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The post La Fière Wargame first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

As incredible as it may sound, Sweden, a country widely known for its commitment to peace and nuclear disarmament, for decades ran one of the world’s largest secret nuclear weapons programs. At its peak, the effort employed nearly 300 scientists full time at FOA alone. Hundreds of millions of dollars were spent. The effort rivaled the Manhattan Project in its scale, sophistication, and engineering. And it was so successful that for decades, unbeknownst to the public, Sweden was only a single vote away in parliament from becoming the world’s fourth largest nuclear-armed nation – behind only the Soviet Union, the United States, and the United Kingdom.

How can it be, we might ask, that Sweden, the peace-loving global leader of nuclear disarmament movements, was secretly building the bomb in its basement?

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This article places the facts in context with the changing global security situation and offers fresh insights into Sweden’s aircraft development programs and the rationale behind its security policies. Sources include documentation released by the Government of Sweden regarding its past nuclear weapons programs to the International Atomic Energy Agency and what limited information is available in the media, such as newspapers and magazines both in the USA, Sweden, and elsewhere.

To answer that question, let’s start with a review of the essential facts: Sweden’s nuclear weapons program was managed by the Swedish National Defense Research Institute, known as FOA. It involved KTH with its R1 reactor and relied on support from Lund Universitet, Uppsala Universitet, the Karolinska Institute, and Chalmers in Gothenburg. As well, Sweden’s electricity companies and defense industries were deeply involved. Finally, Saab, the Svenska Aeroplan AB company, was tasked with building a nuclear-capable bomber for the Air Force.

The program also involved some of the nation’s most well-known public figures. The Prime Minister, Tage Erlander, personally launched the effort in 1959. Olof Palme was the Secretary of the Working Group on Nuclear Weapons Development. Later, as head of the “S-Program”, he was essentially the “Father of the Swedish Bomb”.

Yet why would Sweden, a tiny country in Scandinavia, need nuclear weapons at all?

The answer to that is simple. Sweden is a neutral, non-aligned nation. It isn’t a member of NATO. And yet it was on the front lines of the Cold War. Directly across the Baltic Sea is the Soviet Union. And when you think about it, the Swedish Bomb program makes perfect sense. It was the country’s ultimate insurance policy against Soviet aggression.

The program got its start back in 1945, immediately after the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. At the time, Sweden realized that it would soon be caught between the United States and the Soviet Union. And with the dawning of the nuclear age, the only credible defense was to have nuclear weapons and a bomber that could deliver them on target. And that was Sweden’s biggest problem.

It took only 10 years to get to the point where it was ready to deploy its first bomb. However, it took 25 years to build a jet bomber that could take the bomb through Soviet air defenses and drop it on a target.

At the time, the view was that large, conventional military forces weren’t needed if you had the Bomb. Having nuclear weapons was seen as a cost-effective solution to national defense problems. As a result, from 1945 to 1949, the United States, confident in its security as the only nation that had the bomb, scrapped much of its military equipment and demobilized most of its forces. The Soviet Union, however, had no nuclear weapons yet was quickly emerging as a rival.

In 1948, the Soviets tested America’s resolve by blockading Berlin. While the Allies responded with the Berlin Airlift, the lesson was clear – America wasn’t about to nuke the Russians over Berlin, nor for that matter over any other passing security issue. Conventional forces mattered after all.

To counter the Soviet threat, NATO was formed in 1949 and, that very year, the Soviets tested their first atomic bomb. Just a year later, in 1950, the Korean War broke out. As for Sweden, while it trusted the Americans weren’t about to drop the Bomb on Stockholm, the same couldn’t be said about the Soviets. Sweden’s program kicked into high gear.

As it happened. Sweden was ideally suited for nuclear weapons production. Unlike most other nations, it could mine its own uranium from deposits of black shale within its borders. It had the necessary scientific expertise and, in fact, Sweden’s scientists were so expert that they chose to skip the usual step of developing a uranium-based bomb and they went directly to work on a more powerful plutonium-based model.

A year later in 1952, the United Kingdom conducted its first nuclear blast test in the Indian Ocean, codenamed “Operation Hurricane”. The UK was the third nation in history to have nuclear weapons.

In Sweden, the breeder reactor, R1, went live in 1954. It closely mirrored the design of America’s Oak Ridge Research Reactor and it was nearly as efficient. Less than a year later, Sweden had produced its first five kilograms of plutonium.

Still Sweden had a problem — while it was ready to deploy its first bomb, it lacked a bomber that could deliver it on target.

The Swedish Air Force had only one bomber in its inventory and that was the aging Saab 17, a pre-war, single-engine, propeller-driven plane that had been designed in the late 1930s. This was the jet age, however, and a plane like that was clearly not going to be up to the task. In a bid to catch up, Sweden tried converting its propeller-driven Saab 21 fighter into a jet powered variant. They called this the Saab 21R and while it proved to be a reasonably good fighter, it was never designed to carry the weight of an atomic bomb.

The lessons learned were applied to Saab’s next aircraft, the J 29 Tunnan, which first flew in 1948. Nicknamed the “Flying Barrel”, it looked ungainly but it was one of the finest combat aircraft of its age. Still, the Tunnan could only carry a light load of bombs. A dedicated jet bomber would be needed.

Saab’s next aircraft flew in 1951. This new plane was called the Saab 32 Lansen. It was designed to carry two RB04 missiles and early plans called for mounting a nuclear weapon on the tip of each missile. However, this quickly proved impossible.

A year later in 1952, the United Kingdom solved its own bomber problem with the new AVRO Vulcan. Likewise, America was designing its range of high-speed jet bombers and so were the Russians. However, while Sweden’s bomber efforts were proving more difficult, the nuclear weapons program got a further boost. The world’s three nuclear armed nations were undertaking dozens of atmospheric and underground nuclear tests at the time and as a result, what Sweden’s scientists couldn’t work out for themselves, its espionage agencies were able to bring home from abroad.

By copying the bomb designs of the other three nations, Sweden realized it didn’t even have to conduct its own test. It could just apply the test results it secretly had obtained from the others.

By 1954, shipments of weapons grade plutonium were being trucked to secret bunkers, going right through the streets of Stockholm, though the public knew nothing about it. Meanwhile, Sweden was testing and stockpiling all the components of its first bombs, ready for quick assembly.

But the question still remained — why deploy the weapons when the Air Force still had no way to drop the Bomb?

Saab’s next aircraft design was the J 35 Draken. The plane made its first flight that very year, in 1955. However, it was designed as an interceptor, not as a bomber. Still the Draken was capable of speeds greater than Mach 2 and, like its predecessors, it was an equal match for the best the Americans and the Soviets had.

On paper, the Draken could conceivably carry a single nuclear bomb under the fuselage, however, if it flew at the speeds required to penetrate Soviet air defenses, atmospheric friction would have heated the bombs up, possibly causing them to explode in mid-air. This is known as “cooking off” and to solve that problem, the Swedish Air Force requested that Saab build a dedicated nuclear bomber with a protected internal bomb bay.

This would be similar to America’s B-58 Hustler, which at the time had just flown its first test flight. Saab quickly delivered two designs for what they called the A 36. The program was cancelled, however, when in 1957 a better design was at hand for a single seat jet fighter called the Saab 37 Viggen.

Also in 1957, Sweden signed on to Eisenhower’s “Atoms for Peace” program. Although the Americans required commitments to peaceful use and non-proliferation, covertly Sweden simply applied everything they learned to their Bomb program.

At the time, however, the global situation was rapidly evolving — the Swedish diplomat, Dag Hammarskjöld, was serving as Secretary-General of the United Nations. The Soviet Union and the United States were in an all-out arms race. America’s new B-52 Stratofortress was just entering service. As well, like Sweden, the Soviets too lacked a capable bomber. Nothing in the Soviet Air Force could reach beyond Europe.

The solution, Moscow realized, was to look to space instead. Thus, in 1957 they launched their first satellite, Sputnik. The world was shocked and in the Pentagon, US Air Force planners realized that if the Soviets could orbit a satellite, they could just as easily hit any city around the world with a nuclear weapon. Instantly recognizing that missiles were superior to bombers, the US entered the Space Race too.

Despite all the public posturing, neither side was committed to peaceful exploration. This was about intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs).

Sputnik put Sweden into an uncomfortable position. There was no way that the country, with a population of just over 7 million at the time, could compete in the upcoming Space Race. It also meant that a strategic bomber could no longer provide effective deterrence.

The answer was to restructure the country’s nuclear weapons for battlefield use and focus the nation on building a conventional army. Recognizing that it also faced Soviet biological and chemical weapons threats, Sweden also elected to respond to any non-conventional attack with nuclear weapons. As a result, as hard as it might be to admit it, Sweden had adopted a First Use Policy in the late 1950s.

Sweden had reached a turning point — public support for nuclear energy and, as it turned out, for nuclear weapons was strong. With ever-growing stocks of plutonium, Sweden’s Bomb program was no longer just a research project. It was a reality. It was time to bring the matter before the Swedish Parliament for a decision on whether Sweden should fully enter the nuclear armed age.

In Part 2 (coming soon) of this story, we’ll review what happened next. It’s a story that has many unexpected twists and turns, and in the end one of the most bizarre outcomes you could ever imagine.

The post The Swedish Bomb first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor ever eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

That poem is by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. He was both a pilot – and a poet. His poem, “High Flight”, is perhaps the most well-known and best loved verse in aviation history. The story of how Magee came to write his famous poem and what happened to him afterward are not well known, however.

When the Second World War broke out, the United States was a neutral county. It would be more than two years before Japan attacked at Pearl Harbor and America joined the fight. And like many men of his generation, Magee could not stand aside and watch as country after country fell to the Nazis. Therefore, he crossed the border into Canada and enlisted into the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was accepted into flight training in 1940 and a year later he had earned his wings. He was shipped off to England in July 1941.
 

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Unlike most Americans though, for Magee, England wasn’t some distant, unknown place. His mother was English and he had done most of his schooling there. His father was an Anglican priest from America. The two had met in China as missionaries and gotten married there. He was born in Shanghai in 1922. And when he finished his high school, he was accepted on a scholarship to Yale University, but he chose to fight instead.

He had just turned 19 years old when he shipped off to England in July 1941. On arrival, he was posted then to No. 53 OTU, flying from an airfield in Wales. The term “OTU” stands for “Operational Training Unit”. It’s a type of squadron where new pilots were sent learn to fly high performance fighter planes.

Magee was put into the cockpit of a Supermarine Spitfire Mk I, and he had his first flight on August 7, 1941. Less than two weeks later, on his seventh flight, he took the Spitfire up to high altitude to get a feel for how the plane handled in thin air so far up. He coaxed it around and did wingovers, loops, and rolls — and as he flew along, he recalled the words of poet that he had once studied in school, a man named Cuthbert Hicks. In the poem, “The Blind Man Flies”, Hicks ended it with these words:

Now joy is mine through my long night,
I do not feel the rod,
For I have danced the streets of heaven,
And touched the face of God.

After he landed, taking inspiration from Hicks, he reworked the last line of the poem into his own. Two weeks later he sent it to his parents on the back of a letter, writing: “I am enclosing a verse I wrote the other day. It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed.”

His father was serving at Saint John’s Episcopal Church in Washington, DC, located straight across from the White House and often called the President’s church. Being proud of his son, he had the poem printed in the church bulletins.

Twenty days later, on September 23rd, about the time the poem was first read by the congregation, Magee was ready for combat. He was assigned to No. 412 Fighter Squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force, and they flew from the airfield at RAF Digby. The squadron upgraded to the newest model of the Spitfire, the Mk Vb, and he began flying air defense and shipping convoy escort missions right from the start.

On November 8, he flew as part of a twelve plane mission escorting a Bomber Command raid on the railway workshops in Lille, France. When his flight of four Spitfires, crossed the French coast just east of Dunkirk, they were attacked by a squadron of Focke-Wulf Fw 190 A-1 fighter planes, lead by one of Germany’s leading aces, Joachim Müncheberg. In the span of less than two minutes, the other three planes in Magee’s flight were shot down, including his squadron commander. He barely escaped alive. Though he fired his guns, he claimed no damage done.

A month later, on December 7th, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The next day, the United States declared war and immediately, Hitler declared war on America. With two and a half months of combat operations behind him, he continued to fly for the Royal Canadian Air Force.

Sadly, on December 11, Magee was killed – not in action, but in an accident. His flight of four Spitfires had just completed a routine training flight above the clouds. They were practicing air combat maneuvering near the airfield at RAF Tangmere. When the flight turned to return to their base at RAF Wellingore, they spotted a gap in the cloud and descended.

At only 1,400 over the ground, they crossed paths with a student pilot, flying in an Oxford Trainer. The student, Ernest Aubrey Griffin, was just under the clouds and they were on a collision course. It happened so fast that neither pilot had time to react. The two planes collided over Bloxholm, a small village located near RAF Cranwell and RAF Digby, in Lincolnshire. The time was 11:30 am.

Griffin was probably killed instantly. As for Magee, his Spitfire plunged out of control toward the ground. He managed to bail out, but he was too low for his parachute to open. He was killed on impact.

He had been in England for six months and in combat for just two.

The Spitfire Vb that he was flying that day bore the fuselage code of VZ-H. It was the same plane he had flown in on the day he had returned from Dunkirk as the lone survivor of his flight.

Not long after Magee’s death, his poem was featured in newspapers across the United States. The Library of Congress hailed his poem as the being the work of the first poet of the war.

Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee’s body was laid to rest in the village of Scopwick, not far from where he fell. His gravestone was inscribed with the first and last lines of his poem:

‘Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.’

Magee’s poem reminds us not only of the joy and beauty of flight, but also of the true cost of war. His poem also reminds us of one of the Psalms of David:

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and be at rest.”

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On February 20, 1962, John Glenn, one of America’s most famous astronauts, climbed into the Mercury-Atlas 6 capsule “Friendship 7”.  His mission was to be the first American to orbit the Earth.  At the time, the United States was struggling to catch up with the Soviets in the “Space Race”. Both nations were aiming for the Moon.

Only nine months earlier, on May 25, 1961, President John F. Kennedy had committed America to exploring space:

“We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win.”

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John Glenn, a Marine aviator, was one of the seven astronauts of the Mercury Program.  All were test pilots.  Many in NASA suspected that at least one or two of the Mercury 7 astronauts would die in the program.  Still, there was a sense that the mission was worth the risk.  Many of NASA’s earlier rocket tests had failed in spectacular, fiery explosions on the launch pad.  The odds were stacked against success, yet John Glenn was confident.

This was what he trained for.  He was confident that this was his moment in history.  His confidence wasn’t unfounded either.  Glenn was the only member of the Mercury 7 who was a member of the Marine Corps.

A Marine in Combat Service

John Glenn had joined the Marines during World War II, soon after Pearl Harbor, and had flown the Vought F4U Corsair in the Pacific with Marine squadron VMO-155.  He flew 57 combat missions in the Marshall Islands and earned two Distinguished Flying Crosses among numerous other awards and decorations.

He was one of the minority who stayed in the military after 1945. For a time, he served as a flight instructor, but then when war broke out again, he was deployed with a combat squadron. He arrived in the middle of the Korean War in February 1953. Flying from K-3, Pohang Air Force Base, he threw his Grumman F9F Panther into combat.  He was assigned with VMF-331.

Since the F9F Panther was vastly inferior to the Soviet-built MiG-15 fighter, his squadron was relegated to ground attack.  He flew dangerous, low level missions against intense flak. A true Marine, he never shied away from combat.  Twice he returned from missions with over 250 holes in his airplane. This earned him the respect of his fellow pilots but also the nickname of “Magnet Ass” because he seemed to attract enemy fire.

In June 1953, he was accepted into an exchange program with the US Air Force and assigned a second tour in Korea.  This time he was with the USAF’s 25th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron.  He flew an F-86 Sabre across “MiG Alley”, patrolling just south of the Yalu River. The other pilots in his squadron painted “MiG Mad Marine” on the side of his plane because of his “Gung Ho” attitude.  He liked the name, but added the names of his wife, Annie, and children, Lyn and Dave, to the side of his jet as well.

Once again, he was supremely confident.  Now that he was in an aircraft that could fight the MiG-15 on a more or less equal footing, he openly stated his desire to shoot down at least one MiG-15 before the end of his tour. The other pilots just smiled, expecting that few of them would get even one or two.  Still everyone had hopes, though the enemy picked its fights wisely and rarely took off to tangle with the F-86s.

Nonetheless, he upheld the honor of the US Marine Corps and showed the US Air Force pilots which way was up. In the final three weeks before the armistice, over a span of just eleven days, the enemy finally launched to challenge the Americans.  Glenn downed a total of three MiG-15s in short order — one on July 12, another on July 19, and the third on July 22. The last was one of the final four kills taking place that day of the Korean War.

In all, he flew just 27 missions in the F-86F. He made the most of it, earning two more Distinguished Flying Crosses for his extraordinary heroism in the air.  He shrugged it off — he was just doing his duty as a Marine.  He had joined the rare few who had not only met the enemy in the air but had come away victorious.

After the end of the Korean War, Glenn became a test pilot.  From there, he was accepted as one of the first astronauts in NASA and assigned to Project Mercury. His flight into orbit, the third of the seven Mercury missions that were planned, was scrubbed three times due to technical problems in the launch countdown. Finally, he flew. The date was February 20, 1962.

3, 2, 1… Ignition!

The countdown to launch had multiple temporary holds, as was common on both previous Mercury missions.  Clock holds were instituted to check systems and troubleshoot potential problems and to ensure completely clear, blue skies.  Finally, everything lined up up.  The countdown was restarted and reached zero.  The rocket motor ignited.  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when there was no catastrophic explosion.

With a constant upward push, the Atlas rocket flawlessly lifted Glenn’s Friendship 7 capsule skyward toward space.  As the rocket accelerated, it pitched downrange.  It was already far out over the open Atlantic.  Everything was going to plan.

At the point where the two previous Mercury missions had turned earthward for splashdown, instead Glenn’s rockets continued firing.  With the extra rocket fuel on board, he was heading into orbit.

The Russians had achieved orbit on their very first mission.  Now, with Glenn’s flight, America was catching up.

The rocket’s launch stage separated and the capsule arced higher into space.  It reached a maximum altitude (or apogee) of 162 miles and its orbital velocity was approximately 17,500 miles per hour.

For the moment, John Glenn held the speed record as the fastest American to have ever lived.  He was flying at a speed of 4.86 miles/second, or about 7.82 km/second.

At first, everything seemed to be working perfectly.  Mission Control and Glenn were optimistic.  Glenn reported on the coast of Africa, fires along the edge of the desert, and other sights, as well as the clouds.  At around an hour into the flight, Glenn was over Australia.  People had turned their lights on and Glenn reported that he could see the outlines of their towns and cities from space — he thanked them for turning on their lights.

After over an hour and fifteen minutes in orbit, while broadcasting in the blind (out of communications with any ground stations over the Pacific), he reported seeing, “literally thousands of small, luminous particles, swirling around the capsule and going away from me at maybe three to five miles per hour.”  These were particles from the thruster exhaust that flying with the capsule in orbit, reflecting the first rays of the sun as it came over the horizon.

After that, John Glenn faced his first crisis in space.  And then another.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, the news media anchors were breathlessly reporting on Glenn’s progress.  They were blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama even as they celebrated Glenn’s spaceflight.  If Glenn could orbit the Earth and return successfully, then America would have caught up to the Soviet Union in the “Space Race”.

Despite the media’s ignorance, however, the NASA engineers and Flight Control team knew that the situation had turned dire.  The problems were so severe that some thought that John Glenn might not make it.  One way or another, they knew, John Glenn was destined to make history, either as the first American to die in space or as the first to successfully orbit the Earth.  Nobody knew which it would be.

NASA’s Key Goals for Friendship 7

The most critical goal of John Glenn’s planned spaceflight was to fly multiple orbits around the earth.  At launch, he was cleared for “at least seven orbits”.  Every minute of his flight had been planned and filled with experiments.  Throughout the flight, he was busy reporting on the status of systems, down to circuit breaker settings, and doing the various communications checks, physiological checks, and other scheduled activities.  As well, he was to work out problems with spacecraft control and test a number of human factors regarding how the body responded to the weightlessness of space.

NASA’s engineers had theorized no man could control a spacecraft in the empty vacuum of space.  The tiny rocket thrusters mounted around the capsule’s small nose were imprecise and, even if they worked perfectly, they felt that an astronaut should be unable to avoid over-correcting in the weightlessness of space.  Without the aerodynamic effects from airflow around the capsule, they surmised that only an autopilot could effectively control the spacecraft.

Their logic was sound.  In an airplane, when a pilot lets go of the controls, it tends to stabilize and return to level flight.  The airflow over its wings and tail tends to return the plane to forward flight, much as the feathers on the back of an arrow keep it flying straight once it leaves the bow.  In space, however, there is no airflow.

Since space is a vacuum, the theory went that once the spacecraft started to roll or pitch up, there would be nothing the astronaut could do manually to stop it.  In fact, it was expected that the astronaut would actually worsen the situation by over-correcting on the controls, inducing what is known as PIO — Pilot Induced Oscillation.  The spacecraft would then tumble faster, end over end as g-forces gradually increased until the astronaut was unconscious.

The engineers were confident that only a sophisticated autopilot could make it impossible to control flight attitude through the vacuum of space.  Nonetheless, an experiment was necessary to prove the theory.  Space was an unknown.  Everything had to be tested.  Everything had to be learned.

To prepare for the expected excessive g-loads, John Glenn had trained for months in a simulator — the Project Mercury Altitude Wind Tunnel Gimbaling Rig at MASTIF (the Multiple Axis Space Test Inertia Facility).  He had been subjected to extreme G-loads and rapid spinning in all directions at once.  He had built up an almost unrivaled physical capacity to withstand the accelerations and remain conscious.

He had handled up to 16Gs of acceleration in the training program and had managed instantaneous changes from plus 9G to minus 9G, a span of 18Gs of acceleration.

John Glenn’s test pilot experience included work on the development of advanced flight control systems.  He was the best astronaut suited for the experiment.  If anyone could survive the expected oscillations, high g-loads, and spinning that were expected, it would be him.

Still, it was only a theory.  Nobody knew whether a spacecraft was humanly controllable, even in Russia.  Past Soviet flights had treated cosmonauts as little more than human meat packed into a spherical capsule.  That capsule was then thrown up into space by a powerful rocket and, once in orbit, it tumbled lazily along completely out of control.  Only at the end did an autopilot stabilize the Soviet capsules for reentry into the atmosphere.

The problem was that to do any real work in space meant that manned flight control was essential.  The plan to land on Moon required it — how could a capsule land on the Lunar surface if it was impossible to control which way was up relative to the Lunar surface?  The engineers expected that they would have to build much more sophisticated, fully automatic autopilots capable of computerized flight control.  Only the tiniest micro-blasts of the control thrusters could be employed.

NASA’s plan to test the theory was both simple and brilliant.  Upon reaching orbit, John Glenn would allow the autopilot to stabilize the capsule.  Then he would switch off a single axis of control, while leaving the other two on autopilot.  This way, he could fly that axis manually while the autopilot managed the other two.  For instance, he would leave the autopilot engaged in both yaw (left or right) and roll (spiraling along the axis of flight) and switch off the pitch control (nose up and down) to test whether he could control that.

Once the capsule began to pitch around and into an end over end spin, getting completely out of control, then the idea was that Glenn would simply flick the autopilot back.  The autopilot would then rescue the situation and return his capsule almost instantly to level flight. He did the first check, hand-flying the spacecraft in yaw only even as he crossed the coast of Africa.  He fired the thrusters, established a rotation to the right of about one degree per secret, stopped that when he was about thirty degrees displaced, and then returned to his normal orbital attitude.

Glenn was try each axis of control separately:  roll, pitch, and yaw.  If all three experiments went well, then he was to attempt full manual control without any autopilot assistance whatsoever.  After that, he would switch the autopilot back on, allowing the autopilot to rescue the situation once again, and after a few more orbits, the capsule would fire its retropack rockets to begin its fiery reentry back into the Earth’s atmosphere.  Naturally, the autopilot would fly the spacecraft through reentry because a single tumble of the spacecraft during that time would result in catastrophe.

A heat shield was installed on the bottom of the capsule to protect John Glenn from burning up as Friendship 7 reentered the atmosphere.  Once he was slowed enough, the capsule was to deploy its parachutes, and splash down in the ocean.

Crisis in Space

At 1 hour and thirty-three minutes into the flight, just as he was nearing the coastline of Mexico and California by the Baja Peninsula, Glenn reported that the autopilot system was not working properly in yaw.  Glenn reported calmly to Mission Control, “This is Friendship 7, the yaw drifted out of limits about twenty degrees to the right.  I’m bringing it back in manually at the present time, over.”  Before he could resume the next phase of his flight control tests, he was suffering some kind of malfunction.

After a few checks, they realized that the automatic flight system couldn’t hold the spacecraft stable.  A yaw attitude control jet had clogged, however, and yaw corrections caused a loss of control in both pitch and yaw.  When he reengaged the autopilot, the capsule drifted right about 20 degrees, then the autopilot would kick the thrusters on at “high thrust” to return it to the correct attitude.  Then it would begin to drift again to the right at a rate of one degree per second

If the autopilot was left on, it would be potentially a greater threat to Glenn than he might be to himself if he flew it manually.  He elected to turn the autopilot off and fly the capsule by hand through the “fly-by-wire” system.

To save the spacecraft from pointlessly yawing right, then back quickly left, then back right again in endless cycles, and to avoid any risk of starting an autopilot-induced tumble, Glenn switched the autopilot off.  He reported, “This is Friendship 7, controlling manually on fly-by-wire, having no trouble controlling.  Very smooth and easy, controls very nicely.”

He had no choice but to take over direct flight control by hand.  At least the manual-electrical fly-by-wire system was working correctly.  Everyone was calm — above all, Glenn himself, who made it seem like a walk in the park.  He was seemingly immune to the potential risks.  Yet everyone was masking a deep concern over the risk that Glenn actually faced in that moment.

For now, Glenn seemed to be managing it, but they were essentially just letting things drift along with Glenn making minor attitude adjustments as he felt were needed.  Soon he was reporting that he could see Florida on the horizon.

For a half hour, the problem was calmly assessed as the mission progressed.  At one point, Glenn liked the fact that the yaw malfunction had turned him around 180 degrees to face forward, but then he returned the capsule to the planned orbital orientation.  Then he added, “This is Friendship 7, I’m going to depart from flight plan for a moment and try and work this out a little better here, we are drifting in yaw. I am cutting automatic yaw off. And, and will control manually in yaw temporarily. Over.”

After a short while, he reported that it appeared that the problem had reversed; he had control on the right at one point, but now on the left.  None of the issues that he was facing made sense.  Spacecraft control was the one item that was critical to the safety of the flight.  If things were starting to go wrong, would the problem worsen?  Would he lose all control and tumble?

What if the engineers were right and no human could manually control a spacecraft in space?  He was already over Africa and in contact with the ground communications at Zanzibar.

Glenn took the stick and lightly moved it to return the capsule to level flight.  Instead of experimenting with one axis of control at a time, he was flying it all at once — roll, pitch, and yaw together — intermittently relying on the capsule’s ASCS (Automatic Stabilization and Control System).  He reported that he was having no trouble holding the capsule steady at all.  At two hours and twenty minutes into the flight, while over the Indian Ocean, Glenn reported, “I have some problems here with ASCS. My attitudes are not matching what I see out the window. I’ve been paying pretty close attention to that.”

The engineers worried that things seemed to be worsening.  Would the capsule start to tumble out of control?

As for John Glenn, he never doubted for a moment that he could control the spacecraft himself.  He managed it perfectly.  With deft movements of the control stick, he found that he could easily bring the spacecraft back to level flight.  He experimented with bigger inputs into the controls.  It was just the same experience as when he had previously tested numerous prototype aircraft during his test pilot career.  With each maneuver, data on how the capsule performed in the vacuum of space was recorded.  Glenn found that he could easily manage it all.  He flew “Friendship 7” flawlessly.

Glenn had proved that the engineers’ theory about uncontrollability was incorrect.  All it required was the practiced hand of a reasonably good test pilot — or at least a pilot from the US Marine Corps.

The score was Marines – 1, Engineers – 0, but everyone knew that the games were beginning.

The Other Goals

Glenn’s mission was also the first in NASA’s history to bring food into space.  Glenn had tubes of freeze dried food pastes and powders.  There were packets of mushroom soup, orange-grapefruit juice, cocoa beverage, pineapple juice, chicken with gravy, pears, strawberries, as well as beef and vegetables.  All were pureed or powdered.  This was to be an astronaut’s fare.

The flight surgeons and engineers worried that in the weightlessness of space, it might be impossible to swallow food.  If so, they might have to feed and hydrate astronauts a lot before flights, if once in orbit, they would not be able to eat or drink at all.  This might make reaching the Moon almost impossible, though there was discussion of intravenous feeding and hydration.

Indeed, when Glenn opened his processed food paste tubes, he found that he had no problem sucking them down.  He swallowed the contents easily.  Glenn did report after the flight, however, that the food was only barely palatable.  Who had dreamed up toothpaste tubes of pureed chicken anyway?  It wasn’t a chef, after all, but the engineers themselves.

The score was Marines – 2, Engineers – 0.

Another concern the engineers had and needed to test was whether extended flight without gravity would cause an astronaut’s eyes to lose their shape.  The medical staff had theorized that without gravity, the human eye would rapidly become blurred and out of focus.  If they knew what changes to expect, however, they could develop a set of “space glasses”, corrective lenses to bring the astronaut’s vision back to 20-20.  To get their data, they had pinned a small eye chart to the instrument panel.

Every 30 minutes through his mission, John Glenn was directed to read the eye chart and report on the increasing degradation of his vision.  Based on the data he collected, the engineers would then create different sets of lenses for the different phases of flight in the next Mercury mission.  Dutifully, Glenn followed their guidance, but found that he could see as well from the beginning to the end.  There was no eyeball misshaping at all.

The score had increased to Marines – 3, Engineers – 0.

Yet another theory the engineers had was that in the weightlessness of space, after a short time, the fluids in the inner ear would start to freely move around.  Without gravity, the astronauts would suffer from increasingly debilitating nausea, vertigo, and motion sickness.  As a result, Glenn was directed to report regularly on any signs of motion sickness.  Once again, however, the engineers were wrong.  Glenn experienced no problems at all.

The score had risen to Marines – 4, Engineers – 0.

The Most Deadly Crisis

A warning light at Mission Control then came on.  Ominously, it indicated that a clamp that held the capsule’s heat shield in place had prematurely released.  This was the most serious malfunction of all.  The heat shield was detachable by design, but only after reentry.  Only then would the heat shield be discarded to fall away.  This would make the capsule lighter for its final descent by parachute to splashdown.  As a result, the clamp had been designed to hold the heat shield in place until it was time to discard it — a switch would then be triggered and it would fall off and into the ocean below.

If the clamp had malfunctioned and opened early, that meant that the heat shield was no longer attached.  Therefore, as soon as the capsule started reentry, it would fall away from the buffeting of atmospheric pressures during the descent.  Left unprotected from the extreme heat that would result from the descent, Glenn would burn up in his capsule.  It would happen in mere seconds.  The engineers pondered the issue.  If the heat shield was detached, there was nothing they could do to reattach it.

It was either that the heat shield was unclamped or the warning light switch connected to the clamp was faulty.  There was no way to know.

The only option was to attempt reentry and see if he survived.  There were no back up systems.  There were no redundant clamps.  There were no fail safe procedures.  There wasn’t even a way to test if only the warning light switch had failed.  The engineers had never considered such a failure to be even remotely possible.

The score might have just become Marines – 4, Engineers – MINUS 1.  And probably Glenn was going to die.

Reentry was unavoidable.  It couldn’t even be reasonably delayed to give more time to troubleshoot the problem.  The capsule was coming down, no matter what.  Leaving Glenn in orbit longer was impossible too.  The oxygen systems weren’t designed for longer times in space.  The batteries that ran the electrical controls didn’t have enough excess power to stay in orbit longer and yet still power the systems needed to reenter the atmosphere.  Every milligram of extra weight had been shaved from the capsule — the result was that the capsule had been optimized for exactly six or seven orbits.

There’s an old saying, “Aviation has a perfect record — we’ve never left one up there.”

The best option was to fire the retrorockets and bring him down early.  With the flight control system failure earlier, they had already decided to cut the mission duration in half anyway.  There’s another old saying in aviation, “Expect accidents to come in threes.”  If the clamp had failed — and they didn’t know why — what else would fail next?  The situation could potentially worsen.  Glenn would come down early — it was decided.

This raised yet another question:  how would they tell him that in their best judgment, most likely the heat shield had slipped and that he was about to be burned to death?

Avoidance is the Best Strategy

The engineers were concerned that if they told Glenn of his predicament, he might panic.  If that happened, they wondered if they could depend on him to manage the situation to the end.  Yes, he was a test pilot and had “nerves of steel”, but the situation was really dire.  In yet another meeting, the engineers decided to not say anything to Glenn.

Still, they needed information from him — maybe the warning light in the capsule wasn’t illuminated?  However, they knew that Glenn would get suspicious if they asked their questions directly, so they decided on a plan, hoping that Glenn wouldn’t notice.

The Flight Director called the different ground stations around the world that supported communications through each orbit with a request.  They were instructed to inquire as he passed overhead from one ground station’s communications arc into the next.  Did Glenn see any warning lights illuminated in his cockpit?  They were told to ask it casually.

After the second time the question was asked, however, Glenn became suspicious.  After the third, he knew something was up.  He scanned the panel but could find nothing amiss.  The warning light they were inquiring about wasn’t illuminated, but he didn’t know what they wanted so he couldn’t report on that.

For a pilot who had spent over a thousand hours in the Mercury capsule’s “procedures trainer” rehearsing all kinds of malfunctions and failures, Glenn considered what might have gone wrong.  Mentally, he went through each checklist.  He considered the likelihood that they had detected a problem with the heat shield.  His worst fears were confirmed when the engineers notified him that he was to attempt reentry with the capsule’s rocket retropack still attached.

Keeping the retropack in place during reentry was a smart idea.  Normally, after it had fired to slow the spacecraft to bring out of orbit and into reentry, it would be jettisoned to reduce weight.  With the retropack gone, the heat shield presented a smooth, aerodynamically stable face into the friction of the atmosphere during reentry.  If the retropack was left in place, it’s straps might hold the heat shield in place long enough to get the capsule back down to slower speeds before Glenn burned up inside.  However, no aerodynamic tests had been run to determine how the retropack might affect the capsule’s flight attitude.

The worst case scenario was that it might cause the capsule to tumble.  If it tumbled, the heat shield would no longer keep the capsule from burning up anyway.  Furthermore, now Glenn would have to fly it through reentry, since the autopilot couldn’t be used.  The very thing that the engineers had thought impossible — that Glenn could never control the spacecraft manually — was now the one thing that they were counting on for him to save himself.  He was told what he already knew, that he would leave the heat shield in place and fly the capsule manually through reentry.

The score was precariously holding at Marines – 4, Engineers – MINUS 2.  Or maybe MINUS 3 — nobody was sure anymore.

Reentry and Rejoicing

After the third orbit, the retropack was fired.  Friendship 7 was on the way home.  Throughout the fiery descent, the spacecraft would be out of radio contact — what was called “blackout”.  If it burned up, when communications should have been reestablished, which should have been after about four minutes of blackout, all they would hear was silence.  If the capsule made it through, they expected that John Glenn would radio Mission Control with the good news.  It was possible too that he would be badly burned but somehow still alive to splashdown, but would a damaged capsule sink?

As the Friendship 7 capsule reentered the atmosphere, John Glenn flew it carefully.  He left part of the autopilot engaged and flew the other axis manually, so as to save fuel.  For three and a half minutes during the reentry, he alternated between his attitude instruments and the small side window of his capsule as flames and sparks flew past.  He could see the bright glow of the heat shield doing its work.  The first of the straps holding the retropack’s staps broke away and flew past his window within only about five seconds of reentry.  The heat shield seemed to be holding.

Less than fifteen seconds into the reentry, all of the straps were gone.  The retropack broke away and flew past his window.  For a few seconds, he waited to feel for any rapidly intensifying heat.  The heat shield held.  It was nothing more than a sensor failure after all.  The clamp had never released.

Splashdown

After three and a half minutes, the capsule had reached lower altitudes and slower speeds.  Glenn radioed Mission Control — he was out of blackout.  Then his parachute blossomed above.  “Friendship 7” slowed its decent and hit the water — splashdown!  He had returned to Earth.  As he floated, bobbing up and down in the waves inside the capsule, he stared out the window at the open Atlantic.  For the first time in the flight, Glenn relaxed as he waited for the arrival of the ship that the Navy had sent to the splashdown location — USS Noa (DD-841).  Glenn would remain in the capsule until it was hoisted onto the deck of the destroyer.

He waited longer than was expected because the engineers had made yet one more mistake.  They had miscalculated the capsule reentry weight.  They hadn’t subtracted the weight from the extra burn times of the control thrusters that Glenn had used in his more extensive flight control experiments.  The result was that the splashdown location was 41 miles west and 19 miles south of the originally planned point.  He was almost 800 miles southeast of Cape Kennedy, not far from Grand Turk Island.  After three orbits, John Glenn’s flight time from launch to splashdown was 4 hours, 55 minutes, 23 seconds.

After recovery, he was brought on board the US Navy Destroyer USS Noa.  The capsule was hoisted onto the deck.  Glenn examined it carefully.  It seemed flawless.  Despite the problems he had encountered, the mission had been the most successful in Project Mercury to date.  It had been a ride to last a lifetime.

The final score for the mission was Marines – 5, Engineers – MINUS 2. John Glenn had come through it all and he did it with a smile.

After his successful mission during Project Mercury, John Glenn applied to take another flight into space.  He was denied.  Unbeknownst to him, President Kennedy had quietly instructed NASA to keep him on the ground.  He didn’t want to risk losing an American hero in space.  Finally, decades later on October 29, 1998, John Glenn did get his wish when he flew back into space on the Space Shuttle Discovery.

In that flight, NASA had an unprecedented opportunity to learn yet more about human factors in space by comparing his body records from 1962 against his experiences in 1998. Naturally, being a Marine veteran, Glenn had kept in good shape.  He was mission ready.  At age 77, he was the oldest astronaut to have ever flown into space.  That record is still unchallenged.

The Last Word

John Glenn seemed always to be smiling and never showed any fear, no matter what crisis he faced.  Whether it was in the cockpit of “MiG Mad Marine” or flying into orbit on the Space Shuttle in 1998, he seemed to love every moment of it.

When summing up the greatest risk of his Mercury 7 mission, he remarked:  “I was sitting on top of two million parts, all built by the lowest bidder on a government contract.”  He smiled and took it all in stride.

A Marine to the end, he would add, “Semper Fi!”

One More Thing

Gordon Cooper was the only other Mercury 7 astronaut who had to hand fly the capsule through reentry.  His challenge was even greater than Glenn’s because his capsule’s attitude instrumentation system had suffered a catastrophic short circuit.  The autopilot had no attitude and orientation data — nor did Cooper.  There was no way to precisely align the capsule with the horizon for the firing of the retropack.  If he was few degrees too steep, he would be too fast and burn up in the atmosphere.  If he was a few degrees too shallow, he would “skip” off the atmosphere and into space with no hope of return.  He had only one chance to get it right and he had to do it by hand — it was the most challenging “instrument out” approach to landing in aerospace history.

All Cooper had was a grease pencil and the capsule’s small window, which gave him some outside reference points.  He drew a line across the glass at the angle he needed the spacecraft to fly relative to the horizon during the retropack burn.  He drew dots to mark the positions of key stars as reference points to keep the capsule properly oriented upright during the descent.  He would fly it by eye and hand alone.  In the end, he got it right — he landed the capsule just a few miles from the aircraft carrier that was stationed to pick him up after splashdown.  His skill on the controls was good that he landed closer to the target than the best autopilot landing in the entire program.

