Luftwaffe Fighter Ace

Norbert Hannig, John Weal

• Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781908117977
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: History

A World War II memoir by the renowned German fighter pilot—from his Hitler Youth glider training to combat missions against the Soviet Air Force.
Herr Norbert Hanning's wartime career makes for fascinating and highly informative reading on an aspect of the 1939-45 air war not often covered in the English language; primarily that of the campaign against the Soviet Union.
He was one of the midwar-generation Luftwaffe fighter pilots and began operations with JG 54 on the eastern (Leningrad) front in early 1943; initially flying Messerschmitt Bf 109s before transitioning to the Focke-Wulf Fw 190. He became a Staffel CO and was credited with 42 victories, also serving with JV 44 (whose CO was Adolf Galland); he then returned to Germany towards the closing stages of the war to convert to Me 262 jet fighters.
Many and varied were his experiences in action against the rejuvenated Soviet Air Force in the east, and the powerful western Allies over the homeland during the final chaotic months of hostilities, which culminated in his captivity.
John Weal's skillful translation ensures that the fluid and descriptive style of the author is preserved. Thankfully, also, Norbert was a keen photographer who shot a profusion of images, all previously unpublished, many of which appear in this important book.

CHAPTER 1

Gliding as a Sport

My flying career began with a conversation I had with a school friend in the upper fifth shortly after Easter 1940. He belonged to the Flieger-Hitlerjugend, a branch of the general Hitler Youth movement, whose aim was to promote gliding as a sport among boys aged between 14 and 18. Its members were taught to fly gliders free of charge by instructors from the NSFK (National Socialist Flying Corps). This corps, itself a part of the political SA, was the umbrella organization responsible for furthering the cause of all things aeronautical among an already air-conscious German public. As such it had taken over, and now controlled, every aspect of sports flying in the country.

But when my classmate suggested that I team up with him and learn to fly too, I foresaw a slight problem. Five years earlier, at the age of eleven, I had joined the Jungvolk. Modelled along the lines of the scout movement, the Jungvolk was for youngsters not yet old enough to enter the Hitler Youth. When I reached my fourteenth birthday, however, I had decided not to transfer my allegiance, but rather to stay with the Jungvolk and become a senior leader. Since that time I had worked my way up through the ranks and was now a Fähnleinführer (troop leader), in charge of a troop of 150 lads.

Despite my ‘advanced’ years I therefore still belonged to the Jungvolk. And as a member of this junior organization I was not entitled, strictly speaking, to join the Flieger-Hitlerjugend. But if this difficulty could be overcome, I would grab the opportunity like a shot. To be able to fly had been my boyhood dream since the days of making paper aeroplanes. So my school friend made the necessary enquiries, I was accepted, and thus embarked upon my life of flying.

In the Whitsun holidays of 1940 the pair of us, both in uniform, set off by bike from Zobten, the village where we lived, for the nearby town of Bunzlau. This was the regional centre of what was then our part of Lower Silesia, but which is now in Poland. On arriving in Bunzlau we made our way to the NSFK workshops where we reported to the duty instructor. He in turn took us to the head of the establishment, an NSFK Sturmführer, who greeted us in a fatherly fashion with a smile and a friendly handshake. After asking a few questions, he briefly outlined for me the daily routine of a gliding school.

I was assigned to a group of fourteen Flieger-Hitlerjugend who were busy loading an SG-38 training glider on to a truck. This was in preparation for the drive out to the slopes next morning for a day’s flying. Two other groups were similarly engaged. Once all three gliders had been securely stowed, there was an hour’s lecture on the theory and practice of flight. Then the following day’s programme and duties were read out before it was time for supper. Once this was over we spent a convivial evening getting to know one another.

These few hours were enough to make me feel completely at home in the company of my new friends. The next morning I woke, washed, dressed and breakfasted as usual. But then began a new routine: morning parade and roll-call, followed by the order to climb aboard the vehicles. Soon our small convoy—a van, three trucks each carrying a glider, and an ambulance (!)—were on the road and heading out to the practice slopes.

