The course commenced at the beginning of January 1944. My only previous night flying experience had been those few tentative circuits at Bad Wörishofen back in late 1942. Since then I had been trained solely as a day-fighter pilot. But despite a certain sense of disappointment at the turn events had taken, I must admit that the eight weeks spent at Altenburg broadened my flying experience enormously. At first, going up at night, sometimes in total darkness, seemed quite a risky business to me. But after getting used to the additional instruments in the aircraft, and learning the radio procedures that linked the pilot in the air to ground control, night flying became more of a routine. It never lost its fascination altogether, however, and cruising about on my own in the night sky always filled me with a sense of adventure.
I./JG 110 had a number of two-seat trainer biplanes on strength. These were used to initiate the trainees into the art of blind flying. The pupil’s seat–usually at the front in the Arado Ar 66, but at the back in the Gotha Go 145–could be covered by a hood that excluded all daylight. Flying in complete darkness, the trainee had to rely entirely on his instruments to follow the instructor’s orders over the R/T; just as later he would have to follow the commands received from his ground controller.
In between our blind-flying training flights, we were given classroom tuition on the theory and practice of Wilde Sau operations. Basically, it was a very simple concept. Ground control would vector the high flying pilot towards the area under attack, usually a large conurbation, where the RAF bombers below him would be silhouetted against the massed searchlights of the defences, the fires raging on the ground and the enemy’s own marker flares. Even if the ground was obscured by solid cloud, control could order searchlight batteries to illuminate the base of the clouds so that, again, the attacking bombers would be clearly visible in silhouette ‘crawling across the sky like bugs on a pane of frosted glass’. Once visual contact had been established, the Wilde Sau pilot was free to formulate his own plan of attack.
After attaining the necessary level of proficiency in night flying, we were sent up solo. The machine generally used during this stage of our training was the Me 109. This was chosen because an experienced pilot, as those of us on the course all were, could judge the speed of an Me remarkably accurately purely from the amount of pressure that needed to be applied to the stick and by the noise of the slipstream. This meant that he did not constantly have to look down at his airspeed indicator.
The most difficult part of a Wilde Sau sortie, as indeed of any flight, was the landing. But we were helped down by a rudimentary beam approach system that guided the pilot towards the runway. A succession of cross beams at regular intervals gave him his height and distance from the end of the runway, and if he started to wander off course the steady tone in his headphones would give way to a series of either dots or dashes. Shortly before touchdown the runway lights would be switched on briefly to allow him to make any necessary final corrections.
It was a lot to assimilate, but at the end of our eight weeks at Altenburg we were duly awarded our CIII blind-flying certificates. By this time, however–it was now the end of February 1944–Wilde Sau operations were no longer achieving quite the same level of success as they had enjoyed when first introduced. The wintry weather conditions were certainly a contributory factor in their decline. But it was the growing intensity of the American daylight bombing offensive that called the whole programme into question and ultimately led to its demise. Single-seat night-fighter operations would be largely abandoned by the early summer of 1944, with the three Jagdgeschwadern that constituted the Wilde Sau force being remustered as all-weather fighter units. Perhaps as a consequence of this uncertainty, our course was not sent en bloc to the Wilde Sau organization.
I, for one, was both surprised and overjoyed to discover that my long-cherished ambition had at last been realized…a posting to a day-fighter unit. And not just any day-fighter unit either, but to JG 2 Richthofen, the very Geschwader I had wanted. Coincidence? Or had Hauptmann Sommer come up trumps after all?
The first page of the author’s glider pilot’s logbook marking his first flight in the Grunau G9 on 7 November 1937. Note the ‘R’ in column four indicating that it was just a ‘Rutsch’, or slide along the ground. By flight number ten (see 30 October 1938) he was staying in the air for all of thirty-one seconds. The ‘Gs’ in column six show that every take-off was a catapult launch by ‘gummiseil’, or rubber bungee cord.
The cover of the author’s NSFK (National-Socialist Flying Corps) glider pilot’s licence.
Family and friends at Thansau, 1935. The author (standing right) with, from the left: Frau Schlossmann, the author’s sister Rada, his mother, and Edith Schlossmann.
In the mid-’thirties most air-minded German youths began by building and flying model aircraft.
The notorious Grunau G9 ‘skull-splitter’ glider. Here the wooden brace in front of the pilot’s face has at least been bound with tape to offer a modicum of protection against concussion in the event of a heavy landing.
The author’s father, wearing Bavarian national costume, photographed on the Schlossmann family’s Hubertus farm estate in Transvaal, South Africa, in 1938.
The annual Deutschlandflug, or round-Germany air rally, was a major attraction involving all kinds of aircraft and drawing huge crowds.
One of the decidedly anti-Nazi political cartoons sent home by the author’s father during his time in South Africa.
The rubber bungee cord falls away as this Grunau Baby glider takes cleanly to the air from a steep hillside.
