by Jeff Kildow
GWF’s Chief Engineer glanced at the drawing, “This shows how rockets attach to the aircraft to aid take offs with heavy fuel and bomb loads, Herr Schroeder. Eight are attached in groups of two, using this structure,” he pointed to a sturdy looking structure, “the aircraft can go aloft with nearly twice the normal useful load.” It seemed to von Schroeder that the man was talking down to him.
Von Schroeder studied the drawing carefully, “So does this give us the range we require?”
The Chief Engineer answered reluctantly, “Ah, no, Oberst. Even with the rockets, we are still approximately 2,400 Km [1,500 miles] short.”
Von Schroeder sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long and frustrating meeting. Unconsciously, he loosened his necktie; his notoriously short temper was being sorely tried. By sheer strength of will he kept his voice even, his words measured. I will not shout, he told himself.
“Are you telling me then, Herr Projekt Engineer, once again, that this modification will not allow these aircraft to fly to America and back?
“You have described to me external fuel tanks – not adequate; an elevated runway – not sufficient; landing gears which drop off after takeoff – not adequate yet again; minimal crew with no defensive weapons – helpful, but not sufficient. Have I left anything out?” he demanded, the sarcasm increasing as he spoke.
“What shall I tell General Wever, I ask you? Should he cancel this critical mission because your engineers are not up to the task? Shall he cancel your production contract as well?”
Despite his resolve, his voice rose as he looked at the Director and he slapped the table loudly.
“Shall he? All we want is an aircraft to fly to America and back. Is this really so difficult? The American Lindberg did it in 1927. Are we Germans so backward that more than fifteen years later we cannot duplicate as a nation what he did as an individual?”
That Lindberg had only flown one way never occurred to him; he was also unaware that he was showing a profoundly superficial understanding of the difficult problem.
Von Schroeder’s point had hit home; all of the men seemed suddenly pale. Men had been shot for less, he knew, and so did they, obviously enough.
Chapter 9
24 February 1942
Gotha Waggonfabrik, Gotha, Germany
1400 Hours
New Player
“Of course not, you fool!”
The resonantly low voice startled all four men. Turning, von Schroeder saw a short, twisted figure, leaning heavily on a thick cane. The man’s tweed jacket stretched across his distorted body like a too-small slipcover on an overstuffed couch. A slide rule case hung from his left hip like a knight’s sword. A cold intelligence was behind the thick round glasses.
“Why are you so dense? Do you not see? How can you not see? It is the combination of modifications that will permit success. That, and the ability to receive fuel in the air.”
Heinz Berthold did not suffer fools gladly, and his voice was heavy with sarcasm, like a teacher dealing with particularly slow students.
“And a new addition to the wing tips!” he grinned at them in a twisted fashion.
Von Schroeder reacted as if he were the most sinister man in Germany. “Who is this – creature?”
Berthold saw von Schroeder’s lips curl in disgust as he involuntarily shrunk away. He could almost predict what the man was thinking: Cripples should be hidden from sight or shipped to the camps; they are a disgrace to the “Master Race.”
The Director regained his composure quickly.
“This is Herr Doctor Heinz Berthold, Herr Schroeder. He holds doctorate degrees in aeronautics and physics and is responsible in very large part for the success of the Gotha GO-447. It was he who took the Horton brothers’ original flying wing design and made it practical.”
“You are a cripple,” von Schroeder blurted, as if it were a death sentence.
“Yes. And I see you have been blessed with the gift of discovering the obvious.” Berthold’s cold eyes fixed him like a butterfly pinned to a display.
“Fools like you always want to destroy that which doesn’t appear perfect. Do you want my help or not? You will utterly fail without it, of course.”
He stamped his cane loudly for emphasis, and crossed his arms in defiance, balancing against a chair. His balding head, oversized for his shrunken torso, and his pale white skin gave the appearance of something nearly dead, which often was more offensive to people than his crippled legs, he knew.
Von Schroeder appeared shocked; I doubt anyone has spoken to him like that since he was young, Berthold thought with secret amusement.
The man leapt to his feet, “I should have you shot!”
“What would that gain you, you idiot? Sit down. You would only fail to carry out your own orders and be shot yourself.”
My patience is wearing thin with this fool.
Von Schroeder was speechless.
The chief engineer interrupted, anxious to defuse the situation.
“What do you mean, Herr Doctor Berthold? What wing tip change? And combine the modifications how?”
The Berthold shifted his icy blue eyes to the Chief Engineer.
“Horst, Horst, even you must surely see that none of the changes alone can provide the range required. But if we carefully combine them, there will be sufficient range, and a small surplus of fuel for emergency situations.”
Berthold’s tone was conciliatory, for he thought of this man as a colleague.
His added smugly, “And, the wind tunnel confirms that adding a vertical plate to the ends of the wing produces additional lift, but no additional drag. Well, very little more,” he corrected himself. “And it could yield a 20 percent increase in lift.”
Von Schroeder appeared to be intrigued, but then surprised Berthold by asking an entirely different question.
“How would you take fuel in the air? And how would that help?”
