Aces of the Reich

The Making of a Luftwaffe Pilot

Mike Spick

• Publisher: Frontline Books
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781848327221
• eBook ISBN: 9781473877528
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: German History
• Index: History

"Fascinating . . . you'll gain tremendous insight into some of the best fighter pilots the world has ever known, as well as the Luftwaffe's rise and fall." —The Military Book Club 
In 1939, the Luftwaffe was arguably the world's best-equipped and best-trained air force. Its fighters were second to none, and their pilots had a tactical system superior to any other in the world. In campaigns over Poland, Norway, the Low Countries and France, they carried all before them. Only in the summer of 1940 did they fail by a narrow margin in achieving air superiority over England. In the West, with a mere holding force, they maintained an enviable kill-loss ratio against the RAF, while elsewhere they swept through the Balkans, then decimated the numerically formidable Soviet Air Force. Their top scorers set marks in air combat that have never been surpassed.
Yet within three years—despite the introduction of the jet Me 262, the world's most advanced fighter—the Luftwaffe fighter arm had been totally defeated. How did this happen? Air-warfare historian Mike Spick explores this question in depth in this incisive and compelling study of World War II's most fearsome air force.
"Spick's work explores one of the interesting questions of World War II: why did the Jagdwaffe, the most efficient, best-trained and most technically advanced air force in the world in 1939 endure a bewildering defeat within three short years. Spick comes up with some interesting theories to do with the influence of the cult of Manfred Von Richtofen (the Red Baron)." —In Flight USA

CHAPTER 1

THE RICHTHOFEN LEGACY

The Treaty of Versailles in 1919 had dealt harshly with the defeated Germany, and one of its provisions was to proscribe all forms of military aviation. Humiliated but determined, Germany sought to circumvent the ban. Fortunately for them, the victorious Allies had not occupied the country, which meant that they could make a small clandestine start. As early as 1920, the Defence Ministry connived at the formation of the Deutscher Luftsportverband. This unique organisation, which provided free or heavily subsidised flying and gliding for the masses, had no counterpart anywhere else in the world.

The bold investment paid off. By 1930, Germany had a large reservoir of air-minded youth with elementary flying skills. This could be drawn upon when the time came, as it certainly would, to rearm. Behind the scenes, other plans were brewing. Civil aviation, and in particular the national airline Deutsche Lufthansa, was being developed with military needs in mind. Then with the full co-operation of the Soviet Union, a clandestine military aviation school and weapons-testing area was set up at Lipetsk, south of Moscow.

At home, civilian flying schools provided a covert nucleus of trainees for the military; then with the advent in 1933 of Adolf Hider as Chancellor, aircraft factories and airfields were built; modern military aircraft were developed (some Second World War bombers started life as airliners or fast mailplanes), and the cloak of secrecy became ever harder to maintain. It was finally dropped on 1 March 1935, when the Luftwaffe was officially revealed.

In any fighting service, tradition looms large. In the First World War, the Luftstreitkräfte had been the aviation branch of the army. To a degree this was also the case with the new Luftwaffe; its pilots were regarded, and referred to themselves, as soldiers of the Reich. For tradition, all they had to do was to hark back to the previous conflict. As well as tradition, they needed heroes, role models. These abounded: not a few unit leaders at this time were distinguished flyers from the earlier conflict, as was the Commander-in-Chief, Hermann Göring. But the influence of one man stood head and shoulders above the others.

The Red Baron Legend

Rittmeister (cavalry captain) Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen, better known as the Red Baron, is still, almost a century later, a name to conjure with. He was not actually a baron, although the soubriquet has stuck, but a slightly lesser Freiherr, nevertheless a minor aristocrat. The scion of Prussian landed gentry, he commenced the war as an officer in a Uhlan (lancer) regiment, but after an undistinguished career with the cavalry became bogged down behind the Western Front trenches. Bored beyond belief, he transferred to the fledgling German air service, the Luftstreit-kräfte, first as an observer, then as a pilot. Then in just twenty-one months, from September 1916 until his death in action in April 1918, he was credited with shooting down eighty enemy aircraft, to become the top scoring fighter-pilot of the war. His all-red fighter had become almost as well-known to his mainly British foes as to his friends.

