The '1927' intake - the final call-up - recalling Fliegerkamerad Rolf Mink

 

A Memory of Fliegerkamerad Rolf Mink

 

On August 4, 1987, my comrade Rolf Mink would have turned 60. We first met on January 14, 1945, during a train journey from Eschwege to Stolpmünde on the Baltic coast. Several other young people boarded the same train, clinging to the deluded belief that they might one day become fighter pilots. Some were obsessed with flying; others had been shaped by the pitiless experiences of the war’s final months. As children, teenagers, Flakhelfer anti-aircraft auxiliaries, and conscripts in the Reich Labour Service, they had been exposed to the inferno of bombing raids over German cities. They had witnessed burning aircraft and wreckage, human beings turned into living torches, and pilots shot down. They had seen "Lightnings" and "Mustangs" hunting down locomotives—and anything else that moved on the roads or in the fields—with ruthless precision. 

 This was certainly not a time for the romanticized chivalry of champagne-toasting knights. From the admiring gazes cast upon the aviation idols—constantly held up as role models in words and images—there emerged a naive fantasy: that one could, as a fighter pilot, engage these fire-spewing swarms of bombers with a mixture of zeal and hatred. Such calls to action were issued in every conceivable form. Only a few of my comrades were fortunate enough to have realized, as early as 1933—at the age of six—that Hitler’s path would lead only to chaos. Scarcely any of my comrades from the 1927 cohort were ever aware back then that the war had already been lost for Germany since 1941. And for many of my comrades, they had little time left to live. The harsh realities of life for the youth of that era may not fit well into today’s worldview, but they cannot be erased from our history. It was a time when boys of the same age, suffering from severe wounds, would call out for their mothers and for God. And these were the final days of the madness—a time when these boys, often driven by a primal instinct for survival, became unsung heroes.  

 But what about Rolf? Perhaps we had already crossed paths on May 1, 1944, during the aptitude testing for Luftwaffe officer candidates in Bad Blankenburg, Thuringia. For some of the applicants—who had spent months in gruelling service as anti-aircraft auxiliaries—the youthful innocence typical of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds had already vanished from their faces. The term "assault fighter" (Sturmjäger) began to circulate among the candidates. But by the time they were traveling by freight train in goods wagons from Stolpmünde to Gardelegen, the dream of flying had come to an end. In the former paratrooper training hall in Gardelegen, the full tragedy and the looming sense of hopelessness became starkly apparent. Right next to us youngsters lay or sat numerous "old hands", former airmen, awaiting their final 'missions' —this time as infantrymen for the Luftwaffe. Few of us knew that these final ground operations meant almost certain death.

'Ein Traum!' ; January 1945 on the journey to Stolpmünde young Flakhelfer hoping to complete fighter pilot training.

 A few days later, Rolf became my bunkmate at the Flechum training camp near Haselünne. We were now members of the 2nd Paratrooper Replacement and Training Regiment III, under the immediate command of an Oblt. Schulz and a Lt. Waldier. Often after duty hours, or while lying in the lower bunk of our two-tiered beds, Rolf and I would engage in long conversations. What I learned about the young Rolf during these chats was—and remains to this day—truly fascinating: his father, who had served as a pilot with *Schlachtstaffel 10* (a ground-attack squadron) in 1917–1918 and was later shot down and killed in 1944 while ferrying a Morane aircraft, had introduced his son to the secrets of flight at an early age. By the time he was four or five, Rolf was already accompanying his father in powered aircraft; by seven, he was flying in gliders. At the age of eleven, while at the Harsberg gliding school, Rolf earned the "B" badge—represented by two wings—and shortly thereafter, the "C" badge. He had already passed his "A" badge examination at the age of nine. Back then, in 1939, Rolf was considered the youngest glider pilot in Germany—and, indeed, the world. It was often quite an amusing sight to watch little Rolf climb into a glider, wearing a crash helmet that was far too big for him, along with his parachute. "He always had to look up to tall people, yet they, in turn, would usually gaze down at the little fellow with genuine admiration." He had come to know all the great figures of aviation—from the unforgettable 'father of the Rhön' [gliding movement], Ursinus, to the virtuoso of the skies, Wolf Hirth. For Rolf, 'flying' had become a word that pointed toward the future. He dreamed of becoming a fighter pilot. Whether this had also been his ambition during peacetime, I never learned.

 The final days of my former comrade Rolf’s life unfolded like a time-lapse film, and his death confirmed his own dark premonitions. Sometime in March 1945, our company arrived in Holland. The days that followed were defined by the roar of V-1 flying bombs and the hissing of V-2 rockets, accompanied by the incessant clanking of enemy tank tracks. Our company was decimated; we were ordered to make our way—in small groups—toward the Teutoburg Forest. From there, or so the word went, a great counteroffensive would be launched, utilizing the new 'wonder weapons'…

 At some point, in some place—quietly and without a word of farewell—the paths of Rolf and myself diverged. 

