Just as concerning, this latest Me109 had suffered one too many engine fires when it had first rolled off the production line. Such a fire had killed one of the Luftwaffe’s greatest aces, Hans-Joachim Marseille, in September 1942. The cause was Milch’s economizing, as the engine construction had switched from ball bearings to plain bearings. On the face of it, this was a small thing, but roller bearings caused more friction. With half-decent lubricants, this should not have been an issue, but by this stage of the war the Germans were using synthetic lubricants, which were not as good. As a result, the bearings were overheating and occasionally causing the oil to catch fire, which was obviously far from ideal when flying at 20,000 feet and in the middle of a dogfight. This technical glitch was being rectified, but the outcome of all these decisions was a dramatic quantitative increase but at a qualitative cost.
Another Messerschmitt reaching the end of its shelf-life was the twin-engine Me110. This was well armed and good at shooting down bombers, but was vulnerable when up against an Allied fighter. Nor were there enough of them. The Me210 had been supposed to be an upgraded version, but, again, Professor Messerschmitt had been allowed to get carried away and had designed an almost entirely new aircraft, which tended to go into a spin at the slightest provocation. Numerous modifications were made, but the accidents continued and, although the problems were eventually resolved, by then it had become the Me410 instead. In any case, it wasn’t significantly superior to the Me110 – slightly faster and with a higher service ceiling, but certainly not worth all the time, expense and lives it had already cost. The net result of this drain of precious resources was the continued over-dependence on the Me110.
So far in the war, those flying aircraft inferior to their enemy’s inevitably tended to fare poorly; as large numbers of Luftwaffe fighter aces had discovered over the Eastern Front, shooting down masses of enemy aircraft was easy enough when those aircraft were palpably of poorer quality and performance. Fortunately for the Luftwaffe fighter arm, the gulf between their aircraft and those of the RAF and USAAF was not yet a wide one, but it was certainly hampering their cause.
There was, however, one exciting new aircraft in development with the potential to put all others in the shade. On 22 May 1943, General ‘Dolfo’ Galland had flown the experimental Me262 jet for the first time. He had been stunned by the speed and manoeuvrability of this amazing new machine, and on landing back down again had clambered out from the cockpit determined that this wonder-plane should be put into production immediately. ‘This model is a tremendous stroke of luck for us,’ he told Milch, ‘it puts us way out in front, provided the enemy continues to use piston engines.’2 Flying at over 520 m.p.h., it was faster than any other aircraft and, Galland discovered, handled well. New possibilities for fighter tactics were spinning around in his mind; suddenly, the Luftwaffe had a future once more. Milch, who had learned to trust Galland, accepted his General of Fighters’ judgement. The Me262 was to go straight into production and all other interim piston-engine fighter projects were to be scrapped. Göring approved the decision on 5 June.
On paper, this seemed quite possible because by that time the Air Ministry – the Reichsluftfahrtministerium, or RLM – had narrowed down the jet-engine programme to just two models, one made by BMW and the other by Junkers Motoren (Jumo). Helmut Schelp, the head of the Air Ministry’s Technical Office, had overseen this programme of jet development, but he had never intended that either the Jumo or BMW engines should go into service, but rather that they be used in further development of both the airframes being designed and to resolve the many inevitable issues of high-speed jet-powered flight. In other words, both engines were somewhat immature and not considered ready for mass production. What’s more, the current engines were using materials such as nickel and chrome that were far too precious for large-scale manufacture. Alternative materials would need to be found, further testing carried out, and then machine tools and facilities built and a workforce trained – all of which meant the Me262 was still a long way off going into production, no matter how much Milch and Galland might have wished it to be otherwise.
There had been some other spanners thrown into the works too, not least by the Führer, who still thought of himself as a military genius but whose judgement and decision-making was proving worse and worse the longer the war continued. In March, Milch, during a long conversation with Hitler, had tried to win the Führer’s backing for a defensive air strategy. Instead, Hitler told him to go back on to the offensive with high-altitude, high-speed bombers as the main focus of Luftwaffe production.
