by Clare Mulley
Back with his squadron a few days later, ‘we all talked about Hanna’, Pütter admitted. ‘She was a hero, of that there’s no doubt. She was very, very well known and we all admired her hugely.’84 A few weeks later he was shot down over Russia and taken prisoner of war.* As his colleagues helped the front move east, the killing of Russian Jews became a large-scale enterprise with more Einsatzgruppen murder squads sent in behind the front-line troops, specifically to annihilate the Jewish populations in newly conquered territories. Tens of thousands would be executed. ‘Intoxicated by their victories in Europe . . .’ Clementine Churchill, wife of the British prime minister, wrote, ‘the calculated cruelty and barbarism of the Nazis were carried to new excesses in the invasion of Russia.’85 At the same time, in a villa on Berlin’s Lake Wannsee, plans for the ‘Final Solution’ for all Europe’s Jews were quietly being finalized.
By the autumn of 1941, Udet saw that Germany was no longer winning the war. The Stuka dive-bombers he had championed, which had been so effective during the blitzkrieg, had never been a strategic weapon and ultimately proved all too vulnerable to enemy attack. After the Battle of Britain had exposed the Luftwaffe’s weaknesses that September, Udet had repeatedly emptied his revolver into his apartment wall in a sad echo of the party games he had held before the war. A year later the Luftwaffe was suffering heavy losses on the Eastern Front and there was still no satisfactory four-engined bomber able to reach the Soviet production centres in the Urals. Under-resourced and poorly directed, Nazi German mass aircraft production was now far behind that of the Allies. Udet was ill and exhausted. His relationships with both Göring and his deputy, Erhard Milch, whom he had once taught to fly, were in crisis. He had also heard about the mass killings of Jews in the east. Above all, Udet knew that the Luftwaffe would face overwhelming odds within a few months, and he could see no viable way forward.
On the morning of 14 November, Udet woke and put on his red dressing gown, the same type he had worn ever since the Great War. He loaded his revolver, poured himself a brandy and returned to bed. Lying very still, he aimed the gun not at the wall, but against his own head. Then he pulled the trigger.
Hitler was ‘much affected’ by the news of Udet’s death, his valet recorded. ‘Pity,’ the Führer said after some reflection. ‘That was not the correct thing. Udet should not have given in, but fought for his ideas.’86 Three days later, the tragic death of Colonel-General Udet ‘while testing a new weapon’ was announced.87 Göring gave a tearful eulogy at the state funeral, but commented privately that he was glad ‘that Udet dealt personally with his own case’.88 Goebbels felt similarly. ‘Far and away the greatest blame for [the failure of the Luftwaffe] falls on Udet,’ he later noted in his diary. ‘He tried to atone for this by committing suicide, but of course that didn’t change things . . .’89 Hanna had a more balanced view on the death of her former friend and mentor. It was Udet’s ‘inevitable failure’ in his appointed role, along with ‘Hitler’s evident disgust with that failure, and the personal denunciation of Göring’ that drove him to kill himself, she later wrote.90 It was not long before the truth about Udet’s death leaked out, causing a minor crisis in morale within the Luftwaffe, where the Great War hero had been immensely popular.
Hanna and Melitta had both admired Udet, and each had turned to him in confidence when they needed an ally. His willingness to support both women perhaps reflected the ambivalence Udet had felt towards the regime and its policies. Neither Hanna nor Melitta would talk about his death, however, ‘which was puzzling’, Peter Riedel wrote. ‘As a rule, any serious accident is talked about and the details gone over again and again . . . especially when a close friend has been killed. Here was a complete blank. Ernst, I thought, must have been flying some very secret aircraft.’ Yet Peter could not help but notice that ‘there was something odd about Hanna’s manner’.91
The next month the Wehrmacht reached the outskirts of Moscow, but they were exhausted and ill-equipped for winter warfare. Their rapid advance meant they had outrun their own supply lines, and they were now expected to live off the land in the middle of winter, while the local population starved. In mid-December, following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hitler declared war on the USA, naming himself commander-in-chief of the Wehrmacht a week later.