 1939 on the Wasserkuppe: Wolf Hirth with Rolf Mink—the youngest glider pilot in the world, having earned his "C" badge at the age of eleven. 

 On April 8, 1945, at 2:00 p.m., Rolf Mink was wounded by a gunshot to the abdomen near Recke, by the Mittelland Canal—on home soil. On April 11, 1945, at 12:30 pm., he passed away from his severe wounds. A written record states: "His mortal remains were laid to rest that same day at 4:00 p.m. with military honours. The body bears an unmarked identification tag and the Segelfliegerabzeichen (glider pilots badge) featuring three swallows." Rolf was not yet 18 years old. 

 by Wolfgang Koch in Jägerblatt 5/87

2000. Feindflug einer Fernaufklärerstaffel - Werner Breese 5.(F)/AufklGr. 122

published in the 15 October 1942 issue of Flieger- Funker- Kanoniere (Luftflotte 1 Frontzeitung)

The 2,000th Sortie of a Long-Range Reconnaissance Staffel

 It is early morning at a forward airfield in the northern sector of the Eastern Front. Following the previous night’s thunderstorm, the sky is hazy and overcast. The September sun peeks through streaks of blue-grey cloud. The activity on the airfield reflects the familiar routine of daily aviation life. Yet, over by the hangar at the edge of the runway, the Staffelführer has gathered with the officers of the long-range reconnaissance squadron, the mechanics, and the ground crew. They are awaiting "Paula-Nordpol" and her crew, who took off at sunrise for the squadron's 2,000th mission and are due to return in just a few minutes. 

 There is the aircraft! It roars over our heads at low altitude. After one more circuit, it begins its landing approach, rolls to a stop, and is guided into its parking position. The crew climbs out. The mechanics hold up the proud figure—"2-0-0-0"—displayed in large white numbers . 

 The 2,000th sortie of a long-range reconnaissance squadron—this is no mere statistic. Other figures lie behind it, revealing the true extent of the squadron's achievements. Staffel aircraft have flown a total of two million kilometres —the equivalent of circling the equator forty times. This distance was covered over the course of 5,000 flight hours or 201 days of continuous flight. 

 Celebrating the milestone mission of the long-range reconnaissance Staffel 5.(F)/AufklGr. 122. Framed by the numbers are the pilot, Leutnant Werner Breese; the observer, Leutnant Misselwitz, radio operator, Feldwebel Koch and Bordmechaniker Fw. Fink. 

 The film stock containing vital imagery brought back by the reconnaissance crews from their flights measures 45,000 meters in length. The enemy territory captured in these aerial photographs covers an area equivalent to that of Germany, France, Belgium, and the Netherlands combined. The selfless nature of these reconnaissance missions can hardly be conveyed adequately in mere words and figures. Yet, faced with these numbers, one realizes the magnitude of the achievement accomplished by this long-range reconnaissance Staffel. In the course of 2,000 perilous, solitary flights, their aircraft have penetrated deep into enemy territory. The resulting imagery provided excellent targeting data for combat aircraft and thus contributed to the Luftwaffe's successes in this sector of the front. 

The 2,000th combat sortie naturally calls for a celebration by the entire Staffel. In keeping with age-old aviation tradition, champagne corks are popping. The Staffelführer briefly addresses the crew—seasoned by so many missions—and hands them glasses of the fine vintage. Laughter rings out. Witty remarks are exchanged. Joy is visible on every face. They toast to the success of the next thousand flights. Then, the familiar demands and duties of service reclaim each individual. For even today, the first flights of the third thousand will follow the 2,000th mission. 

War Correspondent Schulz.

PDF copies available from wartimepress.com

Thanks to Stefan Kruse for assistance with this blog post. Tim Oliver's extensive biography of Werner Breese featured in Vol IV of Axis Wings (Chandos)

"Searching for U-boat crewmen" - a I./KG 40 Condor sortie by PK reporter Walter Henkels (writing in "Eismeer Patrouille")

 

Searching for U-boat crewmen

"..The Staffelkapitän of 3./Kampfgeschwader 40 at Værnes was Hptm. (Robert) Maly. We took off—as my flight log confirms—from Værnes on 24 May, 1944, at 14:21 and returned at 23:18. The day before, I had flown an armed reconnaissance mission with *Stabsfeldwebel* Hatzold from the same Staffel, lasting from 05:52 to 15:47. The mission with the Hptm. was designated as an 'armed reconnaissance' and a sea rescue operation. 

