Hitler's Heroine: Hanna Reitsch (19 page)

No sooner had they reached the Ack-Ack guns than the Russians opened fire with a heavy bombardment. Everyone dived for cover, Hanna crept into a hole in the ground and hugged herself tightly into a ball as overhead shells screamed and crashed to the ground with mighty explosions. The German guns returned fire and the roar became deafening. A squadron of Russian planes flew over and dropped more bombs. Hanna tried to bury herself deeper in the ground, her terror worse than anything she had experienced in a plane. She was convinced none of them would survive the onslaught and threw all her energy into just trying to stop her knees from knocking, and shutting out the shouts and yells of the wounded and dying. It was rather ironic that while Hanna had been willing enough to fly to her death in a suicide plane, the thought of dying in a shell blast filled her with unimaginable dread.

The onslaught slowly concluded. In the aftermath Hanna crawled from her hole and helped to tend the wounded, gagging at the sight of mutilated and broken men. Von Greim suggested he take her back from the front, but Hanna controlled her fear long enough to refuse. She had seen the delight and enthusiasm her surprise appearance had produced in the men on the guns, and felt she could not neglect the other positions when she could strengthen morale. As ever, Hanna was thinking of her patriotism first and it could overcome almost all anxieties. She travelled from position to position, talked to countless Luftwaffe units and all the while was aware of her own inadequacies at the front. What could she offer these poor souls? When they asked about the war situation she tried not to raise false hopes; when the shelling began again she tried not to display her panic, all the time wondering at the pointlessness of the exercise. She came home more aware than ever that Germany was lost.

Meanwhile, the idea of suicide missions was being developed further. It should not be supposed that Hanna, Benzinger and Lange were alone in contemplating German kamikaze flights, even if Hanna would have liked later historians to believe her notion unique. Luftwaffe fighter officer Hans-Günther von Kornatzki was also contemplating the air conflict situation in autumn 1943 and proposed the ‘Storm Attack’. In a Storm Attack, as envisioned by Kornatzki, a group of fighter pilots would fly directly into enemy planes, the result being a massive collision that would bring both aircraft down. As tactics went, it would be virtually unstoppable once the German plane was on course and close enough. Even killing the pilot would not prevent ramming if the distance was narrow enough. In fact, this had happened all too often in the course of normal operations, sometimes by accident, sometimes purposefully, out of sheer desperation. Even Kornatzki, however, could not quite reconcile himself to the loss of good pilots. His missions would be almost suicidal, but with the insurance of parachutes, the pilots could eject at the last moment and have a fair chance of survival. The only problem was finding large enough formations of Allied planes near enough to send the swarm at quickly, before they had a chance to bomb anything. There was also the cost in planes to consider. As was often the case among the higher ranks, this issue of material costs was overlooked, in the assumption that German production could keep pace with demands.

Generalmajor Adolf Galland accepted Kornatzki’s plan, even if he was dubious about pilots purposely flying into the enemy – it was not a spectacle the German people would like to witness. Despite his reluctance, in May 1944 the first ‘Storm Fighters’ were initiated, swearing that they would attack the enemy at close quarters and, if they failed to shoot them down, they would ram them. Three units were formed comprising around fifty specially modified Fw 190s. Galland need not have worried about massive sky battles where planes crashed into each other; for the most part, the Storm Fighters were able to shoot the enemy down at such close range. When they did occasionally fail they rammed the aircraft. Kornatzki’s ‘fair chance of survival’ proved to be about 50 per cent for those who took this decisive action.

Ramming missions continued with renewed enthusiasm from certain quarters. Colonel Hajo Hermann decided the war situation in autumn 1944 required a radical reassessment of air combat and suggested that one or two thousand new pilots be recruited from the ranks of the Wehrmacht to fly their planes directly into the enemy. Experienced pilots would be held back for ‘traditional’ flying missions. Galland was appalled with the idea, but that did not stop him discussing the matter with Hitler in January 1945. Hitler announced to his troops that he would have the highest respect for any man volunteering for these ramming squads, and that no soldier would be forced to participate. As before, the missions were defined as ‘almost’ suicidal: the pilots would have the option of parachuting out.