Few women in Germany had risked their lives more regularly for the Third Reich than Melitta von Stauffenberg and Hanna Reitsch. Yet few better represent the different and sometimes conflicting motivations behind support for the regime’s war effort. Melitta was no reactionary. At a time of war she wanted to support her country, just as her father had twenty years earlier. There is no question that her contribution was significant. By the end of 1941 she had completed more than 900 almost vertical precision dives, testing various new sighting devices and other equipment. Melitta, however, was under no illusions about the moral authority of the regime she served, or about her family’s precarious place within the country they called their own. Making herself indispensable to the regime gave her a way to protect her family. However naively, she also hoped that her work might help minimize losses among young Luftwaffe pilots, and civilians overseas. Hanna may not have fully appreciated the darker side of Nazi policy, but she had witnessed Kristallnacht and the cover-up around Udet’s death, and she could hardly have failed to understand the general ethos of the super-race. Yet with her world records, diamond badges and Iron Cross, this was a ‘race’ to which she felt she belonged. Thrilled by her country’s early military successes, and delighted to be part of the elite, at the close of 1941 Hanna was proudly signing photographs of herself wearing her Iron Cross to hand out as Christmas gifts.
8
DEFYING GRAVITY
1942–1943
‘Flying ladies . . .’ Colonel Dr Georg Pasewaldt at the Ministry of Aviation wrote dismissively, ‘generally used the profession more or less to further their own publicity.’1 As a rule, he ‘paid no particular attention’ to them.2 At the end of 1941, however, Pasewaldt was undertaking an inspection at Rechlin when he spotted a Junkers Ju 88 twin-engine bomber streaking down out of the sky, straight towards the earth. The colonel demanded to know the name of the pilot at the controls, and what purpose was served by this high-risk manoeuvre, ‘which appeared to me to far exceed the limits of the permissible, even at a test centre’.3 It was just ‘Melitta, doing her dive trials’, he was told by the ground crew, who were amused by his surprise at what was to them so familiar.4 Pasewaldt stared in disbelief as the bomber straightened out. Then he drove to the hangar to wait for Melitta.
A veteran of the First World War, and squadron commander of two Bomber Wings in the Second, Pasewaldt knew that taking a plane into even a moderate nosedive was ‘something many male pilots already regarded as an act of heroism’. Melitta’s work, repeatedly flying ‘in the most extreme dive configurations’ to develop equipment herself, was absolutely astounding.5 From the moment Pasewaldt watched her ‘climb out of her aircraft, fresh and light-hearted’, he was captivated by Melitta’s ‘almost unique outlook on life . . . far removed from even the slightest hint of egotism’.6 That day he ‘firmly resolved to make sure that this exceptional woman should receive special distinction’.7 Pasewaldt as yet ‘knew nothing’ about Hanna’s flight trials. Before 1942 was out, however, he would find himself discussing ‘what special, exceptional honour’ could be awarded for her service as well.8
Melitta and Hanna were both transferred away from Rechlin at the beginning of 1942. Hanna left in January, returning to the glider research institute at Darmstadt. There she faced a terrible start to the new year. Within a month of Udet’s death, the husband of her sister, Heidi, was killed in action, leaving his widow with three small children and heavily pregnant with their fourth. Two weeks later Kurt was reported missing for a second time. Heidi’s baby died within a few months of birth, and Hanna’s father, Willy Reitsch, slipped inexorably into depression. Hanna’s work was going badly, too. At Darmstadt she was testing more of Hans Jacobs’ designs,
but these gliders no longer inspired her. With Udet gone, she needed a new mentor. An instinctive hero-worshipper, Hanna had adopted Wolf Hirth as her first ‘flying father’ until Walter Georgii and then Udet had taken over the role, easing her career path and generally promoting her to the Nazi leadership. Now she appealed again to Udet’s fighter ace friend from the First World War, Robert Ritter von Greim.