 By 1944, the situation off the coast of Norway had changed drastically. The glorious heyday of the German U-boat arm was over, and that of the Luftwaffe had ended long before. The enemy’s detection technology for U-boats was comprehensive. In the far north, the graves of sailors and airmen were much the same. Day after day, the steel coffins of the German Navy sank to the ocean floor. The triumph of the U-boat arm was revealing its dark side. The superiority of the Americans, British, and Soviets was now undeniable. Within the span of two weeks, half a dozen German U-boats had been sent to the bottom—destroyed by depth charges—off the coast of Norway alone. 

 Hptm. Maly—the man I am looking at right now —was certainly distinguished by his exceptional flying skills. He was a veteran aviator.. (awarded the DKiG during 1943) He hailed from Bavaria—not by name, perhaps, but by his own account and his turn of phrase. Our mission today was simply to drop inflatable rafts for submariners adrift at sea after their U-boat had been sunk by depth charges. We knew the grid square between the Shetlands and the Faroes from which an emergency transmitter had sent the call: "We are in distress, SOS." There is no longer any night. Daylight lasts nearly twenty-four hours. It is neither spring nor summer in the sense we know them; it is a shift of tides that defies all the laws of our Central European zones. The earth’s apparent deep peace and the world’s apparent solemnity were shattered by the roaring engines of our aircraft....."

"....We had inflated our yellow life vests even before the mission began. The parachutes lay uselessly in the rear of the fuselage. Within half an hour, the four-engine "Condor" had long since cleared the belt of skerries and was on course over the open sea. It didn't take much imagination to realize: this sea-rescue mission was going to be an unpleasant business. Up front, the observer—a Leutnant—sat beside Maly; behind them were two Feldwebel, a non-commissioned officer, and the war correspondent, to whom Maly had assigned the rear gun turret. The war correspondent knew a thing or two about firing the 20mm cannon; he had been trained for it. Maly resorted to two words: "Damn!" ('Verflucht!') and "Shit!" ('Mist!') High above, there had been light wisps of cirrus clouds, but the aircraft had to descend—straight through the cloud layer. Just moments ago, the good old sun had been up there, sparkling as if it had bathed and rolled around in the gold vaults of Wall Street; now—cloud base four—hundred metres, we were low over the black, glossy surface of the sea. And that was the mission, too: search at an altitude of fifty metres.. We had arrived in the North Sea grid square.. 'Eyes open!" ordered the Hptm. We spot a German fast attack craft (Schnell boot) undertaking the same mission. The observer on our plane fires the ES—the daily recognition signals —green and blue—from his pistol. Barely ten seconds later, tracer rounds from the German boat’s flak gun streak past the German aircraft. The Hptm. is hugely annoyed at this and screams into his headset—though his comrades on the boat certainly can't hear it: "Damn and blast!" followed by the crude language of the officers' mess: "Assholes!" The plane hits turbulence and lurches violently, dropping almost to the surface of the sea. The sailors had aimed right at them; our machine had fired the previous day's ES—the wrong ones.. 

 The word "Assholes!" has always been a magic incantation among soldiers. The secret forces of fear and dread had now taken hold of both the airmen and the sailors. All that was missing now was for a few British Beaufighters to come roaring in, or for a single British destroyer to appear on the scene and destroy the helpless Condor and the two German boats—a second boat had meanwhile come into the airmen's view. From the plane, a lone man drifting in the sea, wearing a dirty-yellow life vest, was spotted for a few seconds - sighted first to starboard, then to port—but before the Condor could bank around in the gusty wind, the man had vanished into the heavy seas. 

We didn't manage to launch a single inflatable boat. Around midnight, having returned, Hptm. Maly and the war correspondent visited the crews of the S-boats. The S-boats had fished sixteen of the fifty-seven U-boat men out of the water and brought them aboard; the sea had claimed the rest—they had died a sailor's death. The naval Leutnant tore into the Luftwaffe Hauptmann; "If you lot shoot off the wrong ES again soon, you'll get another earful!" the young man said, without showing the StaKa even a shred of goodwill or the respect due his rank. It makes one wonder—as generations of naval officers have claimed—whether the Sea Lords are surrounded by nothing but admirals, while the air force is teeming with nothing but small-time nobodies... "

"... und wird nach Luftkampf vermißt!.." JG 77 Bf 109 K-4s lost on 23 December 1944

 

"...and is missing following aerial combat!" by Werner Girbig in Jägerblatt, March 1972

"... Hundreds of reports issued by military units after costly missions ended with this very sentence. One such was Hptm. Armin Köhler’s III./JG 77 which suffered losses on December 23, 1944: two pilots killed or missing and five wounded. When Günter Schmitz drew my attention to the grave of an unknown German fighter pilot in Altenahr in the summer of 1970, neither of us knew that the man resting there belonged to that very same III. Gruppe of JG 77, or that a combination of unfortunate circumstances would delay the resolution of his fate for another 18 months. Above all, I had no idea at the time how much effort it would take to gather the material needed to prove that the fallen airman in the Altenahr cemetery grave could only be one specific individual.

