Hitler's Jet Plane (25 page)

Welter was killed at a level crossing near Leck, North Frisia in March 1949 when carelessly secured logs fell from a passing railway waggon and crushed his car.

14

A Last Flight to Cherbourg

W
hile the aerial engagements and attacks of III/JG7 and JV 44 were pressed home with ever greater resolution and bitterness, exhaustive flight testing of the Me 262 continued at Lechfeld. Dr Caroli, Head of Flight Tests, and his test pilots Karl Baur, Gerd Lindner and – since February 1945 – Ludwig Hofmann – took off whenever weather and enemy operations permitted. The tests were aimed exclusively at discovering the reason for the failure which had cost so many Me 262 pilots their lives: the uncontrollable vertical dive which developed once the aircraft’s nose dropped and its velocity approached the sound barrier. The cause was, of course, known to aerodynamics theorists and engineers: simply put, close to the speed of sound the wing profile counteracted the airstream flow. It was thought that the sound barrier, where reigned airspeeds of ten times hurricane force, speeds which, at ground level, could turn the Earth into a wilderness, could not be penetrated without changing substantially aircraft design. The theory was therefore known to aeronautical scientists and engineers, but the book about the practice had yet to be written.

The test flights from Lechfeld worked at investigating the sound barrier, feeling blindly for the causes of its treachery and dangers. ‘Feeling blindly’ followed a fine line between life and death. The pilots climbed to between 30,000 and 36,000 feet before making a steeply inclined dive with engines full out. At about 21,000 feet the jet would reach a speed of 950 kph, at that altitude almost the speed of sound. This was confirmed by the aircraft assuming of its own accord a much steeper inclination while in the cockpit a deep, dull roar could be heard which, growing ever louder, eventually sounded like a roll of thunder of long intensity. Shortly after this phenomenon occurred, the speed of the Me 262 increased until the aircraft gave a sudden jolt and tipped to one side. The pilot had now entered a very dangerous situation, for the aircraft would have begun a plunge for the ground out of control, and he had no means of knowing when the deflected airflow over wings and tail control surfaces would be restored and the aircraft thus answer the controls again. It would sometimes happen that the jet had barely six or nine hundred feet below him when the aircraft levelled out.

It was a test which required nerves of steel. Initiated at Lechfeld for the first time, the trials continued until brought to a conclusion by the arrival of US forces at Lechfeld on 26 April 1945. For their part, the Americans confiscated all relevant files in order to continue testing in the United States. On 14 October 1947 test pilot Charles ‘Chuck’ Yeager became the first man through the sound barrier flying the Bell X – 1.

For months the Americans had known what valuable booty awaited them at Lechfeld and for the purpose had assembled a team from their test centre at Wright Field, Ohio. To their great surprise, a round dozen Me 262 aircraft fell into their hands undamaged. On most other airfields, especially Salzburg, nearly all available jet fighters or bombers were blown up or set on fire, but a wiser airfield commander at Lechfeld gave instructions instead to merely ‘immobilise’ the machines. This was done by removing instruments or individual parts to render the machine unflyable, but it was an easy matter for the Americans to have the defects remedied often by recruiting the same technicians and ground crew who had previously worked on Me 262s.

Thus Caroli and his test pilots were fetched from their beds. Hofmann had a room at Lechfeld and so it was not long before it became the classroom for a training course where German instructors showed their American pupils how the jet engines worked. One can imagine the great interest shown by the Wright Field fliers on their first encounter close-to with the aircraft which had given their own fighters and bombers such a hard time, and no wonder too, that the strict rules against fraternisation were soon overcome. Ludwig Hofmann would soon discover this for himself.

While the courses of instruction continued without a break, Baur and Hofmann were often asked to fly into Lechfeld undamaged Me 262s situated in outlying locations, and eventually about twenty jets were assembled there. Shortly after, the Wright Field team transferred to an airfield not far from the southern outskirts of Paris. The German pilots were ordered to fly the Me 262s there with their American pupils in order to continue the training programme. It was certainly a strange twist in events that so shortly after the bitter aerial fighting over the former Reich German test pilots had set up a technical school for the benefit of their American counterparts. It was a peaceful scene of international co-operation, so to speak, which helped mend a few fences.

