After a short stay with friends in Vienna I land in Berlin three hours later and immediately report by telephone to Karinhall. I would prefer to drive straight out there, so as to be able to fly back without any loss of time. To my bewilderment I am told to remain at the Fürstenhof and to apply in the morning at the Air Ministry for a pass to travel on the Reichsmarschall’s special train which is leaving for the West. My trip is going to be longer than I expected—so much is clear. It does not seem to have anything to do with a reprimand.
We leave for the West the following evening from Grunewald station. This means I shall see the New Year in on board the train. I dare not let my thoughts dwell on my unit; if I do I shall see red. What does the year 1945 hold in store for us?
We are in the Frankfurt area early on 1st January. I hear the roar of aircraft and look out into the graying morning. An armada of fighter planes, flying low, roars past the carriage window. My first thought is: Americans! It is an age since I have seen so many of our aircraft in the sky at the same time. But this is unbelievable: they are all marked with the German swastika and are Me 109s and FW 190s. They are heading westward. Later I am to learn the nature of their mission. Now the train pulls up; it seems we are somewhere near Nauheim-Friedberg. I am met by a car and driven through a tract of forest to a building which resembles an ancient castle. Here I am greeted by the Reichsmarschall’s adjutant. He tells me that the Chief has not arrived yet, I shall have to wait. He does not know what I am here for. I have no choice but to kick my heels here at Western G.H.O.
I go for a walk for a couple of hours. What wonderful air in these German woods and hills! I fill my lungs with relish. Why have I been ordered here?—I have been instructed to be back at three o’clock, at which time the Reichsmarschall is expected. I hope I shall not be kept waiting before he receives me. He is not there when I return. Besides myself, a general has arrived, an old friend of mine from my Stuka training days at Graz. He tells me about today’s operations, for the planning and conduct of which he is very largely responsible. Reports continually come in of large-scale attacks on airfields in Belgium and Northern France.
“The aircraft you saw this morning were part of one of the formations we have sent out to make low level attacks on the allied air bases. We hope to be able to destroy so many aircraft that the enemy’s air superiority above their offensive, which has been halted in the Ardennes, will be neutralized.”
I tell the general that such a thing would be impossible on the Eastern Front because the distances which would have to be flown over enemy territory are too great, and to fly at low level is merely inviting heavy losses from the very strong ground defense. Could it be different in the West? It seems improbable. If the Americans are successful with similar attacks over Germany this is only because we have not sufficient protection for our airfields and their approaches, for the simple reason that we cannot divert enough men and material for this purpose. He tells me that today all formations have clearly mapped low level approach routes. In the East we have long since ceased to develop practice from theory; we do just the opposite. One can do no more than give the formation leader his assignment; how he performs it is his affair, for it is he who has to carry it out. At the present time the war in the air has become so variable that one can no longer rely on theories—only formation leaders have the necessary experience at the critical moment and are likely to make the proper decisions. It is a good thing we realized this in the East in time, otherwise it is a sure thing that none of us would be flying any more. Besides, have they not yet grasped the fact that we are helpless against the enemy’s masses of men and material?
For the enemy five hundred aircraft more or less on the ground is not decisive, as long as their crews remain in action. It would be infinitely better to use the fighters which have been saved up for so long over our own front to clear the air space above it. If we could remove for a while the nightmare of the allies’ immense air superiority we could give our comrades on the ground a chance to get their second wind. And movements of troops and supplies behind the lines could be carried out unmolested. Any enemy aircraft we might destroy would in most cases be a genuine loss, because the crews would be lost with them:
All these reflections pass through my mind. A few hours later the final result of the operation confirms my misgivings. Five hundred allied aircraft have been destroyed on the ground; over two hundred and twenty of ours with their crews have failed to return. Among those lost today are veteran formation leaders, old timers of which so few are left. It saddens me. Tonight the operation will be reported to the Reichsmarschall and to the Supreme Commander as a great victory. Is this intentional deception, or exaggerated personal ambition?
The adjutant comes in and says to me:
“Wing Commander von Below has just rung up. He would like you to go over for a cup of coffee.”
“But can I not report direct to the Reichsmarschall?”
“The Reichsmarschall is not here yet, and there is no reason why you should not pay this short visit to Wing Commander von Below.”
I consider whether I ought to change, but decide against it because I would like to keep my last clean shirt for my interview with the Reichsmarschall.
A fairly long drive through the forest brings us into a town of huts and chalets, the Führer’s Western H.Q. Over coffee I tell Wing Commander von Below about the latest happenings on the Russian front; after twenty minutes he leaves me, comes back at once and briefly asks me to follow him. Quite unsuspectingly I follow him through several rooms, then he opens a door, stands aside for me to pass and I am face to face with the Führer. All I can think of is that I have not put on a clean shirt; otherwise my mind is a blank. I recognize the other persons standing round him: the Reichsmarschall, beaming—very unusual of late—Admiral Dönitz, Field Marshal Keitel, the Chief of the General Staff, Lieutenant General Jodl and a number of other military notabilities including Generals from the Eastern Front. They are all grouped round an enormous table spread with a map showing the present situation in the field. They look at me and this scrutiny makes me nervous. The Führer has noticed my embarrassment and regards me for a while in silence. Then he offers me his hand and praises my last operation. He says that in recognition of it he is awarding me the highest decoration for bravery, the Gold Oak Leaves with Swords and Diamonds to the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, and is promoting me to the rank of Group Captain. I have been listening to his words in a semi-daze, but when he says with marked emphasis: “Now you have done enough flying. Your life must be preserved for the sake of our German youth and your experience,” I am on the alert in a twinkling. This means I am to be grounded. Goodbye to my comrades!
“My Führer, I cannot accept the decoration and promotion if I am not allowed to go on flying with my wing.”