 But it is best to tell the story in order. At least the date and approximate time of the unknown fighter pilot’s crash near Altenahr were known: December 23, 1944, around 3:30 p.m. This information came from the Altenahr gravedigger; long after the war ended, scrap collectors alerted him to wreckage and skeletal remains, prompting him to retrieve the pilot’s body from the woods and bury it in the municipal cemetery. According to his own account, he found and broke the Erkennungsmarke ID tag also found at the crash site, intending to place one half in the grave and hand the other over to the police for forwarding. Furthermore, the incident was officially recorded, and the identification tag number was noted down. Another resident of Altenahr reported finding a data plate inscribed "Messerschmitt AG" near the crash site, though he had subsequently discarded it carelessly. Alongside the pilot's shattered body, a Polish coin and a St. Christopher amulet were found at the time—items that would prove invaluable for further research. Twenty-six years after the tragic events over the "Western Combat Zone," I began tracing the unknown pilot's path using the scant information available. Günter Schmitz had meanwhile secured permission from the municipal authorities to open the grave, allowing us to search for the identification tag half—which we hoped to find there—using a detector on December 1, 1970.

 Yet, we had no luck that day. Although even the tiniest screws from the aircraft were present and detectable in the grave—the pilot had been recovered from the crash site along with many small fragments of his machine and buried in Altenahr—not the slightest trace of an identification tag could be found. The specific file folder containing the records was also missing. Shortly after the war ended, officials from some military authority had appeared to confiscate specific documents, and since that time, the file folder had vanished. The fate of the fallen airman could now only be determined through indirect means, so I immediately set to work reconstructing the combat events of December 23, 1944. 

 With the help of the WASt in Berlin, I eventually had a good dozen pilots on my list who had been missing since December 23. Naturally, a bit of luck is required in such matters, and Günter Schmitz managed to find several rounds of 30mm ammunition as well as a fragment of an aileron 'horn' —a part specific to the Bf 109. The ammunition and various other distinctive aircraft components confirmed to us that the plane must have been a Bf 109 K-4. Returning to the pilots missing from December 23: some could be ruled out immediately because they had flown Focke-Wulf aircraft that day; of the remaining six Messerschmitt pilots, three flew the G-14 model and the others the K-4. One of these K-4 pilots—a member of III./JG 77—hailed from Teschen in Upper Silesia, and I immediately thought of the Polish coin, given Teschen’s location in the German-Polish border region. Both in terms of time and location, the evidence now pointed strongly toward the JG 77 non-commissioned officer, as the other pilots belonged to units deployed elsewhere on the morning of December 23. The unidentified fallen pilot, however, had crashed around 3:30 p.m.—precisely the time when the III. Gruppe of JG 77 was engaged in aerial combat over the Ahr Valley in their Bf 109 K-4s. Hptm. Köhler himself landed in Cologne at 3:15 p.m. following the mission. Uffz. Silwester was the only member of this unit still missing as of December 23, 1944. I was able to compile enough information to hand it over to the WASt (German Federal Archives). It took weeks before I could submit all the documents. For me, it was already clear that the dead fighter pilot in Altenahr could only be Uffz. Walter Silwester of 12 Staffel of JG 77. All the information converged at one point. Would the WASt also be able to close the case based on my "circumstantial evidence"? As the months passed, I learned from Josef Kleber, former Adjutant of III./JG 77, how the Gruppe was unexpectedly attacked by Allied fighters (P-47s) over the Ahr Mountains on December 23rd during their outbound flight and suffered the well-known losses. Since December 1944, losses among the German fighter forces had been rising rapidly. Leadership errors and inadequate training could not be compensated for by the self-sacrifice of the fighter pilots alone. During the fierce and dramatic air battles in the West in the final days of 1944 (December 23-31), hundreds of aircraft were shot down. Even today, 83 German fighter pilots are considered effectively missing in action there, and the fact that the entire fighter force still lists well over 2,000 missing pilots can easily be seen, in part, from the existing loss lists. The area of the so-called "Western Combat Zone" will be the immediate focus of my next investigations. Uffz. Silwester was one of those missing from the Ardennes Offensive, and the clarification of his fate, in which Günter Schmitz also played a significant role, will hopefully not be the last success..."

 To conclude, here again is the loss report of III./JG 77 from December 23, 1944 including details of 11. and 12. Staffel Bf 109 K-4s..

Uffz. Hasso Fröhlich 11. Staffel verw.

'yellow 16' WNr. 330200

Lt. Martin Ludwig 12. Staffel verw.

'blue 8' WNr. 330205

 Uffz. Willi Meyer 12. Staffel verw.

'blue 6' WNr. 330217

 Uffz. Karl Reinberg 12. Staffel verw.

