Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age)

by Walter J. Boyne

  Owen shot a quick smile to his colleagues. All three men knew that Rolls-Royce regarded the Rover company as a mere tin bender, whose automobiles were not worthy to be on the same road as Rolls-Royces were, and Hooker obviously subscribed to the theory.

  Hooker gestured out the window. “It looks like he has a moment free. Let me introduce you to him. You will be doing a lot of work with him in the future.”

  Shannon, always wishing to know as much as possible before engaging in a conversation, asked, “How does he feel about shipping his engine to the United States?”

  “Whittle is a patriot, first and foremost. He knows that a lot of people who scorned him are going to make a great deal of money from his invention. But he is intent on winning this war. As we all are.”

  The four men moved across the grass, dry in the unusual August heat, and Hooker made the introductions. Of less than medium height, Whittle had a polite manner that belied the volcanic intensity of his eyes, which pierced each man in turn. His jaw twitched nervously and his movements were abrupt. It was obvious that he was torn between his being put out by being taken from his work and his desire to learn what American intentions were.

  “Gentlemen, I hope you’ll understand when I say that I’m both surprised and pleased that General Electric is going to manufacture my engine.”

  Shannon answered, “I can understand your surprise—GE is hardly a household name in aircraft engines. And I’m glad that you are pleased, but may I ask why?”

  “Pratt & Whitney and Wright make wonderful reciprocating engines, but their engineers and their management would be threatened by my engine. It’s too radical and it goes whistling round and round rather than pounding up and down!” Whittle’s arms and hands comically matched his words, flying round and round and then pounding up and down—the little byplay was totally out of character with his previous demeanor.

  He nodded his head abruptly and added, “No offense, Colonel Crawford.”

  Crawford smiled and said, “None taken. Sad but true!”

  Whittle went on, with a gesture to Hooker. “No, a ‘proper’ engine company will never give it the backing it needs, not unless they are as foresighted as Rolls-Royce.” He made a short bow to Hooker. “This offers General Electric entrance to a whole new industry. It is a very astute move, and if I had any money at all, and if it were not forbidden, I would be buying General Electric stock at this very moment.”

  Crawford nodded, and started to speak, but Whittle waved his hands imperiously and said, “Just a moment. I don’t think you realize the implications of what has happened with the introduction of the turbine. General Electric is going to go from being a supplier of superchargers to a mass producer of engines. Rolls-Royce is going to completely change its focus. There is a revolution going on here, gentlemen, and I damn well hope you recognize it and appreciate it.”

  He glared at them fiercely, daring anyone to deny it.

  Hooker tried to smooth things over. “I’m sure General Arnold agrees with you! He made this decision himself, over the advice of a lot of the people around him who think they can beat Germany with thousands of piston engine bombers.”

  Crawford started to speak again, but Hooker went on, “General Arnold was in England when the Gloster flew with Frank’s first airworthy engine, and understood the implications at once. When he found out that the Whittle engine weighed only six hundred and fifty pounds and put out as much thrust as a sixteen-hundred-and-fifty-pound Merlin, he asked us to send copies of the plans back with him, and ship an engine later.”

  Whittle said, “We’ll be sending the W.1X engine in October—along with drawings for the W.2B. That’s our latest design!” The sudden slightly bitter emphasis in Whittle’s voice did not puzzle the Americans. The engines and the plans were worth tens, perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars of future business—and poor Whittle wouldn’t get a dime from them.

  Whittle went on, “Is it true that Bell is going to build the airframe?”

  There was no mistaking the bitter tone this time. The British had tried the Bell P-39 and dismissed it as a failure—small wonder that Whittle lacked confidence in the choice.

  Vance responded, “Yes; Bell has a reputation for the unorthodox, and had some spare production capacity.”

  “Well, good luck to them, and good luck to you. It has taken me ten hard years to get this far; I hope you Yanks can do better.”

  Vance smiled. “You’ll have to come and help us. Have you been to America yet?”

  At this Whittle flashed a warm grin. “No, but I want to come and see if you do things as quickly as everyone claims. I’m sure you’ll have a jet flying in a year or two.”

