Brothers in Arms: The Graf Story Part 1

At $4,250, we unlocked the Operation Charlie Fox stretch goal; Fan Fiction. Three brave men took on the task and promised to deliver a story set in the world of Company of Heroes 2, which is, of course, the world engulfed in the flames of the Second World War. Von Kluge will take you soaring to the skies, FichtenMoped will soldier you forward on the ground, and DasDoomTurtle will put you behind the barrel of a metal behemoth. Together, they will tell you the story of three brothers, entangled in the greatest conflict of the 20th century. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

After much toil and trouble, COH2.ORG is proud to present to you the first of this three-part series!

AmiPolizeiFunk
Berlin, October 2015

Brothers in Arms:
The Graf Story
Part 1

THE PEACEFUL HUM of a Daimler-Benz is the one thing I’ll never forget. The smooth feeling of the controls, the organised cockpit lay-out... Messerschmitt had their stuff sorted out when they designed my 109. Flying over what was soon to be occupied France with my Staffel, life is good. The sky was clear, the sun was shining and down below, our boys are liberating the hell out of Fra...

Scheisse! Stephan never saw the D-520 coming... watching your comrades being shot out the sky like pigeons is never a pretty sight. “Red Five to Red Leader, bandits eight o’clock high! Alright, here we go!”

I slammed the throttle open, turned the Me-109 in a steep climb to face the other flight of D-520s head on. Even though they’re France’s most modern fighters, their pilots can’t be trained all that well. For all I know, those pilots might be on their maiden voyage.

“Red Two to Red Leader, bandits on your six, bandits on your six!”

So much for them being rookies, I guess. Instinctively, I broke away from the approaching D-520s hoping that my wingman would take care of the schweinehunde on my six.

I saw the reassuring sight of 2cm shell tracers in my mirror followed by the distinctive cloud of glucol and engine oil burning. “Good shooting Red 2!” Now, time to get some Frenchies myself. After I got my bearings, I quickly saw a group of DB-7s approaching about 500m below me. I switched on my gunsight and prepared to rain death on the American-made bombers. A quick burst later saw one of the DB-7s plummeting towards the ground, the broken wing dwindling behind it like a dead leaf.

I tried not to think about the poor chaps trapped inside, stuck to their seats because of the centrifugal force. Thank god I was a fighter pilot. I decided who lived and who died, that is, if I saw the enemy coming. Unlike poor Stephan. Scheiße, my number two is in trouble. Revving my DB605 straight up to its limit saw me closing the gap between the Frenchie and my cannons rather quickly.

Hearing the stress in my wingman’s voice reminded me that the D-520 means business. I saw sparks flying off the engine cowling of poor Heinz, I'd better hurry up. “Red Leader where are you?!” Relax Heinz, Ludwig’s got this. It only took a short burst of 2cm and 7.92mm ammo to make the Frenchie regret his decision to leave his bed this morning. I saw the canopy open and seconds later, a white mushroom filled the sky. The pilot made it out, gut.

Shit! Totally forgot about those bombers! “Red Leader to Red Staffel, focus on the bombers!” Thankfully the French were running out of planes. The D-520s ran off leaving the bombers hopelessly unprotected. Looks like we got a turkey shoot on our hands!

I’ve been dying to get my 5th kill this campaign and get that Iron Cross; now is as good a time as ever to do this. Followed by four other Me-109s, I dive on the formation of lumbering DB-7s. I heard the excitement of my fellow pilots in my headset, life is indeed good. Before pulling out of the dive, I made short work of another DB-7. The bastards must have been after the Panzerboys at Sedan, Mein Gott I hope they're okay.



MEIN GOTT LUDWIG! Pull up! We’ll never survive this! Unteroffizier Junker always steered away from danger.

I pulled the old Focke-Wulf 44c out of a fairly steep dive and continued my simulated strafing run. “Was verdammt Ludwig you’ll get us both killed!” Don’t sweat it Junker, all will be fine.

Pretending to let the twin 7.92mms loose on a cardboard truck, I swept across the Munich countryside. Junker seems to have had enough of my antics, he orders me to set course towards home. Guess I’ll be up for a spanking, once we touch down.

“Jawohl Herr Unteroffizier!” Junker is really having my arse today. I should’ve never flown so recklessly. Although it was all for fun, this behavior might cost me and my squadron our lives someday.

Junker is right. This is real. Reminiscing about the past few years, it took me a while to get a firm grip on reality. I’m not standing on top of a mountain, waiting until the wind will carry me away towards God knows where. This is preparation for war! Long gone are the times of the great glider races. Father used to be so fond of them. I remember strapping myself into one of those old Gö-3s with Father’s approving gaze upon me.



I CAN'T FAIL NOW, I'd better win this. With more courage than skill, I tried to nurse the lousy glider back home. Thunderstorms won’t keep me from my goal. Lightning may strike the wooden frame of my glider, but I’ll be damned if I don’t bring this baby home. Gott im Himmel! That mountain is approaching way faster than I’d like it to be. My rudder was barely responding and climbing in this crate isn’t exactly the option. “Better say my prayers.”

The gust of wind must have been sent by the gods themselves. I felt the bottom of my Gö-3 scraping the mountain, steering clear of my impending doom. After clearing the mountain, the rest of the ride home was a walk in the park. Controlled descent, eyes peeled on the runway. With a rude bump, I brought the glider home. All I could see was the cheering crowd alongside the runway. Father will be proud, I can’t wait until I see the look in his eyes, when I take home the trophy.

Albert and Hans can be proud of their big brother. People whom I hardly knew congratulated me and handed me the cup. It didn't matter though. The only person that matters is Father. As I approached him, a strange feeling filled me. Chills down my spine, goosebumps on my arms and a racing heart. This must be it. The approval that I had wanted for so long. My moment of glory, the Graf family was finally respected again.

The warm feeling in my cheeks didn't deter me. The empty gaze in my mother’s eyes told me she was confused. My two little brothers were staggered. Why Father? Why have you disciplined me? Verdammt Ludwig You nearly killed yourself when you flew over that mountain! “Silly little child.” I can’t believe this. This isn’t real. My father just smacked me in front of the entire crowd. I’m not a top glider pilot, I’m a mere kid, trying to please his father.

So what if he’s a war veteran? He survived the hell of the Somme, he lived through the gas fields of Ypres, he was part of the first wave when operation Michael launched Stosstruppen on the damned Engländer. Once a proud patriot, my father then took refuge on his farm, pretending not to know the things going on around him. “Germany has gone to scheisse,” he often uttered. How can he not see that our Führer has greater plans for our beloved Deutschland?

I will never join the Wehrmacht. He threatened me. If I join those jackbooted idiots, I’ll never find a home ever again. “All this pretence at patriotism is ruining our country.” “Father never knew much about politics,” I often thought. He failed to see that our Führer has a great future in mind for Germany. It will only take a short few years, until Germany is back at where it belongs. A true force to be reckoned with in the West. France and England won’t be our boss; they have no right to.

I took my chances. The Wehrmacht recruiting office in my street was in a decrepit building, filled with cobwebs and a grumpy Gerfreiter. This is not how I imagined how the future soldiers of our Führer would be welcomed. Nevertheless, I tried not to think about Father's words. I will serve my country.



THE WAR IN FRANCE never really scared me. When I joined my squadron, I never expected to be joining an elite group of soldiers. Men who tried to fight with honor and respect for the adversary. Men who had some sort of code. We were fighting those damned Frenchies but behind the control column was another man who was doing his job. He too was defending his homeland. He also took to the skies to repel invaders, just so he could get back home to his family.

