".. The 3rd Group 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 the 3rd Group 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