The rhythmic jolting of being carried on a stretcher revived Otto and he learned he was in a military hospital in the Netherlands, between Utrecht and Eindhoven. As medical orderlies lifted him onto a gurney, another rolled past. On it lay Fred, deathly white, his eyes rolling and the top of his head looking strangely distorted. ‘Fred! What’s happened to you?’ No answer.
‘What’s happened to my Bordfunker? When will he be able to fly again?’
The doctor shook his head: ‘Think about yourself first and when you’ll be able to fly again.’
‘What’s he lost? What happened to his head?’
‘He slammed headfirst into a paddock and that has caused extensive bleeding around the top of his skull. We just have to hope he hasn’t fractured his skull. We’ll find out soon from the x-rays.’
‘He’s got a thick, Bohemian skull. It’ll take more than that to put a dent in it!’
‘Let’s hope you’re right!’
As the anaesthetic took effect Otto slipped back into oblivion while the doctor set to work stitching the gash to his forehead.
For three days Otto drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind replaying like a loop tape a scene in which he was being shot down in flames, the vision each time interspersed with white angels drifting noiselessly past. Otto knew he was dead. Then, on the third day, the rasping sound of curtains being drawn back cut through the miasma. The sun poured in, illuminating his bed and Fred asleep in the one beside it. He became aware of the glowing crown of a chestnut tree heavy with blossom, a gentle breeze and the sound of bells from the clock tower of the nearby town hall, telling him he was safe.
Otto was given extended leave to recuperate at his home village, while Fred Staffa recovered at his home in the Sudetenland. The only men of fighting age Otto saw while he was home were wounded, like him – some much more badly. During this time he learned the Allies had landed at Normandy. After four weeks convalescing at their homes, Otto and Fred returned to a new airbase at Venlo, in the Netherlands. Recurring headaches kept Otto grounded, but when the medical officer refused to declare him fit to resume flying, he travelled to Amsterdam to get a second opinion. A Luftwaffe doctor there gave him the approval he wanted: ‘If you’re crazy enough to want to get back in the air, I’m not going to stop you.’ By the end of July Otto and Fred were flying together again.
By December 1944, six months after the Allies’ successful landings on France’s Normandy coast, the advancing front revealed itself to the Luftwaffe not only in frequent attacks on their new airbase in north-west Germany at Münster-Handorf and any other key military targets, but also in the deteriorating state of their ground facilities and aircraft. Otto’s Heinkel HE 219 was relatively new but regular attacks on the base’s hangars had forced the squadron to disperse the fighters under outlying canvas shelters. The aircraft were suffering the effects of exposure to mid-winter weather, compounded by the disruption to supplies of replacement parts needed to keep them in good working order. In the preceding few weeks Otto had already had a number of frights. Stalking a Lancaster, he had pressed the fire button, only to turn on his port landing lights instead. On another occasion his six cannons had started firing uncontrollably just after take-off. With RAF Mosquito fighter-bombers prowling constantly in the vicinity, such equipment failures were potentially fatal and at best deeply unnerving. Now, on 5 December 1944, as the crew bus took them to their aircraft, Otto grumbled to Fred about whether the latest piece of equipment to play up – their radio – would choose to work that night.
Just after 7.30p.m. Otto taxied through a lingering mist to await the green signal light for take-off. Fresh in his mind was the weather forecaster’s advice to return to base before an expected thick ground fog gathered. Upward-pointing spotlights cross-stitched the landscape in distinctive patterns to help night fighters orient themselves to their own base – or to others should they need to land in an emergency. This orientation matrix also offered the Mosquitoes a dazzling invitation to prey on German aircraft as they took off or landed. For this reason, Otto hugged the ground after take-off until well beyond the airstrip, then doubled back parallel before ascending through the ‘Mosquito infestation zone’ of 2000– 5000 metres to reach his own ‘hunting’ altitude of 8000 metres.
Otto had adopted this approach after an experience one night, when he had climbed to 4500 metres, the altitude of the approaching bomber stream en route to Berlin. He had soon found himself engaged in an hour-long duel of pursuit and evasion with a Mosquito, as each tried to manoeuvre the other into its sights, then found repeatedly that his opponent had looped back to turn the tables. From that point on, Otto chose to climb steeply and drop into the bomber stream like a bell curve, in order to avoid the attentions of the British night fighters.