JG 51 was more than just a squadron. Those guys taught me everything. They taught me how to fly, how to fight, how to live. Unlike our boys on the ground, we never had a true enemy. The men we faced 3000m above the ground, in the cold frigid air, were men with great courage.

Our Luftwaffe hopelessly outnumbered those damned Frenchies, yet they choose to take to the skies. It takes great courage to take off in an old crate with no radio and to fight an organized machine. I will never forget how that Bloch just rammed my wingman, sending both planes and pilots toward a horrifying death. With sheer ferocity the French threw themselves at us. Their dedication can only demand our deepest respect.

The French campaign was over all too soon. When we arrived at our newly formed airbase at Le Touquet, we watched in horror at how the Battle of Britain was unfolding. Those Spitfires and Hurricanes really tore our slow Dorniers and Stukas apart. And there was nothing we could do. Hair-raising! I wished to have shot down some of the damned Engländer, but it couldn’t be. Stuck in our refit base, we were sitting with our thumbs up our arses.

Yes! We’ll get the newest Me-109's!

The Friedrich traded the pair of 2cm cannons for a single one and two 7.92mm. The change in armament meant we had to change our fighting style. Booming and zooming would now be the way forward. We had one less cannon but better ammunition, a true give or take for some pilots.

I myself struggled a lot with the new plane. I tried not to sound nervous when I took my flight up for a training mission, but I could barely control my nerves. The strafing attack almost went tits up when I forgot to turn on my new gunsight. A rookie mistake an ace couldn’t afford.

I felt ashamed when I touched down. Guys like Mölders jumped in the plane and did whatever they liked and the plane listened. My 109 seemed to have missed the memo and was a proper bitch. I wonder what Father would think of this.

The sorties I flew in 1941 with the Friedrich didn't make me feel at ease. Our squadron leader Mölders was wreaking havoc amongst the enemy and I didn't want to feel left out. Even comparing myself to a guy like Mölders was insane, it made me push myself harder and harder, even to the point where I didn't recognise myself any longer.

Werner Mölders was a god among men. A guy that grasped the concept of a fighter pilot to its purest. Free, unchained and righteous, roaming high in the skies above the maelstrom that is modern war. We weren't soldiers to Mölders. We were knights. Taking our steel beasts up into the skies, ready to joust with anyone that stood against us.

This idea of freedom didn't go well with the Luftwaffe High Command. Fucking Göring wanted us confined by the rules of the ground controllers, ready to act at their very whim. Mölders fought hard against this restriction. How were we supposed to do our jobs, when we couldn't even act on our gut feelings? You can't control a dog the same way you control a true fighter pilot. We were the best, we were the hunters of the skies. Ready to pounce at whoever stood against us and whoever that tried to test our skill. We were free, we were unrestricted. We fought with honor, we fought with gallantry.

I'll never forget the 22nd of November 1941. Sitting in our mess hall in God knows where in Soviet Russia, the news reached us that our beloved General Mölders had died. An overall sense of disbelief struck the mess hall: not a single pilot could accept that Mölders was shot down by an enemy pilot.

They were right. The Heinkel 111 that carried our beloved general back to our squadron just crashed. Right after the legendary Ernst Udet's funeral, we also lost Mölders.

Even though Operation Barbarossa was in full swing and we were shooting down the Ruskies like rabbits, morale was very, very low. For me, the new Major Karl-Gottfried Nordmann couldn't replace Mölders. Therefore, with a pain in my heart, I left the knights of JG 51.

My name preceded my exploits. "Der Graf" was transferring to JG 52! The elite!

Even though my old squadron was transferring to Focke-Wulff's newest fighter, I was quite happy to take to the skies once more in my faithful 109. I had joined the Jagdgeschwader 52. I joined the best of the best.

I wonder how Father feels now...?

An early production ME-109. Note the typical Eastern Front livery.

"FUCK. THIS. MUD."

Russia was supposed to be a walk in the park.

It was early 1942. We had been flying over the desolate steppes of Soviet Russia for months now. We thought we had destroyed the entire Soviet air force on the ground twice already! Those silly I-16s and Mig-3s couldn't harm us. We were faster, we climbed better and we were better armed than the poor blighters that tried to challenge us. Hah! Poor souls. Even the French made a better adversary than these Untermenschen. Above the barren landscape of Soviet Russia, 109s reigned supreme.

Unlike the guys in the Panzertruppen or our Landsers, we got back home to a warm bed, hot tea and decent grub. Living the life of an elite pilot in JG 52 was living the life of a movie star. I really wonder how Hans and Albert are doing right now? Hans is probably regretting that he joined our Panzertruppen. He never liked confined spaces but still.

Hans told me he'd be transferred soon, to Rommel's new division in the Middle East. He was excited, because he was about to receive a new toy. Something that "would make the Allied armor shit their pants." I'm glad he got out of those damned Panzer III's. All too often have I seen those tin cans burning on the battlefield below me.

The Ruskies didn't know much about real warfare, but their tanks were top of the line. Several reports got back to us, informing us about the imminent danger of Soviet armor on the battlefield. I hope Hans won't have too much trouble coping with American, or even the British Panzer.

It's been a while since Albert's mail reached me. Moving up with our Wehrmacht, he could be anywhere. I always prayed that on every sortie that I fly, I'm able to protect him. Those wretched Ruskies have introduced their verdammt IL-2. The damned thing had more armor than most of our tanks and their pilots were possessed by Satan himself.

Their sheer fanaticism, their disregard for personal safety and their damned relentlessness made those crates very tough to shoot down. I have already lost track of the amount of Kameraden I have lost, due to those fucking ram attacks.

Why do they keep doing this? Don't the Ruskies realise the war is over? We're at the gates of their beloved Stalingrad, yet another city that will fall soon to our mighty Wehrmacht. It's correct to say that we dominated the skies. Our 109s were vastly superior to anything that the Ruskies can throw at us. We kept on losing guys to ramming attacks and dedicated anti-aircraft fire. I remember myself being in trouble, getting shot up by two LaGG-3s. Thank God Johann was around to save my ass. My kill tally was significantly growing however. After the initial struggle, I got accustomed to my 109 G-6. It was about time.

The emptiness of the sky ahead of you, the desolate landscape and the utter boredom in between sorties gave you much time to think. Too much time almost. I often caught myself worrying about Hans and Albert, but I couldn't let my worries get the best of me. I'm in charge of 11 men and I can't share my concerns with them. I know Hans should be fine in his steel beast and I trust that Rommel will show the wretched Engländer what mobile warfare really is, but Albert.

I hope he brought extra socks for the coming winter.

"Achtung! Bandits, 3 o'clock high!"

Was?! How did the buggers get above us?

I ordered my Staffel to split up and get into a climbing spiral. We'll lose speed and we will be vulnerable, but then again, the Ruskies never were accurate shots. Uncle Stalin didn't allow those boys to get decent training. We were fighting farm boys in rudimentary planes, I heard that most of the planes we shot down, came straight out of the factory.

Fucking Ruskies, their morale will never break. The wings of that LaGG broke easier than I thought. Red tracers from my guns finally connected with the wooden frame of the LaGG and just obliterated the right wing of the LaGG-3. One down!

How was my Staffel doing? Helmut and Jurgen were both chasing some Ruskies, I was fairly confident they'll get their kills. They've always been confident and never had much trouble coping with adversaries. Johann is faithfully covering my six, as a good wingman does. Kriss and André were still dogfighting when I saw an LaGG-3 move in on André's six. I tried to warn him over the radio, but it was to no avail. This Ruskie farm boy apparently did take gunnery lessons.