In 1914, warfare was regarded as a glamorous occupation. The public perception was waving banners, headlong cavalry charges, the sun sparkling on swords and bayonets, deeds of outstanding heroism, brilliant victories in double-quick time, medals and above all glory. But when in early 1915 the front lines stretched unbroken from the Alps to the North Sea, with no gaps or open flanks to exploit, the illusion was shattered. Battlefields became moonscapes of mud and shell craters, bounded by elaborate trench systems protected by barbed-wire hedgerows that sprouted almost overnight. Not only was the slaughter on an unimaginable scale; it was almost completely anonymous. Artillery was by far the biggest killer. The big guns sited behind the lines lobbed shells at targets which for the most part they never saw, killing men by tens of thousands. Infantry, attacking across open ground, were mown down by faceless machine-gunners. Cavalry lurked impotently in the rear areas, awaiting a call to exploit a breakthrough which never came. Any heroic deeds were too often overshadowed by the enormity of the general carnage in what had become a war of attrition. Of glory there was little trace.

Except in the air. As the war progressed, increasing use was made of aeroplanes; reconnaissance, bombing and, inevitably, air fighting. Only gradually were means and methods for the latter developed, and not until the latter half of 1915 did the first successful German fighter-pilots begin to emerge.

In those days, flying was rightly regarded as inherently dangerous. Air combat was even more so; it was so unlike any previous form of warfare that it was positively exotic. Even better, most early combats were one versus one. Fighter-pilots became the single combat champions of the time; the spiritual heirs of the Teutonic Knights of old. They performed their deeds in the lists of the sky, in full view of vast audiences on the ground. And their successes were measurable by the number of their victories; of fallen opponents. For them a measure of chivalry was possible; something virtually unattainable in ground fighting. Desperate for good news to boost national morale, the German press, actively assisted by the high command, swung into action, providing the public with authentic heroes.*

It was against this background that the Richthofen legend began. As his score mounted, he was feted by the highest in the land and awarded a chestful of medals and decorations. Nor were these only from Prussia and other German states, but from German allies as diverse as Bulgaria and Turkey. Photographs of him were widely on sale, and articles about him appeared in newspapers and magazines. His decision to paint his personal aircraft bright red all over was generally interpreted as a challenge to his opponents, which added to his glamorous image. Then late in his career, while recovering from a serious wound, he wrote a biography called Der Rote Kampfflieger (The Red War Flyer), which spread his fame far beyond his homeland. He was dubbed ‘The Red Baron’ by his opponents, a unique distinction, and his score of eighty victories was never equalled in the First World War. He has since become the most famous fighter-pilot of all time,† even though his tally was exceeded by no less than 153 German pilots in the Second World War. As a call to arms and an inspiration to his Jagdwaffe successors, he had no equal.

Such is the legend. Without wishing to denigrate his achievements, what is the truth behind it? First, his eighty victories. In the main, these can be confirmed from the records. Just a handful are a bit ‘iffy’. Nor was it done without cost. Many times his fighter was hit by return fire, but he escaped unscathed. Then on 9 March 1917, an antiquated FE 8 holed his fuel tank. He force-landed, fortunate that he did not catch fire on the way down. On 6 July he was shot down again, this time by an obsolete FE 2d two-seater. Having suffered a severe head wound, he was extremely lucky to get down in one piece. The final act came on 21 April 1918, when he found the glorious death in action that he had so often visited on others. This was the crucial part of the legend. A dead hero can be immortalised in a way that the living cannot. He becomes idealised; his human failings can be glossed over. So let it be with Caesar!

