“Come on, Annelies,” I prompted, “if you’ve got some other suggestion, spit it out.” “Look, I tell you what,” she said with a slight shrug, “why don’t I bake us a nice cake, make a pot of coffee, and then we can have a picnic in the field behind the school. There’ll be hardly anyone else around. A lot of the girls are away on holiday and the others will be working, so nobody will see us.” I was dumbstruck at first, and said we couldn’t possibly risk it. But, to be honest, the more I thought about it, the more appealing it became. After all, if Adam could give in to temptation, who was I to hold out. And so, immediately after lunch in the officers’ mess, I jumped on my bike and pedalled up to the plateau. (That was my first punishable offence of the day, for it was strictly against standing orders to take a service bicycle off the station. And with a yellow ‘5’ painted on its frame–yellow for 3. Staffel–my two-wheeled steed was all too clearly an item of service equipment.)
As it was a Sunday and all the shops were shut, I had been unable to buy any flowers. But I had everything else we needed for the picnic. For her part, Annelies had the coffee and cake all ready and waiting. We carried the things out into the large secluded meadow, surrounded by trees, that stretched away to the rear of the school. Choosing a nice cosy corner, we trampled a circle some three metres wide in the lush waist-high grass, spread the cloth, laid out the crockery and began the birthday party. I was able to devote my full attention to Annelies, for we could not be overlooked and the spot we had selected was perfectly hidden…or so we thought.
After we had finished our picnic, matters started to take their natural course–as matters do–and the realities of the outside world faded into oblivion. In my subconscious I was dimly aware of the sounds of various aircraft taking off and landing on the airfield below. I registered the deep-throated roar of a Me 109’s engine being run up, and then the tinnier note of our Fieseler Storch taking off. With its remarkably low speed of just fifty-five kilometres an hour, the Storch was the favourite mount of our Gruppenkommandeur, who would regularly use it to go boar hunting.
We normally welcomed these expeditions of his, for he rarely returned empty-handed and our cook could always be counted upon to conjure up the most succulent game roasts for the mess table. But on this occasion the noise of the Storch taking to the air should have set the alarm bells jangling in my head. By this time, however, Annelies and I had got to the stage where four of my five senses were no longer functioning properly. Then suddenly–but far too late–I heard a distinctive rustling sound in the air. It was rapidly getting louder and coming closer. We glanced up and to our horror saw the Fieseler Storch, its engine switched off, glide into view just above the tops of the trees.
Scrambling quickly apart, Annelies and I both stared upwards…straight into the eyes of the Gruppenkommandeur, who was looking down at us through the side window of the steeply banking Storch. With a tiny squeal Annelies, wearing nothing but a signet ring, immediately threw herself onto her stomach–a natural enough reaction under the circumstances, I suppose, but one which did little to retrieve the situation.
As for myself, programmed as I was by years of military training, my first instinct in the presence of a superior officer was to salute! But how? I was also lying in the grass without a stitch on. Had I been wearing my cap, I might have got away with a normal military salute–fingers touching the peak: ‘like this’, as we used to call it. Without headgear one was supposed to salute ‘like that’, which meant performing the ‘Heil Hitler’ greeting but without actually saying the words. However, as one part of my anatomy was still giving a very fair imitation of the ‘Heil Hitler’, I felt that raising my right arm as well might perhaps be overdoing things.
While these ridiculous thoughts were racing through my head, the Storch had disappeared–and so too had our party mood. Furious that her birthday had been ruined, Annelies had got to her knees. Every curve quivering with rage, she hurled some very un-ladylike epithets after the departed Storch. “You just wait and see,” she turned to me still boiling with anger, “I bet he shops you to the Kommodore.” “Nonsense,” I replied, “he’s got enough rank to haul me over the coals himself. He doesn’t need any extra help.” Dejectedly we began to gather our things together. The birthday party was well and truly over.
During dinner in the mess that evening–the restaurant booking had been cancelled by mutual consent–the Geschwader-adjutant unexpectedly appeared at my table with an evil grin on his face: “Right then, Fischer, report to the Kommodore’s office tomorrow at 13.30 hours. I’m sure you already know why.” So Annalies had been right after all. That cowardly swine must really have wanted my hide nailed to the wall if he was prepared to take the matter to the Kommodore. But there was nothing I could do about it, no excuses I could make; the ‘bare facts’ spoke for themselves.