'blue 13' WNr. 330197

 Fw. Hans Rössner 12. Staffel, gefallen (zunächst vermißt)

'blue 3' WNr. 330177

 Uffz. Walter Silwester 12. Staffel,  gefallen (zunächst vermißt) 

'blue 11' WNr. 330164

 Lt. W. Wildenauer 11. Staffel verw.

'yellow 13' WNr. 330144

Below; previously unpublished image of Lt. Martin Ludwig seated on his 8./JG 77 G-2 'black 9' in the late spring of 1944. Note the Gustav in the background with underwing 'Werfer' rocket launcher. Born 13 July 1923 in Mellenbach. Coming from EJG Süd, he was posted to 8./JG 77 in October 1943. In June 1944 he transferred to 7./JG 77 and in October 1944 joined 12./JG 77. WIA 23 Dec 1944 in combat with P-47s. After recovering from his injuries he did not return to JG 77 joining a ground unit. 3 claims. (via Brouez)

8 May 1945 - my last combat flight, Courland evacuation, Hans Freiherr von Zedlitz

 

".. III. Gruppe of the torpedo-bomber wing KG 26 (*Vestigium Leonis*, also known as the "Lion Wing") was stationed at Værnes near Trondheim, Norway, at the end of the war. It was there, on May 7, 1945, that we received news of the war's end. For me—serving as an *Oberleutnant* and pilot—this period had been preceded by 14 combat missions against Allied convoys in the Mediterranean between August 1943 and early 1944. In 1944, I underwent conversion training from the He 111 to the Ju 188, followed by the reformation of III. Gruppe  and our transfer to Norway. Our mission objective was to attack convoys in the North Sea and the Arctic Ocean. On the morning of May 8, all remaining serviceable aircraft were transferred to Oslo. Shortly before we took off from Værnes, we witnessed the crash of a Ju 88; for reasons that could not be determined, the aircraft performed a 180-degree roll along its longitudinal axis after takeoff and struck the ground in a ball of fire from an altitude of approximately 150 meters.. In Oslo, the combat-ready crews received orders to fly to Courland without their flight engineers—meaning with a crew of three. The objective was to airlift as many soldiers as possible out of the Courland Army. While flying south, passing east of Denmark, we spotted a naval formation out at sea to the west that appeared to be heading for Copenhagen. Before taking off from Oslo, we had been told that the planned mission to the east had been coordinated with the Allied forces. The only threat of attack came from the Russian side. Our flight across the Baltic Sea to Courland proceeded without incident. En route, we flew over the island of Bornholm, which we knew to be occupied by German forces. It was fortunate that we did not fly back along the same route; the Russians had taken over the island during the day. We reached our destination, the Grobin 2 airfield near Libau in Latvia, sometime after midday. On our approach to Libau, we spotted several aircraft wrecks off the coast—apparently shot down by the Russians. After landing, it was confirmed to us that Russian fighter planes were constantly patrolling the coast and attempting to shoot down departing aircraft. For this reason, I decided to begin the return flight as late as possible. Unfortunately, we encountered significant difficulties before takeoff. I had managed to barter for 200 litres of aviation fuel in exchange for two bottles of cognac. When the fuel truck arrived from the nearby Grobin 1 airfield, the radio operator had to take on the task of refueling, as the mechanic had remained in Oslo. During the refueling process, the radio operator suddenly shouted, "Stop! The tank is overflowing." A check revealed that he had poured the fuel into the oil filler neck of the right engine. Thanks to the assistance of an airfield inspector, we found an engine specialist who drained the fuel-contaminated oil, allowing fresh oil to be added. We were also able to salvage a small amount of the fuel. The airfield itself was largely filled with airworthy aircraft, yet there were no pilots left. The last pilots had reportedly flown off that morning in the fighters and a few other machines. Only a single Ju 52—already occupied by soldiers—stood a few meters away from us, but without a pilot. My aircraft had meanwhile taken five soldiers on board; a sixth was to be squeezed into the fuselage between the reserve fuel tanks just before takeoff. According to ground crew, about 200 soldiers from the Courland Army were still waiting at the edge of the airfield for transport out at that time. The crew of a Ju 88 that had taken off that afternoon returned about an hour later in a cross-country vehicle; the pilot reported that they had been attacked by Russian fighters and he had made an emergency landing on the coast. He then volunteered to take over the Ju 52 that was still waiting. Sometime that afternoon—we were standing in front of the aircraft—an infantry officer accompanied by two soldiers approached me across the airfield and asked if we still had room in the plane. We were able to accommodate his two soldiers in the Ju 52. The officer—who secured the very last available spot in the aircraft, located in the cockpit facing the rear—was Leutnant Hubert Leufgen. That marked the beginning of a friendship that has now lasted fifty years. Shortly before takeoff, an agitated sergeant arrived and tried to board the aircraft by force. This was prevented by the crew and airfield personnel. Takeoff finally took place in the late afternoon, made more difficult by the fact that the normal runway was too short. We had to take off diagonally across the airfield, aiming for a radio station located at the edge of the airfield, and were glad we didn't clip it. Immediately transitioning to low-level flight, we flew over the port of Liepāja on a northerly course towards the Baltic Sea. After a short time, four Russian fighters approached us at high altitude in formation. We saw them bank to attack, but their unfavorable angle of attack helped to repel the attacks. Three more fighters joined them, but we were able to fend off the uncoordinated attacks, regardless of which direction they came from, with full engine power and a daring low-level flight over the sea. I decided against following my observer's advice to fly towards high clouds on the horizon. My experience as a pilot told me that when attacking at low altitude, the best way to outmaneuver fighters is not to fly normal turns, but to use the rudder to create a sideslip effect, presenting the attacker with a constantly shifting target. To make matters worse, the radio operator behind me kept jamming the only available machine gun. The fighters had turned away (likely because they lacked sufficient fuel for a prolonged flight over the sea) when the right engine began to run roughly—presumably a consequence of the strain. We had originally intended to fly west, passing over Bornholm. Instead, I decided to gain altitude and head toward the Swedish coast. At an altitude of three thousand meters, I shut down the right engine and did not use it again until landing in Copenhagen. By then, it had grown dark; some Swedish airfields had switched on their landing lights, but we continued flying toward Copenhagen. In Copenhagen, they were kind enough to turn on the runway lights. Four jeeps carrying British paratroopers met our aircraft as it rolled to a stop. Armed soldiers escorted us as we disembarked, and I had great difficulty extracting the soldier who had been wedged in between the reserve fuel tanks. Officers and enlisted men were separated and quartered within the Citadel in Copenhagen. That shared return flight from Courland—bringing me face-to-face with Hubert Leufgen—blossomed into a friendship that has endured to this day... "

