Figured you'd all enjoy this.

[boingg]

Clash of Eagles - USAAF 8th Air Force Bombers Vs. The Luftwaffe In World War 2

And then there is the other side of the coin

The Luftwaffe Over Germany Defence Of the Reich
Both of these are fantastic reads .

[Motherland]

6th March, 1944
Last night there were more engines droning overhead. the British attacked Berlin with more than 1,000 aircraft.
At noon we are sent into action against the americans who are heading for the same objective. Once again I am in command of the Gruppe.
In the first frontal attack I shoot down a Fortress just north of the airfield and leave a second one in flames. I cannot watch it crash, however, because I am fully occupied with several Thunderbolts try to get on my tail.
My Staffel loses Sergeant Veit. The body was found in a cornfield just north of the airfield where he was shot down.
On our second mission I succeed in shooting down yet another Fortress. It also went down during the first frontal attack, aimed at the control cabin. Probably both pilots were killed and the controls put out of action, because the plane crashed without any signs of fire.
During the ensuing dogfight with the Thunderbolts my tail plane was shot full of holes, and my engine and left wing were badly hit also. It is all I can do to limp home to our field. On coming to land I discover my left wheel has been shot away. The right wheel will not retract. I am forced to make a one wheel landing.
Immediately I order a reserve aircraft to be prepared for me to take off on a third mission. It is destroyed during a low level strafing attack. Two of the mechanics are seriously wounded.
4 Staffel places one of its aircraft at my disposal by order of the Commanding officer. Specht and I take off together, with Flight Sergeant Hauptmann and Sergeant Zambelli as our wingman.
When we attempt to attack a formation of Liberators over Lueneberg Heath, we are taken by surprise by approximately forty Thunderbolts. In the ensuing dogfight our two wingmen are both shot down. After a wild chase right down to ground level the Commanding Officer and I finally escape with great difficulty.
After landing I receive word from Diepholz that Flight Sergeant Wenneckers is in hospital there after being shot down and seriously wounded.
In a telephone conversation with Division during the night, the Commanding Officer  requests that the Gruppe be withdrawn from operations temporarily. We cannot continue.
The request is refused. We are to continue flying until the last aircraft and the last pilot. Berlin, the capital city of the Reich, is ablaze from end to end.
It has become very silent in the crew room. Jonny Fest and I it there alone in our two arm chairs far into the night. We do not speak much. The pile of cigarrete butts in the ashtray grows steadily, as we extinguish one cigarette after another.
Jonny keeps staring in a distrait way at the pictures on the wall. To me it seems as if we might expect to see the faces to move and hear the familiar voices of our late comrades break the silence in the room....
Wolny.... we were returning from his funeral in the Chief's car, when a girl suddenly dashed into the road carrying a wreath of pine on here arm. It was his fiancee. She had been ashamed to stand beside us at the grave, because she was afraid that she still could not control the grief which overwhelmed her when told of his death three days before...
Steiger.... looked exactly like his twin brother. I met him at Tuebingen last year, and at first thought he was Gerd. The resemblence was startling: their mother claimed to be the only person who could tell them apart....
Kolbe... they found his body in the wreckage, but it was minus both hands. Then his wife asked for the wedding ring. How could we possibly tell her the truth?...
Kramer... why, oh why did that boy have to lose his head  that time his aircraft went down in the sea?...
Gerhard... his mother writes to me often, and I ahve to tell her all about her brave son. She hopes that his death for the freedom of our people and the survival of the Reich will not have been in vain...
Fuehrmann.... on the spot where his Messerschmitt carried him down when it plunged into the Moor we erected a tall oak cross. At its base we nailed two five franc peices....
Doelling.... did not return from his second mission. His body was claimed by the sea.
Killian.... his perpetual affairs with women caused me plenty of trouble....
Dolenga... whatever became of his very charming wife? I was best man at their wedding at Jever...
Nowotny... his father in Bruenn wrote to me that two of his brothers had also been killed in action...
Raddatz.... his darling Myra Lydia shed enough tears at the time, but did not take long to find consolation elsewhere. Still she was not the only one who found his charms irresistible....
Arndt... did not return from his first mission....
Reinhard... my good buddy once showed me a photograph of his six brothers and himself, all together, all in uniform, all wearing the Iron Cross First Class...
Zambelli... used to play the accordion. His alert came when he was int he middle of playing a lively dance tune. His accordian was still lying on the table when the rest of us returned from the mission on which he was killed....
Weissgerber....
Hetzel...
Kreuger....
Veit....
Hoefig...
Trockels....
Troendle...
Now only Jonny and I remain....