This was an absurd suggestion on a number of levels. Fighters were easier and cheaper to make than bombers because they were smaller and required fewer resources. The Luftwaffe had no effective bomber that could cause significant offensive damage and nothing in the pipeline that could be hurriedly brought into mass production. The only option was to fall back on obsolescent models such as the pre-war Heinkel 111 and Ju88. They had not made a massive impact back in 1940–41 when there had been lots of them; they would make even less of an impression now, but to the detriment of the defence of the Reich. Kampfgeschwader 2 – Bomber Wing 2 – had been conducting small-scale bombing raids against Britain; average life expectancy for those crews, who were achieving so little, was just twelve missions. Sending bombers to Britain was simply a waste and depletion of effort.
Milch was always operating with one arm tied behind his back and the full force of a Hitlerian tirade cowed even him. ‘The Führer sees it as taking too great a risk,’ he explained of Hitler’s decision not to back the Me262.3 ‘But I have my orders. I am a soldier, and must obey them. We must observe the prudence demanded by the Führer.’ Hitler and prudence, however, were words that in no way went together.
Nor did Milch get much help from Göring. Although the Reichsmarschall had been a celebrated fighter ace in the First World War, like Hitler he had never been to staff college and had not commanded at middling ranks. He was a far better politician and businessman than military leader. During the 1930s his power had been second only to Hitler’s, and much of the structure and success of the Nazis had been down to him. Since the Luftwaffe’s failures had begun to be felt, however, his influence had been significantly on the wane. In his efforts to curry favour he had become increasingly sycophantic and cowed by Hitler’s rants and attempts to humiliate him. As a result, Milch had no one at the highest level to back him up.
Soon after, the full weight of the RAF’s bombing campaign began to have an impact as the Ruhr was pummelled. Because of the bombing, by the summer of 1943 the Zentrale Planung had faced a shortfall of 400,000 tons of steel and any further increases in Luftwaffe aircraft production had been brought to a halt.
And now Hamburg lay in ruins. Speer questioned whether they could even maintain production of fighter aircraft, let alone more bombers. He warned Hitler that if six more cities suffered like Hamburg the war would be over. On 2 August, on Hitler’s instructions, ministers and gauleiters – regional Nazi governors – met in Berlin, where Josef Goebbels, the propaganda chief, planned to put some fire back into their bellies. At one point, Milch, normally so calm and outwardly unemotional, interrupted him. ‘We have lost the war!’4 he exclaimed. ‘Finally lost the war!’ Goebbels had to appeal to Milch’s sense of honour to get him to calm down. The following day, after Hamburg had been hit yet again, Milch cabled Göring. ‘It is not the front which is under attack and struggling for survival,’ he wrote, ‘but the home base, which is fighting a desperate fight.’
Hitler now vacillated repeatedly. On 28 July, in the middle of the Hamburg raids, he approved the decision to make defence of the Reich the Luftwaffe’s priority, yet the next day he refused to authorize a higher production of fighters and instead once more insisted on retaliatory strikes against Britain. ‘I want bombers, bombers, bombers!’ he raged at a meeting of senior Luftwaffe staff.5 ‘Your fighters are useless!’ Milch tried to get round this by ordering fighter output to three tho
usand per month and referring to the V1 flying bomb project, still in development, as a ‘bomber replacement’.6
Then on 17 August, when the Americans bombed Schweinfurt, a number of jigs set for making Me262 fuselages were destroyed, while later that night the RAF bombed Peenemünde, the research establishment on the Baltic coast where V2 ballistic rockets were being built and tested. Some 596 heavies hit the plant pretty accurately, although they also tragically hit the camp for forced labour. It was estimated this set back the V2 rocket project by at least two months. Hitler was incensed and immediately insisted on giving the project all priority. Britain was to be brought to her knees by these weapons, he said; attack was the only way to deal with Germany’s enemies. Prioritizing the rocket programme, however, came at a cost, as skilled workers were taken from the aircraft factories and sent to Peenemünde instead. ‘Not one swine is helping us,’ said Milch in utter exasperation.7
At the beginning of September, Göring called together all his senior commanders to Schloss Rominten, a hunting lodge he had acquired near the Wolf’s Lair. Milch was there, as was General der Jagdflieger Adolf Galland. The Luftwaffe, Göring told them, had achieved outstanding successes but now needed to turn entirely to defending Germany’s western front. With focus and concentration of force – Schwerpunkt – on one aim, he was certain the Allied bomber threat could be halted. The role of the Luftwaffe had never been more important than at this critical hour; it had to protect the lives and property of German people, but also safeguard war industry. He then outlined the measures he intended to take: an end to offensive action for the time being; the vast majority of forces brought back to Germany; and new tactics for maintaining air superiority over the Reich.