  Shannon said, “With your help, we’ll fly a jet airplane in a year.”

  Whittle was startled. He had been joking and now he wondered if the Americans were joking back. “If you say so, gentlemen, I’m sure you will!”

  There was some more small talk about the proposed trip; then Whittle, obviously now more comfortable with the Americans, saluted and left.

  Hooker smiled. “A trifle salty, eh? He’s not easy to get along with, but the Ministry has made life hard for him up till now. He had a devil of a time with Rover—their engineers simply wouldn’t listen to him, kept introducing their ideas in areas he had already covered. Frank is working well with Rolls-Royce; we respect what he’s done and we can help him, as well.”

  That night, in their tiny shared room in the jumbled Basil Hotel that Lockheed had booked for them, Crawford stopped Shannon as he prepared to leave for a dinner engagement at the Connaught, one where he wanted to arrive early and make sure that everything was perfect.

  Crawford gently took Shannon to task. “Vance, I know you are a doer, but don’t you think telling Frank that we would fly a jet within the year was a bit thick?”

  Stifling his impatience, Shannon ran his hand through the graying stubble of his hair. “You’re probably right, Ray, I shouldn’t have said it. But I believe we will, and I think Squadron Leader Whittle will be happy that we do. He’s given up a fortune to help win the war; we might as well help him win it.”

  Owen chimed in. “Not so much given up a fortune as had it taken from him. Sounds more like Nazi Germany than Merry Old England.”

  Crawford frowned and said, “I wonder how they do it in Germany. Can they just grab somebody’s idea and run with it?”

  Shannon said, “I’m more concerned with what they are doing with it than how they do it. They’ve got a couple years’ head start on everyone. If their jets are worthwhile, that could make 1943 a mighty interesting year.”

  With that he bowed to the two men and stepped out the door. They looked at each other and Owen said, “It must be a woman.”

  And Crawford replied, “Yes; I’ve seen her and she is a knockout. Vance has been miserable since his wife died. It’s time he found someone.”

  November 18, 1941, Zuffenhausen, Germany

  Hans von Ohain walked through the bustling bays of the Heinkel-Hirth engine factory, keeping a discreet two paces behind Ernst Heinkel, who was issuing orders in a loud voice at a rapid rate. His harried assistant, Robert Eissenlohr, was jotting down notes on one of the cheap Luftwaffe tablets Heinkel insisted on using as an economy measure. Arms moving, voice rising, Ernst Heinkel was distinctly unhappy with the factory he had just acquired to build jet engines. Few of the changes he had demanded had been made, and some heads were going to roll.

  It was the sort of atmosphere that von Ohain hated, particularly because he hoped that his head would not be one of those to roll. The Heinkel He 280, the world’s first jet fighter, had made its first flight the previous April, powered by two of his Heinkel-Hirth 001 engines. After some initial difficulties it was proving itself. Heinkel’s engineers had gone all out in the design of the airframe, using a tricycle landing gear, making provisions to pressurize the cabin, and installing a radical new feature, an ejection seat to blow the pilot out of the cockpit in case of a catastrophic in-fli
ght emergency.

  Yet apparently the Luftwaffe remained unimpressed, even after a mock dogfight with a Focke-Wulf FW 190, where the He 280 had clearly demonstrated its superiority. Part of the problem was that the war in Russia was going so well. Even the generals who believed it was a mistake to invade the Soviet Union now thought that the war on the Eastern Front might be over by December. Then, after six months to digest the new conquered territories, to build a new fleet of bombers, it would be England’s turn at last.

  Von Ohain could not understand the Luftwaffe’s reluctance to back the He 280. He was his own most severe critic, and he had been pleased with his work up to that point; his engine was now putting out more than 650 kilograms of thrust. The He 280 had flown at just under 850 kilometers per hour—faster than the world’s speed record.

  But last week, Fritz Schaefer had just taken off in the prototype 280 when a blade broke away from the turbine, sending sheets of flame back for forty yards and ripping the cowling off. The quick-thinking Schaefer made a forced landing with the gear retracted, somehow managing not to do much damage to the airplane. The ill-timed accident caused Ernst Heinkel to combine a long-deferred inspection trip with a conference to announce the fate of von Ohain’s engine.