The order came a few weeks after the capitulation that all Me 262 aircraft were to be transferred to Cherbourg for transport by the Royal Navy carrier HMS
Reaper
to the United States and ultimately the sector of the Wright Field base which had been set aside for them. Rumour had it that the German test pilots would also make the transatlantic voyage. Although it was no more than a short, half-hour hop from Paris to Cherbourg, weather conditions ensured that the whole transfer operation took a fortnight. On a June morning in 1945, Ludwig Hofmann took the controls of the last Me 262 jet to be transferred. Colonel Harold E Watson, USAAF Air Technical Intelligence, head of the Wright Field team, was particularly attached to this last aircraft because it was the only one to be fitted with the Rheinmetall BK5 50mm anti-tank gun modified for use to shoot down Allied bomber aircraft. As thick as an elephant’s trunk, the barrel projected several metres from the nose of the aircraft. The 5-cm shells lay in belts in the fuselage. This version of the Me 262 had never been operational, however. The weapon tended to jam badly and the muzzle-flash dazzled the pilot.

Hofmann had flown the machine quite a number of times and he was always relieved to scramble out of the cockpit after landing it. He feared that a crash-landing could easily result in a disastrous explosion involving the belts of 5-cm ammunition and upon receiving his flying orders suggested that gun and shells should be unshipped and brought by lorry or DC-3 to Cherbourg. Watson was not keen. ‘It would of course mean a great deal of complicated work, etc., etc.’

The jet turbines started without a problem, everything else appeared to be in order, Hofmann gave the OK with both thumbs, the ground crew pulled away the chocks and the last Me 262 made off down the runway.

The aircraft rose quietly to 9,000 feet where Hofmann levelled out 500 feet below the cloud and set course for Cherbourg. He overflew the western suburbs of Paris, saw beneath him to his right the ruler-straight carriageway leading from the Champs Elysées and looked forward to the evening walk there already agreed with his colleagues. He contemplated other ideas. Would it be a good thing to go to the States? His family was in the Communist Zone of Germany; what life would be like there once the final borders were settled was anybody’s guess. He was resolute not to go to America without his family. And so, what does the future hold for me? was his next question. Here there could be no answer. He had been a test pilot of almost ten years, first with gliders, then four years flying Flettner helicopters. As interesting as it was dangerous! Three or four of his predecessors had not survived the latter experience. He had been scheduled to test-fly the Natter, a manned rocket-propelled projectile. Here the idea was to take off, attack a bomber swarm, aim the Natter at an enemy aircraft and then – if one were lucky – land by parachute. But the Natter was not for Hofmann. In parachute training he had suffered a severe concussion. After hospital and convalescence came the opportunity at Messerschmitt. Perhaps the last, for in a defeated Germany the aircraft industry had been destroyed and it seemed unlikely that new types would be built while he was still young enough to be a test pilot. Maybe this was his last flight for many years. He glanced at his watch. Already he was halfway to Cherbourg. Below him the landscape had changed, and was now a patchwork of green, brown and yellow rectangles edged by small rivers, here and there the blue of a lake. In the far distance he thought he could see Caen, and after that it was only a few more minutes to...

A violent jolt tore him from his musing, the type of blow that made the whole aircraft shudder. Almost simultaneously, there began a series of metallic knocks and thuds against the right fuselage and cockpit panels. The aircraft began to vibrate wildly, then embarked upon a steep nose dive. Despite whatever force he exerted on the controls, the machine did not respond. Another jolt, and the control stick was knocked from his grasp as if by a giant’s hand. The shaking and vibrating became ever more fierce and jerked his head against the cabin glass or the head rest, while the forces in the cockpit were so strong that he lost the ability to control his hand movements. He knew it was impossible to operate the throttle lever or calmly hold the control stick and restore the aircraft to normal flight.

Through the glazed window he saw smoke and flame billowing from the upper surface of the wing and engine nacelle and noticed that holes as big as a fist had been ripped open in the plating covering the wing. Here and there sharp, fluttering bluish flames like an acetylene torch tongued out accompanied by a dark grey smoke from rips and tears in the material. In those few turbulent seconds instinct took over from fear. There were few options. Parachute out or try a crash-landing? Could the aircraft yet be saved? And who would believe him when they saw the smashed wreckage of their valuable bounty, the pilot still alive? In his mind’s eye he saw Watson’s head, his hard gaze, fixed accusingly on Hofmann’s own.