The weather was anything but good. Clouds chased each other across the sky and gusts of wind rattled the tree-tops. The practice slope turned out to be little more than a slight dip in the ground on the side of a gentle hill, at present covered with lush grass which would no doubt later be cut as hay for cattle-feed. Our convoy came to a halt on the path running along the crest of the hill. The gliders, which had been dismantled for the journey, wings removed and tied firmly alongside the fuselages, were unloaded and carefully re-assembled under the watchful eye of the instructors. First the wings were re-attached to the fuselages by means of socket bolts secured with split-pins. Then the braided steel bracing wires were connected up and tightened to bring the wings into proper alignment.

Special care had to be taken when connecting the control wires from the stick to the ailerons and elevators, and from the foot pedals to the rudder. Get these the wrong way round and it could spell disaster. A quick check proved that all was well. Pull back on the stick and the tailplane control surfaces moved upwards. This would cause the glider’s nose to lift and the machine to climb. Push the stick forward and the opposite effect would be achieved: the elevators moved downwards and the glider went into a dive. Moving the stick to the left resulted in the simultaneous deployment of the two wing ailerons, the one on the left being raised and that on the right being lowered, to give a bank to port. Again, move the stick to the right and the reverse effect would be the result: left aileron down, right aileron up, and the glider would bank to starboard. The two foot pedals in front of the pilot’s simple plank seat were connected to the rudder. Press down on the left-hand pedal and the rudder would move to the left causing the machine to turn to port. Depress the right-hand pedal and the glider turned to starboard.

What sounds so complicated on paper was, in reality, quite simple. The control stick allowed you to fly straight and level, bank to the left and right, or dive and climb. The rudder pedals enabled you to turn to left or right. Learn to co-ordinate these hand and foot movements and you had complete control of the glider in both the horizontal and vertical axes, which meant you could curve without losing height or even pull loops.

But there was one other factor which had to be taken into account at all times—at take-off, during flight and when landing—and that was airspeed. Sufficient speed had to be achieved, and maintained, to give the wings lift. At zero km/h the glider will remain firmly nailed to the ground. Only when a predetermined airflow speed is achieved will lift overcome the earth’s gravitational pull and allow the glider, and its pilot, to take to the air. Once aloft, if this speed is reduced there is a corresponding decrease in lift and the glider will sink back towards the ground.

The landing itself posed problems of its own. In order to carry out a controlled return to earth a certain amount of airspeed had to be conserved. Once safely and smoothly down this excess speed was quickly lost through the braking effect of the landing skid and the glider was consequently brought to a halt. Only then could the pilot climb out on to terra firma. So much for the theory…

In practice it was much more straightforward. The SG-38 training glider was a very simple wooden affair. The pilot was provided with a small bench-like seat. In front of him were two pedals, between his knees the control stick, above his head a pair of wings each with its aileron control surface, behind his back the tail assembly complete with rudder and elevators, and beneath him the keel beam with its spring-mounted skid undercarriage. Held securely in place by belly and shoulder straps, the pilot perched on the aforementioned plank seat, his feet in the two pedals and the control stick clutched in either his right or left hand. There he sat at one with nature, completely exposed to the elements and without a single instrument to distract his attention. Airspeed had to be judged by the humming of the wind in the wires holding the glider together. The higher the pitch, the faster he was flying.

For most beginners the very fact of sitting out in the open high above the ground without any form of cockpit or fuselage covering they could hold on to, or hide behind, took a lot of getting used to, to say the very least.

This is why lessons began on the ground with so-called ‘seat familiarisation’. The instructor stood at the end of one wing, usually the left, and moved it up and down. It was the pupil’s job to try to keep the glider on an even keel by judicious use of the stick, moving it to the left or right to correct the balance. Once he had mastered this he progressed to the next step: a ‘slide’.

The glider was launched by means of a rubber bungee cord fitted with a metal ring which was attached to a hook on the front of the aircraft. (On actual take-offs this ring automatically uncoupled itself from the hook as the glider flew past overhead and the released cord fell to the ground.) After being hooked up to the glider the rubber cord was laid out in front of it in a V-shape and the launch crew, some five to eight lads on each arm of the V, positioned themselves along its length ready to pick it up. At the same time other trainees sat in a line behind the tail of the glider, each digging his heels firmly into the ground and holding tightly to the man in front. The first in line gripped the retaining cord fastened to the back of the glider and all now awaited the instructor’s command: “Pull…!”