Of course, Richthofen has had his detractors. A few have accused him of seeking easy victories, citing his tally of two-seaters, which his own fighter outclassed, as evidence. How justified was this? Pull up a sandbag, and we’ll take a look.

Of his eighty victories, more than a third were single-seat fighters. Of these, four were inferior DH 2s; two were agile but underpowered Sopwith Pups; a DH 5 and a Sopwith Dolphin. The remainder were three SE 5as, eight Sopwith Camels, four Nieuport 17s, one Sopwith Triplane, and four SPAD 7s, which were all demonstrably at least equal to whichever fighter type he was flying at the time.

The others were a mixed bag. Two bombers, a single-seater Martinsyde Elephant and a two-seater DH 4. Of the other two-seaters, nineteen were obsolescent FE 2 pushers. Three Sopwith Strutters and an FK 8 were the most advanced two-seaters to fall to his guns, but the remainder, BE 2s and RE 8s, mainly engaged on photo-reconnaissance and artillery-spotting missions, were rightly regarded as turkeys in air combat.

The latter were the easiest victims. Slow and unwieldy, often flying alone, with their crews concentrating on their primary task, they were relatively easy to take by surprise. Even when they were escorted, a dive from a high perch, preferably out of the sun, was usually enough to elude the escorts. While it is probably true to say that they were sitting ducks, the fact remains that they could bite back. Neither of the two aircraft which came within inches of killing the Red Baron could be described as first-line fighters.

There is another consideration. Albeit indirectly, photo-reconnaissance aircraft and artillery-spotters contributed more to the effectiveness of the ground war than any other air asset. They were therefore high value targets. Their destruction was arguably Richthofen’s greatest material contribution to the war as a whole.

Although an accomplished marksman, the Red Baron was not the greatest aircraft handler around. As he admitted, his first twenty victories were scored before he had fully mastered his machine. His usual technique was to manoeuvre for a position above and astern before plunging down to attack. If his opponent tried to evade, he would try and turn inside him to retain a position of advantage. As a pilot, he was competent enough to gain good shooting positions, close in and with no deflection.

Richthofen was dismissive of what he called stunting, by which he mainly meant looping. He commented, ‘One could be quite a splendid stunt flyer and still not be able to shoot down a single plane. In my opinion, stunting is all a waste of time.’ He might have recalled his eleventh victory, over the RFC ace Lanoe Hawker. Flying the inferior performing but more agile DH2, Hawker had fought him to a near draw by superior flying, in a protracted combat which only a lucky shot had ended.

However, he had a point. It must be admitted that superior performance provided the majority of good shooting opportunities. Extravagant manoeuvres were of more use defensively than when on the attack. In the whirl of a dogfight, shooting chances were fleeting, and usually from high deflection angles. The result was much shooting but few hits. It is therefore strange that in the final months of his career, he favoured the superbly manoeuvrable Fokker Triplane over the significantly faster Albatros D V.

Richthofen had been fortunate in his introduction to combat flying. He had been personally selected by the Maestro, Oswald Boelcke, later dubbed ‘The Father of Air Fighting’, and had been well versed by him in air combat tactics. As a leader, the Baron seems to have added little or nothing to Boelcke’s teachings.

Tactically he was naïve. He stated that the decisive factor in victory was personal courage, yet referred to the bravery of his English opponents as often being akin to stupidity. Prussian arrogance? He also stated:

The fighter-pilots should have an allotted area to cruise around in as it suits them, but when they see an opponent they must attack and shoot him down. Anything else is absurd. Nothing else matters to us but the aerial victory.

This was to disregard totally the needs of the mission and the overall strategic situation. In the Luftwaffe of the Second World War, it was to have unimaginable consequences.

