Jean-Yves Lorant

Published nearly 30 years ago -and in the wrong language- this is still one of the best ever aircraft histories on a Luftwaffe type yet published. Many rare photographs and if you have Peter Rodeike's volume on the Fw 190 then you should definitely hunt this one down. Reader's of Lorant's more recent two volume history of JG 300 will recognise one or two of the chapters since the "wilde Sau" nightfighters and the chapter on the Fw 190 in the Defence of the Reich form a considerable chunk of this original work.… (mer)

(text extract - my translation)

At 12:01, fifty 20th FG Mustangs made their rendezvous with the B-17s, then skirted around the German capital on a southerly track. Almost immediately the American pilots saw a bomber going down. Very quickly the sky was teeming with aircraft in distress, trails of smoke and vapor. One Mustang pilot counted up to thirty parachutes hanging in the sky at one point. One of his comrades saw three B-17s in perfect formation; all three were streaming flames… Part of this spectacle was the handiwork of the 24 Focke-Wulfs of II./JG 300, who summarily dispatched three Fortresses in two minutes. The successful pilots were Lt. Schmitt (4. Staffel), Fhj.-Ofw. Löfgen (5. Staffel) and Uffz. Wollensah (6. Staffel). At 12:22, a Fortress that came under fire from Fhj.-Ofw. Herbert Pöhlmann (6. Staffel) fell out of station smoking. One 5. Staffel pilot, Uffz. Ernst Schröder, was undergoing his baptism of fire:

