapons and armor in order to make them as light, fast and maneuverable as possible. For self-defense, the aircraft were to retain only a single MG131 machine gun armed with a few dozen rounds of ammunition.10 The volunteers, covered by fighters from conventional units, were to ram the American bombers and then jump clear of the wreckage. They were also told at this meeting—and reminded during the subsequent days—that they were free to change their minds at any time.
One of the men recorded his disenchantment upon learning the truth: “I knew with absolu
te certainty that we had lost the war. There was no wonder weapon. There was no atom bomb. We would simply be sent to the slaughter. And only to prolong the rule of the Third Reich’s big boys by minutes.”11 It was a sad, scornful cynicism that must certainly have been shared by some of his comrades. The magnificent Third Reich—with all its spectacular technological and military achievements—was reduced to sending youngsters to smash themselves into the seemingly endless streams of American bombers. Still, the number of volunteers who changed their minds was essentially nil.
During the rest of March and into April the men were invited to various political lectures and classes, as well as propaganda films. None of them were mandatory as Hermann was worried that the volunteers might quit rather than endure the shrill nattering of the Nazi party flacks sent to Stendal by Goebbels’ propaganda mill. One of the men remembered that he and the majority of his colleagues bristled at the veiled attempts to fortify their dedication to the Nazi cause. “We volunteered willingly for a risky mission and didn’t need any further mental treatment.”12
There was no flight training for the special operation as there simply wasn’t enough fuel to support it. And curiously, there were no detailed technical discussions as to how the ramming ought to be done. There were, however, presentations made by combat veterans who had made and obviously survived ramming attacks. It was generally agreed that the bombers ought to be attacked from behind, and that the most vulnerable points were the tail section, the cockpit and the wings behind the engines. There was also quite a bit of debate as to whether or not the canopy ought to be jettisoned before hitting the bombers in order to increase the odds of successfully jumping from the aircraft. The canopy did offer some protection but the aircraft would twist and bend as it struck a bomber and there was a real risk that the canopy might jam in place and trap the pilot; no consensus was reached on this point.
During late March, a group of volunteers was sent to a pair of bases near Prague, Gbell and Kletzan. Not long afterward, during the night of April 4, the remaining men of Sonderkommando Elbe at Stendal were divided into five groups. One of these was kept at Stendal while the other four were dispersed by road to other airfields in the region. Sachau and Gardelegen were located about fifteen miles southwest of Stendal, while Mortitz and Delitzsch were about fifty miles south. The operation, codenamed Werwolf, was scheduled for April 6, less than a month following Göring’s initial call for volunteers.
But there weren’t enough aircraft available on April 6 and the operation was postponed until April 7. Even on that day the promised number of 350 fighters was not delivered. Only about two hundred Me-109s had been staged by mid-morning and these were still not entirely ready. In fact, the group at Stendal started the day with no aircraft whatsoever. Ground crews at all the airfields raced to remove armor, guns and other equipment while simultaneously fueling them and otherwise preparing them for the unprecedented operation.
However, not all the aircraft were configured as planned, and some simply required too much work to be made operational in time. Consequently, the Sonderkommando Elbe organizations at the different airfields were in a frenzied state of disarray as available aircraft were reviewed against pilot rosters, and choices were made as to who would fly that day. Ultimately, aircraft were assigned, plans were modified and reviewed, and formations began to take off.
More than 1,300 American bombers with nearly 850 fighter escorts motored toward an array of targets in central and northern Germany. Righetti’s 55th was in the mix although he was stuck at Wormingford catching up on the myriad ground duties required of a fighter group commander. Meanwhile, as noon approached, just under two hundred Rammjäger pilots of Sonderkommando Elbe were airborne and moving toward the planned staging areas over Magdeburg and Dömitz. The scattered formations of Me-109s were a pitiful shadow of the colossal force Hermann originally envisioned.
As it developed, other German Air Force fighter units were also airborne that day but the coordination with Sonderkommando Elbe was poor to nonexistent and the appearance of both at the same place and time was due more to happenstance than to meticulous planning. Even had there been a carefully orchestrated plan, it would have been difficult to execute as the radio transmitters of the ramming aircraft had been removed; the young flyers were unable to talk to anyone. The receivers were tuned to a channel on which martial music was broadcast as well as directive orders of a general nature. Moreover, propaganda and Nazi slogans were read by a female: “Think of our dead wives and children who lie buried under the ruins of our towns,” and “Deutschland über alles.” Rather than bolstering the morale of the pilots, this Nazi flim-flammery upset many of them.13
The poor training of the young German pilots quickly manifested itself as many of them became lost or were unable to join with their flight leaders. Moreover, some encountered cloudy conditions and icing from which they failed to escape. At least one pilot simply bailed out from his ice-crusted fighter. Additionally, many of the pilots experienced mechanical issues and returned to base or bailed out. Finally, the fighters based near Prague were ordered back to their airfields as it became apparent that they would not have enough fuel to find and engage the Americans.
