STORMY LIFE

y
Storm Life

Memoirs of a Pioneer of the Air Age

BY

ERNST HEINKEL

Edited by Jürgen Thorwald

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN

With Photographs

EST 1852

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, INC.

New York, 1956

Transportation
Library

TL Copyright,, 1956, by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.

All rights reserved . Printed in the U. S. A.
540
FIRST EDITION
.H47
¶ No part of this book may be reproduced
A33 in any form without permission in writing
1956 from the publisher, except by a reviewer
who wishes to quote brief passages in con-
nection with a review writtenfor inclusion in
magazine or newspaper or radio broadcast.

Published in England under

the title HE 1000

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER : 56-8300

13-58613 Fromsper ter

7470

The publishers wish to acknowledge the assist-

ance of R. C. Murray and J. A. Bagley in

translating the technical passages in this book.

1

1
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page
I. MY DEBT TO A DISASTER II
1888-1911

II. BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD 31

1911-1914
III. THE FIRST STORM 49
1914-1918
IV. OPEN FOR BUSINESS 65
1918-1924
V. WORLD OPERATIONS 82
1925-1930
VI. SPEED CRAZY 108
1930-1934
VII. FRIENDS AND FOES 132
1924-1933
VIII. BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE 140
1933-1937
IX. THE HELL-DIVERS 158
1936-1939
X. WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS 169
1935-1939
XI. UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE 187
1938-1941
XII. I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD :
ROCKET POWER AND JET PLANES 210
1939-1945
XIII. BETWEEN TWO ERAS 242
1945-1953
INDEX 249
 ILLUSTRATIONS

Facing Page
My first airplane 32

The prize-winning 70-hp Albatros 32

My Hansa-Brandenburg GF 2 32

The Hansa-Brandenburg W 12 33

After World War I : German and Swedish Army fliers on secret

visit to my factory at Warnemünde 33
The He 25 64

The He 70 with German BMW engine 64

The He 111 , high-speed passenger and mail plane at Tempelhof

Airdrome 64

The He 51 65

The He 111 bomber 65

The He 100 brought world's absolute speed record to Germany

in 1938 65

Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh inspecting the He 51 160

He 115 off Norwegian Coast 160

The He 112 , first experimental plane to fly under rocket power 161

The world's first jet plane, my He 178 161

Long-range He 177 fighter plane on a trial flight 161

Hitler and the commanders of the Luftwaffe watching He 176 192

The He 280 192

The Marienehe plant after Allied air attack 193

1952 : At work again, together with my oldest associates 193

STORMY LIFE
1
 Chapter 1

MY DEBT TO A DISASTER

1888-1911

MY REAL LIFE did not begin in 1888 when I was born. It was the
year of the three Kaisers when Wilhelm I and Friedrich III died,
Wilhelm II came to the throne and on a hideously cold January
day I came into the world as an insignificant tinker's son in the still
more insignificant Swabian village of Grunbach in the Remstal.
My real life began rather on August 5 , 1908, on the Echterdingen
Fields near Stuttgart. It began in the sinister glare of the flames
from the Zeppelin LZ 4, which burned to cinders before my eyes.
I was only twenty and I was speechless with terror as the dirigible
-still the gleaming and beautiful incarnation of a dream, the
realization of man's age-old desire to fly-was struck by a squall
in a thunderstorm. Its stern grazed the treetops and, with incredi-
ble speed, it went up in giant bluish flames which destroyed the
envelope, leaving only the metal ribs. The framework bent and
creaked in the white-hot flames. It took on strange shapes and
fell to earth with an appalling din, while tens of thousands of
spectators screamed in such terror as I was never to experience
again—not even in the worst bombing attacks of World War II .
It all happened with such lightning speed that the individual
pictures became blurred before my eyes. I saw the men still hang-
ing on to the mooring ropes which a few moments before had held
the airship fast to the ground . The Zeppelin dragged them into
the air until they let go in despair and crashed to the earth. I
saw a bearded man who screamed when a runaway anchor caught
him in the thigh, tearing a gaping wound. I saw the distorted faces
of forty or fifty thousand people who, on bicycles or in over-
loaded special trains, had come to Echterdingen from Stuttgart to
see the wonderful dirigible whose first great overland flight from
Lake Constance, down the Rhine valley and back over Oppen-
heim and Frankfurt, had filled the special editions of the morning
II
 STORMY LIFE

papers. Into these pictures intruded the sight of the glowing wreck
on the ground. Almost at the same time a shrill, weak, despairing
voice called from the road. "I'm lost...."
As I looked in the direction of this voice, I saw the broad,
deathly white face of Graf Zeppelin, whose huge white mustaches
drooped over his lips. His wide-open, grief-stricken eyes were
full of tears and his trembling hands were outstretched . The
seventy-year old Count stood in a high open Daimler, in which
the famous racing driver Salzer had taken him to the nearest
telephone, after his landing in Echterdingen. He meant to arrange
a sequel to his first highly satisfactory twenty-four-hour trip, in
the hope-after ten years of contempt, mockery and skepticism—
of squeezing two and a half million marks out of the Reichstag
because he had fulfilled the condition that the ship remain twenty-
four hours in the air. The Count was urgently in need of these
millions. He had used up his whole private fortune to realize his
idea of a navigable airship. Now he saw before him a tangled heap
of molten metal. I stood in a trance watching his trembling old
hands as he kept repeating, "I'm lost.'
But even as he uttered these words, many voices came from
the people crowding around his car. "Courage, courage! " they
called. A workman threw his purse into the car. All around me
people began to urge that a collection be made to enable Graf
Zeppelin to build a new dirigible. This word "collection" rang in
my ears all the way to the train that took me back to Stuttgart.
It was so overcrowded that I had to crawl into the carriage through
the window. While the other passengers were discussing the dis-
aster and the cost of a new ship, I was standing jammed against
the door. Suddenly an idea came into my head, which was the
beginning of what I would like to call the purpose of my real life.
It was quite clear to me that what Graf Zeppelin and others were
attempting to realize on the general principle of "lighter than
air" (since the dirigibles were lifted by the hydrogen gas they
contained) could not possibly be the final solution . They would
always come to grief as a result of the uncertainty of the elements.
If the dream of flying were to become a reality, then it could only
be with less flimsy contraptions driven by engines and propellers
-in fact, heavier-than-air planes. I had heard of the existence of
12
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER - 1888-1911

such planes in France and America, without having paid too much
attention to this development.
Sweating profusely and pressed even closer against the window,
my head swimming from the babble of voices, I was presented, so
to speak, with the gift of the Echterdingen tragedy. Being a
budding engineer I saw the great chance of the future; I saw that
in the general surge of technical discoveries and achievements
which characterized those years an even more unusual achieve-
ment was possible-the " heavier-than-air" airplanes hitherto dis-
regarded in Germany.
That August day I was still a student at Stuttgart, with little
money, in my fourth term at the Technical High School. I was a
future mechanical engineer in that age of sensational discoveries,
from electricity and the dynamo through the gasoline-driven
motorcycle and car to the airplane. I was just twenty, not particu-
larly tall but with a striking head, of which my fraternity brothers
used to say, "There might be something inside it, but one wonders
what." And an equally prominent Swabian nose which I inherited
from my family.
I possessed the virtues and vices of every young student of that
time if he wanted to be accepted by his comrades. I joined the
“Ghibellinia” Corps and drank with the Ghibellines until I earned
the nickname "Bottlenose." After my studies I acted as a kind of
adjutant to our crammer, the sixty- five-year-old Dr. Hedinger
(who had endowed the Ghibellines with 25,000 marks ) , thanks to
my capacity for drinking wine. Every afternoon I had to keep the
friendly old sybarite company and spend the evenings with him
eating smoked tongue and drinking bottles of Affenthaler red
wine. This was certainly more pleasant for an impoverished stu-
dent like myself than learning higher mathematics.
Of flying and airplanes I knew little more than any other
enthusiastic youngster of those days who read the newspapers
and the technical journals. I knew that in 1896 a German named
Otto Lilienthal, equipped with huge wings like a bird, had suc-
ceeded in gliding. One day he crashed when he noticed that he
was not gliding downward, but gaining height. This surprise
caused Lilienthal to make a mistake in his steering motions—at
least this was the accepted explanation of his death. I knew that
13
 STORMY LIFE

various inventors were working on a propeller. They believed that

it was possible to propel or draw a body through the air on the
principle of a ship's screw in water-like the steam-driven engine
in a ship-if one could find a better accelerating power for the
propeller. This power, in the meantime, had been found in the
shape of the gasoline engine. Since then we had heard that in
America two brothers, Orville and Wilbur Wright, had con-
structed a flying contraption with wings, engine and propeller.
In 1903 they had flown 200 yards, increasing this to 400 yards in
1904, and in 1905 they had achieved, at very low altitude, a flight
of twenty-five miles. But our newspapers refused to believe it
and spoke of them as "the lying brothers. " I also knew some facts
about various Frenchmen like Farman, Delagrange, Blériot and
Voisin, who were also busy building flying machines. In 1906 they
had flown distances of twenty-five yards and in 1907 made a small
flight of 770 yards at a height of forty feet. Again, this was only
rumor. In Germany, except for a few "lunatics," no one saw any
possibility of flying with planes which were " heavier than air."
I knew only little more about Graf Zeppelin and his ten-year
struggle to build a navigable airship, a development of the balloon
with a rigid framework, propelled by an engine and propeller. A
few years previously Zeppelin, too , had been known as the "Crazy
Count" and old Hedinger rocked with laughter when he predicted
over his Affenthaler, "The good man really thinks he can drive
through the air. Ha ! Ha ! Ha! " But in the last few years, the
name of "the old fool" had been on everyone's lips. People in
Germany at least began to believe in him, although he had lost his
first three dirigibles as a result of bad luck, technical faults or lack
of capital. I did not know much more about him than this. Far
more important to me seemed the quality of the wines in our
vineyards—and the girls.
Many of the Heinkels-nearly all of them modest Swabian
artisans, chiefly coppersmiths or tinkers like my father-had never
taken to an abstemious way of life in a land of exceedingly cheap
wine. Furthermore, some of them had a fairly choleric tempera-
ment. I was born the smallest of all the Heinkels and made up for
this in high spirits and sturdiness.
14
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER 1888-1911

Whereas normally children wear a bib around their necks, my

father hammered out for me a copper receptacle with a kind of
rain gutter below, which suited me. While I was still young
the teacher and the pastor informed my quiet, modest and sober
father that I had embarked upon everything God had forbidden.
And when the women of Grunbach rose up in arms as I careered
down the steep village streets, freewheeling and without brakes,
and with legs far too short for the bicycle, the pastor insisted that I
would never make a respectable citizen.
Anyhow I was good enough for the secondary school in
Schorndorf, the ideal of many Grunbach folk who wanted a better
future for their children. I then passed on without much difficulty
to the high school in Cannstatt and graduated among the first
six. This caused my mother to shed tears of joy as she listened in
her black Sunday dress to the results, and brought the consoling
thought to my father that perhaps there was something in my
remarkably thick head besides stupidity, thoughtlessness, girls and
a perpetual hankering for tippling in smoky wine taverns.
I wanted to become an engineer, a calling in those days, which
so often served as a passport to a technical fairyland. My father
granted my request. For my apprenticeship I was to be a "pro-
bationer" in the Grotz factory at Bissingen on the Enz, which at
that time was famous for making crankshafts and special machine
tools of great precision. During this time I lived in a little attic
in the home of Scheible, the foreman, and received my first earn-
ings-twelve marks a week. I would have laughed had anyone told
me that many years later I would own the Grotz firm and that it
would become a small cog in my own concern. I stood at the
lathe, the vise and the milling machine for a whole year. And
even though Master Scheible later presented me with a watch
chain made out of the strips of metal I had ruined, I learned a great
deal.
Then followed the Kuhn foundry, dirty, dusty, but boisterous ,
and then came the Technical High School in Stuttgart. That's
where I was now.

The fatal August 5, 1908 , had not found me in Stuttgart but on

the Ruhestein in the Black Forest. The indestructible Dr. Hed-
15
 STORMY LIFE

inger had invited my friend Schieck and myself to spend a holiday

with him to recover from the wear and tear of Stuttgart. We
young men had danced all night and snored deep into the next
day-both of us in some bathroom since the good doctor, who
was thrifty in everything except wine, had sent us to a hotel
that was full. Schieck slept on the floor, and I, being smaller, in
the bathtub. Outside, the paper boys were calling out the unbeliev-
able news that the Zeppelin, with the Count on board, was flying
northward along the Rhine. The hotel was in an uproar. Our own
curiosity, our zest for new adventures, drove us out of the bath-
room. We packed our cardboard boxes. Neither of us possessed a
suitcase . We asked Hedinger for a few marks, but we no longer
listened when his voice sounded from behind a flask of Rotspon,
"Don't run after that madman, you scoundrels, you . . ."
We ran down from the hotel to the station. On the way I
dropped my box. It burst open. I picked up my Sunday shirt and
best tie, stuck them under my arm and ran on. We barely caught
the Mainz train.
But the Zeppelin was nowhere to be seen. People were crowd-
ing around the stations and the special editions were handed into
the train. The whole of Germany looked upon the event as a
miracle. The excitement grew from station to station. In Frankfurt
we heard that perhaps the dirigible could be seen in Karlsruhe,
so we went on further.
But that was fruitless, too . The Zeppelin must be in Stuttgart.
We pooled our last resources and made for Stuttgart. The city
seemed deserted. The main station seethed with men, women and
children, who were crowding into the trains for Echterdingen.
We managed to sneak into one of the extra trains without a ticket
and in this way we reached our goal .
A few weeks later old Hedinger asked our Corps Leader,
"What's wrong with Heinkel? He's forgetting how to soak."
The Ghibellines could give no satisfactory answer, but I could
have told them. I had merely found the field to arouse my hitherto
scattered and often frivolous interest.
My next attempt in the Technical High School was to try to
get some information about airplane construction . I heard that
Professor Baumann, a mathematician and a purely abstract theo-
16
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER - 1888-1911

retician , was offering a new course-in aeronautics. I began to

attend his lectures.
I found a small thickset man, with a black mustache, drawing
curves and formulas which I only half understood on a blackboard .
Apart from myself, there were three women-one old , one middle-
aged and one quite young-that was all. The young one knitted
continuously. I found no bigger audience at the next lecture, but
this time the middle-aged woman was also knitting. I learned that
they were the professor's wife, his mother-in-law and a nursemaid.
They sat there so the professor would not have to speak to empty
benches. This was quite understandable, for I myself was very
bored. Nevertheless, probably because I could find nothing better,
I remained a faithful student of Professor Baumann.
The opportunity I was really seeking came my way shortly
afterward. Among the Ghibellines was a fraternity member named
Reinhard. He was the son of rich innkeepers from Obersontheim
and his monthly allowance was too princely for him to take his
intermediate exam after only two or four terms. As he put the
eighth term happily behind him without wasting a thought on the
exam, the Ghibellines entrusted me with the job of cramming
Reinhard for it, telling me to use force if necessary . This must
be done during the holidays . I took Reinhard to my parents' home
at Grunbach. He was two heads taller than myself and four years
older, but he was contrite and docile. I locked him in my room
each day for a few hours, and opened the door only when he gave
me his word of honor that he had finished his assignment. Some-
times, despite his word of honor, he was not ready and then I
locked him in again. One beautiful summer day, the following
happened:
"Let me out. I know something that'll interest you," said Rein-
hard from behind the door.
"What is it? "
"I won't tell you until you've let me out."
"Finish your work first," I said.
"If you knew what I'm talking about you'd let me out in a
hurry."
"What do you know? " I said, already weakening. "You simply
want to pull a fast one on me."
17
 STORMY LIFE

"No," he replied. "You want to study airplanes, don't you?

I know where you can read all about them, and where you can
find the latest pictures from France and America. "
"Oh, you do," I said suspiciously, but interested. "And where
might that be? "
"Open up first."
"No. You tell me first."
"Open up first, I say.”
We bargained for a while, but then I let him out of his cage
and he revealed to me that in the Café Reinsburg in Stuttgart there
were many foreign magazines and newspapers-the only ones in
Stuttgart-and that in these papers the French and American air-
planes were not only pictured but also described in great detail .
Thus in the Café Reinsburg began my voyage of discovery into
the field of aeronautics. France was now the undisputed leader
in this new branch of science, while all official German quarters,
including the greater part of the newspapers, were blissfully
ignorant about heavier-than-air airplanes, and quite disinterested .
In the meantime, one of the Wright brothers had come to France .
At the end of 1908 he had taken off from the parade ground at
Avour and completed an eighty-mile flight in two hours without
mishap.
The talk about the "lying brothers" was silenced . Farman and
the French automobile manufacturer Blériot had built new air-
planes. In the Café Reinsburg I learned in the summer of 1909
that Louis Blériot had flown the Channel to England in thirty-two
minutes and stupefied the entire world. Even Austria began to
surpass Germany. The Austrian Igo Etrich, adapting the idea of a
Professor Ahlborn of Hamburg, had built an efficiently powered
airplane which he christened the "Etrich Taube " (Taube mean-
ing dove) . It was modeled on the wings of the flying seed of
Zanonia Macrocarpa, a tropical plant Professor Ahlborn had pro-
cured from some botanical garden in Java.
In Germany a few isolated pioneers now began to set themselves
up as airplane builders and aviators at their own expense and on
their own initiative . I saw pictures of the first German who tried
to copy the French. I shall never forget the pathetic figure of
Karl Jatho, in a frock coat and top hat, sitting in a clumsy triplane
18
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER - 1888-1911

with a French engine, trying to make little hops on the heath out-
side Hanover; unforgettable, too, was the picture of the motor-
cycle manufacturer Hans Grade, who built his first plane out of
bamboo rods and canvas and managed to make it fly: and finally
there was the big industrialist August Euler, who built a hanger
in Griesheim near Frankfurt and experimented with a Voisin
biplane which he had bought as a prototype in France. I also read
one day that Adikkes, the mayor of Frankfurt, planned to organize
the first international flying exhibition. The city of Frankfurt
offered high prizes for flying achievements of different sorts and
invited celebrated French and Belgian pilots to compete during
the week of October third through tenth, 1909. As I read this , I
knew that at all costs I had to see this show.
I had not the slightest idea how. The money my father gave me
for my studies barely sufficed for my necessities. Since I had dis-
covered aeronautics I found myself in a rather ambiguous position
toward my father. I found my own interests gradually shifting
further and further away from mechanical engineering. From
time to time I had carefully sounded out the old man . I had always
heard him say of flying: "That's tightrope dancer stuff. They
should all be in a circus. " I did not feel too happy about asking him
for the train fare to Frankfurt since he saw in me a budding
engineer. Finally, in my distress, I saw nothing else to do but to
sell the most valuable book in my possession. The book in ques-
tion was The Elements of Machinery by Bach. I consoled myself
with the thought that I would buy it back later. But in actual fact
it was a parting, and not only from the book....
With Bach under my arm I went to a secondhand bookshop.
While the little man with bowed back and long black side whiskers
tripped between dusty piles of books in the shop, I laid my prize
on the table.
"What can I do for you? " he said. But he already knew what I
wanted. "Ah-ha." He pushed back his cuffs and took the book
with fastidious fingers and examined it from all sides.
"Seven marks," he said, with depressing finality.
"I thought twelve marks, " I stammered.
The old man pushed the book over to me and peered over his
glasses. "Seven marks," he said, quite unperturbed.
19
 STORMY LIFE