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Most people know of Chuck Yeager, the pilot who first broke the sound barrier in 1947 in his bright orange Bell X-1, a plane he nicknamed “Glamorous Glennis” after his wife. Today, the X-1 hangs in the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC. Yet while Chuck Yeager is famous, few know the name of Colonel Ivan E. Fyodorov. He was the first Russian to break the sound barrier.

Like Yeager, Ivan Fyodorov had a long flying career. Like Yeager, he was born in a rural backwater — Yeager came from Myra, West Virginia, and Fyodorov came from the village of Kamenskaya (now the city of Kamensk-Shakhtinsky). Also like Yeager, Fyodorov became an ace in World War II.  He was nine years older than Yeager, however, and therefore, had an earlier start in aviation.

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What set Fyodorov apart from Yeager were not his actual exploits, but his reckless boasting. He claimed far more planes shot down than were ever confirmed. As for being the first Soviet pilot to fly faster than Mach 1 — perhaps his greatest achievement — he never thought much about that.

Fyodorov’s combat career began as one of the first twelve pilots sent to Spain in the late 1930s to fight Franco’s fascist government.  While piloting an I-16 Rata fighter, he shot down a pair of Savoia-Marchetti SM.79 Sparviero aircraft while flying in the Cartagena area.

Official Soviet documents state that Fyodorov flew more than 150 sorties in Spain, though his own records show just 131.  A document found in his official personnel file (Personal file No. 8803) states that during his time in Spain, he “flew 286 sorties, conducted 36 air battles, in which he showed exceptional examples of air combat.”  It continues with a claim that he himself wrote, “I personally shot down 11 enemy aircraft of the 13 claimed by the group.”  That latter claim is suspect, however.

When the Second World War broke out, Fyodorov was sent to the Far East to help train the Chinese to fly Russian-made I-16 Rata fighters.  From November 1940 until his return to Russia in February 1942, he saw no combat.  Finally, he was assigned as a test and check pilot at the Ordzhonikidze Aircraft Plant Number 21, located in the city of Gorky.  There he did check flights of LaGG-3 fighters as they came off the assembly line.

He requested repeatedly to fly against the Nazis, but was denied.  Ultimately, in July 1942, after six months of test flying work, he signed on to deliver one of the newly produced LaGG-3 fighters to the Kalinin front.  Once there, he simply stayed to fly against the Germans.  The district air commander, Mikhail Gromov, chose not to arrest him for dereliction of duty, however, as he was short of skilled pilots. At the time, the Soviets were suffering heavy losses against the German Luftwaffe.

Commanding a Shtrafbat Penal Squadron

Fyodorov had committed a crime and though he  hadn’t yet faced trial, it was an open and shut case.  As a result, Gromov assigned him to command one of the Soviet Union’s penal squadrons, also known as “Shtrafbats”.  These were composed of men who had committed crimes, were convicted, and had been sentenced to be executed.  Their death sentence, however, was deferred until after the war.

Instead they were expected to die in combat for the “Rodina”, or Motherland.  Then, at least their families would hear that they were heroes rather than criminals who had been executed at the front.  Gromov probably figured that Fyodorov wouldn’t probably survive to face trial anyway.  The Shtrafbats were not much better than Soviet gulags and although Fyodorov wasn’t a convict, it was still a bad assignment.

For years, the Russians denied the existence of their penal squadrons.  However, since the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, records have come to light proving that they did exist after all.  Fyodorov’s unit, for instance, boasted 64 pilots and an unknown number of ground crewmen and administrative support staff.

To ensure discipline, Fyodorov’s command was backstopped by an NKVD detachment, who were brutal in enforcing discipline and killing those who did not follow orders perfectly.  Shtrafbat pilots were not allowed to disengage from air combat, but rather were required to throw themselves at the enemy no matter what the odds, even ramming enemy aircraft when they ran out of ammunition.  Their mission was to fly until they died, without official credit for anything they achieved.

In September 23, 1942, on hearing of an approaching air raid, Fyodorov ordered his squadron to take off from their airbase at Bosharovo.  The other pilots in the penal squadron, however, played a trick on him and didn’t take off. They watched as Fyodorov raced down the runway and flew into the air alone.  They expected that he would be killed. Probably, they considered it fair retribution for the woeful treatment they received in his unit.  Only once airborne, did Fyodorov realize that he was alone and badly outnumbered.  He faced 18 Junkers Ju 88 bombers and six escorting Messerschmitt Bf 109 fighters.

Rather than flee, he dove straight into the enemy formation, firing his guns.  The Germans scattered but then one German fighter got on his tail.  He was shot up badly, injured on his face and left leg.  He dove to escape and when the raid ended, he returned to land.  He boasted of four kills that day — one Messerschmitt and three Ju 88s — but none were ever confirmed.

A month later, while still healing, Major Fyodorov (his rank at that time) claimed another 16 German aircraft shot down.  When his superiors suspected he was lying, Fyodorov got each kill confirmed with testimony from front line Soviet soldiers, though he obtained that in exchange for a few bottles of vodka each.

Still, he was an ace and his skills were highly valued. It was easier to look the other way, even as Fyodorov appeared to have a penchant for telling ever taller tales. His confirmed kills were enough to warrant the Order of the Patriotic War, which was awarded on May 1, 1943, by the Armed Forces of the Kalinin Front No. 21. According to the award documentation, he had flown 82 sorties at Kalinin, participated in six combats, and had destroyed five enemy aircraft on the ground and six in the air.

In April 1943, as the Soviet Union was facing heavy losses in the air, the Soviet Air Force reassigned him from the penal squadron to command the 273rd Fighter Aviation Division.   Most of his pilots there were new recruits, fresh out of flight school, and very inexperienced.  Less than three months later, in July, they were thrown into combat at Kursk.  They suffered heavy losses.  Of the 70 pilots assigned to him, 50 were dead by November.

His Division claimed 509 enemy destroyed, 266 in aerial victories.  Once again, Fyodorov proved both an excellent pilot and a survivor.  During this period, he personally was credited with shooting down three Junkers Ju 88 bombers, one Do-217 bomber, and three Messerschmitt Bf 109 fighters.  He claimed many more, but these were never confirmed.

Some years after the war ended, Fyodorov claimed that during this period he had shot down Germany’s greatest ace, Erich Hartmann.  While Hartmann was flying in that sector and was in fact shot down, no records support Fyodorov’s personal claim.  Notably, during the war, he made no such claim.

By December of 1943, Fyodorov had logged 6,700 hours of flight time, making him one of the most experienced pilots on any side in the war. He pioneered a new maneuver, one which might be best described as a World War II equivalent of the modern Russian “Cobra” maneuver. When a German plane got on his tail, he would pull back hard on the stick to go vertical and hang on his prop. With that, his plane would hang nearly motionless in the sky. The German pilots would try to follow but would overshoot before diving away to seek other targets. Even if he couldn’t turn the tables and chase them down, at least he survived to fight another day. He taught his pilots the trick too and they later stated that it saved many from getting shot down.

Yet controversy haunted Fyodorov all the more. With the front lines in chaos, supplies were hard to find. Apparently, Fyodorov saw an opportunity to work the black market and line his own pockets.  When Lieutenant General Roman Rudenko was informed about it, he called for Fyodorov’s prosecution. He wrote, “For unworthy behavior of a senior officer, participating in extortion and fraud, as well as performing unsatisfactory work, I petition for the dismissal of Colonel Fyodorov from his post and request a downgrade in his rank.”

As well, Rudenko wrote that Fyodorov “likes to boast of past exploits.”  With every passing month, he appeared to be claiming more and more enemy aircraft shot down — none of which were confirmed.  Though Fyodorov apparently managed to escape justice, he was lucky — Lt. Gen. Rudenko was a sinister figure who later presided over secret trials of dissidents and even ran a post-war German concentration camp (though with German prisoners instead, whom he worked to death).  An odd coincidence is that he served as the judge who sentenced Francis Gary Powers, the U-2 spy plane pilot who was downed over the Soviet Union in 1960.

The Soviet Union was still in such desperate need of good pilots — and Fyodorov was an ace anyway — that they simply looked the other way.  Again, nobody thought he would survive the war anyway. For the next year and a half, he survived and lead his Air Division against the Nazis in a drive that took him almost all the way to Berlin.

On April 25th, 1945, in one of his last missions of the war, while flying 60 miles west of the German capital, Fyodorov shot down two enemy Focke-Wulf Fw 190D fighter planes. Those would be his last kills of the war. This time, they were confirmed.

As the war came to an end, by order of the Armed Forces of the 2nd Belorussian Front No. 670, dated June 6, 1945, he was awarded the Order of the Patriotic War of the 1st Degree.  His award claimed that since the beginning of the war, he had shot down 11 enemy aircraft.  His divisional commander, Colonel Dodonov, despite granting the award, made a special mention in the award itself of Fyodorov’s “excessive boasting”.

How many planes he shot down overall will probably never be known, but it is certain that he was an ace.  Perhaps he shot down 15 or 18 enemy aircraft, though he claimed that number just in a single 45 day period of 1942.

During the war, he flew the LaGG-3, Yak-1, Yak-3, Yak-7, Yak-9, and the Lavochkin La-5.  That he survived at all was something of a miracle.  Fyodorov’s personal claims of enemy aircraft shot down continued to increase.  For instance, he later claimed that in his first 45 days of 1942, while leading his penal squadron, he had shot down 18 German aircraft.  Virtually everyone doubted his claims, however, and his dishonesty undercut further advancement to higher command.

After the War

Soon after the war ended, in October 1945, with a chest full of medals, he got an assignment as a test pilot for the SA Lavochkin Design Bureau at Aircraft Factory Number 81.  Lavochkin’s test program was funded under the Soviet Union’s Ministry of Aviation Industry.  The assignment fit him well as Lavochkin was the very company that had produced the La-5, one of the types he had flown successfully in combat.

Fyodorov became one of the first pilots to test Soviet Union’s new jet fighters.  He tested the La-150, La-150M, La-150F, La-156, La-174TK, the radically new swept wing La-160, and the La-168, the first Soviet aircraft to be able to achieve 1,000 kmph.

In early 1948, he was assigned to test the new La-15 jet fighter, a type that would be later exported to almost all of the East Bloc air forces.  That plane, however, was nearly his undoing.  Once while on a landing approach in the La-15 jet prototype, when just a few meters above the runway on his final approach, he lowered the flaps.  On one wing, the flaps went down, but they stayed up on the other side — what is called a “split flap” malfunction.  Instantly, his plane went into an uncontrolled roll.  Ever cool-headed, he simply let it continue around until it was back upright, then retracted the flaps and landed straight ahead.  Later, he laughed it off as just another day in test flying.

On March 5, 1948, due to his courage and dedication to performing the most dangerous test flying work, Fyodorov was declared a Hero of the Soviet Union.

Breaking the Sound Barrier

Next, along with another pilot named Captain Oleg Sokolov, he was assigned to test the latest Lavochkin model, the La-176.  The jet was a follow on to the La-15 that he had tested a year earlier.

The La-176 wasn’t a research plane, but rather the company’s entry in the design competition for the Soviet Union’s next generation jet fighter of the upcoming 1950s.  Borrowing from German engineering and captured equipment, the Soviets had added swept wings and wing fences to the design. While the MiG-15 won the competition, the La-176 achieved something far more impressive.

Together with Captain Sokolov, Colonel Fyodorov flew over 100 flights at the Soviet test center at Saki airfield in the Crimea. Early on, they found that the plane could almost achieve supersonic flight in a dive. This was important as the Soviet Union needed desperately to break the sound barrier and keep up with America’s rapid advances in aviation. With each subsequent flight, improvements were made to the engine and wings. Over the next half year, the plane’s speed steadily increased.

The Flight

Finally, on December 26, 1948 — just 14 months after Chuck Yeager’s famous flight — Fyodorov took off in the La-176. Following the usual flight profile, he climbed to just over 9,000 meters of altitude, leveled off and accelerated to the plane’s top speed. Then he pushed forward on the stick and entered a long, shallow dive.

As the altitude wound down, his airspeed indicator reached just above Mach 1. He chopped the throttle and gingerly pulled back on the stick to level out at 6,000 meters of altitude. Smiling, he returned to land.

A Russian report later described the feat, “From a great height, the pilot accelerates the La-176. You can hear a tedious low whistle that increases with speed. The plane is hurtling toward the ground. The plane begins to shake as if it has caught a fever. And then — silence! That is what it is when breaking the sound barrier.”

Still, Soviet engineers at the Saki test center didn’t trust the plane’s airspeed instruments. They designed a new, specially shaped pitot tube to provide better supersonic readings, but then assigned the next flight not to Fyodorov, but to Captain Sokolov. He took the La-176 to 10,000 meters of altitude, 1,000 meters higher than Colonel Fyodorov’s flight, accelerated to top speed, pushed over into a shallow dive, and watched the altimeter wind down.

When the plane passed through 7,000 meters of altitude, the airspeed indicator registered past the speed of sound. Sokolov chopped the throttle and pulled out at 6,000 meters of altitude, then returned to land. Post flight telemetry confirmed that he had reached Mach 1.021, about 1,105 kmph or 597 knots.

The results were carefully checked and the engineers were finally satisfied — Captain Sokolov had done it.  Based on the results of Sokolov’s test flight, the engineers confirmed that Fyodorov had also broken the sound barrier. He was first Soviet pilot to have done so, but there was no bonus, no medal, and no fame. Instead, Fyodorov was just assigned to test fly the Lavochkin jet fighter design — and another after that.

Retirement and a New Career

By 1954, his long years in combat, multiple wounds, and the stresses of test flying finally took a toll on his health. The flight surgeons did what no German had ever achieved — he was downed permanently. Though Fyodorov was upset, most likely their ruling saved his life. In the years that followed, many of the Soviet Union’s best pilots were killed in test accidents.

He spent the next twenty years working in the Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs, retiring after a stint as a diplomat in the Soviet embassy in Tunisia. True to form, as time passed, he told ever taller tales. His claimed record of kills grew.

He told others that he had flown during the Korean War, shooting down many American F-86 Sabrejets. Official records proved he never left the Lavochkin test program. Near the end of his life, he claimed to have had 134 aerial victories, a figure that would make him the greatest Soviet ace of all time. His own peers, however, publicly lambasted him. The PRAVDA newspaper ran an editorial quoting two of the other Soviet test pilots, S.A. Mikoyan and A.A. Shcherbakov, regarding Fyodorov’s wartime claims. They stated flatly: “… his stories are fiction, often absurd and not confirmed by anything.”

The most incredible thing is that he shrugged off the fame that should have come from being the first Soviet pilot to break the sound barrier. That feat meant nothing to him. He called it “ordinary work”.

Ordinary work, indeed.

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At the start of the Great War in 1914, Europe held sway over much of China.  Great Britain had Hong Kong.  The US and Britain jointly controlled Shanghai.  The Portuguese had Macau.   In all, 89 cities in China were controlled by various European nations at the time.  These were ruled through a series of one-sided treaty agreements that, while they greatly benefited the West, also severely disadvantaged the Chinese.  The Germans had sway over the port city of Tsingtao, also known as Qingdao, which was in Shandong Province directly on the Yellow Sea, roughly straight across west from Seoul in Korea.

Within days of the start of the Great War, the allied nations, including Japan, set their sights on uprooting Germany from its Far East holdings.  The Japanese moved quickly and just five days later the Siege of Tsingtao began on August 27, 1914.  The siege lasted until November 7, 1914, when the German garrison finally surrendered after a long and bloody struggle.  That struggle involved one of the first uses of air power in warfare and, if the story is to be believed, the first air-to-air kill was scored by a German pilot against the Japanese outside of the city.

Tsingtao:  A German Enclave

The Germans had ruled Tsingtao since 1898.  During that time, they built it from a small village into a stunning city that was well-served by an active harbor.  The German treaty, however, had not been kind to the Chinese.  First, villagers who had previously lived there for generations were relocated up the coast, essentially at gunpoint.  Once the way was clear, the Germans torn down the villager’s houses and laid out a modern street plan, built wharves, and constructed warehouses.  They even erected a locomotive works.

The Germans called the port area “Kleiner Hafen”, which translates from German as “Small Port”.  The Jiaozhou Bay, which the Germans called the Kiautschou Bucht, offered excellent shelter for merchant ships.  As well, the Germans opened Tsingtao-Jinan Railway Line so as to move cargo between the Chinese hinterlands to the port.  They built multiple schools and religious institutions and soon Tsingtao boasted the highest educational standards in all of China.

With its well-ordered streets, beautiful buildings and the port and nearby beach, Tsingtao was considered a paradise.  Even the Chinese viewed Tsingtao as an example of what China could become once free of Western influence.  As a result, many nations had designs on it — if only Germany could be thrown out of Asia.

A Few Primitive Aeroplanes

At Tsingtao, there were just two German military pilots plus an Austrian military pilot.  Together, they had two serviceable airplanes when the Great War began.  The monoplanes were the venerable Rumpler Taube type with their trademark, graceful birdlike wings.  The German pilots deployed with the German Navy’s Seebatallion — OberLeutnant (First Lieutenant Navy) Günther Plüschow and Leutnant (Second Lieutenant Navy) Friedrich Müllerskowsky.  The Austrian pilot was named Leutnant Clobucz.

The two Taube monoplanes carried no armament, however.  As well, the two pilots were novice aviators, just as most pilots were at the time.  Their aeroplanes had just been uncrated from having been recently shipped to Tsingtao, arriving in July 1914.  After the first was assembled, Lt. Plüschow practiced extensively with the new aeroplane.  When he was satisfied, the pilots then uncrated and assembled the second Taube.  As a result of his inexperience, Lt. Müllerskowsky crashed his Taube.  It was a simple mistake on take off.  He was badly injured and was unable to fly again.  The plane was a wreck, completely unrecoverable.  This put half of Germany’s pilots and aeroplanes out of service for the rest of the siege.

Despite this setback, Lt. Plüschow began to regularly flying missions from the improvised airfield that the two men had selected in Tsingtao.  The airfield, if you can call it that, had been a racecourse prior to the war.  The space inside the horse track was flat and smooth, although it measured just 600 meters long and 200 meters wide.  Worryingly, the area was surrounded by mountains, buildings, and rocky outcrops.

On the day that the war was declared. Lt. Plüschow was out flying a scouting mission.  When he returned to Tsingtao, he was flying at 1,500 meters of altitude.  Suddenly, his Taube’s engine sputtered and quit.  Realizing that he could make the field, he executed a dead stick landing.  In his inexperience, he crashed the plane.  Luckily, he survived.  Though the engine was undamaged and the Taube was repairable, the damage was extensive, particularly to the wings.

It had to be rebuilt, an effort that took the first nine days of the war.  With some foresight, the German Imperial Navy had shipped spare wings and other parts along with the two monoplanes in crates.  These were opened and to everyone’s dismay, the spare wings were found to be rotted and unusable, having suffered damage during transportation.  Likewise, there was no spare propeller.  The Chinese in Tsingtao were enlisted to manufacturer new wings from local wood and cloth.  As well, they built a new propeller, but Lt. Plüschow found that it performed poorly.  Due to its poor balance, he had to run the engine at 100 rpm less than was possible with the finer German-made prop.  This reduced his Taube’s speed considerably.  Further, given the prop’s poor construction, it tended to wear and slowly come apart during each flight.  Thus, he required a new propeller be made and fitted after every flight.

Arrayed against the Germans on the Japanese side was a far superior force.  The Japanese Army brought four Maurice Farman MF.7 biplanes, a box-like construction of wood and wires that was under powered and had more in common with the Wright Flyer in design than with later World War I types like the Sopwith Camel or Albatros D.III, and a Nieuport IVG2 monoplane.  As well, the Japanese Navy brought a single three seat Maurice Farman and three two-seat versions of the plane, fitted with floats so it could operate off the water.   These were carried to Tsingtao on Japan’s first seaplane carrier, Wakamiya.

During the conflict, the ship lowered the Farmans into the calmer waters of the bay and they would take off to perform reconnaissance and light bombing raids.  After a short while, to reduce the workload required to launch each sortie, the four Navy Farmans were moved ashore.  They flew all of their subsequent missions from the beach while Wakamiya stood by offshore with supplies, fuel, and spare parts.

When the Japanese forces arrived to lay siege to Tsingtao at the beginning of September 1914, Lt. Plüschow’s mission was uncomplicated.  He was called on only to observe the Japanese Army ashore and the Japanese fleet as it blockaded the Kiautschou Bucht.  He would take off, count, and identify the various ships surrounding Tsingtao’s outer bay.  Additionally, he observed any movements of the Japanese Army forces on the land, including the placement of their artillery.  Once back on the ground, he wrote down what he saw and reported back to the higher German Naval officers who were in charge of the defense.

From time to time, Lt. Plüschow attempted to drop small bombs on various Japanese ships.  These were ineffective, very light and improvised munitions, serving as little more than a nuisance to the Japanese.  Likewise, the Japanese attempted the same against the Germans.

Two Opposing Naval Fleets, Plus the Allies

To ensure an effective blockade, the Japanese fielded several cruisers, including the battleship Suwo, which served as the flagship, and two obsolete battleships, Kawachi and Settsu, plus the battlecruiser Kongo and her sister ship, Hiei.  Later, the destroyer Shirotaye joined the blockade as well as the Japanese cruiser Takachiho.  Further, he British Royal Navy supported the Japanese fleet.  The pre-dreadnought HMS Triumph and the RN destroyer HMS Usk were deployed from Britain’s China Station.

On the German side, the only ship that the Japanese were seriously concerned about was the Austro-Hungarian cruiser, SMS Kaiserin Elisabeth.  The Germans fielded several gunboats, including Jaguar, Cormoran, Iltis, and Luchs, plus the aging torpedo boat SMS S90.  These boats were small, but still a threat.  The value of these small German gunboats and the old torpedo boat SMS S90 was proven when on August 22, a passing Royal Navy ship, HMS Kennet, a Thornycroft River Class Destroyer, was damaged in a combined attack by SMS S90, SMS Lauting, and a shore battery that the Germans had located off Tsingtao.  HMS Kennet found the SMS S90 too difficult to hit given the smaller vessel’s speed and manueverability, despite firing 136 rounds and one torpedo at her.  Still, SMS S90 escaped undamaged and returned to Tsingtao.  However, before leaving the engagement, SMS S90‘s own guns had taken out one of HMS Kennet‘s guns and killed five of her crew.

Subsequently, SMS Jaguar sortied and sank the Japanese destroyer Shirotaye.  Later still, on October 17, SMS S90 scored again when it sortied from the harbor and sank the Japanese cruiser Takachiho.  Unable to return through the blockade despite several attempts and running low on the fuel, the German gunboat captain took SMS S90 close to the Chinese coast and scuttled her.  He and his crew were subsequently imprisoned in neutral Nanking.  Based on its performance during the Siege of Tsingtao, SMS S90 is probably the most successful gunboat in naval history.

Several Air Power Firsts

On September 6, one of the Japanese Navy’s Farman MF.7 seaplanes flew the first air-sea battle in aviation history.  The seaplane carrier Wakamiya ordered one of its four Farman biplanes to be lowered into the water and take off on an attack mission.  The order was to bomb SMS Kaiserin Elisabeth and SMS Jaguar.  The Japanese pilot took off from the water, flew the roughly 40 km to Tsingtao, identified SMS Kaiserin Elisabeth, and dropped a small bomb that he had stored in a small basket aligned next to his seat.  For aiming, he had no bomb sight.  He simply flew overhead and held the bomb out at arm’s length in one hand.  When he estimated that he was in the right position, he dropped the bomb and watched it fall — and miss.

He tried the same against SMS Jaguar.  He missed the gunboat too, despite having observed the arc of how a bomb fell when he dropped it from his aeroplane, probably as it was a much smaller target.  Then the Japanese pilot flew back to report the results of his mission.  The attack was the first time in history that a ship-launched aeroplane attacked another ship.

Another first was the Japanese night attack by air.  In that era, pilots rarely attempted to fly their rickety aeroplanes at night, let alone perform combat missions in the dark.  There were no radios or navigation aids.  Airfields were improvised and unlighted, making landing a treacherous prospect, though on a Moonlit night it was possible.  There were no radar systems or control towers to help guide a pilot back to the field.  The cockpit instruments, what few of them there were, typically included only a compass, an oil pressure gauge and an RPM indicator.  These too were unlit.

Pilots navigated not by the stars above but by the lights of villages, towns, and cities below.  The shorelines could be seen below as well.  Most planes couldn’t fly more than a few dozen kilometers anyway.  Despite these challenges, the Japanese decided to take advantage of the night and fly the first night combat mission in history — it was simply a reconnaissance mission and there are no records indicating what the pilot actually saw and reported back.

Not all of the firsts were achieved by the Japanese, however.  In early September, Lt. Plüschow became the first aviator to be fired upon by flak from navy ships.  As he flew overhead, cruising along at something between 1,000 and 1,500 meters of altitude, the Japanese ships below suddenly opened fire.  They managed to hit his plane, though the damage was light.  He was able to turn for Tsingtao and make it back safely.  After that, he elected to fly about 2,000 meters of altitude, safely above the range of the ship’s small arms fire.  Ships of that era had no anti-aircraft artillery.

Shortly thereafter, the Japanese launched an eight aeroplane raid using a combined force from both the Japanese Navy and Army on Tsingtao.  This was perhaps the largest air attack yet assembled globally, though that record wouldn’t hold for more than another few months.  Coincidentally, at that exact moment, Lt. Plüschow was himself flying over Tsingtao in his Taube.  He was surprised when one of the Japanese aeroplanes came close and tried to attack him.  The Japanese pilot apparently took shots with his pistol, though he missed.  Uninjured and unarmed — and as such unable to return fire — Lt. Plüschow turned his aeroplane away and escaped by climbing into a cloud layer at approximately 2,500 meters of altitude.  He flew away landed safely at nearby Haichow, refueled, and then flew back to the racetrack airfield at Tsingtao.

Some days later, Lt. Plüschow again encountered a Japanese aeroplane, one of the Japanese Navy Farman MF.7 biplanes that was performing reconnaissance over Tsingtao’s harbor.  Since his earlier encounter, he had started to fly with a pistol.  Pointing his slightly faster Taube aeroplane at the Japanese seaplane, he closed the distance slowly, came alongside, drew his pistol, and shot at the Japanese pilot.  It isn’t clear if he badly wounded him or killed him outright, but the Japanese plane subsequently crashed.  Thus, Lt. Plüschow claimed to be the first in aviation history to achieve an aerial victory.  The Japanese pilot died.

Lt. Plüschow’s claim of a victory, however, remains unconfirmed.  Japanese records do not support the loss of any of their pilots or aeroplanes.  Perhaps it would be better to claim that he started the venerable tradition of over claiming aerial victories, a practice that has continued from 1914 until recently, though nowadays aerial combat is so vanishingly rare that air-to-air kills are almost unheard of.

The End of the Siege of Tsingtao

Throughout the siege, Lt. Plüschow proved himself to be a jack of all trades.  He and an Austrian pilot, Lt. Clobucz, having recognized that the city would soon fall, constructed a biplane seaplane of their own design by the harbor.  With the imminent fall of Tsingtao to the Japanese and British, the German governor asked Lt. Plüschow to fly a final dispatch message out of Tsingtao.

On the morning of November 6, he flew out, hoping to make it southward to safety.  He flew over 250 km before finally crashing into a rice paddy.  He recovered the documents and burned his aeroplane, a sad ending for one of the world’s first true combat aeroplanes.  He had escaped Tsingtao just in time.  That very night,the Japanese made their final assault on the city and defeated the German defenders.  The garrison was taken prisoner and sent to Japan for the rest of the war.  Incredibly, despite being outnumbered six to one on land, three to one by sea, and nine to one in the air, the Germans had held out for two months, only surrendering when they ran out of ammunition.

The documents Lt. Plüschow carried out of Tsingtao were delivered ultimately to Berlin, though not by air.  Rather, they were taken by a ship that Lt. Plüschow helped arrange, using a neutral nation’s diplomatic pouch.  Thereafter, Lt. Plüschow set off alone and on foot for Germany.  What followed was a journey that took nine months.  He first went to Dauschou, where the local Chinese overlord feted him with a nice welcome party.  From there, he obtained papers to continue southward through China.  Then he worked his way to Nanking on board a Chinese junk.  From there, he jumped a train to escape to Shanghai when he was spotted in town.  Realizing that he was about to be arrested, he made his escape.  From Shanghai, with no place to go and no money, he got lucky and ran into an old German friend who took him in.  Hearing his story, the old friend arranged false travel papers for him that identified him as a Swiss national and provided him with money for the voyage home.

With his false travel papers, he booked passage to Nagasaki, Japan, arriving in the very nation against which he had been recently fighting.  Without delaying long, he booked further ship passage to Honolulu, in the US Hawaiian Territory.  From there, he sailed onward to San Francisco, where he arrived at Angel Island and was processed through US Immigration.  By January 1915, he had made it by train to New York City.

Soon after arriving, he was shocked to see a report in the newspapers that the Allied nations were seeking his whereabouts.  They had heard of his exploits as Germany’s most famous Asian aviator and wanted him captured.  Ominously, the newspapers noted that he was easily identified by a Chinese dragon tattoo on his arm — something that he had done while in China.  The newspapers also reported that the authorities suspected that he was in already New York, though how they had guessed that is a mystery.

Even if the United States was still neutral and not yet involved in the Great War (the US would join the war effort two years later), Lt. Plüschow realized that he could be easily spotted as long as he remained in New York.  He considered trying to gain entry into the German Consulate in New York City, but could not conceive of a reason for a Swiss national to visit there.  Not far away, however, unbeknownst to him, was a potential way out.  However, he had no way of knowing that New York City was a hotbed of German espionage activities.  These were operated under Count von Bernstorff, who was based in Germany’s Washington Embassy and regularly traveled to New York’s lower Manhattan district.  The two never met.

Without money or a place to stay, once again Lt. Plüschow was lucky.  He encountered another friend from Berlin in New York City.  The man took him in and helped arrange transport from New York to Italy by ship.  Once at sea, he felt he could breathe easier, but his luck deserted him after the transatlantic crossing.  Arriving at the gateway to the Mediterranean Sea, the ship stopped to take on fuel and supplies at Gibraltar.  British authorities boarded and identified him.  He was removed from the ship and placed under arrest before being sent to England to be imprisoned for the duration of the war.

Once in England, he was held at Donington Hall in Leicestershire.  Then, on May 1915, quite incredibly he escaped, making his way out of the Hall and through a tall fence lined with barbed wire.  To achieve this, he used the cover of a passing storm.  Quite simply, he slipped away into the night.  Despite having a bulletin issued for his arrest by Scotland Yard, he evaded capture for many weeks.  To blend in, he dressed as a dock worker.  He wandered London, trying to work out how to cross the English Channel.  At one point he had photographs taken of himself by the port as souvenirs.  While there, he carefully watched the movements of the ships arriving and departing, realizing that the shipping schedules were not published.  At one point, he visited the British Museum, wandering the exhibits.  Finally, he was able to sneak onboard a Dutch ferry called Princess Juliana, and thus made passage to the Netherlands.  As the Netherlands was a neutral country, from there he was able to return easily to Germany.  He arrived in Berlin in July 1915 after almost five months in England.

Proclaimed a hero, he was awarded the Iron Cross 1st Class and promoted to the Naval rank of KapitanLeutnant.  Additionally, he was assigned to command the Imperial Navy’s seaplane station at Libau, which was part of the Russian front of Germany’s defenses during the Great War.  He served there uneventfully for the rest of the war.

Gunther Plüschow was the only German combatant to ever escape a POW camp in Great Britain — in either of the world wars.  With this said, at least one other German prisoner escaped from captivity while being held in Canada during World War II.  For more than a decade after the end of the war, Gunther Plüschow continued to fly.  He was recognized as an aviation pioneer and he made good use of his reputation by scouting South America by air.  He became a documentary film maker, cataloging his experiences on film when he returned to Germany from Patagonia, where he had lived for over two years.  During that time, he had flown all around the southern end of South America, including across the mountains to Chile.

After publishing a book and a movie, Günther Plüschow and his flight engineer, Ernst Dreblow, returned to Argentina to explore some more by air.  Sadly, they both died in the crash of their seaplane at Brazo Rico, Lake Argentino, Argentina, on January 28, 1931.  It was a terrible, though epic end.  The two crashed onto Perito Moreno Glacier.  Today, a monument marks the site of the crash.  His death is commemorated each year in Argentina and Chile.  Naturally, the seaplane he flew in Argentina, a Heinkel HD 24 that carried tail number D-1313, was nicknamed, “TSINGTAU”.

One More Thing

The infamous reputation of the Japanese military in wartime is largely defined by American experiences of World War II.  However, during the Great War, the Japanese performed far more admirably and honored, belying the claim that the samurai tradition of Japan inevitably lead to atrocities being committed against prisoners.  While later POW experiences in Japan during the 1940s were horrific, with prisoners experiencing severed deprivations, torture, starvation, and executions, the German prisoners from Tsingtao fared very well.  They numbered 4,700 in all and almost all of them survived the war.  Respect was mutual between the Japanese and the Germans.  In fact, the ship’s orchestra from SMS Kaiserin Elisabeth regularly entertained Japanese and foreign guests with performances of Bach and Beethoven concerts during their captivity.  The POWs were well-fed and well-housed.  When the war ended, it took over a year for them to be finally repatriated to Germany.  Still, 170 of Germany’s former POWs chose to remain in Japan afterward, a gesture symbolic of their positive experiences there.

The post The Siege of Tsingtao first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

FAMILY DIRIGIBLE. A competent, steady man wanted for slow speed, low level Tangye dirigible.  No night work, no sea trips.  Must be member of the Church of England, and make himself useful in the garden.  M. R., The Rectory, Gray’s Barton, Wilts.

This passage appeared in an advertisement on page 49 of the New York Times from March 14, 1909.  The same ad appeared in numerous other newspapers at the time worldwide.  The ad wasn’t unique — in fact, the entire page was filled with ads and futuristic stories and images.  At the top were the words, “Kipling’s Visions of Conquest of the Air”.  The full page was the product of the fertile imagination of the famed author, Rudyard Kipling and was placed as a faux advertisement from “a Century hence”. The goal was to promote his newest literary work, “With the Night Mail”, that was being published that year.

Rather than speaking of rocket ships or jet packs, Kipling’s vision of the future was — and is still — unique because of its simplicity.  While he may have wildly missed the mark on his predictions of a future filled with flying machines for every citizen, who can blame him? Given the crystal ball challenges that come to whosoever dares predict a future 100 years ahead, Kipling was no more and no less accurate than his peers.

However, he achieved something far more important than an accurate prediction of the technology — he envisioned a world where flight would be so commonplace, so banal, and so normal that nobody would think twice of flying at 38,000 feet of altitude, at 500 mph, while sipping a coke and eating peanuts.

In the very issue of the New York Times where his fake page was published, there were articles that were interesting enough in their own right.  There were stories about a Michigan trapper who died at 104 years old and about a child abduction.  Maybe times haven’t changed much after all.

As well, there was this gem, headlined:  “SILVER DART TO FLY FOR AMERICAN CUP; Test to be Made This Week Under New Rules at Baddeck, Nova Scotia. A NEW RECORD LOOKED FOR / The McCurdy Aeroplane Must Beat 16 Miles to Win — New Rules Adopted for New York-to-Albany Contest.  March 14, 1909”.

You really can’t get any better than that.

The Banality of It All

Kipling imagined a world of less wonder.  Amazingly, he not only wrote it, but had it illustrated in his book.  One of the illustrations (which we include as the title image of this article), showed a smartly dressed couple drinking tea as they gaze out the window at a passing blimp.  They pause as they recognize it as a friend’s airship.  Blithely, the man says to his wife, “I’ve asked him to tea on Friday.”  That was the very caption he placed under the illustration in his book.

Of course, he got the clothing wrong.  He imagined that we would never advance much beyond the high style of the “Belle Époque”.  Are faded jeans any better though?  Looking back, it seems that despite all our advancements, we’ve lost something over the years too.  We may be far beyond airships and fanciful balloon rescues, but what happened to high tea?

Perhaps the greatest irony is not that we can rush to anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat, but simply that we don’t wear proper hats anymore.  Or maybe that these days it seems like we have to rush around just to survive.

There’s nothing wrong with nostalgia for an imagined glorious past.  It might even be a good thing as we define what our future might yet be.  Airships aren’t the half of it, after all.

The wonder of flight has become utterly ordinary.  The amazing becomes the ordinary if given enough time.

Today, over a century since, we rarely pause to think about just how far we’ve come. We complain when a flight from New York to Paris leaves a half hour late.  Our smart watches allow us to video conference with friends living half way around the world.  Rockets have taken us to the Moon and, soon enough, they will take the first astronauts to Mars.

ASCENSION–Mark Boat reports wreck of unknown racing-plane, Parden rudder, wire-stiffened xylonite vans, and Harliss engine-seating, sighted and salved 7° 20′ S. 18° 41′ W. Dec. 15th. Photos at all A.B.C. offices.

In the world Kipling imagined, racing planes were not rare.  Air races weren’t big events where nations vied against one another like they did in the famed Schneider Cup or like at Reno.  Kipling saw a world where folks might attend the local air track on weekends, enjoying beers and barbecue.  He saw the aviation equivalent to today’s youths hot rodding out by D Avenue over $20 bets, with wings instead of chromed wheels.

Ultimately, even Kipling’s grand vision missed the mark — or did it?  For instance, who could have thought that a helicopter in every driveway wasn’t the future?  Many people dreamed of that even as recently as the 1960s.  That’s barely 50 years ago.  Personal airplanes would be soon possible, so everyone thought — but they weren’t.  Still, there might come a day yet when that might be.

Looking Back & Looking Ahead

If we look ahead 100 years from now, the world will be changed yet again.  We cannot imagine just how far we’ll go, how high we’ll fly, or how fast we might become.  Self-driving cars are fast becoming today’s reality, so it may not be all that long before we have a self-flying personal aircraft in the driveway after all.  Or that we take the blimp down the street to visit a café.

Even those amazing things quickly cease being things of wonder.  It doesn’t even take that long.  One day, a husband might say to his partner, “Honey, I just flew over to the store and they were out of bread. It seems like they never have what we need anymore!  What are we supposed to do, pop off to Paris to the bakery every week or something? I mean, that’s two hours each way!! Next time, I’m shopping at Meijers!!”

Maybe Kipling wasn’t all that far off after all.

The post Kipling’s Visions of Conquest of the Air first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

Week after week on Saturdays — the Jewish sabbath — at roughly noon, the pilots of the newly founded Israeli Air Force (IAF) watched helplessly as a tiny speck of a plane cut a contrail high above the newly declared state of Israel.  Nobody knew whose plane it was.  It always flew in on one day from the west, passed over central Israel and directly across the Negev desert, and then disappeared toward the northeast.  The next day, it would fly in over the Sea of Galilee, pass over Ramat David AB again, and then turn south to disappear over the Negev.  Some ground-based observer reports relayed that the plane appeared to head generally toward Egypt.

It had to be a reconnaissance plane, but whose?  Was it Iraqi?  Egyptian?  Was it from Trans-Jordan?  The IAF’s pilots, mostly foreign volunteers known as Mahalniks, knew only one thing with certainty — it wasn’t one of their own.  Lacking a name for the mysterious flight, they dubbed it “Shufti Kite”.

As one, they made a vow to shoot it down — if they ever got the chance.

