BY Adolf Galland
You met Adolf Galland earlier in this book on a bad day in which he was shot down twice in an excerpt from The Greatest Aces by Edward H. Sims. Here Galland tells of flying jet fighters, Me-262s, in the final days of the war in what he well knew was a hopeless cause, and of being bagged again, this time by an American in a P-51 Mustang.
The last air battle of this war over Germany in which the Americans suffered impressive losses was delivered by the German fighter arm on March 18, 1945, over Berlin. The capital of the Reich was attacked by twelve hundred bombers that had an escort of fourteen fighter squadrons of P-5 Is. Although many flak batteries had already been removed to the nearby Eastern Front, sixteen bombers were so heavily hit that they had to make emergency landings behind the Soviet
Front line. The enemy suffered much greater losses at the hands of the jet fighters of the JG-7. From American flight reports one can see that the Me-262 broke again and again with ease through the American fighter screen and shot down one bomber after the other from the tightly closed formations despite an inferiority of one hundred to one. Besides those shot down by flak, the Americans had to report a loss of twenty-five bombers and five fighter planes. The next day the Americans again suffered losses from German jet fighters, while our piston-engined fighters could achieve nothing against the mass of the Allied fighter escort. Doolittle and Tedder now demanded decisive measures to prevent the operation of German jet fighters, without stating what these measures should be.
In January 1945 we started on the formation of my unit that Hitler had ordered. It spread quickly through the fighter arm that our Forty-fourth Squadron was taking shape at Brandenburg-Briest. Our official nomination was a JV-44.
Steinhoff was in charge of retraining the pilots. Liitzow came to us from Italy. Bark-hom, who had scored more than three hundred kills in the east, Hohagen, Schnell, and Krupinski were coaxed out of hospital. Many
Reported without consent or transfer orders. Most of them had been in action since the first day of the war, and all of them had been wounded. All of them bore the scars of war and displayed the highest medals. The Knight’s Cross was, so to speak, the badge of our unit. Now, after a long period of technical and numerical inferiority, they wanted once more to experience the feeling of air superiority. They wanted to be known as the first jet boys of the last fighter pilots of the Luftwaffe. For this they were ready once more to chance sacrificing their lives.
Soon after receiving the first planes we were stationed at Munich-Riem. In the early hours of the morning of March 31, 1945, the JV-44 took off in close formation, and forty-two minutes later the planes landed in Munich. They had covered the distance of about three hundred miles in record time.
Here in Munich the unit took on its final shape. The Squadron of Experts, as we were called, had as pilots one lieutenant general, two colonels, one lieutenant colonel, three majors, five captains, eight lieutenants, and about the same number of second lieutenants. None of us imagined that we were able to give to the war the much-quoted “turn.” The magic word jet had brought us together to experience once more “die grosse Fliegerei. ”
Our last operation was anything but a fresh and gay hunting. We not only battled against technical, tactical, and supply difficulties, we also lacked a clear picture of the air situation of the floods coming from the west — a picture absolutely necessary for the success of an operation. Every day the fronts moved in closer from three sides. But worst of all our field was under continuous observation by an overwhelming majority of American fighters. During one raid we were hit three times very heavily. Thousands of workers had to be mobilized to keep open a landing strip between the bomb craters.
Surprisingly I was called by Goring to the Obersalzberg; it must have been somewhere around April 10. To my amazement he received me with the greatest civility, inquired after the progress of our initial actions, and gave me a restricted confirmation that my prediction concerning the use of bombers with the Me-262 in the defense of the Reich had been correct. This indicated that the Reichsmarshal had begun to realize that after all I had been right throughout all those sharp clashes of opinion of the last months. This was the last time I saw Goring.
Four weeks before the collapse of the armed forces the fighter arm was still in a position to represent a factor that could not
Be overlooked. Operations from Riem started despite all resistance and difficulties. Naturally we were able to send up only small units. On landing, the aircraft had to be towed immediately off the field. They were dispersed over the countryside and had to be completely camouflaged. Bringing the aircraft onto the field and taking off became more and more difficult: eventually it was a matter of luck. One raid followed another.
In this situation the safety of the personnel was paramount and came before any orders to clear the airfield. Each pilot was responsible for his own cover on the airfield and had to dig his own foxhole. When it came to physical work, you cannot imagine anything more lazy than a fighter pilot in his sixth year of service. My pilots moaned terribly about the stony ground at Riem. Returning from a mission, I was standing with them on our western airstrip, watching the bombers attacking railway stations in Munich in single waves. Suddenly someone called, “Achtung! Bombenangriff!” Already the ugly finger of death, as we called the markers of the daylight raiders, were groping for our aerodrome. I chased after one of my pilots, who slithered into a nearby hole he had dug for himself. Hellishly narrow, I thought. . . oh, a single foxhole. It was very shallow. Then
The first carpet of bombs roared down, passed over our heads. Nauseating, the whistle, the explosion, the blast, the tremor of the ground. A brief pause occurred after the attack of the first formation. I was lying on top of a sergeant. It was Knier. He was shaking, but in answer to my question he insisted that he was no more afraid than I was.