 Photos: v. Zedlitz

Using AI to write Luftwaffe books? new Gerhard Barkhorn 'biography'

 

A new 'book' on the 'extraordinary life' of a Luftwaffe fighter ace. Of course the typical Al-generated cover is horrible (especially if you happen to know what Barkhorn or a Starfighter look like - and look at that canopy. Is he flying a Spitfire there ?!). I asked chatgpt to examine one lengthy (and typical) passage and provide a stylistic analysis of the text..

 Here's the passage (p87) from Witt's text ;

  "... What set Barkhorn apart from the majority of pilots who suffered comparable numbers of shoot downs was not any special immunity to danger but a combination of skill in managing the aftermath of these incidents and, in no small measure, simple fortune. Being shot down did not automatically mean death or capture. It meant, depending on circumstances, a crash landing behind friendly lines that might leave a pilot shaken but unharmed, a forced descent into territory that required a difficult and dangerous return to friendly forces on foot, or, in the more severe cases, injuries requiring extended medical treatment before any return to flying duty became possible. Barkhorn's survival through nine such incidents, walking or being carried away from wreckage that might easily have killed him, reflects an accumulation of narrow escapes that no amount of tactical patience or calculated engagement could fully explain on its own. The two occasions on which he suffered serious wounds carried a different weight than the more numerous shoot downs that left him physically unharmed. Injury of this severity did more than remove a pilot temporarily from active duty....it introduced a psychological dimension to his continuing service that the simple fact of returning to the cockpit tends to obscure in retrospective accounts of his career... " 

There are several clues that may indicate AI 'assistance' here: 

Highly polished analytical phrasing — e.g. “a combination of skill in managing the aftermath of these incidents and, in no small measure, simple fortune.”

Repetitive qualification — the passage explains and re-explains that being shot down did not necessarily mean death or capture. 

 

Abstract language — “an accumulation of narrow escapes that no amount of tactical patience or calculated engagement could fully explain on its own” sounds more like AI-generated historical analysis than a conventional biographical narrative.

Lack of specific evidence — despite discussing nine shoot-downs and two serious wounds, the text provides few details and does not identify the incidents, dates, locations or sources. However this passage does lead into an 'account' of the events of 31 May 1944 when Barkhorn was downed and seriously injured by a P-39 - although again no other details are provided.  " AI historical prose often has this characteristic: confident interpretation without enough documentary detail... "

The Barkhorn 'crash-landing' discussion repeatedly makes a point, qualifies it, and then restates it in slightly different language: “not any special immunity to danger but a combination of skill…” followed by: “no amount of tactical patience or calculated engagement could fully explain…” and then: “no amount of accumulated skill could entirely erase…” The concepts of skill, calculated judgment, tactical patience, survival and fortune are repeatedly recycled. According to AI, ' a human historian would normally introduce specific incidents to demonstrate these qualities rather than repeatedly explaining the concept abstractly...' 