An alleged 2,000 men volunteered, of whom 300 were selected. Unfortunately, when informed of their mission – to fly into American bombers – the volunteers’ zeal dried up. They had expected to give their lives taking out aircraft carriers or battleships. To die for the sake of one B-17 Flying Fortress was harder to swallow. By the time they were called for their mission, on 7 April 1945, there were 183 volunteers ready to make the sacrifice. These inexperienced pilots aimed for an American bomber unit over Magdeburg; 133 of them were shot down, seventy-seven were killed. Only twenty-three of the American bombers were lost, though German propaganda reported the number as sixty. Goebbels wrote in his diary:

The first use of our suicide fighters has not produced the success hoped for. The reason given is that the enemy bomber formations did not fly concentrated so that they had to be attacked individually. In addition our suicide fighters encountered such heavy defensive fire from enemy fighters that only in a few cases were they able to ram. But we must not lose courage as a result. This is only an initial trial which is to be repeated in the next few days, hopefully with better results.

One last suicide mission was tried by the Luftwaffe ten days later on 17 April. The Russian Red Army was on the banks of the River Oder east of Berlin and the Wehrmacht had failed to destroy the bridgeheads. A Luftwaffe attack had also failed, so the 7 April volunteers were recalled and told to dive at the bridge and ram it, again with the proviso that they
could
parachute out. In reality the odds were slim. The first pilots crashed into the bridges over the Oder as Russia launched its major assault on Berlin. If ramming B-17s had seemed pointless, taking out the bridges was even more so as they were easily repaired or replaced with pontoon bridges.

Heinz Kensche had agreed with Hanna to try using a Me 328 as a suicide plane. Designed as a long-range fighter or light bomber (Hitler and Göring being obsessed to the point of idiocy with fighter-bombers!), the Me 328 looked like an ideal candidate for the task. But after only two tests it became plain that it was not feasible to use the powered version of the 328. Instead the engine was removed and the 328 was tested for its potential as a human glider-bomb. It could not take off alone and was carried to a suitable height piggyback-style on a Dornier 217. The pilot could release himself from the Dornier without having to leave his seat and the plane would then become a glider capable of flying at 470mph. The Me 328 fulfilled all the requirements of the experiment and, satisfied with its potential, a contract for mass production was given to a factory in Thuringia in April 1944. The Me 328 never went into production, dropped for another plane, a Fieseler. Hanna was disappointed, but, with resources stretched tight and many designs being put into production, it was often the case that a particular model was never built.

Hanna bitterly regretted the decision to focus solely on the Me 328 at the expense of tests on a manned version of the V1. It worried her that Hitler might suddenly expect a suicide squad to be ready and they had nothing but a few tests flights to show. The day was saved unexpectedly by a phone call from Otto Skorzeny. Skorzeny has gone down in German history for his daring rescue of Mussolini. The Italians had become disillusioned with the war by 1943 and Mussolini had been overthrown and imprisoned by his own government. Hitler, running rather low on allies at this point, felt the Italian dictator still had potential and put Skorzeny in charge of the operation to effect his release. The operation proved trying as the Italians rapidly moved Mussolini from one secure location to another. A first botched attempt saw him briefly freed before being recaptured. At last Mussolini was held in a mountain-top hotel accessible only by cable car. Skorzeny led a well-organised airborne raid on the hotel, managing not only to maintain the element of surprise, but to rescue Mussolini without a shot being fired. The stunned Italian guards were completely overwhelmed and Mussolini was flown out to enjoy a brief return to his former glory in northern Italy.

After his success Skorzeny was promoted within the SS to SturmbannFührer and given the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. By 1944 he was working on the development of special weapons and was in direct contact with Himmler, who had told him about the tests for a perfect suicide plane. Independently Skorzeny had been wondering about the possibility of developing manned V1 flying bombs and now he contacted Hanna to discuss the matter urgently. She could only tell him of the unforeseen stalling of the project. Skorzeny brushed that aside: ‘Hitler has vested me with full powers and has expressly called for a daily progress-report.’

There were to be no further delays or obstacles. Skorzeny set to work organising a team of engineers and constructors and with his constant support they had soon succeeded in converting a normal V1 to accommodate a pilot. Hanna later estimated that he achieved this remarkable feat in four or five days. The modified V1 was given the codename ‘Reichenberg’, few knew about it, even those who were working on the normal V1 at Peenemünde. It was Hanna’s work with the V1 that created one of the biggest myths circulating about her.