My only recourse was to make myself as smart and presentable as possible, report to the Kommodore as ordered, and take whatever ‘Old Frau Mayer’ had in store for me. (Just how the Geschwaderkommodore had acquired this nickname nobody knew. He was admittedly somewhat older–around the forty mark, I would guess–but he was wiry, an accomplished flyer, and by no stretch of the imagination an ‘old woman’.)
An aerial view of wartime Nancy looking from the railway station towards the infamous plateau, scene of ‘Annelies’s birthday’, in the background.
And so, on the Monday morning, one of the pupils helped me get my service dress uniform into as near immaculate a condition as possible. Tunic and breeches were brushed and ironed, steel helmet dusted off, leather belt and boots polished until they gleamed. Shortly before the appointed 13.30 hours I marched off to the Kommodore’s office. Suited and booted, helmeted and gloved, pistol holster pertly positioned against my right buttock, I looked like something that had just stepped straight out of a Luftwaffe recruitment poster.
Trainees I passed on the way saluted me with knowing grins. So the story had got around already. As I walked through the main office it was even worse. “Did you at least enjoy it, Herr Leutnant?” the giggling typists called after me. Cheeky young baggages! Then I was outside his office door, which was guarded by a distinguished, blue-blooded lady of more mature years.
“Would you please be so kind as to report my presence, madam”, I requested politely. “At once, Herr Fischer”, she responded with a decidedly supercilious smile. She opened the door, “Leutnant Fischer reporting as ordered, Herr Oberstleutnant.” “Show him in!!!” a loud voice roared. I already had visions of another three days confined to quarters–and the ink was hardly dry on the charge sheet for the last three, awarded for cracking up that Ar 96 on landing. “Bags of swank”, I said to myself as I fairly burst into the Kommodore’s office, slamming my heels together so hard that the windows almost rattled in their frames.
I stared fixedly from beneath the rim of my steel helmet, my eyes boring directly into his, stiffened to attention–chin out, stomach in, middle fingers in line with the seams of my breeches, elbows bent slightly forward and my feet almost at right angles–saluted, and shouted aloud in ringing tones, “Leutnant Fischer respectfully begs to report!!” My voice didn’t have the same formidable volume as his invitation of a moment ago for me to enter, but…hang on a minute…what’s this: he’s sitting behind his desk looking perfectly relaxed and is regarding me in a not altogether unkindly fashion.
He rose from his chair and slowly walked around me, inspecting my uniform closely as if afraid that a button might be undone and that I could be in danger of catching a cold. Obviously reassured that all was well and that there was little likelihood of my having to report sick, he returned to his seat.
“Well, my son (my son?!), let me give you a piece of good advice: should you ever get the urge to do ‘it’ again–(at twenty-one, I thought, you’ve always got the urge)–I suggest that you sneak into the bushes with your lady friend and do not spread yourselves out in the middle of an open meadow, especially not one right next to an airfield. That way you won’t
be mistaken for a pair of wild boars, you blockheads! And now get out of here!”
I have never left a superior’s office so rapidly in all my life. Now it was my turn to smile as I dashed past the dragon on the door. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders as I almost ran through the main office, giving the thumbs up to the applauding typists. A few days later I heard that after I had scuttled out of his office Old Frau Mayer had laughed so much that the tears ran down his cheeks.
By the end of September 1943 I had served a full three months as an instructor with JG 107. I was still fervently hoping to be relieved of these training duties and get a posting to an operational unit. But it seemed the authorities were unwilling to dispense with my services just yet, for Hauptmann Sommer informed me that on 1 October I was to be sent to Guyancourt near Versailles to begin yet another three-month course that would see me emerge at the end of the year as a fully-qualified fighter instructor.