The launch crew picked up the cord and started walking slowly forwards until the rubber was stretched tight, while those at the rear of the glider took up the strain. Then came the second order: “Ru-u-u-n!!”

Now the launch crew began to gallop down the hill. The rubber V became tauter until it was stretched to its limit and the crew, unable to pull it any tighter, were running on the spot.

The instructor directed his third command at those hanging on to the tail of the glider: “Release!!!”

With a jolt the glider began to move. As it gathered momentum it was now in the hands of the pilot. The less tension in the rubber cord, the shorter the distance of the slide or flight.

In this instance it was a slide, the glider remaining on the ground as it slithered and bumped down the hill, allowing the trainee pilot to get used to the feel of the controls and the sensation of sitting out in the open, buffeted by the slipstream. After the slide came the first few tentative hops. And only then would an actual glide be allowed—straight ahead and only for a second or two at first, but later for a full minute or more. The whole procedure reminded me strongly of the paper aeroplanes I used to make as a boy out of Kornfrank coffee packets.

As everybody took strict turns, there were at least fourteen launches before one could have another go. And after each and every take-off the glider had to be loaded on to the ‘Bimbo’, a two-wheeled cart fitted with a cradle and clamp into which the landing skid of the SG-38 was screwed, before the whole rig was manhandled back up to the starting point by sheer muscle power alone. It was healthy if somewhat sweaty work. But everybody set to with a will, knowing that the quicker the Bimbo was pushed back up the hill, the sooner it would be their turn to take the controls again.

Which was all very well on a nice sunny say with a steady breeze blowing, but not on this particular Saturday before Whitsun, with its gusting winds and fleecy white clouds scudding across the blue vault of the sky. We in our beginners’ group contented ourselves with slides and the shortest of hops close to the ground. But the other two groups were practising for their A certificates, which demanded a full minute’s free flight in a straight line.

They were taking off some 50 metres further along the hillside from us. The launch crew and the anchormen were waiting for the commands: pull—run—release! We watched as the training glider lifted off. But suddenly it went into a steep climb, and then seemed to stand still in mid-air before tipping forwards. Unable to recover, it slammed straight into the ground. There was a terrific noise, the wings snapped their bracing wires and were splintered into matchwood. This was the first total write-off I had ever seen—and I had not even got into the air yet! The pilot was hanging in his seat. The launch crew hurried to release him, carefully undoing his harness and loading him into the ambulance to be taken to hospital. He had sustained several broken ribs and was suffering from shock. On the whole it was considered that he had escaped lightly.

We and the other group carried on with our training and practice flying respectively. But two hours later came the unmistakeable sound of another crash. This time the pilot had landed too hard. His machine bounced back up into the air and came down again one wing low. The wingtip had dug in and the whole mainplane was damaged. Only we beginners still had a flyable aircraft. But it was now decided to call a halt to the day’s activities. The wreckage of the two gliders was loaded onto the trucks and we set off back to the workshops. Thus ended my first glider lesson.

This experience ought to have cured me once and for all of any desire to pursue a career in flying. But, if anything, the opposite was the case.

Everybody was kept busy in the workshop for the next two days making good the damage suffered. I was no stranger to woodworking. I had my own set of carpenter’s tools at home and had already built a canoe with the help and guidance of a boat builder who was employed in the carpentry shop on Count von Nostitz’s estate.

My experience came in handy as we all sawed, planed, sanded and glued away, slowly putting the gliders back together again. Nobody seemed too disheartened by the two crashes—nobody was blamed or punished, and we all helped each other. It was this spirit of togetherness which made such an impression on me. Now, more than ever, I wanted to become one of this community—you might almost say brotherhood—of flyers.

As I had already arranged to take my Fähnlein of 150 Jungvolk youngsters to summer camp during the long school holidays, it was some time before I was again able to participate fully in glider training practice. The first opportunity came during the autumn holidays of 1940 when I attended the A certificate course, again at Bunzlau, and in the company of my by-now familiar group of Flieger-Hitlerjugend comrades.