It only took him six bursts to wipe out the grey Me-109. I tried to spot a parachute and much to my delight, I saw a body descending, attached to a white mushroom. As I tried to move closer for a visual confirmation that André is alive and well, I saw the LaGG-3 swoop in. What followed, still haunts me today. I saw the machine guns and 20mm canon of the LaGG-3 rip loose on the mushroom. The incendiary rounds immediately set the cloth on fire and soon, the parachute disintegrated, making André plummet to his death, 3700 meters below.

My eyes were filled with tears of rage. I slammed the throttle and ordered my flight to attack the LaGG-3 which killed poor André. It was only then that I realized, we're beyond bingo fuel. There's not enough fuel for the lot of us, to make it back to base. I can't fucking risk my flight, just to avenge André. Somehow I got the feeling, that I would meet this LaGG-3 pilot again. I'll remember his crate, the big white rose on the fuselage made it clear who I'll be chasing.

The scolding was real. It must've been a funny sight, to see seven brand spanking new 109 G-6s parked in a farmstead, cows chewing grass around the 20mm gun pods under the wings. I guess it's pretty weird but hey! We all made it back, except for poor André. Who cares that we've landed 50kms from our base? I didn't have time for crap like this. I've got a pilot to hunt. Much like Medieval knights, we'd single each other out and fight until one of us throws in the towel. In theory at least. My adversary does not possess what you call chivalry, shooting at fucking parachutes.



NOTHING WORKS.

Can't even get my damned sidearm loaded, because of this damned cold. Our Wehrmacht was still struggling, in the ruins of what was once Stalingrad. The amount of sorties has diminished due to the cold. 40 below zero is normal here. Our planes are grounded, our tanks are bogged down and our infantry are dying in their foxholes.

The Ruskies must be even worse off. At least we have some sort of shelter. Our infantry is residing in the massive tractor factories, desperately trying to get a fire going, continuously running the risk of getting their heads shot off by snipers. When we do get a sortie request, it's always the same -- escort the lumbering JU-52 transport planes, flown by bus drivers. These transport pilots had no idea of combat flying whatsoever and whenever they were singled out by enemy planes, the results were terribly one-sided.

We knew we had to get those flying whales to their bases, so they could resupply our 6th Armee on the ground. Those supplies have to reach our boys, so they can live to fight another day. I heard stories of our boys not being given winter equipment; they had to stuff their boots with straw, to prevent their toes freezing off. How could our Führer allow this? We were relatively warm in our shelters, but life is still pretty miserable. I hope this fucking winter ends soon.

"Airplanes inbound, airplanes inbound!"

The shriek of the siren woke me up brutally. With eyes still heavy due to lack of sleep, I stumbled into my 109. Apparently, the Ruskies got ballsy and tried to raid our airbase. I was one of the only pilots into the air in time, only to find out that my cannons had jammed. I tried to engage the IL-2s, but those damned things were so heavily armored, I just saw my MG 151 rounds bounce off the fuselage. I even tried getting some shots off on the glass canopy, but even that had a thick slab of armor over it.

Scheisse! They got Felix. Poor Felix was one of the younger guys, straight outta fly school. Like so many, he was eager to fight the Ruskies, score some kills and earn the respect he ought to have, as a pilot in the elite JG 52. His frantic efforts to get his crate in the air were absolutely nullified by the heavy 23mm fire of the IL-2s. Felix never made it off the runway.

I could hear his beastly roar over the radio, the agony and sorrow made his voice tremble, until his microphone broke up, pretty much all along with the rest of his 109. The fireball at the end of the runway made my stomach turn. I desperately tried to shoot down some of the flying tanks, but my efforts were all but useless.

As soon as the Ruskies turned up, they disappeared again. When I was on final approach, I witnessed a horrifying sight. What once used to be an airfield, was just a scrap yard now. Ju-87s, Me-109s and even transport planes were burning next to the runway. Our barracks were demolished, our ammunition storage would be burning for another three days, giving the Ruskies a beacon, as to where they struck. We were desperate.

Almost with tears in my eyes, I cut off my engine and ran for what cover was left on our airfield. I learned that our CO was killed, strapping on his parachute. This meant I would soon be in charge of JG 52.

I never liked bureaucracy. I hated the paperwork. I loathed reporting losses to my superiors, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Right? I often wondered how Father would feel. I tried to think that my mail never reached the Fatherland, but sometimes I caught myself realizing that he'll never even reply to my mail. Mother tried to comfort me, but it never felt the same. I was a GeschwaderMajor, goddammit! I was leading the elite squadron of our Führer's mighty Luftwaffe. I came to think about it, I was leading whatever was left of our once proud squadron... verdammt nochmal.

A typical day on the Eastern Front. Note the fire being lit under the engine cowling to prevent the oil from freezing and jamming the engine.

THE SPRING OF '43 brought only more misery. Our sixth Armee surrendered at Stalingrad, rendering our efforts to resupply them pretty much useless. I lost so many good guys trying to resupply that damned pile of rubble. Felix, Kriss, Karl, Heinrich.

At least we got refurbished replacement planes and more importantly, new pilots. The rookies were eager, but the old guard had seen that eagerness before. The newbies were put off of by the vacant gaze in our eyes, our lack of enthusiasm and our wavering doubt in the Führer and the end of the war: all of it together. We had seen too much. We witnessed the horrors of it all and we were terrified by what was coming next. The Ruskies finally got their shit together and decided to make good airplanes. Their LaGG-3s and Yaks scared the hell out of us. Their pilots now displayed some tactics and showed us that they memorized their flying school books correctly. Their victory at Stalingrad made us view them as being all the more fierce.

Thankfully, my JG 52 was transferred to the Caucasus. We were now flying over the 17th Armee's retreating Panzertruppen. Those boys tried to capture the oil fields, but failed miserably. We were being bogged down on all fronts, both in the air and on the ground. The 17th was on a long and painful retreat from the Crimea, but while we were trying to protect those guys, we heard rumors of a certain summer offensive, somewhere in the Ukraine, around the small town of Prokhorovka. Summer of 1943 would surely be interesting.

Scheiße! What's the time? 3:30 in the morning - what the hell is going on? Our Panzerboys are under attack again. We had to get up in the pitch black darkness of the night and try to find out what was harassing our boys. The troops under fire were stuck in one of Russia's plentiful swamps and somehow they forgot how to shoot down planes. I took off in my 109, cursing every moment of the approach until we came close to the swamp.

My eyes witnessed once more the terrifying horrors of this wretched war. Fuel trucks were burning, illuminating the ground as if it was a sunny afternoon. I could see burning soldiers, crying in agony, I could almost hear their screams in my headset but that was just Max. One of the rookies that was with me got shot down. I almost felt some grief but their deaths couldn't phase me any longer. I saw a 60-ton Tiger tank being flipped over like it was a toy car. The boys on the ground tried to get some anti aircraft fire going but it was to no avail. We never saw an enemy plane. I heard stories of Russian night flyers but I never could verify them. This night however gave me the chills.

The moon was shining brightly and there was little to no wind. The eerie, ghostly blanket of darkness made it a perfect night for stealthy Russians.

It couldn't be, I must be dreaming. Those guys on the ground probably faced some lucky artillery fire. The skies were empty.

On the way back the mood was dreadful. Bitter and filled with rage I ordered my flight - or what was left of it - to keep an eye out for Ruskies. I looked down and in the blink of an eye, I thought I saw a white flash. I couldn't take any risks, so I ordered my flight to keep on course back to base. I veered off, following my instinct and with more guts than skill, I found what I was looking for: NachtHexen!