Messerschmitt Me 109 fighters (foreground) of the Bad Aibling-based JG 135 at Vienna during the annexation of Austria in March 1938. It was the sight of these machines in the sky above Rosenheim that strengthened the author’s resolve to become a fighter pilot.
A Dornier Do 17P long-range reconnaissance aircraft of the type flown by the Fernaufk-lärungsgruppe/Ob.d.L.
Like all new recruits, the author had to swear an oath of allegiance upon joining the Luftwaffe.
The portly figure of Generalfeldmarschall Hugo Sperrle, the AOC of Air Fleet 3, about to board his personal Junkers Ju 52 transport aircraft.
At the start of the Battle of Britain Villacoublay airfield housed all 100-plus Heinkel He 111 bombers of Kampfgeschwader 55. These machines belong to III. Gruppe.
There was a darker undercurrent to life in Paris. German female personnel, whether military or civilian, were not permitted to wander the streets on their own. They always had to go out in groups of three or more, preferably with male escorts. These female auxiliaries–‘souris grises’ (‘grey mice’) to the Parisians–are visiting the Place de l’Opéra.
By the winter of 1940/41 only the aircraft of the Geschwaderstab (wing HQ) and III./KG 55 remained at Villacoublay. Wearing provisional night camouflage, this machine is readied for another nocturnal mission.
The Author (Second Right) And Friends Go Sightseeing In Paris.
The Easter 1941 issue of the German troops’ guide to ‘What’s On in Paris’. On the back cover it suggests that the nightclub to visit is the ‘Shéhérazade’ at 3 Rue de Liège. Having followed the magazine’s advice…
…these officers and their ladies appear to be thoroughly enjoying one of the establishment’s main attractions.
Pre-flight discussion at Luftkriegsschule 4, Fürstenfeldbruck, 1942. The author is on the left with Focke-Wulf Fw 44 trainer behind.
Physical training during the NCOs’ instructional course at Neukuhren in the summer of 1941; the author at centre right.
A Bücker Bü 131 Jungmann sports and trainer aircraft. This particular example was operated by the Luftdienstkommando, the Luftwaffe’s Air Service Command.
‘In the name of the Führer…’ the official document, with Göring’s signature at the bottom, promoting the author to the rank of Leutnant as of 1 November 1942…
…and the portrait taken to mark the event.
Morning parade outside JG 107’s ski ch
alet at Zug in the Austrian Alps.
A Wehrmacht military band gives an outdoor concert on the Champs Elysées in the spring of 1941.
The Heinkel He 51, the Luftwaffe’s standard first-line fighter of the mid-’thirties, made a rugged training machine during the war years.
A ‘Rotte’, or pair, of Arado Ar 96 advanced trainers.
The sleek Arado Ar 96 advanced trainer, whose retractable undercarriage was very nearly the author’s undoing.
The author demonstrating how it’s done–without the benefit of skis!–Zug, February 1943.
Hauptmann Adalbert Sommer, the Staffelkapitän of 3./JG 107 at Nancy-Essay.
From Nancy the author followed the line of the River Meuse northwest to the battlefields of World War I to commemorate the first anniversary of his father’s death.
Not all of Nancy was as attractive as the old town area. But although this giant slagheap on the outskirts was undoubtedly an eyesore, it proved a very useful landmark in bad weather.
The Me 109’s notoriously weak, narrow-tracked undercarriage was the cause of many ground accidents. This machine’s port mainwheel leg has partially collapsed and its fairing has been snapped in two.
Messerschmitt Me 109D fighter-trainers.
A Messerschmitt Me 109 makes a firing pass at a ground target during gunnery practice.
A Messerschmitt Me 109E fighter-trainer taxies out prior to take-off.
A late-war Messerschmitt Me 109G fighter-trainer in flight.
The author’s newfound ‘bosom friend’, Leutnant Stefan Marinopolski, later flew Me 109Gs with the Bulgarian air force’s 6th Fighter Wing.
The ex-French air force Dewoitine D.520 fighter was the one aircraft that the author actively disliked.
A North American NAA-64, originally ordered by the French air force as a two-seat trainer, in service with 3./JG 107at Nancy-Essay in the spring of 1943.
Due to its extremely short take-off and landing capabilities, the Fieseler Fi 156 ‘Storch’ light communications aircraft was popular with Luftwaffe units in France as a general runabout. This particular example has put down in the Placede la Concorde in the very heart of Paris.
The Fw 190’s wide-tracked undercarriage came as a welcome change after the spindly-legged Me 109. But it offered little improvement in forward visibility when taxiing on the ground–hence the airman on the wing guiding the pilot back to his dispersal area.
A pair of Focke-Wulf Fw 190s flying a perfect Rotte formation with the leader on the right.
Two pairs made up a Schwarm, with the leaders in the middle.
Hajo Herrmann, the originator of the ‘Wilde Sau’ concept, pictured here as an Oberst and wearing the Oak Leaves with Swords awarded to him in January 1944.
