Myths & Legends of the Second World War

by James Hayward

  By 1944 sightings of unidentified – and unidentifiable – aircraft types had become commonplace for Allied pilots and aircrew, who dubbed them ‘Krautballs’ and Foo Fighters. The latter name was derived from a then-popular cartoon character named Smoky Stover, who was fond of observing ‘Where there’s foo, there’s fire’. Foo Fighters were sighted both in Europe and the Pacific theatre, and were thought to be secret weapons of German or Japanese origin designed to interfere with the ignition systems of bombers. Few if any official reports reached the public, yet many were lodged by aircrew, and on 13 December 1944 Eisenhower’s Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF) in Paris issued a remarkable press release, variously headlined ‘Floating Ball is New Nazi Air Weapon’ (New York Times) and ‘Like Toys on a Christmas Tree’ (South Wales Argus). The NYT version ran thus:

  A new German weapon has made its appearance on the western air front, it was disclosed today. Airmen of the American Air Force report that they are encountering silver coloured spheres in the air over German territory. The spheres are encountered either singly or in clusters. Sometimes they are semi-translucent … The new device, apparently an air defence weapon, resembles the huge glass balls that adorn Christmas trees. There was no information available as to what holds them up like stars in the sky, what is in them, or what their purpose is supposed to be.

  According to Reuters, the dispatch from one Major Marshall Yarrow was ‘heavily censored’ at SHAEF, and no more particulars emerged for a fortnight, when a substantive Foo Fighter story appeared in the New York Herald Tribune of 2 January 1945. This quoted a Lieutenant Donald Meiers, who testified that:

  There are three kinds of these lights we call Foo Fighters. One is a red ball which appears off our wing tips and flies along with us. No. 2 is a vertical row of three balls of fire, flying in front of us. No. 3 is a group of about 15 lights which appear in the distance, like a Christmas tree up in the air, and flicker on and off …

  On another occasion, when a Foo Fighter picked us up, I dived at 360 miles an hour. It kept right off our wing tips for a while, and then zoomed up into the sky. When I first saw the things off my wing tips I had the horrible thought that a German, on the ground, was ready to press a button, and explode them. But they don’t explode, or attack us. They just seem to follow us, like wills-o’-the-wisp.

  In Britain, the Daily Telegraph ran a brief but broadly similar report a day earlier:

  Phoo Fighters are the big topic among our intruder pilots. These are strange orange lights which follow their planes, sometimes flying in formation with them and eventually peeling off and climbing. Some have come within a few yards and have been shot out. Another type of phoo fighter appears under the wings, making a series of dull flashes.

  Official sources attributed these sightings to combat fatigue, hallucinations, ball lightning and St Elmo’s Fire, but already a myth had been born. Since 1945 the Foo Fighter legend has been endlessly churned and exaggerated, initially by Harold Wilkins in his 1954 book Flying Saucers on the Moon. In his second chapter, titled ‘The Coming of the Foo Fighters’, Wilkins wrote that:

  It was in the war year, 1944, when both British and American pilots had singular experiences; but not a word of it has ever appeared in any British newspaper. In that year, censorship was stringent, but though other mysteries have been revealed since, this one has never had the veil of silence removed from it, so far as Britain is concerned …

  I happen to know that two British war pilots reported to intelligence officers, after a flight, that strange balls of fire had suddenly appeared while their own planes were on high-altitude flights. These mysterious balls had seemed to indulge in a sort of aerial ballet dance and had, so to speak, pirouetted on the wing tips of the planes. When the planes went into a power dive, these balls followed them down and outdistanced them, despite the fact that the planes were biting into the air with a strident scream at the vertiginous speed they were making. Other pilots reported that they had seen strange balls of blazing light flying in precise formation. The crew of one British bomber reported that 15 or 20 of these balls had followed their bomber at a distance.

  Wilkins (whose other books include Captain Kidd and Skeleton Island) went on to relate the experiences of several American pilots over the Rhine area, the first of which had taken place in November. It was even said that on one occasion a luminous ball had entered a USAAF bomber through a hatch and flown up and down the fuselage, although Wilkins cited no official reports beyond the Herald Tribune news story from January 1945. Although the Foo Fighter legend has since been substantially debased, the elusive reality behind the candid SHAEF dispatch of 13 December 1944 remains both baffling and fantastical.

  Even before Wilkins published Flying Saucers on the Moon, a connected mythology concerning Nazi flying discs was already in circulation. In 1952 an engineer and test pilot named Rudolph Schriever told the West German press that he had designed a ‘flying top’ for the Luftwaffe in 1941, which was flown the following year. His remarkable claims were enlarged in the book German Secret Weapons of the Second World War, written by Rudolf Lusar in 1957 and published in an English translation two years later. In this otherwise sensible book, which deals with technical developments across all weapon types between 1939 and 1945, Lusar included a brief and wholly unverifiable section on ‘flying saucers’ which ran as follows:

  During the war German research workers and scientists … built and tested such near-miraculous contraptions. Experts and collaborators confirm that the first projects, called flying discs, were undertaken in 1941. The designs … were drawn up by the German experts Schriever, Habermohl and Miethe, and the Italian Bellonzo. Habermohl and Schriever chose a wide-surface ring which rotated round a fixed, cupola-shaped cockpit … [They] worked in Prague, and took off with the first ‘flying disc’ on February 14 1945. Within three minutes they climbed to an altitude of 12,400 metres, and reached a speed of 2,000 km/h in horizontal flight. It was intended ultimately to achieve speeds of 4,000 km/h.