Setting the Stage

On November 20, 1948, Israel was in the closing months of the Independence War.  The pilots of their newly founded air force, the IAF, watched helplessly week after week as the Shufti Kite made its way over Israel’s newly sovereign skies.  They surmised that it was taking photos of troop movements and preparing imagery for future raid planning that might target airfields, fuel and ammunition depots, and even civilian centers.  The photos might even aid the Arabs in the planning the next invasion.  The Shufti Kite had to be stopped.

For months, intercepting the Shufti Kite had been far beyond the IAF’s capabilities.  The Israelis had an odd collection of plane types, essentially whatever they could find and convert to military use.  For cargo and utility flying, the IAF had a Beech Bonanza, a Dragon Rapide, a few Piper Cubs, a Republic RC-3 Seabee flying boat, some Curtiss C-46 Commandos (these doubled as bombers with crews simply rolling bombs out of the open cargo door while flying over targets), and even a Lockheed Constellation.  For fighters, the IAF had the tired ex-WWII era and much despised Czech-built Avia S-199, known as “The Mule”, a variant of the Messershmitt Bf 109G, and the Czechs had just provided a few dozen Spitfire LF IXs.

None of the IAF’s planes could fly high enough to shoot down the intruder, let alone even get close to identify it.  When they took off to intercept, the pilots could only watch helplessly as the Shufti Kite would hum along well above their maximum altitude of around 20,000 feet.  The Shufti Kite was flying easily above 30,000 feet and possibly even a mile higher.

Compounding the problem, the IAF’s few planes lacked oxygen systems.  Thus, they could not hope to fly that high without the pilots blacking out from hypoxia.  The “air up there” was simply too thin to breathe.  However, in November 1948, that changed.

The First P-51D Mustangs

In the autumn of 1948, the IAF had received its first pair of smuggled, demilitarized North American P-51D Mustang fighter planes.  As described in Boaz Dvir’s book, “Saving Israel” (Rowman & Littlefield, 2020), a Jewish-American citizen named Al Schwimmer bought them in the United States from an arms dealer, then disassembled and smuggled them to Israel in unmarked crates.  The planes were USAAF/USAF surplus aircraft that Schwimmer had shipped to Israel in defiance of a near global arms embargo that had been levied against the new Jewish state.  After the planes had arrived, the foreign volunteer ground crews of the Mahal had worked tirelessly for weeks to assemble them and get them ready for combat.

The two P-51D Mustangs were fitted with home-built oxygen systems and a set of either Czech-built machineguns (as some sources indicate) or four (rather than the usual six) Browning .50 caliber machineguns (as described in other sources).  As the USAAF/USAF gunsights had been removed when the planes had been demilitarized, the Israelis fitted Czech-made Revi gunsights that had been removed from some of the wrecked Avia S-199 fighters.

With the arrival of the P-51D Mustangs, the IAF pilots started planning how to intercept the Shufti Kite.  Neither the oxygen system nor the guns had been tested in the air, however.  While the guns could be expected to be fairly reliable, the oxygen system was another matter.  Flying it to altitude to test it was risky.  The pilots knew exactly how to perform their first flight test of the oxygen system — they would go after the Shufti Kite.

The Arab Air Forces and the Shufti Kite

Opposing the Israeli Air Force with its foreign pilots were the combined air forces of a half dozen Arab states.  The best equipped were the Royal Egyptian Air Force (REAF), which flew British-supplied Supermarine Spitfire LF IX fighters and former Italian WWII surplus Macchi MC 205 fighter planes.

However, while the Egyptians had multi-engine cargo planes (and these were being used as bombers), they had no advanced aircraft that could fly as high as the Shufti Kite.  The REAF was also starting to receive more advanced fighter planes, like the Hawker Tempest and some of these were being deployed to Egypt.  On paper, the REAF was vastly superior to the IAF.  In reality, the volunteers of the Mahal were making clear that the important part of every plane was its pilot.

Identifying the Shufti Kite

The term, “Shufti Kite”, was an apt name for a reconnaissance aircraft.  It derived from an old military slang term from the Arabic word for “look”, as in to have a look around and see what was up — ex.  “take a shufti while you’re out there” — and the British slang for airplane — “kite”.  Whatever “looking around” the Shufti Kite was doing wasn’t welcome.

The IAF’s Mahal pilots guessed that the Shufti Kite was likely either some kind of high altitude, British-built, four-engine bomber or perhaps a de Havilland Mosquito.  However, they couldn’t be sure.  Even when viewed with high-powered binoculars, the Shufti Kite was just a dot at the front edge of what was often a long double or possibly quadruple contrail.  Sometimes, if the atmospheric conditions weren’t right, there wasn’t even a contrail.

Who flew it was question mark.  It seemed that the British had supplied the Arabs with a high flying reconnaissance plane of some sort.

Although Israel had no way of knowing, the plane was actually not in service with the Arabs, but actually owned and operated by the British RAF.  It was a de Havilland Mosquito PR34.  Naturally, it carried a British military aircrew.  The Mosquito was a twin-engine, high speed, light bomber and reconnaissance plane that had proven its worth during WWII.  It flew so fast and so high that often even the vaunted the German Luftwaffe had trouble catching it — even with their early jets.  For the IAF, to intercept it was a sheer impossibility — until the arrival of the first P-51D Mustangs.

The Shufti Kite’s Mission

Although the British weren’t supposed to have chosen sides in the 1948 War of Independence, in fact, they had done so in almost every way except publicly.  When the REAF lost a Spitfire to one of the IAF’s Czech-built Avia S-199 Mules or Spitfires, the British were quick to send them a newer, more updated model as a replacement.  When the tide had started to turn against the Arabs, the RAF had even taken to flying escort missions for Egyptian combat planes — up to, but not across the border of Israel.  For that mission, the RAF flew its newer model, Supermarine Mk XVIIIs and Hawker Tempests, one of the finest planes in the early post-war era.

Not only was the RAF flying the Shufti Kite, it was also providing the photo reconnaissance intelligence images that were taken during the missions to the Arabs.  The plane was based out of Iraq and Egypt.  The missions were in support of what was then called Trans-Jordan Treaty (nowadays Trans-Jordan is simply known as Jordan).  The British provided equipment, training, and even officers to command the ground and air forces of Trans-Jordan’s army.

Agreements were in place to assist each key Arab country in time of war.  With the 1948 War of Independence in full swing, the agreement with Trans-Jordan, code-named “Barter”, was in full force and effect.  Under “Barter”, the Shufti Kite was tasked with flying its regular missions in support of the Arab forces in their fight against the new-formed state of Israel.

The RAF’s Mosquito recce plane was providing regular intelligence imagery of Israel’s disposition, including military aircraft, and its ground forces to the Arab armies.  This included detailed photographic imagery of cities like Tel Aviv. The Arabs used these photos to plan bombing raids.

A Fateful Day in RAF History

On November 20, 1948, an RAF Mosquito PR34 VL 625, carrying the call sign “Graphic III”, took off from RAF Habbaniyah Airfield in Iraq on a standard overflight of Israel, exactly as they had done for months prior.  The reconnaissance mission plan called for a 48 hour pair of flights with stops for refueling, crew rest, and offloading of photographic imagery at either end of the flight in Iraq and Egypt.

Typically, the first of the two flights would originate from an RAF base in the Egyptian territory called Fayid Airbase (approximately 14 miles south of Ismailia and 72 miles northeast of Cairo) that was manned so as to protect the Suez Canal.  From there, the plane would fly east across the southern Negev desert before turning north to land at RAF Habbaniyah.  After a crew rest, the following day, the Mosquito would make its second flight over Israel, this time heading down the center of the country from north to south after passing directly over Ramat David AB.  It was this mission that the IAF was most familiar with, having watched it numerous times.

That day, “Graphic III” was flown by Pilot Flight Officer Eric Reynolds, RAF, and his navigator, Flight Officer Angus Love, RAF.  They were executing the second of their two assigned flights, heading back to their home base in Egypt.  They were assigned to RAF 13 Squadron that was located at that time at Kabrit Airfield in the Suez Canal Zone with some planes flying out of Fayid Airfield.  After departing RAF Habbaniyah, “Graphic III” climbed to 28,000 feet of altitude and took its usual heading toward Israel’s Ramat David AB.

As often happened, that day the Shufti Kite was spotted by the volunteer network of Israeli kibbutniks who manned small towers around the country and served as air observation posts.  With their eyes peeled skyward, the kibbutzniks served as a human stand-in for radar.  Whatever they saw, they identified (if they could), and reported back to a central IAF base.  They reported the contact’s position, estimated altitude, estimated speed, and heading.  That information was then disseminated to the IAF’s few squadrons and to ground units.  At one of the kibbutzim, a farming community called Ramat HaShofet, one of the kibbutzniks named Menachem had been manning the observation towers for months — he had been sent there because the other kibbutzniks were tired of him always challenging them with music history questions and telling endless stories.  He took it in good humor, of course, and soon excelled at spotting the Shufti Kite as it flew overhead.

A few weeks prior to the mission against the Shufti Kite, the IAF’s only dedicated fighter squadron (the 101st Squadron) had moved from its hidden base at Herziliya, a dirt strip located near Tel Aviv, to another location farther south in the desert at Kastina (now known as Hatzor AB).  This new base afforded the squadron a bit of extra time to get off, climb to altitude, and possibly intercept the Shufti Kite with one of the two new P-51D Mustangs.  It was also better positioned to defend the border with Egypt.

That day’s mission against the Shufti Kite had been planned carefully in advance.  An IAF P-51D Mustang — a specific plane that the Israelis had designated as “Mustang Number 40” (one of only two that they had flying) — was to take off and climb in wide circles over the base until reaching an altitude of around 30,000 feet.  Since Israel had no radar systems to provide vectors for the interception, the pilot would turn north toward Ramat David AB and then tune in the radio to listen to a running narrative provided by a second pilot who would stay on the ground.  That second pilot would be scanning the skies from Ramat David AB with a pair of binoculars.  The idea was that he could guide the P-51D Mustang toward the Shufti Kite until it was spotted.  As well, the second pilot on the ground would relay any position reports he received from the kibbutzniks who were to be reporting in.

Squadron leader Syd Cohen chose to play the key role on the ground with his binoculars at Ramat David AB. He selected a North Carolina WWII USAAF veteran pilot from among the other Mahal volunteers, Wayne Peake, to fly the newly reassembled P-51D Mustang.  The choice was made simply because Peake had the most time flying P-51s during WWII — in fact, he was a highly experienced after flying combat missions against the Nazi Luftwaffe.

The Mission — A Tragic Ending

The day of the interception, the RAF Mosquito pilot, Pilot Flight Officer Eric Reynolds, apparently had grown complacent.  Months of easy reconnaissance missions had led him to probably downplay the risk of interception.  Therefore, rather than climbing to the best altitude of 36,000 feet, F/O Reynolds leveled off instead at 28,000 feet.  Perhaps he wanted to get better resolution photography.  We’ll never know.

His confidence that he would not be intercepted, if that was indeed the cause, would not have been unwarranted.  RAF intelligence reports were clear, the IAF had no aircraft that climb up to even that height and intercept his plane.  As it was, the RAF had no idea that that IAF had fielded its first P-51D Mustangs.  This was an intelligence failure, as a few of the Mustangs had already flown a few missions over several Arab countries, including one in which a Mustang escorted a Spitfire on a reconnaissance mission.

When the first sign of the Shufti Kite was called in from the kibbutzniks, Wayne Peake was already in the air and heading north.  He climbed rapidly to intercept.  As the Shufti Kite neared Ramat David AB, it was level at 28,000 feet.  Peake, expecting to intercept the other plane at around 36,000 feet — and if not intercept, then at least get close enough to identify it — had reached his maximum altitude of 30,000 feet.

With the running commentary from the ground, he was closing fast on the position of the RAF plane.  However, F/O Reynolds spotted the P-51D first.  From the ground, Syd Cohen watched as the Shufti Kite made a turn and headed west toward the Mediterranean Sea.  We can also surmise that probably F/O Reynolds had rammed his throttles forward and started into a climb as well, hoping to reach the safety that he might have been found at higher altitudes.

He was too late.

As Peake closed in from behind, however, he had his own problems.  Critically, the homebuilt oxygen system in the P-51D Mustang had failed.  As a result, Peake was suffering from blurry, tunnel vision as well as double vision.  Hypoxia was rapidly setting in.  Nearly blinded from a lack of oxygen, at first Peake could not see the Mosquito at all.

From the ground at Ramat David AB, Cohen watched through his binoculars as Peake drew in from behind.  Suddenly, Cohen realized that Peake must be too high, somehow above the Mosquito.  He called to Peake on the radio and instructed him to descend.  Immediately, Peake rolled the plane inverted and pulled back on the stick to drop the nose into a diving split-S.  As he did that, there right in front of him, the Shufti Kite loomed into view.  The RAF Mosquito was speeding westward toward the sea.  Peake was lined up perfectly for a shot.

Peake realized he could only make one firing pass before diving to lower altitudes so that he could breathe again.  Still upside down and in a fast dive, he was coming up quickly directly from behind the Mosquito.  He rolled out and lined up his Revi gunsight on the blurry plane, completely unsure what type it was.  With the double vision he suffered from hypoxia, he thought he saw four engines, not the two that the Mosquito actually had.  He concluded that the plane was probably a Hawker Halifax bomber.  With only seconds to attack, he pulled the trigger anyway and fired a quick burst with his four machineguns.  Then, he continued down to dive away as he gasped for air and, reaching lower altitudes, he slowly came out of hypoxia.

Peake had fired just 45 rounds from the four machineguns.  His aim, however, was spot on.  Peake saw strikes along the fuselage and on one of the port engines (again, he thought he saw two engines on each side).  He also saw what he thought was the beginning of an engine fire.

In 1993, author Ehud Yonay interviewed Syd Cohen for his book, “No Margin for Error: The Making of the Israeli Air Force”.  Remembering the Shufti Kite incident, Cohen related how the Mosquito continued onward after Peake’s firing pass.  “It was going away and Peake cursing like hell on the radio and almost crying because he couldn’t fire another shot, but suddenly I noticed that the vapor trails were getting thicker and thicker, and then I saw fire, and the next thing I knew that thing just disintegrated in the air.”

Aboard the the RAF Mosquito, F/O Reynolds at first had continued flying toward the Mediterranean Sea, perhaps intending to turn south and skirt the coast offshore toward Ashkelon and beyond to Egypt.  Or perhaps he had been injured or killed.  Unable to maintain altitude due to the damage it had sustained, the Mosquito was descending fast.  When the plane reached approximately 20,000 feet, quite suddenly and apparently without warning, it exploded in midair.  Neither F/O Reynolds nor F/O Love survived to bale out.  The wreckage fell into the Mediterranean just off the coast near the farming moshav of Dor, southwest of Haifa.

Aftermath

Immediately after the shootdown, one of the other IAF pilots, Ezer Weizman, took off in his squadron’s Republic RC-3 Seabee flying boat, a small single engine plane that they were using at the time for amphibious flights.  He flew to the crash site and spotted what appeared to be wreckage on waves below.  He circled at low altitude but could find no survivors.

Back in Iraq, when reports came in that the Mosquito had not made it to Egypt, the British Commander in Chief consulted with his CAS.  The decision was made to temporarily halt any further overflights.  Thereafter, the C-in-C decided that London should be asked to confirm ministerial approval for resuming the reconnaissance flights.  Given the risk, however, his request was denied.  Ultimately, the RAF never resumed flying the Shufti Kite missions.  Sadly, the bodies of F/O Reynolds and F/O Love were never recovered.  The shootdown of the Shufti Kite marked the final mission that RAF flew.

Reconnaissance missions continued, however, but not by the RAF.  Rather, the IAF had started a new tradition of flying over all of the Arab capital cities and airfields in the region, taking photographs of Damascus, Cairo, Beirut, Amman, and key Iraqi airfields.  Not long afterward, the IAF itself received its first Mosquito twin-engined “wooden wonders”, planes that would also serve in reconnaissance for the Israelis.  The IAF continues those reconnaissance missions to this day with every new generation of aircraft — including more commonly used nowadays remotely piloted aircraft (stealth drones).

As for Wayne Peake, after he finished his volunteering with the IAF, he returned to the USA and joined Flying Tigers Airline.  Over time, he rose to become the airline’s chief pilot.  In January 1991, he passed away, the victim of cancer.  Fulfilling his dying wish, his body is buried in Israel.

To read more about Wayne Peake and the other foreign volunteers who helped form the Israeli Air Force (IAF), check out Boaz Dvir’s new book, “Saving Israel”!

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• Designed just two years after the end of the Great War.
  
• A lifting body design that added more than 1/4 to the available lift.
  
• Carried up to 30 passengers in an era where a dozen was a lot.
  
• Flew commercially only in freight, hauling a car around to shows.

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• A brilliant combat design, fast and with fine maneuverability.
  
• Wings and fuselage were made of plywood; didn’t fare well in the weather.
  
• Powered by the  Pratt & Whitney R-1830 Twin Wasp engine.
  
• Killed more of its own pilots than those of the enemy.

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As much as we love The Muppets, in 1963 a pair of NASA engineers entertained the idea of sending real pigs into space. This is their story.

“Little Joe” was the name of the rocket used by NASA to test the launch escape system and heat shield of the Mercury capsule. Developed by pioneering spacecraft designer Max Faget, the Little Joe was a cluster of four off-the-shelf Sargeant solid fuel rockets. (The four nozzles seen from below reminded Faget of the double deuce craps throw called a “little Joe” and hence the name.) The Little Joe rocket was capable of lobbing a boiler plate capsule into suborbital ballistic flight. Since the booster was cheap, it was the perfect vehicle for testing the Mercury capsule, which it did very successfully.

On December 4, 1959, a Little Joe rocket shot a rhesus monkey named “Sam” to an altitude of 55 miles — in other words to the very edge of space. (Sam survived the journey, by the way.)

However, in 1963, G.C. Johnson and John W. Wilkey, Jr., who were engineers at NASA’s Langley Research Center, came up with an even more ambitious idea. The suggested replacing the monkey with a pig.

The rationale was that not only was the mass of a pig closer to that of a human, they also share many similar physiological features. Even though the Mercury program had already flown astronauts in sub-orbital and orbital flights, there was still a need for inexpensive tests so Johnson and Wilkey’s plan made some sense.

More information is available on NASA’s “A Brief History of Animals In Space”.

Aviation Trivia Note

While NASA never flew a pig into space, oddly, in 1961, it did launch an immature male chimpanzee named “Ham”, aged 3 years, 8 months (approximately).  “Ham” performed admirably and was a popular topic in early coverage of America’s first ventures into space.

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A stubby-winged plane launches itself from an airport runway on the outskirts of Berlin. When it reaches an altitude of several miles, it fires its rocket engines, lifting itself high into the stratosphere. Then, its rockets shut down, it soars smoothly across the Atlantic Ocean. On board, its passengers are strapped into cushioned, contoured seats, enjoying their first experience with weightlessness. If they don’t like the experience, they can comfort themselves with the fact that free-fall will only last 20 minutes, after which the rocket will begin its descent back into the atmosphere. Barely half an hour after leaving Germany, the rocket touches down near New York City.

This was the dream of Max Valier,a German born in Boen, in the southern Tyrol (now part of Italy) in 1895.  While it may sound like a modern science fiction story or some futuristic fantasy vision of space travel, this was exactly scenario proposed by the first space entrepreneur more than 80 years ago in the 1930s. If any of the current schemes for commercial spaceflight succeeds, they’ll owe a huge debt to a designer that most cannot even name.  Sadly, not only was he a vision, but he was also the first martyr on the long road to develop of space travel.

Valier was a precocious child long interested in astronomy.  He was the author of dozens of books and pamphlets on the subject and invented the rotating star chart, also known as the “planosphere”.  The planosphere is still in use, testimony to its fine design and educational merit.

Valier first learned about spaceflight after the publication of Hermann Oberth’s “Die Rakete zu den Planetenraum” in 1925. Thereafter, he wrote a popularized version of Oberth’s book and this became an international best-seller.  Through his efforts, he popularized the idea of spaceflight popular throughout Europe. Valier’s vision of rocket travel, however, was not simply a pipe-dream.  Rather, it was devised from the start as an evolutionary development effort to build on existing technologies until ultimately the products was a crewed spacecraft capable of transatlantic travel.

To get his project off the ground, finding investors and supporters, Valier was acutely aware of the need for public education.  Therefore, he lectured regularly and poured out dozens of articles for publication in the media.  These were translated and reprinted in many newspapers and magazines around the world, often without credit. As a result, he and his plans became almost as well-known and influential as von Braun and his “Collier’s” space program were to become in the 1950s.

Valier’s greatest contribution was that he developed an incremental, evolutionary approach to the development of the spaceship. He began with an ordinary commercial aircraft.  Step-by-step through different generations of design, this would gradually develop into rocket-assisted flight and then into full-fledged rocket transport.  Finally, it would result in a wingless interplanetary spacecraft. He also promoted the idea of a transatlantic passenger rocket.  He envisioned that this would make the trip from Berlin to New York in less than an hour.

At the same time, Valier collaborated with industrialist Fritz von Opel (of the famous automotive company) and signal rocket manufacturer F. W. Sander to demonstrate the practicality of rocket-propelled vehicles. This led to a whole series of spectacular experiments that saw rocket-powered cars, sleds, rail vehicles, take to test tracks.  This added to the public relations interest that he was creating for his rocket ship.   Those development efforts culminated in the flight of the first rocket-propelled aircraft in 1929.

Even though his contributions were discounted by space flight historians such as Willy Ley, who thought Valier’s demonstrations were nothing more than useless publicity stunts, his experiments were enormously valuable in “selling” the idea of rocket propulsion to the general public. There’s no denying that the possibility of rocket flight and space travel was on everyone’s lips at the time — and that this was the result of Valier’s work and unceasing promotional efforts.

Unfortunately, the car designer Fritz Opel, who was just in it for the publicity, took most of the limelight from Valier. Opel even denied Valier, who was an experienced pilot, the honor of making the first rocket plane flight, despite the fact that Valier designed the plane. Valier, undeterred, went on to work on developing liquid-fueled motors, as well as plans for long-range, liquid-fueled rocket planes.

The effort, however, lead to his untimely death. While working on developing a liquid-fueled motor, Valier was killed in an explosion.

Max Valier is largely forgotten today, but he stands head and shoulders above nearly all others as one of the great pioneers of spaceflight. Even if he didn’t contribute much to the technical development of astronautics, he was instrumental in establishing public acceptance and support for rocketry and promulgating the idea of practical spaceflight for the masses, which remains a dream even to this day.

In the end, Valier’s educational and public relations work inspired an entire generation of future engineers and scientists.  The dream of spaceflight that many today still hold dear is the direct product of his dream and vision.

From the Archives

In the late 1920s, Fritz von Opel, the grandson of Adam Opel and the founder of the famous German car manufacturer Opel, had a dream.  While others in his family were focused on automobiles, Fritz had a penchant for rockets.  As experiments, he had mounted rockets on the back of two racing car designs.  This proved to be excellent publicity stunts and helped expand the family car company’s reputation and business.  Yet Fritz von Opel was unsatisfied — he would design a rocket plane.

=> Read about Opel’s Rocket Plane!

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• Designed by two college dropouts in their 20s.
• However, neither designer knew how to fly a helicopter!
• Body styling reminiscent of a Ford Thunderbird car.
  
• Supposedly easy to fly, stable, easy to maintain and just $10,000.
  
• It never got off the ground as a commercial venture.

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• Lost out in the bid to be the leading CAS aircraft.
• A brilliant design, even with its Hersey Bar wing.
  
• Amazing visibility, slow speed, and tough construction.
  
• Simple, easy to maintain, cheap to build, cheap to operate.

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The birth of the idea of traveling to other worlds through outer space can be given a specific date: January 7, 1610.  That evening, Galileo Galilei first observed the satellites of Jupiter through his telescope.  At once, he realized that the planets were worlds just like our own. If they were worlds, then one could travel there as surely as one could take a ship to the New World. Yet such a ship would not be a ship for the seas, but rather one for the skies.

Until Galileo’s discovery, the heavens were thought to be no great distance from the Earth.  The Sun and the Moon were thought to be the only material bodies with which we shared the universe. The nature of the Moon was an object of much debate: was it in fact a body like the Earth? Was it something more ethereal? Likewise, the stars, while some were brighter than others, were thought to be at more or less all the same distance from the earth, though just what that distance might be was a matter for discussion.

The planets were merely a special class of bright stars that wandered among the other “fixed” stars.  Indeed, the word “planet” itself simply meant nothing more than “wanderer.” Otherwise there was nothing particularly unusual about them except perhaps that the “wanderers” didn’t twinkle in the same way as the fixed stars. It was nearly unthinkable that the tiny lights that dotted the night sky might be places to which one might travel. Only the moon served as a destination, but even then, only in a handful of fantasies. Otherwise, the Moon was a kind of a flat disk, a Never-Never Land that went through each of its phases with regularity.

Galileo’s revelation about the planets changed all of that forever. Through his telescope, he could see that Moon was a world as imperfect as our own, with mountains, valleys, plains and hundreds of odd, circular ring mountains and craters. The planets were obviously worlds like the Moon and the Earth. If they were indeed worlds like our own, did not that imply other similarities? Would they not have landscapes and living inhabitants? Surely there would be animal life and perhaps civilizations? Would there be great cities and mighty kingdoms up there in the heavens? If there were, might there not also be great treasures? These questions were far from rhetorical. When human beings looked skyward they no longer saw abstract points of light. They saw the infinite possibilities of new worlds. Galileo lived in the time of exploration, when voyages to the New World were still dangerous and risky and when new lands were being discovered in the Pacific.

At the time of Galileo’s discovery of new worlds in the sky, there were new worlds being discovered right here on earth by Columbus and those who followed his voyage. Only a bit more than a century earlier the continents of North and South America had been discovered quite by accident, lying unsuspected and unknown on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. By the early 1600s, hundreds of ships and thousands of explorers, colonists, soldiers, priests and adventurers had made the journey to these amazingly fertile, rich and strange new lands. When they learned that an Italian scientist had found the sky to be full of new worlds, too, their interest was cast skyward.

The new worlds of the Americas, which could not even be seen and which existed for the vast majority of Europeans only in the form of traveler’s tales and evocative if imaginative charts, nevertheless could be visited by anyone possessing the funds or courage. Yet here were whole new world — Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and the Moon — that could be seen by anyone with a telescope.  They could even be mapped. Surely, by extrapolating from what they knew of the Earth, these whole new worlds would offer unimaginable continents and riches.  Yet there seemed no way to touch them! They were like a banana dangling just beyond the reach of a monkey.

It is little wonder that Galileo’s discoveries could not be suppressed, despite the most aggressive efforts of the Church in Rome. Their publication was quickly followed by a flood of space travel stories: Somnium, The Man in the Moone, Voyage to the Moon, A Voyage to the World of Cartesius, Iter Lunaire, John Daniel, Micromegas, A Voyage to the Moon, and countless others. There were poems, songs, stage plays and sermons, all inspired by the possibility of traveling to the new worlds in the sky.

Among the many who gazed up at the heavens with new understand was English Bishop John Wilkins, one of the era’s most famous inventors,  Anglican clergyman, natural philosopher, and author.  He had no personal doubts that these voyages would eventually be made. He wrote in his Discovery of a New World (1638), “You will say there can be no sailing thither [to the Moon]… We have not now any Drake, or Columbus, to undertake this voyage, or any Daedalus to invent a conveyance through the air. I answer, though we have not, yet why may not succeeding times raise up some spirits as eminent for new attempts, and strange inventions, as any that were before them?… I do seriously, and upon good grounds affirm it possible to make a flying-chariot….”

A great many writers did their best to imagine what such a flying chariot might be like, but they were handicapped by the limitations of the technologies available at the time. The writers of space travel stories before the end of the 1700s were merely groping in the dark: there simply was no method by which a human being could leave the surface of the earth. In all the history of mankind, quite nearly no one had ever left the Earth any farther than they could jump, though a few enterprising inventors had tried tying men to kites and a couple of intrepid adventurers had tried out various winged suits in which to hope to fly (though unsuccessfully).

The first image of what might get one farther into the skies was perhaps created by an Austrian scientist, Conrad Haas.  In his book, Kunstbuch [1529-1556], which preceded Galileo by more than half a century, he wrote entirely about the science of rocketry. His writing contains the first descriptions of the use of multi-stage rockets, bell-shaped nozzles, delta fins and liquid fuel. One of the illustrations in the book depicts a large rocket topped by a “flying house,” which Haas clearly meant to carry a passenger. There is no indication, however, that Haas intended his rocket for spaceflight — rather, he appeared to be describing devices that probably originally derived from Chinese gunpowder rockets.

The invention of the lighter-than-air manned balloon in 1783 was a major revolution, but it was still a century and half in the future.  The balloon created a revelation in mankind’s perception of the exploration of the universe because it was not accomplished by imaginary means but by the use of a man-made machine that was a device of science. This is the altered perception that was born of the Renaissance — this is the most important point to realize: that by means of a man-made instrumentality, employing well-understood physical principles, it was possible to leave the Earth. Therefore, it seemed clear to the newly enlightened mind that the problem of traveling to the other worlds that shared the universe with the Earth ought also be surmountable by means of science and mechanics. Even if the wiser heads were aware that it was unlikely that anyone would ever travel to the Moon in a balloon — hot air, hydrogen or otherwise — they were also cognizant that the idea of traveling there somehow was no longer a matter relegated to pure fantasy.

Yet, if traveling into space was simply a matter of applying the right technology, this lead to a simple and obvious question — what might that technology be? Balloons? Anti-gravity? Giant cannons? These and other ideas were all suggested. It was not until the end of the nineteenth century that anyone with an engineering or scientific background seriously proposed the use of rockets to propel a spacecraft.

We might ask about the science fiction writers. They’re seemingly always ahead of the game. Did anyone writing a science fiction story come up with the idea of using a rocket-powered spaceship before engineers and scientists did?  Technically, science fiction, as a literary genre, wasn’t popular until later, in the time of Jules Verne.  However, many point to the author Lucian, a Hellenic writer from Syria, who wrote A True Story in the 2nd century AD.  His book included the idea of travel to other worlds, of extraterrestrial life, and, in line with the times, of interplanetary warfare. His writings, however, were largely unknown, not just to the masses but even to the elites and only a few copies were kept in old libraries and monasteries.

The first more modern science fiction writer who described such things is probably Cyrano de Bergerac. In his satirical fantasy, Histoire Comique: Contenant les Etats et Empire de la Lune (1657, but written 10 years earlier), de Bergerac described the flight of a manned rocket. His hero had already tried several methods of flying to the Moon, all unsuccessful. One of them employed a kind of box with wings powered by giant springs. This contraption was launched from a cliff and immediately crashed, so he wrote anyway. While consoling himself in a local bar, some jokers fasten skyrockets to the box. On the next attempt, the rockets were lit and he was launched into the sky. “The rockets at length ceased through the exhaustion of material and, while I was thinking that I should leave my head on the summit of a mountain, I felt (without my having stirred) my elevation continue; and my machine, taking leave of me, fell towards the Earth.”

Cyrano became the first human second stage in astronautical history. By virtue of some beef marrow he had rubbed over his body earlier to relieve his bruises and having reached sufficient height, Cyrano found himself continuing on to the Moon.  While this novel means of travel might seem bizarre to modern readers, it was a popular superstition at that time that the Moon attracted the marrow of animals.

Although de Bergerac is often credited with the first suggestion for the use of rockets in space travel, he truly only gets half points for doing this since he only includes them in his list of possible means of locomotion.  H believed that rockets sounded just as silly as all the other methods he described. One must remember that de Bergerac was trying to come up with the most unlikely-sounding methods of launching himself into space — that rockets were one of his choices was only a serendipitous accident.

On the other hand, Jules Verne took rockets seriously.  He wrote of them in his classic 1865 novel, From the Earth to the Moon and its 1870 sequel, Around the Moon. Although he employed an enormous cannon to launch his projectile — a decision he has been much derided for by those with 20/20 hindsight — he actually chose a cannon for very good reasons.  While being perfectly aware that a cannon wouldn’t work for launching people, he supplied it with rockets for steering. What makes this a real plus for Verne is that he was the first person ever to suggest that rockets would work just as well in a vacuum as in air. Even the New York Times was ignorant of that fact, when it took Robert Goddard to task for writing about Moon rockets:

“That Professor Goddard with his ‘chair’ in Clark College and the countenancing of the Smithsonian Institution, does not know the relation of action and reaction, and of the need to have something better than a vacuum against which to react—to say that would be absurd. Of course he only seems to lack the knowledge ladled out daily in high schools.”

A number of science fiction historians have pointed out that Verne was beat by a nose with the publication of Achille Eyraud’s Voyage to Venus, which came out in the same year as Verne’s novel but a few months earlier. In his story, Eyraud correctly explains that the reaction effect that propels his spacecraft is the same as that produced by the recoil of a gun and that it flies in exactly the same way that a skyrocket does.  Even so, it is clear that Eyraud does not quite understand the principles involved. His rocket is propelled by ejecting a stream of pressurized water from a nozzle at the rear. This is all well and good, but when one of his characters mentions that this would require a prodigious amount of water, Eyraud goes badly astray. He has his inventor explain that the water is not lost “because the expulsion was intercepted and deviated at a certain distance by a small paddle wheel, which made the water fall into a basin from which it was forced again by the pump.” Since the ejected water is recovered in a container towed behind the spacecraft, this would negate any reactive effect and the spaceship would simply stand still.

It would appear, finally, that the honor of describing the first unambiguous rocket-propelled spaceship goes to American author, Elbert Perce. In his obscure 1857 novel, Gulliver Joi, he describes a journey to a hitherto-unknown planet, “Kailoo”. The spacecraft is a hollow cylinder made of a very light substance that is nevertheless as hard as iron. It is only just large enough to contain its single passenger. The rear of the cylinder is sharply pointed. The cylinder is placed in a frame to which are attached powerful steel springs. Released by a trigger, these would give the projectile its initial velocity. In the pointed end of the spacecraft is placed a strong, square steel box. This contains a newly invented powder. From one end of the box extends a small, very strong tube. When the box is heated by the “malleable flame,” a kind of perpetually burning globular mass resembling molten iron, the powder inside ignites. “As long as a steady heat can be obtained enough to keep it in fusion, so long a steady blast of exceedingly powerful flame will issue from the tube of the steel box, which tube… extends through the aperture at the pointed end of the cylinder.” The exhaust can be controlled by a stop-cock.

Elbert Perce’s spaceship is controlled by a kind of magnetic compass that automatically keeps it pointed toward the planet Kailoo. The passenger is also equipped with a powerful telescope. The “cabin” is just large enough to allow its passenger to lie down within it. It is cushioned with a lining of fur with the controls conveniently within reach.

At the time for takeoff, the inventor inserts the malleable flame and “instantly a stream of fire issued from it, striking the rock with great violence…. The old man then pulled the small trigger that confined the steel springs, and propelled by their force, and that of the flame, I shot up into the air, the long broad flame of fire streaming behind me like the blaze of a comet.”

Once the rocketeer found himself approaching Kailoo he “shut off the supply of flame that propelled” him and descended to the surface.

If all that isn’t a perfect description of a rocketship, I don’t know what is.  Our hat is off to Elbert Perce, the man who invented the rocketship.

One More Thing

If you should like to read the description of the rocketship in the original book by Elbert Perce, it is available for free reading online at Archive.org.  The direct link to Chapter II is here:

https://archive.org/stream/gulliverjoihisth00perc#page/26/mode/2up

If you read to the end, you will find that despite having invented the modern rocketship, the author Perce doesn’t ultimately trust it to make regular voyages.  Rather, he suggests that you will hear more of Kailoo in a newspaper that will be delivered by a large balloon traveling between the worlds, “twice a week, regularly,” he states with some flair.  So much for rocketry — but then again, we still don’t have a reusable rocket that can go even into orbit “twice a week, regularly”.  Perhaps Perce’s vision was accurate in more ways than one.

The post Who Invented the Rocketship? first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

• A record-setter showcasing advancing streamlining.
• A fuel tank atop the fuselage, blocks the pilot’s view.
  
• Nearly 200 mph, yet still a very slow landing speed.
  
• Its descendant was provided to the Japanese military.

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In 1935, a wealthy, enterprising stamp dealer, 32-year-old Frido W. Kessler, came up with what seemed like a brilliant idea. He would commission a mail-carrying rocket plane and fill it with a bag of mail bearing special stamps of his own design and creation. He could then sell these unique collectibles for a premium. The scheme had already worked in Europe and he saw no reason it couldn’t work in America.  However, things did not go quite as planned.

In pursuit of his dream, Frido Kessler formed the Rocket Airplane Corp., made himself president, and commissioned the German rocket expert Willy Ley — newly arrived in the US after fleeing Nazi Germany — to design the rocket engine. The plane itself was to be designed by Dr. Alexander Klemin of the Guggenheim Institute of Aeronautics. Nathan Carver of Reaction Research Laboratories in New York City was signed on to construct the rocket and its motor. In fact, Carver signed a contract with Kessler on December 21, 1935, stipulating that he was to “finish the rocket proving stand, and build a rocket motor capable of delivering at least 35 pounds pressure during the burning time of at least 30 seconds.” This was to be done by December 25!

Kessler was also to construct the rocket plane itself according to the blueprints supplied by Ley, including the motor and fuel tanks. The finished rocket was to be delivered, ready for flight, by January 15, 1935. At the same time, Kessler commissioned Carver to provide a second complete rocket plane by January 22. Each duralumin rocket plane would be 14 feet long with a wing span of 16 feet and weigh about 60 pounds when unfueled. A gas-powered catapult was also to be provided to give the rockets their initial boost. The total cost for the two rockets was to be $700. The cost for launching each one was expected to not exceed $10.

Meanwhile, Kessler took out full-page ads in stamp-collecting magazines. Proclaiming the “First American Rocket Plane Flight” (which was not true), he offered, among other items, individual stamps for $.50 and flown covers for $.75. Kessler had gone to considerable expense in having multi-color stamps engraved and printed by Langdon Engraving Co. The plates were then destroyed after printing a limited number.

John G. Schliech of Greenwood Lake, New York, an ardent stamp collector and “hometown booster”, campaigned to have the launch take place there. There was a large lake at the country club. Frozen solid in the winter, it was thought it would make an ideal location for the launch. The plan was to collect all the purchased stamps, letters and cards, 2,500 pieces in all (some reports say 6,000), place them in a bag and rocket them to the town of Hewitt, New Jersey, 2.5 miles away at the southern end of the lake, where they would all be canceled.

Kessler said that he expected his rocket to achieve a speed of 500 mph.

The Big Day

The first attempts at rocket-delivered mail were made on February 9 to an eager audience of 500 spectators who had “slogged through heavy snow” to witness the historic event. Also present was Charles Graddick, superintendent of the Air Mail Service, and G. Edward Pendray of the American Rocket Society.

Graddick declared that he expected to witness “an epoch-making flight”. Pendray promised twenty-minute passenger rocket flights to Chicago and two-hour hops across the Atlantic. In Hewitt, the fire department had been ready all afternoon, anticipating fiery missiles descending on the town.

The rocket was brought into position.  The 45-foot, wood and aluminum gas-powered catapult was set to a 35-degree angle. The rocket, named “Gloria” after Schliech’s five-year-old daughter, was put into place and the young girl tried to christen it with a cup of snow.  The snow had frozen in the cup, however, and a 12-year-old Boy Scout friend had to come to the rescue.

The first try was scheduled for 2:30, but was delayed because of the extreme cold. “The crowd plodded patiently around on the snow and watched the sun above the Ramapos”. At 3:30, the second glider was loaded onto the ramp. Finally, at 4:45, everything was ready. Crying “Everybody back!”, Ley applied a torch to the motor, the engine ignited — but the rocket didn’t leave the ramp. The cable release on the catapult had frozen.