"Ten marks," I said in a last hopeless attempt at bargaining. The

old man simply turned his back on me. I stuffed the book under
my arm and went out. But I had not gone 200 yards down the
street when I was so filled with the desire to go to Frankfurt that I
turned back .
"All right. I'll take seven marks."
The old man looked at me over his shoulder. "Only six now,"
he said.
I took the six marks without a word . Three days later I was on
the train.
The International Flying Exhibition in Frankfurt was unbeliev-
ably pathetic compared to our performances today, but for
me it was the second decisive event in my life. Next to small
airships and balloons for the first time there was a row of German
airplanes. There were six-deckers among them, which looked
quite monstrous. There was a half-built Wright plane hanging
from the ceiling and, in the corner, a flying machine that Kaiser
Wilhelm II's chauffeur Krieger had built. In the whole of Frank-
furt there was only one German pilot, however, who could really
fly with his plane: August Euler . But as his flights were little more
than modest leaps into the air, the disappointed bystanders called
out to him to stop his nonsense. Euler ignored their mockery,
twisted his black mustache, returned morosely to his rumbling,
sputtering engine and kept trying. He was robust and fearless .
Some months later Euler said to Prince Heinrich, whom he was
teaching to fly, as he sent him off solo, " I hope your Royal High-
ness won't forget that you have my 45,000 marks under your
backside. "
However, that day no one gave him a chance after the French
and Belgians appeared and made their first flights around the field
in their streamlined monoplanes and biplanes.
For the first time the tens of thousands of spectators realized
what flying meant. The Belgian, de Caters, competed with Blériot
for an hour and seventeen minutes in the air. The spectators could
not grasp how a man could fly so long. For the first time, German
prejudices were being upset. De Caters won the city of Frankfurt
prize of 40,000 marks for an endurance flight. Our only consola-
tion was that August Euler managed to fly four times around the
20
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER - 1888-1911

field. He remained only five minutes in the air, but a roar of

applause rose from the crowd.
On the return trip to Stuttgart I was firmly convinced that I
must take part in the development of aviation in Germany. I must
become an aviator. I must build my own plane. I guessed that
this was the end of my studies, although I did not particularly
relish the idea of telling this to my father. I had no idea where to
get the thousands of marks that were needed to build an airplane .
I had no workshop, no helper, no engine. But I had a goal . . .
I went back to my little furnished room in the house of Rommel,
the cooper, in the Gymnasiumstrasse. Once more I read through
the French periodicals. I decided to build a biplane, modeled on
the plane of the Frenchman, Farman. Then I made a sketch on my
drawing board of the airplane as I wanted to build it.
During my work I came across an advertisement saying an
engineer was wanted for calculation and technical supervision of
airplane construction. Perhaps behind this advertisement stood
a rich man who could help me along. But I found only a fitter by
the name of Brandt, who had once worked with August Euler and
felt that he could build an airplane himself. This was my first
bitter disappointment. But things turned out all right for, through
Brandt, I met by chance a Stuttgart master mechanic called
Friedrich Münz, who had a small workshop at 27 Blumenstrasse .
When he heard about my airplane he laughed and said, "Come
and pay me a visit. ”
So the next day I rolled up my drawings, stuck them under my
arm and went to the Blumenstrasse. Friedrich Münz's workshop
certainly did not look prosperous and I was inclined to bury
my hopes once more. But he laid out my plans on a workbench ,
put on his glasses and said nothing for a long time. Then he looked
at me. "H❜mm-doesn't look at all bad," he said, “But first of all
you've got to have a workshop."
"But I haven't any money, either," I said gloomily.
He looked at me out of his jovial optimistic eyes. "Well, that's
not unusual for a student. Come with me."
He took me up to the second floor where I found a huge empty
room. It had previously been used by some sect as a prayer hall.
"They've prayed here so long and so loudly," said Münz with a
21
 STORMY LIFE

laugh, "that I don't think anything could go wrong with an air-

plane. We've merely got to get started ."
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, I was already on my
way to Cannstatt to buy wood. At least I was no longer a poor
student, but had a master mechanic to back me up who, perhaps,
would have some credit. And as a matter of fact they gave me the
wood on credit. Thanks to Münz I also found two assistants who
were carried away by my enthusiasm for flying and willing to
work for me without wages. But even though Münz gave me
everything he could and, above all, his credit, I soon ran up against
countless difficulties, for I suddenly needed things I could get
only for cash.
During the whole of 1910 I worked, with many interruptions,
on my airplane. My studies had become a mere formality. But
the more progress I made on my plane, the more urgent became
the question of where I could get an engine. It cost the exorbitant
sum of several thousand marks. At first I wrote letters to all sorts
of people, but I got no answer. Then I tried to convince the Army
authorities as to the necessity for airplane construction . I had
just read in the French newspapers that airplanes had taken part
in the latest French maneuvers. I collected every possible
picture of French airplanes I could find and sacrificed whatever
money I had to have them transferred to slides. Next I went to
Ludwigsburg, to the Officers Corps, and offered my services as a
lecturer on aeronautics. A captain in a resplendent uniform looked
with a degree of condescension at the poor civilian in front of him.
But my proposition seemed to be a welcome change to him and he
agreed to invite me to lecture.
The colorful uniforms in the Ludwigsburg Artillery Officers'
mess were an impressive sight as I climbed onto the rostrum in my
Sunday best and gave the first lecture of my life. I gave an account
of the French maneuvers, and concluded that airplanes would
obviously play a decisive part in a coming war. Germany would
be left well behind in the race unless she made strenuous efforts
immediately.
As I took my leave, a major said to me : "Young man, that was
very interesting. But we staff officers know better . . . ." I should
very much like to have met the major again a few years later.
22
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER - 1888-1911

I went on with my struggle to find the means to pay for an

engine. Then Münz came to my rescue once more.
"I have a friend," he said, "who is a town clerk and he knows
someone who could supply a motorboat engine."
"It's probably too heavy," I said.
"Better too heavy than none at all," Münz replied philosophi-
cally. It was a boat engine of 22 horsepower and as heavy as lead.
I examined it gloomily from all sides. But we could have a try. The
next thing I lacked was a hangar. My prayer hall was too small to
assemble all the parts in it. Moreover, there was no door wide
enough to get the big parts through. It was like a trap. The only
terrain in Stuttgart that seemed suitable for a flying ground was
the Cannstatter Wasen, a large expanse of meadow on the Neckar.
I must have my hangar there. This time the town clerk, Saier, who
had delivered my engine, came up with the solution. He knew a
member of the local parliament called Keinath.
"He has a nose for smelling out something new," he said,
""
cautiously, "And if he can make a little money out of it. . . .'
The thought of making a business out of my airplane projects
seemed to me, after all I had experienced, simply hilarious. At
that time I was far from commercial-minded . Keinath sensed better
than I did the commercial opportunities offered by the develop-
ment of aviation.
While I had been working in my prayer hall, the airplane had
attracted increasing attention. Even the War Ministry had begun
to think of aircraft and the formation of a flying corps was
entrusted to a Captain de le Roi. This officer found it difficult to
fight the supporters of the dirigible in the Prussian Army. Never-
theless, a provisional flying school was founded in Döberitz, near
At the same time, in Johannisthal outside Berlin, the first
modest beginnings of airplane construction were taking shape.
There Dr. Walter Huth, a biologist of some note, together with
Otto Wiener, had founded the Albatros works in a small barracks.
An engineer named Rumpler was attempting to build Etrich's
Austrian Taube. It really seems a historical joke that the first
Prussian flying officers were taught at Döberitz by the private
chauffeur of Dr. Huth. This instructor's name was Simon Brunn-
huber. He was a man of ordinary background who, in deference to
23
 STORMY LIFE

the Kaiser's officers whom he had to instruct, was given the

pseudonym of Dr. Bruck.
In the face of this development, Keinath, who had fallen in
love with his plan, decided not to leave the field entirely to the
"blasted Prussians," but to see that the Swabians also had their
airplane works. At this stage my town clerk handed him over to
me. He had absolutely no idea of aeronautics, but perhaps because
of this the half-completed airplane parts in my prayer hall
impressed him, for after a short examination he made me the
following proposition . There was a riding school at the Dragoon
barracks which was about to be taken down. He would buy it
and re-erect it on the Wasen. He would let me have the use of
the hall if I pledged myself to sell him my plane for 13,000 marks
as soon as I had given him proof that it could fly 100 yards. In that
event I could also join the South German Airplane Works which
he was planning. It would be a limited liability company. I could
bring my plane in as capital and would naturally be the technical
head of the firm.
I knew absolutely nothing about limited liability companies,
but the proposition was music to my ears . I said "Yes" on the spot.
I immediately called together the cooper Rommel and my
assistants. We dismantled the riding school and had it carried
piece by piece to the Wasen. As soon as it was erected, I left my
prayer hall. The wings I had constructed would go neither down
the stairs nor through the window. I looked alternately at the
windows and at Herr Münz .
"I know exactly what's in your mind," he said, expecting the
worst. "If the house has to be hacked to pieces, I prefer to do it
myself."
Then we both set to work after all and sawed out two of the
window jambs, and the way was free for my plane.
My activities on the Wasen were soon known. Every day more
and more inquisitive people came along who wanted to see their
Stuttgart airplane builder. Schoolboys and students spent every
moment of their free time on the Wasen. Willy-nilly it became
the Stuttgart airfield . Professor Baumann one day left his knitting
audience and came to build a plane, which unfortunately, never
managed to get off the ground. The Austrian flyer, Fiedler, landed
24
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER --- 1888-1911

with a Blériot monoplane which he had built himself, and was

greatly admired.
In January, 1911 , while I was busy on the countless wires of
my "bird," the free balloonist Dierlamm organized his first flights
on the Wasen, at which the King of Württemberg was present. A
tent was erected for the King and his court, and there was a
military band in gleaming uniforms. Thousands of spectators
turned up. Dierlamm had invited Hans Grade, the air pioneer, with
his bamboo and canvas plane. The weather was terrible ; the roofs
were white and the snow whirled down. The Wasen was covered
with a deep layer of mud. Master Rommel stamped through it
with his trouser cuffs turned up, and insisted that it was all of
fifteen inches deep. The King's car got stuck in the mud, and
the police had to push it all the way up to the tent. Everything
was starting well . Then we all had to wait for Grade. He kept
us waiting for hours because he was hoping desperately for better
weather, but as the King was becoming impatient Grade finally
opened the hangar door and started off in the snow. He had
climbed to thirty feet by the time he got to the end of the field .
Then he had to land and Dierlamm, very excited , told us that
the meet must be abandoned but that in a week's time he would
introduce four German pilots instead. As the King got back into
his car with a smile, a huge flock of crows flew over his head.
"Your Majesty," called the spectators, "they do it far better."
And the meet ended in roars of laughter.
It was all rather depressing, but there was one encouraging
factor. My landlord, cooper Rommel, had spent the long period of
waiting in doing a little business for the benefit of my plane. The
waiting spectators crowded around my hangar and he stood at the
gate and charged an entrance fee, which came in very handy.
A little later, Dierlamm fulfilled his promise in better weather.
Hans Grade turned up again. But above all, a new pilot arrived
whose star was beginning to rise in Germany. He was Hellmuth
Hirth, the son of a well-known Swabian from Stuttgart.
Hellmuth's father Albert was one of the most important
inventors and industrialists of that period. His inventions , partic-
ularly in the field of ball bearings, were world-famous. He was full
of burning interest for everything that was new. With wildly
25
 STORMY LIFE

waving side whiskers, he had ridden the first motorcycle. He flew

balloons, drove cars, and had planned a flying ship and a giant
craft with caterpillar treads designed to reach the North Pole.
He had brought up his two sons, Hellmuth and Wolf, according
to the old saying, "My children shall be able to overhaul the Devil
""
in an open field...
By and large Hellmuth had done precisely that. He could not
endure school very long. I remembered as soon as I saw him that he
had been a veteran in the lower sixth of high school . Motorcycling
and breaking in Daimler cars interested him far more.
After some futile attempts to make a career for himself he
joined his father's branch in England and at last the old man lured
his adventurous son back to Germany and sent him to August
Euler to participate in the greatest adventure of the age-flying.
Euler's brief flights were not good enough for him either. He
heard of the "Etrich Taube," learned to fly in Vienna, and now
there he was, dark-haired, with a dandified mustache and very
self-assured, with a Taube on the Wasen. Herr Rumpler in Berlin,
who wanted to build the German Taube, had a pilot who weighed
180 pounds. The plane could not stand this weight, so Rumpler
had engaged Hellmuth Hirth.
He was the sensation of the day. His Taube glided like a giant
bird in the sky and he reached the phenomenal altitude of 2,500
feet.
On his landing, the band played a fanfare. As he glided down a
second time in front of the King and the royal family, the spec-
tators cheered madly. Hirth saw me standing near the tent and
recognized me. We shook hands. I had to get into his plane at
once and fly the next circuit with him. On my lap sat Hellmuth's
eleven-year-old brother Wolf, a child who was mad about flying
and as yet had no idea that one day he would become the most
famous of German glider pilots . In this way, on May 12 , 1911 , I
went up on my first flight.
In May, 1911 , my biplane was also ready. I installed the engine,
but it could scarcely roll the plane along the ground, let alone
lift it into the air. Then my cousin Merkle, an engineer at
Daimler's, came to my aid. The Daimler company was willing to
26
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER 1888-1911

lend me the only airplane engine of 50 horsepower then known.

On July ninth, a beautiful hot summer day, I took off for the
first time in my airplane. When I think back today and read what
the Stuttgart newspapers wrote about my first flights I am, like
all the other early birdmen , tempted to admire myself. The irre-
sponsibility with which I took the first step-without experience,
without instruction, without knowledge of the still untried rules of
flight and the individual characteristics of my own flying machine!
As for the spectators, one never knew which they preferred to
see-a successful flight or a fatal accident .
"Early yesterday morning," the Stuttgarter Tagblatt wrote on
July tenth, "the pilot Heinkel made his first attempt from the
Wasen with his newly built biplane. On a solo flight, the colossal
power of the motor propelled him at once some thirty feet into
the air. As the airplane glided down, a few of his rods bent."
None of my first attempts was completed without a strut snap-
ping, one of the countless bracing wires breaking or the under-
carriage axle bending . But for ten days I flew every day without
heed for the weather. My courage increased rapidly, although at
my first attempt to bank the plane the engine conked out. Still,
the fact that the plane stayed in the air at all indicated that there
must be something to my design, even though it was based on no
practical experience whatever. I glided safely down to the ground.
When the shops were closed, crowds of Stuttgarters gathered at
the edge of the field to watch me. Wednesday, July nineteenth,
arrived . I had half hauled my plane out of the hangar when, for no
apparent reason, I had a sense of foreboding. Nothing similar had
ever happened to me before ; it was as if a dark cloud had suddenly
settled around me.
When the well- known balloonist Euting, who was just crossing
the Wasen, came up and asked whether I was going to fly, I said,
without really intending to, "Yes, and today will be my death
flight."
"Don't joke about such things," Euting laughed.
The plane was hauled out. The propeller, which at that time
was behind the pilot's seat and functioned as a pusher between
the main struts that bore the elevators and rudders, was swung.
27
 STORMY LIFE

Once more I felt on the verge of disaster. I taxied and took off. In a
couple of minutes I was 120 feet up, flying in the direction of
Untertürkheim, and the Daimler factory .
I banked to the right-and then it happened. When I tried to
level the plane, she side-slipped to the right. I thought at once that
the aileron must be down too far. I remembered my dark fore-
boding. My feet left the rudder bar and I thrust them with all my
might against the right engine support, which stuck out forward.
Half unconscious, I felt that the plane was keeling over even
further and diving to the ground. Then I lost consciousness and
did not even feel the crash that destroyed my plane.
I came to again, felt violent pain in my leg and head. I noticed
that I was being driven in an automobile . Then days passed , during
which I only half realized what had happened . I was in the hospital
-Dr. Grosse was bending over me and said, “Ah, he's gradually
coming to." In actual fact, my surroundings were still blurred and
this lasted for another day until I was able to read the chart of
my injuries. It was almost a record.
Fractured skull, hemorrhage .
Broken occiput, bleeding from nose and ears.
Left thigh and third right finger broken.
Broken upper and lower jaws.
Second and third degree burns on the left side of the face.
I learned while I was still in great pain what had happened
directly after the crash. A fitter from the Daimler Works named
Stoka, who was bicycling to Untertürkheim, had seen me crash .
He reached the airplane just as it was beginning to burn . I was
unconscious, streaming with blood and entangled in the bracing
wires. The gas was running out of the tank onto the red-hot engine
and had set the plane afire . Stoka and a policeman who galloped up
on horseback tore me out of the debris and had just got me clear
when the tank exploded and the plane disintegrated.
After I had learned all this I became a difficult and restless
patient. People did not understand me, because it took them a
long time to see how much trouble, work and hope had gone up in
flames. I thought of Münz and all the others who had helped me.
Neither the wood nor the fabric skin of the plane was paid for.
28
 MY DEBT TO A DISASTER 1888-1911

What would the Daimler people say about the motor they had
loaned me?
The burdens I had vainly taken on my shoulders seemed bound-
less.
But at the same time it was clear to me, even in my half- conscious
state, that there was no way back for me-no way back to the
university , its lecture halls and theories. I had become too deeply
involved in practical work, in the independent endeavor to explore
new horizons.
As soon as I could speak, I got one of my friends to bring me a
charred and buckled wheel of my airplane which had been sal-
vaged from the wreckage. It stood near my bed to remind me that
this misfortune was not the end, but must be the beginning of a
new path for me.
My crash had aroused so much interest in Stuttgart that friends
from the very first day appealed to the public . In the Stuttgarter
Tagblatt I read:

The unfortunate engineer Heinkel lies seriously injured in the

Cannstatt Hospital. His model of a flying machine, according to
the opinion of the experts, has a great future, but his apparatus
has now, as the result of an accident, been completely destroyed.
For him the fruits of two years' strenuous study, work and great
financial sacrifice have been wiped out. Therefore, picture post-
cards of the pilot and the airplane during its successful test flights
should be sold in the shops. The profit from the sale will be the
foundation for his new work.

A few days later, a newspaper humorist of those days, “Wein-

gärtners Knöpfle " ended his weekly column in dialect with the
words:

Take no heed of your own physical comforts, good eating and

drinking, but buy postcards of the unfortunate aviator Heinkel,
who can put the cash to good use. See that the good man has a
chance to fly again.

29
 STORMY LIFE

When I began to recover, one of the first visitors at my sickbed

was cousin Merkle from the Daimler Works. He brought good
news. The firm renounced its claim for the loaned engine.
When after six long weeks, on August 26, 1911 , with my head
still in bandages and hobbling on a stick, I left the hospital, the
situation was pretty grim for me, despite all these efforts. I drove
out to my hangar and found it deserted and neglected , with noth-
ing inside but a mass of wires and burned-out struts, a part of the
undercarriage and a bit of the propeller. This was all. What did
remain, however, was a pile of debts . The profit from the sale
of postcards was hardly enough to pay my hospital bill . It would
be several years before I could pay back every penny I owed to
those who had helped me.
There was no chance for me now to build another plane with
my own resources, yet I could not give up airplane construction.
Every piece of technical knowledge I needed, I had gained on my
own. The Technical High School could tell me nothing more in
this new field .
I obviously had to continue the struggle and I decided to take
a position in one of the many small airplane factories that were
trying their luck in various parts of Germany.
I knew that this decision would cause my father great pain. But
I was filled with a strong feeling of certainty that this path was
the only right one for me and that my father, too , would soon
understand me.

30
 Chapter II

BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD

1911-1914

ON SEPTEMBER 16, 1911 , in the blazing sunshine, a young man

left Munich, hobbling on two sticks, and took the road to Ober-
wiesenfeld . I was that young man.
I was on the way to introduce myself to a comparatively
unknown firm , Wittgenstein's, which planned to build airplanes
in Oberwiesenfeld.
No one I asked on the way had ever heard of the company , but

at last I discovered it in a dilapidated shed on the airfield .

After the eulogies about me in the Stuttgart newspapers I was
convinced that I was ready to go far. But when at last I sat opposite
the director of Wittgenstein on a rickety chair, he acted as though
he had never heard of my achievements. He offered me a maximum
of 160 marks a month.
"No," I said indignantly and hobbled back three- quarters of
an hour in the heat.
Not until I got to Stuttgart did my anger evaporate. There was
a telegram in my room. The recently founded Luftverkehrs-
Gesellschaft (LVG, or Aviation Company) , in Johannisthal near
Berlin, was offering me a position as an engineer, salary 200 marks .
I packed my things and on October first stood for the first
time on the Johannisthal airfield . It had recently become the
aviation center of Germany and the home of a colorful crew of
contractors, engineers, managers and flyers.
I found the LVG in a building which had been tacked on to
an airship hangar. The construction office contained three draw-
ing boards and a red-haired , freckled designer with the Polish name
of Skolnik, who grinned at me expectantly. Some weeks later a
Swiss named Schneider arrived as chief designer and technical
director. He had worked with the French firm Nieuport, building
fast little monoplanes with Gnôme- Rhône rotary engines. The
LVG wanted to copy this monoplane with Schneider's help, in
order to shine in a great Berlin-Vienna flight planned for the

31
 STORMY LIFE

spring of 1912 and perhaps to get a contract from the military.