Just make sure to play it loud.

As I lined up for a strafing run, I suddenly realized again just how daft those Ruskies were. Flying with crappy old Po-2 biplanes at speeds even our grandmothers could match, those pilots flew so close to the ground they could probably skim the treetops. This was just suicidal. As much as I want to nail one of those planes, I'm not feeling like dying just yet. With much disgust, I pulled back to safer heights and set a course back to base. The burning pile of rubble at the end of the runway wasn't looking all too promising.

Fucking Lukas crashed his plane, or Peter, I don't even know his name. The darkness claimed yet another victim. Pilot lives were getting shorter and shorter these days. My squadron consisted of some of my old mates from back in early 1942. Rugged, dependable pilots that at least knew how to fly. Besides the old guard, 70% of my squadron consisted of new pilots. Guys that had yet to see their first dogfight and probably would never make it to their second dogfight. They tried to befriend the older pilots, but we simply couldn't be bothered. Before we memorized their names, they would be shot down. The Ruskies were really steamrolling us and there was nothing we could do against it. Our training and tactics were better but they often outnumbered us five to one.

In April of '43, my squadron celebrated our 5000th aerial victory. With our bases shifting all the time, we never even got the time to settle down properly. Our accommodations got worse and worse, my batman didn't have time to give me my newly polished uniform. I would be wearing a standard Unterfeldwebel uniform. Stripped of my two Iron Crosses, I looked nothing like the GeneralMajor I was supposed to be. Since my 109 was in maintenance but I had to get up in the air, I even flew an unpainted 109. No rank markings, no score tallies, I looked just like the newbie, that I once was in France, 1940. The small party we threw to celebrate our 5000th areal victory was short lived, because we were once again called to action. There was a flight of IL-2s raining death on our infantry and we had to, yet again, get them out of a pickle. At least we were back to flying out in the sun; that night engagement still gave me goosebumps.

The view at 3500 meters made me forget the horrors going on below. The sun was once again shining brightly, almost erasing the memories of Russia's brutal winter from my mind. We didn't have to fly for long, before we saw Stalin's flying tanks. They were forming up in their well-known kettles of death. The Sturmoviks were slow as all hell and they tried to turn this disadvantage into an advantage. By flying in a huge circle, allowing one plane at a time to zoom down and attack ground targets, the IL-2's were always able to cover their friends. Undeterred, we launched our attack on the so-called unsupported IL-2's. It didn't take long for me to curse our intelligence officers to hell. Before we even got our first shots off, my #6 and #7 were already balls of flames.

From the low hanging clouds, a terrifying sight appeared. Brand-spanking new La-5's dove down on us. Their red livery showed us they were part of an elite Guards squadron. I tried to shift my attention to the Las and reorganize my flight. Luckily most of my flight were fairly experienced flyers and they knew how to react to this new threat. After an Immelmann I found myself on the tail of one of those La-5s. Ready to open up with 3x 20mm fire to get some redemption, my plans were short lived. Just as I was processing the screams of my wingman, I already smelled engine oil burning, I noticed fuel spilling out of my DB-605 and I knew it was time to bail. I frantically tried to get the canopy open but the damned thing was shut. I pulled out my Luger, shot the hinges and, mercifully, that did the trick. Fighting the crippling centrifugal forces I managed to get myself out of my seat. When I hauled myself out of the plane, I saw an awfully familiar fuselage appear. The red La-5 was painted with... a bloody white rose.

Image manipulation by topperharley_42.

THE REASSURING THUMP of my parachute opening meant that I would live for a little longer. André's burning parachute immediately came to my mind and I was ready to face the same end. With a stroke of luck, I saw one of my 109s chase the white rose La-5. My boys were scenting blood, judging by the ferocity of the dogfight unwinding around me. As I dwindled down slowly towards the ground, the dogfight around me was the least of my worries. The IL-2s had finished wiping out our Panzerboys below and on the horizon, I could already see the smoke trails of the upcoming Soviet horde. This won't end very well for me. When I hit the ground, I tried to gather my bearings. I was in no-man's land for now, but how long would it take for the Ruskies to waltz in here? The burning Panzer IV wrecks were a ghostly reminder how our Wehrmacht was taking a beating from the Russians.

I hope to God that Hans wasn't among the mangled bodies of those tankers. I grabbed an MP-40, so I could at least go down fighting. Sadly, I was down faster than I anticipated. I only heard the shot go off after the bullet had entered my leg. It felt like someone hit my leg with a sledgehammer and I fell down. I could only see the blue sky with contrails, I felt the stiff breeze in my hair and I heard some gibberish speech before I lost consciousnesses.

I woke up in a khaki green tent, my hands were tied and my leg was bandaged. I heard an unfamiliar language around me and I quickly realized what happened. I was captured... Mein Gott! I live!

The moment I opened my eyes, some Ruskie was focused on battering them back shut again. The rifle butt said 'hi' quite violently to my face and I tasted blood. More gibberish unfolded around me, I had no idea what was going on. The only thing I understood was, that the soldier introducing his rifle to my face was sent out. With one eye shut and the other barely open, I did manage to see the form of a Soviet officer. He had long curly hair and a soft voice. Wait! Was? Soft voice, curly hair?? This Ruskie was a woman! I heard stories of how the Soviets had female political officers and I was told they were often worse than their male counterparts. Ruthless leaders, with disregard for the lives of their soldiers, these women were far from the Frauleins we had in the Fatherland. "Sind... sie... Flieger?"

Well, fuck! She speaks German! I tried to explain to her that I was a fighter pilot, not a STUKA pilot. I had heard stories of what the Ruskies did to Stuka pilots. Just like we did to IL-2 pilots, whom we captured. The stories never ended well for those pilots.

She gave me a quick nod and shouted something in Russian. Two not very friendly looking soldiers pulled me from the bed, and made it clear that I should walk out of the tent. A truck was waiting for me and I was blindfolded. Hours seemed to pass, my back was being battered by the rough terrain and I feared every second, that some Russian would just shoot me out of spite. I knew we had arrived, when the Ruskie shoved me out of the truck. Ever since I was shot down, I seemed to have been more on my back than on my feet. How I wished that it could have stayed like this.

"Shovel... you... DIG!"

Along with other POWs, I was ordered to dig runways for the forward airfields. Planes would be taking off from here soon to kill my comrades. Rather reluctantly, I kept on digging. For now I valued my life, so I kept quiet and listened carefully to what was unfolding around me. The other POWs were mostly Wehrmacht soldiers, captured in the Crimea. They too were up to date on the Summer Offensive. They made peace with their situation and they didn't mind building runways for the Ruskies. I was amazed they treated me like one of their own. I was a squadron leader, goddammit, a revered one! They didn't even salute me. Then it dawned on me.

My uniform, my medals... I was wearing another uniform! My normal flight suit had been lost in the laundry! I was an ordinary pilot! That probably saved my life. No way the Ruskies would keep me alive, if they knew I was leading the best of the best.

My uniform was what kept me alive. I wonder if it could get me back to JG 52 as well?

On a rainy day in May we were once again out digging. Both of our guards didn't like the rain all too well and couldn't even be bothered to leave the comfort of their tent. They were awfully confident that the six of us would continue digging. Since we were brought to our excavations blindfolded, I didn't even know where we were. I glanced around and I saw that we were digging latrines, right next to an airfield. The La-5s were parked neatly next to each other, canopies opened for the Quick Reaction Force.

This was my chance! My attempt to escape would immediately sentence the other guys in my digging party to death. That's how both sides treated POW's. One guy escaped, the rest will pay the price.