Greim was an enthusiastic Nazi who had joined the Party early. It was he who had taken Hitler on his first flight, in an open biplane, to the Berlin Kapp Putsch of 1920. When the coup failed, Greim had performed aerobatics for a living, before accepting work with Chiang Kai-Shek’s government helping to build a Chinese air force. Bluntly racist, he did not expect much from his Chinese students, and was pleased to return to Germany and lend his support to Hitler’s Munich Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. Ten years later he was a key figure working with Göring to secretly rebuild the Luftwaffe. By 1942 he had supported the invasion of Poland, the Battle for Norway, the Battle of Britain and Operation Barbarossa, the surprise German invasion of the Soviet Union. His only son, Hubert, not far off Hanna’s own age, was a Luftwaffe pilot. To Hanna, Greim embodied all the virtues she most admired: a love of flight, patriotism, honour, authority and absolute loyalty to the Third Reich. Now she began to lobby him for more exciting test work. Greim helped when he could. When he could not, Hanna started to claim that the Führer had given her licence to fly the best and most challenging aircraft the Third Reich had to offer. Not everyone believed her, but few wanted to get on the wrong side of Hanna Reitsch.
In February it was Melitta’s turn to leave Rechlin. Pasewaldt’s endorsement had helped secure her transfer to the Luftwaffe Technical Academy at Gatow, where some of the most advanced research in Germany was being carried out. Gatow was also the site of the Luftwaffe’s most prestigious training school and, being on the outskirts of Berlin, it was the airport most often used by Hitler for his personal journeys. Set in beautiful deciduous woodland that ran down to the Wannsee, it was a surprisingly tranquil environment at the heart of Nazi air war operations. Melitta was allocated a room on the first floor of a guesthouse on the academy campus. From here she had fine views over the lake and the wooded shore beyond. Every morning she woke to birdsong, and she even befriended a squirrel, which allowed her to feed it from her window. In the evenings wild pigs would venture out, leaving tracks in the mud and, when it was cold, sometimes scavenging right up to the airfield hangars.
As time went on, ‘the number of friends in her circle however diminished’, Jutta realized, noticing that ‘an increasing number of pictures of crashed, fallen and missing friends were hung on the wall’.9 Melitta felt no allegiance to the Nazis, but these young pilots had been friends and colleagues, fighting and dying, she believed, for the honour and security of their country. Knowing that her work could reduce some of their risk, Melitta exploited every moment of good weather, walking or cycling over to the airfield early in the mornings and often managing twelve or more test-flight dives with Ju 88s and Ju 87s every day.
As an engineer–pilot, Melitta already had all the qualifications needed for a technical general staff officer so she now started work on a PhD. Her new work was focused on the development of a special night-landing device for single-engined night fighters. She was ‘testing landings with fighter planes for unlit, improvised emergency airfields’, and ‘blind-flying’ without any electrical landing systems, Jutta explained.10 She also had to respond to various spontaneous demands and requests from the academy. Once, testing a powerful Ju 52 on a cross-country flight, her co-pilots were ‘astonished by how precisely’ she held the ‘powerful central engine’ even in squally weather.11 ‘During the flight, Countess Stauffenberg wore a grey or blue-grey suit and a hat with a broad brim which she did not remove during the whole flight,’ one remembered noticing, before he was distracted when ‘the frequent and full rudder movement due to the bumpy weather meant that she had to continually struggle with the skirt of her suit which tended to ride up’.12 When, arriving back at the airfield, he expressed his amazement at the ability of this most feminine pilot, he discovered that ‘the Countess’s precise flying and holding of an exact course’ were already well known and respected.13
The RAF and the Luftwaffe were now engaged in a sustained air war, with regular bombing raids on both sides. Although Britain was not yet undertaking saturation bombing, which was initially used to support ground operations, many residential areas in Germany were badly damaged and civilian casualties were high. The same was true in Britain. In May the House of Commons and Westminster Abbey received a direct hit during what the Nazi press called retaliatory action. ‘The debating chamber of the House was wrecked . . .’ The Times reported. ‘Big Ben fell silent, its face blackened and scarred.’14 ‘Our ability to produce more and more [bombers] in spite of the air raids must have been one of the reasons that Hitler did not really take the air battle over Germany seriously,’ Albert Speer later wrote.15 But in 1941 Hitler had overextended his resources by embarking on the Russian offensive. As a result, he rejected Speer and Milch’s proposals ‘that the manufacture of bombers be radically reduced in favour of increased fighter-plane production’, until it was too late.16