An Fw 190 Wilde Sau night-fighter pilot prepares for a nocturnal sortie.
The author, right, with Peter Ullmann in Genoa, Italy, in April 1944.
The Geschwaderkommodore of JG 2, Egon Mayer, seen here as a Major, was credited with developing the frontal method of attack against American heavy bombers. He was killed in action on 2 March 1944.
A Halifax bomber of the RAF silhouetted against clouds illuminated by searchlights from below.
A Rotte of Fw 190s sets off on another uneventful patrol of the Mediterranean coast.
To help pilots judge the distance when carrying out a frontal attack on a heavy bomber, JG 2 set up a Revi gunsight (foreground) with alarge-scale model of an American Flying Fortress in front of it.
Pilots of I./JG 2 snatch a cigarette break between missions in northern France.
Luftwaffe fighters in Normandy had to be kept hidden away under trees out of sight of prowling allied fighter-bombers.
Major Erich Hohagen (left) was the Kommandeur of I./JG 2 during the author’s time with the Gruppe.
Oberstleutnant Kurt Bühligen served as Geschwaderkommodore of JG 2 from just prior to DDay until the end of the war.
The Focke-Wulfs suffered increasing attrition as D-Day approached. This one is going down after being hit in the starboard wing root.
Belated birthday boy Leutnant Siegfried Lemke proudly displaying the Knight’s Cross that he won a week after D-Day.
Early on the morning of D-Day, 6 June 1944, the near deserted streets of Nancye choed to the sounds of cars and motorcycles racing around gathering up the pilots of I./JG2.
A Focke-Wulf Fw 190 fighter fitted with underwing rocket launchers.
Ground crew load a 21-cm rocket into a Focke-Wulf’s underwing launch tube.
Hauptmann Josef Wurmheller (left) led the rocket attack on allied invasion shipping off Gold Beach on the morning of D-Day.
Post-war Munich showing damage to the canopied roof of the main railway station in the foreground and the twin spires of the city’s famous Frauenkirche beyond.
British armour heads inland from Gold Beach. The author came down in his parachute to the left of the road leading up from the beach in the background.
The author visits the spot some fifty years later.
The author’s Certificate of Discharge marking the end of more than six-and-a-half years of military service.
CHAPTER 6
POSTED TO THE FRONT
It had been a long, and at times incomprehensible road. Trained to be a fighter pilot, I had been made a temporary instructor. Qualifying as an instructor, I had been sent to a night-fighter school. Gaining my blind-flying certificate, I had been posted to a day-fighter Geschwader. But now that road was finally behind me. And the journey, I felt, had been well worthwhile.
I had been ordered to report to JG 2’s Ergänzungs unit, which was currently based some 260 kilometres to the east of Altenburg at Liegnitz in Silesia. In the Luftwaffe scheme of things, every front-line Jagdgeschwader had initially had its own Ergänzungsstaffel, literally ‘replenishment squadron’. This had served as a kind of ‘in-house OTU’, where pilots fresh from training schools would be given a final check over by the Geschwader’s own pilots before being let loose on actual operations. Most of these early Staffeln had subsequently been increased to Gruppe strength, before a major reorganization in 1942 led to their all being amalgamated into three specialized and enlarged Ergänzungsjagdgruppen: South, East and West.
Each individual Staffel still retained its connections to, and continued to supply replacement pilots for, its own parent Jagdgeschwader, however. And it was to JG 2’s Staffel, currently operating as 1./EJGr West, that I was now heading. The knowledge that I was about to join the Luftwaffe’s premier Jagdgeschwader helped soften the expected blow of yet more training. For upon arrival at an Ergänzungs unit, every new pilot usually underwent a four-week ‘final polish’. This was intended to acquaint him with the tactics and conditions relevant to the particular combat zone in which he would be operating.
But I was spared this last rung on the training ladder due to the length of time I had already served as a fighter instructor preparing other pilots for front-line service. I therefore remained at Liegnitz only long enough to pick up my travel warrants from the admin office. My next destination, I discovered, was to be JG 2’s Geschwaderstab (wing HQ) based at Marines to the northwest of Paris.
The air war over northwest Europe was escalating alarmingly. It was at this time, on 2 March 1944, that JG 2 lost its Kommodore of eight months’ standing when Oberstleutnant Egon Mayer, an ace with 102 victories to his credit–twenty-five of them four-engined bombers–was killed in action against American P-47 Thunderbolt fighters near Montmédy close to the Franco-Belgian border. I did not fully appreciate the pressure the Geschwader was under during this period, for hardly had I arrived at Marines before I was on my way again, being despatched almost immediately to the Wing’s I. Gruppe, which had been deployed down to Aix-en-Provence in southern France at the beginning of the year. Aix was already familiar to me from the few days I had spent there with the Jagdlehrerüberprüfungsgruppe at the end of 1943. My second visit was to be equally brief.
Luftwaffe Fighter Pilot Page 10