 

The writing reads authoritatively without supplying evidence.  The passage above makes substantial claims about Barkhorn's psychology: “A pilot who had experienced the genuine physical trauma of serious combat injury carried that knowledge forward into every subsequent mission…” That's a plausible interpretation, but it is speculation presented as narrative fact. We aren't given a Barkhorn quotation, memoir reference, fellow pilot's testimony, medical record, or other evidence showing that this was actually his psychological experience. According to AI itself, "..this is one aspect of AI-generated military history that is particularly recognisable: convincing psychological interpretation is substituted for documentary evidence..."

The historical writing is strangely generic. Following on from the passage quoted above, the chapter header " Shot Down Over Romania "  opens with: “The thirty first of May, 1944, began for Barkhorn as an unremarkable day…” and then launches into a very general description of the tempo of operations. But what actually happened to Barkhorn on 31 May 1944? Any 'normal' writer would normally move fairly quickly into the operational circumstances: unit, location, mission, opposing aircraft, circumstances of the shooting down, where Barkhorn came down, what happened afterwards, and documentary evidence. Instead, the passage spends considerable space telling us that the day was part of a repetitive operational rhythm...

In conclusion;

 as provided by AI  -   "..very likely AI-assisted —  and subsequently AI-edited, rather than wholly human-written. I wouldn't say that because the prose is simply “too good” or because AI has a particular style. The stronger evidence is the combination of duplicated material, repetitive conceptual language, unsupported psychological assertions and generic historical exposition. There is another interesting possibility: the text may have been generated in several AI passes, with one version of a paragraph subsequently pasted into another version. "

As a 'human' reader I would have been perfectly happy with this book had it featured more 'facts'  - there was far too much 'psycho-analysis'. But overall I doubt the text was AI-generated - at least not in one 'pass'. Comparing Witt's book with Don Hollway's 2012 "Aviation History" biography and Christophe Cony's lengthy bio in "Avions" (issue 176) it is far superior 'stylistically' but shows no obvious evidence of  any of this more 'nuts-and-bolts' 'source' material being deployed. It would maybe have been a better book had it done so! The book is 175 pages (the chapter 'Starting Over' is p124) and has no images or bibliography - but there are six blank empty pages at the back!

Below; there are no images in Witt's book. The two Bundesarchiv images of Barkhorn taxying in after a sortie show his G-6, WNr. 15909 during September 1943. During 1943 Barkhorn took his 'score' from 105 to 227 (Prien, JfV 12/II). As Kapitän of 4. Staffel he was awarded the Eichenlaub as the 175th soldier of the Wehrmacht. In August 1943 Barkhorn was tasked with the interim command of I./JG 52 while simultaneously commanding the II./JG 52 Verstärkungskommando or 'reinforcement detachment'. He flew his 1000th combat sortie on Sunday 23 January 1944.

Barkhorn's last victory in the East was returned on 5 January 1945. On the 16th he assumed command of JG 6 two weeks after the disappearance of this unit's first Kommodore, Johann Kogler. He was still hampered by the injuries sustained in May 1944 - at least one photo shows him climbing out of his Dora-9 only with difficulty. He departed JG 6 in March 1945 - commanding a Geschwader in the final chaotic months of the war evidently represented a leadership challenge of a different order - and underwent another operation. While convalescing, Galland convinced him to join Jagdverband 44. Having spent his entire career flying the Bf 109 —with a strong preference for the "Friedrich," which he considered the most maneuverable and effective— Barkhorn presumably had little time to adapt to the jet aircraft. On 21 April, during his second combat mission in the Me 262, while preparing to attack a group of American bombers, one of his engines suddenly caught fire. The ace broke away, but was pursued by P-51s. The Major was forced to make an emergency landing, during which he was injured by the canopy of his aircraft, resulting in him spending the rest of the war in a hospital bed. Arrested by the Americans, he was released in September 1945. He had flown some 1,104 combat missions. In 1956, he joined the Bundesluftwaffe and commanded the Jagdbombergeschwader 31 "Boelcke" (JaboG 31), initially equipped with the Republic F-84F Thunderstreak - see Jägerblatt issues 4 and 5/1987. In 1962, JaboG 31, under Barkhorn's command, was the first unit to complete transition to the fighter bomber F-104 G. This event was to be celebrated at the Nörvenich Air Base on 20 June 1962- just the previous day the aerobatics Schwarm (an 'unofficial' Starfighter display team) crashed. In 1964, Barkhorn was posted to the staff of Luftwaffen-Erprobungskommando (Air Force Test Command). From October 1964 until November 1965, Barkhorn headed the six-man Bundesluftwaffe contingent of the Tripartite Kestrel Evaluation Squadron at RAF West Raynham, Norfolk, England. evaluating the military capabilities of the V/STOL Kestrel FGA.1, the development version of the Hawker Siddeley P.1127 and forerunner of the Harrier V/STOL aircraft.