Once the cable release was fixed, a final attempt was made. Rather than soaring across the lake, the rocket dropped to the ice only about 6 feet from the catapult. It was getting dark, so it was decided to postpone the next trial until the following weekend. Kessler blamed the cold, saying that it had caused the liquid oxygen to freeze in the feed line. This resulted in a decision to launch the rocket with its tanks only 1/3 full.

Some of the more cynical members of the audience pointed out that the rocket was sitting only 400 yards from the Greenwood-Hewitt border. Even without a rocket, they said, mail could be hurled over the state line.

Kessler’s enthusiasm was undampened. “I’m really dead serious about this, you know.” He admitted to the failure, but blamed it on the pressure of not disappointing the newsreel companies, his invited guests and the crowd of spectators. “Now you see, what happened was this. The motor had been ignited and the mechanic was stationed to release the catapult. But he failed to do so… Now the motor runs for only three minutes and it had already been going for three-quarters of a minute before the mechanic released the cable. Practically all the power had been used up and instead of rising it went slowly to the top of the catapult and glided down.”

A Second Attempt at Flight

More than 500 people showed again up at Morningside Country Club for a second attempt to launch the Gloria on February 23. CBS news had also sent a radio commentator and the news reel cameramen were all ready. Ley and his fellow engineers from the Reaction Research Laboratory advised against the attempt, saying it was still too cold. However, Kessler, fearing that the crowds wouldn’t return after another disappointment, ordered the launch to take place.

The rocket “Gloria” was loaded with liquid oxygen and its gasoline/methane/alcohol fuel by an asbestos-suited Willy Ley.  Meanwhile, Carver lay sprawled on the snowy ice, ready to release the catapult. Ley cautiously applied a torch to the business end of the rocket and a shrieking jet of flame shot from the motor. The rocket plane “climbed swiftly in the air, veered to the left, frightened the watching crowd by circling close to it, then straightened out and crashed to the ice after having traveled a distance of approximately 150 yards.” The rocket was badly damaged in landing. It had, however, managed to cross the line into New Jersey.

It was decided to dispense with the troublesome catapult for the second rocket.

The second launch, however, went little better than the first.  “It rose about 50 feet in the air and was proceeding nicely when the wings seemed to fold up.” It, too, was damaged when it crashed.

The indefatigable Kessler tried to make the best of it. “I have derived a three-fold satisfaction,” he said, “from the apparent failure. The motor works perfectly, and tests have shown it can lift twice the load. The catapult, applied here for the first time to rockets, has shown it can give aid in giving such machines their first ‘push’. The fact that the plane landed flat showed it was perfectly designed and constructed…” According to one newspaper report, “His enthusiasm was not shared by the spectators.”

There were to be no more flights for the Glorias, but the story wasn’t finished yet. Kessler discovered that the reason for the motor failure on February 9 wasn’t the freezing of the fuel lines. The lines themselves had been bent at right angles, preventing fuel and oxydizer from reaching the motor. Another line had been cut and “dirt and grit” had been placed in the fuel tank. “It is astonishing,” Kessler said, “that no serious explosion occurred.” He blamed a disgruntled mechanic, who had waited until the night before the launch to sabotage the rocket. “The mechanic was jealous…he wanted to get all the credit for building the plane and when newspapers began to favor others, he decided to prevent the flight.”

All images in this article provided by Ron Miller/io9.com

ONE MORE THING

Frido Kessler’s plan wasn’t the only attempt at delivering mail at the front end of a rocket. Years later, the US Government decided to give it a try, this time with harebrained idea of loading mail into the nose of a submarine-launched nuclear cruise missile. Imagine firing those off for fast international delivery — it might work, as the saying goes, but there are a couple of reasons not to do it. Just a couple. Really.

Check it out — Missile Mail

Sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction.

The post The 1935 Plan to Use Rocket Airplanes to Deliver US Mail first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

• A Nenadovich design, fairly unique in aeronautical engineering.
• Designed by one nation, finished and flown by another.
  
• A wartime experimental design that showed promise.
  
• A rare two-seat fighter with a rear gunner.

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• A rotary engine fighter from the Great War.
• 80 hp when more powerful engines were preferred.
  
• Looks like French wings on a German fuselage.
  
• A variant was the designer’s personal aircraft after the war.

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“Our job tomorrow will be to take off well before daylight for the first time in history and bomb the gun positions and defenses on the landing beaches themselves little more than half an hour before troops are set to land.  The six-ship takeoff will be used.  Briefing is at three a.m. and the 320th will take off just a few minutes before the 319th.” — 319th Medium Bomb Group Mission Log, August 14, 1944

Decimomannu Air Base in Sardinia was the temporary home of the longest serving group in the Mediterranean theatre, the 319th Medium Bomb Group of the 12th Air Force.  Flying Martin B-26 Marauders, the 319th had been bombing communications links, gun positions, and key bridges supplying the German Army in Italy and France.  The invasion of Southern France (Operation Dragoon — the so-called, “Second D-Day”) was set for August 15, 1944, and the 319th would be in the thick of it.

The upcoming mission would involve a “six-ship takeoff”, a practice the group had pioneered in April 1944, just four months earlier.  To do a six-ship takeoff by day was extraordinary — that the group pulled it off at night is almost beyond belief.  Scant practice was afforded, despite the challenges and on August 12, just three days before the invasion, the 319th’s SECRET mission logs recorded the preparations, “The group carried out four six-ship takeoffs and landing in the dark early this morning preparatory to employing them on night missions.”

The Six-Ship Takeoff

The six-ship takeoff was detailed a month later in the USAAF publication, IMPACT, a classified magazine for military distribution (at the time marked CONFIDENTIAL and long since declassified).  The report included photos of the 319th’s base at Decimomannu and diagrams showing how the group, using their then-secret method, could field an entire squadron of 24 bombers in the time it took other bomb groups to launch just eight aircraft.  The report highlighted that the 319th’s method shaved up to 25 minutes from the time it took to launch and assemble formations for each mission — critical minutes of extra fuel and bomb-carrying capacity that the practice afforded.

The magazine IMPACT described the procedures in some detail:

“All four flights of a 24-ship mission line up before the first starts off, in assembly as shown in the diagram directly below.  With manifold pressure pushed to about 25 inches, the pilots release locks and hold the brakes by foot.  At the flag, the pilots let go the brakes and start easing up their throttles.  From the start, wing men fly on element leaders to the line even.  First pilots concentrate on throttling to keep abreast, relying on the co-pilots to handle the other gadgets.  A fifth of the 6,000 foot runway is used in getting up to full throttle, and the deliberate easing of throttle makes necessary the use of about 600 feet of runway in excess of that needed for single-ship takeoff.”

By August 1944, the 319th had performed four months of six-ship takeoffs flawlessly — described in IMPACT as “more than 100 missions without mishap”.

Join-Up Patterns

Another key innovation were the methods of joining up into a combat formation after takeoff.  This entailed some thoughtful planning and practice.  Once formed up, the Bomb Group could proceed directly toward the target.

“DOGLEG JOINUP PATTERN is demonstrated by the diagram.  The first flight off (No. 2) flies for five minutes, the others, at 1-minute intervals, for 4, 3, 2.  The turns are 120, 107, 93, and 80 degrees, respectively,  The first flight, maintaining 175 mph, is at bomber R/V 5 minutes after the first turn, at 1,500 feet.  The Group CO estimates this pattern puts the formation on course only two minutes later than one taking off on course and closing by speed differential.”

The second pattern involved a “racetrack” circle over the base, after which the 319th could assume the most direct course toward the target.  IMPACT described that as follows:

“ELLIPTICAL JOINUP is shown by the pattern diagrammed above.  Takeoff, unlike that for the dogleg is in order of flights.  The takeoff interval is one minute, and each flight makes its first turn at 30 seconds less, from the end of the runway, than that of the preceding flight.  The flights turn 360 degrees, each in a tighter ellipse than its predecessor.  Bomber rendezvous is at 1,200 feet, and the on-course position accomplished over the field at 1,800 feet, just 12 1/2 minutes after takeoff.”

The runways at Decimomannu Air Base were specially-prepared for the six-ship takeoff.  Six parallel runways featured oil poured over the hard-packed dirt and sand of Sardinia.  This helped reduce dust from prop blast and ensure that the tires didn’t cut deep ruts when moving at high speed.

“STRIPED RUNWAY used for the six-abreast takeoffs and landings is shown below.  Width of runway is 1,000 feet.  It is divided into the six lanes by the simple expedient of oiling the dirt and gravel surface in strips as shown here.  the six planes of the first-off flight line up on yellow-painted tire scraps centered in each of the six lands, the others lining on the plane ahead, all being in position before the first starts away.  Danger of collision is in takeoffs and landings has been found to be practically nil.”

What Goes Up Must Come Down

After pioneering the six-ship takeoff, it seemed natural for the 319th to employ a six-ship line abreast landing as well.  Like the takeoff, landing the entire bomb group six-abreast saved a lot of time, allowing the Bomb Group to conserve precious fuel and reduce the time it took to bring everyone in after a mission.

“THE FORMATION LANDING is completed in 8 1/2 minutes from the time the returning mission reaches the field, cutting 9 minutes from the time the crews of the last planes in formation spent circling the field for ship-ship landings.  The formation is over the field at 2,000 feet.  The No 3 (inside) flight breaks off in a half needlewidth turn.  The succeeding flights, in the order 10402, break at 30-second intervals, each describing a 360-degree ellipse 30 seconds longer than the one ahead.  Flights turn off the downwind leg for the approach 45 seconds past the end of the runway, the second element uncovering to the inside of the turn.  Landing interval is one minute.”

Invasion Day — Southern France

“Virtually the entire group got up at two-thirty today.  Those not scheduled to fly or who didn’t have to get up for other duties got up anyway out of excitement to watch the show and be ready to lend a hand where possible.  By the time the 320th started taking off, before five a.m., most of the 319th spectators and crews, including a number of ground men who volunteered and got permission to go along in order to see the invasion, were on hand on the field looking on.  Two searchlights at the starting of the runway furnished a dramatic glare in which the airplanes, lighted at wing tips and tail, lined up.”

The stage was set for the launch of both bomb groups.  After four months of “mishap free” takeoffs, attempting the six-ship take off at night proved more challenging in practice, however, with a full load of bombs, ammunition, and fuel.

“One 320th ship crashed into a hill a mile or two beyond the runway and burned.  It was a discouraging sight for the 319th crews, none of whom had ever taken off in the dark before in B-26’s.  Then a second ship crashed closer to the field and, a few minutes later, a third failed to get off.  The latter two ships also caught fire, exploded and burned.  The tension was terrific.  Men wondered aloud if the crew members had been able to get out of the unlucky ships before the explosions and made arrangements among themselves as to just what crew members in their own ships were to use what escape hatches in the event of a crash.  But, using the six-ship takeoff, every 319th airplane got off safely.  The group had the unequaled number of 74 airplanes over the target, the most put up by any group in the wing.  In the 437th, which put into the air every one of its 20 ships, three crew chiefs got sick from nervousness after their airplanes had got safely into the air.  One crew chief, whose 90-mission airplane went on two missions during the day, was seen to light his cigarette and then throw away his lighter away like a match.”

For the 319th, the mission went perfectly, as described in the 319th mission logs:

“Over the target clouds were pretty thick, but, with an area target, a strip of beach seven-eighths of a mile long, the group dropped its bombs, identifying its position through breaks in the clouds, and got an amazingly good coverage.  The only flak opposition was a barrage put up over a town a mile away from the formation.  There were no enemy fighters encountered.  Ont the other hand, Beaufighters, P-47’s Spitfires, Warhawks and carrier-borne Hellcats wheeled around over the beaches like seagulls looking in vain for opposition.  As the 319th formation broke away from the coast after loosing its bombs a formation of silver B-24’s crossed over it at right angles heading out to sea about two thousand feet higher.  Warships below could be seen firing at the shore, carriers were poking around with planes taking off and landing on them, and clusters of ships were maneuvering here and there off shore.  As the last 319th wave pulled away from the beaches the ships below began moving in toward shore for their eight o’clock landing.”

The day’s entry ended on a positive note, stating first — “Colonel Holzapple expressed himself as very pleased with the job.”  And then, a fitting end of the day, the 319th’s log states, “Not a single airplane was lost by the 319th during the day.”  Of course, the 320th, flying from the same base, had suffered terrible losses just in the takeoff.

An additional reminder of the unpredictable nature of war came just two days later, highlighted with this entry in the 319th’s log for August 17, 1944.  Luck was with them that day too, however, and there were no casualties:

“An entirely-messed-up 24-ship mission got no bombs closer to coastal guns near Toulon than half a mile away.  One flight had every ship damaged by flak, but the other flights had only a couple of ships apiece with a couple of holes in them.  Part of the mess was due to a bad turn on the part of the first flight on the approach to the target and the lead bombardier forgetting to turn on his intervalometer.  Critique was pretty gloomy as a result.”

Additional Notes

Though the six-ship takeoff and landing served the 319th and 320th Medium Bomb Groups well throughout the late period of the war, the practice was not adopted other groups.  In many cases, single plane-width runways were all that were available — as was the standard for all of the Stations in England, for instance.  In other cases, the knowledge of the methods used was ignored or unavailable to those who might have benefited from the practice.  After the end of World War II, the USAAF (and subsequently USAF) did not continue to use the 319th’s six-ship takeoff method, despite its obvious benefits.

Decimomannu Air Base, where the 319th Medium Bomb Group was based at the time, remains a military airfield to this day.  Gone are the six parallel strips of oil-soaked dirt.  Today, the field has but two parallel runways.  Of course, these days, it is rare to see raids at the scale that were regularly practiced during World War II.  Hopefully, the world will never see another “thousand bomber raid”, and even the 319th’s raids, with 20 to 76 aircraft in formation at once, are rare.  There seems little need to launch six planes at a time and, even if they were launched, modern warplanes usually form up for the attack only after a round of aerial refueling.  The bottleneck, it seems, has more to do with the limitations of tankers than multiple runways.

The post The Six-Ship Takeoff first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

• Two cylinders and 150 hp.
• No combustion required in the cylinders!
  
• Can rotate the prop either direction — reversing thrust!
• Based on, well, you might know the design….
  
• Dates from the early 1930s.

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• A 1950s, fully aerobatic job that still amazes.
• Belgian, but most popular in the UK.
  
• Not a home built, but a full production aircraft.
  
• All that capability and it boasts an engine of just 45 hp.

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On D-Day, June 6, 1944, after passing a tense and confusing early morning hours in the cockpit of his yellow-nosed Messerschmitt Bf 109G, Leutnant Thomas Beike of Jagdabschnittführer 5 received his mission orders.  With two other Bf 109Gs, he was to fly a fast reconnaissance flight over Normandy Beach to assess and report what was happening.  With the engine started, he pushed the throttle forward and rolled out of the hidden, tree-lined revetment north of the French town of Évreux, then he took off into a sky filled with Allied aircraft.

Even as his wheels came up, the first P-51D Mustangs were already coming down to attack.  He had his orders, however, and rather than engage them in a dogfight, he turned away to escape.  One of the other two Messerschmitts was hit, however, but at full power, he pulled away, all alone.  The D-Day beaches were straight ahead.  This is his story.

WATCH THE VIDEO!

Most know of the famous flight of Josef Priller and his wingman, a single pair of Luftwaffe Fw 190A-8 fighters that flew down the D-Day beaches and returned to report what they had seen.  For many years, that flight was supposedly the only sign of the Luftwaffe in the air during all of D-Day.  Decades of research, however, have proved that wrong — and new evidence has emerged that multiple others flew as well.  Nonetheless, the Luftwaffe was so outnumbered that it could do little to stop the invasion.

A Newly Discovered Daring Flight

New information about another daring flight on D-Day comes from a book of interviews that was undertaken with surviving German soldiers, all of whom were veterans of D-Day.  These men were located in 1954 and interviewed by Dieter Eckhertz, a former German war correspondent who during WWII wrote stories for the German military propaganda magazines, “Signal” and “Die Wehrmacht”.  Just a few months prior to D-Day, Dieter Eckhertz had toured the Atlantic Wall and written reports for those magazines.  Ten years later, on his own personal initiative, he searched out survivors of some of the German units he had visited during the war to conduct his interviews.

His notes and the transcripts of the interviews were then put into storage and left untouched for over 70 years.  Perhaps Herr Eckhertz knew that someday his efforts would serve to document the other side of the story of D-Day.  Perhaps he simply did his interviews and research to satisfy his own interest.  Nonetheless, his interviews uncovered stories that would have otherwise never been told.  It is true, in a sense, that history is written by the victors — few Germans wanted to talk about their experiences after the war ended.  As it happened, Dieter Eckhertz’s grandson, Holger Eckhertz, discovered the box of interview notes and transcripts.  In 2014, he published the first of them in a book called D-Day Through German Eyes.  Subsequently, in 2015, given the positive reception of the first book, he published a second book of interviews.

Among the interviews in the second book is an incredible story of Leutnant Thomas Beike of Jagdabschnittführer 5, who was based at a hidden airfield “somewhere north of Évreux”.  He revealed that he had flown over the beaches of Normandy on D-Day.  The Luftwaffe ace Josef Priller, it seems, wasn’t the only Luftwaffe fighter pilot to race down the beaches at low level after all.

Experiences Leading Up to D-Day

Thomas Beike’s flight originated from one of the hidden satellite airfields at Évreux, a small French town in Normandy, south of Rouen.  Évreux is only 90 km east-southeast of the invasion beaches.  During WWII, the Luftwaffe had used the field and the surrounding area as a series of airbases, as well as a decoy airfield designed to draw off Allied bombing raids.  On D-Day, the area was the base of both Jagdabschnittführer 5, Schnellkampfgeschwader 10, KG-54 (and possibly several other Luftwaffe units).  This was in the area that the Germans called the Évreux-Lisieux Sector.

Prior to D-Day, Jagdabschnittführer 5 had been based on the flat fields north of the town, on the grounds of a chateau that the Luftwaffe had taken over for use to house the pilots and ground crews.  The Luftwaffe provided well for its units in France, in stark contrast to the challenging conditions on the Eastern Front, where Leutnant Thomas Beike had previously been posted.  As he noted in his interview, “I went from bedding down in a frozen hut, as I did in my posting on the Eastern Front, to sleeping in a proper bed with a staff servant to attend to meals and the polishing of boots and other necessities.”

He went on to note that the chateau “had a wine cellar which was very well stocked, and the quality of food available locally was remarkable.”  As well, he spoke freely about the pilots “were popular fellows with the French ladies”.  Life at the airfield was excellent indeed and many of the French supported the Germans willingly with food and other support that supplanted the rations that the Luftwaffe offered the squadrons on the front.

In the months prior to D-Day, as the number of bombing raids increased, a decoy airfield was built nearby in hopes of distracting the Allied air attacks from the Luftwaffe’s forward-positioned aircraft.  The months of living well in the chateau too came to an end as the building was too easy a target.  Soon, they were moved and billeted off the field in a farm house several kilometers away.  The planes, once parked around the airfield, were moved into the forest and hidden in reinforced revetments, surrounded by thick blast walls.  On many mornings, in the early hours, the squadron’s planes would launch in hopes of intercepting returning RAF night bombers as they crossed the coastline heading home to England.  They shot many down in this way.

A Birthday Celebration

On the night of June 5, six of the pilots and two senior base officers gathered for a small birthday party of one of their number.  A number of French ladies joined them, along with the wife of one of the senior officers, who was visiting — an ill-timed trip to see her husband if ever there was one.  Bottles of wine were opened and the small celebration was well underway when the sounds of the vast force of C-47s passing overhead interrupted what otherwise might have been a late night.  The group went outside and listened as the vast armada was passing, the droning of the engines sounding markedly different from German engines which, in multiengine aircraft were not usually adjusted to synchronize their propellers.  Thus, while the German planes made a rising and falling sound as the propellers rotated at slightly different rates, Allied planes sounded a consistent, synchronized tone.

Soon the ladies departed and were driven home by a squadron car.  The pilots made efforts to sleep, knowing by the sound of the vast armada that the big day had come.  As for Leutnant Thomas Beike, he slept uneasily, continuously awakened by the sounds of Flak guns, the droning of the aircraft engines and the sounds of explosions through the night as the first airborne troops engaged to the west of the airfield behind the beaches.  In the first hour of dawn, his orderly retrieved him and drove him to the airfield area where he joined with the others around the fighter planes parked in the woods.

He told his interviewer that when nearing the satellite airfield, probably Évreux/VI near Le Bos Hion and Reuilly, “We saw a peculiar sight, so baffling that we stopped and stared.  This was an Allied glider which had crashed into one of the meadows, and it was just sitting there on its belly, apparently abandoned.  In retrospect, this must have been a single glider which had drifted inland from the attacks on the coast, but the sight of it alarmed us.”  The glider troops, however, were long gone, having moved out to find and engage the German Army elsewhere.  Most likely, they never knew that they had landed nearly adjacent to a German airfield, where they could have done extensive damage.

The First Confusing Morning Hours

Soon after arriving, the Luftwaffe pilots were briefed about the airborne invasion at Carentan, well west of the airfield.  They ate a quick breakfast and then, from their hidden revetments, they watched in the distance as an American Fighter Group of P-38 Lightnings rigorously attacked the decoy airfield that they had set up nearby, which included fake runways, fake buildings and hangars, and other airfield facilities meant to deceive attacks from the air.  This was called Évreux-Huest and was located approximately at 49º 02′ 29″ N – 01º 12′ 43″ E, just north of the small village at Huest.

At approximately 6:30 am, the pilots got into their cockpits and waited for orders.  Several times, information was delivered by runners but no orders to launch came.  After three hours, at approximately 9:00 am, orders were delivered to take off and attack any air targets that they could with priority given to attacking troop transport planes and bombers.  Before engines could be started, the orders were rescinded.  Overhead, the pilots could see hundreds of Allied aircraft passing in waves, crisscrossing the sky north and south.

Later in mid-morning, probably sometime around 10:30 am or 11:00 am based on the context of the pilot’s interview, the squadron commander ordered three fighters to take off on an armed reconnaissance patrol.  Their mission was to get an aerial view of the unfolding situation along the beaches of Normandy to the west-northwest.  At that point, given the damage done to German communications lines, the base and many other German units were in confusion as to what was happening.  The commander gave Leutnant Beike his personal Leica aviation camera, asking him to photograph what he saw.  Engines were started and the three planes quickly taxied out to take off.

Take Off and First Engagement

The three Messerschmitts moved quickly to take off individually in rapid succession.  Each of the pilots immediately retracted their landing gear and pushed their throttles hard forward to gain as much airspeed as possible.  Leutnant Beike was the second plane off the ground.  Once aloft, the three planes quickly joined up into what he called “a staggered formation of three, separated by altitude”.  They took a westerly heading toward Caen.

As the three Luftwaffe fighters leveled off at low altitude, a pair of P-51D Mustangs swooped down from the 4 o’clock position (described as coming from the direction of “120 degree point”, which would essentially mean coming from the northeast as the planes flew westward).  Achieving complete surprise, the Mustangs opened fire as they flashed through the German formation.  Finishing their first high speed firing pass, they pitched up into a climbing turn to come back around for a second attack.  One of the three Messerschmitts was hit.  It was the one flown by the pilot who had just celebrated his 25th birthday the night before.  Leutnant Beike watched as it caught fire.

Leutnant Beike stated, “He began to make a lot of grey smoke as he turned away.  As he banked below me, I remember that an orange glow began to spread from his engine.  I remember that I groaned, knowing what this meant, and in a few moments his cowling few off in pieces and flames shot back over his cockpit.  I could not look properly, because the air was full of these damned Mustangs, but I remember seeing him with his arms over his face, like this… and then he was simply lost in all the flames.”  The pilot made a brave effort to return for a landing but was killed when his Messerschmitt exploded on final approach.

There was no time to tarry and, knowing that the P-51D Mustangs would soon be back for another attack, Leutnant Beike pushed the nose down and headed west-northwest straight for the coast.  His throttle was rammed all the way forward.  In the dive, his Bf 109G accelerated to over 600 km/hr, which was over its maximum speed.  He was able to escape as  two P-51Ds pursued him.  At this point, he lost sight of the third Messerschmitt.  He never saw it again.  Apparently, it too was lost that day.  He confirmed this when he noted at the end of his interview that he was the only survivor of the three who took off.

At the Beaches of Normandy

About 7 to 10 minutes into a flight (of about 110 km, roughly 70 miles), he reached the coast, probably near Ouistreham.  “The coast itself just leapt up at me at that speed,” Leutnant Beike said, “and from that height I could then see a massive line of ships out at sea, about three kilometres from the shore.  This just happened like that, in the blink of an eye… my canopy glass was just full of these ships.  I was astonished at this sight.  I wondered if I was hallucinating, or if this was a delirium of some kind.  I had never seen such an assembly of ships, and I’m sure nobody will ever see such a thing again, perhaps not in human history.  The sea was absolutely solid with metal, that is no exaggeration.”

He turned quickly to proceed west over the coast, on the land side over the German Army defenses that made up the so-called “Atlantic Wall”.  To look down and to the right at the beaches and fleet offshore, he banked the wings of his Messerschmitt as he flew.  Based on the description, he would have passed over the beaches that the Allies had code-named Sword (British Sector), Juno (Canadian Sector) and Gold (British Sector).  At the time of the interviewer, Dieter Eckhertz, thought these were just Gold and Juno beaches, though a careful assessment of the maps points to his flight having been almost certainly over all three beach sectors that morning.

Leutnant Beike reported, “I saw that the beaches were crammed with vehicles, moving in on transport barges, and even tanks were being unloaded like that….  Throughout the beaches, there were fires burning, vehicles and boats on fire, and explosions from artillery.  I saw flamethrowers being used inland, very powerful ones, and the flames lit up a wide area down there.  The enemy were driving a bridgehead inland, that was clear to see, and they had enormous resources building up on the sand waiting to move off.  I could see flashes of bombs and shells all over the inland area.  I remember that some of the fields were flooded, and the exploding shells sent out concentric shock waves through the water that was very noticeable.”

All around him, the sky was full of Allied aircraft.  He described it as a “low umbrella of fighters over the beach, and they came straight for me.”  With so many American planes on the hunt, Leutnant Beike was in trouble.  He was vastly outnumbered.  Within a couple of minutes, he saw the first three USAAF Mustang fighters rapidly closing in.  Realizing that there was no way to proceed westward along the beach anymore — he had flown over perhaps 30 km of beach and was probably near Arromanches — he turned to the southwest and headed inland, hoping to evade.  At the speeds he was flying, his flight over Sword, Juno, and Gold Beaches was completed in just over three minutes.  With the P-51Ds closing in, there was no chance to continue westward over the American beaches of Omaha and Utah.  Those were just to the west.

“There were three [Mustangs] coming after me.  I went down to minimum height and maximum speed, which was safe because the land is so flat there, and the German Flak would be less likely to misidentify me, I hoped.  I thought that if I could move away from the beach head, the Mustangs would turn back to protect their sector.  So I used a huge amount of fuel accelerating to the South West.”  Maximum speed at sea level in a Messerschmitt Bf 109G with full boost and blower pressure is approximately 515 km/hr (which is 320 mph based on RAF flight tests).  This meant that he was flying over 9 km per minute, about one kilometer ever 6.5 seconds.

At full power, the Messerschmitt was a hard target to catch in an extended tail chase.  Leutnant Thomas Beike continued, “I went west as far as Saint Lô, and I couldn’t see the Americans behind me, so I turned East and followed the forest back towards Évreux.”  Having evaded his attackers, Leutnant Beike continued to the base, intending on landing and relaying a report of what he had seen.  As he raced at low altitude over the Normandy countryside east of Saint Lô and toward Caen, he could see masses of German Wehrmacht troops and vehicles along the roads and spread out into the fields and wood lines.

After Caen, he passed Lisieux and Bernay enroute to Évreux.  Arriving to the satellite airfield at Évreux, he could see the burning wreckage of his colleague’s Messerschmitt at one end of the runway.  The satellite field was already under attack.  Amidst a strafing attack by USAAF fighter planes, he landed and rolled to a stop.  Without delay, he jumped from the cockpit and ran for cover in one of the slit trenches alongside the field.  He described the situation as follows:  “The smoke from this burning plane was a beacon to the American planes, who came back just like a pack of wolves.  I landed as they were strafing again, and I had to jump straight into a slit trench on top of the ground crew.”

In between bombing runs, he jumped up from the slit trench and ran to the main shelter hidden in the trees.  Once there, he submitted his reconnaissance report, only then realizing that despite having had the commander’s Leica camera at his side in the cockpit, he had completely forgotten to take even a single photo.  Given the situation, his oversight is certainly understandable, but we can only wish today that he had snapped even just one photo — it would have been historic.

With the continuous attacks, his satellite field at Évreux was taken out of action for several hours.  Without orders and in the confusion of events — as well as considering the overwhelming air superiority that the Allies enjoyed overhead — Leutnant Thomas Beike did not get into the air again for the rest of the day.  Only after moving to another of the satellite airfield southeast of Évreux, was he able to fly in the days that followed.  He was subsequently injured in combat and sent to a hospital in Normandy to recover.  This was subsequently overrun by US Army forces and he was captured without a shot being fired.  As a result, against all odds, he survived the war.  He spent the next year as a POW.

Final Notes

Leutnant Thomas Beike’s flight over the beaches was extraordinary.  To make it, he had to use every bit of speed and skill he had, flying low and at the highest speed.  Three German fighters took off, but only one returned.  Throughout his flight, he was repeatedly chased by USAAF fighters.  Always outnumbered, it is nothing short of a miracle that he survived at all.  Even his landing was fraught with danger as he landed in the midst of an attack on his airfield.  He never fired a shot, but returned with the mission completed as ordered.  His report was sent up the chain of command, clarifying the situation on the beaches that morning.

Of course, by the time he flew, perhaps at around 10:30 am or 11:00 am, though no precise time is stated, the beaches he flew over were already in Allied hands.  The German Army was hopelessly outnumbered and, while they could slow the Allied advance, once the beach heads were secure, the vast numbers of troops and vast amounts of materiel and supplies that landed overwhelmed any hope the Germans had of defending France.  By late August, the Luftwaffe airfield at Évreux was in Allied hands and Paris was liberated.  The Allied advance was unstoppable.

OTHER DATA AND RESEARCH

Allied Dominance in the Air

By June 6, 1944, 73 years ago in aviation history, the Allies had established nearly complete air superiority over northern France, including over the beaches at Normandy.  During the early morning hours of D-Day, wave after wave of C-47s towed gliders and delivered paratroopers behind the beaches.  Their mission was to interdict logistics, cut communications lines, sow confusion, and take out key defenses, including many of inland coastal fortresses.  These were the heart of the Atlantic Wall and housed naval guns that were sighted on the beaches.  Few Luftwaffe night fighters could challenge the vast aerial armada.  Only the Luftwaffe’s Flak gunners were active.

At dawn, heavy bombers, such as B-17 Flying Fortresses and B-24 Liberators, dropped tons of bombs on German defenses behind the beaches.  A low haze and cloud cover obscured the beaches in the early morning hours, however.  As a result, most of these were inaccurate.  Even the low flying B-17s were not challenged except by Flak.  The USAAF’s and RAF’s medium bombers hit key road junctions, rail stations, depots, radar sites, and airfields.  With the dawn, “Jabos”, the German name for Allied ground attack fighters like the P-47 Thunderbolt moved in.  They flew low altitude ground attack missions against targets of opportunity.  Meanwhile, multiple Fighter Groups of P-51s, Spitfires, Hurricanes, and other planes patrolled the skies for any sign of the Luftwaffe’s fighters and bombers.

At the small airfield near Évreux, P-38 Lightnings made an attack to ensure that the Luftwaffe’s assets that were based there were kept on the ground.  The base supported both German fighters and bombers.  As Leutnant Beike related, the P-38s hit the Luftwaffe’s newly constructed satellite airfields surrounding the old French-built base.  First, they shot up a decoy field that the Germans had constructed.  After the attack, Évreux, one of the new hidden bases that had been constructed to the east of the D-Day beaches, was still operational.  Most of the rest of the Luftwaffe’s Normandy airfields, however, were taken out of action for the whole day.

Richard “Dick” Hallion, a well-regarded aviation historian, states that the RAF’s tactical air forces had 2,434 fighter and fighter-bomber aircraft to use on D-Day.  As well, they fielded approximately 700 light and medium bombers.  The USAAF was heavily engaged in an all-out effort and had more planes in the attack.  The numbers of those are not readily available.  Likewise, another historian (C.P. Stacey) reports that RAF Bomber Command flew 1,136 sorties with its heavy bombers against the German-held areas behind the beaches the night both before and during that day.  Against this massive force, the Luftwaffe had insufficient strength in France to adequately defend.  What few were there were mainly grounded due to damage to their airfields or simply as a result of the confusion that comes with the “fog of war”.

“The Luftwaffe Did Nothing”

There is an oft repeated claim that “the Luftwaffe did nothing” on D-Day.  Most believe only that there was just one Luftwaffe flight that flew over the beaches that day, a pair of Focke-Wulf Fw 190A-8s lead by the German ace Josef Priller with his wingman, Sgt. Wodarczyk.  This is wrong, however.

Months of continuous pounding by the Allies on their airfields, logistics, and fuel supplies had curtailed much of the Luftwaffe’s pre-1944 power.  By D-Day, many aircraft were unable to fly.  The air superiority that the Allies had established over Northern France by early Summer 1944 had taken its toll, downing many of the veteran pilots before the invasion.  Younger pilots with far less training filled the ranks.  Drug use, including heroin, cocaine, and especially amphetamines, was common.  Alcoholism was increasingly a problem for the survivors, who were literally being flown to death against overwhelming odds.  What Luftwaffe forces remained were hidden along the edges of forests and by roads, from which they could only hope to launch quick strikes and then return before being intercepted and shot down.

Thus, it wasn’t so much that “the Luftwaffe did nothing” — it was that they were worn down, grounded for lack of spare parts, and attacked relentlessly to ensure that they could not threaten the invasion.  The pilots, exhausted and demoralized from months of tension and continuous engagement, did what they could.  The few who took off showed extraordinary bravery.

Other Known Aerial Engagements

The first engagement of the day was apparently a single night fighter that flew well west of their usual patrol area around Holland and Belgium and chased what was probably an RAF Avro Lancaster on its way back to its base after dropping bombs on a target deeper inland.  Tracer fire being exchanged between the night fighter (of unidentified type) and the Lancaster was visible in the night skies.

Later, before dawn broke, a flight of four Fw 190s from 3/SKG 10 (3rd Squadron of Schnellkampfgeschwader 10), lead by Hauptmann Helmut Eberspächer, took off.  These were daylight fighters that Hauptmann Eberspächer lead into the air in the pre-dawn hours.  Over the course of a two hour flight, in the pre-dawn light and precisely at 5:01 am, the four Fw 190s intercepted four RAF Avro Lancasters heavy bombers as they were making their way back toward England.  Within the next three minutes, all four Lancasters were downed, the first falling at Isigny-sur-Mer and the others near Carentan.  None of the German planes were lost in the attack.  One of those was the RAF Avro Lancaster ND739 flying with No. 97 Squadron RAF (Pathfinders) from RAF Coningsby.  The plane was piloted by the squadron’s commanding officer, Wing Commander Jimmie Carter.

Just a half hour later, as the invasion began, a Luftwaffe bomber wing, Kampfgeschwader 54 (KG 54), launched the first of a series of attacks with Junkers Ju 88s on the easternmost beachhead where the British Army was landing at Sword Beach.  Repeated bombing raids were made throughout the morning, despite overwhelming Allied air superiority and the threat of interception.  First, the planes were loaded and fueled in hidden, tree-lined revetments.  Then they took off for a quick dash to the beaches to drop their bombs and race back for a landing.  Once back on the ground, they were again hidden in the trees, rearmed and refueled before taking off again on another desperate raid.

These missions employed so-called Butterfly Bombs, which in Luftwaffe parlance were called Sprengbombe Dickwandig 2 kg (SD2).  These bombs were the first “cluster bombs” and, once dropped, they dispersed up to 108 submunitions widely as an anti-personnel weapon.  The other attacks mounted by KG 54 on Sword Beach were as follows:  a) III./KG 54 attacked Lion-sur-Mer by air; b) I./KG 54 attacked Allied shipping while it was anchored off the mouth of the River Orne.  This latter attack, however, was costly as five of the Luftwaffe bombers were shot down by No. 145 Wing RAF.

As well, there were attacks against the British forces at Gold at sunset on June 6, well after the beach head was established.  Several flights of Luftwaffe bombers caused damage and casualties at Le Hamel.  Others bombed and damaged a road near Ver-sur-Mer, hoping to slow the British advance inland.

Also that evening, II/KG 40 made a daring, massed attack, flying 26 Heinkel He 177 heavy bombers in a large formation to attack Allied shipping off Gold Beach.  These heavy bombers were equipped with one of the Nazi “super weapons”, the Henschel Hs 293 anti-ship guided missiles.  However, Allied air and AAA was effective and the II/KG 40 lost 13 of its heavy bombers in that attack, fully half the force.  It is unclear how much damage was done in these attacks but at least some of the missiles likely hit Allied ships.

Finally, records of Luftwaffe bases in the vicinity were collected and summarized by history Henry L. deZeng IV.  Those indicate that the main field at Évreux was east of the city and called Évreux/Ost (Position 49º 01′ 30″ N – 01º 13′ 20″ E).  It was largely used as a Luftwaffe bomber base from 1940 until 1944.  The airfields HQ was located in two châteaux, both at Le Breuil nearby.  At the time of D-Day, the field had a number of active satellite fields with the planes concealed in the treeline and forests around the fields.

These were:

• Évreux/I, located just west of the French village Miserey at approximately 49º 01′ 14″ N – 01º 15′ 18″ E with grass runways measuring 1350 yards long and 200 yards wide.
• Évreux/II, located just south east of the French village Huest at approximately 49º 01′ 57″ N – 01º 12′ 59″ E with grass runways measuring 1650 yards long and 200 yards wide.
• Évreux/VI, located 5.5 km north-northeast of the original French-built airfield at Évreux, south of the French villages Le Bos Hion and Reuilly, at approximately 49º 01′ 57″ N – 01º 12′ 59″ E with grass runways measuring 1400 yards long and 250 yards wide.
• Three other satellite airfields, III, IV, and V, were still under construction at the time of D-Day.

The post A Daring Flight on D-Day first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

“At the aero show held at New York early this year there was exhibited a Curtiss triplane, which aroused the greatest interest owing to the decidedly novel lines on which it was constructed. The Curtiss Autoplane as it was called was really a motor car with wings.”  So began the description in the Royal Aero Club’s magazine, Flight.   This was the world’s first “roadable plane”, as they are known nowadays — the aeronautical dream of combining a car with an airplane.   It happened 100 years ago in 1917.

Even if the idea of a flying car is a century old, no manufacturer has yet made it practical.  The attraction is obvious — having flown hundreds of miles, the aviator finds herself in a distant town.  Airports, however, are almost always well outside of the city limits.  How to get downtown for the proverbial “$100 hamburger”?  Aircraft designers have long dreamed of landing, taxiing in, and then dropping off the wings, to transform the fuselage into an automobile.  With that, you drive downtown for a bit of shopping, lunch, or perhaps a business meeting.

What sounds good as an idea, however, doesn’t work out in practice.  Cars are not held to the same regulatory standards as airplanes and making the two compatible is deeply challenging.  Airplanes must be exceedingly lightweight, while cars must be made stronger to keep the passengers safe from possible accidents on the road.  Cars are designed to travel on four wheels for tens of thousands of miles, while airplane wheels and landing gear only require high speed touchdowns; the tires themselves are replaced after a few hundred landings because they wear out fast.  The drive system to power a propeller does not easily convert into a system to turn the tires and accelerate the car along without a lot of gearing and added weight.  The aerodynamics of the two are vastly different — even the speeds that they are expected to travel require different angles, fairings, and contours.

