pilots of 1. /JG 11 in the Defence of the Reich under Kommodore Hermann Graf

An extract from Bertold Jochim's  biography ("200 Luftsiege in 13 Monaten", Moewig, 1998) of his former JG 11 Kommodore Hermann Graf. Graf returned a handful of claims in the 'defence of the Reich' before being shot down and injured on 29 March 1944. Jochim flew with 1./JG 11 and was shot down and injured on two occasions, the last on 27 June 1944 over the 'Invasionsfront' after claiming three P-51s downed. Post-war he was a journalist and co-founder of 'Der Landser' often criticised for presenting a 'sanitised' and 'idealised' view of the German Wehrmacht....

Below;  "At first glance, [Graf's] machine resembled an American Mustang; the camouflage paintwork had been imitated so skillfully. The Balkenkreuze on the fuselage and wings were almost completely obscured under a layer of the blue-grey paint..."

"..Despite their carefully couched phrasing, the reports from the Wehrmacht High Command in the ensuing period amounted to an unbroken series of grim tidings. This day, March 29, 1944, was no exception. The Kommodore of JG 11 switched off the radio. Images rose in his memory—images that would likely never be banished: Stalingrad, Pitomnik, the command train in the woods near Vinnitsa, his second meeting with Hitler and an animated conversation about German Shepherd dogs, the graves at the edges of makeshift airfields—in the Ukraine, in the Crimea, along the Dnieper, Donets, Terek, Volga, and Don! The faces of so many comrades before their final combat mission... Hermann Graf stood up and stepped outside, a leather jacket draped over his shoulders—a jacket that had once been brought to Germany by an American Mustang pilot. Between the lapels, the diamonds of his Knight’s Cross glittered. The tarmac of the Rotenburg airfield, near Bremen, lay bathed in the midday sun. At the 1. Staffel dispersal two BMW radial engines roared into life. A ground crew was working on several Focke-Wulf 190s that were being readied on the hangar apron for a new mission. 

 An hour earlier, these men had been part of a parade formation drawn up in a square in front of the command building. The occasion had been no ordinary one. Hptm. Hermichen, Kommandeur of I. Gruppe of JG 11, had been awarded the Knight's Cross—presented by the Kommodore himself, acting on behalf of the Reichsmarschall. Göring! That encounter in the woods near Vinnitsa would not be the last. Several others followed in the interim—including one at Berchtesgaden. A telex had summoned the then-commander of the Ergänzungsjagdgruppe Ost (Replacement Fighter Group East) from southern France: "Major Graf to report to the Reichsmarschall immediately!" So, a flight to Germany in an Me 109, followed by reporting to the small country house above the Plattenhof. Before that, a reunion with Major Herbert Ihlefeld, who had also been ordered to the audience. And then Göring’s urgent words: "Every day, a British Mosquito flies all the way down to Vienna, triggering air-raid alarms that paralyze our entire industry. You have to bring that damned bird down for me—and in one piece, too, so we can get our hands on its secret detection equipment." They had parted ways and given the matter some thought. Some time later, at an altitude of 12,000 meters over Groningen in the Netherlands, a high-altitude Me 109 G-10 fighter actually succeeded in intercepting one of the Mosquitos. Hermann Graf was at the controls. However, the pilot of the "Wooden Wonder"—as the British called this twin-engine aircraft, which was incredibly fast for the time—refused to comply with the order to land. All signals, such as lowering the landing gear served no purpose. So it was downed. A second Mosquito was shot up but the damaged aircraft retreated to Switzerland—where, reportedly, it remains to this day as a war souvenir.. Those days were in the past ! Just like the months spent with the high-altitude flight test unit in Wiesbaden, known as JG 50. That, too, was merely a stop along a path that seemed to have lost all direction. Flights to extreme altitudes, carrying that hellish mixture known as GM-1 on board every time. One day, there was even a world record: 14,300 metres, logged by five altigraphs. 