  The old Hirth firm conference room was similar to many of those found in successful German factories—long and relatively narrow, brightly lit despite the dark oak paneling of the walls, which were well laden with oil portraits of former leaders. The heavy lighting fixtures had been converted from gas to electric more than twenty years before. A shining mahogany table spanned most of the room, surrounded by heavy wooden chairs amply surfaced with red leather cushions. At the far end of the room wooden doors concealed the only modern touch, a retractable motion picture screen that in turn covered a blackboard.

  Heinkel assumed his place at the head of the table, with Eissenlohr, still scribbling furiously, at his left and von Ohain at his right. Egon Scheede, the former Hirth company plant manager, two engineers, and Fritz Obermyer rounded out the group. Obermyer ostentatiously wrote in his own notebook, for the sole purpose of filling his self-appointed role as ranking member of the Nazi Party. To Heinkel’s cronies, Obermyer was a gold mine of information, but not to be trusted. To the rest of the Heinkel plant, he was a snitch and a deadly dangerous opponent who should never be crossed. It was a position he enjoyed.

  Heinkel opened the meeting with a long list of caustic remarks to Eissenlohr on factory housekeeping, the importance of adequate natural light, and the mandatory requirement to reduce overhead. He droned on and on, listing the goals he had for the plant and the efforts he expected Eissenlohr to make.

  Heinkel then assumed his normal managerial persona, nodding agreeably to the group and saying, “Now I want to thank Dr. von Ohain for his continued excellent work. His engine—we call it the 001—is coming along much faster than we could have hoped. Last week’s in-flight failure shows that there are some problems, but we all know that is part of any development program.

  “The main thing is that we are clearly ahead of Messerschmitt! Their aircraft—it’s called the 262—has not even flown yet.” He paused, knowing that what he was going to say next would surprise everyone.

  “I talked to General Udet last week, and I think he is at last coming around to our point of view.”

  Generalluftzeugmeister Ernst Udet headed the Technical Directorate of the Air Ministry—and was sorely unsuited for the task. Udet, with sixty victories, was the leading German ace to survive the 1914–18 war. A superb acrobatic pilot but technically uninformed and not a manager, Udet was overwhelmed with the responsibilities that the new Reichsmarschall, Hermann Göring, had imposed upon him. Udet had also imposed a reckless decision that had set back German progress all across-the-board. In November 1940, Göring had ordered that any development efforts on weapons that would not be operational within a year be discontinued. The order had fatal effects upon the materials needed for the development of the jet engine.

  Heinkel gazed steadily at Obermyer as he said, “I think even General Udet would admit that he doesn’t have a wide understanding of the potential of jet aircraft. Contrary to the reports we heard, the successful mock dogfights with the Focke-Wulf helped persuade him. If we can promise him early production of the 280, a year ahead of Messerschmitt, I’m sure he’ll give us a contract.”

  Heinkel glanced at the back of the room and noted that Obermyer had made a quick gesture as if he were pointing to the ceiling. Annoyed by Obermyer’s effrontery but still aware that he had almost omitted a significant part of his talk, Heinkel went on. “Things are going well for the Luftwaffe against Russia. The aircraft we have now will be adequate there. But things are changing in the west. The British have introduced two new aircraft, the Avro Lancaster, a huge four-engine bomber, and the de Havilland Mosquito, a small but very fast twin-engine bomber. Our intelligence reports indicate that these are being built in great numbers, and that by early summer next year, they may be able to put fleets of five hundred to one thousand aircraft over our cities, night after night. Our night fighters will be able to deal with the Avro, as long as it doesn’t come in too large a force. But we are currently helpless against the de Havilland. We need jet fighters to catch and destroy it.”

  Obermyer scanned the room watching the reactions, which ranged from indignation to amusement. One man, Kampfelder, an electrical engineer, was tapping the side of his head as if Heinkel were crazy. His name was quickly written in Obermyer’s notebook. One never knew when such information could come in handy.