One hundred years ago, the Royal Aero Club’s magazine, Flight, implicitly recognized these issues.  The regulatory free zone that prevailed in 1917 was less a challenge, however, and many saw the merit in the idea.  The writers related the public suspicion with which the design was viewed, saying, “…although there were those who, at the time of the show, were inclined to smile and regard the machine as something of a joke on the part of the Curtiss firm, or at most a machine built solely for the purpose of creating a sensation at shows and in processions, a brief consideration will suffice to show that the machine, in spite of unconventional design, is not the freak aerodynamically some critics suggest.”

At least Flight respected the effort and went to great lengths to detail the key design features:  “The engine, a 1oo h.p. Curtiss, is mounted in front under a bonnet, motor car fashion, and is provided with the ordinary starting handle projecting through the radiator in the nose.  A four wheeled under carriage is fitted, the front wheels of which are connected up to the controls in such a manner as to allow of steering the machine on the ground at low speeds.  Inside the limousine body are three seats, the pilot’s in front, and two passenger seats side by side further back.  The upper plane is attached to a cabane resting on the roof of the body, while the two lower planes, the bottom one of which is of shorter span than the other two, are attached to the body.  The propeller is mounted approximately on a level with the centre wing, and is driven through a long shaft from the engine.  In addition to the rear elevator which, with the other tail units, is mounted on two booms, there is a small front elevator projecting out from the engine bonnet, giving the impression of mud guards.”

Indeed, while the design sounded promising as written, the key issue proved to be aerodynamics.  Just how to achieve efficiency when the fuselage, rather than being a narrow and arrow-shaped balancing act, to which attached the wings, the engine and the tail, was a wide, four-wheeled car?

To answer that question, Flight continued with its report:  “At first sight it would appear that the head resistance would be somewhat excessive, but owing to the shape of the body, a section through a plane on level with the bottom of the windows would approximate very closely to a stream line section, so that the real resistance may probably be found to be a good deal less than one would at first expect.  Placed where it is, the propeller should coincide pretty well with the centre of resistance, as it must be remembered that the upper wing carries a greater load than the other two, and that, although the resistance of the body is acting fairly low down, the bottom plane is of short span and offers but little resistance.”

The overriding sense one has when reading the article is that the writers felt that even the greatest aerodynamic challenges could be overcome.  Common sense, thoughtful design, and careful fairing would reduce wind resistance and make the design aerodynamically sound.  The use of a pusher propeller helped increase the efficiency of lift generation from the wing.

Lacking flight test data or the opportunity to fly the machine themselves, the writers at Flight reverted to comparison to tease out further issues:  “The machine would have a very low centre of gravity, certainly, but this has not proved detrimental to good flying in such machines as the Morane parasol, and the centre of side area also appears to be quite low in comparison with the centre of lift of the three wings.  A constructional feature which could, we think, be improved upon is the method of mounting the tail planes, which does not impress one as being any too strong.  Otherwise the machine appears to us to promise very well in many respects, and the Curtiss firm are to be congratulated on being first to produce what really seems to be the first attempt at the comfortable enclosed small machine of the future.”

The answers that the Curtiss representatives themselves gave at the show when asked, however, were less than compelling.  As a result, the reporters from Flight struggled to remain optimistic given the lack of flight date.  They believed in the overall promise of a flying car, but left the show uncertain if the machine had even flown at all:  “At the moment we have not been able to ascertain whether or not the machine has been flown, but although alterations and improvements are still to be expected, it does appear to us that this machine is a step in the right direction.  For a three seater the power does not impress one as being quite sufficient, but it should not be a matter of great difficulty to install a more powerful engine, if that should be found advisable, which we fancy will be the case.”

The article ended, “To be concluded.”

Likewise, the New York Times covered the Exposition and urged its readers to get to the show before closing.  Fancifully, they called the Autoplane, the “Curtiss Aerial Limousine”.  Their reporting called the design the talk of the entire show:  “More wonderful than the Rodman Wanamaker Flying Boat “AMERICA”, more interesting than the huge military planes is this unique and novel product of the inventive genius of Glenn H. Curtiss, — The Curtiss ‘Aerial Limousine.’  Since its unveiling on Thursday night at the Aero Show it has been the talk of New York.  Epoch making in its conception and design, this wonderful aeroplane is a veritable drawing room on wings, a modern magic couch which can actually whisk you away with the speed of the wind.  We urge you to see it before the Show closes next Thursday.”

As it happened, despite best hopes of Flight and breathless reporting of the New York Times, the Curtiss Autoplane never flew.  It did lift off the ground for short distances in testing, but apparently never made it out of ground effect.  True flight proved impossible.  More power was needed given the weight and poor aerodynamics of the fuselage and limited wing area.  Even stacked three-high as a tri-plane design, the wings proved insufficient in lift, even if they were a design borrowed from the proven Curtiss Model L trainer.   A reliable Curtiss OXX water-cooled V8 engine was employed — boasting 100 hp.  This proved insufficient to get the Autoplane going fast enough to fly.

The further design work that the writers at Flight hoped would result never happened either.  A couple of months after the Pan-American Aeronautical Exposition, where the design was first exhibited, the United States entered the Great War in Europe — this was World War I.  Suddenly the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Co. found themselves busy with work from the US Army.  They abandoned the effort to produce the Autoplane and proceeded with design work on what would become the company’s signature airplane — the Curtiss Jenny.

Nonetheless, at the time of the aeronautical show where the Autoplane was first exhibited, Glenn Curtiss filed a patent covering the design.  Fifteen separate claims were made, each an individual innovation of its own right, and when combined together, it claimed the invention of the combination of the airplane and car for all time.  The patent, filed on February 14, 1917, was awarded slightly more than two years later on February 18, 1919, entitled, “Autoplane. US 1294413 A”.

Today, the idea of the “Flying Car” is again seen as part of a promising future that will free mankind from rush hour traffic.  Rather than a conventional airplane-like design, however, the future appears to be more a quadcopter or other helicopter design.  Perhaps the biggest challenge impeding the future of “Flying Cars”, however, won’t be technology, but rather piloting skill.  On the other hand, with driverless cars and trucks now becoming the norm, is it all that unlikely that the pilotless “Flying Car” is that far in the future?

One promising design (pictured above) is the EHang 184, made not by airplane firm or an auto company, but by a proven radio-controlled model drone company.  EHang describes their deisgn in a press release from January 2015 as, “the world’s first electric, personal Autonomous Aerial Vehicle (AAV) that will achieve humanity’s long-standing dream of easy, everyday flight for short-to-medium distances.”

Yes, that’s right — electric.  Gasoline-powered engines, after all, are so 20th Century.  If he were alive today, Glenn Curtiss would be amazed, perhaps even as much as we are.

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• Not everything in the skies that looks weird is French.
• A German’s first foreign production plane after WWII.
  
• A late-1950s effort that helped establish a new aviation industry.
  
• For light ground attack, trainer, and even passenger transport!

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• From 55 years ago, before the home-builder revolution.
• Perfectly at home on wheels, skies or floats.
  
• Less than 350 lbs empty weight, a micro plane at its best!
  
• Powered by a 30 hp VW car engine or a Porsche — really.

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Montana Senator Burton K. Wheeler, a well-known Democratic Party isolationist, was shocked by what the US Army Air Corps officer, a Captain by rank, pushed across the table into his hands.  It was a small package, wrapped in light brown paper, and emblazoned with the title, “Victory Program”.  He ripped it open and quickly skimmed the contents.  These were the top secret war plans of the United States of America, containing the grand strategic outline for defeating Germany, Italy, and Japan.

It included production estimates, commitments in men and materiel, the shipping needed to support the deployment of men to England and the invasion of Europe, the number of air bases to be built in England, and even the strategy of the air war, detailing how strategic bombing would defeat Hitler’s Germany.  Incredibly, the plan also included the rough location of where the US would invade continental Europe — the beaches along Normandy’s coast.

When he offered a copy of the “Victory Program” to the Senator, the Air Corps Captain explained that personally he was against America’s involvement in the war.  Like Charles Lindbergh, he supported the America First movement, as did the plan’s main author, Major Albert C. Wedemeyer, US Army, a West Point graduate of 1919 who in 1941 lead the War Plans Division of the War Department. The officer wanted him to make use of the plan on Capitol Hill to help avert a potential war with Germany, Italy, and Japan.

The Senator, an anti-war activist, recognized at once the political value of what he had before him.  To secure reelection for a third term in the previous year’s campaign, President Franklin D. Roosevelt had lied and hidden his war plans from the American people.  The “Victory Program” was proof of it.  While falsely claiming to be an advocate of peace and neutrality, the Senator realized that President Roosevelt had secretly ordered the preparation of a war plan that would take America chin deep into conflict within the year.

The Senator wasted no time.  Even if President Roosevelt was a fellow Democrat, he broke ranks.  He moved quickly to undercut Roosevelt by calling on Chesly Manly, the Chicago Daily Tribune’s Washington correspondent and another anti-war activist.  Together, they went through the plan in person.  They copied out the key sections and published the details in a major and lengthy article in the Chicago Daily Tribune, much to the embarrassment of the White House.  The article played to America’s anti-war sentiment — in late 1941, 80% of Americans opposed entering the war.

Predictably, the majority of neutrality-minded Americans were outraged.  Hearings were scheduled in the Congress and Senate.  It seemed that Roosevelt had found himself facing a political crisis — exactly as the Montana Senator wanted.  What rescued Roosevelt’s reputation from double-dealing and possible impeachment, however, wasn’t fancy political maneuvering or a cover-up.  Rather, Roosevelt’s Presidency was saved by the Japanese.

By unlikely coincidence, the Chicago Daily Tribune had published the “Victory Program” on Thursday, December 4, 1941.  The front page, top of the page headline blared provocatively, “F.D.R.’s War Plans!”  The article spared no available column and went on for nearly three pages in the paper, offering provocative information and details of what was in the plan — even quoting the document directly with the actual numbers of troops and overall strategic outlook.

The next day, on Friday, the House and Senate were alive with debate and outrage on the issue.  Papers highlighting key aspects of the war plan were held up to emphasize the points made.  Numerous speeches condemned the President.  Passages were quoted, including the plan’s demand to mobilize 10 million men in uniform.  Then the weekend came and the debate was put on pause.  That Sunday, on December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.  On Monday, America declared war on Japan.  On Thursday, December 11, Germany and Italy declared war on America, and America responded in kind.  With that, World War II had begun.

Amidst the shock of the events of Pearl Harbor, it seemed that everyone forgot about the Chicago Daily Tribune’s publication of the “Victory Program” — everyone that is, except Adolph Hitler.

Treason of the Highest Order

As one might imagine, the unauthorized leak of America’s top secret war plan had far-reaching consequences.  The Senator’s decision to give the press the “Victory Program” and their decision to publish it did not keep America out of the war.   As a political maneuver, the leak was a complete failure.  While the debates on Capitol Hill reflected Friday’s public outrage, and while numerous other newspapers picked up the story and repeated the key points of the plan, the entry of America into World War II ended the debate.

Watching closely were Hitler’s emissaries in Washington, DC.  Quickly, one of Germany’s key diplomats, the Chargé d’Affaires, Hans Thomsen, cabled Berlin with the details of what had been learned.  It wasn’t long before they uncovered virtually all of the information in the top secret plan.  In turn, Adolph Hitler was briefed in detail.  Recognizing the threat, he ordered an immediate change in Germany’s military deployments.

Hitler demanded that extensive defenses be constructed along the beaches of Northern France.  He ordered German industry to begin preparing weapons for the air defense of the Third Reich.  He ordered additional anti-aircraft units be set up around German cities and key industries.  He called for an increase in production and deployments of U-Boats for the Atlantic War, hoping to strangle England and eliminate America’s ability to turn England into an “island aircraft carrier”.  He even advised his generals battling on the Eastern Front to change their strategy and take fewer risks, so that forces could be preserved for the battle on the Western Front — though he reversed that order soon thereafter.

When America declared war on Japan, it seems reasonable — though we’ll never know for sure — that Hitler weighed the full meaning of America’s “Victory Program” as a measure of the nation’s intent in his decision to proceed to declare yet another war — this time against the United States.  Indeed, if war was inevitable anyway, why delay and risk the political damage that might result from betraying agreements with Japan, another Axis country?  Thus, not only had the leaking of the plan failed to keep America out of the war, instead it almost certainly helped bring America into the conflict and transform the war into a truly global one — a “world war”.

The Benefits of Strategic Knowledge

Undoubtedly, the untimely leaking of the top secret “Victory Program” caused the deaths of many more Americans.  Apprised with the strategic overview of America’s grand war strategy, the Germans would fight the entire war in Europe with the task only of verifying that America had continued to stick to its strategic plan — as drafted and leaked — and indeed it did.  With every move, the “Victory Program” held true.

Indeed, much of the thinking in the “Victory Program” was enlightened and timely.  That America had such a visionary approach to warfare came as a shock to the Germans — this alone is strong evidence of the extraordinary vision Major Widemeyer had in preparing the work.  As it happened, the effort that had gone into preparing the plan was too great, and the time to change it was not available either.  Further, to change it would have likely only reduced America’s chances of victory, since no alternatives were found to be superior.

For instance, the ground forces plan that Major Wedemeyer proposed involved the integration of air power in the planning, such that the German army would be pinned in place and denied logistical support while more maneuverable US forces could take advantage of enemy weakness.  In looking back, we should remind ourselves that many of the armies of that era were training for an expected repeat of the trench warfare that had been seen in World War I.

Production and manpower alone wouldn’t do the trick — tactics and effective strategic organization were essential.  To make his point, Major Wedemeyer stressed that, “Another million men in Flanders would not have turned the tide of battle for France.”  Rather, he pointed out, had the French been better organized and integrated, as well as better commanded, the Germans would have had potentially failed in the conquest of France.  In explaining the plan and the necessity of planning for the full logistical implementation of the war effort to a critic in the War Department, Major Widemeyer wrote, “It would be unwise to assume that we can defeat Germany by simply outproducing her.  One hundred thousand airplanes would be of little value to us if these airplanes could not be used because of lack of trained personnel, lack of operating airdromes in the theater, and lack of shipping to maintain the air squadrons in the theater.”

In fact, Major Wedemeyer’s work was so broad and effective, that America never wavered from the overarching strategic vision laid out in his plan, despite numerous opportunities to do so.  Why not invade in Southern France, by Marseilles?  Why not focus the build up of air power along North Africa’s coast?  Why not land forces along the fine beaches of northern Denmark and drive south, isolating the German armies in France from lines of supply and communications?  Why not organize the army in a different manner?  None of these options were taken because Major Wedemeyer’s “Victory Program”, despite being publicly leaked and compromised, continued ahead as the master plan for the entire war, though as events unfolded, the plan was continuously updated in its detailed components.

Indeed, the Germans watched in awe as the seemingly impossible task of building over 100 airbases in England was completed.  By early 1943, many squadrons of bombers and fighters were moving in and the air campaign commenced.  In battle against the “Victory Program”, the Germans threw their daytime and night fighter air forces into the defense of the heartland.  They watched as mass conscription was instituted in America — not only reaching the target number of 10,000,000 soldiers, but even going to more than 16,000,000 men in uniform.

Likewise, the Germans prepared for and fought back against military invasions in Africa and Italy, exactly as described in the “Victory Program”.  They tried but ultimately could do nothing to stop the expansion of supply routes and the Lend Lease Program to support Russia and England.  They documented massive shipbuilding programs — in the form of Liberty Ships — and saw how vast numbers of men were encamped and quantities of materiel were stockpiled in England for the invasion, exactly as written in the plan.  In the face of overwhelming air power, exactly as described in the “Victory Program”, Germany steadily saw its air superiority eroded and then ultimately lost to America’s fleets of fighters and bombers.

Multiple contracts for the construction of America’s four-engine bombers were issued, including for the B-17 Flying Fortress and B-24 Liberator.  Again, Germany was powerless to stop America’s vast industrial might from building what became a “bomber an hour”.  Auto industry factories in Detroit were pressed into service to launch the fleet of airplanes necessary to bring Germany to its knees — and the key figure who helped convert the auto factories to aviation plants was none other than one of the leaders of the America First pacifist movement, Charles Lindbergh.

In short order, the US War Department issued multiple contracts for new fighter planes to help attain air superiority over Europe — new designs were rushed into production, improving rapidly, even month to month, as modification after modification was made to enhance already competitive designs to the point where nothing in the Nazi arsenal could match the planes’ performance.

They prepared defenses on the beaches of Normandy to counter the Allied invasion force.  That too took place exactly as written in the “Victory Program”, though behind schedule by a year from the date described in the plan — July 1943 — when the build up of Allied forces in England fell behind schedule.  While the “Victory Program” had laid bare America’s expectation that the Russians would collapse by the end of 1942, that too hadn’t materialized, leaving Hitler furious with his generals and leaving his forces facing a two front war which could not be won.

Throughout, with the leaked “Victory Program” in hand, the Germans could focus their strategic response with relative confidence.  Of course, despite all the countering moves the Germans put in place, ultimately nothing could save Germany from the overwhelming forces brought together by the Allies — particularly in terms of air power.  Here, the “Victory Program” had spelled out the goals and strategies in detail — German cities and industrial centers would be bombed, massive waves of wing after wing of bombers and fighters would devastate German production capacity and terrorize the populace — and yet Germany was helpless to do anything but fight to an inevitable loss on a grand scale.

In the end, despite having the strategic knowledge of the “Victory Program” at hand, Germany stood no chance.  The extraordinary industrial and manpower might of the USA was simply too much.  Coupled with the Russians advancing on the Eastern Front, with American support and equipment, and then with the invasion of France in June 1944, Germany was bound for defeat.

Aftermath

As for what happened to the unknown US Army Air Corps Captain who released the plan, a study of history reveals that he escaped responsibility for his action.  His identity was never revealed.  That it was an Air Corps Captain who had leaked the war plan was disclosed after the war by Senator Wheeler.  Afterwards, no effort was made to track down his identity and prosecute him.  Most likely, the unknown Captain continued in his staff job, probably was promoted (perhaps even ending the war as with the rank of a Colonel, given the normal rapid promotion processes in wartime that favored prewar officers).  Perhaps he continued to help crafting additional war plans and strategies.  Most likely, he support the very war that he was so against before it started.  Likewise, the Senator showed no remorse about his own role in leaking America’s top secret war plan to the press — despite that his identity was well-known, he escaped all responsibility.

In the end, both men got away with high treason — and the costs were measured in the losses of additional American lives.  For the press, the publication of the “Victory Program” was deemed “the greatest scoop in history” — in actuality, it turned out to be most damaging leak in American history.  In comparison, Wikileaks might be vast, but it is far less damaging.

As for Major Albert Wedemeyer, US Army, he was celebrated as the planning architect of the US war strategy for winning World War II.  There seems little doubt that he was not behind the leak — a dedicated patriot, he had invested everything in the “Victory Plan” and knew that America’s survival as a nation depended on it.  Due to his extraordinary accomplishments, he was promoted steadily in active duty.  He then was sent to serve in China, ultimately commanding all US forces in the country.

In the lead up to the Korean War, he was once again called to action to plan for a potential war — his plan was so good that when it failed, it was widely assumed that the enemy, like it had with the “Victory Program”, had somehow attained a copy of it.  Albert Widemeyer continued to serve in the Army until he reached the rank of Lieutenant General.  On his retirement in 1954, he was given his fourth star.  Late in life, in 1985, he was honored by President Ronald Reagan with the award of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

President Reagan spoke just these words, “As one of America’s most distinguished soldiers and patriots, Albert C. Wedemeyer has earned the gratitude of his country and the admiration of his countrymen. In the face of crisis and controversy, his integrity and his opposition to totalitarianism remained unshakeable. For his resolute defense of liberty and his abiding sense of personal honor, Albert C. Wedemeyer has earned the thanks and the deep affection of all who struggle for the cause of human freedom.”

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• Designed as a sensor platform for counterinsurgency.
• A twin-boom design reminiscent of the Skymaster and Mohawk.
  
• To carry wing-loads of rockets and other sensor pods.
• Slow and highly maneuverable.
  
• A single, reliable Pratt Whitney PT6 engine.

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• Designed to replace a venerable, well-used type.
• Outlasted by the plane it was designed to replace.
  
• Named after a demon because of the noise it produced.
• A single engine jet for low altitude work — too noisy for the job.
  
• Holds the ignoble title of the world’s slowest jet.

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On the morning of June 1, 1921, the Ku Klux Klan and the white population of Tulsa made their move. At the sound of three blasts from a siren, they stormed the city’s wealthy African-American district of Greenwood. The defending African-American citizens were ready. It had been a tense night of preparation.  This was a battle they knew would come.

Until the attack, Greenwood was a prosperous, wealthy, and well-educated community.  Despite their prosperity — and maybe because of it — the African-American community had watched with increasing concern as the KKK steadily rose in power in the city. The Greenwood community knew they were in a fight for survival. They were committed to defend every block of the community they had built.

Both sides were well-armed.  However, the KKK had one thing that the African-Americans did not — air power.

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The first firebombing of a city did not take place during the Second World War but two decades earlier.  It did not take place in some overseas conflict either — it took place in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  It was the first and only aerial bombing of an American city in history and didn’t involve a war with a foreign power.  Rather, it pitted Americans against Americans.  Horrifically, it was also a battle along racial lines.

Seeds of Conflict

The all-night stand-off between the white and black communities in Tulsa had begun on May 31, 1921.  Mobs of white men had gathered at the courthouse calling for the lynching of an African-American man interned inside.  As it turned out, the man wasn’t so much imprisoned as being protected from the mob.  The man was held for an alleged crime that law enforcement knew he did not commit.  Sheriff McCullough, Tulsa’s chief law enforcement official — and a white man — made his best effort to protect the young man and dissipate the anger.  While Sheriff McCullough’s actions saved the man’s life, they did little to save Greenwood.  Despite several meetings with the angry mob outside, nothing cooled the murderous intent of the assembling KKK-backed mob.

As the day wore into evening, word of the white mob spread through the African-American community in Tulsa.  The whites’ demand for the young man’s lynching was the product of the Ku Klux Klan.  In just a few years, the Klan had grown from being a minor presence in the city of Tulsa to a large organization with 3,200 members.  This was a city with a population of approximately 75,000.  Tulsa County, including the city and surrounding areas, numbered about 110,000.

The Klan’s expansion piggy-backed on the fact that many whites were envious of the successes enjoyed on what was known as “Black Wall Street”, the popular name for the city’s African-American business district.  Nonetheless, even if latent racism was clearly present, most members not violent extremists.  To help push them along, the racist radicals who ran the Klan had a plan.  They would use a carefully crafted media disinformation campaign to create the anger they needed to achieve their most evil goals.  All the public knew was what had been published in the Tulsa Tribune — and that alone proved to be enough to incite widespread public anger.

Disinformation in the Tulsa Tribune

As it happened, the newspaper story was contrived falsehood, carefully composed to incite violence against the African-American community in Tulsa.  The “journalists” were probably were associated with or at least influenced by the KKK.  In their article, they claimed that the young African-American that Sheriff McCullough was protecting had attempted to rape the 17 year old “orphaned” white woman.  In actual fact, it was the black youth whose name was Dick Rowland, who was the orphan.  Along with his two sisters, he had been adopted by the Rowlands, a black family in Tulsa.  The rest of the story was only very loosely based on the truth.  The article even went so far as to make up a nickname for the young man, “Diamond Dick”.  It was carefully selected to create an image of the youth as a cocky, bejeweled street criminal prowling the streets and showing off — just the sort of person who they hoped could be believed to have attempted to rape a poor, orphaned white woman.

Outraged at the prospect that a “pure white woman” might have been attacked by an African-American, an angry white mob gathered outside the courthouse where Rowland was being held.  Word spread quickly in both communities of the confrontation.  Until that date, however, the two communities — black and white — had lived together peacefully for years.  Now, however, recognizing the injustice at hand, groups of African-American men came armed with rifles and pistols.  They stated that they were not there to fight, but rather to offer their help as volunteers to the white Sheriff, who was also intent on protecting the courthouse and the young man from the white mob outside.

Recognizing the potential for a misunderstanding, twice Sheriff McCullough sent the African-American volunteers away.  He recognized that, even if their intent may have been to defend the young man and prevent him from being lynched by the angry mob, their very presence would likely only escalate the situation.  His worry proved to have merit when on the second occasion, the white mob opened fire on the vastly outnumbered African-American men.  The latter numbered perhaps 75, while the white mob numbered in the hundreds.  As the African-American volunteers were departing the area, some of what were probably the KKK’s men in the white mob started shooting.

Two of the African-American men fell dead.  The rest of the African-American volunteers turned and fired back in a devastating and concentrated volley.  Some reports claim that as many as ten white men were killed.  In the panicked moments afterward, the African-Americans withdrew to a position a few blocks away.

With nightfall, nothing cooled the hotheads among the white mob.  Not only was the young black youth still protected in the courthouse, but now a number of their own were shot dead.  The KKK rallied and planned an all-out attack, intending to banish all of the African-Americans from Tulsa.  The KKK sent out calls for their members throughout the area to come and join the fight.  For their part, the African-Americans vowed to defend their community from an assault they knew would soon come.  The white mob vowed to get revenge for their losses and seize the young Dick Rowland for a lynching.  Amidst it all, Sheriff McCullough held firm.

Who was Dick Rowland?

The young man at the center of the issue was named Dick Rowland.  He was a 19 year old delivery man and shoe shiner, well-known in the community.  His alleged crime was the “assault” of a white woman that supposedly had taken place on the 3rd floor of the Drexell Building in downtown Tulsa, when the young man entered the elevator.  The white woman who was allegedly accosted, who was named Sarah Page, immediately denied any claim of “assault” and declined to press charges.  Nonetheless, the newspaper published the account otherwise.  In fact, it is entirely likely that Sarah Page and Dick Rowland knew each other fairly well, at least by sight — and perhaps even better than that.

The shoeshine business owner that employed Rowland had arranged that the company’s employees could use the “Colored” bathrooms that were located on the third floor of the Drexell Building.  Sarah Page operated the elevator in the building.  Thus, probably she saw Rowland at least a couple of times a day.

One African-American journalist, Mary E. Jones Parrish, later claimed that the so-called, “assault”, may have been that Rowland accidentally stepped on Page’s foot when boarding the elevator after using the bathroom upstairs.  This caused her to cry out in pain.  A clerk working the building on the floor ran to see what was happening.  When Rowland saw the approaching clerk, he panicked and ran from the building.  Like Page, the clerk too recognized Rowland by sight.  The clerk immediately called the police to report the “crime”, probably over Sarah Page’s objection.  It wasn’t long after that Rowland was arrested, reportedly at his home.

Whatever actually happened that day, on May 30, 1921, the news article that followed the next day was as sensational as it was fabricated.  Dick Rowland was claimed in the article to have identified himself as “Diamond Dick”.  The woman was stated in the news article to have seen him looking up and the down the halls in a suspicious manner before attacking her, ripping her clothes.  Even the moniker, “Diamond Dick”, seems doubtful in retrospect, although the article claimed Rowland used that title to identify himself because he allegedly wore layers of gold and diamond jewelry — the absurdity of that should have been obvious based on the pay rate of shoeshine boy and delivery man.  The “assault” of the young “orphaned” women was written as if it were the gospel truth.  No dissenting view was presented.

Predictably, the article had an effect — the journalists were most probably looking for an incident to stir up trouble.  For the KKK, the false claims in the newspaper gave them the pretext to get the support needed to launch their full-on assault of the African-American district in Tulsa.

Another story that some say is that Sarah Page and Dick Rowland may have had a secret, interracial relationship.  If so, the “assault” was certainly misreported.  It seems more likely in that light that the matter involved the aftermath of a lover’s fight.  Others, including lawyers who regularly had their shoes shined by Rowland, knew the young man well because he was the adopted son of a local African-American businessman.  Most simply knew that the charge couldn’t be true.  Many of the city’s attorneys even commented as such at the time, though the journalists showed little interest in quoting them.  To the knowledge of the attorneys, Rowland simply wasn’t violent or aggressive at all.  For them, for Rowland to have attacked a woman at all was simply too out of character to be even remotely believable.

Nonetheless, events quickly spiraled out of control.

The main incitement came when the Tulsa Tribune supposedly blared a headline late on May 31 in the city edition of the Tulsa Tribune (recalled by residents later, but all copies have been lost) calling on the populace to, “To Lynch Negro Tonight.”  The public went wild based on the “fake news”.  The KKK rallied many to support their call for a public, extrajudicial lynching.

When dawn broke, the battle for Tulsa began.

As the first rays of sunlight touched the city, a siren blared three times as the signal to begin the attack.  The first white man to rise in the charge was cut down when a defending African-American sniper hit him with a single shot from his rifle.  A rallying cry went up and soon crowds of hundreds of white men charged forward, intent on rampaging through the streets of the African-American district of Tulsa.  Many of these were members of the KKK.

The white mob pressed toward the center of the African-American community, at the center of which was their church, the Mount Zion Baptist Church.  As they advanced, they were shooting any who stood in their way.  They began setting fire to homes, meaning to burn all of the residences as well as the African-American business district.  This area was so prosperous and successful that it was locally known as the “Black Wall Street”.  On the map, it is defined as the areas along Archer Street and Greenwood Avenue in downtown Tulsa.

Not unexpectedly, resistance against the KKK-led white mob was fierce.  A running street battle followed.  It wasn’t long before several homes were burning.  Many among the African-American defenders were shot and injured.  Some were killed.  Many men stood guard, hoping just to defend their homes, and putting up stiff resistance on their own as the white mob advanced.  Without an organized force, however, most of these ultimately shot and killed.  Tulsa’s leading medical doctor died on his doorstep as he retreated into his house, firing back with his rifle.  African-American lawyers, business owners, family men, and workers battled the mob at every house and corner.

The defending African-American community was vastly outnumbered, however.  Soon many homes on the outer fringes of the district were burning.  Black smoke filled the air. The main street and commercial district of “Black Wall Street” and the community’s church, however, still was beyond the reach of the advancing armed mob.  Despite the casualties, the defenders were holding their ground, more or less.  The attack by the white mob was in danger of stalling and being driven back.

From the start, the Governor of Oklahoma, Gov. Robertson, declared martial law.  The Oklahoma National Guard was mobilized and quickly sent in to stabilize the situation.  The forces deployed quickly under the command of Major L.F. J. Rooney, himself a veteran of World War I.

Likewise, Tulsa’s fire department tried to respond to the first fires.  However, its engines were fired on by the white mob, then by the African-American defenders.  The unarmed firemen retreated, finding themselves prevented from entering the African-American districts and unable to fight the fires.  The National Guard mounted its weapons and drove into the chaos, hoping to stabilize the situation with a show of force.  None of the official institutions of government were favoring the KKK — not the National Guard, nor the Sheriff, nor the fire department, mayor, nor Governor of Oklahoma.  Yet confusion dominated the thinking on the streets — the African-Americans assumed that any armed white coming into sight was on the other side.

Hoping that a show of force would bring order, the National Guard mounted a machine gun on the flatbed of one of their small trucks.  Then they drove it directly into the Greenwood District, thinking that is very presence might quell the riots.  The mission did not fare well.  First, the truck was fired upon by the white mob, which assumed correctly that the Guardsmen were defending the African-American community.  Then, as the truck retreated from the white mob and raced into the Greenwood District,  it was fired upon by the African-American defenders.  They saw its coming heralded by the sound of heavy gunfire and opened fire in self-defense.  Despite being caught in the crossfire, the National Guard truck was able to escape without taking casualties or firing a single shot.

As the battle raged, white vigilante squads made “arrests” of dozens of African-Americans who attempted to get out of the city.  Luckily, a massacre of those picked up was averted.  Seeing crowds of blacks being herded by armed whites, the Oklahoma National Guard stepped in.  The Guardsmen took those detained from the hands of the mob, often enough literally at gunpoint.  Those rescued were then marched to National Guard holding areas where they could be protected.  The wounded were carried to the hospital in the Greenwood District, but then had to be evacuated when the white mob set it on fire.

Air Power Employed

With the attack on Tulsa less than an hour old, a group of pilots from Tulsa’s white community gathered at the nearby airport of Curtiss-Southwest Field.  Almost certainly, these were the commercial flight crews working for the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company, a firm that had formed a year and a half earlier in 1919 and which, more or less, ran the airport of the same name.  Curtiss-Southwest was the nation’s first commercial interstate air freight shipping business, though that honor is usually forgotten due to what they did that day.  The company was also a dealer for the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Company, selling surplus government planes and new models from the Curtiss company to the general public.

Between them, the pilots prepared about a dozen or more light planes.  These were surplus World War I Curtiss JN-4 Jenny training planes that had been purchased from the US Army Signal Corps after the end of the war.  Curtiss-Southwest had purchased and put these planes to work in its new airfreight business.  Other planes were resold by the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Company to the general public.  The US Army sold the planes at a price of $1,500 each and Curtiss-Southwest marked up and resold the planes to willing buyers at a significant profit, charging between $2,500 and $4,000 each.  Newly built models that came directly from the Curtiss factory went for $5,000 to $9,000, depending on the type of engine mounted.

Most of the planes that flew that day over Tulsa had served as trainers for America’s military pilots during the First World War.  The company, while offering new planes to the public, itself was somewhat underfunded.  As such, it flew only surplus, used US Army planes.  Most of these had flown at the University of Texas military flight training program at Kelly Field, in San Antonio.  Kelly Field had trained over 320 squadrons of pilots during the war.  These Curtiss JN-4 Jenny biplanes were the same type later made famous for barnstorming across much of middle America, putting on one-plane airshows and offering rides for a few dollars each.

With the riots in full swing, the pilots at Curtiss-Southwest Field didn’t have barnstorming or their usual oil business flying on their mind.  Each pilot took an “observer” on board and, as some reports later claimed, loaded up their planes with balls of fabric soaked in turpentine.  Matches were carried to light the incendiary balls on fire before dropping.  They took off at 6:00 am, returning and refueling to fly additional missions later in the morning and in the early afternoon.

They employed the turpentine-soaked balls as makeshift “bombs”, or more properly “fire bombs”.  With these, they hoped to start fires in the center of the African-American business district.  In the first hours, those areas were beyond the reach of the still advancing mob, which was facing stiff defense from the African-American residents.  It was a house-to-house fight, battled block by block.  The battle was centered on Standpipe Hill, a few blocks from the Mount Zion Baptist Church.

Once aloft, the pilots were guided to the target by the first clouds of black smoke that rose from the outskirts of the area.  It didn’t take long for them to fly the short distance to the center of Tulsa and arrive over the Greenwood District.  They began orbiting together in a loose formation as the “observers” prepared their turpentine rag balls for the attack.  Some of the “observers” also carried rifles aloft, intent on shooting any they saw below.  A few carried sticks of TNT, which they lit and dropped as aerial bombs.

One of the residents of the Greenwood District, Mary E. Jones Parrish, was a trained journalist.  She later wrote that she and her neighbors heard the approaching roar of the aircraft engines.  They looked out the windows of their homes to see what was happening.  She then related, if perhaps a bit too poetically:

“…the sights our eyes beheld made our poor hearts stand still for a moment.  There was a great shadow in the sky and upon a second look we discerned that this cloud was caused by fast approaching aeroplanes.  It then dawned upon us that the enemy had organized in the night and was invading our district the same as the Germans invaded France and Belgium….  People were seen to flee from their burning homes, some with babes in their arms….  Yet, seemingly, I did not leave.  I walked as one in a horrible dream.”

One of the planes spotted two men and their wives running across an open field and, swooping low, dropped a hail of lead balls or stones, hoping to kill them.  They missed.  Two of the four were identified as Dr. Payne and Mr. Robinson — the names of their wives were not recorded.  They survived to later testify about the events.

In the hour or so that followed, each plane let loose their loads of these fire bombs from low altitude, setting them alight just before they were dropped.  This was a dangerous thing to attempt from inside the cockpit of a wood, wire and fabric biplane, yet they were successful.  None of the planes caught fire and burned.  They targeted the neighborhoods, business district, and the Mount Zion Baptist Church.  Mainly, they aimed for the flat rooftops of the buildings.  Once the supply of firebombs was exhausted, those planes that carried “observers” armed with with rifles made low passes over the Greenwood District.  They began shooting at any they saw on the ground below.  Once out of ammunition, they returned to the airfield for more firebombs, bullets, and fuel.

During one low pass by a biplane, one of the “observers” leaned out to take a shot.  He was hit instead by return fire from an African-American sharpshooter.  He was either killed by the bullet or died when he fell from the plane to the ground.  Ten days later, the event was reported in several newspapers, including the Chicago Defender, which related, “One man, leaning far out from an airplane, was brought down by the bullet of a sharp shooter and his body burst upon the ground.”

Another made a pass and fired at two fleeing boys, who were shunted into a house and brought to safety by an older African-American woman.  Hitting a pair of running boys from a handheld single-shot rifle in the cockpit of an airplane flying overhead is no easy feat.  The plane did not circle back to shoot again.  A second wave of planes returned to drop more firebombs onto the buildings below.

While they may not have had a great effect with their rifles, the firebombing proved devastating.  As the flaming turpentine balls fell, many buildings across the Greenwood District were burning out of control.  The fire department, held back by the white mob, could do nothing but watch helplessly from a safe distance.  As the fires intensified, many of the communities residents were forced to flee their homes, running for their lives as the fires spread from building to building and house to house.  These too fell into the hands of wandering vigilante groups who were patrolling the outskirts of the District.

The Mount Zion Baptist Church caught fire after a hail of well-placed firebombs.

Eyewitness Testimony of the Aerial Bombing

In the city center, one of the town’s most prosperous African-American men, a lawyer named Buck Colbert Franklin, who would later prove instrumental in the legal actions that followed the riots, wrote of his experience witnessing the aerial firebombing of Tulsa.

“I could see planes circling in mid-air. They grew in number and hummed, darted and dipped low.  I could hear something like hail falling upon the top of my office building.  Down East Archer, I saw the old Mid-Way hotel on fire, burning from its top, and then another and another and another building began to burn from their top.”

“Lurid flames roared and belched and licked their forked tongues into the air.  Smoke ascended the sky in thick, black volumes and amid it all, the planes — now a dozen or more in number — still hummed and darted here and there with the agility of natural birds of the air.”

What he described was the volleys of turpentine-soaked rag balls falling on the rooftops of the buildings along “Black Wall Street”.  He abandoned his office and made his way through the streets, remarking at the still burning aerial firebombs that marked the way.

“The side-walks were literally covered with burning turpentine balls.  I knew all too well where they came from, and I knew all too well why every burning building first caught from the top.  I paused and waited for an opportune time to escape. ‘Where oh where is our splendid fire department with its half dozen stations?’ I asked myself. ‘Is the city in conspiracy with the mob?'”

Another eyewitness, an African-American named Dr. R. T. Bridgewater, who served an assistant county physician, stated that he was “near my residence and aeroplanes began to fly over us, in some instances very low to the ground”.  He added that he heard a woman say, “look out for the aeroplanes, they are shooting upon us.”

Later, the KKK wrote of its achievement in an article in a newspaper called, “The Nation”.  The writer recounted:

“Then eight aeroplanes were employed to spy on the movements of the Negroes and according to some were used in bombing the colored section.”

The actual number was probably twelve to fourteen planes, but the KKK writer probably didn’t know that.  Mr. W. I. Brown, a porter with the Katy Railroad company, arrived to Tulsa with the National Guard.  He reported:

“We reached Tulsa about 2 o’clock.  Airplanes were circling all over Greenwood.  We stopped our cars north of the Katy depot, going towards Sand Springs.  The heavens were lightened up as plain as day from the many fires over the Negro section.  I could see from my car window that two airplanes were doing most of the work.  They would every few seconds drop some thing and every time they did there was a loud explosion and the sky would be filled with flying debris.”