Now on 5 December, Otto had just retracted the undercarriage and the flaps following take-off when Fred sputtered a curse into the intercom. ‘Damn! Both radios are out – short- and long-wave. They were working fine when we were getting ready for take-off. Now they’ve both cut out at the same time. What should we do – go back or carry on?’
Otto weighed up the options. The sensible thing would be to return to base, since they could not communicate with the ground either for guidance to target or to gain landing clearance. On the other hand, the weather was forecast to remain clear for a few hours – time enough to inflict some damage on the enemy. Fred could meanwhile stay tuned to the radio traffic of others in the fighter group, and follow the guidance they received on the expected course of the bomber stream. Otto felt he could land with the help of his airbase homing beacon, so long as he was careful, since the emergency landing strip running alongside the main runway had been hit by two bombs that afternoon.
He checked with Fred: ‘You’re sure your radios are both okay to receive, or have they given up the ghost too?’
‘Not yet, but I can’t guarantee they’ll stay that way.’
‘All right, we’ll give it a go then. The weather looks to be okay for a while. If the weather frog is right, we should be able to make it home – as long as there’s no fog. Stay tuned to the Y-frequency and follow the instructions Willi gets. He’s Eagle 94. He took off just before us, so if we piggy-back on his instructions we should stay pretty much on the right course. Fingers crossed!’
After ground control tried several times in vain to elicit a response from Otto’s Eagle 98, it switched its attention to Eagle 94, keeping up the string of instructions Otto had been relying on. Having reached 8000 metres, he levelled out, slipstreamed on Eagle 94’s guided approach to the bomber stream and instructed Fred to tune into the Luftwaffe’s general instructions on the whereabouts of the stream. To no avail: the RAF was jamming these signals with the characteristic distortion the Luftwaffe airmen called ‘soul borer’ and ‘bagpipes’.
Otto swept the night sky for any sign of activity. Suddenly a lightning-like flash lit up the sky across to starboard, then cascaded down in the green and red flares of target markers. Far below the darkness sprang into life as the jarring whiteness of the magnesium-fed fires spread out to engulf a surrounding area in a flaming pond splashed with the reds of the first bomb explosions. Otto tipped over his starboard wing and accelerated in a steep dive towards the flames. His wings started to vibrate as the speedometer edged beyond 600 kilometres per hour. Fred, monitoring German fighter command radio, reported to Otto that Soest, in the eastern Ruhr district, was under attack – but also that their own radar had now cut out. Otto closed the distance quickly, dropping 3000 metres by the time he was over the now giant lake of flame. Against this hellish backdrop Otto saw the silhouettes of a group of Lancasters passing to port a few hundred metres below his Heinkel. With no help from his own radar, Otto sought to position himself below the vulnerable underbelly of a Lancaster, but each time he dropped to a lower altitude he lost its silhouette. Stark against the fiery backdrop below, but melting into the darkness, the bomber rose in the horizon of his vision.
With impote
nt fury he watched explosion after explosion ripple the flaming city. Glancing above him he saw with a cramp of terror that another wave of Lancasters was on its bombing run in a head-on course to his and, in the same instant, he both saw and felt a pummelling of the air as bombs fell around his aircraft. Then no more explosions; the attackers had turned for home. Fred fiddled with his radio tuner until he grabbed a snatch of instructions giving the bombers’ course back to England. Otto fastened onto the course co-ordinates and set his altitude to that of the bomber stream.
The radar remained useless, so Otto swept his nose back and forth like a dog trying to pick up a scent. Nothing, not even the turbulence he would normally expect from the slipstream of so many powerful engines threshing the air ahead in unison. All the way west to the Maas River in Holland, Otto followed a target that never solidified beyond his mind’s eye. Then he gave up the futile chase and turned east again for his own base, dropping to 2000 metres, where he felt he would be safe from both Mosquitoes and trigger-happy German flak crews. With some relief he locked on to Münster-Handorf’s homing beacon and readied himself to land.