Johannisthal was at that time a phenomenon in a class by itself.
Flying was still an adventure and the many aviators were adventur-
ous figures. The same was true for airplane builders. The airfield
belonged to a newly formed company which made its money by
leasing land and sheds and organizing flying meets. Stands had
been erected for the spectators. Countless people rented sheds in
which they built the strangest flying contraptions . Aviation con-
cerns came and went. Nearly all ran flying schools in the neighbor-
hood, patronized by many Berliners of both sexes. Women pilots
were a special sensation .
Ever-increasing crowds came out from the capital to Johan-
nisthal. Often the public got out of hand and caused trouble,
particularly when there were crashes and they would tear all over
the field to see the dead. Herr von Tschudi, the airfield manager,
always carried a stick and a loaded Browning in his pocket to keep
order.
Johannisthal at that time probably resembled a hastily erected
shanty town of the early American west. The two cafés-the
Senftleben and the Bürgergarten-were the center of a wild life
dedicated to pleasure . The girls from Berlin were not exactly of
the best families, but the pilots lived for the day because they never
knew how long they would survive.
When I arrived, I took my work seriously and lived for a long
time on the edge of this frantic crowd . Moreover, I had not enough
money to spend. I cannot remember many of the figures from those
days, but I do remember the Dutchman, Fokker, who later built
the famous German scout planes in World War I. He was a lean,
unmarried crank, and flying was in his blood.
Another interesting personality was Friedrich Wilhelm Seekatz .
He ran a profitable propeller shop in a wooden shed and earned ten
times as much as myself. In striped trousers with an artistic bow
tie and a balloonist's cap on his head, he could be found wherever
there was any business to be done. With my 200 marks I was small
fry indeed, but forty years later he was one of my sales managers.
Seekatz's most treasured possession was a top hat, for he attended
one funeral after another for the dead pilots. Inscribed on this
hat were the names of all those he had buried. They increased day
32
Above: My first airplane just before my crash on July 19, 1911 , on the Cannstatt
Meadows.
Center: The prize- winning 70- hp Albatros sea monoplane over Lake Constance in 1912.
Below: My Hansa -Brandenburg GF2, built in 1915 for the Austro -Hungarian Army.
+ 的2001

Above: My most successful World War I seaplane, the Hansa-Brandenburg W 12 .

Below : After World War I : German and Swedish Army fliers on a secret visit to my
little factory at Warnemünde. Seated, from left to right, are Captain Lubeck,
of the Swedish Air Force; myself; Captain (later General) Kurt Student, who
was to command Germany's paratroopers in World War II; Schwärzler, Cap-
tain Bäumker, Lieutenant Johannesson, Lt. Rienau, First Lieutenant Hans
Jeschonnek (brother of the Luftwaffe Chief of Staff in World War II), and a
pilot named Weichel.
 BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD - 1911-1914

by day. But his real mania was his diary. In it he kept a complete
record of his various body functions.
Then there was a woman nobody who was at Johannisthal will
ever forget-Melly Beese, the first German woman pilot. An
extraordinarily charming, dark-haired little girl from Dresden,
she was actually a sculptress with her own studio in Munich, but
so bitten by the flying bug that she could not get it out of her
system. She held altitude and endurance records and came out of
a severe crash alive .
I was always keen to learn and it seemed there was plenty to
learn from Schneider. But I had soon exhausted his knowledge . He
did not appear to be a creative designer but rather a versatile
manager who knew how to apply the knowledge he had gained in
France. The six monoplanes we built after the model of his Nieu-
port plane nearly all crashed on the test flight for which they had
been built, the Berlin- Vienna race. Their wings would not stand
up to it.
I drove with one or two mechanics to Prerau in Bohemia to give
a hand in the event of any emergency landings. But I could have
spared myself the trouble, for most of the planes were lost before
getting that far. Owing to this catastrophe with the Schneider
monoplane, the German military authorities conceived a prejudice
against monoplanes which was to continue for decades, while I
developed a lasting preference for just this type of plane.
We were forced to change over to the building of biplanes. Here
for the first time I could develop my own talents because Schneider
found himself in a new field whose principles were unknown to
him. We turned our back on the old type of biplane I had tried
to build in Stuttgart. Now the engine was no longer behind the
pilot and the wings, but in front and in the nose. The unshapely
second elevator looming up in front of the old type planes, and
needing many wires and bracings, was dispensed with.
While it was usual to make 200-mark offers to lure designers to
Johannisthal and after four weeks to tell the newcomers that in
the future they could get only 160, by the middle of 1912 I was
given a raise to 200 marks and I married a Stuttgart girl whom I
had met in my student years.
My wedding was slightly dramatic . It took place just at the
33
 STORMY LIFE

time when I was waiting in Prerau for Schneider's monoplanes. I

had to stay there longer than I had foreseen. My bride , Paula, and
the wedding guests waited anxiously for the groom to turn up.
He sent them a telegram that he could not appear for another two
days. They all waited patiently, however, because the wedding
of an aviator in those days was regarded as something unusual.
In Johannisthal I acquired my first real home and I would have
been very happy had not relations with Schneider grown worse.
His fear-quite incomprehensible to me at the time-of finding in
me a competitor was so great that he locked up all the French
blueprints and tried in the most childish manner to keep me away
from all foreign scientific publications, as well as from the illus-
trated magazines I had started to read in the Café Reinsburg in
Stuttgart .
Nevertheless, I would probably have worked for a long time
with the LVG had it not been for a long ring on my bell one
morning in the Johannis-Wernerstrasse. It was spring, 1913 , about
seven o'clock. I crawled sleepily out of bed . As I opened the
door, I saw a familiar smiling face. It was Hellmuth Hirth. He
was looking his most elegant, in the latest Paris fashion. His
mustache was even more smartly brushed than in the old days.
"Ernst," he said, "let me in. I've got something to tell you.
Absolutely official . You understand? "
I let him in. Since I had last seen him, he had grown more famous.
He had won 40,000 marks for a flight in the Upper Rhineland.
He had also won another prize by flying, to everyone's astonish-
ment, from Munich to Berlin-a course which according to the
contest rules had to be covered in at least 36 hours- in 5 hours 41
minutes. In the Berlin- Vienna race, where our LVG planes came
to grief, he was the only one to reach the goal at all. In the mean-
time, he had shifted over from Rumpler's to the larger Albatros
company. He was covered with glory, but he seemed to be
troubled. He had been taken on as a kind of technical director
by Albatros, but unfortunately he understood very little about
airplane design and had no patience for research, although he had
a natural technical talent, apart from his genius for flying. Also,
in 1913 he wanted to win more prizes. Above all, there was a
seaplane contest on Lake Constance planned for June twenty-
34
 - 1911-1914
BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD

ninth. So that he could shine as the winner, he needed a seaplane-

at any price.
"Ernst," he said, emphatically, "you must become head designer
at Albatros. You'll get 425 marks." As usual he was in a hurry.
"Come to Berlin this evening, to the Reichstag Hotel . I live there.
We'll work it all out."
As I closed the door behind him I heard the thunderous noise
of his racing car as he made off. Despite my difficulties with
Schneider, I was not at all sure I wanted to fling myself head over
heels into a new undertaking, even for 425 marks. But that eve-
ning in the Reichstag Hotel, apart from Hellmuth Hirth, I found
Otto Wiener, the co-owner of Albatros, a man between thirty-
five and forty, who attracted me immediately by his charming and
frank manner.
"Come to me," he said, as I complained of my recent experiences.
"I won't interfere with you, on my honor. Why should I? To be
perfectly honest, I know damned little about airplane building.
You can build anything you want to. Absolutely anything. " He
gave a broad grin. "So long as it flies-and flies well."
My love for the monoplane flashed through my mind.
"May I also build monoplanes? " I asked.
"What did I tell you? Monoplanes, biplanes. I don't give a
damn, so long as they fly, and fly well ... very well."
I took the job.
Otto Wiener was true to his word. He came out nearly every
day from Berlin in his car. Sometimes he brought his wife, a
dark-haired, charming and voluble Polish countess. He would sit
for a few hours in his office in our shed. He was a clever business-
man and manager but never interfered in my technical planning.
For the first time in my life I could build as I pleased.
Nor did Hellmuth Hirth ever interfere. He had an instinctive
sense of form which gave me many a stimulating idea. But I had
to promise him two things. He wanted from me a sure-fire
guarantee in the shape of a record-breaking craft for the Lake
Constance seaplane contest. And he wanted something else.
"Ernst," he said. "I want to wear a white suit. My cockpit must
be smartly trimmed with leather. Furthermore, I want an uphol-
stered seat. Do you understand? A dignified cushioned seat."
35
 STORMY LIFE

I promised him his seat and leather upholstery because I was so

happy to be able to work undisturbed . Within three months I built
three different monoplanes. I worked fourteen to sixteen hours a
day. Now I could prove that the monoplane was the plane of
the future. I dispensed with the surplus of bracing wires which
supported the wings of the biplanes. I took a decisive step away
from the flying "wire crate" in which I had very nearly come to
grief myself, and I went forward toward another goal, although
I did not know it then.
In those days few men knew anything about the laws of stream-
lining and aerodynamics. But fifteen years later when I completed
the fast transport Heinkel He 70 ( Blitz) in my own factory and
the era of fully aerondynamic aircraft construction had arrived , I
often thought of those days with Albatros, when for the first time
I made a torpedo-shaped fuselage, thus moving intuitively in the
direction of aerodynamics and anticipating by many years the
shape of planes to come.
My first monoplane was a land machine with a 75 - horsepower
Mercedes engine, the second a seaplane with two floats, also
equipped with a 75-hp engine . The third was a larger monoplane
with a 100-hp Mercedes. The latter was particularly striking
because, in addition to the floats, it had wheels for take- off and
landing. The wheels were retractable.
Hellmuth Hirth was delighted. He walked around the big
seaplane as if it were a fabulous bird.
"Ernst," he said, "we'll fly that one in the race. But where is
the seat? I want my seat. "
I did not care about the seat, because it would make the plane,
which was already heavy in relation to the engine, still heavier, and
might cause difficulties in rising from the water. But I had to
swallow the bitter pill and build a scarlet-covered seat into the
cockpit, in addition to a closed-in floor and elegant three-ply
paneling. All these installations, which had never been put into an
aircraft before, were totally unnecessary for a contest.
Unfortunately, the representative of the military who visited us
was not nearly so enthusiastic about my monoplanes. I spoke
honeyed words, but the Army was still not convinced of the
superiority of the monoplane, and demanded biplanes. I was quite
36
 - 1911-1914
BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD

sure my monoplane would win the race at Lake Constance, but

there were still several weeks to go and nothing remained for me
to do except to build a biplane for the military, the Albatros B I.
I developed an airplane that could be used for three purposes—
as an ordinary military plane with two-bay wings, as a transport
passenger plane with single-bay wings and as a plane for cargo
and high altitude with three-bay wings. All the parts were inter-
changeable and could be swiftly dismantled and reassembled. On
May 1 , 1913 , the new B I took part in a military contest at
Döberitz. The test was to determine which plane could be the
quickest dismantled and put together again. The B I was the
winner.
This was the start of a long chain of successes which I could now
insure for Albatros, but which individually are of no special
interest today. The morning after our victory, Wiener rattled up
in his car to our building shed and came in to see me. This was the
first time he had ever spoken to me about my work. "My dear
Herr Heinkel," he said, slowly and very clearly, "up to date you've
cost me 70,000 marks and that's not chicken feed."
He looked at me hazily out of his round, black eyes. For a
moment I thought, I'm through. Was I going to find in him the same
narrow-mindedness which had cost me my job at the LGV? Well,
let's get it over with ! But Wiener suddenly gave me a very friendly
look, held his hand out to me and said, "That's not by way of
reproach. On the contrary, I'm very pleased with your work.
Just go on in the same way." Then he got into his car and rattled
away with a stink and a splutter. This was the only time he ever
came to visit me at my drawing board.
At the end of June, we traveled to Constance. I was full of hope,
wore a new gray suit, a bright tie and a balloonist's cap to look
properly dressed for our certain victory; Hellmuth Hirth had
packed his snow-white costume in a suitcase so it would not get
dirty beforehand. He had made up his mind to carry off the great
Lake Constance prize, no less than 40,000 gold marks.
"Ernst," said Hirth, as we drove southward, "if I win the prize
today, you'll get 10 per cent."
"Good enough," I said. And we shook hands on it.
The pilot, Hans Vollmöller, who was going to fly my 70-hp sea
37
 STORMY LIFE

monoplane, was also full of hope. The city of Constance was very
gay. Thousands of people had gathered under a bright blue sky
on the edge of the calm opalescent lake . Society was well repre-
sented. The Officers' Corps shone in its many-colored uniforms.
Foreign delegations had arrived . Despite my wonderful ballonist's
cap and Hirth's gleaming white suit, we would have suffered from
an inferiority complex had we not, as flyers and designers, been
the center of interest.
Unfortunately we did not have much time to let ourselves be
admired, for we had to assemble our airplanes. Our competitors
were already at work. Vollmöller's plane was the first to be ready.
It aroused great interest on account of its streamlined form, and
also because he carried a passenger who weighed 155 pounds, on
a circuit. Those extra 155 pounds made history. Unfortunately,
this success brought me no great pleasure, for I was watching
Hellmuth Hirth climbing into his cockpit. He looked quite happy,
but I could not share his mood because the extra weight of that
cockpit was on my mind.
While they swung Hirth's prop, I saw how heavily the plane
lay in the water, and felt the first drops of sweat on my forehead.
Hirth's face was still unclouded as he taxied out. Now sweating
profusely, I watched the plane stick to the water like a lump of
lead. It wouldn't rise! It was a perfectly calm day, without a breath
of wind to help. After several fruitless attempts, Hirth returned
to the starting place. He looked at me disappointedly, and disap-
peared in silence to have lunch.
Behind him trotted our good fitters, their heads bowed.
I remained alone and gloomy, brooding over the damned weight
of the luxurious cockpit. Suddenly a devilish thought came into
my head. I took out my pocket knife, looked furtively around
me and went over to the plane. First the armchair went overboard
and disappeared in the water. The paneling of the cockpit walls
followed suit. I found a hammer and smashed the floorboards. Damn
him, I thought, he can keep his feet on the rudder bar; there was
plenty of room . With a pair of pliers I ripped out all the surplus
iron clamps and screws. Then I went ashore. I hid cautiously in
the bushes and hoped for only one thing-that a little wind would
come to our aid.
38
 BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD — 1911-1914

An hour later the band started up the opening march. Hirth,

fortified after his lunch, strolled over to his airplane. I watched
him as he swung himself into the cockpit and suddenly hesitated.
His right leg, which he was about to put inside, dangled in the air.
He looked toward the shore in search of the criminal, and spotted
me. He was absolutely outraged. Then, with whatever composure
he could muster, he sat down contemptuously on the little wooden
board which was all I had left for him to sit on.
The race began. In the meantime, thank heaven, a light breeze
had sprung up. Nevertheless, I had one or two terrible moments.
Would this wind, with the small reduction in weight, be enough
to raise the plane from the water, or had everything been in vain?
I heard the roar of the motor, long . . . far too long. But then ,
a few seconds later, I saw the floats leave the water and the plane
was air-borne. She rose. She flew. It was wonderful . The rest
would be easy.

Hirth won the first prize for climb. He reached an altitude of

1,500 feet-laughable today, but at that time most impressive-in
the record time of eleven minutes six seconds. He covered the
120-mile course in 1 hour, 45 minutes, 17 seconds. Albatros was
leading all the way. Hirth was assured of the great Lake Constance
prize and Vollmöller, with the smaller monoplane, won the so-
called consolation prize. My greatest personal success was the
designer's prize.
Hirth beamed with delight. He had the victory, the honor, the
40,000 gold marks and a magnificent gold cup which stood behind
me. But the moment he got up from his wooden board a large
poisonous green stain could be seen on the snow-white seat of his
trousers. I heard a giggle behind me and I could not help laughing.
Hirth looked embarrassed and caught my eye. He felt his back-
side and looked at his stained hand. Then, rather messed up but
with arrogant dignity, he reached for his 40,000 gold marks. He
stuffed his cup under his arm and disappeared.
We made up that same evening as the champagne flowed , but
there was never again any mention of my 10 per cent.
Years later, just before the outbreak of World War II and a few
months before he died of an incurable liver disease, he presented
me on my fiftieth birthday with that gold cup. Beneath the
39
 STORMY LIFE

original inscription he had written: "To the designer of the win-

ning plane at Lake Constance, 1913 , Ernst Heinkel, on his fiftieth
birthday, from his old friend Hellmuth Hirth." He had redeemed
his forgotten promise with the gold cup, which I appreciated far
more than the 4,000 marks.
My return to Johannisthal was followed by a new phase of
uninterrupted successes for Albatros. In the East Prussian circular
flight in August, 1913 , my monoplane as a land plane won the
Kaiser's prize for officer pilots. Our observer that day was Lieuten-
ant Felmy, who later, on the outbreak of World War II , was in
command of the second German Air Fleet and suffered a sudden
and unmerited dismissal because one of his subordinates lost his
way and landed in Belgium with the plans for the German offen-
sive in the West. In those days he was still young and carefree, as
were all the others who broke record after record with my planes.
But one triumph was withheld from me. No amount of successful
performance would convince the military of the efficiency of
the monoplane. It would take years to convince them. Only the
successes of my biplane were recognized without reservations.
About the same time, Hellmuth Hirth took the amphibian to
Lake Como and recorded the best time at the Italian meet. Alleged-
ly for violation of the rules, he was not given first prize. It was
presented to the Frenchman Carras. None of us realized that this
unfair decision was a sign of the political clouds already gathering
on the horizon. Our enthusiasm for flying and the progress of
aviation kept us remote from politics. We worked and were as
pleased as children that we were helping Germany to catch up,
at an amazing speed, with the French in the field of aviation.
At the beginning of 1914, my airplanes appeared for the first
time in the world record lists of the Fédération Aéronautique
Internationale. They were breaking altitude and endurance
records. One of my planes stayed for 24 hours 10 minutes in the
air. None of us dreamed that this record would not be broken
until thirteen years later, in 1927 , when Lindbergh crossed the
Atlantic. The achievements of my planes had resulted in a
tremendous expansion of the Albatros Works. By the summer
of 1914 they had become the largest German aircraft concern,
with 500 workers.
40
 - 1911-1914
BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD

But by this time I had already left Albatros and Otto Wiener in
search of new fields. My restlessness was stronger than my con-
tentment with successes achieved . The freedom Wiener had
offered me now seemed, most unfairly, to be too confining. What
I did was probably ungrateful and perhaps stupid, but I needed
change as I did the air I breathed.
At the beginning of March, 1914, a sports car drew up outside
my shed in Johannisthal. It belonged to a slim, well-dressed young
man who got out. "My name is Etrich," he said curtly.
Everybody knew Etrich, builder of the Taube, the brilliant son
of the cotton magnate Ignatz Etrich, of Trautenau, Austria.
"I'm founding a new aircraft factory," said Etrich, “and I need
you as technical director. I know you earn 5,400 marks a year here.
I'm offering you 20,000 ."
His manner was quite superior. "You're only twenty-six," he
went on. "Twenty thousand marks is the salary of a cabinet
minister. Well, what do you say? "
I had not quite recovered from my surprise.
"Thank you very much for your offer," I managed to get out.
""
"But with me it's not alone a question of money ....
But I admit that for the first time the idea of big money was a
powerful temptation . The 20,000 marks held me spellbound . They
combined with my longing for change, but I said, quite offhand,
"Herr Etrich, if I left Albatros, it would only be to have greater
working possibilities, to realize further ideas, to have more finan-
cial means at my disposal, not for myself, but for my work."
Etrich did not bat an eyelid. "I'll guarantee you all that. Come
and visit me on Sunday at my house in Trautenau and you can
judge our financial position for yourself. Agreed? "
A week later I set out for Trautenau . Igo Etrich received me in a
magnificent villa. As I had never been in such an opulent house
before, I was easily convinced that I would have much greater
financial backing in Etrich's future factory than I would ever get
with Albatros. Etrich's father was a white-haired old man of more
than seventy, with a goatee. He was extraordinarily likeable .
The Etrich cotton mills employed 3,000 women workers, and
made a deep impression on me. The family possessed other great
mills in Russia, run by Igo's brother . The old man's stables con-
4I
 STORMY LIFE

tained the most beautiful and spirited horses that were to be found
in this part of Europe.
After all I had seen, I soon came to an agreement with Igo. In
order to deliver his Taube to the German Army, Etrich had built
a small factory on Prussian soil-at Liebau, close to the Austrian
frontier. But this factory was quite inadequate and Etrich had
joined Councilor Krüger, the owner of a plant in Brandenburg
on the Havel, to found a larger concern called the Branden-
burgische Flugzeugwerke GmbH (Brandenburg Aircraft
Works) . To start with, Etrich wanted a racing plane for the
seaplane meet at Warnemünde scheduled for August, 1914. It
inordinately flattered the conceit I had acquired at Albatros to
hear him say, "If you take over the design, we shall win the race
and our factory is made."
I returned to Johannisthal. When Otto Wiener received my
resignation, he said : "It will do you a lot of harm, Herr Heinkel.
A lot of harm. Do you happen to know Councilor Krüger, who
will be your boss? "
"No," I said. "I don't know him."
"Look here," said Wiener. "Otto Wiener is not rich and gen-
erous enough for you. Well, well . . . but what is Councilor
Krüger? He is the meanest man in the world. He has a savings
bank where you, let us say, have dynamite. It won't work, Herr
Heinkel. It won't work. You'll think of Otto Wiener."
I did not believe a word of this and took it for a competitor's
jealousy. A month later I believed everything Wiener had said.
Igo Etrich's partner, Gottfried Krüger, was actually the stingiest
man who had ever crossed my path. We fell out in the shortest
possible time, as he was afraid of any investment and watched
every penny I needed for my designs. Nothing was ready at the
Brandenburg factory. I had to move to Liebau and establish my
designer's office in a barracks.
In the meantime, the beginnings of the factory were built on
an airfield in Briest near Brandenburg. When Krüger invited me
for our first discussions to Brandenburg, he bought us a bottle of
the cheapest wine in the tavern, which he seemed to consider a
token of special generosity toward me. After this first bottle, I
felt obliged to order, at my own expense, a bottle of the best
42
 - 1911-1914
BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD

wine to be found in Brandenburg, which cost me twelve marks. It

soothed my throat, but also gave Krüger the impression that he was
dealing with an extremely extravagant young man. He never
revised this opinion.
I silently apologized to Wiener and some years later, during the
war, I was lucky enough to be able to help him when an anti-
Semitic group of officers hauled him before the Supreme Court
for treason because he had sold some airplanes to Italy, which was
still neutral, and because these planes were equipped with radio, as
was customary in Germany.
In the meantime, I sat in Liebau and watched the snail-like
progress in Briest, where Krüger had bought a piece of ground
that was suitable for anything except an airfield . But I was too
proud to admit I had committed a blunder. I might, perhaps, have
capitulated had it not been for Igo Etrich's dignified help and for
a young man I had picked up in Liebau and trained as a technical
assistant. This seventeen-year-old boy was as thin as a rake, with
enormous ears that seemed almost to flap in the air, and he was the
most amiable windbag I have ever met. His name was Josef
Köhler (Jupp for short) . He had a genius for improvisation but
also for chasing girls, spending money and tapping his colleagues
for loans. He never changed during the many years I knew him.
But I easily forgave him because he was absolutely unique and
thanks to the most unbelievable ruses made up for whatever miser
Krüger's economy endangered.
In early spring of 1914 I began to design the racing plane for
Warnemünde. Previously all seaplane races had been held on
inland lakes. Now, in 1914, an attempt was to be made on the
open sea-a sign of the urgent necessity of building sea-worthy
planes for use in the Baltic and the North Sea.
I was convinced I could develop my Albatros B II into a sea-
plane that would win at Warnemünde. I named it the Hansa-
Brandenburg W. It was a very stable biplane with three pairs of
wing struts and a 150-hp Daimler-Benz engine.
I designed it in eight weeks and was compelled to move to
Brandenburg to build the plane there. As it could not be assembled
in Briest, I had to move into Krüger's engineering works. Krüger's
economy at close quarters was more than frustrating. My inclina-
43
 STORMY LIFE

tion at that time never to be sparing with either my manpower or

my money led to one difference after another with him. After
a fortnight, Köhler came to me wagging his big ears, and said,
"The boss says he has slept like a log all his life, but since you've
been here he's had no rest."
"Tell him to buy some sleeping pills," I replied with a smile.
"Too expensive," grinned Köhler. "He can't afford them ."
Nevertheless, the work somehow progressed.
By the beginning of June we had begun to build the wings. One
morning on my desk I found an envelope with a Berlin postmark,
which stood out from among the other correspondence. I had
never seen such fine-textured paper before. The sender's name
consisted of two mysterious initials, “C.C.”
I opened it. The notepaper was headed with the same initials. It
contained only a few lines:

Dear Herr Heinkel : I should be very pleased if you would

call upon me on the 5th June at your convenience in my suite
No. 401 at the Hotel Adlon, Berlin.

The signature was illegible. It intrigued me.

To a man like myself, who had been used to such modest cafés as
the Senftleben and various student and pilot saloons, the Adlon
was a holy of holies. Throughout Germany it had the reputation
of being the smartest and most modern hotel in the capital. Feeling
overawed, I went to the head porter and showed him the myste-
rious letter. He was a monument of dignity. He bowed . “ I'll an-
nounce you at once."
I hesitated for a moment and then asked, "Could you tell me
who wrote this letter? "
The monument of dignity replied: "Mein Herr, you have been
invited by Herr Castiglioni. Don't you know the gentleman?
He's an Austrian millionaire. He owns industrial concerns and
aircraft factories. He always stays with us when he's in Berlin."
I was eventually received by a butler who asked me to wait in a
salon. He returned a moment later to open the door into a room
with a huge desk. From behind it rose a rather small, broad-shoul-
dered man, exceedingly well dressed and with a black pearl in his
44
 BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD - 1911-1914

tie. He had a most unusual head. By ordinary standards , his face

was not handsome, but it was more attractive than any handsome
face could possibly have been. His black hair was combed
straight back and his eyes gazed at me with an understanding and
penetrating look.
"Camillo Castiglioni ." he said, introducing himself. "I'm de-
lighted you've come. "
He spoke fluent German with a trace of an Italian accent. but
there was magic in his voice. He was certainly not older than thir-
ty-six. Years later, when Castiglioni and I knew each other bet-
ter I admitted to him that he had completely captivated me on
the spot and that I only woke up when I heard his first question:
"Herr Heinkel, I should like to engage you. What are your con-
ditions? "
In spite of my naivete, I realized that I was facing a man who to
an extraordinary degree, combined in himself two things-a great
human personality and a clear business mind.
Since in my surprise I did not reply straight away, Castiglioni
went on: “Herr Heinkel, I'm not going to beat about the bush.
I have founded two aircraft factories in Austria and Hungary in
agreement with the Austrian Air Arsenal-the Phönix in Vienna
and the UFAG in Budapest. But I'm short of a chief designer who
can produce the planes that will be built in these factories. I have
made exhaustive inquiries about you. You are the man I need. I'm
""
hiring you at a salary of 100,000 crowns a year.'
Castiglioni apparently was used to having his wishes fulfilled
immediately and without contradiction.
I have no intention of posing as more heroic than I was. The
100,000 crowns were very tempting and doubtless I would have
fallen for this temptation as much as for Castiglioni's personality
if it had not been for the unfortunate experience in my recent
job. This alone made me hesitate. The millionaire looked at me
somewhat surprised when I failed to say "yes." His surprise
was even greater when at last I managed to say rather pompously:
"Herr Castiglioni, I greatly appreciate your offer, but I could not
leave the Brandenburg Aircraft Company without causing their
collapse. For them everything depends on the planes I am now
working on."
45
 STORMY LIFE

I felt rather embarrassed at the priggishness of my reply when

I thought of Krüger, but I could think of nothing better to say.
Castiglioni looked at me in silence. Then he lit a cigarette and
99
said mysteriously, "Herr Heinkel, I'm very sorry.
He rose, smiled and stretched out his hand. "But," he added,
"you will hear from me again in a week's time."
I returned to Brandenburg. For eight days I heard nothing. I
used that week to discover what I could about the great C.C.
The son of the Chief Rabbi of Trieste, he had risen from small
beginnings thanks to his unmatched ambition and drive. In his
early twenties he was already chairman of a major rubber con-
cern. In 1908 , aged twenty-nine, the young financier recognized
the future of aviation, the same idea which had struck me as a
young engineer. His position as chairman also helped him to
secure an interest in the rapidly expanding auto industry. He
had a controlling interest in many companies. But he was forever
in quest of greater adventures. While the Austro-Hungarian Air
Arsenal was still debating as to whether the balloon had any
military significance or not, Castiglioni had already recognized
that the airplane alone was the craft of the future.
He at once persuaded several important Austrian and Hungar-
ian financiers and industrialists to found an aircraft engine com-
pany. His associates were the Wiener Bankverein, the Hungarian
magnate Manfred Weiss and the leading banker in Prague, Pecek.
Later he founded the Phönix Aircraft Factory in Vienna, made
a wealthy marriage and became the sole owner of his enterprises.
He overcame the hesitancy of the Air Arsenal by presenting
Kaiser Franz Josef with two automobiles and letting it be under-
stood that in addition to these cars, Austria-Hungary would
soon be building airplanes. The Arsenal hesitated no longer and
placed an order. Now Castiglioni wanted a designer for these
airplanes.
At noon precisely on the eighth day Krüger sent for me. He
looked as if a terrific weight had been removed from his shoulders.
"Herr Heinkel," he said. "I have to inform you that yesterday
I sold my share in the Brandenburg Aircraft Company to Herr
Camillo Castiglioni of Vienna. I must admit that it caused me no
great hardship. In a few months you have managed to convince
46
 BOOM DAYS AT JOHANNISTHAL AIRFIELD — 1911-1914

me that aircraft construction is too wearing for me. No, do not

get me wrong. I mean aircraft construction with you."
C.C. , then, was obviously not a man of empty promises. On
my desk I found a second letter inviting me once more to the
Adlon. Castiglioni beamed with delight. "What did I tell you,
Herr Heinkel? Since I was unable to hire you , I had to buy the
whole factory with you. I hope you're worth it. "
That was the beginning of my work with Castiglioni, an
association to which I am enormously indebted in terms of pro-
duction speed, business and financial knowledge as well as human
insight.
When I began to work for Castiglioni, I was not sure how much
he relied on me. But that was his way. Gambling for high stakes
was the chief attraction of his life and kept him young. "If you
deliver what I expect of you, " he said as he gave me his curiously
soft handshake in the Adlon, "you will never fail to have my
support. It is often my way to throw money out of the window,
but it invariably comes back to me."
There was a story current at that time, to the effect that Kaiser
Franz Josef received Castiglioni in Vienna and said jokingly as he
left, "If your career keeps on, our monarchy will no longer be
known as K. und K. but as C. und C." (The Austro-Hungarian
empire was known as the Kaiserliche und Königliche Monarchie,
or Imperial and Royal Monarchy. The colloquial abbreviation
was K. und K. ) If this anecdote was authentic, the old Kaiser must
have had an eye for the future because to a certain extent, his
joke turned out to be true. Castiglioni rose to the top rank of the
great financiers.
Castigilioni would be fiercely opposed as an "international
Jewish finance jackal." He would be slandered and smeared . He
would be accused of lack of patriotism and of treason merely
because he had two countries close to his heart-Italy and Austria-
Hungary-and was bound to consider the whole world as his
fatherland. But anyone who came as close to him as I did could
never forget that he was an extraordinary man who possessed a
goodness of heart that was boundless.
I was soon to find out that he was capable of deep patriotic
feelings. His strongest attachment belonged to Italy and later he
47
 STORMY LIFE

fought a bitter inner struggle when, as a great industrialist with

his power rooted in Austria-Hungary, he saw that war with Italy
was approaching .
At the end of July, 1914, my first Hansa-Brandenburg design,
the biplane "W," was at Warnemünde waiting to compete with
twenty-six other German planes for the Baltic Seaplane Prize.
But the contest never materialized.
In the middle of the test flights a German officer stood up on
top of a gasoline tank on the beach and announced that the German
Army was under mobilization orders. After a moment of surprise,
he was greeted with a wave of national enthusiasm as yet un-
clouded by the presentiment of the appalling war that lay ahead .
The twenty-six airplanes were requisitioned for the Navy.

48
 Chapter III

THE FIRST STORM

1914-1918

AT THE OUTBREAK of the First World War I had to concentrate all

my designing work in Briest. In the turmoil of mobilization I drove
with Josef Köhler to Liebau in Silesia, where we loaded two
drawing boards and a rolling machine for shaping streamlined
struts into our car. There was nothing else in Liebau worth taking
to Brandenburg .
On our way back we were caught in the spy scare that was
sweeping Germany. The streets in many towns were barricaded .
We were constantly investigated by the burgomasters. As it was
very early, most of them were still in bed and then would appear
excitedly in their underpants, armed with swords from the War
of 1870. So far all this was rather amusing, until we came to a
viaduct and several bullets hit our car. Apparently the people
thought we were about to blow up the railway track so we were
arrested and questioned for three hours.
Then everything went smoothly until we had a stroke of bad
luck in Berlin. We were hungry and had stopped off at a restau-
rant. I left my new balloonist's cap, which I had brought back a
few months before from the Aéro-Salon in Paris, inside up on the
car seat. The car was immediately surrounded and we had barely
sat down to our meal when a dozen men burst into the place and
screamed that we were French spies and must be shot. I did not
grasp immediately what the trouble was, until it dawned on me
that the inside of my cap bore the name of the Parisian hatter.
My infuriated protests were of no avail . We were hauled out
into the street and threatened with revolvers. The crowd was
completely deaf to reason but the police came to my rescue,
although my death there and then would have spared me future
accusations that I built war planes even in World War I and thus
gave proof of criminal tendencies.
49
 STORMY LIFE

We arrived late at night with our drawing boards at Branden-

burg. The following morning I began the work which kept me
enchained for the next four years while I created more than forty
aircraft types, about thirty of which were mass-produced in
Germany and Austria. Seventy per cent of all the planes used
by the Austro-Hungarian Army from 1914 to 1918 were designed
by me and 95 per cent of the Austrian naval craft were planes of
the Hansa-Brandenburg type or were built under license by
Phönix in Vienna and UFAG in Budapest.
It would be of purely academic interest to describe the many
designs in detail. Of sole interest today are the basic trends: ( 1 )
the development of the monoplane and its recognition by the
military; and ( 2 ) the development of giant multi-engined planes
and a number of experimental aircraft, flying boats and submarine-
borne planes .
Despite the speedy advance in technique, the work itself
remained fairly primitive. For my discussions with the German
Navy I went at regular intervals to Berlin to see Admiral Starke,
who was responsible for the development of seaplanes. Our talks
seldom lasted longer than two hours. There was no great choice of
engines. The over-all area was determined by the length of flights
and the load required, and the type of armament to be installed.
By the time I left I already had a preliminary sketch; all I needed
were a few scraps of paper and a pencil. I drew the Hansa-
Brandenburg W 12-a seaplane fighter that became quite famous
in 1917-on the back of a beer coaster.
Discussions on the Austrian contracts were held with repre-
sentatives from the Air Arsenal who came to Brandenburg, or
else I went to Vienna. I also spent considerable time in Vienna and
Budapest supervising the building of the planes. I often went to
the Austrian flying bases at Pola and Trieste, where my seaplanes
were for the most part built and tested by the Navy . All in all, it
was a responsible job for a man as young as I was.
Our collaboration with the Austro-Hungarian Air Arsenal was
far from ideal. The difficulties were caused not so much by the
Austrian commanding general, Schleier, as by certain young
officers who were prejudiced against Castiglioni . That he was of
50
 THE FIRST STORM - 1914-1918

Jewish origin, although he had been a Protestant convert for

twenty years, seemed, in their eyes, the lesser evil ; the greater of
course being that he was of Italian birth and therefore an enemy.
The fact alone that Castiglioni at the end of 1914 had spoken in
Italian on the telephone to a Papal nuncio led to many covert
attacks . But even these hotheaded, arrogant young officers had to
acknowledge that Castiglioni's aircraft works were the only ones
in a position to deliver serviceable aircraft in quantity. This aver-
sion to Castiglioni carried over to me; also they probably felt it
was undignified to learn about airplane construction from a
twenty-six-year-old German. One of the ringleaders of these
young officers was the general's adjutant, Captain Weingartner.
He ignored my proffered hand when he visited our works in
Brandenburg. This wounded my youthful director's pride so much
that I complained to Castiglioni the next time he arrived.
"Don't worry," he said slowly, "I'm a very patient man, but I'll
handle him in my own good time.”
Several weeks later he challenged the captain to a duel. The
financier received only a minor scratch on the nose , while Wein-
gartner had to be carried off on a stretcher.
"I think our friend will be more reasonable from now on,"
Castiglioni said when he told me of the affair. "You'll see- we'll all
get along swimmingly."
Castiglioni was generous to a fault. At his expense, I traveled
in great style and stayed at the finest hotels. His own palace on
the Schwarzenbergplatz in Vienna, where I was often invited,
could have served as an object lesson to royalty.
On one occasion he asked me to accompany him to the Burg-
theater. "I want to show you a woman, " he said. "She's a jewel.'
At that time I knew very little about his private life, except that
he had just divorced his second wife. He turned out to be a man
of fiery temperament who had an irresistible way with women.
This memorable evening at the theater seemed to mean more to
Castiglioni than embarking on a new financial adventure . We saw
Shaw's Caesar and Cleopatra and he never took his eyes off the
heroine, who was hardly seventeen and the latest stage star,
Iphigenie Buchmann . "Heinkel," he whispered to me, "just look
51
 STORMY LIFE

at that girl, just look at that adorable creature ! " We stayed in our
seats until the curtain fell for the last time. Then he quickly took
leave of me.
I had no idea that this was merely the prelude to the stormy
courtship of an extremely beautiful young woman.

My first Hansa-Brandenburg plane for war purposes was ready

at the beginning of 1915. It was the reconnaissance seaplane NW,
equipped with radio and bomb racks for ten 12 -lb. bombs . It had
a remarkable climbing efficiency. Despite the heavy floats it took
only nine and a half minutes to reach 3,000 feet.
This first plane was not yet armed, but the French with their
machine guns were more advanced in armament at the outbreak
of the war than we Germans. Our pilots used only revolvers and
rifles. So I had to turn my attention to the arming of my plane.
From this prototype I developed a lighter version, the LW, the
first reconnaissance seaplane equipped with an observer's seat and
a built-in free machine gun with 500 rounds of ammunition. It
was reasonably satisfactory for service at the front.
In 1916 the German naval pilots, who fought the English
squadrons over the coast and the Channel, were in dire straits.
The English were not only superior in numbers, but they had
faster, more maneuverable and better-armed planes. The pilots
of the German seaplanes stationed at Zeebrugge would be defeated
in the long run unless they were able to get planes that were better
or at least as good. It was a great challenge for me to build such a
plane.
In about eight weeks I designed the biplane seaplane W 12. I
had to strain the existing light-weight building techniques to the
utmost in order to achieve the required superiority in speed, climb
and armament ( two machine guns firing through the engine and
one free machine gun) . It was a very icy winter. The waters
around Brandenburg were all frozen over, making a seaplane take-
off impossible. As time was pressing, I had no choice but to ship
the plane by rail, without a test, to the Seaplane Test Unit at
Warnemünde. I sent Köhler ahead to assemble the parts early
in the morning at Warnemünde. At midday the plane was ready
to take off in the presence of the members of the Test Unit. They
52
 THE FIRST STORM - 1914-1918

included their commandant, Captain Hering, the adjutant, Lieu-

tenant Siburg and the officer responsible for the choice of types,
Lieutenant von Dewitz. The latter looked at my kite whose novel
design without tension wires was quite different from any other
plane, grimaced and announced like the Delphic Oracle : "If
you've never fallen in the drink, you'll fall in with that bird." The
others were of the same opinion.
The test pilot, Stagge, was to fly my plane with an observer.
But Köhler's bloodhound nose had scented something and he
himself took his place in the observer's seat. And he was right, for
hardly were they in the air than Stagge called out to him: "I can't
keep her in the air. She's too damn tail-heavy." Köhler looked
down and saw the whole slipway black with people. They all
wanted to see my plane fall in the water.
"I've got to land," cried Stagge.
"You've got to fly! " screamed Köhler.
He put his arms around Stagge's shoulders as if to give him
courage.
The plane climbed and went on flying.
"I've still got to land," said Stagge after a time.
"You go on flying! " screamed Köhler.
They yelled at each other until the plane was at last out of sight.
Then Köhler threw overboard the ballast he had in the back
seat and urged Stagge to go on flying as long as possible.
The test pilot said a few times, "I can't go on much longer,"
but Köhler banged him on the shoulder and implored . “Stick it
out, stick it out, Walter. "
In actual fact, Stagge flew for three-quarters of an hour and
landed, amid the great enthusiasm of the crowd, in the slipway.
Now, of course, von Dewitz wanted to take the plane up on the
spot and try out its surprising characteristics . He could not under-
stand why Köhler went into the wildest antics trying to keep him
away from the plane. When I came on the scene, I received all
kinds of congratulations and could not understand myself what
was the matter with Köhler.
"But, sir," I heard him say, "you will agree that this plane is
quite phenomenal, but after this long flight you must understand
that I want to take a look at her."
53
 STORMY LIFE

I was tempted to ask Köhler why in hell's name he was prevent-

ing von Dewitz from flying our wonderful plane, since the final
decision to order it remained with him. Then I caught what I
knew was a distress signal: his ears were standing out like two red
lamps.
"Herr Oberleutnant," I said, "because of the ice at home, this
is the plane's first flight and it really must be checked over.”
Von Dewitz stepped back and said, "For God's sake, then have
it ready in the slipway tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. "
As the crowd melted away, Köhler came up to me like a con-
spirator. "Thank God, " he whispered. "Herr Heinkel, you've no
idea. The kite is so tail-heavy, it isn't funny."
"Damn it," I said, "that must be changed at once."
"It will be," Köhler assured me. "I'll remove this little blemish
before tomorrow morning. Rely on me, Herr Heinkel, rely on
me."
"Change the kingpost and stagger the upper wing, ” I said.
At seven o'clock next morning, Köhler appeared as black as a
chimney sweep by my bedside. He was a little hoarse from the
night air. "Everything's okay, Herr Heinkel. Everything's okay."
When I appeared at half past ten at the slipway, a very chipper
Dewitz stepped out of the plane.
Half an hour later Köhler told me what he had done. He had
collected our riggers the night before. With practically no tools
at his disposal, he managed to dismantle the top wing and stagger
it about eighteen inches. He had to do this more or less in the
dark and in a desperate hurry so that no one from the station would
notice. He had succeeded.
Adjusting the kingpost correctly was, at that time, the secret
of every design.
The Hansa-Brandenburg W 12 became the most successful
German seaplane in 1917-18 .
Naval Lieutenant Christiansen and his squadron finally broke
the English superiority and won for the Zeebrugge Station com-
mand of the air along the Flanders coast, and never again lost it.
I drove several times to Zeebrugge to get further information
on technical developments required by the front. I got to know
Christiansen, or Krischan as he was called, who was the ace of
54
 THE FIRST STORM - 1914-1918