I have to, I just have to! The airfield had no gates around it, the rain would make me disappear. Should I?

Entschuldigung Kameraden! I legged it. I absolutely legged it. The bullet wound in my leg healed up well enough not to hamper me, as I sprinted towards the airfield. Before any of the other guys even realized I was escaping, I almost reached the port wing of the first La-5. I heard gunshots in the background, frantic screaming, whistles blowing. I'd better hurry up.

I trusted my Russian counterparts to have left their planes just like we did. Every switch in the opposite position. I said my prayers and began to switch everything up, closed the canopy and prayed the AA defences weren't warned already. Seconds that felt like hours passed. The whizzing sound of the generator gave me hope. The fuselage shook, smoke filled the canopy and the propellor started turning. Gott im Himmel!

Yes! Yes! We're rolling! I taxied as fast as I could towards the runway, slammed the throttle so hard I almost yanked it out of the casing and I blasted off. These La-5s sure pack some punch under the bonnet!

I took off right in time to clear the trees on the end of the runway and I tried to find the landing gear lever. I saw two red sticks poking out of the wings and I sighed in relief, because the gear was up. Head west, head west and pray you don't meet any planes. Skimming right above the treetops at nauseating speeds I made a wild dash towards my own lines. Or what used to be my own lines. I had no idea where the first forward operation bases would be so I just kept going until I was almost out of fuel. Did this really happen?

My landing was abysmal but I didn't care. The wooden prop buried itself into the ground, I almost smashed my head against the gunsight and all around me I heard shouting. Shouting in German thankfully. I opened the canopy and slowly raised my hands.

"Hande Hoch, Schweinhund!"

It turns out that German soldiers, just like Russian soldiers, love to bash faces in. A hollow thump later saw me back to the ground, one eye shut and the other barely open. Déjà-vu, anyone?



THE POOR GEFREITER got the scolding of a lifetime. Bashing the face of der Graf? He should be ashamed! With a certain feeling of pride, I could now say that the German lazarette were way better than the Russian ones. My squadron mates visited me, some generals came by my bed, congratulating me and OberstLeutnant Hrabak came in and subtly handed me a little black box. An Iron Cross with Oak leaves. Holy F...!

I couldn't get out of this bed fast enough. The gunshot wound in my leg was fully healed and I slept enough to fight on forever. When I got back to base it was stirring with activity. This must have had something to do with the so-called Summer Offensive. I got my uniform back, a new 109 was being painted with my decals and my wingman came running towards me.

Schnell Graf! We need to be in the briefing room! There it all unfolded before my eyes. Operation Zitadelle: A big push focused on encircling the Russians in the Kursk salient. Our Führer somehow managed to amass all remaining Panzer forces, our Luftwaffe too was ready to deliver a fatal blow to the Soviets. I heard rumors of new tanks arriving just for Operation Zitadelle, massive beasts that would rip the Soviet armor to pieces. Surely the Ruskies wouldn't be able to cope with those leviathans? The initiative on the Eastern Front would soon be back in German hands again.

Our sorties would mainly be escorting duty. We had to babysit Henschel-129s. Our very own version of the IL-2. A lumbering twin motor, with a nasty surprise in the form of a 7.5cm AT gun in the nose. Say goodbye, Tovarishch tanker!

We were tasked to fly out on the second day of the offensive. Everything was going reasonably well, the SS clowns that spearheaded the advance managed to break through and were approaching Prokhorovka. This little railroad junction seemed meaningless in the operational scale of things, but it would soon be the focal point of two titanic armies, slugging it out on the fields around it. Undeterred, we flew onward, not realizing the biggest tank battle in the history of mankind, would soon unfold below us.

"Ruskies 12 o'clock low!"

Turns out that the Russians had the same plan as we did. They would pummel their way through our armored fist and wreak havoc on our artillery. We left the He-129s alone to do their work while we focused on the IL-2s once more. I left a group to cover our asses, as we made quick work of the Sturmoviks. I'd hate to be surprised again by a red La-5. My face has been bashed in more than enough. Sooner than expected, the La-5s swooped in. With a stroke of luck, they didn't hit my wingman and the two of us maneuvered into position, to give the La-5s a taste of their own medicine.

We were out for blood. With the ferocity of Roman gladiators, a dogfight ensued. Engines roared while machine guns and cannons filled the sky with cordite. Tracers were flying all around. My mind was racing, I couldn't afford to waver for a split second. In my headset I heard the strange combination of joy and fear. The terrifying cries of wounded pilots, merged with the cheerful and proud reports of downed planes. This was surreal. In the clutch, I distinguished a particular La-5. A red one, with a white rose. Also Ivan, now you're mine.

I instructed my flight to leave the one with the white rose to me. I had a score to settle. The Russian shared this idea and with a speed of over 590km/h, we closed in on each other. Guns blazing. We matched each other's manoeuvres, constantly trying to out-turn each other. Climbing, diving, looping, rolling, we made each other dizzy. We tested each other's G tolerance. Gut-crunching turns, with a split second to fire, followed quickly and then I heard the most dreadful sound ever. Click!

“Shit... out of ammo.”

The La-5 was below me, with a quick roll I made him overshoot and he was right next to me. I looked up to get a quick glance of the devil piloting that plane and my jaw dropped in awe. It was the officer I met in that wretched tent! She immediately recognized me and the fiendish woman even waved at me. Our dogfight took us to a height of around 7000 meters and what we saw there, was simply mesmerizing.

For a moment, the two of us forgot that there was a war raging between us. The panorama was eerie, but fascinating at the same time. Black smoke was rising up from the ground. The soil was littered with black carcasses of destroyed tanks. Artillery made the ground look like grated cheese and the gun fumes laid a ghostly filter over the battlefield.

The town of Prokhorovka just vanished from the face of the earth. Above the battlefield we saw Il-2s slug it out with 109s and Fw-190s. Our own Henschell-129s were taking a beating from the hordes of La-5s and MiG-3s. This is how hell looks. I can tell for sure. I hope Albert isn't in this maelstrom. He'll never make it out alive. I can't imagine being an unprotected human being, in this festival of steel and iron. This grotesque theater showed me what happens when two mad men refuse to give in. Down there, lives don't matter.

When I snapped back to reality, the sky around me is empty. She had buggered off. How long was I lost in my thoughts? I suddenly felt tired, fatigue was getting the better of me. I radioed my flight to see who was still left. Much to my relief, I only lost four guys. We returned to formation, escorting the only He-129 who made it out alive. I could see the bullet ridden canopy, covered in red smears. The poor guy must be hurt badly. Smoke was trailing from his port engine. The engine housing was shot to hell, his flaps were perforated and half of his tail plane was missing. How the hell was he still flying? I felt proud when he managed to touch down. We landed shortly after him and when I turned off my engine, the silence was deafening. My cheeks felt moist, I caught myself crying.

I needed both my mechanics to get me out of the cramped cockpit of my 109. I was a wreck. I tried to get as much sleep as possible in between sorties but the next few weeks were brutal. We constantly faced heavy anti-aircraft fire, never-ending streams of enemy planes and the constant threat of not having an airfield to return to. Operation Zitadelle soon became a blur to me. I did everything on auto pilot, I became a ghoul. Even my closest friends couldn't recognize me when our Führer finally realized that Kursk had been a massive failure. We committed everything for the encirclement of Kursk and no matter how many tanks, planes and guns we destroyed, the Ruskies always came back with more. Finally my leave request came through. I'd be spending the next 3 weeks somewhere else, perhaps I'd finally be able to sleep properly again.