Our hole had a cover. A few splinters had struck this lid with a loud metallic clang. My back was pressed against it. “Knier, what’s this on my back?”
“One-hundred-pound bomb, Herr General,” was the prompt reply.
I certainly began to shake. Another five salvos followed at short intervals. Outside there was smoke, debris, craters, fire, and destruction. All Germans had experienced this during the last years of the war — in the cities, in the factories, on the battlefield, on ships and U-boats: bombs, bombs, bombs! But it was an awkward feeling to be in the middle of a raid and, what is more, to be sheltered by one’s own bombs.
During these last weeks of the war we were able to fit out some aircraft with additional weapons, which gave a greater firing power to the Me-262: R4M rockets of 3-cm caliber, and 500-g explosives. A single hit from these was enough to bring down a
Multiengined bomber. They were fixed beneath the wing in two racks that carried twenty-four rockets. In a feverish hurry our mechanics and servicing crew loaded up a few jet fighters. I took off in one of them.
In the district of Landsberg on the Lech I met a formation of about sixteen Marauders. We called these twin-engined bombers Halbstarke. I opened from a distance of about six hundred yards, firing in half a second a salvo of twenty-four rockets into the closeflying formation. I observed two certain hits. One bomber immediately caught fire and exploded; a second lost large parts of its right tail unit and wing and began to spiral earthward. In the meantime the three other planes that had taken off with me had also successfully attacked. My accompanying pilot, Edward Schallnoser, who once over Riem had rammed a Lightning because in his excitement he could not fire, waded into the Marauders with all his rockets. That evening he reported back to his quarters, parachute under his arm and a twisted leg.
Our impression of the efficiency of this new weapon was indescribable. The rockets could be fired outside the effective range of the defensive fire of the bombers. A well-aimed salvo would probably hit several bombers simultaneously. That was the way
To break up formations. But this was the end of April 1945! In the middle of our breakup, at the beginning of our collapse! It does not bear thinking about what we could have done had we had those jet fighters, 3-cm quick-firing cannons, and 5-cm rockets years ago — before our war potential had been smashed, before indescribable misery had come over Germany through the raids. We dared not think about it. Now we could do nothing but fly and fight and do our duty as fighter pilots to the last.
Service in action still demanded heavy and grievous losses. On April 18, Steinhoff crashed on a takeoff but managed to free himself from the burning wreckage of his jet plane with very severe burns. A few days later Gunther Liitzow did not return from his mission. Long after the end of the war we were still hoping that this splendid officer might not have left us forever. In the same spirit and with the same devotion many more young pilots of our unit fell.
But the fate of Germany was sealed. On April 25 the American and the Soviet soldiers shook hands at Torgau on the Elbe. The last defensive ring of Berlin was soon penetrated. The Red flag was flying over the Ballhaus-platz in Vienna. The German front in Italy collapsed. On Pilsen fell the last bomb of the
J
2,755,000 tons which-the Western Allies had dropped on Europe during five years of war.
At the moment I called my pilots together and said to them, “Militarily speaking the war is lost. Even our action here cannot change anything.... I shall continue to fight, because operating with the Me-262 has got hold of me, because I am proud to belong to the last fighter pilots of the German Luftwaffe. . . . Only those who feel the same are to go on flying with me.”
The harsh reality of the war had finally decided the question “Bomber or fighter action by Me-262?” in our favor. The leaders were completely occupied with themselves in Berlin and at other places. Numerous departments, which up to now had interfered with allocation and the operation of jet fighters, ceased to function or did not come through anymore. Commanders of the bombers, reconnaissance, combat fighters, night fighters, and sundry testing units that had been fitted out with the coveted Me-262 passed their aircraft on to us. From all sides we were presented with jet fighters. Finally we had seventy aircraft.
On April 26, I set out on my last mission of the war. I led six jet fighters of the JV-44 against a formation of Marauders. Our own
Little directing post brought us well into contact with the enemy. The weather: varying clouds at different altitudes, with gaps, ground visible in about only three-tenths of the operational area.