Zeebrugge. When we first met, Krischan lived in the only hotel

that had escaped bombardment by the British Navy. He was asleep
on his cot, but when he awakened he said without further prelimi-
naries, "I'm very pleased to see you boys, but I can't offer you
99
anything. There's no more schnapps.'
He looked at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows and his
deep-set eyes twinkled as if he thought, "I'm sure they've brought
us something." I had. I put a bottle of Swabian kirsch on the table
and Krischan's eyes grew rounder. "Your plane has endeared you
to me, but the hootch makes you even more welcome."
He brought out four glasses and I filled them up. As he drank
his first glass, his face beamed. "Wonderful stuff, boys,” he said .
"But the rest is for me." Taking the bottle he calmly locked it up
in his sideboard and we never saw it again.
In any case, this was the beginning of a friendship that lasted
for many years, even after Christiansen became a General of the
Luftwaffe and even in his unhappy days as the last active German
general and army commander in occupied Holland in 1945 .
From now on he often came to Brandenburg and Warnemünde .
Early in 1918 I met him in Hamburg. "Ernst," he said, "the time
has come for you to cook up something new. The W 12 hasn't
got enough superiority in speed over the English now. I must have
a plane which is faster and climbs better. " I promised I would
cook up something and as I was talking I suddenly remembered
my dream of the monoplane. Only with a monoplane would it
be possible to improve upon the performance of the W 12 without
using a more powerful engine. I had brought Köhler with me to
Hamburg. When we met for dinner that night, I told him of my
decision. "When we get back," I said, "we're going to turn the
W 12 into a monoplane."
Köhler's brow darkened. "The Navy will never allow it."
"Then for once we won't ask the Navy's permission ."
The modification of the W 12 was not so difficult. The fuselage,
the floats and the tail unit remained unchanged. I merely took off
the upper wing, removed the center section and increased the
lower wing span. That was all . But the modern, streamlined result
in those days looked so comical and revolutionary that at first I
did not dare to recognize my own child. When the plane was
55
 STORMY LIFE

taxied to its take-off place, I remained quietly hidden in the

woods so as not to hear the jibes of the onlookers.
But when the plane returned from its first flight, no one laughed
any more. The rate of climb to 3,000 feet was just under six
minutes, with a comparatively feeble Daimler-Benz engine of
150 hp. Armed with three machine guns, it attained a speed of
112 mph, and remained four hours in the air. This was miles ahead
of the W 12 .
As chance would have it, Christiansen came to Warnemünde
shortly afterward, saw the first plane of this new series and flew
it. He was so enthusiastic that he wanted to take off in it at once
for Zeebrugge. He would not be dissuaded.
The plane, as usual, was transported to Warnemünde to be
assembled there, but unluckily the Warnemünde Ferry was not
running. It was the link between the unloading platform of the
station and the seaplane base. Christiansen cursed God, the ferry,
Warnemünde and the whole German Navy , but to no avail. He
swore he would not fly to Zeebrugge without the new plane.
Whereupon Köhler felt sorry for him and said, "If I have to put
the kite together in the market place at Warnemünde, you'll get
it." He kept his word. He borrowed twenty sailors from a ship,
promised them schnapps and money, assembled the plane between
the railway tracks and had it dropped into the Warnow River
from a crane, whence it taxied down to the seaplane base.
Next day Christiansen said good-by and flew direct to Flanders.
On the way he came across two English Curtiss flying boats and
shot them both down. Shortly afterwards he brought down three
more. The repercussion of these events shook the German Ad-
miralty. The Kaiser wrote "Bravo" on the margin of the announce-
ment. I was given the Iron Cross, Second Class . My plane from
now until the end of the war, under the name of Hansa-Branden-
burg W 29, was the terror of the Channel.
These were the highlights of my work on seaplanes for the
German Navy, except for the design of a new submarine-borne
plane, the W 20. The most important feature of this new design
was that it took 2% minutes to assemble and 1 minutes to dis-
56
 THE FIRST STORM - 1914-1918

mantle. It would pack up into a space of 20 ft. x 6 ft. when secured

on the upper deck of the larger U-boats. These particular types
of U-boats never came into service and the W 20 never went into
production. Its development, however, was of great importance
to me because it enabled me, a few years after the war, to rejoin
the aircraft industry and establish my first factory .
The second basic line of my creative activity in World War I
was my incursion into the field of multi -engined super-planes.
This began during the first days of the war. I had not heard from
Hellmuth Hirth for a long time. Now reports reached me that he
had volunteered as a pilot and was stationed near Metz in Lorraine.
On August 31 , 1914, I had a telegram from Hirth's father, inviting
me to Stuttgart for an important conference in the home of Herr
Klein, the well-known director of the Bosch Works.
I knew Klein personally, for in 1913 he had bought one of my
Albatros planes for his private use. He owned a country house in
Friedrichshafen on the Lake of Constance , was crazy about flying
and had taken it into his head to fly round the lake for his own
amusement. He was a totally unpretentious person and no one
would have taken him for old Bosch's right-hand man . In any
case, he made a great impression on me and as soon as I saw his
name in Hirth's telegram I decided to go to Stuttgart, even
though I did not know what it was all about.
I arrived late in the afternoon and went straight to his house. I
was received by a company that would have impressed anyone
at the height of his career, let alone a mere twenty-six-year-old .
The first I saw was the round head and gigantic white mustache of
Graf Zeppelin, the man to whom I was indebted for becoming an
airplane designer. Next I noticed the stocky, bearded Robert
Bosch, our local prince of industry. Hellmuth Hirth's gray-haired
father and finally Director Klein, who introduced me to everyone.
Then I learned what was afoot.
Old Graf Zeppelin, presumably as a result of his disastrous
experiences, had decided that not his dirigible but airplanes would
after all be the pillars of aerial warfare. Now, with the obstinate
passion which had characterized his whole life, he had set his
teeth into his new idea. He wanted to build a huge plane capable
57
 STORMY LIFE

of dropping a giant bomb in the Port of London. He imagined that

the water pressure caused by the bomb blast would destroy all
the ships lying at anchor. People had already pointed out to him
that bombs exert their greatest pressure in the direction of least
resistance (therefore upward and out of the water) and that his
theory was wrong. But he stuck obstinately to his giant plane. His
own airship works were not in a position to carry out such a design.
Robert Bosch had already declared that he would put his director,
Klein, and a few engineers at the Count's disposal. In the pre-
liminary discussions Hellmuth Hirth maintained that no one
except myself could build such a plane.
We sat for several hours discussing the pros and cons. I was
extremely interested in the task, but I told them I could not build
such a huge aircraft with my own resources . Now that a great
step forward was being taken into unknown fields, I suggested
that my former teacher, Professor Baumann, be asked to look into
the structural calculations. Everyone agreed at once. I sent for
Professor Baumann and invited him to join us.
Early next day we drove to Metz, where Hellmuth Hirth was
waiting for us. With him was Claudius Dornier, at that time an
associate of the Count, who in the following years was to become
a leading name in the German aircraft industry.
Graf Zeppelin did not give us much time. Even before we sat
down to lunch, the discussions began. They ended with a resolu-
tion to form a "Construction Committee" comprising Professor
Baumann, some of the Bosch engineers and myself. We would
work in Brandenburg, because in view of the work I was doing
for my firm I could only devote a certain part of my time to the
new task, and this only on the spot. Then I saw that I was com-
pelled to retire more and more from this outside project because
my own work made more and more demands on me.
This was my first introduction to the problem of giant plane
construction. But this problem was so intriguing that whenever
my own designs left me any time, I continued with my own
developments in this field.
My first twin-engined plane appeared at the front lines in 1915 ,
under the name Hansa-Brandenburg ZM. It was a huge biplane
58
 THE FIRST STORM- 1914-1918

with an upper wing span of 90.2 ft. The Hansa-Brandenburg ZM

was equipped with two Maybach engines, each of 160 hp and
could carry a total bomb load of 550 lbs. In the same year the
Hansa-Brandenburg GF was developed, also a twin-engined
bomber. In addition to its other armament, this plane for the first
time carried a 20-mm. cannon in the nose of the fuselage.
In 1916 a twin-engined torpedo -carrying airplane for the Ger-
man Navy was produced on the basis of the two types just
mentioned . Called the GW, it was the first German operational
torpedo-carrying airplane. It could discharge a torpedo weighing
1,600 lbs. Afterwards I constructed the large sea biplane Hansa-
Brandenburg GWD, an even larger plane that carried a torpedo
weighing 4,000 lbs. , as well as the first starting device for both
engines.
In the meantime the number of my workers in Brandenburg
alone had risen from seventy men in 1914 to over 1,000 in 1918.
My close relationship with these workers became a very significant
factor at a time of increasing internal political tension . Perhaps
it was because I never denied my humble origins that this relation-
ship deepened from year to year and ultimately made it possible
to achieve a degree of efficiency that was denied to many others.
The only breaks in my routine were my trips to Austria,
Hungary and to the Adriatic, and, of course, my meetings with
Castiglioni in Berlin and Brandenburg. Considering the difference
of our social positions and our style of living, we had become very
close friends.
In his circle one could meet nearly all the financial and industrial
giants of the day-the time was 1917-18 -as well as many figures
who were to rise to fame in the postwar years. Castiglioni had a
very fine instinct for the coming man.
Hugo Stinnes, a black-bearded man in a rather shabby suit, who
already dreamed of the private industrial kingdom he would
briefly rule after the war, was often to be seen at Castiglioni's
home. Another important name was Albert Vögler. Hjalmar
Schacht, then a little- known board member of the National Bank,
but later President of the Reichsbank, was also among his friends.
His connection with Castiglioni began with the auctioning of a
59
 STORMY LIFE

big Berlin art collection. Schacht telephoned Castiglioni one day

in 1917 . "This is Schacht. I should very much like to talk to you
and show you an interesting catalogue."
"Delighted," said Castiglioni in his generous way. "Since we've
never met before I'll come and look you up."
Castiglioni with his prophetic vision, declared as soon as he
had met Schacht, "Here is a coming man ! Do you really think I
did that deal because of the Rembrandts? They'll obviously look
well in my palace but I've got plenty of them anyway. But there's
one thing you never get enough of—and that is meeting men of the
""
future. Schacht is a genius.'
Castiglioni was right.
Another man whom I met at Castiglioni's was Ferdinand
Porsche, the automobile and engine designer of genius, whose
name became a household word some twenty years later when he
designed the Volkswagen . Castiglioni recognized Porsche's talent
-and his weaknesses. While with Austro-Daimler, Porsche de-
signed the only efficient airplane engine the Austrian Navy pos-
sessed. "I can't afford Porsche," said Castiglioni. "He has a mania
for changing things. Heinkel, of course, makes mistakes, but
once he says, 'Ready for mass production ,' that is the end of it.
But when Porsche builds an engine he will never release it. He
will go on changing forever—and that's too expensive for me.”
Since Castiglioni had acquired the Bavarian Motor Works that
built Porsche's airplane engine, he knew what he was talking
about. He once commented to a friend: "You can take on Porsche.
He has tremendous talent, but let me give you this advice. You
must shut him up in a cage with seven locks and let him design
his engine inside it. Let him hand you the blueprints through the
bars. But for heaven's sake don't ever let him see the drawing or
the engine again. Otherwise he'll ruin you."

The number of my designs for Austria and Hungary increased.

More and more demands were made upon my planes as the enemy
air force over the Adriatic and on the Italian front steadily gained
superiority.
In Austria there was a distinct preference for flying boats, and
little trust in planes with floats. From this developed my third
60
 THE FIRST STORM - 1914-1918

basic line of design-the flying boats. These were biplanes whose

principal feature was this: instead of having vertical struts that
held the two wings together, they had four pairs of cross struts
with a common point of intersection.
These flying boats ranged from single-seater scouts to the big
W 13 giant flying boats with a 350-hp Austro-Daimler engine.
The most successful single-seater scout flying boat, "CC," took
its type designation from Camillo Castiglioni's name. At Cas-
tiglioni's request I built it for the man who was introduced to me
as the most famous Austrian flyer on my first visit to Pola and
Trieste.
This was Naval Lieutenant Banfield, who was actually of
English origin. (His father, in the 1870's, had been invited by the
Kaiser to come to Austria because the Emperor wanted an English-
man to reorganize his fleet) . Banfield was a brilliant pilot, who
obtained the greatest number of air victories on the Austrian side
and was later in command of the seaplane station at Trieste. With
the CC, Banfield won many air battles against superior numbers.
A month before the collapse I was in Trieste for the last time. I
had a presentiment of the approaching end and returned via
Vienna to see Castiglioni once more. At his side was his nineteen-
year-old wife, Iphigenie Buchmann, the enchanting young actress
he had pointed out to me on the stage of the Burgtheater in Vienna.
In those days he had sent her invitations and heaped flowers and
presents on her . She had resisted him for a long time, but finally
she gave in. They were married. She had visited me a few weeks
before in Brandenburg and I was so entranced by her beauty that
I arranged for an air escort before she returned to Vienna. An
Austrian pilot flew above her car from Briest to Brandenburg,
and then over her train to Potsdam.
Now, on my last visit to Vienna, she was talking and smiling
like an angel . She was deeply in love with Castiglioni and he was
so delighted that he seemed unaware of the clouds looming up on
all sides.

But now that the end was in sight Castiglioni came back to earth.
During the last days of the crisis he turned up in Brandenburg and
coldly put his affairs in order. The whole of Brandenburg was in
61
 STORMY LIFE

revolt. Just before Castiglioni appeared the garrison commandant

had stopped me in the street and warned me not to go to the
factory.
"The Red sailors from Kiel are there," he whined. “They'll kill
you. "
I have never posed as a hero and I have often been scared, but
at that time I found the officer's fears rather funny, for I knew
my Hansa-Brandenburg workers. I accompanied this nervous
wreck to his barracks and he thanked me profusely. I drove
straight to the factory and nothing actually happened, although
Castiglioni, too, had brought a mass of rumors and fears with him
and puffed nervously at his cigarette late that night in my house.
He told me that the war would be over in a few days and that he
had given instructions for the immediate sale of the Hansa-
Brandenburg .
As it turned out later, he was exceptionally well-informed.
“Germany and Austria will be forbidden to build planes, ” he said.
"All right. The present victors don't know Germany, but I do.
Germany will never rest in peace. She'll go on building aircraft.
The lull will last a few years, but during that time I'll scrap my
factories. I can't hold them when they're idle, you understand."
The next morning our business was finished and I accompanied
him to Berlin. He was terribly nervous. We traveled in a workers'
train. There, too, the rout had begun. In the Adlon, Hugo Stinnes
came up to him and said: "The Kaiser has fled, everything's over."
That afternoon Castiglioni said good-by to me. "I'll make a little
prophecy," he said. "Wait a few years and then you'll begin
building planes again. But take my advice. Do it on your own
account. Don't ever go to the banks for money." Castiglioni
embraced me affectionately and left.
He went from turbulent Berlin to Munich to take charge of his
own property, the Bavarian Motor Works. Years later he told me
that he had taken all the shares of the BMW in two trunks to the
Hotel Continental, where he burned them in the fireplace because
they were too heavy, putting in their place a little note with the
amount of his shares and taking it along next day into Switzerland.
I was left alone among the excited crowd and the bewildered
soldiers who swarmed round the Anhalter Station , and I felt a deep
62
 THE FIRST STORM - 1914-1918

sense of loss . Not for many years was I to see Castiglioni again, and
then only for a short while in Berlin. It was in the whirl of inflation,
when the mark was soaring to billions. But Castiglioni had survived
the collapse and risen to even greater heights. He possessed about
twenty million in sterling .
On that short visit he told me a story about Schacht. In the
Adlon he met two directors of the great Dutch bank, the
Nederlandsche Handelsmaatschappij . He asked them what they
intended to do in Germany. They replied grimly: "We are here
to settle accounts with Herr Schacht. We have lent him five
hundred million and he hasn't paid them back."
Castiglioni wrinkled his forehead . "Take my advice. Don't get
involved with Schacht."
But they said, tight-lipped: "Don't worry. We'll teach him a
lesson. "
That evening Castiglioni met both of them again. They sat in a
corner feeling very sorry for themselves.
"What's the matter?" asked Castiglioni.
"Oh, nothing ."
"Well, I'll have a coffee with you and then you must tell me
all about the way you beat Schacht."
Both of them looked even more crestfallen until one of them
said, "That fellow's wheedled another five hundred million out
of us."
After this, Castiglioni disappeared from my life for a long time.
I saw him again when Hitler had become Chancellor and Goering
Minister for Aviation .
He had just come from a breakfast with Hermann Goering. The
first portents of the anti-Semitism of the National Socialist regime
already loomed on the horizon. The Italian Ambassador had con-
sidered it a great pleasure to introduce Goering to the millionaire
Castiglioni. Goering shook Castiglioni by the hand and said, “Ah,
yes. You're Castiglioni. Do you remember me? "
"No, Your Excellency ."
"But I remember you," replied Goering, loud enough for all
the bystanders to hear . "I once worked in Stockholm as representa-
tive for the Bavarian Motor Works. It's a long time ago now. I tried
to get a contract for airplane engines from the Swedish Govern-
63
 STORMY LIFE

ment, but I did not succeed . But I came back a year later to Berlin
and heard that in the meantime twelve engines had been sold to
Sweden. I wrote to BMW that it was I who had initiated the
business and claimed 30,000 marks commission . BMW replied
they were sorry, but this commission had already been paid to
another agent. I had no money to go into litigation with them.
But one day I met a friend, who said to me : 'Listen . The owner or
co-owner of BMW is a generous man, Camillo Castiglioni. I
would simply write to him. Perhaps he'll give you the money.' I
wrote and after a fortnight I got my 30,000 marks. Do you
remember now? "
Castiglioni still did not remember. Too many men had passed
through his life and he had received too many letters asking for
money. "Your Excellency," he replied, "I don't remember very
accurately ."
"But I remember very well indeed," said Goering. "Please let
me have the pleasure of your company for breakfast tomorrow."
Castiglioni accepted and found Goering with several American
reporters, who pointed to the recent anti-Semitic demonstrations.
But Goering said : "It was a mistake , a deplorable accident, and it
won't happen again. " Turning to Castiglioni : "The best friends
of my youth were Jews and they've always treated me well . I
haven't the slightest intention of doing anything against them.”
"But Hitler is anti-Semitic,” replied Castiglioni.
And Goering replied , " I'll cure him of it. Rely on me."
Castiglioni told me this at our last meeting before the catastrophe
of World War II, and added : "I think that this Goering will do
as he says, but I know the man. He is fairly good-natured, but
he's a lazy man. I shall say farewell to you now and I shall never
come back to Germany. I realize that you have to stay, but it is a
""
calamity....
He kept his word. I did not see him for another twenty years.