Yet, no one took much notice. After all, what did that matter at a time when a different German city was being ravaged by terrible air raids every single day? In the 1.Staffel crew barracks, they knew, too, that it wouldn’t be long now. The airfield loudspeakers had blared the order for "30-minute readiness" quite some time ago—a sign that the "heavies" were on their way again. Perhaps 500 or more of them—American Boeing B-17 bombers or "Liberators"—flying in wave after wave, with hundreds of escort fighters overhead. Scenes like this had become part of their daily routine— such hard-fought sorties that they could hardly be surpassed. For several months, they had been a "Defense of the Reich" unit. Their frontline airfield was located right in the heart of the homeland. Didn't that say it all? Some of them had previously flown missions over England, in Africa, the Mediterranean, Russia, or elsewhere. But what awaited them here eclipsed everything that had come before. Sitting by the window was Josef Zwernemann—known as "Jupp"—an Oberfeldwebel in Hermann Graf’s "Karaya Staffel" now an Oblt. and Kapitän of the 1st. He glanced across the room at the man he had accompanied on so many daring flights—most recently over Stalingrad. Near him sat a stocky Ofw. who had had the name "Jim" painted on the radio ear-cups of his flight helmet. No one knew why, yet that was what they called him. He had sent the first Flying Fortress plummeting to the ground on December 31, 1943, over the French fighter base at Corme-Écluse, near the Gironde estuary. Many more had followed in the months since. A few rays of sunlight flitted across his face, which still bore the traces of barely healed burn scars—souvenirs of the marksmanship of an American tail gunner who, two months earlier, had forced him to bail out over the Emsland moor. Separated from him by a Luftwaffe magazine and the corner of a table, Norbert Schücking lounged in an armchair. A rugged native of Holstein and an officer-cadet Feldwebel, he sat with his fur-lined boots stretched far out in front of him. His combat record was as remarkable as his penchant for speaking his mind. By now, he had resigned himself to the fact that his career would end at the rank of officer cadet.(Fahnenjunker) Beside the door stood a gaunt figure: Uffz. Koch, a farmer’s son from the heath who sometimes spoke fewer than twenty words in a month. He was never heard during missions, either. The best proof of his flying ability was the simple fact that he was still alive and could count himself among the "old hands" of the Staffel. That was not the case for the senior officer cadet standing by the door. They had whipped him through an accelerated training course in just a few months, moving him from a biplane to an Me 109 and then to an FW 190. His name was Dreizehner; he was barely twenty, and upon his arrival a week earlier, he had elicited nothing more than a pitying smile from the pen-pushers at the Gruppe operations center. After all, they knew the score when it came to these young fellows. Most of the time, they failed to return from their very first mission—so it wasn't worth the trouble of creating elaborate personnel files; the officers simply noted down the bare essentials, wished them luck, and saved themselves a great deal of work when, a few days later, news arrived of the new man's death. The man with the burn scars looked at the Oberfähnrich and felt pity for him. He could imagine the struggle the young pilot faced just trying to manoeuvre that powerful, hellish machine—the Fw 190—through the air. But how must he feel when the formations of four-engine bombers rose up from the horizon, with swarms of enemy fighters above them, and the first bursts of fire streaked past his cockpit? Or when, in the chaos of a dogfight, sky and earth spun dizzily, and shrill screams pierced the headphones—commands, curses, warnings, a final, rattling gasp? Wouldn't he drift through the high altitudes like a lost soul, separated from his flight leader, easy prey for some American Mustang, Thunderbolt, or Lightning? It was inevitable. 

(Blog note: Oberfähnrich Gerhard Dreizehner survived two months in the Defence of the Reich with 1./JG 11 and claimed five Viermots during this period. His 5th  - a B-17- was downed on this date, 29 March. He was KIA on 9 April 1944 in his Fw 190 A-7/R6 'white 13' - Luftkampf, Absturz bei Steinfeld, Krs. Schleswig 100% - see Jfv Teil 13/ V)

 Yet, on the other hand: didn't they themselves need every ounce of seasoned experience when caught in the cauldron of those air battles? Didn't they often have to scrape together the last shred of courage just to keep from surrendering in the face of that wall of aircraft fuselages and thousands of muzzle flashes? Could any attack on those staggered formations of four-engine bombers be seen as anything other than a form of suicide—a desperate gamble with fate? Was it not usually that sudden flare of rage—that desperate fury felt as hits slammed into one’s own machine—that drove a pilot through the defensive fire, compelled him to aim his illuminated sight at one of those massive aircraft silhouettes, and made him trigger his six onboard guns just a few hundred meters out? Or was there something else at play, something carried deep in the subconscious from one mission to the next? Was it perhaps also the recollection of devastated cities, the knowledge of the hundreds of thousands of innocents torn apart by American and British bombs or meeting a ghastly end in the firestorms of conflagrations? Whatever the reason, there was no point dwelling on it. Had things not reached the pass described so mockingly in that British leaflet: "Fortress Europe has no roof left"? Was there any way to stop those endless streams of enemy bombers—British by night, American by day? What good were all the shoot-downs when, for every destroyed aircraft, five others could be deployed for the next raid? And at what cost to our own side had those successes been won? Wasn't the end inevitably approaching? Had a single city ever been successfully spared from the hail of bombs? And how could that have been done anyway? With fifty planes against a thousand enemy ones? Sometimes even fewer? And on the fronts across Europe—didn't the situation look much the same? Kharkov was back in Russian hands; in September, the Allies had landed in Italy; that same month, Smolensk had to be abandoned, followed in October by the Kuban bridgehead, the Crimea...