As the Allies invaded the airspace above Gatow, Melitta faced jeopardy not only from her own inherently dangerous work, but also from enemy engagement. Despite several attacks by Allied planes, which also strafed the airfield, Melitta’s test rate never slowed. She would complete over 2,000 nosedives and patent many innovative equipment designs during her time at Gatow.* ‘I believe I can say this much with satisfaction,’ she later told an audience when required to speak about her work. ‘My efforts have not been in vain.’17
As Gatow was on the edge of Berlin, Melitta often travelled in to buy black tea and biscuits, or to meet friends for supper at the Aero Club. She also relaxed by sailing on the beautiful Wannsee, or sculpting fine busts of Alexander, his dissident uncle Nikolaus von Üxküll-Gyllenband – now better known to her as Uncle Nüx – and several of her colleagues.* Paul von Handel admired her ability to catch a likeness and thought the portraits ‘very impressive and powerful’, but he wondered how she could find the time for such work.18
Melitta was also trying to see more of her own side of the family. Once she even managed to travel to Danzig for a party. Photographs show her standing on the steps of her parents’ house in a fashionable satin summer dress, surrounded by Lili, Jutta, Otto and various children. Most get-togethers were in Berlin, however. Otto’s wife, Ilse, was now living near Tempelhof airport at Manfred von Richthofen Strasse, named after the Great War fighter ace, and her house became a hub for visiting family. Otto would sometimes arrive in his long leather coat, with presents of clothes and hats from Russia and Romania, or Delftware brought from the Netherlands. No one asked how he had acquired them. Melitta brought gifts too. Arriving for tea in one of her elegant trouser suits, she always carried an incongruously large handbag. Ilse and Otto’s two young daughters, Ingrid and Hannalore, and their cousin, Heidimarie, would pounce on the bag, knowing that their ‘Tante Litta’ brought something more precious than textiles or ceramics. Melitta saved up her rations of pilot’s issue Scho-ka-kola chocolate for the children. The round blue and white tins, featuring a swastika-laden eagle within a starburst, had become iconic when the brand was launched at the 1936 Olympics. Among other active ingredients, the chocolate contained Pervitin, a strong nervous-system stimulant that helped to keep pilots and other servicemen alert. No wonder the children loved it and would afterwards bounce around, particularly Heidimarie who, being the eldest, would always take ‘the lion’s share’ of the chocolate when it was divided up.19
In February, Alexander was drafted into Artillery Regiment 389, known as the Rhine Gold Division, and sent to a former Czechoslovakian training garrison at Milowice.* Melitta missed him and worried about him terribly. Pulling a few strings, she managed to secure a work trip to nearby Prague, and Alexander took leave and trav
elled over to meet her with a close friend, Max Escher. Melitta was staying at the prestigious Hotel Ambassador and the men revelled in the chance to enjoy a bath and some good food before they all headed out for the evening. This was the first time Escher had met Melitta, and he was surprised to find a ‘fine-limbed, delicate woman’, who ‘did not give the impression of a bold and daring pilot’.20 Furthermore, Escher wrote, ‘this objective woman with her incisive mind provided the greatest contrast to the imaginative, silent poet and academic, but also his best complement.’21 Together, he felt, they were ‘a quite amusing pair’.22
Melitta knew how much Alexander enjoyed a glass of really good wine but, having learnt that his camp was ‘dry’, she had been frustrated to discover that bottles of decent wine in Prague were impossible to buy. Instead, she made it her business to visit ‘a string of wine bars’ before he arrived.23 At each venue, after sipping modestly at her drink, she covertly poured the rest of her glass into bottles hidden in her capacious handbag. When Escher feigned outrage at her duplicity, she laughed, telling him ‘at first I wanted to wean [Alexander] off drinking – and in doing so I learnt to drink myself!’24
For a couple of days the three friends roamed through old Prague, exploring the cathedral, castle and palace like any pre-war tourists. They also visited the city’s synagogue and Jewish cemetery. Melitta might not have considered herself Jewish, but her appreciation of culture was not so narrow that she was uninterested. At the sixteenth-century grave of Rabbi Löw, Escher told the story of the Golem, which, he felt, ‘suited our evening stroll through the crooked, narrow lanes of the former ghetto quarter’. Legend tells that Löw, a sculptor like Melitta, had created the Golem of Prague from clay to defend the ghetto from the anti-Semitic pogroms of the Holy Roman Emperor. When his work was done, the Golem’s body was stored in the attic of the old synagogue, in case he should ever be needed again.