64
 D- 3

Above: The He 25 , which I built for Japan in 1925. This was the first airplane to take
off from a launching rail.
Center: The He 70 (Heinkel Blitz) fast passenger and mail plane ( 1932-1933) with
German BMW engine.
Below: The He 111 , high speed passenger and mail plane, 1933. The He 111 was
later modified as a medium-range bomber. (See also photograph next page.)
 24

D
1
+ B13 1

‫ד‬

L
NKE
NEI

Above: The He 51 , first single-seater fighter of the Luftwaffe after German rearmament was
openly resumed in 1935. Center: The He 111 bomber was Germany's standard medium -range
horizontal bomber of World War II. Numerous variations were produced from 1936 to 1945.
Below: The He 100, in which General Udet in 1938 set the world's speed record of 394.2 mph
over a 60-mile course. In this plane Flight Captain Dieterle also brought the world's absolute
speed record to Germany for the first time, attaining 463.67 mph.
 Chapter IV

OPEN FOR BUSINESS

1918-1924

IN 1919 WHEN my activities in Brandenburg came to an end, I

went to Stuttgart and took a room at the Hotel Marquardt. Some-
thing prevented me from seeking the loneliness and isolation of
my little home town-hope . A miracle could happen that might
give me the opportunity of resuming my work. And in Stuttgart I
was nearer to the heart of future decisions.
But my hopes were in vain. I waited for nine months. The
waiter who brought my breakfast every morning knew of my
troubles. When he handed me the paper I could read in his face
whether the news was good or bad. His face was deeply lined, and
when the news was really bad, he looked like one big wrinkle .
Military aviation was prohibited in Germany and all pertinent
equipment had to be handed over. Some of it was destroyed. An
Allied Air Control Commission was set up. At first the construc-
tion and import of planes and engines were forbidden for six
months. Then this period was extended until it seemed pointless
for me to wait any longer. The ban on building aircraft became
chronic and all those who tried to develop civil aviation saw their
work collapse.
My waiter waved a sad good-by to me as I left the Marquardt
on my way home to Grunbach. There, from my wartime salaries,
which I had had neither time nor opportunity to spend, I bought
a plot of land and built a small factory for electrical equipment.
At the same time I started converting army vehicles. This was not
a particularly satisfying job but better than nothing. I bought
myself a house with a vineyard and some old fruit trees. But this
too was little comfort. I remained restless and discontented .
It was in 1921 on a warm summer evening. I was gloomily drink-
ing my wine and staring into the distance when I saw someone at
my garden gate. He was ringing the bell long and loud . This did
65
 STORMY LIFE

not improve my temper but when the man stomped up to the

house, I saw his face . . . that weather-beaten skin and those
incredible bushy eyebrows. We almost fell into each other's arms.
"Heavens, Krischan," I cried. "What brought you here? "
It was, of course, my old friend Christiansen from Zeebrugge,
who used to fly my seaplanes.
"Well, well," he said. "Give me something to drink first and
I'll tell you everything."
Krischan had been knocked around a good deal. At first one of
his friends, the naval flyer Carl Caspar, had bought a small aircraft
concern in Travemünde, and made him his technical director . If
flying was forbidden, at least they wanted to build planes. Then
came the ban, and Caspar switched to making phonograph
cabinets.
So Krischan left the country . He managed to dig up one of my
HB W.29's and sold it to the Norwegians who bought Krischan
along with the airplane. They needed a plane to look for schools
of herring and sardines from the air. They also needed a pilot, so
Krischan had gone spotting herring and sardines. "But in the long
run," he said, "it's a bit of a bore. Nothing but sardines and herring,
herring and sardines."
He kept his eyes and ears open and met some Americans and
Swedes. The Swedes, like the Norwegians, had been neutral.
Neither of these countries had kept up with the furious aircraft
development imposed by the war. The Americans, too, had entered
the military aircraft field rather late. They could use some experi-
ence.
They gave him the idea that if he could not build planes for
Germany, he might build them for America or Sweden, or some
other nation. So he left the herrings and sardines to their own
devices, and went back to Travemünde, where he found Caspar
eager to switch over at once. But now they needed someone who
had built well-known aircraft, and whose name would impress
foreigners.
"We could get our first contract," he said persuasively. "I
told the Yankees about the submarine-borne plane you built dur-
ing the war. They're crazy about it. Even the American Naval
Attaché in Berlin is after it. In any case," he gulped and had
66
 OPEN FOR BUSINESS - 1918-1924

another sip, lowered his eyebrows and added, "You might as well
know that's why I've come all this way."
It would be ridiculous not to admit that my heart was already
beating faster. Nevertheless I said: "I don't quite get it. The
victors have forbidden us to build planes, but the Americans are
their allies and yet these same Americans-"
"Oh," said Krischan, cagily, "the world's a big place. There
are plenty of other fish. I also know a couple of Japs. They know
even less about aeronautics. They buy planes wherever they can
get them. They can't get any from the Yankees or the English
because their relations are a bit strained . So they'll buy them from
us. Look here, I'll make a bet with you. If the Americans get one
of the U-boat planes, the Japs will want one too. So that can be
our second market. " He looked at me full of conviction. "Our
firm is solvent, but naturally you'll have to come in."
I thought of my army cars and my electrical rubbish, which
gave me no pleasure. He seemed to read my thoughts.
"What are you doing here? " he said, “Repairing old rattlebones
""
and making sockets. That's no job for you.'
He had half won me over. "But the Control Commission," I
said. "Where are we going to build our kites? "
"At Caspar's, of course." He gave a broad wink. "Under the
counter, you know, simply under the counter." He winked more
broadly. "The snoopers can come along. . .. And you, I've never
known you to get scared."
That clinched matters. I promised to come to Travemünde and
talk with Caspar. I left a few days later.
I avoided, however, signing a contract with him. I merely
promised, in return for a monthly sum and a share in profits, to
carry out design work and set up a workshop in his factory.
Before long I asked my wife to sell our house and the little
factory in Grunbach. With this money I bought a home in
Travemünde.
Then I looked around for suitable co-workers, and found two
who remained with me for decades.
The first, an Austrian named Schwärzler, was barely twenty,
and had just passed his engineering exam. This was his first job .
He proved to be an inspired technician such as I never found again
67
 STORMY LIFE

among the thousands of engineers I employed later. He had an

infallible genius for improvisation and the solving of seemingly
insoluble construction problems. Furthermore , he was the embodi-
ment of calm against which my own temperament could bubble
up without upsetting him. His round, ingenuous face with the
small mustache was the personification of friendliness.
The second young man called Kleinemeyer did not possess
Schwärzler's serenity of mind . Occasionally he would lose his
temper, but he proved his efficiency and loyalty in a thousand
difficulties during the coming years.
At last, too, I succeeded in finding my favorite windbag of the
Brandenburg years. In 1918, Jupp Köhler, with his unerring nose,
had discovered the "aeronautical vacuum" in the Scandinavian
countries. So he had "emigrated" to Norway and slapped some
planes together for the Norwegian Navy, smuggling out the
individual parts right under the noses of the Allies. But his planes
flew, and continued to serve the Norwegian Navy until 1938 ; so
Köhler had lost none of his skill. When I sent for him, he dropped
the Navy and appeared in Travemünde to try out my new U-boat
plane.
The work went well and we had no trouble with the Allied
Control . My prototype was the HB W 20 , but this new plane,
the U 1, was a great step forward.
The Americans required that the plane be so constructed that it
could be stowed in a round tank 4 ft. 6 in. across and 18 ft. long,
and dive with the submarine .
I developed a small twin-float plane, powered by a 50-hp
engine, which attained a horizontal speed of 87 mph, whereas in
spite of its 80-hp engine, the W 20 could not do better than 72.5
mph. The new plane was able to climb to 3,300 ft. in six minutes.
But its most important feature lay in the rapid dismantling and
reassembling.
For the first time I built a cantilever biplane, without any
struts or bracing. The two lifting surfaces were suspended from
the fuselage and centrally locked into position . In spite of this
novel construction, they could support the weight of eleven
heavy men. The floats were fixed to hooklike fittings, and could
easily be removed. Four men, without tools, could dismantle the
68
 OPEN FOR BUSINESS - 1918-1924

plane in twenty- two seconds, fit it into the submersion tank, and
reassemble it for take-off in thirty-one seconds.
When we were ready, Krischan gaped with admiration.
"Godammit," he said, his eyebrows raised . "That's really some-
thing! One single movement and the whole bloody thing comes
""
apart."
The Americans were just as enthusiastic. Two weeks later
Krischan won his bet. The Japanese got in touch with us and
wanted the same airplane, at any price. We built them two. But
while we were still busy and Krischan was forever on the lookout
for Allied snoopers, I made a new contact with Sweden.
The German war pilot Clemens Bücker had signed on with
the Swedish Air Force and thus found a satisfactory field for his
experiences. He was looking for airplanes, in particular for a first-
class seaplane. So he came to me. He was a lively young man with
pale reddish hair, who not only knew all about flying but just as
much about business. As a sign of respectability he always wore
a black bowler hat pulled over his bespectacled, rogue's face. He
would give us contracts for Sweden but only for the design and
perhaps the individual parts. The airplanes had to be assembled
in Sweden in order to give work to Swedish labor.
We took on the job . I built the S 1 which, when I became
independent shortly afterwards, was known as the He 1 , the first
of the many planes to come from my own factory. It was actually
a further adaptation of my HB W 29, a cantilever low- wing
monoplane, with two floats and a speed of 122 mph. We built the
individual parts in great secrecy and Köhler had the thankless
task of transporting them just as secretly to Sweden and super-
vising the assembly. Christiansen went along to test the plane.
When he flew the plane the Swedes watched like hawks. They
had promised us a premium of 10 per cent if we could surpass the
requirements by 20 per cent. Köhler would not have been Köhler
if he had not been after his 10 per cent like a bee after honey.
The speed test went off well, but the plane simply could not
achieve the altitude requirements .
A Swedish naval official, who knew nothing about flying,
checked the flights and signed the efficiency charts. His name was
Angström and he was an honorable man, but no match for Köhler.
69
 STORMY LIFE

Jupp looked at Angström's charts and after a few days, when the
Swede began to grow tired, Köhler stepped behind him and drew
them himself. Needless to say, they far surpassed all requirements.
"Look, that's what it ought to look like," said Köhler hypocrit-
ically. Angström understood very little German. He thought these
figures were the right ones. He took the sheet, delighted to be rid
of his chore, and affixed his stamp of approval.
We got the premium , and the Swedes did not regret it, for the
many planes of the type S 1 they built afterward served them
well.
I developed an improved version of the S 1 , known as S 2 , which
was then delivered to Sweden. The engine was no longer a com-
pletely integral part of the fuselage, but set on a special engine
base of steel tubes, with a metal bulkhead separating it from the
body. In this way the fire hazard was greatly reduced.
I was nearly ready with this craft when on May 5, 1922 , I read
that the Allies were about to lift the ban on planes and airplane
engines. In its place, restrictions cut down German planes to a
maximum speed of 105 mph, and a maximum altitude of 13,000
feet. But in principle the building of planes and engines was no
longer forbidden . To see that these ordinances were obeyed, a
new Allied Commission, to be known as the Aviation Guarantee
Committee , was to be formed.
When I read this news I did not get a wink of sleep all night.
By five o'clock in the morning, I had made up my mind: I had
decided to split with Caspar and found my own works.
The following morning I asked Schwärzler, Köhler and Kleine-
meyer if they would stay with me. "It's going to be no easy task,
but I think we can pull it off, " I told them.
They looked at each other. They knew the uncertainties that
lay ahead. But they also saw that Caspar's contracts were really
mine and that we could count on these contracts in the future. All
three said, "We're with you."
Then I spoke to Bücker. He was planning to build an aircraft
factory in Sweden, with German specialists. A long-term contract
from the Swedish Navy for the S I was as good as in his pocket. He
would need designs from me. In addition, he hinted that he had
certain connections with the German Reichswehr.
70
 OPEN FOR BUSINESS 1918-1924

"Herr Heinkel," he said, "something's cooking. They talk in

the War Ministry about a secret department for military aircraft.
Since these are forbidden, they are trying, secretly, to keep a little
up to date."
He looked at me out of his cunning eyes. "We can design
military planes here in Germany and we can build them abroad.
How about Sweden, eh? "
The inflation period was looming. Thanks to my work with
Sweden, America and Japan, I had a certain fund of foreign
exchange that gave me some financial basis. If I could obtain
further foreign contracts, I might survive the impending financial
catastrophe.
Then news came from Sweden that a huge flying meet would
take place in Göteborg, with German planes competing, to enable
the Swedish Air Force to make a choice of the best foreign air-
craft.
That was the signal to go. The next morning I told the shocked
Herr Caspar that I was going to run my own designing office,
and left his factory with my co-workers.
I rented a back room in a local saloon . I don't know how often
in the history of science and industry people have begun in the
back rooms of saloons, but they all have my sympathy because it
means doing things the hard way.
The racing plane designed for Göteborg was christened He 3 .
It developed from the S1 and the S 2 , but there were consider-
able innovations. The wings and fuselage were built of plywood
instead of doped fabric. They could be assembled in fifteen
seconds. The undercarriage could be exchanged for floats in
thirty seconds. One of the special features was a self- starter for
the propeller. The plane could be started without hand- revving
the propeller by the sweat of one's brow. It could carry three
people. The engine was merely an old 100 -hp Siemens & Halske,
but the plane could fly at 90 mph.
When the designing work was nearly finished, I looked for a
place where we could build it. During my search, I remembered
that prayer hall in Stuttgart where I had begun my first plane
over ten years before. I found accommodation in one of the shops
of the former seaplane test unit in Warnemünde.
71
 STORMY LIFE

Head Carpenter Borchert and a master mechanic and metal-

worker named Martin Kramer, in the meantime, had also deserted
Caspar to work with me. They started on the shed . On December
1, 1922, Schwärzler, Kleinemeyer and myself left our saloon and
established our design and sales office in the shed. Over the door
appeared the words " Ernst Heinkel, Aircraft Works” —in large,
white letters visible from the distance.
The inside of the shed was less impressive. It was a hard winter ;
we had no heat, no light and no windows. In order to see what we
were doing, we had to leave the doors open, which made work
almost impossible. German postwar restrictions forbade any altera-
tions in the shed.
I did not ask permission, but had some windows cut. Then we
put in stoves, but they gave little warmth, smoked dreadfully and
made our eyes water.
The next trouble was lack of money. The day I started my work,
the dollar stood at about 7,350 marks. Since then the mark had
soared crazily to the millions and billions. But we held out. Our
racing plane for Göteborg was ready on time .
Shortly before, Bücker came to see us from Sweden. He now
wanted to realize his plans for a Swedish aircraft plant and sug-
gested that I join him. I decided to travel to Stockholm with
Christiansen and Köhler. Schwärzler was to bring the plane to
Sweden by ship.
Our business with the Swedish officers and financiers lasted
a few days, but eventually Bücker had everything signed and
sealed.
Some time later, Schwärzler arrived with my plane. He looked
beaten and tired after an adventurous trip. He had brought the
wings and other parts by truck to Lubeck, but the strong head
wind exerted such pressure on the huge wings that he missed the
boat. He found a small freighter that took our plane aboard . It
was left on deck, lashed down only with ropes. They ran into a
storm and Schwärzler, with a couple of sailors, struggled all night
to secure the parts that the breakers had torn loose.
Bücker flew the plane and was enthusiastic. So we drove con-
fidently to Göteborg. Two days later, my He 3 was the winner in
all technical tests, such as maneuverability, equipment, take-off,
72
 OPEN FOR BUSINESS 1918-1924

landing and speed, and took the first prize. Thus, at one fell
swoop the name of Heinkel was established in Sweden, my finan-
cial position was assured for the time being, in spite of the German
inflation, and my future relations with Sweden were given a solid
basis.
When I got back to Travemünde, I learned that a mysterious
visitor had called . He would not even leave his name. To anticipate
matters, his name was Student. Some days later, he sat facing me
in my house and although he was in civilian clothes, every gesture
betrayed the officer.
Even when he announced himself the second time, he sur-
rounded himself with secrecy. He did not come fully into the
open about his plans. Only much later did I learn the true story.
The Reichswehr, in collaboration with the German government,
had established relations with the Soviet Union. In a state of
complete disorganization and lacking all technical means for their
industrialization program, the Soviets were seeking a rapproche-
ment with Germany. In view of the ever-present possibility of new
differences with the Poles and the threat of France in the Ruhr,
the camouflaged military aviation department in the Reichswehr
Ministry was trying to insure for the helpless Reichswehr a few
pilots and planes that would be at least up to the 1923 level of
technical developments. It was trying, at least in the form of
prototypes, to keep in touch with world developments, even if
mass production of airplanes was out of the question .
As the building of these prototypes in Germany was still for-
bidden and could be accomplished only with great difficulties,
the department had made various contacts abroad. They ap-
proached Russia for an airfield on which the planes could be
tested and German pilots and technicians could be trained . A
German commission , led by General Hasse and wearing civilian
clothes, had just been to Russia in strictest secrecy. All the mem-
bers had been listed as being on sick leave for the length of their
stay. They had all assumed aliases: my visitor Student, for example ,
was known as Seebach. At the end of the negotiations a special
commission remained in Moscow to nurse the contact along and
carry out the agreements made with the Russians. Primarily, the
German Reichswehr would have Lipetzk Airfield at their disposal
73
 STORMY LIFE

for their testing and training. In exchange, the Red Air Force
would have the benefit of German technical advice.
As I said before, this bit of secret history remained largely
hidden from me. Student asked me merely whether I was ready
to carry out one or two sample designs. To begin with, he wanted
a land biplane with a speed of 140 mph and a ceiling of at least
20,000 feet to be used as a short-distance reconnaissance plane.
There was no fortune to be made. He could not even guarantee
the financial basis of my work. For that I would have to look
elsewhere but there were, after all, certain obligations. . ..
With the development of the first airplane designed for the
Reichswehr, the He 17 , began a daring game of hide- and- seek with
the new Allied Control Commission. I am honest enough to admit
that this was a great challenge.
During the same weeks that I was in communication with
Student, I came into personal contact with the Japanese officers
who had bought my U-boat carrier planes.
Captain Kaga, of the Japanese delegation in Berlin, and the
engineer Yonezawa, of the Japanese airplane firm Aichi Tokei
Denki, put in an appearance. Their requirements were similar to
Student's. They wanted superior land and sea planes based on my
previous experience and suited for the Japanese Naval Air Force
as torpedo-carriers. When I mentioned the ban on such projects,
they smiled sweetly and ambiguously.
I also told them that the building of these prototypes in my shop
was almost impossible, in view of some rather delicate contracts
on hand. I could perhaps make a single plane disappear in case of
an inspection, but not two or three. Kaga's friendly sphinxlike
smile grew broader .
"Herr Heinkel," said Yonezawa, "you work for us and all your
troubles are over."
"How's that? " I asked.
"Well," he replied, "Japanese Naval Attaché in Berlin member
of Commission. He always know exactly when coming inspection.
What you say if you always told Commis
sion coming pay you .
a visit? "
That day began the collaboration with Japan, which continued
74
 OPEN FOR BUSINESS - 1918-1924

through the years. Each time before the Control Commission

appeared, I got a call from Berlin or some other place. The caller
merely said, "We want to pay you a visit. " And then my men
started to work like slaves.
In the meantime I had rented a second shed in which the "hot"
airplanes were to be built. Whenever the Commission appeared,
they never found anything except an empty barracks. Hours
beforehand, all equipment was loaded into trucks and disappeared
among the sand dunes, only to reappear when the air was clear.
Only once during 1923-24 did we have a slight accident. An
Italian 800-hp Fiat engine, intended for the He 14 torpedo plane,
was left behind one day. This horsepower, of course, was many
times more than we were allowed. The Commission saw this
engine in the middle of the empty shop. The French officers began
an excited discussion among themselves. Even the English scowled.
Only the Japanese winked at me .
"What's the matter? " I said. "That's an old experimental engine
for apprentices. What else do you think it is? We know perfectly
well that we're not allowed to build high-powered planes."
The Japanese winked even more broadly and in spite of this
serious situation his almond eyes seemed to be laughing. He let
them all go on arguing and confined himself to blinking. Suddenly
they began walking away to hold a conference when I saw Kaga
intervene, as though he had been waiting for the right moment.
I do not know whether they believed my story about an engine
for apprentices, but in any case they did not interfere with the
Fiat.
Unfortunately we had no advance warning of Student's visits,
and he came very often indeed. Student could never get enough
of secrecy , so he kept making his own checking visits. There was
tremendous excitement when he managed at the crack of dawn
to climb over the fence of the airfield, unnoticed, and sneak up
to my "hot" shop.
On the other hand, Student and his comrades were so obsessed
with flying that they insisted on piloting my planes themselves,
particularly in 1924, when the work expanded. They would
appear in the middle of the night, usually at 3 A.M., and take off.
75
 STORMY LIFE