  With some reluctance, yet with a definite change in demeanor, Heinkel turned to von Ohain. “Dr. von Ohain, this is not intended to offend you in any way, but these circumstances have made me decide that we need more time to develop your engine, the 001. As you know, the Junkers Jumo 004 engine is progressing rapidly. If we install the 004 engines on the 280, we can begin producing them at a starting rate of twenty per month in early 1943. General Udet has told me, informally, if we can achieve this, he will order us to start production by January 1942.”

  Von Ohain’s face fell. This was clearly a mortal setback to him and his engine.

  Heinkel attempted to reassure him. “This sounds worse than it is, Dr. von Ohain. I want you to continue working on the 001, and to initiate work on a new engine, one capable of fourteen hundred kilograms of thrust. We’ll need engines of that size for 1944 and beyond. Only you can do it!”

  Innately courteous, von Ohain stood up to reply just as the conference room doors burst open and a clearly distressed aide ran in.

  “Forgive me, Dr. Heinkel, but I was ordered to give you this message at once.”

  Annoyed, Heinkel took the envelope and opened it. As he read it he slumped to his chair. “Gentleman, all that we’ve just discussed is moot. Yesterday, General Udet was killed testing a new aircraft.”

  The room was shocked into silence, not as much by the news of Udet’s death but by its palpable falsity. Udet’s heavy drinking was notorious; those closer to him knew he was taking a variety of narcotics as well. His health was ruined and he had done no test flying for months. He had either committed suicide or been executed.

  Von Ohain said, “May God have mercy on his soul.”

  Puzzled, Obermyer looked up, then scribbled in his notebook. “Professor Heinkel, may I ask a question?”

  Distracted, Heinkel whirled on von Ohain, then caught himself. This young man was too valuable, too sensitive, and too nice to be savaged. “Of course.”

  “Who will take General Udet’s place? Will it be General Milch?”

  Erhard Milch was a managerial genius who had built Deutsche Luft Hansa into one of the best airlines in the world. By brains and force of personality he had become second only to Göring in German aviation.

  Heinkel’s face darkened. “You are probably right. And that is not good for us. Milch has never liked me. He doesn’t like Willy Messerschmitt, either, but he dislikes him less than he dislikes me. We may be in
for a very difficult time with the jet engine, Dr. von Ohain.”

  The meeting ended in disarray, Eissenlohr continuing to follow Heinkel, helping him with his coat, opening the door, scuttling ahead to open the door of the big Mercedes. The others filed out, leaving von Ohain slumped at the table, his head in his hands.

  Obermyer paused by his chair. “Dr. von Ohain, do not let this stop you. Things like this always happen in wartime. It may turn out for the best. Udet was not the right man for his job; perhaps Milch will be.”

  Von Ohain looked up, surprised at the serious sentiments from the normally sardonic Obermyer, wondering if he was sincere or if he was baiting him. Uncertain, he simply nodded and said, “I hope you are correct.”

  And, unable to resist, Obermyer added, “For the sake of Germany and the Führer.”

  Von Ohain, clearly overwhelmed by the rapid pace of developments, knew he should say something but did not. As the two men parted, each knew that the other would require watching.

  November 18, 1941, Friedrichschafen

  Making money in Nazi Germany was difficult; hiding the fact that you made it was even more so, and Fritz Obermyer was grateful for the means provided by a small inheritance from his mother, Lottie, and the cover provided by a substantial working relationship with his uncle Otto Kaufmann. Otto was the black sheep of the Obermyer family. Fritz’s mother was the only one who understood Otto and stood up for him after he had avoided service in the Kaiser’s army by going to Switzerland in 1910. His father—for whom he was named—had immediately declared Otto an outcast. His brothers never spoke of him again, but Lottie loved him and nurtured him with news and letters, including the doleful news of the loss of two of his three brothers in combat.

  Otto was hardworking and smart and circled the postwar economic turmoil in Germany like a vulture, descending from his aerie in Switzerland to buy up good property cheaply even as he expanded his Swiss interests to include an optical firm, extensive real-estate holdings in Geneva and Zurich, and a small bank devoted primarily to international trade.