For more on the Nörvenich crash see 'Der Tod war schneller' here 

Remembering Wilhelm Balthasar by Dr. Gerhard Lohmann

Following the death in combat of Helmut Wick in late 1940, his replacement as Kommodore JG 2 was one of the leading Jagdwaffe aces of the campaign in the West, Hptm. Wilhelm Balthasar. He is seen here (left below) with his usual wingman, Oblt. Erich Leie from his Stabsschwarm, in early 1941 in front of his Bf 109 E-7/N. This was just a short time prior to the arrival of the first Friedrichs in JG 2. Note the open refill hatches for the GM-1 power boost tanks. Balthasar’s Friedrich would display very similar markings - see below.

by Dr. Gerhard Lohmann in Jägerblatt (May 1962 issue) 

"..The most successful fighter pilot of the French campaign was Wilhelm Balthasar. The tall Kapitän of 7./JG 27 had managed to achieve 23 victories during the weeks of May and June—a feat for which, alongside Mölders, he became one of the first fighter pilots to receive the Knight's Cross. He had also destroyed 13 additional aircraft on the ground. Günther Lützow then recruited him to command III./JG 3.

When he took over command of JG 2 on February 16, 1941, with 29 victories to his name, he was evidently still suffering from the after-effects of the severe wound he had received in the autumn of 1940, which had not yet fully healed and from which he suffered until his death. Perhaps this is why he appeared serious throughout his life, although his cheerful nature always broke through at the opportunity. He was simple, modest, and straightforward, embodying the best Prussian spirit. This "more than you seem!" as an expression of a moral character trait was, incidentally, possessed by many non-Prussians! He demanded much of his men, but even more of himself! He took his task very seriously, tirelessly visiting the geographically dispersed units of his Geschwader and imparting to them his combat experience, which stretched back to the Spanish Civil War, where he had achieved seven victories.

Here's a little anecdote. One evening, there was a particularly cheerful atmosphere in the officers' mess. When I entered, Balthasar, with a twinkle in his eye, asked me why I had ordered our Ju 52 to Königsberg. As he did so, he waved a telegram that read: "Ju just landed safely." Astonished, I replied: "Impossible! ..the Ju is right there on the field!" Roars of laughter! Finally, the penny dropped! Balthasar had arranged with his wife that she should refer to the expected addition to their family as either a Ju or a Me in the telegram. Soon after, he flew home to hold his son in his arms for the first (and last) time.

After the quiet winter weeks, during which he managed to shoot down two enemy aircraft, the situation in the air began to change significantly in the spring of 1941. Aerial combat no longer took place on the other side of the Channel, but rather over the Channel itself and over friendly territory. The bulk of the Geschwader redeployed north to French Flanders and the Pas de Calais. The headquarters Stab was stationed at St.-Pol-Brias, alongside Assi Hahn’s III. Gruppe and his "young bears." The British launched their air offensive against the Belgian-French industrial region. Balthasar always flew at the head of the formations; how often one heard his clear voice and his battle cry—"Hinein! (Dive in!) "—over the radio. Within a week, he achieved nine victories, bringing his total to forty. He used a lull in operations caused by the weather to visit the grave of his father—a Hauptmann killed near La Bassée in October 1914—with myself at the cemetery in Illies, southwest of Lille. Was it a premonition of death when he said, "If I should fall fighting against England, I want to be laid to rest beside my father"?

On July 3, 1941, the Geschwader took off following the report: "Inbound raid by many 'Indians' [enemy fighters]!" I was in charge of the operations center. Over the radio, I heard Leie shout: "Watch out, Balthasar—two Spitfires behind you!" "Yeah, yeah!" came his somewhat impatient-sounding reply. The fighters of J.G. 2 engaged the enemy. The only aircraft missing was the Kommodore’s. At first, no one was worried; during such wild dogfights, it was common for aircraft to land elsewhere. Later, a call came in from the Jafü (Fighter Leader) reporting that an Me 109 had crashed into the ground not far from Hazebrouck. It was Wilhelm Balthasar's. Neither he nor the aircraft had sustained any hits; the wing lay a considerable distance away. Balthasar was known for pushing his machines to the absolute limit. A wing had evidently been torn off during a dive. Deep sorrow settled in our hearts. Wilhelm Balthasar was laid to rest beside his father... The graves of Balthasar (father and son)—which are difficult to locate today, as the large iron crosses we originally erected were destroyed—are being selflessly tended by Monsieur Jacques Raille (of 49 Rue Grande Chaussée, Lille), as is the grave of Rudi Pflanz south of Abbeville. Our thanks go to this French comrade!.. "

Here a rare view taken at Kommodore Balthasar's funeral ceremony..