At five or six o'clock they would pack up, when the citizens of
Warnemünde were still in bed. Nevertheless the engines made so
much noise that all talk about "secrecy" was a joke.
In addition to the He 17, I built two training planes for the
Reichswehr-the monoplane He 18, and the biplane He 21. Both
had a maximum air speed of 90 mph which was well within the
regulations and did not have to be kept under cover, and the He
21 proved to be an exceptionally reliable aircraft.
The major part of my work, however, was still devoted to
finding free markets for my planes. My engineering staff was
increased to twenty men. Perhaps our biggest achievement at
the time was the building of a mail plane for an American airline.
I have long since forgotten its name, but not the terms of the
contract. They were absolute murder. The plane had to be ready
in not more and not less than six weeks.
But I accepted the contract on February 15 , 1925. The shipment
to America had to be made at the end of March, because the plane
was to take part in some contest on the other side. If delivery was
delayed, the client could turn down the machine. Its construction
became an indescribable adventure. All my engineers were put to
work at the same time. The drawings of the wings, tail units and
fuselage, with all their individual parts, were carried out simulta-
neously. The proportions were worked out beforehand and the
structural engineers had to be content to check them later. In the
middle of the work, Schwärzler appeared and announced that his
appendix was bothering him.
"You can't do that to us," I said.
But he did. He had to go into the hospital where he was operated
on.
In addition to doing the main sketches, I had to co-ordinate the
over-all work. I never got to bed. After two weeks, layout and
blueprints were ready. The less important parts were not drawn
at all, but sketched with a heavy pencil direct onto the three-ply.
The carpenters stood ready with saws. After four weeks the plane
was ready, a beautiful biplane with a 400-hp Liberty engine, and
100 cubic feet of space for mail.
We were almost jittery with excitement as my test pilot took
76
 OPEN FOR BUSINESS 1918-1924

off. If the plane cracked up, the whole deal was canceled because
of the deadline .
And first it seemed that disaster was about to swoop down on
us. The engine conked out at 300 feet, but somehow the pilot
managed to land behind the shed. Luck had not left us: neither
pilot nor plane were damaged.
The next flight went off perfectly. The plane showed that she
would fulfill all demands of the contractors, and more. No altera-
tions were necessary. Two weeks later she was flying on a regular
mail route under the name of Night Hawk. She flew for three
years. Then I read that she was destroyed during a cyclone, not
in flight, but in her hangar.
About the same time as myself other engineers and builders,
many of whom were better known than I was, had gone back into
the aircraft industry. The Albatros Works were again working
in Berlin: Claudius Dornier had a factory at Friedrichshafen and a
branch in Switzerland. Hugo Junkers, who during the war had
built the first cantilever all-metal airplane, was designing and
building in Dessau. The celebrated Udet opened a plant near
Munich. A young, unknown designer named Messerschmitt
opened a factory in Augsburg.
Only a few of them managed to obtain solid contracts abroad,
notably Dornier, who then built the best flying boat in the world,
the Dornier "Wal. " Furthermore, there was Hugo Junkers, the
first man, as early as 1919 before the ban came into being, who
built a real passenger airliner, the F. 13.
When the ban on military construction came into force, Ger-
many successfully concentrated on the building of passenger
planes and the new problems of civil aviation . The best clients of
the aircraft factories were the early German airlines. The
Deutsche Luftreederei, an air freight company, was founded in
1917. In three years its planes carried 3,000 passengers and 220,000
lbs . of mail.
This air travel was still a very drafty affair. Enclosed cabins
appeared for the first time in the F.13 . Before that, the brave
passengers sat in the open observers' seats and seldom landed with-
out catching a cold . Apart from the Luftreederei, there were
77
 STORMY LIFE

thirty other air transport contractors. Just as some decades before

there had been a railway fever, now an air travel fever had broken
out. Finally, the various interests had to combine unless they
wanted to go bankrupt. They were incorporated in the German
Aero-Lloyd. Next to Aero-Lloyd was an airline founded by
Junkers with the aim of creating a market for his passenger plane,
F.13 , not only in Germany but abroad.
Junkers was successful. The F.13 and the larger cabin plane
that followed, were such revolutionary designs that they were
bound to arouse attention. Junkers then succeeded in founding
subsidiary companies in many countries, particularly in South
America. He sent air transport commissions out into the world.
They were universally admired. Junkers became a household
word. And yet the seed of Junkers' future crises was in this very
expansion. His fame abroad no longer bore any relation to com-
mercial success at home. The Junkers airline eventually had to
amalgamate with Aero-Lloyd to become the Lufthansa.
It is hard to imagine the reckless pioneering spirit of those early
days, when postwar Germany's share in this development was
amazingly large. A Swedish guest who visited me in my shed,
said admiringly, "I have seen three miracles in my life; the first
was on the Marne, the second was the German gold mark, and
now it is German air transport."
At the same time, flying as a sport began to catch on every-
where. As a result of the ban and the limitation of powered air-
craft, the glider was born. Young Wolfgang Klemperer with his
Black Devil covered 2,000 yards in two minutes twenty-two
seconds. For a minute, he flew higher than his point of departure
and achieved once more the miracle of engineless upward flight.
The first little homemade sports planes mingled with the gliders.
The big guns of the coming year-among them Udet, Fieseler,
Thea Rasche. Liesel Bach-joined in.
Anyone who was soft came to grief. It was a pitiless weeding-
out process. Of little avail were the subsidies in the form of various
contracts given to sundry designers and factories. The sums of
money were large, and yet only a drop in the bucket. You had to
fight your own battles.
Which reminds me of another struggle for a contract, in the
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years 1924-26. It was the famous newspaper plane ordered by the

largest German publishing house-the Ullstein concern in Berlin.
Hardly any other private undertaking ever did so much for flying
as these five brothers, although they earned no gratitude. They
gave their full support to private flying and set up their own
editorial section for aviation . Later a former pilot, Walter F.
Kleffel, became the editor of this department. His forum was the
B.Z.am Mittag, the largest Berlin noon paper. I had known Kleffel
since the war and we had become friendly.
Once the preliminary difficulties at Warnemünde had been
overcome, I often went to Berlin to test the ground and look
around for contracts . At that time I could not afford a Berlin
representative. The principal meeting place of pilots in Berlin
was the German Aero Club. Its president was Herr von Tschudi,
who had helped me in Johannisthal .
On a fine summer day in 1925 as I sat at breakfast Tschudi
suddenly announced: "The Ullsteins have taken to flying."
"You mean to say they want to fly themselves? " I asked.
"Yes, it's a wonderful affair. They're having their own news-
paper planes built so that their editions can be distributed twice
as quickly throughout Germany. Furthermore, during the summer
they want a special service to cover the seaside resorts so that
Berliners can get their B.Z.am Mittag early."
"I think I'll go and look up Kleffel.”
"You're out of luck," laughed Tschudi, "You're too late.
Albatros has got the contract.'
"Oh, they have. We'll see about that. "
I drove to the Ullstein editorial offices. My feelings toward
Kleffel were less than friendly, to put it mildly.
I found him in his newspaper citadel. As soon as he saw me, his
health seemed to take a turn for the worse.
I did not have to say a word. He knew why I had come and his
conscience was troubled. He made a thousand excuses. There
were the Ullsteins, there was managing director Müller, there
were the close private relations with Albatros, and so on .
Kleffel soon came to the end of his arguments , and we were
in accord on one thing only. It was unfair not to advertise for
tenders, but to give the contract away. This must be put right.
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 STORMY LIFE

“But, my dear Ernst," he said. "They're in a great hurry and

Albatros has got a good start. You'll never make it."
"You'll be surprised, " I said . "You can't talk as fast as we can
build airplanes. I'll be back in two weeks and you can be sure ..."
"But," he tried once more, "we can only use three planes and
two are almost ready at Albatros."
"Then I'll build the third kite," I said.
"Yes," he made a last effort, "but Lachmann of Albatros has
invented slotted wings. That's a wonderful thing, you know. You
can't make them."
"Slotted wings,” I said, “are in their infancy and you'll have a
lot of trouble as a nursemaid . I'll build it without them. Don't
""
worry . "
The same day I returned to Warnemünde.
Once more we worked like the devil and soon I was back with
the blueprints in Berlin.
I called straight away on Richard Müller, Ullstein's managing
director. This all-powerful self-made man occupied a very
modest office indeed. He was tall, dark-haired, athletic, of great
culture and wit. It was thanks to him that Udet had great support
from the Ullsteins when he came to Berlin as a stunt flyer.
I do not quite know what pleased Müller most about my plans-
the speed of the work or the fact that I had immediately thought
of building in chutes for the newspapers to be shoved out at
various points from the air. In any case, I got the contract for the
third plane .
This was the birth of my He 39 , a freight-carrying biplane for
a payload of 2,000 lbs. , fitted with one of the first German BMW
airplane engines. The plane had a large freight space, with built-in
delivery chutes for bundles of newspapers. It was painted yellow
and black and the designation " BZ.1 " could be seen in large letters
on the side of the engine.
My He 39 was delivered. From the beginning of May, 1926,
to the end of March, 1927 , she covered a distance of 60,000 miles.
By the end of 1926 she had flown a distance equal almost to twice
round the globe. As far as I remember, it was the plane with the
greatest achievements in long-distance flying. On the other hand,
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for a long time the Albatros planes had great difficulties with their
still untested slotted wings.
Ullstein took over the first three newspaper planes and gave
them a christening on Tempelhof Airfield , which was just being
developed. It was an exceedingly festive gathering. I met there
for the first time the man who held the leading post in the aviation
department of the Reich Transport Ministry, and had achieved
wonders in obtaining subsidies for various aviation concerns. This
was Ernst Brandenburg, a Pour le Mérite flyer who had lost a
leg. He was an unusually honest man who admitted later, quite
recklessly, that he thought absolutely nothing of Goering. He
then had no idea that all his services for German civil aviation
would not prevent him from being demoted. He never got over
the political irresponsibility with which German pilots and tech-
nicians were later treated and he died an unknown, tired man.
The success of my newspaper plane led to a contract for a
second one. This was the He 40, which was built to take along
four to six reporters. It had a larger BWM engine of 600 hp and
flew from now on year after year, with the letters BZ.IV on the
nose without a single accident.
The "Zebras" were soon known throughout the whole of
Germany. They were greeted with cheers in the holiday season,
when they flew low over the Baltic coast. There was some trouble,
however, when a package of papers for Chemnitz in Saxony
missed the airfield and fell into the market place in the middle of
the town. The citizens sent a strong protest to Berlin. There were
even greater difficulties when the French control officers in
Germany raised the suggestion that the dropping of newspapers
was good practice for dropping bombs. This news echoed through-
out France, encouraging the mutual distrust that was constantly
undermining the relations between the two countries.

81
 Chapter V

WORLD OPERATIONS

1925-1930

ONE DAY early in June, 1925 , I stood at the window of my office

and looked tensely out over the Breitling, on whose bank a narrow
bridgelike construction had been built. One end was far out in
the water. On the rear part, however, rested a small, lightly built
truck platform , which could roll on rails the whole length of the
bridge. On the platform stood the Heinkel He 25 sea biplane,
bright and new as the bridge itself. The pilot was just getting into
his seat, ready to start. To one side , behind the riggers who were
putting the last touches to the screws, stood Schwärzler, as cool as
a cucumber.
"We shall know more in one minute," I said. I turned away
from the window, and looked at the tall lady waiting by my desk.
"Yes, Herr Heinkel," she said excitedly. She was my new
secretary, Maria Hupertz, a pillar of a woman. Well-meaning
friends had recommended her to me from Berlin to keep me " out
of trouble."
But in this moment I was not in the mood to judge the qualities
of my assistant.
"Another fifty seconds," I said, with my back still to the
window. "Meanwhile, give me a schnapps."
From outside came the roar of an engine. They were revving
her up. Miss Hupertz brought the schnapps. "And now take a
look," I said. "She's off."
"No, I can't look. Supposing something happens and it crashes."
The noise of the engine grew louder. Fräulein Hupertz squinted
through the curtains.
"I think it's under way," she said breathlessly, and then turned
her white face away. "No, Herr Heinkel, I can't look. Don't make
me. It's too much, too much."
"Only another few seconds," I said. The wail of the engine was
like some mysterious music mingling success and catastrophe . The
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 WORLD OPERATIONS - 1925-1930

plane began to move slowly forward and then speeded up. My

heart skipped a beat. The velocity of the platform increased.
"Mein Gott," I heard my new secretary say. "Is he flying?
Tell me, is he in the air?"
The platform shot forward. The plane raised its nose. Imper-
ceptibly at first, and then with a jolt, until it freed itself from
the platform and was air-borne.
"You can turn around now," I said. I was out of breath with
excitement. "Turn around . It's in the air." A great weight seemed
to lift from my heart as I heard the purr of the engine high up
over the Breitling.
That day in June was a decisive moment for me. It would have
an important influence on my work and would lead me to building
catapults. Admittedly, it was from a steel starting track, not
from a catapult that my Heinkel seaplane had just been launched.
But today it is hard to realize what this meant. The idea of a
catapult start for planes was comparatively old. The Wright
brothers had taken off in their first primitive planes along rails. A
falling weight hung on the end of a cable that passed over a pulley
and hauled the plane forward along the rails. In this way the
Wright planes reached the necessary speed to take off on their own
engine power. Still earlier the German dirigible designer von
Parseval had started model airplanes in the same way. But catapult
experiments had given the first practical results as late as 1918,
when my Hansa-Brandenburg monoplane W 29 was launched
with the help of a makeshift catapult.
The basic idea was simple. A trolley, carrying the airplane with
its engine running, was shot along a short track by a powerful
compressed-air supply. The plane continued to gain speed over
a distance of about twenty to thirty yards, which corresponded to
a very much longer normal take-off run . Before the trolley reached
the end of the runway, the speed was so great that the plane could
rise in the air on its own power, while the trolley was braked and
came to a standstill . The plane had to be catapulted against the
wind to facilitate the take-off. This entailed a turntable starting
rail, which could be moved in all directions.
The idea stemmed from the need to launch seaplanes from
ships. During World War I , planes could be lowered from a ship
83
 STORMY LIFE

by a crane. But this meant a loss of time and required a calm sea .
The development of aircraft carriers, then in their infancy,
brought no solution for seaplanes. Battleships and cruisers had to
carry reconnaissance planes. They did not provide the space
necessary to construct a long platform for take-off and landing.
But more than this-and for demilitarized Germany this was far
more important-long-distance seaplanes, which year by year flew
greater distances across the water carrying passengers and mail,
still needed a starting aid. These planes, with their special equip-
ment for flight over long distances, were still so heavy that they
could hardly rise from the water on their own power. This also
gave rise to the idea of catapult stations, enabling such planes to
make intermediate landings.
I would probably never have conceived the idea of designing
catapults if the Japanese naval attaché, Captain Kojima, had not
paid me another visit at the beginning of 1925. With his friendly
smile he put a photograph of the Japanese battleship Nagato on
the table.
"Herr Heinkel," said Kojima in his fractured German, "this
ship she need seaplane that can start from deck, from super-
structure in front of bridge. We have contract for you to build
iron runway twenty yards long so plane can start from. ”
"Your confidence does me honor," I said, "but I have never
made such a thing before."
Kojima made an all-embracing gesture with his arms.
"But you clever, you make anything," he said. "Everything. "
And so we did make it. This did not yet involve the building of
a catapult, i.e. a device for accelerating the plane to take-off
speed by some externally applied force, but a large launching rail
with a launching trolley. This trolley was to be propelled not by
compressed air, but by the propulsive force of the airplane engines
themselves. The plane thus had to accelerate unbelievably fast,
so that it could become air-borne under its own power before
the trolley reached the end of the launching rail . For this purpose
we developed two suitable airplanes, biplanes with floats, equipped
with the most powerful foreign aviation engines then available :
the two-seater He 25 with a 450-hp Napier Lion engine, and the
He 26, a single-seater with a 300- hp Hispano-Suiza engine.
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At the end of May, 1925 , the launching rail and the plane were
ready. This was the first test flight, which involved so much
arduous work and invested capital. We'd made it.
As soon as we notified the Japanese Naval Department in
Berlin, Captain Kaga appeared for a demonstration of the new
device. (Kojima in the meantime had returned to Japan to take
over command of a battleship. I had no idea that his new command
was the Nagato, the dreadnaught for which my launcher and
plane were intended. ) Kaga watched the start which went off
better than the first day. Then he came over to me, shook my hand
and congratulated me. "I would like to convey to you the
invitation of the Japanese Navy to come to Japan with your
best workmen. You will get to know our country and the
ship on which this apparatus and plane will operate. What shall
I tell Tokyo? "
At the beginning of August, I set out for Japan via the United
States on the 30,000-ton North German Lloyd liner Columbus. I
took along Schwärzler, the builder of the launching rail, and the
pilot Bücker, who would fly both planes for the Japanese. Shortly
before our departure there was a little incident. Both airplanes
were packed, but the launcher still stood on the bank of the
Breitling. Early in the morning, a plane appeared in the sky and
Kleinemeyer came running. "Herr Heinkel," he shouted. "It's
someone from the Control Commission. "
How strange, I thought, that the Japanese advance warning
had not worked this time. In the meantime, the control officer got
out of his plane. He strolled through the sheds. Everything was in
order. Then he saw the launching rail. He pointed. "Now , what's
this here?"
Kleinemeyer was standing near the launcher, petrified, and
the officer marched over to him. He repeated in a friendly tone,
"Now, what's this? "
"A springboard for a swimming pool," Kleinemeyer said with
remarkable presence of mind.
The officer banged his cane against the "springboard.” “And
who's going to hop into the water from it? A little airplane,
perhaps?" he grumbled.
"An airplane?" said Kleinemeyer, his eyes bulging.
85
 STORMY LIFE

The officer slapped him on the shoulder. Then he came over

to me. "And how much is a ticket to this swimming pool? " he
asked with a friendly smile.
"The owners will decide that," I said evenly.
"But I must have a free ticket. "
"Naturally."
“And do you know why? Because, ” he said, without waiting
for my answer, "because I haven't seen a thing. Auf Wiedersehen."
Then he got into his plane and flew off. He was a man who
understood that his control work had long outlived its usefulness.
A week later we were on the high seas. Another week and we
were in New York ready to travel across the United States to
Seattle. This was my second visit. I had been there for the first
time in 1924. Although I stayed there only a few days, I realized
how much the tempo of this restless land corresponded to my own
temperament. I have always had the same impression and never
leave that country without a pang.
On this trip I visited a number of American airplane factories,
whose directors showed me everything there was to be seen.
There were, however, one or two factories, such as Boeing in
Seattle, that were building planes for the American Air Force,
and whose shops were not open to the public. Boeing himself
showed me around his plant.
He was an energetic, good-looking man , who told me that his
grandfather had been a Prussian officer. His dream was to build
multi-engined giant planes. During World War II when Boeing's
Flying Fortresses attacked Germany, I thought of him. But Amer-
ica's aircraft industry at that time had hardly developed any fur-
ther than Germany's. Mass production, which later far surpassed
our own, was equally undeveloped . The factories were compara-
tively small but had much greater financial backing than our little
concerns in Germany. There was distinct progress in aviation
engine production and this was to prove one of the causes of our
downfall.
From the West Coast we traveled via Vancouver, past the
Aleutians , to Japan.
As soon as the ship docked in Yokohama we hurried ashore.
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 WORLD OPERATIONS - 1925-1930

We were received with a hospitality I have seldom experienced

elsewhere.
The engineer Yonezawa, who had worked with me at
Warnemünde, was on the pier. There was also a delegation of
Japanese naval officers. Then we left for Tokyo, where we were
greeted also by representatives of the Japanese Army Air Force.
Our host was the extremely courteous Admiral Yamanishi, the
head of a special commission responsible for the erection and test-
ing of the launching device.
We started work immediately. The runway and the two planes
had arrived in Yokohama before we did. Schwärzler and Bücker,
who had traveled via Trans-Siberian Railway, met a hand-picked
crew of Japanese mechanics who were to build a test launching
rail near a seaplane station to carry out the first test flights on
land.
Meanwhile I was taken over a few airplane factories, in particu-
lar the Aichi Tokey Denki Kaisha in Nagoya. I also visited a
military aircraft works.
Before my arrival, the Japanese removed all equipment they
wished to keep secret. I did not see a single plane, either on the
airfields or in the hangars, except for two of my own design.
Their machine tool equipment was very good, probably better
than ours. I saw the most modern planes, some of German and
some of American design. It made me slightly envious to see
how well financed these factories were. Both the Navy and the
Army were obviously making every effort to develop the national
aviation industry.
In the meanwhile, the launcher was ready. The first test was
delayed because Schwärzler discovered some slight damage caused
in transport to our single-seater. He told the Japanese commission
that this damage must be put right. It would take four days.
Presumably such a delay would have been a cause of irritation in
any other land . There was no question of it here. Though the
Japanese were literally on pins and needles, they never betrayed
their impatience.
Three days later we were all gathered at the launching platform .
The wind was blowing in a favorable direction -toward the fixed
87
 STORMY LIFE

rails. A young Japanese pilot was to make the test. When the He
26, its engine running, stood on the trolley, I relived those anxious
moments at Warnemünde, and with good cause . This time an
accident happened .
While the trolley was in motion, the attachment which held
the aircraft came loose. A float hit against the platform; the plane
overturned and crashed.
I stood for a moment completely dazed. There was no shadow
of a doubt: our engineering office had made a mistake. If the
Japanese discovered this negligence, everything might be lost.
But while I was standing there, I suddenly felt a hand on my
shoulder. The Japanese officer smiled at me while the others
extricated the luckless pilot from the plane. He stood up at once,
with iron self- control, although the blood was streaming down
his face from a head wound. Yamanishi's representative came over
to me.
"How long will you need for repairs? " was all he said.
A week later, the fault was made good . My second plane was
on the rails. This time several starts went off smoothly. The
Japanese shook my hand. Directly after this, both the launching
platform and the plane were transported onto the battleship
Nagato to be built in, and for the first test to be carried out at
sea. I realized that the Japanese would have preferred to do this
themselves. Their secrecy about naval bases and warships was
notorious. But after our accident they were unwilling to dis-
pense with our experience and therefore agreed that Bücker
should make the first flight off the Nagato . As far as I know, we
were the first Europeans ever to go aboard a Japanese warship.
Another three days passed and we were informed that every-
thing was ready. We drove to the naval base at Yokosuka. A
motorboat was waiting at an isolated jetty, from where the harbor
could not be seen. As I went aboard, I saw that the stern was
sealed off by an awning and curtains. We were invited to sit in
this part of the boat. I understood : we were not to see anything
of the base.
As soon as we drew alongside the battleship we were let out
and then we saw the giant steel hull of the 30,000-ton Nagato, the
88
 WORLD OPERATIONS - 1925-1930

most modern Japanese warship to be built in the postwar years

and, incidentally, one of the largest battleships in the world. We
climbed up the companionway.
I was received like an admiral. Over 600 Japanese sailors in
snow-white uniforms paraded on deck. The captain received me
and we were taken to the bridge. From there the ship, with its
typical Japanese design, its overloaded superstructure and stag-
gered smoke stacks, made a powerful impression. From the
quarterdeck one had a magnificent view of the mighty foc's'le.
Immediately beneath me lay the two fore gun turrets, each with
two 16-inch guns. These were the largest guns ever built for
warships.
Directly below me, on a second gun turret that lay somewhat
back, was my launching platform. It rested on the turret above
the two firmly fixed guns and could turn with them. My He 25
was on the trolley. On one side of the open bridge a special mast
had been erected for a long windsock to indicate the wind direc-
tion. After the first accident, I had insisted that the test should
take place directly into the wind. Schwärzler and Bücker climbed
onto the turret to check the whole apparatus.
The following day, Yamanishi, in a gleaming white uniform,
was on board. The Nagato put to sea. A rather changeable wind
was blowing. I stood next to Yamanishi on one side of the bridge
to give the signal for the start. The captain tried to hold his
course at full speed, directly into the wind. I was nervous. I did
not want to risk another accident, so I kept asking him to check
his course until the captain called out a few words to Yamanishi.
I had the feeling he was annoyed, but Yamanishi turned his smiling
face to me and said: "Herr Heinkel, you now in command of
Nagato . You understand? You now Admiral. Give orders direct. "
Two hours later, we were sailing absolutely dead into the wind
and I gave the signal.
Again my heart beat faster as the trolley got under way. The
engine roared. Now came the decisive moment. A few seconds—
and the plane was air-borne. She flew over the foc's'le of the
Nagato and away. Bücker circled the ship while the whole crew
cheered .
89
 STORMY LIFE