What sort of man was Manfred von Richthofen? Ernst Udet, the ranking surviving German ace of the Great War, described him as ‘coldeyed’. He habitually took a nap at lunchtime, to be fresh for the afternoon’s operations. His brother Lothar recorded that under his command, life on the ground consisted of eating, sleeping and absolutely no alcohol. Obviously he had little sympathy for the need of his men to unwind. Never a man to court popularity, he led by example, and woe betide a new pilot who failed to live up to his exacting standards.

Ambition was a less attractive side to his character. Following his sixteenth victory he recorded that he was the leading, i.e. top-scoring, fighter-pilot in the Luftstreitkräfte and that this had been the goal he wanted to achieve.

This was stretching the truth. His great tutor and mentor, Oswald Boelcke, had been credited with forty victories, against which Richthofen’s score of sixteen was small beer. Boelcke, undefeated in combat, had been killed in a mid-air collision with one of his own men barely three months earlier. Nor was it only Boelcke. Kurt Wintgens had amassed eighteen victories before falling in September 1916. All Manfred von Richthofen could honestly claim was that he was the leading surviving German fighter-pilot.

Also following his sixteenth victory, Richthofen showed signs of pique that he had not yet been awarded the Pour le Mérite, the highest Prussian decoration for valour.* Boelcke and Immelmann had both been awarded it after eight victories, but times had changed. Days passed with no sign of the award, and Richthofen felt that he had been overlooked. Ten days later, he was posted to command the so far unsuccessful Jagdstaffel (Jasta) 11. Petulantly, he wrote that he would rather have had the Pour le Mérite. Then on 16 January 1917, twelve days after his sixteenth victory, the coveted award was announced. Overnight he became a national hero.

The Trophy Hunter

Richthofen was an avid collector of trophies, a trait that probably stemmed from his passion for hunting. On gaining his first victory, he had ordered a small silver cup on which was engraved the date and the type of his victim. Uniquely he kept up this vainglorious practice with successive victories, each tenth cup being slightly larger than the others. This continued until after his sixtieth victory, when a national shortage of silver forced him to desist.

More understandably, whenever possible he obtained a trophy from each of his victims – a machine gun, a strip of fabric bearing the number of the victim, etc. As a Jasta commander, he had even more licence. After each victory, he sent one of his officers out, ostensibly to gather details for his remarkably well-documented combat reports, but also to gather souvenirs for his collection.

In addition, he compiled scrapbooks. While this was in some ways understandable, they contained many photographs, some rather ghoulish, of his fallen victims. Over time, his office, and later a room at his home in Schweidnitz, became a gallery of the dead. Cups, mementos and scrapbooks; was this really a chivalrous way of honouring vanquished foes?

In his early days as a Jasta commander, he painted his machine bright red all over; a move which led his RFC opponents to dub him first He petit rouge’, then the name by which he went down to posterity, ‘the Red Baron’. In Der Rote Kampfflieger, he states that he did it for no particular reason, although he gloated that from then on, ‘… absolutely everyone knew my red bird. In fact, even my opponents were not completely unaware of it’. One can almost hear him say ‘Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!’

To digress briefly, Richthofen was not the first pilot to fly an all-red aeroplane in the war. A year earlier, French ace Jean Navarre had gained a fearsome reputation over the Verdun sector. His red Nieuport 11 made him instantly recognisable to his opponents, giving him a psychological advantage even before combat was joined. Could something similar have entered the mind of Manfred von Richthofen?

In a later edition of Der Rote Kampfflieger; his brother Lothar...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• List of Illustrations
• Prologue
• Chapter 1: The Richthofen Legacy
• Chapter 2: The Commanders
• Chapter 3: The Fledglings
• Chapter 4: The Fighter Force
• Chapter 5: Victory by Day
• Chapter 6: The Conflict Widens
• Chapter 7: Strategic Defence
• Chapter 8: The Net Closes
• Chapter 9: New Weapons, Old Errors
• Chapter 10: Five Minutes to Midnight
• Chapter 11: The Experten (1)
• Chapter 12: The Experten (2)
• Chapter 13: The Experten (3)
• References