Galland, for one, was profoundly moved by this speech. ‘Never before and never again,’ he noted later, ‘did I witness such determination and agreement among the circle of those responsible for the leadership of the Luftwaffe.’8 Rivalries and rifts had been put to one side. Satisfied that his commanders were all in agreement, Göring then left them to visit Hitler in person at the Wolf’s Lair and outline to the Führer the new measures for the defence of the Reich.
Some time later, Göring reappeared, followed by his senior adjutant. The Reichsmarschall did not say a word, but walked past the assembled men and disappeared into an adjoining room. Galland and others looked at each other in amazement, wondering what on earth had happened. Soon after, Galland and Oberst Dietrich Peltz, the Inspector of Combat Flight, were called in to see Göring. ‘We were met with a shattering picture,’ wrote Galland.9 ‘Göring had completely broken down. His head buried in his arm on the table.’ Galland and Peltz stood there in embarrassment until eventually the Reichsmarschall pulled himself together. The Führer, he explained, had rejected all his proposals and had angrily told him he had lost all faith in the Luftwaffe. A change from offensive to defensive was out of the question. The Luftwaffe would be given one last chance to regain some trust, but this could only be done by a resumption of large-scale attacks on England. Attack was to be the only word. Terror had to be met with counter-terror. The Führer, Göring said, was right; he was always right.
‘Oberst Peltz,’ said Göring, now pulling himself to his feet, ‘I herewith appoint you assault leader against England!’10
Galland could scarcely believe what he had heard. He thought of resigning there and then, but wondered whether Hitler might not soon change his mind. ‘I was mistaken,’ he noted later.11
Dolfo Galland was one of the most celebrated pilots in Germany and, still aged only thirty-one, also one of the Wehrmacht’s youngest generals. Lean, dark and debonair, with a raffish dark moustache and equally dark piercing eyes, he was rarely without a cigar, which rather added to his swashbuckling image, and had even insisted on flying only aircraft that had an electric cigar lighter. The Nazi state was always quick to make celebrities of fighting heroes and Galland was one of the most visual, gracing magazine covers and featuring in newspapers and on newsreels. He had been given a house in Berlin, had been awarded the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds – the highest award for gallantry – and made sure he slept with as many women as possible.
The son of well-to-do minor aristocrats from Westerholt, in the Ruhr area of western Germany, Galland had become obsessed with flying at a young age. Learning the basics through gliding, he had been among the first to join the Luftwaffe following a stint as a pilot for Lufthansa, the fledgling civilian airline. As part of the Condor Legion, he had successfully commanded a squadron in Spain during the civil war there and was among a group of young officers to start developing tactical doctrine for the fighters. He later flew during the Polish campaign in 1939, over France and then in the Battle of Britain, amassing large numbers of victories. By the end of 1940, he had fifty-seven confirmed enemy aircraft shot down and was Gruppe commander of III/JG26.
Never afraid to stick his neck out, Galland had quite openly criticized Göring’s tactics and mismanagement of the German fighter force during the Battle of Britain, but because of his skill, qualities as a leader, and celebrity, he got away with it. Through much of 1941, he had led JG26, based in the west, and had taken on the Spitfires of RAF Fighter Command. By the middle of November 1941, he had amassed ninety-six personal victories, second in the world only to his friend Werner Mölders.
That month the Luftwaffe had been rocked by the suicide of Ernst Udet, its Armaments Minister, swiftly followed by the death of Mölders, who was killed when an aircraft he was not piloting crashed en route to Udet’s funeral. Mölders had only recently been appointed General der Jagdflieger. ‘A few days later at the interment of Mölders,’ said Galland, ‘Göring announced, with exquisite taste at the side of the open grave that I was to be the next General der Jagdflieger.’12
At the time of his appointment, Galland had been just twenty-nine and at the peak of his career as a fighter pilot. Only a few weeks earlier he had been awarded the Swords to his Knight’s Cross, the first man in the entire Wehrmacht to have been given such an accolade. Up to that point, he had focused entirely on flying, leading his Jagdgeschwader – his fighter wing – and honing tactics. To the reverses in the Soviet Union, the imminent entry of the USA into the war and the increasing power of the RAF he had given little thought.