With their stores of fire bombs and TNT exhausted, the planes turned again toward a landing at Curtiss-Southwest Field.  Some fanned out into the surrounding countryside, looking for those fleeing the city.  One of the biplanes spotted a group of fleeing African-Americans and dove to attack, firing on them with the rifle that the “observer” carried.  One man was killed, his name was recorded later as probably Ed Lockard.  He died from a bullet to the back of the neck.  That attack took place between six and eight miles from Tulsa.

Detention Centers

At the height of the rioting, Mayor Evans and Governor Robertson set up detention centers outside the district to hold those saved from the vigilante gangs of white men.  One detention center was located at the Tulsa Convention Hall on 105 West Brady Street.  Another center was set up at McNulty Baseball Park, located between Ninth and Tenth Streets on Elgin Avenue.  In addition, the old fairgrounds at Lewis Avenue and Federal (Admiral) Boulevard were pressed into service.  At these sites, approximately 6,000 African-Americans were detained during the day of the riots and in the days that followed.

When the day of violence finally ended, all that remained of the Greenwood District and “Black Wall Street” were burnt out neighborhoods.  A few stragglers walked amidst the smoking homes and businesses.  These too were rounded up by the National Guard.  Some of those detained were held for up to eight days — none were ever charged with a crime.  On release, they were given identity cards to present in the event that they wanted free passage into white neighborhoods or business districts.  On returning to their neighborhoods all they could do was look on hopelessly at the devastation that had been wrought.  The Red Cross provided tents and some basic supplies for subsistence.

Aftermath of the Riots

In the aftermath of the burning of Tulsa’s “Black Wall Street”, hundreds of African-Americans fled the city and never came back.  At the railway station, employees reported that hundreds of one-way tickets were sold.  Trains were filled to capacity.  Tulsa’s African-American community, which had achieved the American Dream and had built one of the most prosperous communities in the entire United States — white or black — was deeply wounded.  “Black Wall Street” would be rebuilt, but it would take years.  The scars from that day’s rioting remain to this day.

The story of how it happened, however, was quietly swept under the rug.  For decades, nobody mentioned it.  It wasn’t taught in schools.  It wasn’t acknowledged by the State of Oklahoma or the city.  It was only in recent years many in Tulsa learned what happened on that fateful day in 1921 when the city and State reversed positions and published the story.

It seems clear that without the aerial bombing, much of the African-American community in Tulsa would probably not have burned so completely.  The damage would have been extensive, but with the firebombing, it totaled an estimated $23 million ($310 million in inflation corrected values).  Homes, businesses, schools, and even the Mount Zion Baptist Church had all burned to the ground.  The steeple remained and, like a symbol of hope, it towered over the burned out ruin of the streets.   In all, 35 city blocks were destroyed and 1,256 residences were burned to ash.

The destruction was staggering — in all, 21 churches and 20 grocery stores were burned as well as two banks, a hospital, the post office (a Federal government building), and more than 600 businesses.  Over 4,000 residents were left homeless. The number of dead is still unknown but may have been up to 300 — the Red Cross, which mobilized afterward, claimed that number.  Others put the figure at less than 100, though none were as well positioned as the Red Cross to testify on the death toll.  Many more were injured.

The devastation was so vast that it wouldn’t be until World War II with the bombings of Chongqing, Berlin, Hamburg, and Tokyo that such damage would be visited again upon an urban area.  The makeshift firebombs, as turned out, were extraordinarily effective.  During the rioting, homes and businesses were looted and even years later, the effects of that were felt.  As the lawyer, Buck Colbert Franklin, wrote:  “For years black women would see white women walking down the street in their jewelry and snatch it off.”

In his capacity as a lawyer, Buck Colbert Franklin, the survivor of the riots who wrote about leaving his office amidst the hailstone-sounds of the burning turpentine balls, later took on major role in the rebuilding of the community.  Incredibly, just six days after the firebombing, on June 7, 1921, the KKK convinced locally elected city council officials to pass a fire code law that barred the African-Americans from rebuilding their businesses.

Buck Colbert Franklin put his legal training to the task and filed suit, claiming it was wrong.  His case was sound.  The KKK and other white developers sought to secure the cleared properties for themselves, illegally barring the return of the former residents, since none could rebuild.  They had many friends in the courts and most would have given up — but not Franklin.  He fought and watched as his case was defeated first in the lower courts.  This he had expected based on the influence of the KKK, and next, he battled up through multiple appeals to ever higher courts.  One by one, each of the appellate courts, under the influence of the KKK, ruled against him.  This was testimony that reflected the hidden power of the KKK.

Finally Buck Franklin filed his final appeal with the Oklahoma Supreme Court.  There, finally his case had risen beyond the reach of the KKK.  A full review of law and his pleadings on the merits were undertaken.  He prevailed completely.  The fire code law was declared unconstitutional and stricken in its entirety.  With that, the rebuilding of the Greenwood District and “Black Wall Street” could finally begin — it was a process that had taken several years in the courts, itself a victory for the KKK, even if their ultimate goal had been snatched away.

The Pilots and Planes

The pilots and “observers” who flew that day and dropped their homemade firebombs were never officially identified.  Almost certainly, they were the very men who flew for the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company.  They were never arrested, fined, or even sanctioned in any way.  Their planes were not impounded either.  The Civil Aviation Authorities, the Governor of Oklahoma, and the Mayor simply looked the other way.  Although they had not supported the white rioters, they knew not to mess with the KKK.  No investigation followed.

The greatest irony came that afternoon when the Tulsa police hired the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company to fly an aerial survey of the burning Greenwood District so they could assess the damage.  The pilots complied, of course, getting paid to carry police officers over the District to see the very damage they themselves had caused.  They got away with murder and massive property destruction — and even got paid afterward to document their evil work.

Today, we can only guess at their identities.  They were almost certainly the company pilots.  Among many, one pilot appears to be innocent — it seems doubtful that they were led into the air that day by the company’s chief pilot, Duncan A. McIntyre.  He was from New Zealand and, as such, was unlikely to have been supportive or involved in any way.  He had been previously an expert barnstorming pilot who flew for a time in the Pacific Northwest before moving to Tulsa, Oklahoma.  He was not a member or supporter of the KKK.

We know only a few of the other names of the pilots employed at the company.  One was John L. Moran — he is listed as an employee in January 1920, in an article that appeared in the Houston Post.  Another, W. E. Campbell, was listed in 1919 as the company manager and a pilot.  Another man is identified as Mr. B. L. Humphries.  He was described as the company president in a newspaper article dating from October 1919.  It is unclear, however, if he was a pilot at the time.  Another pilot was named Mr. B. Goode.  He is cited in the Barber County Index, a newspaper in Kansas, as a pilot of the company in March 1920.  Two other pilots, “Happy” Bagnall and Bert Isason are named as working for the company in an article in the Houston Post on February 23, 1920.  The others have faded into anonymity with the passage of time.  Which, if any, of these men named here participated in the attack is unknown, though the company didn’t have many pilots.  Therefore, at least some, if not most of these named were likely to have been involved.

Identifying the individual aircraft that were used is also difficult, if not impossible.  In 1921, private aircraft were not yet required to be registered with the civil aviation authorities.  That practice would begin in the years after.  Even so, those records would show little more than the company name, which we know already anyway.  We have no records to identify which planes were involved, such as by manufacturing number.  What we do know, however, is that Curtiss-Southwest Field had just 13 planes — all were Curtiss JN-4 Jenny biplanes.  One researcher claims that a four-seat, closed cockpit Stinson Detroiter was also at the field, though based on production dates — the first flight of the type was in 1926 — that could not have been possible.

Another plane involved was later identified as owned by the so-called, “St. Clair Oil Company”.  More probably, this was the plane of the Sinclair Oil Company.  That biplane, also a Curtiss Jenny, was otherwise used for aerial surveys and mapping of the oil fields.  Further, the Sinclair Oil Company is known to have provided fuel to the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company.  Their plane, probably purchased from Curtiss-Southwest, was based at the same field.  The only other aircraft within the area was at a nearby field, Paul Arbon Air Field.  It was also a Curtiss Jenny.  Most likely, however, it did not participate in the attack as there were no reports of any flight activity from that field that day.

That the Sinclair Oil company biplane was employed in the attack is stated in a lawsuit filed two years later.  The lawsuit demanded reparations for houses that were burned down (this was the suit that called the owner, “St. Clair Oil Company”).  Notably, there were no other aircraft in the area that could have reached Tulsa that day, including private aircraft.  Thus, based on the number of planes flying, we can paint a very strong case against the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company’s remaining thirteen Curtiss Jenny biplanes and the one plane from Sinclair Oil as being the culprits.  Put simply, there were simply no other planes around Tulsa to have flown that day, nor pilots whatsoever.

The lawsuit evidence on the Sinclair Oil plane is plain.  Case No. 23, 331 states flatly:

“The St. Clair Oil Company, a corporation, did, at the request and insistence of the city’s agents, and in furtherance of the conspiracy, aforementioned and set out, furnish airplanes on the night of May 31, 1921, and on the morning of June 1, 1921, to carry the defendant’s city’s agents, servants, and employees, and other persons, being part of said conspiracy and other conspirators. That the said J.R. Blaine, captain of the police department, with others, was carried in said airplane which dropped turpentine balls and bombs down and upon the houses of the plaintiff.”

Thus, we surmise that at least one of the city’s police department, a Captain named J. R. Blaine, personally was involved in the attack — if the pleadings are to be believed.  His name is somewhat in doubt, however, though a similar name appears in the county records of police officers at the time.  Regardless, it seems that at least one police captain served as an “observer” on the Sinclair Oil biplane and dropped incendiaries on the residential areas of the Greenwood District.

That the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company’s planes were involved was confirmed further by one of those who escaped the riots, the same African-American woman journalist, Mary E. Jones Parrish.  While fleeing the city, she recounted passing an airfield and seeing, “planes out of their sheds, all in readiness for flying, and these men with high-powered rifles getting into them.”  There were no other airfields anywhere within 200 miles of Tulsa that had served more than one airplane, nor any others that had hangars, what she called, “sheds” — she could only be describing Curtiss-Southwest Field.

Final Words

Despite all the evidence, there are still those who dispute the use of airplanes to firebomb Tulsa that day.  One who has researched the matter extensively is Richard S. Warner.  His opinion was formed when he undertook a study as part of an official project funded to research the effects of the riots on Tulsa and what reparations might be paid.  He claims that the use of aircraft in the attack is overstated:

“It is within reason that there was some shooting from planes and even the dropping of incendiaries, but the evidence would seem to indicate that it was of a minor nature and had no real effect in the riot. While it is certain that airplanes were used by the police for reconnaissance, by photographers and sightseers, there probably were some whites who fired guns from planes or dropped bottles of gasoline or something of that sort. However, they were probably few in numbers.”

If his claim has merit, the case of Tulsa is interesting — details are many, while the overall picture is difficult to yet completely understand.  Aircraft were certainly used and they undoubtedly set many fires.  Many reported shooting from the airplanes at people on the ground.  Some even claimed that the airplanes turned the tide of the battle; they note that for nearly two hours, the African-American defenders of their neighborhoods had held out successfully.  With the firebombing, however, the defense fell quickly and a rout began.  Amidst the flames, the citizens of the Greenwood District scattered in the face of the advancing white mob and chased by a dozen airplanes overhead.

Years later, the airport called Curtiss-Southwest Field was closed down and dismantled.  Today, nothing remains of the old airfield or its two hangars.  The area where it was located is at Apache Street and Memorial Drive in Tulsa.  Not even a plaque marks the spot from where the first bombing of an American city was launched.

Sadly, most of the insurance claims filed by the residents and business owners for the damage done were denied at the time.  The policies were either not honored outright (probably a sign of racism) or contained riders that exempted damage from what amounted to a “force majeure” event.  Predictably, a flurry of lawsuits followed; due to the influence of the KKK, it appears that most were unsuccessful.

In the Tulsa riots, America showed its darkest side.  For years, Oklahoma sought to suppress any mention of the riots.  It was only in 1996, on the 75th anniversary of the riots, that the state finally included mention of the riots in the official histories.  As for Dick Rowland, he was never charged with a crime.  He survived the riots under the protection of the Sheriff and lived the rest of his life in freedom.  Sarah Page, deeply troubled at the events that were taken in her name, left Tulsa on the train — to where, nobody knows.

Apparently, she never came back.

One Last Bit of Aviation Trivia

The firebombing of Tulsa’s African-American Greenwood District and “Black Wall Street” gave rise to two aviation-related philosophies in the African-American community.  The first was espoused by the radical followers of Marcus Garvey.  They called for African-American men to train as pilots and prepare for a coming race war.  The followers of Garvey believed that a final battle would be fought both in the air, at sea, and on the ground.  The vision was simple — if African-Americans did not arm themselves with the latest technologies, they would surely die; the battle to come would be apocalyptic.  They saw it as a fight to the death, where afterwards only one of the two “races” would survive.  Garvey called for the community to start building battleships, airplanes, and tanks.

The second vision of African-American involvement in aviation was more peaceful in its focus — critically, it was also less expensive.  This view was popularized by newspaper writers of popular African-American bureaus, such as the Chicago Defender, Pittsburgh Courier, New York Age, and Baltimore Afro-American.  This approach highlighted the commercial value of aviation and sought to play down the military uses of airplanes.  African-Americans should become pilots, in this school of thought, because it would foster social change and drum out stereotypes that blacks were incompetent, unable to master sophisticated technologies, lacked ambition, and were easily frightened.  African-American involvement in aviation would bring real democracy to America, so they claimed.

Over time, this second vision won out.  The seeds of African-American involvement in aviation were thus planted after the devastation of Tulsa, Oklahoma.  Ultimately, this vision would culminate too in the legacy of the Tuskegee Airmen of World War II.  The example set also helped give rise to the non-violence of Martin Luther King, Jr., in the 1960s struggle for equality in America.

For inquiries about the research in this article, contact the author at:  tvanhare@historicwings.com.

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The two USAFE F-84E Thunderjets made a beeline toward the border between West Germany and Czechoslovakia.  At the border, they turned left to a northerly heading of 320 degrees.  Lieutenant Warren G. Brown and his wingman, Lieutenant Donald Smith, held close formation as the pair climbed through 13,000 feet of altitude.  Both pilots scanned the skies for the bogeys that had been reported by US radar.  Suddenly, Lt. Brown saw them — two silver specs flying a mile away coming at them from above and nearly straight ahead  He punched the transmit button on his stick and called to Lt. Smith, “We’ve got a couple of strangers at one o’clock.”

Lt. Brown had tangled with MiG-15s before and recognized them immediately.  Then, he had flown an F-86 Sabrejet in the skies of the Korean War.  “They’re MiGs!” he shouted into the radio.  Seconds later, the pair of planes flashed past.  Both were already in a tight turn to cut behind the two of USAFE fighters.  The F-84Es were no match for the MiGs in a turning fight.  One of the MiG-15s latched onto the tail of Lt. Smith.

“You’ve got a bogey at 5:30!” Lt. Brown shouted in warning to Lt. Brown.  However, the second MiG was coming around onto his own tail.  He pulled hard into a turn and the two F-84Es were at once separated.  Things were turning rapidly sour.

Even if there was no war, nobody knew what the Russians and their satellite states would do.  Joseph Stalin, the leader of the Soviet Union, had died less than a week before.  Nobody knew what that might mean for the next generation of Soviet leaders.  It seemed that “the Reds” might want to make a point.

The date was March 10, 1953.

Set-Up for a Tangle

With the death of Stalin, everyone recognized that the transition to new leadership after Stalin’s death would be a delicate time.  USAFE was to fly routine interception missions and border patrols.  In the southern sector of West Germany, the task fell to the 53rd Fighter Bomber Squadron, which was part of the 36th Fighter Bomber Wing based out of Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base in Bavaria.  Two of the squadron’s F-84E Thunderjets were sitting ready that morning to scramble in case any US early warning radar systems picked up any aircraft along the Czechoslovakian border.

The 36th Fighter Bomber Wing held the line along the southern end of so-called “Iron Curtain”.  The Cold War was tense but was not a shooting war.  Nonetheless, Czechoslovakian and USAFE planes patrolled across the border within sight of one another.  Usually, it was USAFE intercept the Czechoslovakians, since the latter as yet lacked the radar systems to detect and track USAFE planes in the sector.

That morning in the cockpits of the two ready planes were Lieutenant Warren Brown, USAFE, 30 years old, from Denver, Colorado; and his wingman, Lieutenant Donald Smith, USAFE, 24 years old, from Marysville, Ohio.  Their planes were armed and ready for “routine” interceptions, carrying drop tanks.  The Czechoslovakian planes were considered possibly hostile, given that they were in the Soviet Bloc, though no actual combat had yet taken place.

Usually, the Czechoslovakians would take off, get detected by US early warning radars, and USAFE would order a scramble.  A pair of USAFE fighters would take off to intercept, usually F-84E Thunderjets.  Once at the border, the two sets of planes would cautiously eye one another at a distance, staying on their respective sides.

Typically, the Czechoslovakians  flew older Avia S-199s, a Jumo-powered version of the World War II era Messerschmitt Me 109G.  That older propeller-driven fighter was no match for USAFE’s newer jet fighters, which included both F-80 Shooting Stars and F-84E Thunderjets.  Sometimes, the Czechoslovakian Air Force would fly their newer MiG-15 fighter jets on training flights.  These aircraft, which the Czechoslovakians designated the S-102, had just been received the previous year.  As such, the pilots were still fairly inexperienced in their use, though it was recognized that the Czechoslovakian pilots were generally disciplined and quite capable.  Typically, if the Czechoslovakians were flying their Avia S-199s, once intercepted they would keep their distance.

If they flew their MiG-15s, after a short while, they would turn back to their bases due to limited fuel.  Then the USAFE flight would return to base and land.  To ensure that the USAFE planes could go the distance, they always carried wing tanks for extra fuel.  USAFE also had a tendency to “push the border” and it was common for fighters to simply fly a straight line along the demarcation line, even if the actual border line wasn’t straight at all.  Thus, they would often cross into Czechoslovakian territory where the border line jutted out into West Germany.  They figured that without radar, the Czechoslovakians either wouldn’t care or wouldn’t know.

That morning, however, the two sides did more than just eye each other at a distance.  A fight was brewing.

SCRAMBLE!

At 10:40 am, the USAFE radio came alive with the order to scramble for an intercept.  A pair of aircraft had been spotted on the Czechoslovakian side, heading toward West Germany’s border.  As it turned out, the two Czechoslovakian aircraft were MiG-15s that had taken off from their base at Líních, an airfield near Dobran.  The lead plane was flown by Lt. Jaroslav Sramek.  His wingman was Lt. Milan Forst.  The two were intending to practice intercepts and air combat maneuvering, with Lt. Forst making the first pass on Lt. Sramek’s MiG, and then switching roles so that Lt. Sramek would make a pass on Lt. Forst, then switching roles again.

On the ground at Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base, Lieutenants Brown and Smith got their engines started.  They quickly taxied to the runway and Lt. Brown rammed his throttle forward.  Lt. Smith followed suit on his wing.  The pair took off straight ahead and were airborne at 10:45 am.  Quickly, they pulled up their landing gear and turned to fly toward the border, climbing steadily as they increased their speed.  They checked in on the radio and got a report that the two Czechoslovakian planes were nearing West Germany.

Reaching the border a few minutes later, they turned to a northerly heading of 320 degrees and began to scan the skies for the other aircraft.  The time was 10:59 am.  The two American pilots assumed that the two Czechoslovakian planes were fighters — what type, however, was uncertain.  When Lt. Brown saw the two and recognized them to be MiG-15s, it was already too late to fly to a point of advantage.  The Czechoslovakians were already across the border and, what was worse, they passed and quickly reversed to get onto the tails of the two F-84E Thunderjets.

Both USAFE pilots pulled into a hard turn, expecting the MiG-15s to break off and make a run back to their border.  However, the two Czechoslovakian pilots did not break away — instead, they stayed with the F-84Es and tightened their turn to try and cut inside.  The engagement quickly became a turning battle as both sides tightened in to try to advantage the other.  The MiG-15s, however, had the upper hand, having an advantage in altitude and generally being better in a turn than the F-84E.

Dogfight over the Iron Curtain

Lt. Brown pulled on the stick as hard as he could in hopes of disallowing the MiG-15 on his tail a deflection shot.  His F-84E made three turns in the sky but the MiG-15 not only stayed on him, but closed the gap.  Not expecting a fight with the Czechoslovakians, Lt. Brown had not punched off his wingtip fuel tanks, a mistake that further worsened the performance of his plane.  Still, he did not truly expect the Czechoslovakian planes to fire on his plane — after all, he was confident that they were on the German side of the border.  Likewise, he was sure that the Czechoslovakian military did not want to start a shooting war so soon after the death of Stalin.

Meanwhile, in the cockpit of the Czechoslovakian MiG-15 fighter, Lt. Jaroslav Sramek (later Colonel), knew that he had the advantage over the American fighter plane.  Whether by navigational error or by plan, Lt. Sramek knew that the American fighters were over Czechoslovakia, not West Germany.  His orders were clear — he was to engage with his guns firing, first to fire a warning shot and attempt to force the American plane to land, and if it did not cooperate, he was to shoot it down.

Later, he recounted the engagement as follows:  “It happened on that day over the village of Merklín [near Pilsen], I spied a pair of planes, which were not ours. They were F-84s. They were clearly encroaching on our airspace. I reported the situation and I received orders to fire a warning shot. There was no other possibility of apprehending them. I was to detain them and get them to listen to my instructions. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out like that.”

The Czechoslovakian pilots had spotted the two USAFE interceptors first and had turned toward them to make an intercept of their own.  They pulled hard into a turn even as they were crossing the American F-84Es so as to get behind them.  Both MiG-15s were at full throttle.  Once behind the F-84E, Lt. Sramek pulled hard to get into firing position as he called on his radio for authorization to fire.  It was quickly granted.

“Straight away they tried to evade us,” Lt. Sramek later reported.  “But because the MIG 15s were better the F-84s, we were able to turn easily and manoeuvre into a position where I could fire a warning shot.”

On board the F-84E, Lt. Brown recalled what happened next as follows — “I glanced over my left shoulder and saw I had a MiG on my own tail.  I tightened up my turn and made three complete 360 degree turns.  I didn’t think he’d shoot at me over the U.S. Zone or I would not have been in that situation.  I would have dropped my tip tanks.  The MiG kept turning with me.  I didn’t want to make any hostile moves.  I just kept tightening my turn as much as possible.  When I looked back again he was closed in to less than a thousand feet — maybe 500.  Suddenly, I saw his guns spurting balls of orange fire.  All his guns were blazing.  I turned around and pressed against the armor plating for protection.  Suddenly the whole airplane shuddered and flipped over, almost on its back.  I didn’t know where he hit me because I could still control the plane.”

Lt. Sramek’s view of the combat was similar — “The warning shot hit his extra fuel tank (wingtip tank) on the right-hand side.  Fuel started escaping from it.  He tried to escape to the south.”

Some damage was done and Lt. Brown later recalled, “I was just recovering, not having much difficulty in bringing the plane out of its dive when I got the orange overheat light.  It flashes on when the engine overheats.  I thought maybe my tailpipe was cracked and pulled back the throttle to ‘idle’.  I yelled to Smith, ‘I’ve been fired at.  I’ve been hit!'”

Taking a Second Shot

For Lt. Sramek, the chase was simple.  The F-84E Thunderjet was straight ahead and was flying in a straight line, heading south, without turning.  He closed rapidly from directly behind.  What he didn’t know was that Lt. Brown had lost sight of him and was preoccupied with the damage he had already suffered.  Lt. Sramek closed rapidly.

Lt. Brown had not only lost sight of the Czechoslovakian MiG, but also of his wingman.  “Then my overheat light blinked out.  I looked back to see if my MiG was still behind.  I couldn’t see him but I saw my right stabilizer was pretty well shot off.  I figured I might still make it back to ‘Fursty’ so I called Smith again for a heading….”

Lt. Smith had lost his MiG and quickly called a heading back so that Lt. Brown could start his flight back to base.  Then, he spotted Lt. Brown’s plane and also saw the Czechoslovakian MiG-15 closing in from above and behind.  It was too late for him to even call a warning break.  It was 11:03 am — four minutes had elapsed since the two MiG-15s had been sighted.

Lt. Sramek was directly on the F-84E’s tail and slightly above and closing rapidly at 600 kts airspace.  He was lined up perfectly for a shot and once in close range, he simply pulled the trigger.  He later recalled, “In view of the fact that I was higher than him I was able to catch him easily and my second round disabled him.  After firing the shot I saw flames coming from his craft.”

The F-84E was hit badly.  Lt. Brown recalled the moment with clarity — “Everything went kaputt at once.  The airplane began vibrating violently and I got the orange overheat light again.  My right wing suddenly opened.  Pieces of skin flew off and smoke or vapor poured out of the hole.  I didn’t know whether I was on fire or what, but I figured it was about time to part company with the airplane.”

Lt. Sramek could see flames coming from the back of the stricken F-84E and knew it would not last long.  He turned left into a climbing turn to head back to his base.  He fully expected that the wreckage of the F-84E crashed would be recovered by Czechoslovakian ground forces and that the American pilot captured.

Ejecting to Safety

The entire rear half of Lt. Brown’s plane was aflame.  He pulled the canopy release handle and once it had popped off, he reached to pull the ejection seat handles.  Instantly, the rockets fired and he was out of the plane, punched high above his stricken Thunderjet on the ejection seat.

Once clear and out, knowing he was at low altitude, he reached for the D-ring to pull his ‘chute, but then realized he was still stuck to the ejection seat.  Kicking it free, he then pulled the D-ring and felt the parachute open.  Moments later, he came down into some trees, cutting his face slightly.  Otherwise, he was uninjured.  Shortly afterward, a group of German villagers came upon him and directed him where to walk to find the nearest village.

His stricken F-84E Thunderjet plowed into a snow-covered hillside near the village of Falkenstein, about 22 miles (35 km) inside West Germany.  It was destroyed on impact.

Meanwhile, the other MiG-15, flown by Lt. Forst, was still hunting the second F-84E Thunderjet that was flown by Lt. Smith.  Suddenly, Lt. Forst spotted the other F-84E Thunderjet flash by above and head of him.  He turned to pursue but lost it when it entered into cloud.  Lacking radar systems (such systems would only come on later generation fighter jets), there was no way Lt. Forst could find the plane again.

Lt. Forst searched the area or a short time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the retiring F-84E.  At speeds in excess of 600 kts, however, it only took a few minutes before the two planes were more than a dozen miles apart.  Lt. Forst never saw the second F-84E Thunderjet again.  Finally after reporting that he had lost contact, at 11:09 am he too was called back to return to base.

Aftermath

In later years, the Czechoslovakians would declare that the air battle had taken place over their territory near the village of Merklín.  They claimed that the F-84E, once hit, had continued flying for a time into West Germany before crashing.  The Americans would maintain that the entire engagement had taken place over West Germany, which they claimed was proven by their radar.

One possibility that remains possible is that the USAFE planes pushed their luck and crossed into Czechoslovakian airspace, whether by plan or by accident it is hard to know.  Once the F-84E Thunderjets had engaged the Czechoslovakian MiG-15s, it seems clear that they turned toward their base.  They likely crossed back into West Germany.  At the speeds they were flying — 600 kts — that meant that they were crossing 10 miles a minute.  While in the chase, the two MiG-15 pilots may have gotten fixated on their targets and lost awareness of their location, particularly once Lt. Sramek was in his tail chase with the F-84E that he ultimately shot down.  As such, they may have also been mistaken and pursued the Americans across and onto the wrong side of the border.

Lt. Forst admitted as much when he was later interviewed and reported, “We flew over nearly continuous layer of clouds, through which only occasionally we saw flashing by a piece of land.  At this time, we were not much interested in our location as the main thing was not to lose sight of the foreign aircraft.”

Weather records report that at the time it was clear on the Czechoslovakian side of the border, but had at least 8/10 cloud cover on the West German side, lending significant evidence to the scenario that the initial encounter had taken place on the Czechoslovakian side of the border but that the shoot down had taken place over West Germany.  Of course, the F-84E also crashed in West Germany.

Ultimately, it seems that nobody will ever know for sure where the dogfight began, but it almost certainly ended over West Germany since the wreckage was recovered fully 22 miles from the border.  A local farmer who witnessed the crash of the F-84E also reported that he heard the gunfire from the MiG-15 seconds before.  Finally, the end of the engagement played out at low altitude.

The F-84E Thunderjet was written off as destroyed in the crash.  Its identification numbers were F-84E-5-RE s/n 49-2152.  USAFE attempted to paint the situation in a positive light and issued a statement that read, “The fact that one of them was shot down was due to faulty manoeuvring plus the superior speed of the MIGs, but the incident proved that our radar warning; system to effective and that our fighters can be up in the air to intercept intruders within minutes.”

One Final Note

The Americans and NATO were not wrong that the Soviets meant to pick a fight, perhaps to demonstrate that they were still an aggressive, capable opponent even with the passing of Joseph Stalin.  Just two days after the loss of the F-84E, the Russians crossed the border into West Germany farther north in the British Zone.  Two of their new MiG-15 fighters intercepted a British bomber that was flying toward Berlin in the approved corridor.  The bomber, an older RAF AVRO Lincoln (RF531 “C”), was a training plane assigned to the Central Gunnery School.  At the time, it was flying a routine radar reconnaissance flight.  The four-engine AVRO Lincoln was no match for the Soviet jets, who simply attacked it without warning.  On the first firing pass, they damaged it badly.  The AVRO Lincoln began a dive, already on fire.  Rather than let it go, both MiG-15s followed it down, firing relentlessly until it broke apart in the air.

Although the plane was attacked about 20 miles (32 km) to the northeast, near Lüneburg, West Germany, the bulk of the debris crashed into a small forest near the town of Bolzenburg, about three miles into East Germany, barely across in the so-called the Russian Zone.  Three of the seven RAF flight crew members managed to bail out, but the other four were killed during the attack.  One of the three who bailed out died because his parachute failed to open.  The other two were killed afterwards when one of the Russian MiG-15s circled back and fired on them as they hung helplessly from their parachutes.  Later, Winston Churchill himself would characterize the Russian action as a “wanton attack” and noting less than “murder”.

USAFE and all NATO air forces were issued orders to shoot first in any other engagements that might follow.  Diplomatic messages were conveyed to the Russians and Czechoslovakians that the West would engage if further provoked.  This did not dissuade the Soviets, however, and two additional incidents followed in short order.

The first incident involved a British European Airways Vickers Viking airliner that was flying on a scheduled flight to Berlin.  It was intercepted by a pair of MiG-15s that fired their cannons near the plane.  The pilots assumed that this was either to convey a threat or perhaps was done to get them to fly more in the center of the 20 mile wide flight corridor that the nations had agreed on to allow air access to Berlin.  Thankfully, the MiG-15s did not return to fire on or near the plane a second time.

The second incident was a full-on attack aimed at an American B-50 that was flying a weather reconnaissance mission.  The B-50 was armed, however, and the crew fired back with their defensive guns.  Although they were heavily outclassed, their fire somehow drove off the attacking MiG-15s.  Thankfully, in the wake of these events, the situation stabilized after a few more weeks and both sides backed down from what was evolving quickly into an undeclared war.

The Cold War had gone back cold.

The post Encounter over the Iron Curtain first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

The Kest 5 pilots were ordered to pull back from the front lines to avoid any unintended contact with Allied forces.  Their planes were then to be turned over to the French as war prizes.  Upset with the terms of the surrender, they flew instead to Switzerland.  It seemed like a good idea at the time, but nothing went quite as planned.

The Intended Order

The pilots were ordered to fly from their front line base at Lahr-Dinglingen Airfield in western Baden-Württemberg, to Friedrichshafen, located adjacent to Lake Constance.  This was 75 miles to the southeast.  Once at Friedrichshafen, they were to park their planes.  Most likely, their planes, new model Siemens-Schuckert D. IIIs, among others, would be destroyed or perhaps paraded around by the French in victory celebrations.

Many German pilots, including the German ace, Vizefeldwebel Fritz Beckhardt, were angry at the order.  Rather than complying, Beckhardt and some of the other pilots of Kest 5 chose to fly instead to neutral Switzerland.  They hoped for a positive welcome and the chance to turn over their planes to the Swiss, who they imagined would be grateful.

Fritz Beckhardt’s personal plane was a Siemens-Schuckert D. III. The type was one of Germany’s best fighter aircraft.   The other leading pilots from Kest 5 intending to fly to Switzerland were Feldwebel Hans Weisbach, who, along with Vizefeldwebel Ernst Brantin, would fly together in a D.F.W.L. two-seater; Leutnant Gustav Michels, who would fly across in an Albatros A.W.S. D.5a; and both Oberleutnant Heinrich Dembowsky (the commander of Kest 5) and Offiziersaspirant Arnold Eger, who would each fly across the border in their personal Siemens-Schuckert fighter plane.

What the pilots of Kest 5 didn’t know was that the Swiss would answer their arrival with gunfire.

The Final Mission

When dawn broke on November 13, the five planes of Kest 5 were fueled and readied for departure.  The pilots strapped themselves into their machines and in a cloud of blue-grey oil smoke, the engines came to life.  Beckhardt allowed his machine time to warm up before he advanced his throttle to take off.  His plane accelerated quickly across the low cut grass of the airfield and then he was climbing upward into the morning sunlight.  He made a final turn around the airfield before heading southeast in the general direction of Friedrichshafen.

We cannot know with certainty Beckhardt’s exact course that day.  It appears he flew until he first saw the shore of Lake Constance in the distance.  Then he veered south to trace a course toward Lake Zurich in Switzerland.  His plan apparently was to find a suitable landing field somewhere along the Swiss lake’s edge.  Flying separately, Oberleutnant Dembowsky and Offiziersaspirant Eger took a direct route.  They flew toward the closest border with Switzerland.  Two other pilots flew the same route as Beckhardt.  One flew on his wing.  It took less than an hour before all of the planes were across the border and into Switzerland.

Who was Fritz Beckhardt?

At the end of the war, Vizefeldwebel Fritz Beckhardt was one of Germany’s leading aces.  He had 17 confirmed kills to his credit, though his personal count of kills was more than 20 shot down.  Beckhardt was also a Jewish-German pilot.  Although many in Germany had questioned whether Jews had the courage to fight, Beckhardt had proved them wrong.  Proud of his heritage, he was a member in the League of Jewish Soldiers at the Front.

Twice he had met and received personal congratulations from the German Emperor, Wilhelm II, for his victories.  Among his many citations, he wore the Iron Cross Second Class.  He was also one of only eighteen men in the entire German military to have been decorated with the House Order of Hohenzollern.  A friend and fellow German-Jewish pilot, Edmund Nathanael, had received that high citation as well.

Fritz Beckhardt had come from humble beginnings.  Before the war, he had been simply a grocer in the family store.  When the war began, like many others, he had answered the call to arms and joined the German army.  At the front, he demonstrated extraordinary bravery first in infantry combat, earning him Iron Cross Second Class.  In 1917, perhaps tired of combat in the mud, he requested the opportunity to train as a pilot.  This was approved and he quickly earned his wings.  He was subsequently assigned to fly reconnaissance aircraft.  Displeased with the idea of not being able to fight, it wasn’t long before he requested to fly fighters.  Once again, he was approved for advanced fighter training.

He joined a combat fighter unit in February 1918.  Just nine months remained before the war ended, however, and the so-called “glory days” of Germany’s dominance in the skies had ended.  Nonetheless, he made short work of the enemy and shot down 17 aircraft in the ensuing months.  During that time, he flew with many of Germany’s other great aces, including Hermann Göring.

A Jewish Pilot with a Swastika

In the air, Beckhardt’s personal symbol was the swastika, which was painted on both sides and on the top of his fighter plane’s all-black fuselage.  That a Jewish pilot would adopt the swastika as a symbol was not out of place at the time.  During World War I, the swastika was just another well-recognized good luck symbol that pilots on both sides used.  It was only after the end of World War I that a number of nationalist parties in Germany, chiefly the Nazis, adopted the swastika and perverted its meaning into a symbol of racial purity.

Beckhardt’s swastika was backwards from the later Nazi version, with the crossbars pointed counter-clockwise.  His bold swastika was large and clearly visible on the plane’s fuselage.  He hoped that the symbol was recognized and would instill fear in the French pilots as his reputation grew and they would recognize his markings.  They would know that an ace was among them in the skies, hunting for yet another kill.

Arrival in Switzerland

On that morning of November 13, however, Beckhardt’s least concern was combat with the French.  With the war over, he could fly calmly without scanning the skies for enemy planes.  He was at ease with himself and his decision to take his plane to Switzerland.  After Beckhardt crossed in Swiss territory, he flew directly south toward Lake Zurich.  There, he hoped to find an excellent landing spot along water’s edge.  He did not expect to find any airfields because the Swiss did not have an active air force and most Swiss pilots trained in France.  As it was, he and the other plane that was flying on his wing — the two-seater with Oberleutnant Dembowsky and Offiziersaspirant Eger on board — found the town of Rapperswil on the shores of Lake Zurich.

The two descended and made a wide turn over the town, flying past the church spire and castle that stood next to the lake.  Many Swiss residents ran outside upon hearing the sound of the aircraft engines — so rare was a plane in the skies over Switzerland that any flight always aroused great excitement.  That day in Rapperswil, people were shouting, “En Flüger, en Flüger…” as the planes flew overhead.  Expecting to see the Swiss national insignia on the wings, instead the people were stunned to recognize German crosses.  Almost immediately, a Swiss army unit that was billeted next to Rapperswil opened fire.  The sound of gunfire echoed through the town.

In the air, Feldwebel Weisbach and Vizefeldwebel Brantin in their two-seater turned away as the bullets whizzed past.  They flew to the east and then dove toward the lake’s edge.  Once beyond the town and out of the line of fire, they spotted a monastery.  This was Wurmsbach, located just outside of Rapperswil.  They put their plane down in the fields alongside, shut down the engine, and climbed out.  They were pleased to have gotten down in one piece after all of the gunfire they had encountered over the town.

Fritz Beckhardt, however seemed completely unperturbed by the gunfire.  Perhaps he recognized that the Swiss weren’t properly leading their fire or shooting accurately.  Perhaps he had seen worse in the skies over France.  As it happened, he flew directly over the armory where the Swiss forces were located.  Rather than turn away to the east as Dembowsky had done, Beckhardt simply flew on.  He dipped the nose of his Siemens-Schuckert toward the city hall, cut the engine, and landed not far from Gemüsebrücke in the damp grass of a meadow.  Three stunned lads looked on, each with a wagon in tow.  They were rooted in place at the sight of the plane.

After Beckhardt landed, he waved frantically to the three boys to come over.  They were less than 100 yards away, still standing stock still.  After some discussion between them, the three abandoned their wagons and jogged over.  Beckhardt climbed out of the cockpit and breathed in the clear air.  In the wing, he spotted a fist-sized hole — the results of the ground fire.  Had it been a few feet over, the bullets might have hit his engine or even him.  One of the boys would later recall how the flyer wore his leather flying helmet and how its ear flaps dangled down.  The boy also remember that Beckhardt had sported a high-necked leather jacket with fur lining.  His collar turned up in a style reminiscent of Manfred von Richthofen.

To nobody in particular, Beckhardt simply said, “Griis Gott”.  Then he lit a cigarette, probably to calm his nerves.  It had been an unexpectedly risky day.  Shortly thereafter, the Swiss army arrived and took him into custody.

