Night hunt: A BF 110 pilot bags three bombers in one mission

Flight Journal, Jun 2001 by Ebhardt, Rolf, Stuart, Christopher L

It is hot. The evening sun sets low on the western horizon and shoots rays of light through dark clouds-- a sign for the experienced flier that the weather will worsen. For us, this is familiar. The British usually time their raids so their takeoff and landing conditions are favorable, whereas we German night fighters struggle with bad weather over our hunting grounds. That is exactly the case tonight.

After our meal in the officers' mess at approximately 18:00 hours, we head to the Gefechtsstand (operation theater) for a briefing. At first, the MET gives us the weather forecast for Holland, Belgium and Northern Germany, warning us of heavy thunderstorms, and he gives us special information for tonight regarding flak-defended areas, searchlight positions, radio frequencies and tonight's possible targets (set by the high command at the town of Stade, 60 miles west of Hamburg). Afterward, the crews retire to their readiness rooms, and the officers remain in the operation theater, where the ground-control officers-- and many radar girls-wait for the enemy bombers to appear on their screens.

Now begins a time of increasing nervous tension. In a way, the attackers are better off, as they have definite orders when to take off, where to fly, etc. The defenders have to wait, wait and wait! And this tension rises to a peak and then fades again. The telephone rings; but the call is unimportant.

To understand the pressure we live with at this stage of the War, consider the following facts: most of us are still flying the Bf 110, which is heavily armed but slow. It is absolutely readiness for experienced crews only]. It applies only to ObIt. Schmidt and me. (From the summer of 1944, there was an alarming shortage of fuel, and under doubtful weather conditions, we did not expect the younger crews to have any success.)

My crew, Bordfunker (wireless/radar operator) "Schani" Pinter [Austrian] and our so-called "third man" Emil Mathan have already arrived at the hangar by crew truck. The 1.Wart (first mechanic) has checked our plane (G9 ES), and it is ready for flight. We squeeze ourselves into the cockpit, fasten our parachutes and seatbelts and wait for further orders. Fortunately, the rain has stopped and the thunderstorms have moved away to the east. Will we be ordered to take off? Or is this just another false alarm?

Suddenly, at 00:13 hours, the sleeping airfield comes to life! A white flash rises into the sky to indicate "Startbefehl" (our order to take off). At the same time, the loudspeaker in the hangar announces the order: "Startbefehl each Funkfeuer Quelle" (takeoff to radio beacon Quelle [fountain]-the code word for the letter "Q," situated 150 miles west of Hamburg). My technician closes the roof of the canopy; I start the engines. Taxiing to the departure point must be done in absolute darkness; there are no identification lights or taxiway markings. In case intruders are patrolling the area, we sometimes have to take off without the runway's being lit by the flare path. In such a case, a dim light at the end of the runway guides us in the proper direction.

The first one airborne is ObIt. Schmidt. When I see the sparks coming from his exhaust pipes, I know he is away and it is my turn. When I push the throttles forward, my plane immediately roars down the runway and into the night. I am surrounded by absolute darkness. We are in clouds with our course set for 70 degrees; we climb at full power and are shaken by the ever increasing storm clouds around us. Lightning occasionally illuminates the cockpit in a ghostly, pale color. All of a sudden, a mauve light flickers on our aerials and propeller tips-"Elmsfeuer."

My "ES" becomes increasingly difficult to fly as the grip of ice takes over, and we are tossed like a toy by the forces of nature. Shaken up and down, I am concerned as we slowly inferior in every way to the Mosquito, and it is sometimes slower than the four-engine Lancasters without their bomb load. The Heinkel He 219, equal to the Mosquito, is supplied to only 20 to 30 crews. Far superior to all Allied aircraft is the new, jet-powered Arado 234. (A night-fighter version of the Arado was proposed, but it came too late and was used only as a reconnaissance aircraft at altitudes of over 30,000 feet during the last three months of the War.) Furthermore, radio communication and radar (ground/air, board/board and the airborne radar) are often completely jammed by specially equipped RAF bombers that fly in formations.

To overcome the jamming, the German controllers sometimes use other methods to pass information about the anticipated target to pilots. Radio stations transmit music typical of the area that the controllers thought were to be bombed. Example: Viennese waltzes if Austria (then Germany) was suspected; shanties for Hamburg; carnival songs for the Rhineland; typical Bavarian melodies for Munich and operettas from well-known Berlin composers for Berlin.

Thus, little information about the bomber formation's course, altitude or main target (there are always diversionary raids) is available to us. Furthermore, the increasing effective action of the Mosquito intruders, with their superior radar and flying performance-coupled with poor weather and inexperienced crews-contribute to many of our losses. All this while facing defeat within the foreseeable future! In spite of it all, the crews' morale remains high; nobody speaks about the terrible end. Everybody secretly hopes for the "wonder weapons" promised by our political leaders.