Initially the test version of the piloted V1 was equipped with cushioned skids and a pilot’s seat behind the wing, along with a power unit and landing flaps, since pilots were expected to land the rocket, not crash it. A second version had two seats, one in front and the other behind the wing. It had dual controls and was intended for training volunteers. The power unit was removed as it was only intended to glide. This could lead to some frightening landings. The V1 was not easy to handle and its unorthodox shape (for a plane) meant that bringing it to earth safely was extremely difficult. It was too much for most pilots (though they might be skilled in ordinary flight) and fatalities were not infrequent. This presented another problem as constant losses among the instructors would have made training impossible. Only the best of the volunteers were picked to take over the role of teaching others, and even from that select group only those who had proven themselves in a V1 would become instructors.

The power unit of the operational model was restored but its landing flaps and skids removed, since it was not intended for this model to land. As Hanna put it, ‘Its first flight would also, inevitably, be the last.’ Hanna wanted to test the Reichenberg, but was turned down. She was told bluntly that it was a man’s job. Hanna kicked her heels and resigned herself to watching the tests from the ground. Since the Allies’ capture of the original V1 launching sites in France, methods for launching the rocket had had to be changed. Initially they were sent up by catapult, but this was no longer possible if they had to be launched from Germany, so a Heinkel III bomber was adapted to carry the V1 under one wing and release it when sufficiently close to the target. In any case, launch by catapult would have been impossible for a manned V1 as the g-force caused by the high acceleration would have been too great for a human to stand.

The first test of the Reichenberg was conducted on a warm summer morning. The Heinkel took off with its strange cargo, climbed into the sky and released the rocket. The Reichenberg began to glide at once, building speed ‘like some small, swift bird’. The rocket glided in tight turns, finally levelling onto a dead straight course. Then it dipped steeply, and a moment later it was losing height rapidly. As Hanna and the team watched on anxiously the Reichenberg disappeared over the horizon. There was a loud explosion and a plume of black smoke rose into the sky. It was every pilot’s worst nightmare: a crash landing. While men raced off to find the rocket, Hanna and Skorzeny paced the airfield, awaiting dreaded news of a dead pilot.

Half an hour passed before men came rushing back. The pilot was alive, they cried feverishly, but very badly injured. A survey of the rocket revealed the cause of the crash. The pilot had accidentally pressed the catch for the sliding hood of the cockpit. The shock of the air whipping in at such speeds had momentarily stunned him, causing him to lose control of the plane. It was not an auspicious start. Nor did things improve when a second test pilot launched the next day and crashed his Reichenberg, though he too was lucky enough to survive.

Two disasters had stripped Rechlin of its badly needed test pilots and it became necessary for Heinz Kensche and Hanna to take their places. Hanna could not have been more delighted. Her first flight in a Reichenberg was not only successful but an exhilarating experience; it now seemed a long time ago that she was lying in a hospital bed wondering if she would ever fly again. Over the course of eight or ten flights (she lost count!) Hanna learned the quirks of the V1 and avoided several disasters. On one occasion the Heinkel launching Hanna accidentally grazed the back of the rocket as it was released. Hanna heard awful rending noises and half expected to find her tail completely torn off. She landed the rocket with difficulty only to discover her tail had been crumpled and twisted 30 degrees to the right. It was remarkable she had landed at all.

Another test almost ended in disaster because of a decision Hanna had made before take-off. Being so small, she was inevitably also light, which could present difficulties flying a craft designed for men. To test it accurately Hanna insisted on having a bag of sand added to the cockpit to mimic the greater weight of a male pilot. On a test in a two-seater Reichenberg the sandbag was wedged into the front seat and came loose during the launch. Flying at speeds of 530mph, Hanna discovered she could not move her elevator. Too low to bail out, she had to do her best to land. As the ground rose up before her, she pushed down the nose sharply, then quickly pulled up again with all the response she could get from the elevator. The abrupt manoeuvre was just enough to check the speed of the rocket and Hanna skidded into a heavy landing, splintering her landing skids and the hull, but herself emerging unscathed.