Patiently, Berthold said, “Oberst, since 1939 there have been extensive experiments with fueling aircraft in flight. GWF has participated from the beginning. We now have a means by which we can efficiently transfer fuel from one aircraft to another without spilling a drop.” A small exaggeration, but suitable for this discussion, he decided.
The officer seemed to regain his composure, “So? Again I ask, how does that help this mission? I suppose you must fly these aerial fueling stations to mid-Atlantic and somehow meet up with aircraft on the return? Do you know how difficult that would be?”
Berthold regarded him as if he was a dimwitted child, his patience at an end.
“Of course I know that. And you suppose wrongly.”
The sarcasm fairly dripped from the statement. He cocked his head, gauging von Schroeder’s reaction to what he was about to say.
“Do you know this? An aircraft can carry far more fuel in flight that it is able to takeoff with? Do you understand what that means?”
“Taking fuel while in the air could mean—a much longer range for the aircraft?” von Schroeder replied, after a moment, as he if were wondering if he was walking into a trap.
Berthold smiled that sinister smile again.
“Indeed! Perhaps you are not so dull after all. Here is my thinking: we takeoff with a full bomb load, and half full internal fuel tanks. Four large external fuel tanks which can be dropped later would hang from the wings. Here, look at these drawings my draftsman prepared.”
He moved awkwardly to the table, his cane thumping as he walked, and spread out the large sheets of paper. He leaned over the drawings and pointed.
“I have added other changes, as you will see. The complex iron carrier brackets for the rockets are far too heavy. They can be made much lighter.”
He glanced at the Chief Engineer’s assistant, who looked chagrined.
“The aircraft can be modified to accept more of the rocket’s stress. The new rocket carrier will disengage by itself by means of a simple, light weight, mechanism. The landing gear drop-off featur
e requires a bit more work, but it will save considerable weight; I estimate more than 700Kg. That’s 250 more gallons of fuel.” He continued describing the changes he had made.
Berthold stood and added, “One more thing can be done to maximize the range: use only two of the four engines.” He crossed his arms and waited for their reaction, smiling inwardly.
Chapter 10
24 February 1942
GWF, Gotha, Germany
1410 Hours
Revelation
There was a brief, stunned silence, and then all four of his listeners objected at once. Berthold held up his hands, motioning them to be quiet. He knew they’d respond this way.
“Yes, yes, despite your objections, gentlemen, I assure you that this aircraft can be flown on just two engines, just if the crew will follow a prescribed discipline.”
All four men were listening intently. Now I’ve got them!
“The discipline is this: after a certain amount of fuel has been used, and the aircraft is at the proper altitude, the outboard engine on each side is shut down, its propeller feathered. The aircraft slows, but sufficient power is available from the remaining engines to maintain an airspeed of approximately 350 kilometers per hour [217 MPH]. The fuel usage is half compared to normal cruising at higher speeds and using all four engines. This makes for a long mission, approximately thirty hours, perhaps a bit more. The crews can be trained to do each other’s jobs and take turns sleeping for short periods and cope adequately.”
“Does this still require the elevated runway?” von Schroeder asked with apparent trepidation as he made notes.
A pertinent question. He said with little sarcasm, “Yes, it does, Herr Oberst. Calculations indicate that the aircraft could just take off using rockets alone on a flat runway, but the margin for error is too small. You have seen the depictions of the runway site, yes?”
Von Schroeder nodded. The concept for the runway started at the top of a bluff, then descended down a slope to level out below.
Berthold said, “By elevating the starting end fifty to seventy-five meters or so, gravity provides forty or fifty kilometers per hour additional speed, assuring that the aircraft will become airborne.”
Standing for any length of time was painful, so Berthold sat on the arm of a chair and continued.
“The mission scenario is this: the elevated runway assists the engines in accelerating the aircraft. Then the rockets are fired, in pairs. The aircraft lifts off, and the rockets and their bracket drop off. The landing gear is jettisoned at about seventy-five meters altitude or so. Fuel from the interior tanks of the aircraft is consumed as it climbs in the direction of the target, and its rendezvous with the aerial tanker.”
Berthold looked carefully to be sure the Colonel was following him; he seemed to be, so he continued.
“The flying tanker then fills the bomber’s fuel tanks, including the empty external tanks. The bomber will now weigh more than it did at takeoff!”
To Berthold’s satisfaction, his audience showed amazement and even disbelief.
He went on.
“As the aircraft continues, the fuel in the four external fuel tanks is consumed first, and then those tanks are dropped, further reducing weight and drag. When cruise altitude is achieved – that exact height has not been determined yet – the outboard engines are shut down, and the propellers feathered. From there on, it is a task for the crew of proper navigation and monitoring of the aircraft systems until approximately 200 kilometers from the target.”
The look on his face is amusing, Berthold thought, looking at von Schroeder.
“At that point, the engines are restarted, and the bombs dropped. The aircraft reverse their course. Once out of range of American fighter planes, they climb to cruise altitude. The engines are shut down once more, and the journey home continued. The engines are restarted for safe landing. The aircraft land on grass; reinforcement to their undersides protects them from significant damage. With minimal refurbishment, they will be ready for subsequent missions.”