Where, then, was the Führer’s much-vaunted military genius? Had he really sacrificed the 6th Army at Stalingrad, as some claimed? And here, in the so-called home war zone? Did he not see where this had to lead—with city after city being smashed and destroyed, along with the major armaments plants? Where was that new jet fighter, the Me 262—the one people spoke of as a true marvel? A machine that was supposed to be 200 kilometers per hour faster than any enemy fighter? Why didn't he have it put into serial production, given his reputed expertise in aeronautical engineering? And Göring—why did he do nothing? Was his mind really still stuck in the biplanes of the First World War? Did he really just reply "Yes, sir" when his leader made it clear to him that these jet aircraft were simply too fast for fighters—or so the rumors went? Did it not bother him that his best pilots were being relentlessly expended, and that even the great aces were being hounded to their deaths by American escort fighters that were vastly superior in both numbers and equipment? 

 What must the Major at the Geschwader command post over there have been thinking? He, with his more than 200 aerial victories? Or Galland, Lützow, Wilcke, Gollob, and all the others? Must their hearts not have bled as they witnessed this madness day after day? The Oberfähnrich smiled like a boy feeling embarrassment rise within him. He could have no inkling of the gruesome fate that would end his young life just two months later—in the fiery vortex of a crash-induced blaze. A few curses cut through the silence. Schücking, the Fahnenjunker-Feldwebel, had woken up. He glanced at the aviator’s watch on his wrist, pushed himself up, and walked to the window. Hermann Graf was still standing at the far edge of the airfield. Behind him stood his Me 109, in which he flew further missions day after day, despite the flight ban imposed on him. At first glance, the machine resembled an American Mustang; the camouflage paintwork had been imitated so skillfully. The Balkenkreuze on the fuselage and wings were almost completely lost under a layer of blue-gray paint. About three hundred meters away, Schücking shook his head;

 "He must be nuts!" ****

 Zwernemann stopped his brooding and turned around, a cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth.

 "Who?" 

"Him over there!"

".. the Kommodore?"

 "Yes!" 

 "And why's that?" 

 A sigh followed, then the explanation: 

"Because I want to know what else he could possibly want besides the Diamonds? Why the hell doesn't he just eat the nice, bland staff-officer rations like so many others who’ve got the Iron Cross First Class on their chests? Why does he sit in his crate almost every day—despite a ban on flying—and zip around between the Boeings and the escort fighters?"

 

 Zwernemann shrugged and studied the ash of his cigar. 

 "That’s just how he is. He always did it that way back in Russia, too. When the others flew, he had to fly as well." 

 The Fw. said nothing more. But one could tell from his face that this explanation hadn't satisfied him.

 What was the real story behind the man who, as a holder of the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords, and Diamonds, continued to defy death? Was he truly "nuts," or did he, too, see fields of ruins or destroyed cities before every new mission his Geschwader flew? Or was he actually the arch-fascist the Russians sometimes made him out to be? He was certainly not the latter; he was something else entirely: a German. Something for which—depending on one's ideological standpoint—he might still be forgiven for today... "

( ****Original dialogue, paraphrased by the author from memory )

Ogfr. Alfred Papendick, 7./JG 77 - archive photo scan #54

 

The main area of operations for JG 77 in late August-early September  1941 was the Berislav sector. Berislav was a town in southern Ukraine on the right bank of the Dnieper river. After days of bitter fighting, the German 11th Army occupied Berislav during the last few days of August.  River crossings began soon afterwards with JG 77 flying fighter cover. After the river crossing was successfully forced according to plan, German troops quickly managed to establish a bridgehead on the southern bank of the Dnieper, hold it against the Russian counterattacks that soon began, and even expand it. Meanwhile, heavy fighting continued in front of the bridgehead on the east bank of the Dnieper near Dnepropetrovsk; the Soviet Air Force was operating in great numbers here, causing significant trouble for German troops, particularly with its ground-attack aircraft. By 01 September the bridgehead on the south bank of the Dnieper had reached a depth of ten kilometres. There were persistent Soviet counter-attacks with tank and air support - JG 77 claimed some 19 victories on 01 September including two for Hptm. Mader and two for Lt. Freytag.  On 3 September the river crossing was significantly delayed by continuous Russian air raids, and in the afternoon, around 4:30 p.m., the pontoon bridge was put out of action for about six hours by a direct bomb hit. However the 'bridgehead' around Berislav was successfully consolidated, paving the way for an operational advance toward the Crimea. On Friday 05 September JG 77 filed seven claims in combats around Berislav. Ogfr. Alfred Papendick downed an 'I-16' for his second victory. It would be his last. Three days later, on 8 September 1941 he was shot down and killed in combat with Soviet fighters six kilometres west of Berislav at the controls of Bf 109 F-4 WNr. 7067 'black chevron+'.

These two unpublished images show Papendick's grave in the small German cemetery at Berislav and the wreck of his burnt-out Friedrich - note two Abschussbalken on the tail and the ship silhouette above these. 7. Staffel was of course Huy's Jabo unit so Papendick likely took part in the anti-shipping sorties flown by III. /JG 77, either around Crete a few months previously or against the Soviet Black sea fleet off the Crimean peninsula ..

Also on this blog;

All 58 posts covering the aces and planes of JG 77 on this blog can be accessed here

The '1927' intake - the final call-up - remembering 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