Aftermath and the Fate of the Others

Leutnant Michels, flying his Albatros A.W.S. D.5a, also came down at Rapperswil safely.  As for Oberleutnant Dembowsky and Offiziersaspirant Eger, their plan to fly just inside the Swiss border and land proved troublesome.  As it happened, closer to the German border, the Swiss gunners were better shots.  One of the planes was damaged and overturned when it crash landed, shattering its propeller as it flipped.  It came to rest with the tail high up in the air.  The pilot was uninjured.  The other one landed safely.

After capture, the pilots were gathered together at Rapperswil.  In the days that followed, the famous Swiss aviator Oskar Bider, then a Oberleutnant with the new Swiss Air Force, came down to meet with them.  The newspapers carried articles talking about the German pilots and their planes.  Less than a week later, following the news of the safe arrival (albeit with gunfire) of those first planes, another 12 pilots made their way to Switzerland.  They arrived on November 17 and 18.

The question of what to do with the German planes was solved quickly.  The Swiss simply pressed the new German machines into their new air force, over-painting the tail marking and fuselage insignia with Swiss crosses.  The damaged aircraft were kept too and later cannibalized for parts to keep the others flying.  Two years later, the remaining planes were sent back to Germany for modification and rebuilding, and when this was completed they were returned to service in Switzerland.  By then, Switzerland had also acquired many newer French types, such as the Nieuport 21.  Over the weeks following their arrival, the German pilots were repatriated to Germany.

With the arrival of the pilots from Kest 5, the Swiss Air Force made a huge step forward.  Though it had been founded four years earlier in 1914, by the end of World War I, Switzerland had just nine pilots and a handful of outdated airplanes.  With the new Siemens-Schuckert D. IIIs and the Albatros A.W.S. D.5a, they were able to modernize their air force.

Today, the Swiss present a modern, powerful air force that is well able to patrol and defend the country’s airspace.  From their small start in 1914 and with the huge advance that they took at the end of 1918, they have come a long way.

As for Fritz Beckhardt, with the rise of the Nazis in Germany, he worked to help Jews escape Germany.  He was discovered and imprisoned but later pardoned by another former WWI fighter pilot — Göring himself.  Knowing that they would only be free for a short while if they remained, Fritz Beckhardt and his wife left Germany and drove in their Adler (the family car) to Lisbon, Portugal.  Then, after months of waiting and petitioning, in May 1941, the RAF picked up the two and flew them to Bristol, England.  They were interned for a short while but then released.  Thereafter, they lived in London, England, having escaped death at the hands of the Nazis.

One More Bit of Aviation Trivia

That the Jewish ace, Fritz Beckhardt, had the swastika painted on the sides and top of his fuselage is viewed as an historical anomaly, but is not to be unexpected given that at the time, the swastika was simply a good luck symbol.  Interestingly, there was little confusion as to the meaning of a Star of David, which was seen universally as a symbol of Judaism.  While none of the Jewish flyers had Stars of David on their aircraft, one German pilot, Ltn.d.R. Adolf Auer, of Jasta 40, had exactly that — and he wasn’t even Jewish!

Post Note:  There is some possibility that the story of Fritz Beckhardt and Leutnant Michels are reversed, though a reasoned assessment of the stories and records points to the above being the likely most accurate representation of what happened that day.

The post Fritz Beckhardt’s Final Flight first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

• A single prototype of a highly innovative design.
• It crash-landed, killing the test pilot when it hit a tree.
  
• A fighter to be armed with 2x 20mm and 1x 30mm cannon.
• Generally underwhelming in performance.
  
• Four years before the famous Curtiss-Wright XP-55 Ascender.

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• An old design from a classic designer.
• So underpowered and yet it flew.
  
• The rudder cables are below the fuselage.
  
• Tricycle gear yet with no tail skid.

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• Twin-engine and those look like American cowlings.
• The rudders give a good hint, but not Earhart.
  
• A wartime design but relatively unknown.
  
• This is it in British colors with the RAF.

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Exactly 75 years ago today, on December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, catching America by surprise.  From the first minutes of the attack, the Japanese took out most of the fighter aircraft at the island’s airfields, leaving their dive bombers and torpedo planes free to execute their attacks without fear of fighter interception.  As a result, what was likely the first American plane to take off that day wasn’t a fighter plane, but rather an unarmed, twin-engine scout seaplane, a Sikorsky JRS-1 flying boat.  The Navy seaplane was piloted by Ensign Wesley H. Ruth of US Navy Utility Squadron One (VJ-1) on a  mission to search for and find the attacking Japanese fleet.

By chance, their assigned course took them directly to the Japanese fleet — and but for two degrees of heading, history of the war quite nearly changed that day.

An Unlikely First Plane to Fly into Danger — the Sikorsky JRS-1

In the three years leading up to Pearl Harbor, the US Navy had procured 17 of Sikorsky JRS-1 flying boats for scouting and aerial photography.  Ten of those were assigned to a single unit, Utility Squadron One (VJ-1) and were based on Ford Island, right at the epicenter of the Japanese attack.  Ensign Wes Ruth’s seaplane, the 13th built in the series, was delivered in 1938.

Ensign Ruth’s squadron was primarily tasked with duties as a photographic unit for the US Navy’s Pacific Fleet. The squadron’s flight crews were trained additionally in fleet reconnaissance and antisubmarine patrol.  However, the Sikorsky JRS-1 was an unlikely combat plane.  It was slow, with a maximum airspeed of just 105 kts.  It boasted just 875 hp of power.  It was unarmored and unarmed, without defensive machine guns.

In fact, the US Navy’s Sikorsky JRS-1 was little more than a stripped down, militarized version of the proven civilian airliner, the Sikorsky S-43.  In turn, that plane a smaller version of the more famous and larger Sikorsky S-42 “Clipper”.  The S-43 was known as the “Baby Clipper”.  In civilian service, the “Baby Clippers” flew with Pan Am, among other airlines, plying the skies with short passenger flights.  A common route was to carry passengers from Miami to Havana, Cuba, as but one example.  In its military configuration, the JRS-1 had a maximum range of just a bit more than 500 nm plus a bit more for fuel reserve.  It’s only weapons were that it could carry a few small depth charges to use in the event of having to hunt submarines.

Setting the Scene

On the morning of December 7, 1941, Utility Squadron One’s JRS-1 seaplanes were lined up beside the runway.  They were easily identifiable, painted brightly in a color scheme that was entirely ill-suited for the war that had so unexpectedly begun.  The fuselage was bare metal silver and the wings and tail were painted in bright orange and yellow to ensure that the seaplanes could be easily spotted from afar while flying their photo missions.  Thus, Ensign Ruth took off that morning knowing full well that if spotted, he was a sitting duck.  He flew anyway, hoping beyond hope to find the Japanese fleet and report its position back, so that the US Navy’s fighters and bombers could get a chance to fight back.

Ensign Ruth’s Mission

When the first Japanese bombs began to fall, Ensign Ruth was eating breakfast in the mess hall at the Ford Island base’s BOQ — the Bachelor Officers Quarters.  He watched calmly as the first wave of Japanese planes descended toward the fleet anchored around Ford Island, thinking it was a mock attack by the US Marine Corps flyers, as had happened many times before.  He realized quickly that it was an attack when the first planes began dropping bombs on the nearby Navy PBY base.

Grabbing his cap and coat, he abandoned his breakfast and ran through the lobby of the BOQ.  He stopped briefly to help several some civilian families who had run inside seeking shelter and then realized that he should get to the flight line.  He jumped into his personal car, a convertible, and drove with the top down as fast as he could to the airfield.  As he drove, he thought that he was on a “one-way trip” that would end in his death.  He scanned the skies as he drove.  Japanese planes crisscrossed the skies, making repeated attacks against the Navy’s many ships anchored around the base.

He felt exposed and at risk of getting strafed.  However, the Japanese planes were more focused on the great battleships in the harbor.  They either didn’t notice or didn’t bother to go after his single car as it raced along one of the island’s few roads toward the base.  Just as he arrived at the north end of the airfield’s single north-south runway, about a quarter mile from the battleship USS Arizona, the ship took a direct hit by a Japanese bomb.

The forward magazine on the Arizona exploded in a great flash and the ship’s entire front section blew up, sending a massive cloud of black smoke in the sky.  The battleship’s powder pellets — each one “about the size of my middle finger,” he later said — rained down around and into his car as he entered the base, as he put it, “like snow” falling.  Pulling up at one of the squadron’s hangars, he parked and made his way to the squadron’s ready room.  Along the way, he passed a line of dead bodies that were lined up by the hangars.

A rushed pre-flight briefing followed.  As quickly as Ensign Ruth could get a crew together, he raced out to one of the awaiting JRS-1 seaplanes.  His hastily assembled flight crew included a total of six men — himself, a copilot, a radioman, and three sailors who were to perform as spotters searching for the enemy fleet.  All but Ensign Ruth were enlisted men, even including the copilot.  These men had been drawn from those who had made their way to the airfield.  Other flight crews were steadily coming to Ford Island on board the many small boats that braved the journey even as the Japanese planes were in the midst of their aerial attack.  Within hours, all ten of the JRS-1 flying boats were airborne performing search missions all around the ocean surrounding Hawaii, manned by these crews who risked it all to get to their battle stations.

As Ensign Wes Ruth was preparing to take off, unexpectedly the commanding officer of the sister squadron, VJ-2, ran out to his seaplane.  The officer handed each the three sailors on the seaplane a WWI vintage M1903A3 Springfield bolt-action rifle as well as a little ammunition..  With those rifles on board, they were no longer “unarmed”, though it is questionable that single-shot rifles were much of a match against any of the Japanese fighter planes, which carried multiple machine guns and wing-mounted cannons each.  As it was, since the Sikorsky JRS-1 didn’t have gun positions or even an open cockpit or shooting position in the back.  The only way to fire out of the seaplane would have been to first shoot out the windows in the back.  None of the flight crew held any illusions about their chances of success.

An Incredibly Fortuitous Course

Ensign Ruth’s orders were to fly a search mission heading due north first for 250 miles, then turning to fly due east for 10 miles before turning back south for a return flight to Oahu.  Though nobody realized it, at that moment the Japanese fleet was located directly north of Oahu, almost exactly 220 miles away, right on his course line and near the turn point at the end of his assigned line.

Amidst the chaos of the aftermath of the Japanese attack, Ensign Ruth took off and headed north.  As the seaplane banked around to the north, the Japanese fleet was still heading south, intent on reducing the distance its returning planes would have to fly to get back on board.  As the JRS-1 trundled along, however, the returning attack planes were already ahead and nearing the Japanese fleet.  As they came in, the Japanese fleet altered course to 315 degrees, turning into the wind to facilitate recovering their planes.

Meanwhile, lacking any hope of defending himself against any fighter cover, Ensign Ruth’s only hope was to avoid detection by flying just beneath a broken layer of clouds at 1,000 feet of altitude.  He skimmed along just below as all eyes searched the water for any sign of the enemy fleet, planning to duck into the clouds to avoid detection if any enemy planes or ships were spotted, and then make his escape as they radioed in a report.  The sailors in the back of his Sikorsky, however, were at the windows, scanning both the skies and waters while holding their Springfield rifles, ready to shoot at whatever they spotted.

For slightly more than two and a half hours, he flew north at the JRS-1’s normal cruising speed of 95 knots. Finally reaching a point 250 miles north of Oahu, Ensign Ruth turned to the east and flew his assigned ten miles.  Then he turned back south.  What he didn’t know was that the Japanese fleet was perhaps only 30 miles to directly west of his search track, directly parallel to the point where he had made his turn eastward.  Had he been assigned to turn westward instead, he would have likely flown into the midst of the entire Japanese fleet as it was recovering the planes from the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Neither the enemy or Ensign Ruth’s crew spotted each other.  Instead, the JRS-1 finished its eastward leg and Ensign Ruth turned south to fly another two and a half hours back to Ford Island.  On the way, the crew excitedly reported another airplane that following behind and below.  As they neared Kaneohe Bay, across the island from Pearl Harbor, Ensign Ruth quickly descended to get below the unidentified aircraft.  Cautiously, they watched as it flew onward into the distance, apparently not noticing them.  If they had been engaged by the aircraft, which they assumed to be enemy, by flying low he hoped that the sailors in back could have shot back with their rifles out of the seaplane’s side windows in the rear fuselage.  Weeks later, he discovered that the other aircraft had been just a civilian plane that was out dropping parachutists that day.

The flight across the island to Ford Island passed uneventfully.  However, when the seaplane arrived back at Pearl Harbor, the anchorage was a fiery scene of destruction.  Sunk and damaged battleships, cruisers, and support vessels littered the harbor.  A panorama of chaos was on display in front of his seaplane, with fires burning at the surrounding airfields as smoke blotted the horizon.

He turned the JRS-1 toward the single north-south runway on Ford Island and set up for a landing.  As he came in, he was shocked to find trigger happy antiaircraft gun crews shooting at his airplane.  The gunners were blazing away at anything that was flying, thinking the air was still full of Japanese planes, despite that the attack had ended hours earlier.  In the confusing period after the attack, several other US Navy and Army Air Corps planes were shot down by friendly fire.  Others were badly damaged while attempting to land, including many of the US Army Air Corps’ new B-17 Flying Fortress bombers that were coincidentally scheduled to arrive that morning after a long over water flight from California.

Despite the friendly fire, Ensign Ruth was able to land safely.  He shut down and reported back to the ready room for debriefing.  While inside, his plane was loaded with depth charges (the only armament the “Baby Clipper” could actually carry).  He was soon sent back out to hunt for enemy submarines — none were found.

Despite every effort, the Japanese fleet had slipped away undetected.  The disaster that was Pearl Harbor had ended.

Aftermath and Conclusion

In weeks after the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor, Utility Squadron One flew many missions, including numerous aerial photography sorties to document the damage to the Navy’s fleet and facilities at Pearl Harbor from the air.  Today, except for the few photos that were taken from Japanese planes, the squadron took almost all of the photos at Pearl Harbor, including those taken during the attacks of ships exploding and sinking, of men fighting the fires.  The photographers assigned to Utility Squadron One had all run out of their photo lab with their cameras.  Exposed and in the open, they started taking pictures, despite the extraordinary risks involved — they survived and provided the best record of the attacks that day.

Regarding his mission, in retrospect, had Ensign Ruth’s Sikorsky found the Japanese fleet, an immediate counterattack would have been almost certainly ordered.  There were several hundred American fighters and bombers on the US Navy’s aircraft carriers available for that, though more than 350 Army planes had been destroyed.  All of the US Navy’s aircraft carriers were untouched, having been at sea when the Japanese attacked the anchorage.

While the counterattack might have dealt some damage to the Japanese fleet, in hindsight, it seems more likely that they would have fared badly against any defensive air patrols mounted by Japanese fighters.  The under-appreciated Mitsubishi A6M2 Zero would later teach many hard lessons when the US Navy first tangled with the Japanese.  Their pilots were experts, they had superior equipment, and they flew with brilliant tactics and skill.

It is hard to say what might have happened — but in the months afterward, the stage was set to settle the score with the Japanese on much better terms at the Battle of Midway, where, aided by the decoded signals of the Japanese fleet, the Americans capitalized on Japan’s vulnerabilities and sank much of its fleet.  Had Ensign Ruth spotted the Japanese ships that day, the resulting engagement would have not only changed history but might well have spelled defeat for the US aircraft carriers.  Had that happened, it would have left the US Navy without the aircraft carriers it needed later to turn the tide of the Pacific War.

Ultimately, the bravery of Ensign Ruth’s flight crew was recognized fully by the US Navy.  For his initial mission that day — flying first, alone, quite nearly unarmed, and against all odds — he and the other five men on his crew were awarded the Navy Cross.  It would only be much later that analysts would realize just how close his flight had actually come to finding the Japanese fleet.

Ensign Wes Ruth survived the war and lived to 101 years old.  He passed away on May 23, 2015.  The Sikorsky JRS-1 that he flew that day, as unlikely as it sounds, is still with us today. You can visit it at the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy site at Washington-Dulles International Airport where it is undergoing restoration to the paint scheme it bore that day at Pearl Harbor.

The post First Off at Pearl Harbor first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

The challenges of aerial photo interpretation are extraordinary.  A dark smudge at the base of a hill may be the concealed entrance of a military cave complex.  Forests and orchards may conceal armored vehicles and supply depots.  An abandoned barn might house a secret command post.  With training and experience, a lot can be seen.  Yet even the most skilled photo interpreter sometimes can’t make head or tails of what they’re seeing.

How would you do as a photo interpreter?  The following photos are from 1943 and 1944, during the height of World War II in Europe. Can you guess what each shows?  Is it military or civilian?

Click on each image to expand it in size for closer analysis.

Photo 1 — Odd shapes in a previously empty field by Amsterdam

Photo 2:  Small white circles along a dirt track at Innsbruck, Germany

Photo 3:  Strange buildings near Leipzig, Germany

Photo 4:  Strange objects on the surface of the water.

Photo 5:  Network of white lines on the island of Borkum, near the German-Dutch border

Photo 6: Coastal defenses or something else on the Dutch coast

Photo 7:  A German secret weapon in a strange pattern on the sea off Norway’s coast?

Photo 8:  What kind of facility is this in Nazi-occupied Norway?

Photo 9:  Weird lines in the water along the coast at St. Brieue, France

Photo 10:  Luminous dots in patterned rows in the late Autumn sunlight

Photo 11:  A test track on the surface of a frozen lake in Norway?

Photo 12:  Lines in the plowed field showing something underneath near Rheims, France

The Mysteries are Solved

So how did you do?  Here are the correct answers, from April 1944:

Photo 1:  This turned out to be a direction finding station for use by Luftwaffe night fighter aircraft, located near Amsterdam.

Photo 2:  These strange dots arranged along a dirt track were uncovered to be German Army tents at an encampment at Innsbruck.

Photo 3:  These three-sided buildings at Leipzig were civilian, designed to maximize sunlight exposure into each of the apartments.

Photo 4:  Sunlight highlights the shapes of sails of a civilian fishing fleet that was moving together toward a nearby port.

Photo 5:  These lines on the island of Borkum in the Frisians near the German-Dutch border were simply field drainage ditches.

Photo 6:  The strange pattern on the beach was revealed as esparto grass planted to arrest sand dune erosion on the Dutch coast.

Photo 7:  This turned out not to be a German super weapon, but rather a naturally occurring whirlpool at Tingvold Fjord, Norway.

Photo 8:  This bizarre farm turned out to be full of fox pens with separate enclosures, a small Norwegian civilian fur business.

Photo 9:  These small squares in the water by Toulon, France, were entirely civilian — an effort farming shellfish in the sea.

Photo 10:  The pattern of luminous white dots on the fields in the Autumn were treetops, wet with dew and reflecting the sunlight.

Photo 11:  The circular track on the ice in Norway turned out to be civilian in nature, simply snow cleared for ice skating practice.

Photo 12:  Under these farm fields near Rheims are the outlines of World War I trenches, silent witness to a past conflict.

Photo Credits:  All aerial photographs in this feature were drawn from the April 1944 issue of the USAAF publication “Impact” and were originally classified as CONFIDENTIAL.  They have since been declassified for publication.

The post Puzzle Pictures first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

“Masters of the Air” — What really happened?

On Sunday, October 10, 1943 — 73 years ago in aviation history — the 8th Air Force flew a bombing raid against the city of Münster in Nazi Germany.  At the time, America’s airmen were still fairly inexperienced, having only just begun six months earlier flying bombing raids against Nazi Germany.  Despite extensive planning, the mission that day became one of the worst disasters in 8th Air Force history.  Among those who flew that day, the airmen of the 100th Bomb Group (Heavy) suffered the worst — of the 14 bombers that pressed on to the target, only one bomber made it back.  After Münster, the 100th Bomb Group’s nickname would be forever fixed in memory as “The Bloody Hundredth”.

This is the story of the crew of that lone survivor, a B-17 Flying Fortress nicknamed, “Royal Flush” (B-17F-45-VE 42-6087 — LD-Z), flown by pilots Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal and Winifred T. “Pappy” Lewis of the 418th Bomb Squadron.

The Mission Plan

At the 100th Bomb Group’s base at Station 139, Thorpe Abbotts, the early morning of October 10, 1943, began with a mission briefing.  In front of a room before the assembled pilots and navigators scheduled for the mission, the group’s senior officers and intelligence briefers stood together before a map with pins and lines marked on it that indicated their route and target.  The airmen sat in chairs, already dressed in their flight gear to help keep warm against the bitterly cold morning air of England that late Autumn.

With long pointers, the intelligence officers highlighted the target and reviewed the details of the day’s mission.  Waypoints were pointed out along the route and the headings to and from the target were marked along with the times they were expected to arrive at each.  The weather was detailed on a separate blackboard that was propped up on a board next to the map.  After flying across the English Channel and veering over the North Sea, the bombers were to fly into Germany and then directly toward the target.  They were to veer slightly to the south, in hopes of throwing off the German radar controllers as to their true target, before turning back northeast, passing the “Initial Point” (IP), and commencing their bomb run on Münster.

The brief included reconnaissance photos of the target, as well as rendezvous times for supporting fighter aircraft that were supposed to be flying that day to defend the bombers.  Those escorting fighters, it was hoped, would help fight off attacks by the Luftwaffe.  In 1943, Nazi Germany’s air defenses were at their greatest strength.  Every mission the 8th Air Force flew was met by at least 50 to 100 fighters and sometimes even more.  There would be losses.

The briefing officer from G2 (intelligence) gave his report, estimating the expected opposition.  With a grave tone, he described that approximately 245 single-engine and 290 twin-engine fighter planes might be defending the target.  These German fighters would be a combination of single-engine types, such as Messerschmitt Me 109s and Focke-Wulf Fw 190s, and twin-engine planes that would likely carry air-to-air rockets, such as Messerschmitt Me 110s, Me 410s, and Junkers Ju-88s.

Hoping to divide German fighter defenses, a diversionary raid of B-24 Liberators was scheduled to bomb another city.  G2 assured the crews that this diversionary raid would probably draw off up to half of the enemy fighters.  To escort the bombers, the 8th Air Force’s P-47B Thunderbolts had been tasked to trade off in relays both to and from the target.

Münster was no “Milk Run”

The briefers made no effort to paint the mission as a “milk run” and they could see the stress written on the faces of the airmen.  The 100th Bomb Group had seen extensive action over the previous few days and had suffered losses.  The Luftwaffe was in top form and its pilots were highly expert.  Furthermore, flak over the target was expected to be intense and very accurate.

A detailed description of the target followed including the aiming point for the bombardiers.  Over the previous two days, the targets had been military in nature, however, the mission against Münster was different.  This mission was the first time the 8th Air Force would bomb an entirely civilian target.

Ominously, the aiming point was Münster Cathedral, located in the very heart of the old city.  The cathedral dated from the 14th Century, though that wasn’t told to the flight crews that morning.  The crews were told that targeting the civilian population at Münster would deprive Germany of its much-needed civilian railway workers that supported the Nazi war effort.  As the tail gunner of the B-17 “Royal Flush”, Sgt. Bill DeBlasio, would later relate, “It seemed reasonable at the time.”

Opposing Sides

For the Münster raid, the 8th Air Force fielded a strong force of 274 B-17 Flying Fortresses from the 3rd Bomb Division’s 13th Combat Bomb Wing (13th CBW).  In addition, a total of 216 P-47B Thunderbolts were tasked to fly escort.  With that many fighters in the air, the flight crews felt that there was some hope that the fighters would hold off the Luftwaffe and maybe even run up a good score of kills.  The German Luftwaffe was certain to intercept the 13th CBW as flew to and from the target — the only question was whether the American fighters would be in the right place at the right time to intercept.

Even if 216 fighters were tasked to support the raid, given the fuel situation, they would have to trade-off.  Thus, at any point along the route, only one or two Fighter Groups would be present to escort the bombers.  The large diversionary raid by the B-24 Liberators would lure away some of the enemy, possibly evening the odds for the American fighter pilots.  Flak over the center center of Münster was predicted to be heavy — most losses, the planners noted, would come over the target and be due to flak.

The Flight Crew of “Royal Flush”

The flight crew assigned to fly the B-17 “Royal Flush” that day consisted of the following:

• ROSENTHAL, Robert, LT, Pilot — nicknamed “Rosie” while in the 100th BG
• LEWIS, Winifred T., LT, Copilot — nicknamed “Pappy” while in the 100th BG
• BAILEY, Ronald C., LT, Navigator
• MILBURN, Clifford J., LT, Bombardier
• HALL, Clarence C., SGT, Top Turret/Engineer
• BOCCUZZI, Michael V., SGT, Radio Operator/Gunner
• DARLING, Loren F., SGT, Waist Gunner
• SHAFFER, John H., SGT, Waist Gunner
• DeBLASIO, William J., SGT, Tail Gunner
• ROBINSON, Ray, SGT, Ball Turret Gunner

New in Theatre

The 100th BG’s newest crew was that of pilots, Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal and Winifred T. “Pappy” Lewis.  They and their crew of another eight men (10 in all) were considered inexperienced or “green”.  They had just arrived at the 100th Bomb Group as replacements for losses sustained during the group’s previous mission that had been flown against Schweinfurt.

For Rosenthal and Lewis, the Münster raid was only their third mission since arriving in England.  The other two raids had been flown over the previous two days — on October 8th against Bremen, and then on October 9th to Marienburg.  On the morning of October 10th, they were flying their third consecutive mission day, a rough start for what promised to be a dangerous tour.

At the time, informal USAAF estimates were that the average crew was expected to survive between 12 and 15 missions before getting shot down.  A full tour was 25 missions — few were expected to complete a tour and return to the USA.  In context, the first crew to survive a full tour of 25 missions was from the B-17 “Hell’s Angels” (#41-24577) with the 303rd Bomb Group, having achieved the nearly impossible 25th mission just five months earlier on May 13, 1943.  A week later the crew of the “Memphis Belle” managed it too, and were featured in the famous film of that name.

Since those two crews had survived a full tour of duty, several other crews had made it to 25 missions.  Survival of a full tour of 25 missions was still vanishingly rare.  Losses were heavy, mission after mission.  Furthermore, things weren’t getting better.  The odds of surviving were worsening as the 8th Air Force began to select targets deeper and deeper into Germany.

For the crew of Lt. “Rosie” Rosenthal and Lt. “Pappy” Lewis, the B-17F Flying Fortress “Royal Flush” was not their usual plane.  Their own B-17F, “Rosie’s Riveters”, had sustained damage on their first mission to Bremen on October 8, two days earlier, and was still undergoing repair.  The day before they had also flown “Royal Flush” to Marienburg and had returned in good shape.

“Royal Flush” was to fly in a position toward the rear in the Bomb Group’s formation.  From that position, they would have a front-row seat to witness the mission and upcoming carnage.  Chillingly, the trailing aircraft in the rear of the formation was often the first to be shot down.

What Can Go Wrong Will Go Wrong

From the start of the mission, nothing worked as planned.  First, the hope that up to half of the Luftwaffe’s fighters would go after the diversionary raid flown by the USAAF’s B-24s didn’t work out.  Given weather issues and other problems, the diversionary mission was apparently aborted — the records are confusing in this regard.  Some records indicated that 39 B-24 may have taken off to bomb Coesfeld, Germany, but may have turned back early.  That view is supported by the fact that the B-24 groups took no casualties that day.

In any case, the diversionary raid was either not flown at all or was so small that the Luftwaffe simply ignored it.  Instead, the German radar operators and air defense controllers focused exclusively on the main attack, a single bomber stream tracking directly toward Münster.  The order went out to all of the fighter-interceptor units to prepare for take-off.

Worse yet, the weather kept much of the scheduled fighter escort on the ground.  Despite that, the 13th CBW bombers took off and, even when it was realized that there would be only very limited fighter escort, they were not recalled.  For their part, the bombers flew on into Germany, completely unaware that their fighter escort would never show.  In retrospect, the disaster to come was all too predictable.

The 100th BG was flying in the most dangerous position at the back of the larger 13th CBW formation.  Without knowledge of the multiple failures already plaguing the mission, the bomber force began the long flight toward the Dutch coast and beyond.

The German Luftwaffe’s fighter controllers concentrated everything they had on the main bomber stream.  At the many interceptor bases across northwestern Germany, pilots strapped into their planes.  Each plane’s fuel tanks were topped off.  Rockets were loaded under the wings.  Ammunition was loaded for each gun.  As the bombers crossed the coast over the Netherlands, dozens of German planes were taking off.  Climbing up to 20,000+ feet, they began forming up for the attack.

The Luftwaffe planes were Fw 190s, Me 110s, Me 109s, Me 210s, Me 410s, and Ju 88s.  Many carried the Luftwaffe’s newest air-to-air rockets, designed expressly for the purpose of attacking American bomber formations.  Many of the single-engine fighters were equipped with the new heavy cannon and machinegun pods hung under the wings, adding to the firepower that they could use in attacking the bombers.

Leading the 3rd Bomb Division’s 13th Combat Bomb Wing was John K. Gerhart, commanding officer of the 95th BG.  Behind Gerhart’s 95th BG was the 390th BG and the 100th BG.  In turn, the 100th BG was led by pilots Major Eagan and John Brady flying in the B-17 “M’lle Zig-Zag”.  The 13th CBW flew in the newly developed “combat box” formation that had been designed to maximize the defensive effect of the combined firepower of the formation’s many machine guns.

Before flying over the Dutch coast, quite a few of the bombers from the three groups of the 13th CBW aborted with various engine problems and other issues.  This was to be expected.  This was, after all, the third straight mission day.  Those planes and crews that aborted were the lucky ones.  In the 100th BG, 21 bombers set out.  Of those, seven aborted and turned back.  This left 14 B-17s with the group to continue toward Münster.

They encountered little resistance as they passed over Holland.  As the bombers headed into Germany, they realized that the promised fighter escort was nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps, they hoped, the P-47s were just running late and would catch up.

First Fighter Attacks

As the formation crossed into Germany, no attacks had yet come.  However, as the bombers neared Münster, everything changed.  At 14:53, just nine minutes from the scheduled start of the bomb run — about 25 miles from Münster — the Luftwaffe commenced its first attacks.  First, a series of Me 109 and Fw 190 fighters slashed through the formation, firing their guns.  The extra 20mm cannons mounted under their wins quickly took their toll on the bombers.  These cannons were the most deadly types of guns in the air — a 1945 survey revealed that 6% of the bomber crew casualties were caused by 20mm shells, three times more than by enemy machine guns, which accounted for 2% of casualties.  Flak was always the biggest killer, however, and the survey showed 64% of the casualties were credited there.

Immediately after the Me 109s and Fw 190s had finished their attack, a combined force of Me 110 and Me 410 Zerstoren came in.  These flew toward the formation from the rear and began firing rockets.  As the trailing group, the 100th took the brunt of these attacks.  Almost immediately, the group’s leader, Eagan in the B-17 “M’lle Zig-Zag”, was hit.  Despite the damage sustained to the center of the fuselage, Eagan didn’t pull out of the formation.  Instead, he slowed his plane and began to descend.  The 100th BG followed the lead plane as it began to slow and descend alongside and the formation began to fall apart.

Slowed, the 100th BG fell behind as the 13th CBW’s other two bomb groups steadily pulled ahead toward the target.  Seeing one group descend out of the protective envelope of fire from the wider formation, predictably, the Luftwaffe pilots concentrated their attacks on the 13 remaining B-17s of the 100th BG.

One of the bombers with the 100th BG, piloted by Keith Harris, normally from the 390th BG, recognized the disaster to come even as it was unfolding.  Pushing his throttles forward, he climbed out of the formation to join with the 95th BG as it passed overhead.  Another of 100th BG’s B-17s, “Pasadena Nina”, followed as well.  The remaining eleven bombers of the 100th BG faced the Luftwaffe’s attacks alone.

In the seven minutes that followed, eight of the remaining eleven aircraft in the 100th BG’s formation were lost to intensive fighter attacks. The B-17 “Aw-R-Go” was hit and caught fire.  As the crew baled out, it soldiered on for a short while before exploding in midair. One crew member, the tail gunner, SGT Charles A. Clark, couldn’t get out in time and was killed in the explosion. The other nine either jumped or, in at least two cases, were blown clear of the plane. One of those, T/SGT Orlando E. Vincenti, had been fighting a fire in the radio room and when he jumped his parachute was on fire. He plummeted to his death. The other eight survived and were captured.

Amidst the chaos, the B-17 “Sexy Suzy, Mother of Ten” was hit by 20 mm cannon rounds from a fighter and caught fire. While some accounts state that the plane collided with a damaged Me 109, the crew reports do not support that. Only four of the ten men on board baled out successfully — all were captured — and the rest were killed. Another bomber, the B-17 “Sweater Girl”, went down after it lost the #2 engine — the crew baled out and the plane crashed at Ostberven, near the Dormund-Ems canal.

Moments later, the B-17 nicknamed “Stymie” was hit hard and the crew turned for home.  The German fighters pounced but soon let it go as it was badly damaged and descending rapidly.  The Luftwaffe kept its focus on the main formation.  Flak subsequently downed the plane, though the crew was able to belly land the plane in a field. The entire crew survived and was captured.

The group leader, Eagan in the B-17 “M’lle Zig-Zag”, was finally downed by more fighter attacks.  Eagan’s entire crew parachuted to safety and was taken prisoner.  Finally, just three B-17s remained and onboard “Royal Flush” things were desperate.  A rocket from the attacking fighters had put a huge hole in the right wing and taken out two engines.

Bomb Run

Undeterred, the last three bombers of the 100th BG turned northeast at the IP and began their bomb run.  The 13th CBW formation had gone on ahead to bomb Münster.  To the remaining planes of the 100th BG, these planes were little more than distant specks, racing ahead.  As German flak intensified as the three passed the outer limits of Münster.  Finally, the Luftwaffe’s fighters ended their air attacks and withdrew.  They would orbit and await the surviving bombers after they left the target area.

After passing the IP, the rule was that bombers would have to fly straight and level at exactly 150 mph.  This lasted for about two minutes and gave the bombardiers time to aim and drop their bombs.  Only then would the pilots take control and turn back toward England.  On paper, it meant that the bombers could be more accurate in dropping their bombs — in practice, it meant that the German flak gunners had an easy time aiming their shells.

In this attack, the larger numbers of bombers in the combined 13th CBW had shared the fire from the deadly flak gunners.  Together, they dropped their bombs starting at 15:03.  The last bombs hit their targets at approximately 15:15.  With that, the main force of the 13th CBW turned toward home.  Next came the three bombers of the 100th BG.  They were heading into the target alone, which gave the German flak gunners the opportunity to concentrate their fire.  There were no other targets in the skies over the city.

At once, the sky filled with puffs of black from the explosions of the flak rounds.  As usual, they were shooting with extraordinary accuracy.  The Luftwaffe boasted well-trained flak crews and sophisticated radar and gun direction systems. As a result, the German flak was right at the correct altitude.  The shell bursts were perfectly aimed with the exact lead required to target the three bombers as they passed over the city center.  Tiny bits of shrapnel cut through the fuselage and wings of “Royal Flush” from nearby explosions.

With no enemy fighters around, one of the waist gunners on “Royal Flush”, Sgt. Loren Darling, crossed the open bomb bay on the narrow catwalk to look in on the two pilots, “Rosie” Rosenthal and “Pappy” Lewis.  He peered up into the cockpit from behind and looked out the windshield.  He could see the other two 100th BG B-17s just above and ahead.  These were the B-17s “Shackrat” and “Horny”.  Suddenly, both bombers took direct hits from flak.  Later, he recalled, “Just like that, they were balls of black dust.  Bomb bay doors were open, ready to spill out twelve 500-pound high-explosive bombs, then Boom.  Gone forever.”  Each plane had carried ten men — he didn’t believe that there were any survivors from either.

All but one of the 100th BG’s B-17s had been hit and destroyed.  Alone in the skies over Münster, two engines out and streaming black smoke, at 15:18, “Royal Flush” dropped its bombs and turned toward home.  The armada that had once been the 100th BG was no more.  The other two planes that had flown ahead from the 100th BG formation had also dropped their bombs on the target — this was Capt. Keith Harris, who was flying with the 100th BG that day in the B-17 “Stork Club” and Lt. John Justice in the B-17 “Pasadena Nina”.

“Pasadena Nina”, however, wouldn’t make it back to England.  The bomber was hit by flak over Holland and spun in — two of its crew were killed, seven taken POW, and one, Lt. Justice himself, evaded capture and made it back with the help of the Dutch Resistance.  He only returned to Thorpe Abbotts many months later.

As soon as Rosenthal and Lewis left Münster, they searched for other bombers of the 13th CBW, hoping to rejoin the others for mutual protection.  By the time they had finished bombing the target, “Royal Flush” had fallen approximately :15 minutes behind the first bombers that had struck Münster.  The closest formation was perhaps just four or five minutes ahead, but at the speeds they were flying, that meant that they were already between 15 and 50 miles away — well out of sight.  With two engines out, they had no hope of catching up.  In all directions, as Rosenthal and Lewis scanned the skies, they found no other airplanes.  It was as if the skies had suddenly cleared.

In any case, rejoining with the 13th CBW would not have offered much protection.  The German fighters had resumed their attacks on the formation.  There were many casualties.  In the 390th BG, eight aircraft were lost — nearly half the entire group as 18 of its B-17s had flown to Münster.  The 95th BG had fielded 19 B-17s and, of those, five were lost to enemy fighter attacks.  The rest of the 3rd BD lost an additional four planes.  Most of the surviving planes suffered heavy damage.

More Fighters!

Rosenthal and Lewis soon found themselves facing dozens of attacking Luftwaffe fighters.  They were alone and an “easy target”. The Luftwaffe fighters easily spotted the lone bomber because it was trailing black smoke.  Worse yet, “Royal Flush” was slowed and steadily losing altitude.

As the first fighters streaked in to finish off the wounded bomber, Rosenthal and Lewis began to pull the bomber around the sky in defensive maneuvers to throw off the attackers’ aim.  Since the control surfaces were directly connected by push wires to the control yokes in the cockpit, it took the combined muscles of both men to maneuver the big B-17.  The tactic worked as Germans had not expected the B-17 to suddenly bank steeply and turn away so violently.  Then, as they circled around, they watched it reverse and do it again against the next attack.

The maneuvers were so severe that the waist gunners in the back of the bomber could barely hold on.  Nonetheless, they tried to fire at the German fighters as they flashed past.  Only the tail gunner and ball turret gunner were properly strapped in.  The Germans recognized that an attack from the rear would give them the best chance of downing the lone bomber quickly.  Their next attacks came in next directly from behind.  The tail gunner, Sgt. Bill DeBlasio, began to fire at them with his two .50 caliber machine guns.

In a letter to “Rosie” Rosenthal written years later in 2001, Sgt. DeBlasio recounted the events of that day.  He began by mentioning that it had been seven years since he had suffered his last “flashbacks” — in other words, for 49 years, the events of that day over Münster had still haunted him.  The letter was the first time he would recount the mission after all those years.

He reported that the German fighter planes were coming in in lines of four abreast and were holding their fire until they were only 800 yards away.  The first four to attack flew right into his guns:

“I lined up on the number two man from my left and fired three short bursts. His left wing flew off over his plane and crashed into the plane to the outside.  Both went down on fire.  I then switched to their inside plane on the right and fired at him.  Smoke started coming from the plane and the canopy came off, the plane rolled over ejecting the pilot.  I couldn’t follow his plight as I had one more plane to deal with.  Just as I brought my sights to bear on him, he peeled off to his left (my right).”

The German fighters pressed in, undeterred by the first losses.  After all, “Royal Flush” was a lone bomber with two engines out — a damaged straggler.  Further, they could see that the plane had clearly suffered a lot of battle damage already.  Finishing the job should have been easy.  Their only mission was to ensure that the bomber and crew didn’t make it back to England, as then they would come and bomb again on another day.