THEY OFFERED TO send me back to Berlin to relax for three weeks. Little did they know that I had nothing to go back to. The Amis were relentlessly bombing the Fatherland in broad daylight, while the damned Engländer were bombing the snot out of us at night.

I was in a big luxury resort somewhere in Western Russia. I didn't feel at ease. The rooms weren't destroyed, the bunks had sheets, our grub was warm and the sun was shining. This felt so completely different from what I was used to, it was almost surreal. The nurses and staff around me were hopelessly optimistic, as if the war would be over by Christmas. Operation Zitadelle apparently was a big success and "our Panzerboys would soon reclaim what was ours."

Verdammte Idioten. Kursk was a graveyard of steel and flesh. Along with those Panzers and tankers, our Führer also buried the hopes of winning this war. I felt it, I knew it. Along with our initial enthusiasm and will to fight, I soon realized that we've been lied to. The Ruskies weren't reluctant to fight back. The Ruskies didn't surrender at sight of an enemy force. The Ruskies weren't fighting with outdated equipment. No. The Ruskies were destroying us on all fronts. Their soldiers were driven by revenge and redemption. You couldn't blame them though. Stories of atrocities committed by German infantry reached us and we were stricken by disbelief, I finally knew what the horrors of war could do to a man.

On a warm summer night in August, I was reunited with some friends I made earlier. The night was dark and full of terrors. A Panzer brigade stopped at our resort to spend the night, refit and refuel. The moon was shining bright and the late August weather made for a spooky fog. I remember this kind of night. Burning fuel trucks, wrecked Panzers, mangled bodies. This couldn't be. Nein. Anxiously I paced around our anti-air defences. With several Flakvierlings and multiple MG-34s our camps were well defended. but what if we didn't even hear them coming?

It didn't take long for the first explosions to take place. Randomly around me things were lit ablaze. Barracks, mess halls, latrines, ammunition storages. Everything was surrounded by fiery tongues that eagerly licked away at our equipment. The only thing I heard besides the screams of the wounded was a very faint rumble. Repetitively, methodically, much like the sound of a sewing machine. This is it. They're back.

Nachthexen.

I rushed to the nearest Flakvierling and ordered the crew to focus on the treetops. Last time I met those madmen they were skimming the face of the earth so chances are they'll do it again. With no illumination lights whatsoever and only the moon to guide us, this was much like playing darts in the dark. Whilst upside down. Whilst drunk.

I ordered the gunners to lay down a pattern of fire along the treetops. Surely the muzzle flashes will attract their attention but I was sure they wouldn't attack the gun emplacements. That would mean certain death for them. Their aircraft couldn't withstand our fire power so this battle was a game of mental strength. Who would crack first?

The canvas of their old PO-2s it seemed. The sky was lit up with tracer fire and amongst the tracers, I could easily see the burning engines, canvas and plywood that made up a PO-2. We actually managed to shoot down one of the wretched buggers, I was curious to see how many more we could bag. Only one more it seems. When the battle was over, all we could account for was two downed biplanes. The Ruskies had a lot more to brag about. Pretty much all of our resort and staging area was destroyed. Last time when I saw this kind of havoc was when I was flying above the fields of Prokhorovka. Horrible. The amount of corpses I saw couldn't be counted. We lost pretty much all of our armour and APCs and my own Luftwaffe was nowhere to be seen. This truly was a shameful display. From that day onward, I swore to defend my comrades by day and by night.

A couple of days later, I received new transit orders. Given my previous exploits in the dark and the devastating night bomber campaign by the Engländer, Lufwaffe Oberkommando placed me in command of JGN 1. The first night fighter squadron of our Luftwaffe. Stationed in Mönchengladbach, I soon found myself back in the Fatherland. While the Ruskies were flying old outdated biplanes, we were given the best of the best. Heinkel-219 fighters. Nicknamed the Uhu after the giant owl, our planes were equipped with Lichtenstein radar sets and we carried a devastating array of guns. Three centimeter cannons underneath the cockpit, two centimeter cannons in the wing roots and two pairs of two centimeters facing upwards in our fuselage. We truly were a force to be reckoned with. Along with a top speed of 610 km/h, we were more than fast enough to intercept the lumbering bombers and give them a taste of their own medicine.

An Uhu in his natural habitat.

The constant pummeling of our cities at night really took its toll on me. I flew above Nürnberg, Berlin, Munich and several other cities. The sights were always the same.

We took off around 0200 hours, being warned by our early warning radar systems. The Brits tried to fool us by dropping aluminium strips but we quickly caught onto that. After climbing to 6000 meters we were in a holding pattern, waiting for the tiny exhaust flames to appear before we engaged. Since my He-219 wasn't in full production, I only had 3 other planes along with me. Nevertheless we wreaked havoc. Along with JGN 2, "the experts," we surely gave the Tommies something to think about. Their Lancasters and Halifaxes were so vulnerable. With a flimsy defensive armament of four .303 guns in the back it was almost like shooting fish in a barrel. The poor blighters didn't even have ventral protection so my schräge musik could really rip into their soft bellies.

It was horrible. No one survives a hailstorm of two and three centimeter ammunition from up close. And even if they did manage to survive the initial cannon fire, they were still trapped in a burning box of steel, 5000 meters above the ground. I almost felt sorry for them. Almost. I felt more sorry for my countrymen on the ground. With their houses ablaze by the firebombing it must be atrocious to be exposed to such ordeals nights on end.

When I reflect on my time as a night fighter, I tend to think I did a good job. I downed about 25 bombers. It's only a ripple in a raging ocean, considering that the Brits were doing 1000-bomber raids occasionally.

Mein gott.

I guess the only positive thing was that the Brits weren't really a danger for myself or my comrades. Unlike the Americans and their fifty-cals.



IT'S BEEN A WHILE since I slept until 6am. Wait, what? I slept? What's happening? I quickly got dressed and headed off for the mess. With sleepy eyes I was met by my batman and his eyes were filled with joy. "Glückwunsch herr Major!"

What? What did I do? Some transfer papers had just arrived and it looked like we were headed north!
Such confusion and I hadn't even had my cup of coffee. I glanced at the papers and I figured out I was being sent to a test squadron. But why? I thought I was a pretty good fighter pilot looking at my score tally.

When the Mercedes rolled up to take me to Augsburg my mind was raging. What's over at Augsburg? There are some factories there, perhaps I'm instructed to test the newest Me-109 variants? "Wait, didn't they bomb Augsburg?" Apparently they did but Messerschmitt moved its production underground. I... I don't even? I tried to get some sleep in the car but the endless checkpoints and bombed roads weren't helping. I couldn't help but notice that security became more and more strict as we neared the airfield of Lechfeld. They even had bloody SS personnel standing on guard duty here. If the army used those idiots as sentry duty, something big must be up.

Something big was up. I was at a loss for words. Breathtaking. Amazing. Holy shit.

A typical ME-262 attack run. Come in high and behind the bombers and make a devestating pass.

I liked the idea of testing the latest 109's but testing THAT? No way! They were beautiful, parked alongside each other, their canopies opened, swept wings, sharp noses and more importantly, two big jet engines, the Me-262 was truly a work of art. I had never seen a jet fighter before and when a Schwalbe flew overhead, I heard the guzzing sound of a jet engine for the first time. This was going to be spectacular!

Hauptmann Tierfelder didn't waste too much time getting to know me. We made acquaintance and he immediately sent me off for theory courses. I learned the engines of the Me-262 were fragile as hell. They didn't spool up fast and they didn't turn off fast so I have to keep my engine RPM in mind at all times. If I lost an engine I'd still be able to make it back to base and I wasn't allowed to fly into enemy territory. I learned that our Führer decided that these magnificent fighters should have been used as fighter bombers first. I was once again lost for words. With it's sleek lines, monstrous armament and jet engines, how could this beauty not be used to dominate the skies?