In the meantime the year 1940 had brought a move of house for the Hannig family. My father had been teaching at the small Catholic school in Zobten. But when it was announced that this was to be combined with the village’s bigger Protestant school, he decided it was time for a change. Preferring not to teach in a large mixed-religion establishment, he opted instead to take over the tiny single-class Catholic school at Hermannsdorf, a village less than 15 kilometres from Bunzlau. Our family lived in the schoolhouse itself.

Our leaving Zobten meant that I could no longer continue my duties as Fähnleinführer of the local Jungvolk group. I was, however, allowed to choose my successor. He was the son of the head gardener on the von Nostitz estate. I also bequeathed him the canoe which had given me so many hours of pleasure on the nearby River Bober.

Having resigned from my post with Zobten Jungvolk, I neglected to report or re-register with the local Hermannsdorf branch of the organization. Nobody noticed the omission. I continued to wear my uniform whenever the occasion demanded—such as on national holidays or Party days—at the high school I attended in Löwenberg, and also at weekends when taking part in glider-training sessions with the Flieger-Hitlerjugend in Bunzlau. I was paying no subscriptions anywhere, my name did not feature on any roll, and I was being taught to fly—what more could anybody ask?

In fact, as my uniform included the green-and-white corded shoulder lanyard of a Fähnleinführer (more commonly known as an Affenschaukel or monkey swing), I was constantly being appointed group leader by those in charge of our glider training at Bunzlau. This meant that I was held responsible for the behaviour of the group when not actually in the classroom or on the slopes. Although I was not a member of the Hitler Youth—nor even, technically, of the Jungvolk by this time—nobody seemed either to mind or to care. There were many such glaring holes in the supervision and organization of the Nationalist Socialist state, which was not the well-oiled and super-efficient machine as so often portrayed in the many post-war accounts of the period.

So the autumn holidays of 1940 saw me cycling yet again to Bunzlau. By now the beginner’s rounds of seat familiarization, slides and hops were all well behind me. The SG-38 training glider had become a trusty friend, which I had learned to control with confidence. The sudden thrust in the small of the back, which came a split second after the command to release, was by now a familiar sensation. With my right hand holding the stick perfectly upright (I always used the left to grip the small bench seat just in case) and my feet jammed firmly on the pedals, I was all ready to go as the glider catapulted forwards and immediately began to climb.

The launch crew disappeared beneath me as I soared over their heads. The bracing wires sang like a finely tuned violin. The grass on the hillside, which at first had seemed to be racing past just beneath my wings, decelerated as I gained more height. I was flying! The wind in the wires took on a deeper, softer tone. Now it was a matter of holding the glider straight and level and trying to keep the same steady note thrumming in my ears.

All too soon I was sinking back towards the ground. The grass below began to pick up speed again. It was time to haul slowly back on the stick in order to reduce speed and prepare for the landing. When just above the ground the stick had to be pulled back slowly but steadily until the skid touched the earth and the machine began to slide across the grass. The skid then started to bite, acting as a brake. The machine jolted and slithered down the hill for a few more metres before finally coming to a standstill. The glider would then tip gently over to one side until the end of one wing was resting on the ground. One had to remain in this position while the launch crew came whooping and hollering down the hillside. Only when they had hold of the machine again were you allowed to undo your harness and climb off. Another free flight successfully accomplished.

The first flights of this kind only lasted for 20 to 30 seconds. But one’s confidence and ability steadily grew until, at last, more hands were added to the launch crew and the full length of the rubber bungee cord was used to give the maximum possible thrust for take-off. This enabled you to stay aloft for a good minute or more.

My instructor professed himself satisfied with my progress. I was to be allowed to try for my A certificate. This required the candidate to maintain a straight and level course for a minimum of 60 seconds. A few last-minute words of instruction and advice and I was all set. I followed the familiar routine, but this time I was conscious of the fact that my flight was being measured by the stopwatch. The result: 1 minute and 25...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• Foreword
• Prologue: Silesia, Summer
• Chapter 1 Gliding as a Sport
• Chapter 2 Wartime Training
• Chapter 3 With JG 54 on the Russian Front
• Chapter 4 Fighter Instructor in the Homeland 114
• Chapter 5 Final Operations over the Courland 135
• Chapter 6 Training on the Me 262; Last Ops with JG 7 155
• Chapter 7 PoW of the Americans, Russians and British 167
• Postscript—Phoenix from the Ashes 184
• Appendix
• Map