[Stampf]

 

Thanks Bubi.

[Dichotomy]

wow.... great posts Bubi 

[Chemdawg]

This is some awsome reading. I ordered the book lst night. I cant wait. Dont spoil the ending! 

[Jester]

Bubi, I bet the people at Amazon.com are wondering why all of a sudden there is a run on this book. 

You good be huge! Start your own Luftwaffe based version of the OPRAH BOOKCLUB!   

 

[Motherland]

Haha... sadly I haven't been so obsessed for as long as you guys and most of my books are based on aircraft/general front overviews, though I've come to prefer biographies. So far the only two biographies I've read are 'I Flew for the Fuhrer' and 'The Blond Knight of Germany', and I have 'Hans Joachim-Marseille, Life Story of the Star of Africa' on the way, along with two Osprey books about Zerstoerer pilots and Italian aces (I was going to buy 'Graf and Grisawlski; a Pair of Aces' as well but unfortunately it was out of stock). I have a fairly sized stockpile of Osprey books, they're good reads and great skinning resources.

[Motherland]

"At the Edge of an Advanced Airfield"
24 August 1944
by
Master Sergeant Carl Junger

Yeserday was a great day for us. A day unprecedented in the history of combat flying. My Chief, First Lt. Erich Hartmann, holder of the Oak Leaves with Swords, in two missions shot down eleven enemy planes, and with this raised the number of his victories to three hundred and one. He is the first to have passed the three hundred mark, and therefore is the best fighter pilot in the world.
Even yesterday, good spirits were in evidence all over the field. The question that buzzed from lip to lip was: 'Will the three hundred mark topple today? Can Bubi do it?' All of us were tense with excitement and anticipation. The day before, our Chief had sent eight Ivans into eternity and had raised his figure to two hundred and ninety. Yesterday morning the weather did not look promising. Not until noon did it clear up, thus reducing operational time to half a day. After lunch came the first mission, and our squadron leader did not waste the chance. Right after he lifted off with his wingman we started counting the minutes.
Exactly one hour later, two aircraft appeared on the horizon and came toward our field. The familiarly marked Bf109 of our twenty two year old 'Old Man' wagged it's wings, pulled up, made another pass and wagged again. Then another and another.... five and then six times. Everyone cheered and shouted, wild with joy. The Chief had two hundred and ninety six kills now. Only four more to go, Hals und Beinbruch!
We could hardly wait for the two ships to become operational again. Refueling and rearming seemed to take forever. Meanwhile there were arguements and bets amongst the rest of us. Can he do it today or must we wait another day? Suddenly another mission is ordered. Everyone scrambles to the machines, the blond haired chief in the lead.
He clambers easily into the cockpit. He buckles himself in, as steady and unexcited as ever. His features do not betray his emotions. Only a slightly harsh line plays about the corners of his mouth. A cool one, this. Quietly and with deliberation he begins the cockpit check for this decisive and historic mission- one that will bring him to the head of all fighter pilots. For those that were there, it was a unique experience.
At his sign, the crew begins to start the machines. First slowly and then ever faster until the starter is running at the highest RPM Then a slight jerk, a turning of the propeller, and finally the engines are running. They smooth down and the Chief starts, easing his fighter to the runway with his wingman behind him.
They pause faced into the wind. The roar of a final run up reaches our ears. Then comes take off. Billows of dust swirl up from the sun dried earth as the slender fighters race forward and lift gracefully into the air. The two ships, course east. What will the next hour bring? With a reporter we drive to the advanced area, where already everybody is in a fever of anticipation. We walk to a man with earphones who is listening to the R/T conversations between the ships. He hands us earphones and we plug in and listen...
The air-to-air communication, by which the pilots inform each other, is very tense. Only the most essential is said, and even this by words of certain meaning, where one word may stand for a whole sentence. Sometimes, there are long breaks between the individual dialogues, sometimes address and reply follow each other in staccato counterpoint, and often in dramatic crescendo when within a few minutes one enemy aircraft after another is being shot down. Then two words, sometimes only one, characterize this happening, but the listeners on the ground are wholly absorbed by the breath taking excitement.
Now, everybody is gathering around the operator and those two poor receivers of his headset. It might happen any moment. The operator fingering the buttons of his set.. he is a little nervous, as though afraid of missing the call of victory