Takeoff from Holzkirchen at 10:45. As I was untested in combat, I had been designated to fly as number two, or wingman to Fahnenjunker-Oberfeldwebel Richard Löfgen, who was leading our Sturmgruppe on this sortie. I therefore found myself at the controls of “Red 12” flying in the lead Schwarm. The Gruppe had been able to put a good twenty or so Fw 190s in the air. The weather was fine, the sky virtually cloudless.
I recall that we were airborne for quite some time, reaching a height of more than 6,000 meters, which meant that we had to clip on our oxygen masks. Changes of track relayed by Jagddivision (Döberitz?) came loud and clear over the frequency. Finally, after flying for an hour and a half, we were informed that the “fat cars” would soon be in sight. I kept a constant look out, in so far as I was able while maintaining position as the number 2 to the Verbandsführer. We were flying the typical close-knit — and quite restrictive — formation characteristic of the Sturmgruppen. It was imperative to keep station. For an instant I caught sight of a contrail at much higher altitude. It was impossible to know if this was a friendly aircraft or not. It wasn’t long before the information and the orders being transmitted over the radio became more insistent: “You should be able to see the fat cars!”
Suddenly I saw our prize: 25 or 30 B 17 bombers, a little off to the right in an oblique line that was as straight as a die, five hundred meters below us. Most of them had a bare-metal aluminium finish, others were camouflaged. On their current track they would cut across our path. It was like watching a gigantic aerial flypast. I instinctively made myself small in the cockpit, imagining, in my fervor as an unfledged fighter pilot, that they had seen us and that hundreds of machine guns were about to open up on us! But nothing of the sort happened and the Americans plowed on below us, unperturbed by our presence. What a majestic sight these enormous aircraft were as they streamed their mostly long trails of condensation behind them.
For a moment I wondered why Löfgen had not wheeled down and around to the right to attack them in a dive. And then I realized… bloody hell! Another “Mahalla” was heading towards us, at a slightly higher altitude than the previous formation. Once again we let these bombers pass by below us. I immediately caught sight of a third box, flying more or less at our own altitude. Stretching way back into the distance were yet more boxes of bombers one behind the other, specks that took on the appearance of a swarm of gnats…
Suddenly all hell broke loose. The terse order “jettison drop tanks!” came through the earphones, and in the second that followed, numerous pale blue auxiliary tanks went tumbling down into the void. Löfgen had just peeled away, bunting over to the right and was diving between the box of Flying Fortresses that had just gone past below us and the following box which was looming — menacingly — ever larger. I tightened my turn a little to keep close to our number one. I now kept my eyes fixed on him, which meant that I couldn’t watch what was happening around us. Then, exactly 1,500 meters ahead of us, I counted 25 B 17s. Despite being well out of range at this enormous distance, their gunners opened up. The sky was suddenly streaked with thousands of sparkling pearls. Or at least this is how the tracers appeared in the dazzling blue sky. I was instantly reminded of the games that we played as children in our garden and how my brother Helmut would love to try and turn the water hose on me! Thousands of bright, sparkling drops just seconds from sluicing down on me. But I could only throw the briefest of glances forward, forced to keep station on Löfgen’s wing, and anxious, above anything else, not to collide with him.
Another order came over the radio: “Pauke, Pauke, auf sieee, Rabazanella!” I had to pick out a bomber immediately. I quickly switched on the gunsight and flicked off the armament safety switch. I almost forgot in my excitement! It was then that I felt intense fear, expecting to be hit at any moment. My bomber was still a respectable distance away, his wings not yet filling the graticule of my Revi. I shot a glance to my left. Löfgen had already opened up, all guns blazing. The Boeing rapidly loomed large in my sight and I opened fire. I saw several flashes up ahead. Were these the impacts of my shells or the gunners returning fire? It was impossible to tell. There were more flashes in the tail gunner’s position and on the rudder. This time my bursts had clearly raked him. The great bulk of the “thing” had assumed imposing proportions, it was time to break off. But how, above or underneath? I unleashed a final salvo, and for a fraction of a second, thought I glimpsed the fuselage ablaze. The tail gunner’s compartment appeared enormous. I rammed the stick forward, flashing past underneath the bomber, pulling negative Gs as I rolled several times while diving headlong before taking stock of what was happening around me. A short while prior to the attack I had seen a very large city off on my starboard side, which from a height of 8,000 meters was laid out like the pattern on an antique ornamental carpet. This could only have been the capital of the Reich — Berlin. Consequently there would be numerous airfields in the area.
The constant craning back and forth, to and fro, as I surveyed the sky all around me, had started to make my neck hurt. There was not a single aircraft, either friendly or enemy, in my field of vision. It was time to ease my 190 out of its crazy plunge earthwards. By the time I had leveled out, my altimeter was indicating around 800 meters. There was a rail track ahead of me and a completely empty sky all around!
The pressure in my ears, that had built up as I plummeted down, gradually eased and I could hear the roar of my engine again. There were no untoward indications on any of my gauges. I reduced my throttle setting while continuing to keep a careful look out. Above me, the contrails appeared far away. I let down to a height of 150 meters, following the rail line. The red low fuel warning light now flashed up on my instrument panel. I had to quickly locate an airfield. I eventually came to a large town. I pulled up into a quick chandelle and shot a glance all around… still nothing behind me. I was then relieved to make out an airfield up ahead of me. As I overflew it I could see that I was flying parallel with the landing axis as indicated by the cross on the ground. I banked my fighter over, wisps of condensation briefly appearing at my wingtips. Moving away from the field I curved around in a 180° turn over the town, letting down my undercarriage and selecting flaps to come in on a long final. I let down towards the cross, noted that there was a little crosswind and felt the controls suddenly go a little slack. I was still 50 meters above the ground and the airfield was still some way off — about 1,500 meters — and I had to open up the throttle a little. Suddenly I thought I was seeing things: ahead of me there was a succession of flashes and violent detonations and an enormous cloud of smoke. The airfield was literally exploding! I rammed open the throttle, retracted gear and flaps, and yanked the aircraft around in a tight turn to port to put some distance between this hell and myself. Hugging the ground I headed back along the rail line. I kept a careful look out, especially on my tail. Still nothing but the rail track. The red warning light was now permanently illuminated on my instrument panel. I had only ten minutes more flying time before the propeller juddered and quit without any further warning. Was I likely to find an airfield in time or should I select a field to belly in on?
Precious minutes ticked by. My neck was really hurting by now. I throttled back to conserve gas. Finally a town appeared. Where was the airfield, where? Was that it back over there? I pulled up a little, selecting gear and flaps down, quickly retrimmed, adjusting the horizontal stabilizer, side slipping, then easing up the nose into the flare… the runway appeared in front of me. I could not make out the usual landing cross but that was hardly important any more. I rounded out, skimming over the ground. There was a bump and then the aircraft was running out and I began to apply the brakes. The airfield appeared strangely deserted. I could see no signs of human activity. Suddenly, someone dashed out from under cover, gesticulating skywards… Realisation dawned. I cut the engine. My propeller came to a standstill. I slid back the canopy and scrambled down from my 190. The air was filled with a deafening noise. I could have cried… From over on the other side of the airfield, there was a thunderous booming of detonating explosions, the ground shook and thick palls of smoke rose up into the sky. I flattened myself in the grass. Would the next salvo hit us? The sky reverberated with the drone of engines as the enemy formations overflew the airfield. I was expecting the next salvo of bombs at any moment.
We had enormous good fortune. On the side of the airfield where I found myself, I could see — not too far away — stocks of fuel, their placards bearing the designations “Me” and “Fw”. As luck would have it we were spared. The American’s bombing lacked precision; only the barracks were hit on the airfield, which by the way, was Stendal. I think the previous aerodrome I’d attempted to land at was Brandenburg .