It took me a while to get used to flying jets. I missed the vibrations of an inline engine, it smelled differently, I missed having a propeller right in front of my nose and I missed the story the engine tried to tell me. With more luck than skill I managed to finish my first couple of test flights but I couldn't help but notice that the 262 was so unwieldy on the final approach. Perhaps that was the reason why those FW-190Ds were flying overhead. I felt privileged, I never had an escort when I landed or took to the skies. I guess test pilots really do get all the good stuff.

Turns out we don't. In the first month we lost five pilots. The engines were a massive pain in the arse and the transition was tough as nails. We could barely survive in our new jets, let alone fly combat sorties in them. The attrition rate was horrifying, it almost felt like the Eastern Front all over again. Things were slowly improving for me however. The 262 became less of a handful and I slowly regained my intuition with the plane and I felt like for the first time, I was really in control.

She still had her cringes and occasionally she really did want to kill me but my 262 would prove a formidable companion. A companion that I owed my life to. I could have said the same about my trusty 109 but even though it was in constant evolution, it reached the end of its life cycle. The Americans were using their new P-51Ds and they outperformed our 109s in most situations. Things were getting harsher in the skies above the Fatherland and there was very little we could do about it. There's only so much four 3cm cannons could do but we gave it our best shot.

I should really stop daydreaming in my cockpit.

"Achtung bombers seven o'clock low!"

Faithful Heinrich, always snapping me out of my thoughts. I switched on my gunsight and slowly spooled up my engines. The whizz coming from both sides meant that the Junkers Jumos didn't explode nor refused to work so I got ready for the fight. Just when I thought I've seen the mother of all bomber formations above Kursk, my jaw dropped in awe once more. Where the Ruskies used lumbering IL-2 with only one flimsy little back gunner, we were up here fighting the big boys. Like lumbering beasts the row of B-17's and B-24's stretched on to what looked like forever. Slow, in close formations with turrets and guns sticking out from all sides, it was a horrific sight to gaze upon. I couldn't withhold a curse when I ordered my flight to engage the massive bombers. We were welcomed by tracers from all sides, I felt trapped in a maelstrom of lead and death and it didn't take them long to get one of our 109s.

From the corner of my eye I could see a fireball colliding with one of the bombers and the sight still haunts me in my dreams. I really wish our radio sets worked on different frequencies. Their screams reminded me of Kursk and judging by their voices, our Führer decided to send kids up to their deaths. For fuck's sake.

I lost the hope for victory a long while ago. The only reason I took off every day was to protect those that flew with me. Ideals were thrown out, lebensraum had a hollow meaning and the Ruskies taught me that they weren't untermenschen. This was madness. Absolute madness. We've awoken a force we couldn't compete with. The Amis outnumbered us 10-to-1 and no matter how advanced your aircraft was, sheer numbers would come out on top every time.

The 109s were taking an absolute pounding. As I lined up for another kill I could see strange contrails appear. Unlike the B-17s, these were single contrails and I knew they meant trouble. P-51s! Quick, leave the bombers, get the hell out of dodge! I ordered my flight to dive out of their engagements and to form up below the bombers. We were under strict orders not to engage enemy fighters and with a pain in my heart, I broke off. For the first time, I ran away from a dogfight.

My final approach was horrible. There was a terrible crosswind right above the runway and the 262 is so hard to control at low speeds. I figured the escorting 190s must think I'm a rookie pilot. Little did they know I was one of the highest decorated pilots in the Luftwaffe. I couldn't care less. The days went on and the months passed. Endless streams of bombers above the Fatherland, endless sorties where we could perhaps shoot down three or four bombers in three passes before their little friends joined the fight.

While the guys of JG 2 and my old friends of JG 52 were duking it out in their 190-D9s and 109G-10s, I felt so helpless when I yet again had to turn away from the fight. The FW-190 Ds were magnificent fighters. Built especially for high altitude engagements, they received an inline engine rather than their old radials and that made them look sexy as hell. With their long noses, shorter wings and devastating armament the Amis really had something to fear. Still mesmerising about the Focke-Wulfs, I saw yet more contrails appear. The weird thing was that they were coming from our own lines. Rather than flying in a circular climbing pattern, those contrails rose up like giant bullet paths. I heard stories of new rocket powered interceptors but surely they couldn't fly like this. They looked like Komets flying in a reverse trajectory. Straight up rather than straight down. I would later see how right I was. I couldn't really get close to them as they were heading right for the bombers. Strange. Am I going crazy or...?

FW-190D's trying to fend off raiding P51's ambushing the vulnerable ME-262's.

Before I could decide how crazy I was I saw tracers flew past my cockpit. Taken completely by surprise I revved my engines as my instinct decided but I instantly regretted doing so. A weird whizz made it crystal clear to me that I just blew up my port engine. Scheisse.

Heinrich wo bist du? He always had my six. Always. As I turned frantically to throw the Mustang's aim off center I heard the awe inspiring sound of four Mk-108 cannons. Sending death and despair at a rate of 650 shells per minute, I knew the Mustang would be wiped from the skies. The enormous fireball and debris in my rear view mirror reassured me. The gaping bullet hole in my spleen however quickly made it sure I had something else to worry about.

As I nursed my 262 back to base, I lost consciousness as I touched the runway. Heinrich later told me in the hospital I somehow managed to slam the breaks and turn off contact. My spleen however left me grounded for a good amount of months. When I finally left the hospital, winter had already come. As hospitals are always stirring with rumours, I heard about our Panzerboys being on the offensive again.

I really am going crazy.



IT WAS A WELCOME FEELING to fly offensive sorties for a change. It also felt good to support our 190s for once. Finally we could babysit them and more importantly, we were finally allowed to engage enemy fighters. In the early morning of January 1st 1945, we took off and skimmed the tree tops once more. The fog and snow made for a magnificent sight along the Belgian countryside and we were headed for Brussels. Our 190s were heavily laden with 4x50 kg bombs and we hoped to catch the Brits by surprise. Surely they would be gloomy with tea and biscuits after having celebrated new year's eve. Thankfully we were frisky and ready to open a can of whoop ass.

That early morning Hawker Tempest patrol really really ruined our day. And it really ruined the entire operation as well.

Pierre Clostermann's Hawker Tempest.

Even though we quickly shot down those two planes one of their pilots did manage to contact their base. The white winter blanket that covered the ground below us suddenly erupted in flames. Flak was everywhere and our heavy 190's couldn't dodge it. They tried to drop their payload on the respective airfields but we completely lost the element of surprise. Losses were horrific, almost none of the 190's and 109's made it back to base and we were almost running out of airplanes. This was depressing.

The mood was grim back at base. We never estimated that two fucking Tempests basically shafted an entire operation.

When we touched down it quickly dawned on me that we didn't even have enough planes to protect our own base. Losses were dreadful and unacceptable. Even my own flight was in terrible shape. While my good old friend Heinrich got out just fine, the rest of my guys didn't. Fritz blew up his engines on the final approach while trying to avoid a gaggle of geese, Lütgher decided he'd rather be buried in a pile of 262 rubble three meters into the ground and fucking Erwin loved trees so much he planted his 262 right into one.