15:44: Hartmann to ground: 'Have you any enemy observations?'
"None"
'Why the hell do they chase us up, then?'

15:50: Ground to Hartmann: 'Enemy echelon over Sandowiez approaching.'

15:51: "Eighth staffel watch out! ... Airacobras... damn!..."

16:00: "Bull's eye!"

16:03: "Bull's eye!"

16:06: "Watch out high six o'clock! Airas to the right! Bull's eye!"

16:07: "Watch out high!"

16:09: "We'll get this one!"

16:10: "Attention! Bull's eye!"
Wingman to Hartmann: "Congratulations on three hundreth!"
Ground to Hartmann: 'Congratulations!'

During the next five minutes, the operator cannot take any more messages. Everything goes crazy. He cannot understand a word because of the ensuing hubbub. Then it goes on.

16:15: "Six kilometers west of Sandowiez. Six light bombers, height 2000 meters, circling.... ah... theres another echelon, they're P-2's..."

16:17: "Eight kilometers east of Ostrowiez, height 3000 meters, fighter echelon.... we can't get at them, dammit!"

16:19: "get at them!..."

16:20: "Bull's eye! Impact burst!"

16:23: Wingman to Hartmann: "Look out, there are two aircraft behind us to the left. One fighter is with them."

16:27: "Single aircraft to the left!... That's one of our own.... "

16:29: "look out back!
"roger!"

16:35: Wing to Hartmann: "congratulations!"

16:37: "go down for a landing, I'll rock the wings five times."

Only an hour before he sat down with us in front of a tent, shirt front open to a cooling ind, looking thoughtful and daydreaming at the same time, for we had been talking about his bride to be. Her photo stood on the table. He had looked down his chest and laughed the merry laugh of a youth.
He said: There is a hair on my chest, now I'm going to be a man! At that moment, he was called for take off on this historic mission; the curtain closed over a little piece of insight into his ego, uttered lightly and laughingly, with self irony- a joke and knowledge of himself all rolled into one.


The above can be found in "The Blond Knight of Germany, a Biography of Erich Hartmann"

[Odee]

Great Post Bubi!

I think I'll see if I can order the book.

Ditto. 

Thanks for sharing that.
 

[Chemdawg]

Can Bubi do it?

Where you took your name from?

[TheBug]

Good stuff Bubi! <S>

[Motherland]

Where you took your name from?

Yeah, Bubi was Erich Hartmann's nickname, along with a few other pilots.

[OldBull]

For those of you who enjoy history of this type let me suggest "Masters of the Air", by Donald Miller, it is probably the best documented work on the 8Th Air Force I have ever read.
 Stampf, I just received my copy of "To Win the Winter Sky" today, I found it on Amazon in hardback with a good jacket for around $10.00 Thanks for the heads up it looks to be a good one
Maj OldBull
XO Avengers

[Chemdawg]