Unintentionally, I’m sure, he then proceeded to rub salt into my wounds by telling me that his own stint with JG 107 was coming to a close and that he was returning to a front-line unit. He had been appointed Staffelkapitän of 3./JG 2 Richthofen in western France, currently one of the Luftwaffe’s hottest operational areas. Sentenced to embark on a course that was intended to transform me into a bona fide instructor, my own flying future appeared to be heading in completely the opposite direction. Nevertheless, I asked Hauptmann Sommer–implored might not be too strong a word–to put in an official request for me to join his Staffel when I had completed my three months at Guyancourt, and this he faithfully promised to do.
My new unit was known as the Jagdlehrerüberprüfungsgruppe–literally the ‘Fighter Instructors’ Inspection Group’. Activated a year earlier at Orléans-Bricy, it had been transferred to Guyancourt only a month prior to my arrival. Commanded by Hauptmann Ferdinand Vögl, its purpose was to meet the growing demand for qualified instructors from the Luftwaffe’s many fighter training schools. The Gruppe consisted of just two Staffeln: the main Ausbildungsstaffel (training Staffel) under Oberleutnant Magnus Brunkhorst, and the smaller Einsatzstaffel (operational Staffel) commanded by Oberleutnant Alfons Raich. In addition to its advanced training duties, the Einsatzstaffel was also required to keep a Schwarm at readiness as part of the aerial defences of the Greater Paris area.
The three months I was to spend at Guyancourt added significantly both to the number of flying hours piling up in my logbook and to my theoretical knowledge of air combat. But otherwise, apart from a slightly greater emphasis on the instructor’s duties in the classroom, they added little new to what I had already been doing at Nancy. The little new did, however, include my transition to the Focke-Wulf Fw 190A fighter. I was immediately won over by the radial-engined Focke-Wulf, finding it far more advanced and robustly constructed than the Me 109, which, to be frank, was beginning to show its age.
Whereas, for example, the wings of the Messerschmitt were attached to the machine’s fuselage by a set of bolts no thicker than a man’s thumb, which meant that they could shear off in dives of more than 800 km/h, the Focke-Wulf’s fuselage was mounted squarely on a solid wing centre-section carry-through that enabled it to reach speeds of over 950 km/h (the highest figure shown on the clock) when diving. The machine built up speed remarkably rapidly in the dive, but was nonetheless easily controllable–although recovery did require a fair amount of physical strength on the part of the pilot when pulling back on the stick.
The 1,800hp BMW 801 air-cooled two-row radial engine did admittedly run a little less sweetly than the Me 109’s liquid cooled Daimler-Benz. It had a certain rough undertone that took some getting used to. But the Focke-Wulf’s wide-tracked undercarriage–the mainwheel legs were attached well out along the wing and retracted inwards–meant that take-offs and landings posed few problems. A slight tendency to swing to the left could be easily held on the rudder. The bulky engine cowling, however, did severely limit forward visibility when on the ground. This was something of a liability as the standard procedure at take-off was to drag the tail. If the self-centring tail wheel lost contact with the ground too quickly, the high-speed wing profile was unable to lift the machine into the air and it had to be literally heaved off the ground bodily.
The Focke-Wulf had the edge over the Messerschmitt in many other ways too. For example, its systems were all electric. While the Me 109’s engine had to be cranked by hand to get it going, the Fw 190’s BMW was served by an inertia starter energized either by an external electrical supply or by the fighter’s own battery. Flaps and trim also had to be operated by hand in the Messerschmitt. They were infinitely adjustable by electric switch and button in the Focke-Wulf.
The Fw 190 was better in the turn, marginally faster up to a height of 8,000 metres, and the all-round view from its fully glazed canopy was excellent. All in all, it was a great improvement on the Me 109, except for one thing: engine performance at altitudes above 8,000 metres. Here the Messerschmitt was unquestionably dominant. But this was not too important as ninety-five percent of all fighter combats took place below that height and, as a rule, most enemy bombers rarely flew above 6,500 metres at this stage of the war. In any case, the Focke-Wulf’s dive and climb capabilities were so superior that its pilot could usually dictate at which height any engagement was to be fought.