I sighted the enemy formation in the district of Neuburg on the Danube. Once again I noticed how difficult it was, with such great difference of speed and with clouds over the landmarks, to find the relative flying direction between one’s own plane and that of the enemy, and how difficult it was to judge the approach. This difficulty had already driven Liitzow to despair. He had discussed it repeatedly with me, and every time he missed his run-in, this most successful fighter commodore blamed his own inefficiency as a fighter pilot. Had there been any need for more confirmation as to the hopelessness of operations with the Me-262 by bomber pilots, our experiences would have sufficed.
But now there was no time for such considerations. We were flying in an almost opposite direction to the Marauder formation. Each second meant that we were three hundred yards nearer. I will not say that I fought this action ideally, but I led my formation to a fairly favorable firing position. Safety catch off the gun and rocket switch! Already at a great distance we met with considerable de-
Fensive fire. As usual in-a dogfight, I was tense and excited: I forgot to release the second safety catch for the rockets. They did not go off. I was in the best firing position, I had aimed accurately and pressed my thumb flat on the release button — with no result. Maddening for any fighter pilot! Anyhow my four 3-cm cannons were working. They had so much more firing power than we had been used to so far. At that moment, close below me, Schallnoser, the jet-rammer, whizzed past. In ramming he made no distinction between friend or foe.
This engagement had lasted only a fraction of a second — an important second to be sure. One Marauder of the last string was on fire and exploded. Now I attacked another bomber in the van of the formation. It was heavily hit as I passed close above it. During this breakthrough I got a few minor hits from the defensive fire. But now I wanted to know definitely what was happening to the second bomber I had hit. I was not quite clear if it had crashed. So far I had not noticed any fighter escort.
Above the formation I had attacked last, I banked steeply to the left, and at this moment it happened: a hail of fire enveloped me. A Mustang had caught me napping. A sharp rap hit my right knee. The instrument
Panel with its indispensable instruments was shattered. The right engine was also hit. Its metal covering worked loose in the wind and was partly carried away. Now the left engine was hit, too. I could hardly hold her in the air.
In this embarrassing situation I had only one wish: to get out of this crate, which now apparently was only good for dying in. But then I was paralyzed by the terror of being shot while parachuting down. Experience had taught us that we jet-fighter pilots had to reckon on this. I soon discovered that my battered Me-262 could be steered again after some adjustments. After a dive through the layer of cloud I saw the autobahn below me; ahead of me lay Munich and to the left Riem. In a few seconds I was over the airfield. It was remarkably quiet and dead below. Having regained my self-confidence, I gave the customary wing wobble and started banking to come in. One engine did not react at all to the throttle. I could not reduce it. Just before the edge of the airfield I therefore had to cut out both engines. A long trail of smoke drifted behind me. Only at tliis moment I noticed that Thunderbolts in a low-level attack were giving our airfield the works. Now I had no choice. I had not heard the warnings of our ground post because my wireless had
Faded out when I was hit. There remained only one thing to do: straight down into the fireworks! Touching down, I realized that the tire of my nosewheel was flat. It rattled horribly as the earth again received me at a speed of 150 mph on the small landing strip.
Brake! Brake! The kite would not stop! But at last I was out of the kite and into the nearest bomb crater. There were plenty of them on our runways. Bombs and rockets exploded all around; bursts of shells from the Thunderbolts whistled and banged. A new low-level attack. Out of the fastest fighter in the world into a bomb crater, that was an unutterably wretched feeling.
Through all the fireworks an armored tractor came rushing across to me. It pulled up sharply close by. One of our mechanics. Quickly I got in behind him. He turned and raced off on the shortest route away from the airfield. In silence I slapped him on the shoulder. He understood better what I wanted to say than any words about the unity between flying and ground personnel could have expressed.
The other pilots who took part in this operation were directed to neighboring airfields or came into Riem after the attack. We reported five certain kills without loss to ourselves.
I had to go to Munich to a hospital for treatment of my scratched knee. The X ray showed two splinters in the kneecap. It was put in plaster. A fine business!
The enemy, advancing from the north, had already crossed the Danube at several places. The JV-44 prepared its last transfer. Bar, who had come to us with the remnants of his Volksfighter test commando, took over the command in my place. About sixty jet fighters flew to Salzburg. Orders came from the Reichskanzlei and from the Luftwaffe staff in Berchtesgaden for an immediate transfer to Prague in order to pursue from there the completely hopeless fight for Berlin. The execution of this order was delayed until it became purposeless.
On May 3 the aircraft of the JV-44 were standing on the aerodrome of Salzburg without any camouflage. American fighters circled overhead. They did not shoot, they did not drop any bombs; they obviously hoped soon to be flying the German jet fighters that had given them so much trouble. Salzburg prepared for the capitulation. The advanced units of Devers’s army approached the town. As the rattle of the first tank was heard on the airfield, there was no other possibility left: our jet fighters went up in flames.
World History