Walter Nowotny was dead. Our adversary in Normandy and in the German skies had died two days before in the hospital at Osnabruck as a result of burns. The Luftwaffe, whose hero he was, would not long survive his death, which was as it were, the turning point of the aerial war. That evening in the messhis name was often on our lips. We spoke of him without hatred and without rancour.Each one of us recalled his memories of him, with respect, almost with affection. It was the first time I had heard this note in a conversation in the R.A.F., and it was also the first time that I had heard, openly expressed, that curious solidarity among fighter pilots which is above all tragedies and all prejudices. This war had witnessed appalling massacres, towns crushed by bombs, the butchery of Oradour, the ruins of Hamburg. We ourselves had been sickened when our shells exploded in a peaceful village street, mowing down women and childrenround the German tank we were attacking. In comparison our tussles with Nowotny and his Messerschmidt's were something clean, above the fighting on the ground, in the mud and the blood, in the deafening din of the crawling, stinking tanks.
     Dog fights in the sky: silvery midges dancing in graceful arabesques, the diaphanous tracery of milky condensation trails - Focke-Wulfs skimming like toys in the infinite sky. We too were involved in less noble fighting: that strafing of trains in the grey dawn of the winter mornings when you tried not to think of the shrieks of terror, not to see your shells smashing through the wood. the windows shivering in to fragments, the engine-drivers writhing in the burning, jets of stream, all those human beings trapped in the coaches. panic stricken by the roar of our engines and thebarking of the flak; all those inhuman, immoral jobs we had to do because we were soldiers and war was war. We could rise above all this today by saluting a brave enemy who had just died, by sayingthat Nowotny belonged to us, that he was part of our world, where there were no ideologies, no hatred and no frontiers. This sense of comradeship had nothing to do with patriotism, democracy, Nazism or humanity. All those chaps that eveningfelt this instinctively, and as for those who shrug their shoulders , they just can't know - they aren't fighter pilots. The conversation had ceased, the beer mugs were empty, the wireless was silent as it was past midnight. Bruce Cole, who was neither poet nor philosopher, let fall these words:  "Whoever first dared paint markings on their plane's wing was a swine!"

Pierre Clostermann
The Big Show

Happy 4th of July

[Shifty]

Walter Nowotny was dead. Our adversary in Normandy and in the German skies had died two days before in the hospital at Osnabruck as a result of burns. The Luftwaffe, whose hero he was, would not long survive his death, which was as it were, the turning point of the aerial war. That evening in the messhis name was often on our lips. We spoke of him without hatred and without rancour.Each one of us recalled his memories of him, with respect, almost with affection. It was the first time I had heard this note in a conversation in the R.A.F., and it was also the first time that I had heard, openly expressed, that curious solidarity among fighter pilots which is above all tragedies and all prejudices. This war had witnessed appalling massacres, towns crushed by bombs, the butchery of Oradour, the ruins of Hamburg. We ourselves had been sickened when our shells exploded in a peaceful village street, mowing down women and childrenround the German tank we were attacking. In comparison our tussles with Nowotny and his Messerschmidt's were something clean, above the fighting on the ground, in the mud and the blood, in the deafening din of the crawling, stinking tanks.
     Dog fights in the sky: silvery midges dancing in graceful arabesques, the diaphanous tracery of milky condensation trails - Focke-Wulfs skimming like toys in the infinite sky. We too were involved in less noble fighting: that strafing of trains in the grey dawn of the winter mornings when you tried not to think of the shrieks of terror, not to see your shells smashing through the wood. the windows shivering in to fragments, the engine-drivers writhing in the burning, jets of stream, all those human beings trapped in the coaches. panic stricken by the roar of our engines and thebarking of the flak; all those inhuman, immoral jobs we had to do because we were soldiers and war was war. We could rise above all this today by saluting a brave enemy who had just died, by sayingthat Nowotny belonged to us, that he was part of our world, where there were no ideologies, no hatred and no frontiers. This sense of comradeship had nothing to do with patriotism, democracy, Nazism or humanity. All those chaps that eveningfelt this instinctively, and as for those who shrug their shoulders , they just can't know - they aren't fighter pilots. The conversation had ceased, the beer mugs were empty, the wireless was silent as it was past midnight. Bruce Cole, who was neither poet nor philosopher, let fall these words:  "Whoever first dared paint markings on their plane's wing was a swine!"

Pierre Clostermann
The Big Show

Happy 4th of July

Nice post as well Chemdawg. That's something we all should read whenever the temptation to take this game too seriously eats at us. No matter what side we fly, the guys on the other side are just like us. Enjoying the same hobby. We don't pay the prices the real warriors did, our planes and our cause are cartoon and a game, and really mean nothing when you think about it. It's the hobby, and all the people who fly it where our true loyalty should lay.

Great stuff in this thread guys.
<S>