Promoted to Oberst – colonel – he had handed over JG26 then tried to work out what he needed to do in this new leadership post. None of his predecessors had put in place any long-term programmes or done any kind of planning. Liaison with the Air Ministry was non-existent; nor did Galland himself have any staff training. On the one hand, this made his post a rather daunting one; but on the other, he was confident, outspoken, had the backing of both Göring and Hitler, and had been given the opportunity to shape the position as he wished. ‘I functioned,’ he said, ‘as adviser, consultant, administrator, inspector, formulator of doctrine, and on some occasions as an operational authority.’13 This meant he oversaw training, advised on procurement, supervised tactical developments, and acted as the direct liaison between the fighter units and Göring, Milch and other senior figures. In fact, his remit was wide-ranging but his overriding concern had been to develop the German day-fighter arm for the defence of the Reich. His offices were in Berlin and he had a train coach at the Wolf’s Lair, but much of his time had also been spent touring the Reich and occupied territories, and visiting fighter units. Galland understood the importance of talking to those serving under him.
His first year in the post had been tough as, on all fronts, the Germans had suffered reverses and the Luftwaffe had become increasingly stretched. Although he had come into contact with Göring frequently over the years, only in his new role did Galland see his chief at close hand. He soon realized that the Reichsmarschall had no technical understanding and very little appreciation of the circumstances in which fighter pilots were living and operating. Opinions were formed on the basis of advice from a small clique of sycophants. ‘His court favourites,’ said Galland, ‘change
d frequently since his favour could only be won and held by means of constant flattery, intrigue and expensive gifts.’14 Since he refused to play such games, Galland discovered that his master’s fickle nature was a near-constant bugbear, with repeated changes of mind, contradictory orders and decision-making that frequently defied any kind of logic.
On top of that, Galland’s own staff were overly bureaucratic, with little practical knowledge. He swiftly brought in new men – old colleagues and fighter leaders who understood the demands of combat flying and whom he could trust. In the east, the fighter units continued to amass great scores against largely inferior opposition and morale remained high. In the west, however, the situation was gradually worsening, with fighter units horribly understrength and morale taking a hit. New breeds of Spitfire and the fast, high-altitude Mosquito were also cause for technological envy. The Focke-Wulf 190 was still considered by the pilots to be inferior to the latest Spitfires above 20,000 feet and it had taken too long to iron out the flaws in its engine, the BMW 801. Then had come the problems with the DB605 engine that powered the new Me109G. At times the Luftwaffe had appeared to have no good fighter engine at all.
Nor had the air defence system been working well. Germany had begun the war with no air defence system at all. One had started to be developed, but it was inefficient and interception rates had been low. The whole system needed overhauling.
Later that summer of 1942, the first American daylight attacks had begun. German fighter pilots had never before encountered heavy bombers so well armed and able to fly in such close formation. ‘The defensive fire-power of the bombers,’ Galland admitted, ‘was regarded as extremely effective and actually instilled considerable apprehension into the minds of the fighters.’15 Pilots were clearly avoiding combat with enemy bombers and not until Major Egon Mayer, of JG2, began shooting them down by attacking head-on had new tactics to deal with the Flying Fortresses been developed. Soon after, Galland issued new Tactical Regulations. Fighter units were to fly on a course parallel to and on one side of the bombers until about 3 miles ahead of them, at which point they were to turn in by Schwärme – ‘swarms’, or fours – and then fly on a level with the bombers for the last 1,500 yards before opening fire at around 900 yards. This was quite a distance, but such were the closing speeds they would still be firing at very close range. They were then to fly on flat over the top of the bomber formation. Galland himself flew a number of missions to test these tactics and was satisfied they were the right ones. At any rate, they were beginning to bring down a lot more.
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