He stopped, then added, “Of course, the new model will not require such heroics.”
Oberst von Schroeder was stunned, confused, and in spite of himself, impressed. This brilliant little misshapen man had not only resolved the range and fuel problems, he had completely planned the entire mission.
Cripples are inferior. How did he do that? he thought.
Despite himself, initial disgust had turned to grudging admiration. Trying to resolve his internal dilemma, he latched on to Berthold’s last statement.
“What new model?”
The Director shot a wicked glance at his resident genius.
Speaking carefully, he said, “There is a proposed GO-447 successor, Herr Oberst, which will be larger, and more capable of transatlantic missions. We have not yet received approval from Reichsluftart Ministerium [RLM].”
This was forbidden territory, outside his purview, and so he asked as if disinterested.
“Does this aircraft exist?”
Now the look from the Director was white hot.
“Yes, Oberst, a single experimental example. This is a tightly held State Secret; rather I should say, is supposed to be tightly held. I may not tell you more without proper authorization. I trust you understand.”
“Of course, Herr Director.” von Schroeder said smoothly; he would follow up on this as soon as he returned to Berlin. He turned to Berthold, to put the man on the spot.
“Tell me, Herr Doctor, what are the chances of success of Projekt Rheinwasser with this aircraft?” he said, tapping the drawings.
Berthold replied immediately, “My opinion is about 60 percent, six chances out of ten, for a single mission.”
The quick response surprised him. “Why not a second?” von Schroeder asked, spreading his hands.
Berthold sneered, “Because Americans are not stupid, Herr Oberst. We may, just may, be able to attack them once with unarmed aircraft, but only if we maintain complete secrecy. A second attempt would be a bloodbath; the Americans will be well prepared for a second attack, if I do not misread their national mindset.”
Von Schroeder’s thoughts showed in a woebegone expression.
Berthold said conciliatorily, “Don’t worry, my dear Oberst. Surviving aircraft will have plenty of English and Russian targets to choose from, to say nothing of ships in the North Atlantic.”
Von Schroeder was silent, considering his next move. The others knew that his next response would be crucial. They all held their breath.
Von Schroeder said, “So, if these modifications should be approved, how quickly can they be made? How soon can you provide at least sixty aircraft?”
This was more to the Director’s liking.
“These are not minor changes, Oberst,” he said seriously, starting the negotiation.
“I think six months for that many aircraft. Working twenty-four hours of the day, of course. Then there is the training of crewmen. You are acquainted with the difficulties we have in obtaining materials. I trust you can provide the necessary priorities?”
Von Schroeder nodded at him; if General Wever approves, we’ll have be no problem with funds or priorities.
The Director seemed to read his thoughts, “Good. Out of my control, of course, is building the fueling aircraft. Junkers Aircraft is whom you should discuss that with.”
He looked at his calendar and glanced at his Chief Engineer, who nodded.
“Yes, I will agree to modify sixty aircraft by the end of August if you provide them within ten days. The price would be—”
Chapter 11
25 February 1942
Berlin, Germany
Office of the Chief of the Luftwaffe, General Walther Wever
0945 Hours
Approval
Oberstleutnant Freiherr Gerhard von und zu Schroeder stamped smartly, gave the Nazi salute and shouted, “Heil Hitler!” He carried a large leather drawing folder in his left hand.
Wever gave a delusory wave, �
��Be seated, Oberst.”
“So, then.” Wever snubbed out a cigarette. “What of our friends at the Gotha Werkes? Can Projekt Rheinwasser be successful with their design?”
I am doubtful about the success of this proposal, and even less sure what it would accomplish. Like any good soldier, I will follow my orders, which are clear: if von Schroeder can obtain aircraft to do the job, I must do everything possible to help him. The only benefit is getting von Schroeder and his rabid anti-American schemes out of my hair for a while. And, if by some miracle he succeeds, it will be a major propaganda victory, and in the process, a very useful new tool will be developed: an aerial tanker. General Galland of Fighter command is very interested in that. Wever made a note to discuss it with him.
“Yes, Herr General,” von Schroeder answered eagerly, like an anxious schoolboy.
He thinks of me as his mentor, as if his father, Wever thought.
“They have developed remarkable modifications to the GO-447 flying wing, which make Projekt Rheinwasser possible. The missions could last thirty hours, which would strain the crew, but the aircraft itself is quite capable of the task.” He looked pleased with himself.
He hesitated, and then continued, “There is the most unusual man there, Herr General, who has contrived a number of quite innovative ideas. He has the most audacious plan for the mission—.”
Wever chuckled knowingly, “So you met Herr Doctor Berthold, did you? You must admit he is a most remarkable man, is he not?” His eyes sparkled at von Schroeder’s discomfort. “Did he intimidate you, Gerhard?”
“Yes, sir, he did,” von Schroeder admitted.
“I don’t doubt it,” Wever said, “that man could intimidate Satan himself. Even the Führer is in awe of him.”
“He is brilliant, but he is a cripple, a dwarf—”
“Oberst, Germany could use many more such cripples,” Wever said seriously. “Now, I have only yet twenty-five minutes until my next appointment. What has Berthold proposed?”