I should have seen this coming, taking rookies along. As spring came things were looking bleak. Very bleak. In the east, the Ruskies were on a holiday in Pomerania, the Amis and Brits were racing for the Elbe and our Führer was getting madder and madder. In one of his cringes he decided that the only way to stop the Ami bombers would be to just ram them out of the sky. When I first heard of the idea I really thought I was drunk. Ram bombers? Granted the Japs were doing the same in the Pacific but us? We were the nation with the first operational jet fighters and now we sent school boys in stripped down planes to just ram bombers out of the sky?

There have been confirmed reports of ME-109's ramming American bombers.

Absurd.

This was real. When we got our new 262s and were outfitted with rather splendid R4M rockets, I received orders to cover the asses of the Sonderkommando Elbe guys. Although they were flying stripped down 109s, they were smart enough to strengthen crucial parts of their planes. Leading edges, engine cowlings and propellers were protected by steel, they would pick out a bomber and just smash their wings into their tail-planes.

This was absolutely bonkers.

As I was flying overwatch for the Elbe guys, on the lookout for P-51's or P-47's, I witnessed a grotesque sight. A 109 was approaching a B-24 at high speed and after a quick Heil Hitler, the pilot just plowed his fighter into the tail plane of the lumbering bomber. I could see the look on the waist gunner's face as he got introduced to the starboard wing of the 109. He managed to get out of the bomber but he wasn't wearing a parachute.

All around me I witnessed collisions and I heard screams over the radio. This was madness. In a haze, our Führer decided we should waste airframes and lives to bring down one bomber in a formation of hundreds. I was done with all of this. This fucking war. It's April '45 and the Ruskies were at Berlin's doorstep and knocking hard on the door. They knocked with the biggest artillery barrage of the entire war, shelling Berlin and making sure even the sewer rats would fear Ivan when he came. Their aircraft got frighteningly good. They upgraded their flying tanks, their fighters would run rings around our jets at low speed and they could even outclimb us.

Desperate times seem to call for desperate measures and so when everything was going downhill, our Luftwaffe would roar for the very last time.



SINCE WE NEVER really had heavy bombers and what remained of our Luftwaffe wasn't able to bomb anything anymore, our engineers got quite inventive. We had tonnes of old air frames laying around, most of them broken down Ju-88s. This versatile bomber was once respected by our enemies but by now they were outdated. So, some idiot must have had some beers and realized it would be a good idea to strap a FW-190 on top of the Ju-88, fill the canopy with torpex explosives, strap on what looked like a giant dildo that housed the fuse and let the combination fly to a target.

This lumbering combination was so easy to shoot down, we only sent convicts up in them. If the Mistel combination somehow managed to release its terrifying payload and return back to base, the pilot's record would be wiped clean and he could rejoin his former unit. As if there was any unit to return to.

The horrifying Mistel/FW-190 combination. These fearsome weapons were hopelessly ineffective.

I witnessed it all. Our Luftwaffe that was part of the blitzkrieg campaign. Countries shivered and feared our airplanes and our pilots were the best of the best. I flew with the elite squadrons of our air force, I had disciplined pilots under my command. Men eager to fight and even die for a greater cause. During the four long years of fighting a battle we could never win, we really gave it our all.

Ideals were tossed out of the window, we couldn't care less about the idiots in Berlin deciding over who lives and who dies. We flew for each other, we took to the skies to protect each other and those down on the ground we held dearly. Heil Hitler meant nothing to us any longer. I remember some of my pilots back in '43 being questioned by those SS clowns because they refused to greet a friend with a mad man's salute. Lunacy. I lost skilled pilots due to intelligence reports. I got shot down twice, my nerves were often getting the better of me and I couldn't even show it to my pilots.

This war had to end. Perhaps on this sortie, who knows? Perhaps some Ruskie is going to be lucky enough to bag himself the kill of a lifetime, perhaps he could shoot down Der Graf. As I slowly spooled up the engines on my 262 we heard panicked reports about how the Ruskies breached the Berlin Tiergarden and how they were fighting their way towards the Führerbunker and the Reichstag. This was it. Nazi Germany would seize to exist very soon. I guess we could do this one last time, to show the Ruskies what we were made of. As we thundered down the runway we could see the Mistel flying above us.

I escorted Stukas, I escorted HE-111s over Russia, I saw Flying Fortresses and I vaporized Lancasters but nothing could compare to the idiotic machine I was escorting now. It looked like a blind mosquito, with its long shaped fuse, closed up canopy and long fuselage. What were they thinking?

As if the V-1 and V-2s weren't bad enough, now they strapped up a young kid on a flying bomb. Might as well ask the Japs for suicide advice. The combination had to fly very low to avoid detection as it could not be hit at all. If AA fire hit the FW, hopelessly strapped on top, the combination would plummet to earth and set off a cataclysmic explosion, wiping out pretty much everything in a 3km radius. If fire hit the torpex laden bomber, well the results should be roughly the same except it would evaporate everything around it, Heinrich and myself included. I decided to fly top cover with Heinrich alongside me. The thought of being evaporated didn't rub me all that well in the end.

As we pulled up and passed the Mistel, we could see the horror on the face of the pilot. The reason there was only me and Heinrich was simply because we were running out of fuel, pilots and time. This felt like a last ditch effort and I surely treated it like that. The Mistel reached the Seelow Heights bridge, lined up for his attack run and when he was about to release the JU-88, all hell broke loose. Again.

Flak ripped the skies open and Yak-3s made sure the Mistel would never reach the bridge. I could see the canopy shattering under 20 millimeter fire and the whole combination plunged down to earth. Heinrich and myself desperately tried to steer clear of the upcoming explosion but it was too late for Heinrich. Being forced down to the deck due to accurate AA fire, he was basically next to the Mistel when it exploded.

Poor Heinrich saved my ass more times than I could count and I felt gutted that I couldn't save him. A fucking explosion, not a skilled pilot, not terrifying anti-aircraft fire. Nope, a grotesque contraption designed by a mad man was what killed my faithful wingman. I legged it back to base, starstruck by what just happened to Heinrich. I cursed the final approach as I could barely see anything. The airfield was taking fire from god knows what. I revved my engines and decided to set course to the east. Finally I reached Tempelhof but things only got worse. I don't even know how I touched down without getting obliterated but as I rolled down the shell-hole-ridden runway, I knew my war was over. There were no supplies anywhere, let alone fuel or ammunition for my sturmbird.

With a quick flick of the wrist, I cut contact. Just like you cut off a rose. I climbed out of my canopy, and ordered the Hitlerjugend wannabe soldiers to destroy my bird. Sure as hell the Ruskies won't get my plane.

Since there was no one to report to, I grabbed an STG-44 from the body of a mangled Luftwaffe gunner and ran like hell. No way I was gonna let myself be captured by the Ruskies. I was sure that they'd never respect high ranking officers. I think I made it onto one of the last trucks out of Berlin headed West before the city collapsed. The burning skyline will be forever edged into my memory. We got halted by an American tank column. The civilians and army personnel were separated and we were being questioned. Because I had such a high rank the Americans actually recognized me. Rather than shooting me on sight like the Ruskies would have done, they accepted my surrender.

I gave away my Luger to one of the soldiers and I was brought in for further questioning. I spent about three to four weeks in a prison camp until me and my comrades were allowed to go home. The ride home was harsh and bumpy. I couldn't care less actually. I was finally being reunited with my parents and...

One thing ate at me though, where were my brothers? My parents had not gotten word of them but then again there had been no German infrastructure at all the last few months of the war. One day it hit me... they never missed the chance to drink and enjoy themselves in one of our favorite hometown bars. If they were to go anywhere it would be there.

I had arrived and planned on staying in town for as long as it took for my brothers to return. I headed down to the bar, with a picture resting in my pocket.

Adolf Galland's flight in the ending days of World War 2.