The gunners kept up return fire as Rosenthal and Lewis threw the plane from left to right attempting to dodge the attacks.  Incredibly, their flying caused many of the attackers to miss, but they were losing altitude fast since the bomber had only two engines running.  Both pilots were braced so that they could hold the left rudder pedal pressed to the floor to counteract the torque from the unequal thrust.  DeBlasio, however, was proving to be an ace shot — literally.

“There was a period of about 4 or 5 minutes respite then they started again. I believe we may have been about 15 thousand feet as two Ju-88’s joined the fray, with two engines out there was no way we could maintain high altitude.  Again there were 4 FW 190’s, only this time they were staggered more or less one behind the other, not in a straight line as were the first bunch. This time however the two Ju-88’s were on each end of the 4 fighters making six aircraft lined up on us. For some unknown reason, I decided to try for the bigger aircraft first.  I thought I noticed something hanging from the bottom of their aircraft.  About that time, here come the rockets.  A total of 8 rockets come at us in about 1 minute of time, all missed.  It dawned on me that what I saw beneath the aircraft were their flaps. They needed to lower their flaps to give them a more stable platform for their rockets.

“I started firing at the Ju-88 on the left and soon he was on fire and sliding off on his right wing.  The other aircraft had closed too within 600 yds and I just started raking my fire from left to right and back again.  During this exchange two of the FW-190’s in the center crashed into each other, as I believe I hit them both at the same time.  So we have a total of six planes shot down and we don’t know how many, if any, were damaged.”

Incredibly, Sgt. DeBlasio became an ace that day in a single mission.  Sadly, he was one of those bomber gunners whose exploits remain relatively unrecognized.  After the war, it was determined that most bomber formations vastly over-claimed the numbers of Luftwaffe aircraft shot down, often double or triple counting kills as different bombers fired on the same attackers or claimed as shot down German planes that were merely damaged and chose to break off the attack and land.

In the case of DeBlasio’s six fighters that he claimed to have shot down, none were officially recognized or verified.  No other aircraft witnessed the valiant defense he put up.  However, his descriptions leave little doubt as to what happened.  In the attack on Münster, the 8th Air Force bomber crews claimed 105 Luftwaffe fighters shot down — German records reflected losses of just 25.  Most likely, Sgt. DeBlasio accounted for six of those.  In all likelihood, he made a difference and saved “Royal Flush” that day.

Finally, the last of the German planes broke off the attack and headed back to their bases, running low on fuel. Much of the Luftwaffe had concentrated on attacking the other aircraft in the 13th CBW, miles ahead.  As they flew over Holland, some of the promised escort of P-47 Thunderbolts finally arrived.  A brief dogfight followed against the retiring German fighters, who had hoped to avoid a dogfight with the escorts.  Low on ammunition and short on fuel, the German fighters were carrying the extra load of the heavy gun kits strapped under their wings.  The P-47s claimed 19 German fighters downed in exchange for perhaps one loss.

“Royal Flush” saw none of that.  Somehow, the B-17 had survived, although the situation was still desperate.  The bomber couldn’t hold altitude on the power remaining from the two engines, both on the left wing.  Passing over Holland, they watched as light and inaccurate flak was fired at them.  That too ended as they crossed the coast and headed toward England and yet, with the steady descent, Rosenthal and Lewis didn’t think they could make it back to base.  They might have to ditch in the water.  In the chill of October, they might not survive the cold in the water while awaiting rescue — from either side, as the Germans too patrolled the waters off Holland with their boats, hoping to pick up and imprison downed Allied airmen.

Rosenthal ordered the crew to throw out anything they could find.  Fire extinguishers, ammunition, extra oxygen bottles, and other gear and machine guns were tossed through the openings at the two waist gunner positions.  DeBlasio fired off his remaining ammunition to clear his two guns, knowing that the bullets added a lot of weight too.  Then, he unstrapped from the tail gunner position and came forward to assist throwing out more.  As much equipment as could be removed was tossed out.  Hundreds of pounds lighter, the rate of descent was reduced.  With this, they could make to the coast of England after all.

The damage to the plane was remarkable.  In one attack, a 20mm shell from one of the attacking Me 109s or Fw 190s had ripped through the fuselage of “Royal Flush”.  Both waist gunners were injured badly.  The radio man, Sgt. Michael Boccuzzi, administered first aid and morphine.  Both survived but had to be sent back to the USA, given the severity of their injuries.

Finally, “Royal Flush” made it back to England.  They found the airfields covered in low cloud.  After several turns, they located Thorpe Abbotts, which was closer to the coast and therefore less socked in. Firing emergency flares, they made an emergency landing with wheels down.  The B-17 rolled to a stop and Rosenthal and Lewis shut down the engines.  The crew piled out of the plane onto the mowed grass of the runway.  Sgt. DeBlasio later recounted the end of the mission:

“I remember sitting on the grass and vomiting for what seemed like an eternity.  I was asked to secure my guns, which I did.  I do not recall whether any of us put in claims for downed aircraft, as this was superficial compared to losing the entire Group except one plane.  Besides, it wouldn’t have done any good as we all knew any aircraft shot down had to be verified by at least one or two aircraft other than your own.  I remember your [written to Rosenthal] going in the ambulance with John Shaffer (waist gunner).”

Sgts. Shaffer and Darling, the two waist gunners were taken to the base hospital.  Both were awarded the Silver Star and the Purple Heart.

Recounting the Losses

Based on Missing Aircrew Reports, the following losses from the 100th BG were recorded with the reasons for each loss cited:

B-17F “El P’sstofo” #42-30090 — 349BS/100BG [XR-B], Pilot:  Winston MacCarter — air attack took out engine #1, subsequently crashed at Haltern. All ten of the crew survived and were captured.

B-17F “Sexy Suzy, Mother of Ten” aka “Holy Terror” #42-30723 — 351BS/100BG [EP-D], Pilot: Bill Beddow — collision with an attacking Me 109, caught fire, and exploded from subsequent flak hits, crashed near Ostbevern.

B-17F “Sweater Girl” #42-30047 — 350BS/100BG [LN-Q], Pilot: Rich Atchison — during air attacks hit by the wreckage of a Me 109 and B-17, crashed at Schirl-Beverstrang, 4 miles east of Ostberven, near Münster.

B-17F “Leona” #42-3433 — 359BS/100BG [LN-W], Pilot: Robert Kramer — The plane was hit by flak on the right wing and caught fire when the aircraft was five miles north of Dorsten, 25 miles SW of Münster. Three crew members were unable to bale out, including 2nd LT Kramer; it was the crew’s third mission. According to German records, the plane came down “at Lambeck near Wulfen, 100 meters north of Schloss Lembeck”.

B-17F “Aw-R-Go” #42-30725 — 359BS/100BG [LN-Z], Pilot: Charles “Crankshaft” Cruikshank — air attacks by fighters set the plane on fire; it exploded and came down at Lienen, 15 miles from Münster. The tail gunner was killed in the fighter attack, and eight of the nine remaining crew baled out successfully and were captured. The left waist gunner, S/SGT Donald Garrison, did not bale out, but was blown clear of the aircraft and seriously wounded. After capture, his leg had to be amputated (he survived the war).

B-17F “M’lle Zig-Zag” #42-30830 — 418BS/100BG [LD-U], Pilot: John Brady — aircraft attacks took out engines #1 and #3, then the plane was hit by flak and finally crashed at Nottuln-Stevern, 12 miles west of Münster. All but one of the crew survived. The 418th BS CO, Major Egan, was an eleventh crewman on the flight — he too baled out and was captured.

B-17F “Slightly Dangerous” #42-30734 — 351BS/100BG [EP-G], Pilot: Charles Thompson — shot down by a fighter in a head-on attack, lost the right wing and the aircraft exploded and crashed near Walingen, 6 miles west of Münster; three KIA and the rest captured.

B-17F “The Gnome” aka “Invadin’ Maiden” #42-30823 — 350BS/100BG [LN-F/Y], Pilot:  Charles Walts — shot down by an Fw 190 attack that took out engine #2, catching the wing on fire, and the aircraft exploded, broke in half, and crashed at Hohenhalte, 6 miles west of Münster. Five of the men were KIA, the rest captured; one man, the navigator, 2nd LT Louis H. Oss, plummeted over 20,000 feet down in the spinning nose section before finally getting out only 1,500 feet from the ground.

B-17F “Horny” aka “Forever Yours II” #42-30023 — 349BS/100BG [XR-M], Pilot: Ed Stork — hit by flak, caught fire and crashed at Amelsbeuren, 3 miles south of Münster. Three days earlier, the crew had lost three engines and managed to fly 400 miles back to England and land successfully. Their luck ran out at Münster, however. Two of the ten-man crew were killed, the rest baled out and were captured.

B-17F “Shack Rat” #42-30087 — 351BS/100BG [EP-M], Pilot: Maurice Beatty — hit by flak and crashed at Vynen/Xanten, near Münster. All but two of the crew were killed.

B-17F “Pasadena Nena” #42-3229 — 349BS/100BG [XR-A], Pilot: John Justice — after the bomb run on the flight back, flak took out engine #4, plane spun in and crashed near Barneveld, Holland. Two crewmembers were KIA and seven were captured. The pilot successfully evaded capture, made contact with the Dutch Resistance, was interviewed by a British MI9 agent named Dick Kragt [cover name “Frans Hals”], the only escape line and evasion agent who worked in Holland and survived the war. A month later, Justice was able to return to England. Two months later, the Dutch family that kept him hidden and safe was arrested and sent to the Wobelin/ Neuengamme labor camp near Hamburg — he died three weeks later. His wife and child were imprisoned at camp Amersfoort and later Westerbork in Holland and only barely survived the war. It was the crew’s 17th mission.

B-17F “Stymie” #42-3237 — 418BS/100BG [LD-R], Pilot:  John Stephens — damaged from aircraft attacks and turned for home, hit by flak and belly landed at Holthausen.

Aftermath

On the ground at Thorpe Abbotts, the 10 man crew of “Royal Flush” was all that remained of the 140 men and 14 airplanes that had flown to Münster from the 100th BG that day.  The 100th BG had suffered the ultimate blow.  As well, in the previous two days, six other aircraft had also been lost — a total of 60 additional airmen.  Some had survived and parachuted out and been taken prisoner.

After debriefing, the crew of “Royal Flush” went for dinner.  They sat in a mostly empty dining hall.  Those flight crews that had aborted were there, as were several crews from a few of the bombers from the 95th BG that had been forced to land at Thorpe Abbotts due to the bad weather at their own base.  That night, the copilot, “Pappy” Lewis, walked over to the Officers Club, peered in, and found it empty.  After a drink, he went back to his quarters and turned in.  Three days after, the crew got sent for rest and recuperation at an elegant British manor hall, where for a short time they were feted and given the opportunity to wander the grounds and recover before returning to the 100th BG to fly more missions.

When they returned at the beginning of November, the 100th BG was full of fresh new faces.  Replacements flight crews were steadily arriving from the USA with new B-17s and many questions.  The crew of Rosenthal and Lewis, with its three missions, having been considered green before the Münster raid, were now the “old hands” to the new crews, who hung on their every word.

Postscript

The war would go on for one and a half more years.  Against all odds, both pilots, “Rosie” Rosenthal and “Pappy” Lewis, would survive their full tours.  All of the men that flew with them that day made it through.  Rosenthal, who had been a lawyer before the war, and his trusted copilot, “Pappy” Lewis, served together in the War Crimes Commission that prosecuted Nazi war criminals at Nuremburg after the war.  Both sat in on the hearings of Hermann Goering, the once-vaunted former head of the Luftwaffe.

During their service, both earned many medals and awards.  For the mission over Münster, Rosenthal was awarded the Silver Star.  Both men would return and build lives and families after the war and only rarely talk of their experiences.  They considered themselves to be just the lucky ones who survived.  The men of the “Greatest Generation” never put much stake in the claims that they were heroes.  As much as any other, those who made up the crew of “Royal Flush” and “Rosie’s Riveters” were the heart and soul of the 100th Bomb Group.

From its first mission on June 25, 1943, to its final mission on April 20, 1945, the 100th BG lost 229 aircraft, in which 768 men perished (KIA and MIA).  An additional 939 men bailed out and were made prisoners of war.  Thus, of the 1,707 men who were lost or captured throughout the entire war, 130 were lost just from that single mission over Münster — nearly 8%.

One Final Word

In all, Münster suffered 102 air raids between 1940 and 1945, mostly night raids by the RAF’s Bomber Command, causing moderate damage, though life went on fairly normally in the city.  The first daylight attack on Münster by the American bombers was this one, on October 10, 1943.  Approximately 700,000 bombs were dropped on the city in both day and night bombing raids.  The death toll topped 1,600, a mercifully low number only possible because the majority of the citizens in the city had been evacuated once the attacks began.

By the end of the war, 60% of all buildings in Münster were destroyed — in the old town at the city center, 90% were destroyed.  All utilities were destroyed, leaving the city without water, gas, or electricity.  When the Allied forces overran the city in April 1945, the damage was so bad that their progress was hindered by the piles of bricks and debris that blocked most of the streets.  Only 26,000 people remained.

As for the 14th C. cathedral at Münster that served as the aiming point that day, it survived the war and remains standing today.  The rest of the city was reduced to rubble in subsequent bombing raids in 1944. The rebuilding of the city would take years.  Today, Münster’s population has reached 300,000.

The post Royal Flush first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

Almost exactly one hundred years ago, the world’s first tanks rolled onto the battlefields of the Somme.  Amazingly, the first use of airplanes to support tanks while on the attack happened from the very start — on the first day that tanks saw combat at the Battle of Flers-Courcelette.  This is their story — and the story of the bravery of those who fought in one of the darkest battles of the Great War in 1916.

On September 15, 1916, Britain’s newest innovation — the tank — deployed onto the battlefields of the Somme.  The Germans called these new super weapons, “The Devil’s Chariots”, as they were virtually unstoppable — unless, of course, they broke down, got stuck in a ditch or trench or rolled into a shell hole and couldn’t get out.

Like the early tanks, aerial warfare too was still in its infancy.  Military airmen struggled to simply fly, let alone employ their flimsy, fabric and wooden biplanes and early monoplanes to any great effect.  Many airmen died in crashes, not even from combat with the enemy.  Piloting skills were poor.  Engines were unreliable.  Airplanes were prone to structural failure.  By modern standards, flying in World War I, then called the Great War, was a crap shoot.  For many airmen, life expectancy “Over the Front” was measured in days and weeks.

At the start of the Great War, the airplane was used just in reconnaissance missions.  Later, it was employed in bombing enemy targets, including in special missions to drop leaflets.  The next logical step in air warfare was combat between aircraft.  At first, reconnaissance planes took shots at one another with pistols and rifles that they carried on board.  Then, by the beginning of 1916, the earliest pursuit planes were in the air.  They hunted the reconnaissance planes and bombers, usually alone, but then soon learned to fly in packs, hunting enemy aircraft.  As the air forces grew and the numbers of planes multiplied, pursuit planes began hunting one another.  What had started as a gentleman’s war between pre-war pilots who often knew one another was quickly overtaken by an industrial-scale battle for control of the air.

Ground attack missions soon were tried and a new word was coined — “strafing”, which meant to dive low over the trenches, which were vulnerable from above, and shoot one’s machine gun at the enemy soldiers down “in the mud”.  The soldiers in the trenches were terrified.  Soon, the pilots of both sides took to strafing the trenches regularly.  The French innovated a new weapon, called flechettes, which were tiny metal spikes with fins that when dropped from on high, could kill those unlucky enough to be in the open.  Indeed, 1916 was a seminal year in the development of combat uses of the airplane.

Airplanes Supporting Tanks

Mr. W. Beach Thomas, a writer with the Daily Mail, was assigned to cover the Royal Flying Corps during the Somme Offensive.  On or about September 16th, he wrote regarding his first knowledge of tanks on the battlefield.  Rather breathlessly, he related:

“Such a battle has too many parts to suffer description.  The battle in the air has perhaps never been equaled. The prisoner, who complained of the ‘Tanks,’ concluded by saying that they were anyway better than the aeroplanes.  How many fights there were no one knows.  I believe we destroyed more than the 13 enemy planes officially recorded. The enemy kite balloons bob up and down in terror after the havoc in their ranks.

“Village after village just behind the lines was bombed, and to complete the work the airmen came down low enough almost to stroke the back of the ‘Tanks,’ quite low enough to empty their bullet-drams at the enemy’s infantry. The Archies’ fired at them in vain, though, as it seemed to me scores of our craft were perpetually rolling across the sky on ball-bearings of shrapnel cloud. From half an hour before dawn till sunset there was a constant sky patrol enemywards and a continuous chassé over our advancing troops and the enemy’s batteries. Every headquarters that day rang with aircraft messages.”

So it seems that from his view, the tanks too were an extraordinary achievement, and the airmen were flying over them closely on their own missions to support the advance of the ground troops.  His reporting dated from the first days when tanks were employed in the Somme Offensive that September 1916.  Nonetheless, his article doesn’t quite show a purposeful relationship between tank warfare and air attack — it falls just short, though the two are in the same battle at the same time.

His declarations of extraordinary success in the air were also perhaps overstated.  It was at precisely this time that the German Jastas were arriving with their new Albatros D.I and Halberstadt D.II aircraft, and scoring more and more kills.  These were planes that vastly outclassed the B.E. 2Cs that formed the bulk of Britain’s air power.  Still, the RFC had massed its aerial forces and was flying thousands of missions over the Somme area.  The Germans simply could not match the Allied powers’ aerial intensity during the battle.

The First Air Support of a Tank Advance

It was at the Battle of Flers-Courcellete that the first air support of a tank advance took place, though it was certainly more a case of happenstance than plan.  The tanks’ mission was to support the advance of the British 4th Army toward Flers, Belgium.  On September 15, the first tanks entered battle.  There were just 49 available.  Of those, just 32 actually reached the Front to participate in the first attack.  In the days after, all were engaged, though many were destroyed, abandoned or stuck in the mud, day by day as the battle progressed.

The British commanding general in charge of the tanks, General Henry Rawlinson, known as 1st Baron Rawlinson, at first erred in his use of his new super weapon.  He split the tanks up to fight individually across the entire front, rather than concentrating them together into a powerful “fist” that might have punched through the enemy lines and advanced rapidly.  Nonetheless, each tank employed in this fashion was dramatically successful.

The German soldiers had never seen such machines.  There seemed little to not defy the armored hulks that bristled with four or more machine guns or cannons.  The tanks, despite being spread across the front in small groups, were effective, all the more so as they were supported by following infantry when attacking.

As a general rule, the Allied advance proceeded steadily, if slowly, against the German defenses. The tanks could, over roads, make a maximum speed of perhaps 4 mph.  Over the muddy ground of the battlefield, they were usually advancing at just 1 mph or 1 1/2 mph.  It was painfully slow going.

With the tanks, the Allies planned to advance into Flers itself and take the territory to the north and west of the town.  The town was a bombed-out wasteland of collapsed buildings, rubble, and the ghostly shapes of tree stumps in a wider muddied, shell-pocked landscape.  Hopes that the German Army would disintegrate entirely in the face of the new tanks had already proved overly optimistic even if the tanks were powerful assets on the battlefield.

Facing the new tanks, the Germans had little option but to retreat, which they did in reasonably good order.  Once back, they regrouped to fight, moving trench line by trench line, as the Allies advanced.  As a general rule, the Allied forces’ progress of the advance was stopped when the tanks got hit by artillery fire, broke down, or got stuck in shell holes, trenches, or ditches.  The Germans counter-attacked when the opportunity was right, and this further slowed the advance.

Another writer, this one for the Daily Telegraph and named Philip Gibbs, was assigned to cover the Battle of the Somme.  He attended the advance closely and describes the scene in agonizing detail, his prose doing little disguise what must have been a terrible experience for all sides:

“Machine-gun fire rapped out in fierce spasms, and the German ‘Archies’ were throwing up shells which burst all about the planes of our airmen, who came like a flock of birds over the battlefields, flying low above the mists. Long after the sun was at its height there was the white ghost of the moon in the other side of the sky, and it was a strange and beautiful thing to see these aeroplanes of ours shining as though with aluminium wings as they flew through the shellbursts.”

This style of reporting would be echoed over the decades that followed by the many brave Combat Camera crews who would later serve with the British and American air forces, including in World War II — and even right up to today.  However, back then the reporter, Philip Gibbs, was perhaps overly laudatory of the bravery of the pilots.  This was probably an accurate account given the terrible circumstances of the battle underway, though by modern standards it borders on propaganda:

“They did wonderful things yesterday, those British air-pilots, risking their lives audaciously in single combats with hostile airmen, in encounters against great odds, in bombing enemy headquarters and railway stations and kite balloons and troops, and registering or observing all day long for our artillery. They were out to destroy the enemy’s last means of observation, and they began the success of the battle by gaining the absolute mastery of the air.  Thirteen German aeroplanes (since reported by Sir Douglas Haig to be 15) were brought down, and their flying men dared not come across our lines to risk more losses.”

Then Philip Gibbs made note of the first report of an airplane supporting the advance of one of the British Army’s new tanks in the rubble-strewn streets of Flers, Belgium:

“The first news of success came through from an airman’s wireless, which said:—

“A ‘Tank’ is walking up the High Street of Flers with the British Army cheering behind.

“It was an actual fact. One of the motor monsters was there, enjoying itself thoroughly, and keeping down the heads of the enemy. It hung out a big piece of paper, on which were the words :—

“‘GREAT HUN DEFEAT. SPECIAL.’

“The aeroplane flew low over its carcase machine-gunning the scared Germans, who flew before the monstrous apparition. Later in the day it seemed to have been in need of a rest before coming home, and two humans got out of its inside and walked back to our lines.”

Analysis and Aftermath

From historic records, we can report what the writers of the day could not — that the attack at Flers was first overflown by the RFC’s 3 Squadron that morning in their Morane-Saulnier Type L and LA high wing monoplanes.  These aircraft were also known as “Morane Parasols”, and, in all, 50 had been supplied to the RFC by the French during 1915.  The surviving aircraft were still in use in late 1916 when the Somme Offensive began.  By that time, they were hopelessly outclassed by the newer German pursuit planes, yet the RFC kept them in action.

The Morane Parasols were primarily for providing reconnaissance support, but were armed with a single forward-firing machine gun.  It was this type of airplane that provided air support to the advance of the Mk 1 tank.  The identity of the pilot and which specific plane in 3 Squadron who flew that day to strafe the German soldiers, however, remains a mystery.

On the German side, the soldiers under attack were with the 4th Bavarian and, after a hard morning of fighting, they were ordered in the afternoon to make an orderly retreat to the northeast.  They moved quickly and in good order, evacuating Flers, and escaped one mile to the northeast, to the heavily bombed rubble and trenches of the town of Gueudecourt.

The story from the aspect of the tanks is as interesting as the story is from the air.  As for the tank that was involved on the “High Street” of Flers, it was one of the 49 Mk 1s that were fielded that day.  Specifically, it was Tank No. 538, nicknamed “Dracula” with “D” Company, carrying the identification, D16.  All of the tanks of “D” Company had “D” names.  Likewise, the tanks of “C” Company had “C” names, like “Cognac”, “Cordon Rouge”, “Chartreuse”, and “Champagne”.

Tank D16 “Dracula” was called a “female”-type tank, as it did not mount any heavy guns, but rather carried six machine guns.  The tank was commanded by Lt. Arthur Edmund Arnold, a Welshman from Llandudno. North Wales.

Earlier in the day of the attack on Flers, a creeping artillery barrage had led the British Army’s infantry advance.  D16 and the three other “D” Company tanks were assigned, these being numbered D6, D9, and D17.  They were a mix of Mk 1s that were “male”, as fitted with two quick-firing 6-pounder naval guns mounted in a sponson on each side of the hull, and four Hotchkiss machine guns, or “female” with carried five Vickers and one Hotchkiss machine guns instead.  From the start of the advance, “D” Company’s tanks were left trailing behind the main force as it advanced too quickly for the slowly plodding tanks to keep up.

On belated arrival at Flers, the four tanks of “D” Company split into two components.  Tank D16 drove up the road northward on its own directly into Flers, arriving on the outskirts of town at 8:20 am.  Although part of the town was already under the control of the British forces, there was still a lot of fighting when the tank belatedly arrived.  As it came to the outskirts of Flers, D16 was closely followed and supported by troops of the British 122nd Brigade.  By 8:30 am, the other three tanks had also come up the road northward to Flers and they began to work their way up the east side of the town, flanking the German positions in the rubble and ruin of the town.

Just 15 minutes later, at 8:45 am, Tank D16 made its run down the High Street, as reported above, creeping forward while firing all six of its machine guns against the heavily defended German gun positions.  At precisely that instant, the 3 Squadron Morane Parasol flew overhead.  Seeing the action below, the pilot circled back around and started strafing the German ground forces in support of the tank as it plodded up the street.  After the successful advance through the town, the infantry quickly dug in and occupied a position to the north and west sides of Flers and there was a lull in the battle.

The crew of Tank D16 “Dracula”, joining with Tank D18, dismounted to prepare a quick breakfast.  Having successfully engaged the enemy, a break was warranted.  However, their repast was cut short when a German observation balloon to the north spotted the tanks and reported their position to a German artillery unit.  As the first shells came in, the crews abandoned breakfast and returned to their tanks.  They quickly repositioned to escape being hit.

In the afternoon, Tank D16 “Dracula” was once again on the advance just north of Flers.  In the heat of battle, the tank came upon a wounded New Zealander who was on the ground in the midst of the battlefield.  Lt. Arnold ordered that they mount a rescue.  Driving closely Lt. Arnold jumped from the tank and ran across the open ground in a daring attempt to rescue the downed man.  The German machine gunners, however, were simply too good and Lt. Arnold was himself hit in the knee.  D16 “Dracula” then fell to the command of Gnr Jacob Glaister, Jnr., an unassuming prewar motorcyclist who hailed from Whitehaven in Cumberland.  Skillfully, Glaister commanded the tank to intercede, blocking the enemy fire, and thereby was able to rescue both men.

Just after lunch, the advance began again toward Gueudecourt.  One of the tanks, though not D16, was hit by artillery fire and burned out.  In the area between Flers and Gueudecourt, a series of German trenches were steadily overcome and occupied by the advancing British soldiers.  By mid-afternoon, however, the advance was ordered to consolidate its gains and prepare positions in the event of a German counter-attack  Reconnaissance aircraft from 3 Squadron and others flew extensive support, reporting on no less than 159 artillery batteries that the Germans had brought into action to support their retreat.  Due to the reconnaissance reports, 70 of these batteries were targeted with counter-battery fire and 29 were destroyed.

Ultimately, though it survived that day and two weeks after, Tank D16 did not last long in combat.  It never left the immediate area of Flers, though it battled numerous trench lines.  Finally, on October 1, 1916, it was lost while attacking at Eaucourt l’Abbaye, located only one and a half miles to the northwest of Flers.  As it happened, Tank D16, along with one other tank (designation unknown), advanced along the Flers Support Trench heading up toward Eaucourt l’Abbaye.  Curving around, it came to approach the abbey from the west.  Using their machine guns, the two tanks silenced the German gun positions on the west side of the abbey, but soon became stuck in the shell holes and ditches there.  When II Battalion, Bavarian Infantry Regiment 17, counter-attacked from the northwest side, the tank crews could not resist.  They abandoned the vehicles, setting fire to them so that they would not be captured.

Final Thoughts

Looking back, it seems that the concept of supporting armored advances with air power is far less modern than we tend to assume.  It began by mere chance in the heat of battle on the very first day, at the very dawn of armored warfare.  How often it happened thereafter in the Battle of the Somme or the rest of the Great War is a good question.  Few reports are available to provide any additional information on the topic.

Overall, the first use of tanks did not go as well as it could have.  The tank was a super weapon on the battlefield, yet the commanders knew next to nothing about how to use them.  The entire experience was simply seeing the tanks in hurried parades the week before the battle, as the crews were ordered to show their new vehicles to the ground commanders daily, rather than actually preparing for the battle ahead.  One tank crewman was later interviewed about his experienced and simply said, “…if only we had been able to reconnoiter… if only there had been some proper practice over ground that was like the Somme, and if only we had had a little more sleep and a little less showing off, what a marvelous story this Somme battle might have been.”

It doesn’t seem that the lessons about combining air power with tank power were learned that day at Flers.  It would take years and years before a strategic and tactical doctrine that combined armored assault with air power was born.  Then, it would be the Germans, not the British, who would achieve that with their World War II era Blitzkrieg concept.  Nazi Germany’s first attacks on Poland set a new standard for air and ground coordination, creating yet a new dawn in tank warfare.

Notably, the “High Street” in Flers, as the British called it, would see tank combat again in World War II when the Allied forces advanced through the town.  This was the second time that Flers was completely bombed out and destroyed.  Once again, it would be rebuilt and today, Flers is a beautiful small Belgian town well worth a quick visit.

There are a number of war memorials nearby dedicated to the Battle of the Somme, recalling the days when today’s peace was a distant dream.

The post The First Air Support for Tanks first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.

She was just the fourth woman in the world to be certified as a pilot.  She was also the first to fly a plane at night.  She invented sky writing — and then did it at night, illuminating her letters with flares that were mounted to the wings of her plane.  She was the first woman to “loop the loop” and only the fourth person in the world to do so.  She was the first woman to fly the air mail and the first to pioneer the mail route from Chicago to New York.  Additionally, she was the first to then fly the mail in Western Canada — and only the second person, male or female, to deliver mail by air in all of Canada.  Furthermore, in 1915, she built one of the first airports in Texas and also performed in countless airshows.

Her name was Katherine Stinson — and despite having achieved all that, most have probably never heard of her.

Katherine Stinson was barely 18 years old when she learned to fly.  Flying wasn’t even her first dream — but it became her life.  At first, all she hoped for was to make enough money to travel and study music in Europe.  Her interest in flying, however, was overwhelming.  She sold her piano to fund her flying lessons.  The dream of performing was upstaged by her love of airplanes.  She had the best instructor too — the famous pilot, Max Lillie, who taught at the Wrights’ school in Dayton, Ohio.  She began her training there in July 1912.  In just four hours of practice flying with her instructor, she was ready to solo.  Her instructors told her that she was a natural pilot — they were right.

Today few are familiar with her name, yet for a time she was one of the most famous women pilots in the world.  Most people these days associate her last name — Stinson — with aviation only because of her brother, Edward “Eddie” Stinson, who famously built airplanes under the Stinson brand name.  In truth, however, it wasn’t she who followed him into the business, but the other way around.  Her enthusiasm for flying was such that she also inspired her sister, Marjorie, to learn to fly.  For a time, all three siblings flew airshows together.  At every show, they performed under Katherine’s leadership.

Another of her firsts was that she adorned her plane with roses and flew in the 1913 New Year’s Day Pasadena Parade.  With her in the lead, the parade then included airplanes flying overhead.  The assembled crowds were astonished.  Today’s Parade of Roses accompanying the Rose Bowl football game is the descendant of that famous parade that she helped create.  To further the excitement of her flying performances, she started “bombing” the crowds with bundles of roses that she threw from the cockpit of her airplane.

By 1915 and 1916, Katherine Stinson had expanded her air touring beyond the United States to the wider world.  She was traveling the world to perform aerial stunts, night flying, and sky writing.  She traveled across Asia and performed in both Japan and China — the first woman to fly there.  The Japanese were so taken with her that they began calling her the “Air Queen”.  Her flights inspired a generation of Japanese women to pursue careers in fields that were until then viewed as the sole work of men.

Vying for Airshow Popularity

With worldwide acclaim, Katherine then became one of the first pilots to attempt a loop.  Despite that the plane she flew was barely up to the task, she was successful.  Thus, she became the first woman to ever loop a plane. Globally, she was the only fourth person to do so.  This made her a celebrity among pilots.  Just performing one daring loop, however, wasn’t enough to satisfy her.  In short order, she figured out how to loop a second time around.  Then a third.  Then she did it another 500 times as practice over the next six months.  With all that practice, she could confidently pull off the maneuver at all of her airshows.  However, inspired by her abilities, soon other pilots were looping too.

By 1916, the loop was part of every airshow’s typical fare.  The crowds wanted more.  But what?  The other pilots couldn’t think of anything else to do.  Katherine Stinson gave them the answer.

She expanded her showmanship to add an acting component.  Capitalizing on her youthful looks, she performed under the moniker of the “Flying Schoolgirl”.  On first meeting, most people thought she was still in her mid-teens.  It didn’t matter that she was already in her mid-twenties — appearances were everything.  She was all of 5′ 5″ and weighed only 101 pounds.  With such a slim physique, she could easily pretend to be a teen.

She would flash a smile and walk to the airplane, making the best use of her shapely figure.  Everyone would watch, thinking that it was nothing more than a actress pretending to be about to fly.  Then, much to their surprise, suddenly she called for the mechanics to start the motor, waved to the crowd, and took off!  Once she was airborne, she put on her performance right over their heads.  She would drop toys and candy to children.  Later, she dropped pamphlets, touting suffragette causes.

She was unapologetic too in her pursuits of “manly interests”.  She supported the cause of the Red Cross as well.  When it became clear that her flying depended on the quality of the maintenance given to the engine, she studied and practiced to become an aviation mechanic, mastering that field as well.  She was at home in a dress, her flying pants and jacket, or dressed in mechanic’s duds.  Yet still, she was never anything less than the perfect picture of femininity.

When her “flying schoolgirl” act “got old”, she took to wearing jodhpurs, a loose shirt and sometimes a flying jacket.  This choice of dress went over well when compared with the more conservative, stately dresses that were worn by others in that era.  When in Canada, the older ladies condemned her clothes choices as shocking and disgraceful.  Predictably, the men loved it.

To further build her fame, she took to performing extra shows at night, taking off and flying over the crowds with flares mounted on her airplane.  She was the first pilot in the world to fly at night, which was spectacle enough.  However, after a short time, she added a new idea — skywriting.  With the path of her plane illuminated by the flares on the tail and light bulbs on the wingtips, she sketched out letters in the sky in cursive.  Her first show where she did that was in California.  She spelled out the letters “CAL”.

By 1916, she was making over $1,000 per show (about $24,000 in today’s terms adjusted for inflation).  She realized that if she wanted to keep bringing in the big dollars, she would need something else — yet again.  She was always new acts and feats in the skies.  She always needed something more to do in her plane to keep the crowds coming.  She started to race her plane against racecars around oval horse tracks, much to the enjoyment of the crowds.  Famously, she raced Dario Resta, the winner of the 1916 Indianapolis 500, on track.  He raced her in his Peugeot L45.

She had a biplane especially built just for her airshows, one that she helped design.  She called it the Partridge-Keller “Looper”.  It was fitted first with an 80 hp Gnome Rotary engine that she purchased from the wreckage of the crash that had killed America’s most famous male stunt pilot of the era, Lincoln Beachey.  Later, she realized that the Gnome was reliable enough and replaced this with a 80hp Smith 6-cylinder radial engine.  Others thought she was superstitious, but it was nothing more than the question of reliability that drove her choice — she was a mechanic after all.

With her “Looper” airplane, she invented a signature maneuver called the Dippy Twist Loop.  It became a sensation and was her most requested maneuver for a time.  Today, weirdly, there are few pilots who know of it at all.

The Dippy Twist Loop

The secret of Katherine Stinson’s signature maneuver was to combine a loop with a snap roll.  The snap roll was done at the very top of the loop, when the airplane was also at its slowest.  At that point, she was also hanging upside down high over the heads of the adoring crowd.  With a flick of the wrist and a stomp on the rudder pedals, she would flip the plane all the way around.  Then, coming out of the snap roll, she would curve her way down on the back side of the loop.  As always, she would make sure to pull out of the loop very low to the ground.

With the Dippy Twist Loop, she was drawing ever greater numbers to her airshows.  The first time she performed the maneuver, many thought that she had lost control of her plane and was about to crash.  Then, they were stunned to see her regain control after the snap roll, still upside-down, and with a deft pull on the stick, cutting her throttle, she would zoom back down.  The crowds cheered wildly when they realized it had been planned all along.

She was more than a natural pilot — she was a natural showman.

Later Life

The burgeoning airshow scene was cut short in America with the big news of 1917 — America was entering the Great War in Europe.  Prior to America’s entry into the war, however, she was already serving the war effort — despite the neutrality of the USA at the time.  She took on work as a flight instructor for Canadian pilots, though she hosted them in Texas at her airport.

As each of her classes graduated from her flight training program, they went overseas to serve in the Royal Canadian Flying Corps.  Many flew combat on the front lines against the Germans.  She nicknamed her stable of military pilots, “The Texas Escadrille”, borrowing the French word for squadron.  The US Army soon followed suit and the pilots of the U.S. 1st Aero Squadron trained with her at San Antonio, on the very field she built with the money she had earned in the airshow circuit.

With the entry of the US into the war in 1917, she was keen to join up and serve America.  Although she was earning as much as $2,000 per airshow ($48,000 in today’s money, corrected for inflation), she volunteered to fly in combat.  She hoped to be a reconnaissance pilot since many said that women should not fly in combat.  Her skills were excellent, she said, and with her aerobatic abilities, she could make herself a hard target for an attacking pursuit airplane.  Already, she had trained dozens of men to go into combat. She knew what it took.

Despite her skills, she was denied the opportunity.  The military review board, in a raw display of the wanton sexism of the times, declared that women were unsuited for flying in the war — in any role, even reconnaissance.  Undeterred, she applied a second time.  Predictably, she was rejected again.  She was one of the only two women pilots to attempt to enlist during the entire Great War.  The other was her sister, Marjorie.  She was also rejected.

Still wanting to serve, Katherine signed on as an ambulance driver, a job that arguably put her in greater danger than flying would have.  She was shipped over to serve in both England and, more critically, in France, working very near the front lines.  She drove wounded soldiers from the trenches to rear area hospitals.  In doing so, she was at risk from artillery barrages, air attacks, and accidents involving unexploded ordinance that littered the battlefield.

Ultimately, her wartime ambulance driving put an end to her career as an airshow performer aviator.  While in France, she was diagnosed with pneumonia.  Thereafter, it was discovered that actually had tuberculosis.  She was bedridden.  It took six months before she recovered enough to return to the USA on board a ship.  She was terribly weak and many doubted — including her — that she would ever be able to get back into any type of flying, let alone airshow performing.

She was still sick after returning to the USA and her doctors advised that she was too frail to fly.  Still, she flew from time to time anyway, but mostly in distance flying rather than the more physically stressful aerobatic routines that she had previously performed.  She never returned to the moneymaking airshow circuit.  She flew the mail on and off for a few years, often in her custom-built Curtiss Stinson Special, a plane her brother had helped design and build.

Ultimately, facing the lasting effects of her health condition, she studied to become an architect.  With that, she left flying airshows forever.  She moved to Sante Fe, New Mexico, and there, in 1928, she met and married another pilot.  He was a war veteran and US fighter pilot named Miguel A. Otero, Jr.  He was the son of the Governor of New Mexico and also a lawyer.  Later, he became a judge and rose to some prominence in the Republican Party.  That suited her fine as the Republicans were the chief political sponsors of the suffragettes, supporting all women’s right to vote.  The Democrats were completely against it — women, they said, should remain in the kitchen and stay out of politics.

Kathrine Stinson-Otero and Miguel Otero never had children of their own.  Instead they raised four adopted children — Barbara, Jerry, Jackie, and Edward Stinson.  These were Kathrine’s brother Jack’s children, whom she adopted and raised.  After many years, finally she defeated the ill effects of her tuberculosis and lived a full life.  Only late in life after a long illness, Katherine Stinson-Otero passed away in 1977 at the age of 86.  She left a strong legacy in aviation history and inspired many other women to fly — more so than any other woman of her era.

Among those who were inspired to fly was none other than Amelia Earhart.

Katherine Stinson earned the name the Japanese once called her — she was the first among the greats and the Air Queen.

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The post The Dippy Twist Loop first appeared on HistoricWings.com :: A Magazine for Aviators, Pilots and Adventurers.