The humdrum routine of the Guyancourt training programme was occasionally enlivened by our being called upon to participate in manoeuvres with the ground forces. This gave us the perfect excuse to thunder about all over the place, indulge in low-level beat-ups and generally fool around with a complete disregard for aerial safety and discipline. Looking back on our antics today, when a pilot’s prowess is rated in terms of the safe and responsible handling of his machine at all times and in all situations, I can only shake my head in disbelief at what we got up to–and got away with–back in those less regulated days. The one abiding memory of my time at Guyancourt concerns not the Fw 190, however, but the much more humble Bü 131 Jungmann biplane.
I had been detailed to fly another member of the Gruppe across to Orly; for what particular reason I can no longer recall. Back then Orly was just a small and fairly unimportant airfield to the south of Paris. After landing we strolled across to the officers’ mess where, although it was well past lunchtime, a couple of attractive young French girls still busy in the kitchen rustled us up something to eat.
When we had finished our meal–we were alone in the dining room–we put a popular hit record of the day on the mess gramophone and invited our two companions to dance. But our afternoon idyll was soon rudely interrupted by the station commander, who ordered me to fly back to Guyancourt forthwith. I was about halfway back to base, bumbling comfortably along some 400 metres above the French countryside, but still feeling a bit irritated and wondering what I could do to lift my spirits, when ahead of me I spotted some sort of racetrack, presumably used at one time by either cars or motorcycles.
As I got closer I could see that it was laid out in a typical oval shape with banked curves and it suddenly occurred to me that my Bücker’s cruising speed of just over 150 km/h was probably not very much faster than that of the vehicles which had once raced on the track. I carefully descended into the circuit and, sure enough, found that I could follow the banking quite easily. This prompted me to do a couple of laps, my wheels never more than two metres above the concrete surface of the track. After scattering out of the way, some civilian workmen watched my impromptu performance open-mouthed. Luckily, they obviously didn’t bother to make a note of my machine’s markings, for I completed my trip back to Guyancourt in a much better frame of mind and was never questioned about the incident.
But such joyriding was becoming increasingly hazardous as the war situation worsened and allied bombers and fighter-bombers began to appear in the skies of northern and central France in ever-larger numbers. It was perhaps as a result of this growing threat that the Jagdlehrerüberprüfungsgruppe received orders in late Decembe
r to vacate Guyancourt for the relative safety of southern France. The Gruppe divided its strength between Aix-en-Provence and Orange-Caritat. And it was at Aix that we celebrated the end of our course with Christmas dinner in the station mess.
A few days later I returned to JG 107 at Nancy. Although now an officially qualified fighter-instructor, I was still hoping against hope that Hauptmann Sommer’s promised intervention would result in an operational posting to 3./JG 2. But whatever requests he may have made on my behalf had apparently fallen on deaf ears, for I was immediately sent away on yet another course–would the damn things never end?–and one, moreover, that saw me heading off in a completely unexpected direction; not just geographically, but in terms of my flying career too.
My destination lay in the very heart of Germany: at Altenburg, south of Leipzig, in the province of Thuringia. This was the home of Hauptmann Albert Falderbaum’s I./JG 110. Like most of the ‘new’ training Jagdgeschwadern at that time, JG 110 had been created simply by redesignating an existing school unit. In JG 110’s case this had been Blindflugschule 10, or Blind-Flying School 10. As its name suggests, BFS 10 had been involved in the training of night-fighter pilots–but a very specific kind of night-fighter pilot. Set up at Altenburg in May 1943, BFS 10’s job was to train pilots in the Wilde Sau (‘Wild Boar’) method of night fighting.
Unlike the Luftwaffe’s standard night-fighter units, whose twin-engined machines were radar-equipped and radar-controlled, the Wilde Sau system–the brainchild of ex-bomber pilot Major Hajo Herrmann–operated single-seat fighters and relied on visual sighting to locate the enemy’s night bombers. Initially intended merely to supplement the Luftwaffe’s established night-fighter organization, Wilde Sau operations had proved surprisingly effective during the late summer/early autumn of 1943 and three new Jagdgeschwadern had already been activated as dedicated Wilde Sau units. Presumably it was to one of these three that I would now be going after completing my two months’ training at Altenburg.
Luftwaffe Fighter Pilot Page 9