The 17 Messerschmitts of I./JG 300, airborne from Bad Wörishofen at 10:45, had assembled with II./JG 300 over Augsburg. At 12:05 they attempted to close on two boxes of Boeing B-17s south-west of Berlin. At 12:09, several German pilots reported over the radio that an assault by the Mustangs was imminent. Moments later a free-for-all had developed. For ten minutes Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs wheeled around with the P-51s of the 20th FG. Combats spiraled down to low level.
II./JG 300 lost nine aircraft and four pilots all told in the days operations. Unteroffiziere Erich Voit, Franz Klein, Robert Janssen and Gfr. Heinz Nowarra crashed at the controls of their Focke-Wulf 190s, having fallen victim to the Mustangs and the Fortresses. Ofw. Richard Löfgen bailed out slightly wounded not far from Brandenburg.
Fw. Alfons Zeder (2. Staffel) claimed the destruction of a bomber, that he identified as being a B-17, over Rathenow. Uffz. Heinz Wischhöfer (1. Staffel) flew two passes at a Boeing B 17 at 4,000 meters altitude that had fallen behind on three engines south of Berlin. Surprised at the enemy gunners failure to react, Wischhöfer believed that the bomber had already been abandoned by its crew. Then at 12:27, four parachutes mushroomed open in the wake of the Boeing as it went into a slow spin. It exploded 2,000 meters from the ground above a layer of strato-cumulus. Wischhöfer landed at Jüterbog-altes Lager at 12:50. Fhr. Otto Leisner (1. Staffel), who had taken off from Bad Wörishofen at 10:45 in Bf 109 G 6 “Red 18”, barely survived this sortie:

South-west of Berlin, I sighted 10 or 12 Mustangs at about 9,000 meters altitude. It was a very ill-matched combat... My engine and my oil tank were riddled with bullets. My canopy and more especially the windshield were coated in a film of oil leaving me with only limited visibility to the rear through the plate armor glass protecting my head. I shoved the stick forward, brutally plunging downwards and soon saw no more than two Mustangs behind my ship. As I watched them close to a firing position, I transformed my dive into a slewing maneuver, sideslipping and turning or suddenly throttling back. Each time I took power off they swept past my crate, their momentum causing them to overshoot. Finally I went into a cloud. I had to make the most of this by bailing out. Therefore I tried to get rid of my canopy but unfortunately it refused to come free. I drew my pistol and fired several shots through the Plexiglas. I was counting on the slipstream to tear the hood off, thanks to the holes left by the bullets. I crossed the controls, applying rudder and opposite aileron, sideslipping at an oblique angle. The canopy did not budge a centimeter. The only thing left to do was to continue this blind descent. Very quickly my two brightly colored pursuers displaying what looked like sharks teeth markings on their olive green fuselages reappeared. Several seconds later, I put my 109 down in a potato field in front of some houses in the village of Liebsdorf. I scrambled out of my “Red 18” as rapidly as I could and started to run for the cover of the nearest thicket. The two Mustangs came back around at low level. The rattling of their machine-guns drowned out the thumping of my heart. I flattened myself on the ground. They were strafing me as much as the aircraft. I was still wearing my all too visible yellow life jacket. They wanted to finish me off. This yellow garb made me an excellent target. Seconds later I had got rid of it, hurling it as far away from myself as possible. I started to run again. The Amis came in for a second pass, then the thundering roar of their engines receded. They seemed to have gone for good. I picked myself up, then went looking for my life jacket. It had been holed by several bullet strikes. A little further off, my Messerschmitt was burning like a torch.

The Stabschwarm of JG 300, led by Maj. Dahl, did not make visual contact with the enemy. Having suffered a radio failure, the Kommodore had decided to turn for home. His wingmen followed him. It was their responsibility to protect Walther Dahl, whatever happened. They landed at Bad Wörishofen at 11:10. Seconded just the previous day to the Geschwaderstab, Uffz. Hans Reinartz was summoned after landing to report to the Kommodore. Both he and his comrades were lectured in no uncertain terms. They were torn off a strip for having broken off the sortie to chaperone Maj. Dahl in a sector where there was zero enemy aerial activity. Dahl explained to his pilots that they should have joined the other Schwärme and mounted an attack on the Americans over the target. The instruction “protect the Kommodore come what may” had suddenly become “attack the four-engine bombers at all costs”…… (mer)