But then Fred snorted into the intercom. ‘Rotten luck – the Dortmund group is coming in to land because their base is completely fogged in. Our radio transmitter is still dead, I can’t get landing clearance from ground control, so you’ll just have to make your own judgement when it’s safe to land. Plus ground control keeps repeating a warning to look out for competition – so the Mosquitoes are on the prowl. Good luck, Otakar!’
Otto knew the machines circling to land were separated in altitude by only 100 metres, and would drop down to fill the slot below as each landed one by one. This left no gap for an unannounced aircraft to slip in. Also, mere seconds separated the time a landed plane taxied off the runway from the next clearance to land, since each was assisted by landing lights switched on and off in an instant, to provide as little inducement as possible for the Mosquitoes to swoop down and attack. The risk of collision was increased because none of the aircraft used landing lights, for fear of becoming an easy target.
With some 20 night fighters lining up to land and the ground fog starting to roll in, Fred could only monitor the hectic radio traffic in the full knowledge their time would run out before they could get into the queue. Otto assessed the options as he circled 500 metres above the airfield: the ground fog building from the west was accentuated by the upward spotlights, while in the east – his preferred approach route – Mosquitoes were ready to pounce the moment they saw a German fighter slowing to land. Otto knew how to foil these attacks: approach in a low, tight curve and begin the landing procedure while still turning; extend the flaps only halfway until the very last moment before the wheels touched, so that the sudden drop in speed when the flaps were fully extended almost coincided with the increased security of being on terra firma.
Otto tried to make out the bomb craters on the emergency strip, just in case, but the gathering ground fog obscured any distinguishing features, quickening the urgency to land before the fog veiled the whole airbase. He told Fred they had no choice but to risk landing immediately.
‘Would you rather land on the grass?’ asked Fred.
‘Too risky. If we hit one of those craters we’ll break up. Okay, here’s what we’ll do. Load a red flare. I’ll make a wider curve and let you know when I’m on approach. Then fire the flare behind us. With luck they’ll see we’re in strife and let us come straight in. But watch out that we’re not attacked from behind.’
At 140 metres altitude Otto lowered his undercarriage and approached the strip at 200 kilometres per hour, then applied full flap. Suddenly a deafening crash and splintering sound erupted with a blinding flash in the cabin, stunning him just as a sharp blow yanked his feet from the rudder pedals. Otto’s first thought was that Fred had accidentally discharged the flare pistol in the cabin, but almost immediately his Bordfunker’s panicked yell brought him back into focus. ‘Enemy night fighter! I think the tank’s on fire!’
Otto instinctively pulled the lever to jettison the cockpit canopy and roared: ‘Get out! Then drop your seat straight away and open your chute!’ Without the canopy the rush of air almost tore off his flying helmet. He swiftly unclasped his harness and groped for the ejector-seat rod to his right. He hinged back the safety cover and prepared to thump the rod to fire him free of the stricken machine. He waited an instant to hear the crash of Fred’s seat being fired free of the aircraft – but nothing came. ‘Get out, get out!’ Otto yelled again.
‘I can’t – my catapult’s kaput!’
Otto’s heart leapt. ‘All right, belt up again – we’ll slide this crate in somehow!’
The engines continued to hum as if nothing had happened. Gradually Otto’s sight returned and with huge relief he saw they were not on fire. The explosions behind the cockpit had been cannon shells striking the aircraft. Their flashes had temporarily blinded Fred, making him think the fuel tanks had ignited. Otto could see the wings behind the engines were peppered with bullet holes, but the aircraft continued to fly unaffected. He made a snap decision to risk a belly landing.
He gently increased throttle for more speed, then flicked up the switch to raise the undercarriage. As he tried to bank to starboard onto final approach, he noticed with another stab of alarm that the rudder controls were useless. He tried to compensate by increasing the power in his port engine and, using the right aileron, managed to line up with the emergency strip and set up for a shallow approach, easing the throttles to reduce speed. Now on short finals, he closed both throttles and killed the magnetos to reduce the risk of fire on landing. The aircraft continued to float as Otto edged it lower, then drew the Y-shaped yoke sharply into his chest to raise the Heinkel’s nose as its wings were poised to embrace the ground – gently, Otto hoped.