Regardless, something more than a hundred Rammjäger pilots in groups of various sizes made contact with the American formations at different locations. The 55th’s mission summary report recorded the group’s encounter with the Rammjägers in the vicinity of Celle, “where the first Me-109 snuffled down from 3 o’clock for a short jab at Vinegrove 1-8 [the 493rd Bomb Group], but was snared and scragged [shot down] before he got a crack at the 17’s. From then on enemy aircraft played acey-ducey with the force, sending about 10 Me’s [Me-109s] down singly to stool out the escort and make them drop tanks.”
The notion that the young German pilots were trying to compel their American counterparts to drop their external fuel tanks in order to foreshorten their range was invented by the 55th’s pilots. The pilots of Sonderkommando Elbe cared about the American fighters only inasmuch as they did not want to be shot down. “We put the sneeze on the first 6 jokers thru pranging them down at 10,000 feet,” the report continued. “Blows [Me-262s] stayed high and aloof, just snuffling along and tossing a gander at the proceedings below … The enemy aircraft were at all times readied up for attack, were loose and elusive, and in no respect raw hands at the way they used cloud cover.”
That the German pilots dodged the 55th’s attacks by ducking into the clouds was a basic survival tactic rather than an indicator of any great experience. Although it is possible, perhaps likely, that the 55th encountered Me-109s from other units, there is little doubt that many of the fighters it engaged were from Sonderkommando Elbe. The mission summary report noted, “1 [B-17] down at Gifhorn … rammed by 1 of 3 attacking Me-109s.” Another less successful ramming was described: “1 heavy [B-17] collided with 109. Enemy aircraft destroyed but heavy turned for home minus wing tip and one engine.” Frank Birtciel recalled: “A 109 attacked in a dive [of] about 30 degrees and hit the B-17 just short of the radio man’s gun and just ahead of the waist guns. Could not tell if it was deliberate or not, but did not look like a firing pass.”
It is apparent from the report that some of the Me-109s made diving passes against the B-17s, but did not ram them. Certainly, these aircraft could have been from other units, but it should also be considered that some of the men from Sonderkommando Elbe must have had second thoughts, or simply could not overcome the powerful and reflexive instinct to avoid a collision; the basic human predisposition toward survival was powerful.
Regardless of whether or not they followed through with their ramming missions, many of the Rammjägers were destroyed by the American escort fighters—six of them by the 55th’s 38th Fighter Squadron. The German pilots’ lack of training and experience is underscored by the fact that nearly all of them were shot down without putting up much of a fight. An excerpt from John Cunnick’s encounter report was typical:
Our flight dr
opped tanks and attacked and during the fight I lost our first element and my wingman. I climbed back up to our [assigned bomber] box in hopes of finding them and had just reached the bomber level when I saw another Me-109 come diving thru the formation. I went after him and as he pulled out of his dive at 10,000 feet, I tacked on behind him dead astern at 100 yards. After a short burst, during which I saw my strikes converge on his wing roots and canopy, the pilot bailed out.
The only loss the 55th suffered was Harold Konantz who was mistakenly fired on by gunners aboard the escorted bombers when he closed to ascertain that they were those that the group was assigned to escort. His engine failed several minutes later compelling him to bail out. He was captured immediately and made a POW.
Konantz’s older brother, Walter, had just finished his combat tour with the 55th and Harold was flying his aircraft that day. Walter recalled his younger brother’s experience: “When he was finally taken to a Luftwaffe base for interrogation he was asked his name and upon answering the Luftwaffe officer shuffled through some papers, picked out one and studied it, then told him, ‘We thought you had finished your tour and were on the way home.’ He had some very up-to-date data on me!”14
Hans Joachim Hermann’s hopes for a victory of unprecedented magnitude went so wholly unrealized that the Americans didn’t even understand they had been targeted with a special operation; the ramming attacks were initially thought to be unintentional collisions. Of the approximately two hundred Sonderkommando Elbe pilots that eventually took off that morning, only a small percentage made ramming attacks. In fact, of the dozen or so bombers that were actually hit, the USAAF acknowledged only eight losses. Ultimately, the entire effort was a waste of men and resources—more than fifty aircraft and three dozen pilots.