  Lusar also conjured an illustration of the miraculous machine, suggesting that Klaus Habermohl had been captured by the Russians, while Walter Miethe joined Werner von Braun in the USA, thus fuelling a Cold War flying disc race.

  Beyond their essentially fantastic nature, the principal objection to these claims is that neither Schriever or Lusar provided any corroborative evidence of any kind. The same is true of a claim first made in 1967 that the War Office had set up an investigation into foreign aerial objects in 1943, headed by a Lieutenant-General Massey, which was discontinued the following year after Massey reported that the phenomenal craft were not German, and that the Luftwaffe themselves were just as concerned by the phenomenon. On the evidence of Who’s Who, this particular British officer never existed, and Project Massey must be dismissed as a fiction.

  Ultimately the Foo Fighter legend remains suspended in a problematic X-Filed limbo, yet it perhaps bears comparison with the more orthodox myth of ‘Scarecrows’. These were thought to be special shells fired by flak batteries into Allied bomber streams above Germany, the powerful detonation of which was said to resemble an exploding bomber, with the intention of demoralising aircrew. In fact the Germans had devised no such shells, and what the crews saw were indeed exploding aircraft. To this day, however, many Bomber Command veterans refuse to accept that the ingenious ‘Scarecrows’ were nothing of the sort.

  APPENDIX ONE

  The Fifth Column in France

  In spite of these alarums and excursions in Louvain, I found time to attend an examination of suspected spies in Everburgh that afternoon. A special section had been created in each division to deal with spies and their twentieth-century cousins, the fifth columnists. It was called the Field Security Police. After four days of war in a country already overrun by Hitler’s civilian army the divisional FSP were getting a bit rattled; they had been working night and day interviewing spies pretty continuously since they had arrived; and as they consisted of only one offic
er and ten NCOs, and had anything up to 500 spies and bogus spies to interview each day, they were extremely glad to get helpers. I knew their officer and, with a view to helping him later, I attended one of his examinations and watched him in action in the courtyard of the local school. He sat at a little table in the middle with a revolver in front of him.

  Opposite herded into a corner by the NCOs were about 100 dejected-looking people, the suspects. I had never seen such a motley collection before in my life; the only thing common to them all was dirt, they were uniformly filthy, having just spent the night in the courtyard. Every walk of life seemed to be represented; there were priests, beggars, nuns, soldiers, shopkeepers; and every nationality; Belgians, Poles, Germans, Austrians, Czechs – even Indians.

  I reflected how many CID officers would normally be employed in peace-time to interrogate such a number of alien criminals. Yet here today, in circumstances far more grave, was one officer with a handful of helpers, doing a day’s work, only equalled I supposed, by the sum of all the work done by all the officers in Scotland Yard in a month.

  The first suspect, a civilian, was brought up to the table. He was accompanied by a little woman who appeared to be the witness.

  The captain consulted his notes.

  ‘You were seen entering a house in Everburgh dressed as a Belgian soldier,’ he said. ‘You came out dressed as a civilian. You are a deserter. But I am not concerned with that. This lady says that you had a box with you at the time. It contained a portable wireless set.’

  ‘That is a lie,’ said the man.

  ‘Do you admit that you had a box with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was in it?’

  ‘Food. I will tell you what happened if you like.’ The man now tried to be funny. He appeared quite intelligent. ‘Since it seems to interest you so much,’ he continued. ‘There was a cake my wife baked for me. Let me see – and there were two pieces of bread and butter.’ He scratched his head. ‘Yes – then there was a sausage.’ He looked at the woman who was giving evidence against him, ‘but that old sow ate the sausage.’

  There was an absolute torrent of abuse from the woman at this. She gabbled her words so indignantly and so fast that I could not make out what she was saying. The captain was evidently quite used to dealing with jokers. After one look at the fellow’s identity cards he had decided what to do.

  ‘Take him away. Hand him over to the French police,’ he said.

  This is a most extreme thing to do because the French police are not lenient with suspected spies; they treat them as guilty until they prove themselves innocent, giving them about a quarter of an hour in which to do it. Most of the other suspects, after an inspection of identity cards, were allowed to depart in peace – or rather in indignant rage; they all went off quietly, no one pelting is with stones and pebbles, as the sergeant told me one Belgian had done on a previous occasion; they were all only too glad to get away.

  The Field Security Police are not the only set of detectives and general legal advisors in the division; there is also the Provost Section. In peace-time they provide the ‘red caps’ and any soldier will tell you what a nuisance they are when they come round on Friday evening, telling you to do up your buttons and trying to catch you out tight.