Hofmann grasped his left wrist with his right hand, forcing it forward in a vain attempt to reach the throttle lever. He persevered, his hands knocked against the lever and finally he grasped it. It could not be moved, the shaft was bent or jammed. He fidgeted with the mechanism of the locking lever – this clicked in place alongside it when the throttle lever was put to neutral – and gashed his hand.

There was smoke in the cabin, a dark acrid thick cloud rising from below. At first in thin swathes, then becoming thicker, making his eyes water. He glanced at the altimeter but couldn’t read it: the vibrations and smoke obscured the figures. The vibrations worsened the steeper the dive became. The controls were useless. The decision was made for him. A crash-landing was out of the question. All that was left for him to do was save his own life. With an effort he unfastened the small catch holding the securing mechanism of the cockpit hood. It flew off, the smoke dispersed and in the distance Hofmann saw the roofs of two adjacent houses. He had only a few hundred feet of height. It took him a few tries before he managed to release his seat straps, grasped the control stick with both hands, put the machine into a controlled roll, and almost as it began – as though seized by a giant’s fist – was plucked from the cockpit and thrown free. He felt a powerful blow against his lower thigh, then the violent airstream, and pulled at once on the parachute D-ring.

The jerk as the parachute deployed was very violent, and he had the impression that the American Irvin ’chute might have split down the middle. His arms and legs felt dislocated, and his body received a jolt as if he had been swung against a wall. Hanging from the device, he looked up. It had not deployed perfectly, the canopy had a long crosswise rip and torn ribbons of the silk dangled from the canopy edging. It was spilling air, and Hofmann knew that the descent was too rapid.

The two houses were almost directly below him. Beyond was a pall of black smoke, rising almost vertically. He was probably 150 feet from the ground.

He glanced down and noticed that his feet were bare. He assumed that as the parachute jerked open, the speed of the fall had torn his boots and socks from his feet. Then the ground came up. Instinctively he raised his legs a little, then hit.

He felt nothing. As he awoke from a probably short lapse into unconsciousness, he found two men and a woman near him. Once he had opened his eyes they tried to lift him, but he shrugged them aside and made the effort to stand himself. He managed it – barely – but once he was upright his legs refused to bear the weight and he sank back to his knees.

They carried him the hundred yards to the house and laid him on a sofa. All the while he had his teeth clenched so as not to scream aloud at the pain. The woman brought him a cognac and said something to the men which Hofmann didn’t understand. Once she had left the room, the men relieved the pilot of his shirt and trousers, moved his arms and legs cautiously, felt his chest and pelvis and murmured a few observations between themselves which Hofmann was unable to follow. Groaning all the while he submitted to it although there was no place in his body which didn’t seem to hurt; he observed watchfully the efforts of the men to discover whether anything was broken. His whole body was streaked with blood and heavily bruised. The right lower trouser leg was impregnated with the paintwork of the aircraft. This meant that he must have hit the fuselage or tailplane upon ejecting.

The woman had returned with an earthenware basin and began to rub oil very carefully over Hofmann’s injuries. Until now Hofmann had said nothing. He looked at the woman, intending to thank her for her care when suddenly it occurred to him the danger in which he found himself. In no manner should he reveal that he was a German. The war had been over for less than a month and there was no knowing where the knives might be out. He was horrified at the possibility that already he might have let slip a German word from his lips without having noticed it. At the same time he realised that he now owned nothing. His attaché case with the paperwork, flying orders embellished with American stamps and his jacket containing money, letters and personal ID confirming his membership of the Wright Field detachment, all had been burned in the wreck of the Me 262. He remembered his parachute, the only proof he had. He requested the two men in sign language and with a few French phrases to bring in the parachute. They returned with a bundle of torn silk, damaged lines, harness encrusted with dirt. It was a miracle that it had held together. The American Irvin parachute was tested to withstand an opening force of 650 kph. Hofmann had baled out at probably 900 kph. Despite everything, he had been lucky...