As he noticed the runway edge racing past, he was suddenly aware that he had no time, or spare hands, to refasten his harness, still undone after aborting plans to eject. Instead, he anchored his feet firmly in the rudder pedals and braced himself for impact: nothing else would stop him being thrown forward onto the sharp instrument panel. He readied himself to cradle his face in his arms the moment he was able to let go of the yoke.
With a lurch he realised the plane was hopping in a roll over the uneven surface of the grass emergency strip – not sliding or scraping to a standstill. That meant the wheels were still down – the Mosquito must have shot away the hydraulics. Now he was racing towards the bomb craters, with every chance at least one wheel would plunge into a trough and bring the aircraft careening over onto itself, like a steeplechase horse breaking a leg as it misjudged a jump.
In a flicker that was more reflex than realisation, he took in the dim shape of the edge of the first crater, the second a little further on to its left. Instinctively, he thrust his right foot with full force on to the right brake, slewing the plane around to the right, just missing the crater. But he was still too fast – no control. His heart, throat – every muscle – contracted in one terrific spasm of concentration and effort. He tried to brake again, but the pedal was slack to the push; all the fluid had squirted from wrecked pipes in his first, life-saving wheelie. Friction had him in its grasp, however, and he felt the aircraft level, then slow. It rolled to a stop just short of the end of the runway. They were down safely.
Together they walked in wonderment around the Heinkel. The rear of the fuselage, the cross tailpiece and twin ‘fins’ were riddled with holes, and fuel dripped from the punctured fuselage tanks. On inspecting the plane closely a few days later and writing it off, mechanics found an unexploded cannon shell from the Mosquito lodged in one of the fuel tanks.
Otto and Fred had scarcely recovered from this close escape when they were shot down again by another Mosquito. Unusually, the story can be told from both sides. The ‘Intruder Personal Combat Report’, written by Flight Lieutenant Vaughan of 85 Squadron, which Otto later obtained, makes short work of a long and frightening night:
; We had completed uneventful patrol east of Frankfurt supporting raid on Zeitz and set course for base at 21.40hrs. At 21.45hrs on vector 290 degrees navigator reported contact 3 1/2 miles ranging crossing starboard to port. We closed in on target, losing height to 10,000ft, indicated air speed 260. At 4,000ft range two pairs of brilliant white exhausts could be seen. We closed in to 150ft below and astern and identified target as HE 219 by twin fins and rudders, narrow wings with marked taper on trailing edge outboard of engines, long nose and those brilliant exhausts. Confirmation was obtained as to target’s identity from my navigator using night glasses.I dropped back to 600ft range astern and fired a 2-second burst between the pairs of exhausts but no strikes were seen. Closed in to 400ft range and fired another 2-second burst and immediately a large explosion occurred in the port engine and we pulled to starboard to avoid debris which was coming back to us. And passed over enemy aircraft which went down to port with port engine on fire. We did a quick starboard orbit and saw burning fragments of aircraft falling and small fires starting on ground suggesting it had disintegrated in the air. Mosquito landed base 23.45hrs.Ammunition expended: SAPI [semi armour-piercing incendiary] 62; HEI [high explosive incendiary] 56. Total 118 rounds. Claim: 1 HE 219 destroyed.On that snowy January night Otto and Fred were among eight crews scrambled at 7p.m. from Münster-Handorf to intercept approaching bombers. The technical failures Otto had experienced when they had crash-landed the previous month continued to dog him. This particular night the glitch turned out to be the oxygen feed, which forced Otto to return immediately to a lower altitude where they could breathe freely. But Otto knew he was now in the Mosquitoes’ preferred hunting band so, hoping to avoid being tracked and stalked, he changed course every three minutes, all the time straining to make out ground control’s radio signals amid the jamming noises transmitted by the RAF. It was towards the end of one of these tacks that Otto was abruptly brought up short by a cracking and splintering sound, his control column was wrenched from his hands and the intercom went dead. Despite this, he could make out Fred’s alarmed shout over the noise of his engines: ‘Enemy night fighter!’
Under a Bomber's Moon: The true story of two airmen at war over Germany Page 13