  In war they take on the additional job of providing firing parties for spies, and their power extends over life and death; if the Field Security Police act as CID, the provost officer acts as the High Court judge. His power is prodigious. Our own divisional provost officer came to dinner one night, a Guards officer of the teutonic variety, a man obviously ideally suited to his work.

  ‘Do you really shoot spies?’ asked Stimpson, assuming a proper air of awe.

  ‘Of course,’ said the provost officer.

  ‘And do you do it entirely on your own? I mean the trial and all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I suppose you take very good care that they really are spies, don’t you? I mean – it’s a sort of absolute power of attorney, isn’t it?’

  The provost officer nodded his head.

  ‘It’s absolute all right,’ he said, grinning at the adjutant.

  Stimpson told me afterwards that he thought it a very barbarous reply, but he agreed with me that we would both sleep much more easily hereafter.

  Extracted from Anthony Rhodes, Sword of Bone (1941), pp. 147–9.

  APPENDIX TWO

  The Rumor Racket

  Three sergeants who shared a passion for practical jokes recently founded a little club. They called it Rumors, Inc. The club members devoted their spare time to bootleg lies to the other men in their outfit.

  Every day or so the sergeants went into a huddle and polished up a story and released it through proper latrine channels. One morning the chow line buzzed with a new ruling that had just arrived at headquarters: Troops who had been overseas two years were going to be furloughed home on a special program of mass rotation. That one caused tremendous excitement – but nobody ever located the directive.

  Another day a man in the know reported that canned beer from the States would be distributed with PX rations. Tongues were hanging out for days – but the PX people knew nothing about the deal. Once the grapevine had it that ten sacks of mail from home had been destroyed when a road mine blew the company jeep into little pieces. Another time there was anxious whispering about the Germans using gas in an adjacent sector and wiping out whole units. Some of the men – particularly the new men – bit every time. Most of the rumors left only a dull hangover of disappointment in the minds of their victims. But the one about poison gas spread terror until the CO called the men together. The sergeants got a big laugh out of their little game. They thought it was good clean fun. It just went to show that Barnum was right – a ‘sucker’ is born every minute.

  Instead of calling their club ‘Rumors, Inc.’ The sergeants might have called it ‘Murder, Inc.’ That would have been more accurate.

  Rumors can annihilate morale. They can kill men. And lose battles. And sabotage the entire war effort. The Germans are doing it every day.

  A man doesn’t have to be a mastermind to manufacture a rumor and get it into circulation. Any one can do it. All you need is a good memory or a little imagination – and no conscience.

  In wartime especially, the rumor racket thrives. Soldiers have been suddenly thrust into a strange, uncertain environment. They are hungry for news of home, news of military operations. Limited communications and censorship security often bottle up specific details for weeks. The situation leads to worry, to hope, to speculation. Where information ends, guessing begins. Rumors masquerading as cold fact are swallowed whole. The longing to go home – the dream of victory – fear of the unknown – the boredom of waiting – the tension of battle – the discomforts and anxieties and privations of war all blunt a man’s judgment and make him over-receptive to hearsay. Good news rumors are welcomed. Even a bad news rumor is better than nothing. At least it’s something to gripe about.

  Rumors start in a variety of ways. Not all are engineered deliberately by a sergeants’ brainstrust. Many a rumor is born innocently enough and passed with the best of intentions from man to man. Unfortunately good intentions don’t make a rumor harmless. The evidence is everywhere:

  Two battalions, occupying a hill in a forest near G-, had been in contact with the enemy for several days. One afternoon the Germans hit with an infantry attack supported by tanks. A bedlam of firing and yelling echoed through the thick woods. Three men from one of the battalions rushed down the hill to the CP to report the progress of the battle. ‘Our casualties are terrible,’ a Pfc panted. He described how his outfit had been overrun, cut off and captured. The major lost no time in ordering a light tank platoon into action. Hours later the situation quietened down and the true facts of the attack were discovered. Two enemy tanks had penetrated the front line. They crashed around in the woods but did no heavy damage. One tank was promptly knocked out and the
other withdrew. The German infantry had been driven back before it reached our line. In the entire operation, three Yanks had been wounded.

  What had been rumored as a disastrous rout turned out to be quite a different matter. The men who had made the false report at the Bn CP thought they were honestly describing the situation. They had lost their heads. They promised it would never happen again – but the harm had been done.

  All too often, under the pressure and confusion of attack, soldiers exaggerate the strength of the enemy and the extent of the losses he is inflicting. Their eyes and ears play monstrous tricks. Being prepared for the worst, they recognise the worst even when it has not arrived.

  One dark night when the Germans counter-attacked a dug-in company with a flame-throwing tank, two Yanks panicked at the wrong time and rushed to the rear. One of them was slightly singed and the other had an arm wound. On the way back they ran into two supply men who were waiting with ammunition destined for their company. They warned them to scram because the company had been wiped out and the enemy tank was heading towards the improvised dump. The supply men didn’t wait for verification of the rumor. They jumped into their jeep and made tracks. It was a tragic mistake. Eventually the company was destroyed – not by the initial attack – they repulsed that one – but because they never got the ammo that the supply men were sent to deliver.