Yamanishi was delighted. The first test from a ship at full

steam had succeeded.
The following day the Japanese signed the contract for the
launching device and for my two seaplanes. It was, as usual, short
and given in good faith.
I remained in Japan for three months, and wherever I went I
was dined and wined in royal style.
On December 20, 1925 , two days after landing in Genoa, I
arrived in Stuttgart for a short visit to my home. There an old
teacher of mine at the university, Professor Grammel, came to
visit me. What he had to tell me came as a great surprise. The
school had given me the honorary degree of Doctor of Engineering
for my achievements in the field of aviation . Thus ended my
trip to Japan, and I returned to Warnemünde as Doctor Heinkel.
After my first trial efforts in Japan, the technical problems of
catapults and catapulted airplanes allowed me no rest. In the
following years, particularly in the United States, catapults were
looked upon as the only solution for launching seaplanes from
ships, as well as for starting heavily loaded long-distance airplanes,
which had trouble in taking off under their own power. I felt I
would be lost if I did not participate in the development and
construction of a real catapult.
My work now became almost purely experimental . As a result,
in one year ten or more designs were created . One or two proto-
types of each design were built and sold for mass production,
primarily to foreign factories. My designing office became one of
the largest in Germany, while the actual construction work was
largely confined to the building of prototypes, and therefore
remained limited .
My own experience and that of my fellow designers, whose
number increased year after year, became extraordinarily versatile.
I gained a reputation for constant experimenting in unknown
fields. The inevitable result was that I received more and more
contracts from the Navy and the Reichswehr, who did their
utmost to keep pace with the development of aviation abroad.
Captain Siburg, whom I had met at the beginning of the First
World War when he was adjutant of the German seaplane
experimental unit in Warnemünde, later turned up in the Air
90
 WORLD OPERATIONS C 1925-1930

Defense Group of the Navy as a specialist for seaplane develop-

ment. Siburg once told the head of another aircraft firm, who
accused him of showering me with contracts: "That little fellow
has shorter legs than you, but he runs faster. You're scared of
slippery ground, while he can skate. While you are still debating
whether you can carry out a contract, he has already built the
""
plane, so naturally I have to give him priority.'
The restless pattern of my private life, with its disappointments
and frustrations, probably contributed to the fact that I buried
myself more and more in my work, at a rather frantic pace that
my co-workers willy-nilly learned to keep up with. My design
engineers used to tell a story of the three poor men whom St.
Peter found weeping by the roadside while he was paying a visit
on earth. The first man complained that his wife had left him.
"Go home," St. Peter said, "and you will find your wife there.
And what is the matter with you? " he asked the second. "My
house has burned down," was the reply. St. Peter comforted
him and said: "Go home. Your house stands just as it did before."
Then he turned to the third man. "And what is your trouble?"
The man wept bitterly. "I am a designer," he said, "with Ernst
Heinkel in Warnemünde." At this St. Peter lowered his head.
"My poor son," he said , “in that case I'm afraid even I can't help
you."
Nevertheless, during the busy and fruitful period before the
industrial crisis of the 1930's and before the rapid expansion of
my work in 1934, we were an ideal working community, and my
colleagues realized that my very demands on them also contained
the seeds of their own success.
The year of my trip to Japan had brought great progress in
the technical development of German aviation because the crip-
pling restrictions of 1922 were removed . After long discussions
between the German government and the other signatories of the
Versailles Treaty the Paris Accord was signed. This treaty still
forbade military aviation, but Germany was now allowed to
build modern fighter-type planes for the purposes of racing and
record attempts. In addition, the training of a limited number of
military flyers was allowed.
The first tangible result of the new situation was the announce-
91
 STORMY LIFE

ment of the 1926 German seaplane contest in Warnemünde. It

was sponsored by the German Air Transport Association, but
with the backing of the German Admiralty, which now saw a
possibility of encouraging German airplane designers to produce
a greater number of modern seaplanes.
The lure of this contest lay in the money prizes totaling 360,000
marks. The conditions included a technical examination with
climb, speed and fuel consumption tests. In addition, there was to
be a long-distance flight of 2,500 miles over the North Sea and the
Baltic, and finally a specially stringent test to determine seaworthi-
ness. It would be a very tough competition. I therefore decided not
to enter a single one of my existing designs, but to work at full
speed on new planes. In a few months the low-wing monoplane
He 5 and the biplane He 24 were ready. Owing to the perennial
difficulties in the airplane engine situation in Germany, I once
more had to buy foreign motors for the He 5. In the He 5a I
installed a 450-hp Napier Lion and with it achieved a speed of
130 mph. A second plane, the He 5b , had a French 420-hp
Gnôme-Rhône engine. The German airplane builders entered a
total of only seventeen planes, seven of which were withdrawn
just before the start . Both Junkers and Rohrbach were represented .
I worked late into the night in my hangars. The pilots who were
to fly my planes were particularly carefully chosen . I entrusted
the 5a to the chief pilot of the German Air Transport School
in Warnemünde, Wolfgang von Gronau. Von Dewitz , who had
gained great experience in the war and who was now a member of
the German Research Institute for Aviation and a test pilot for
seaplanes, was to take the 5b.
On the morning of June 24, 1926, at about seven o'clock, the
racing planes were roaring through the water. Unfortunately, von
Gronau had an upset stomach. As he got into his plane he looked
as though he did not know whether he would live or die. I gave
him up and placed all my hopes on Dewitz. Weather conditions
were appalling, making this race the toughest ever flown so far,
but at noon I heard that von Gronau had landed first in Hamburg
after all and had eaten some frankfurters with great appetite.
From then on my monoplanes, favored by the misfortune of
some competitors, were in the lead. Gronau and Dewitz were
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merely competing between themselves for first place . At last,

Dewitz, on June twenty-eighth, arrived first in Warnemünde, but
Gronau was close on his tail. All the other planes landed hours
later.
Now victory depended upon the seaworthiness test on August
third.
The evening before, Gronau and Dewitz, who were my guests
at dinner, began to squabble because they had different opinions
as to the best way of landing in the forthcoming test.
Gronau preferred the well-tried method of throttling the plane
back to a slow speed, letting it sink slightly and settle with the
nose well up, so that the waves streamed past the floats.
"Rubbish," said Dewitz, "outmoded rubbish. It can be done
far more elegantly. I land absolutely flat on the water, absolutely
flat. It's very classy. You'll see."
"Classy! " mocked Gronau. "Don't forget to take your swim-
ming trunks with you . You'll be drowned like a wet rat, I
guarantee."
Eight hours later, Dewitz landed according to his theory,
broke both points of his floats, was rammed by the rescue launch,
turned turtle and sank . I stood on the bank cursing all the theoreti-
cians of the world.
I recovered my equanimity only when Gronau won the test
with a normal, reliable landing . Second in this contest was a
Junkers W 33, and third my biplane He 24. All others had given
up in the last maneuverability test at sea. The check for 262,050
marks which I was handed that evening for my work, and the
reception for the victorious pilots restored my good humor.
Immediately after the contest a number of buyers came forward
for the He 5. The most important was the Swedish Navy, which
bought a general license to build the plane. On November tenth
the Swedish Captain Thunberg with this plane captured the
world altitude record, carrying a 1,000-lb. load.
I turned my attention to new designs . In 1928 I produced the
greatest number and variety of types, including training planes,
reconnaissance torpedo-carriers, monoplanes and biplanes, single-
engine and twin-engine airplanes, for Sweden, Japan, Hungary,
Denmark and Germany. In the meanwhile, I had proof that my
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private work in the field of the catapult had not been in vain. The
Reich Transport Ministry suddenly approached me with large
contracts for catapults and catapulted aircraft.
The first contract was executed in collaboration with the Ger-
man Admiralty. It called for an experimental catapult to serve
for basic tests on the possibilities of shipboard launching of sea-
planes. In addition, a flying boat that could be catapulted was
required. Previous development work had yielded a great deal of
information. We were fairly certain about the most reliable way
of rotating the catapult on the ship, so that the direction of launch-
ing could be into the prevailing wind. Since it had to be so rotated ,
the catapult had to be very small . This, in turn, required powerful
means of acceleration, so as to get the plane up to the take-off
speed of 62 mph by the end of the catapult runway, which was
scarcely 66 feet long. The best way of getting it up to this speed
was to exert a pull with a tow rope attached to a piston on the cata-
pult track, which was driven forward by compressed air. The
ability of a pilot to withstand a sudden acceleration had to be
looked into. At that time no one knew exactly whether the abrupt
change of velocity would lead to impairment of health , loss of
consciousness, or death. In any case the acceleration at the start had
to be reduced by allowing the compressed air to build up its full
pressure gradually behind the piston in the working cylinder, but
not suddenly, with a shock like the recoil of a rifle.
Together with the catapult, which was coded K.1 (K =
Katapult) , I built my first catapultable flying boat, the He 15 .
The new plane was a wire-braced biplane, whose boat hull had a
profile like the sharp bow line of a cruiser. After catapult and
flying boat were completed, we spent the rest of the summer
of 1928 with detailed scientific investigations. I got in touch with
the Askania company to find reliable methods for measuring the
variation of velocity along the catapult track. From this work
were developed special cameras which accurately recorded the
progress of the motion.
At this time there was another contract waiting for me. The
Transport Ministry and the Lufthansa had developed a plan to
speed up the Atlantic mail service to America.
On August 16, 1928, the 50,000- ton liner Bremen, the largest,
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newest and fastest passenger ship of the North German Lloyd,

had left the stocks. The ship was to make her transatlantic maiden
voyage in the summer of 1929 and on this trip it was proposed to
make the first attempt to catapult a mail plane from her deck one
day before she arrived in New York. Apart from the extraordinary
speed that was expected of her, the idea was to shorten the mail
delivery to America by twenty-four hours, which at that time
was a sensational step forward.
We took six months to build the catapult K.2 and the accom-
panying mail plane He 12 for the Bremen. The experimental
flying boat He 15 weighed nearly five tons. For the mail plane,
a weight of seven tons was laid down. The He 12 was an extremely
seaworthy low-winged monoplane equipped with a 450 hp Ameri-
can Pratt and Whitney Hornet.
At the end of June, 1929, catapult and plane were transported
to Bremerhaven. As soon as they were mounted on the Bremen I
went there with Schwärzler and our test pilot, Starke. It was a
beautiful July day, and the powerful Bremen-in those days the
technical pride of Germany-lay there in all her splendor.
Many guests of the North German Lloyd, the Lufthansa and
the German press were waiting as I arrived to see the start which
was to take place from the ship while she was still in harbor. The
catapult was high up on the sun deck between the two gigantic
smokestacks. The compressed -air tube ran through one of the
smokestacks down into the engine room, where it was connected
up with the ship's compressed-air installation . I did not know
then what an ominous part this tube was to play. As I strolled
through the luxurious first-class lounges, I almost forgot why I
was aboard. The spectators had gathered on the sun decks as if
in anticipation of a sensational event, but I could now witness the
start without the anxiety I felt in Japan . In a split second the plane
swept into the air and circled over the harbor .
Stocky, thickset Captain Schiller, head of the Lufthansa Trans-
ocean Unit, who was liaison officer on board, shook my hand.
"The Bremen is sailing July sixteenth on her maiden voyage to
New York," he said . "The Transport Ministry and the Hansa
want your plane to take off on July twenty-second about 500 sea
miles out from New York. So far, we have only tried her out
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from a stationary ship . We still have to make a test from a ship

actually at sea, or are you so confident that we can dispense with
further tests on our way to New York? "
I did not hesitate a second. I said, "I wish that everything in
life were as certain."
Schiller seemed relieved . He exchanged glances with Captain
von Studnitz, who was to fly the plane.
"That makes the situation less complicated," said Schiller.
"Relations between the North German Lloyd and ourselves are,
at the moment, rather strained. I am under the impression that
the Board of Directors agreed only reluctantly to take this catapult
and the plane on board on their maiden trip. They look upon us
as rather tiresome guests ."
"But why?" I asked, suddenly disturbed.
"That we shall see," said Schiller. "So at the moment there is
no need to ask for any further tests. If you say so, let it go at that.
In any case you and your catapult crew are expected to be our
guests on the first trip. Adios."
Nine days later I stood with Schwärzler , our expert rigger,
Hünemörder , and my wife by the rail of the Bremen as she glided
out into the North Sea. We had a table in the first-class dining
room, with the representatives of the Lufthansa–Schiller , von
Studnitz and the radio operator Kirschhoff, who was to accompany
Studnitz on the first flight to New York. Glässel, the general
manager of the North German Lloyd, was also on board.
Schiller introduced me both to him and to Ziegenbein, the
captain of the Bremen. Once more I felt the same foreboding I
had fleetingly experienced during the test in Bremerhaven. While
Ziegenbein was open and friendly and greatly interested in the
development of the catapult, Glässel took cover in a cloak of
reserve, which his outward cordiality did not disguise .
It was no secret that Glässel was not only one of the most
capable but also one of the most ruthless men where the interests
of the North German Lloyd were concerned. It was thanks to
him that the company had recovered so quickly after 1918. I
could sense his hostility and distrust every time he spoke to me.
The first clue I had as to the reason for this behavior was a
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flake of plaster that fell from the ceiling of the brilliantly lighted
dining saloon onto our table . Schiller picked it up.
"The old tub's shaking her timbers," he said knowingly. “She's
doing a steady twenty-nine knots and more."
"Why such a speed? " I asked .
"Why? " asked Schiller, raising his glass and admiring the color
of the wine. "I imagine the Bremen is out for the Blue Ribbon."
At that time the Blue Ribbon was held by the Cunard Line, the
Mauretania holding the record for the Atlantic crossing in 5 days,
2 hours and 34 minutes. It was obvious that the newest and fastest
German ship would try to wrest this record from the British.
I raised my glass .
"We shall win it, too ," I said.
" He broke off . "We'll talk
"Probably," said Schiller, "but ...
of that later."
I had no more peace until we were out on the promenade deck.
Schiller clutched the guard rail. “ I've had a difference of opinion
with Glässel, " he said . "To be perfectly frank, he has no con-
fidence in the catapult. Ziegenbein and all the ship's officers are
on our side. They have confidence, both in you and in myself.
But Glässel is afraid something might happen. This would force
the Bremen to stop and help the damaged plane and as a result she
would lose the Blue Ribbon. That's the reason for his hostility.
He would rather see the catapult and all the rest of us anywhere
else except on board his ship."
"Why did they ever have it fixed up, then? "
"Here on board, Glässel's in command," Schiller went on, "and
unless he agrees, the plane will not start. But I'm no weakling,
you know. I hope, in the meantime, that I'll have convinced
Glässel there is no chance of an accident when the plane is
launched. But it's difficult not to admit his contention that there
is a difference between the start from Bremerhaven in harbor and
the start from a ship steaming at about thirty knots."
From that moment on, I lost my peace of mind. The fact that I
was powerless to act made things worse. Moreover, there was
something to be said for Glässel's argument. The Blue Ribbon
was far more important than the catapult launching from a ship,
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not only for the North German Lloyd, but also for Germany. On
July twenty-first, in the early morning, Schiller informed me: “I
think I've worked it. I've arranged with Captain Ziegenbein that
we launch tomorrow morning at eight o'clock some 400 sea miles
from New York. Ziegenbein certainly would not take the responsi-
bility without Glässel's permission, so at eight o'clock . . ."
I breathed more freely-until a very excited Schwärzler had me
paged in the ballroom. He had given the catapult a final thorough
test. "But it doesn't function," he said. "There's no pressure."
For Schwärzler to be upset—a thing absolutely unique in my
experience-something very unusual must have happened. The
catapult was fitted with an independent testing apparatus consist-
ing essentially of a flywheel of the same mass as the airplane, which
showed whether the necessary accelerating force was available.
The wheel remained stationary. Schwärzler had been doing every-
thing in his power for a whole hour. The fault could be only
the air supply, so he notified the chief engineer. They had carried
out a checkup over the whole ship, but reported that the air
compressor in the engine room was in order. Schwärzler therefore
asked that the air circuit should be inspected. The engineers were
supposed to have done this and reported that it was in perfect
order.
“It's not true ,” said Schwärzler, excitedly . “There's something
wrong with the circuit."
In the meantime Schiller and Studnitz had appeared. Schiller's
red face was darker than ever. "We must inspect the circuit
ourselves," he said sharply.
"That's my job, " said Schwärzler. He put on overalls and
asked one of the engineers to show him the way into the funnel,
through which the air pressure conduit led down into the ship .
Through the funnel blew a powerful, ice-cold stream of air, which
the fires in the boilers sucked in. Schwärzler shrank back for one
moment, then swung himself over the rim. His descent down the
iron ladder by the side of the air pipe seemed to last forever. We
waited anxiously. At last he reported that everything was in order
in the funnel but that the pipe led over the boilers along a catwalk
that was so hot one could crawl through it only in an asbestos suit.
Schwärzler asked for one and followed the pipe right into the
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tunnel of heat. He was there for a quarter of an hour. Then

suddenly came his message that he had found the damage—and a
moment later the gauge on the catapult showed full pressure. It
was a long time before he came out into the daylight. He had been
frozen, burned and frozen again.
"What was wrong? " we asked.
"A screw joint had been undone. "
"Where?"
"In the most inaccessible place-in the hot section. "
"How did it come loose-by itself?"
Schwärzler looked at me. "I think that's absolutely out of the
question," he said.
"Why didn't the ship's engineers discover the damage? " I
asked.
He shrugged . "I know nothing about that. "
But I suddenly knew what had happened. I was convinced that
a member of the crew, acting on orders, had broken the air lead
so that we could not start. He had unfastened the joint so that
the company could prevent our start without officially forbidding
it and hence without having to take the blame in case of complaints
at home. In other words-plain sabotage . Nevertheless, as I was
turning this ugly word over in my mind, common sense told me
that perhaps they had acted correctly because the Blue Ribbon
was involved .
In the meantime, Schiller, breathing heavily, had turned on his
heel and rushed off in a rage to the bridge. I followed him slowly.
Aloft we found Captain Ziegenbein and Glässel. Schiller was so
excited that he made no bones about telling them to their faces
what we had discovered. It was such an outburst that there was
no need for me to say anything.
Schiller refused to be put off. As representative of the Lufthansa,
he wanted a clear-cut answer about the start-yes or no. I noticed
Ziegenbein's glance of resigned embarrassment. He was a fine
sailor and I was sorry for him.
Glässel stared icily at Schiller. He kept his reserve. "You want
my yes or no," he said with the self-control of a man who knows
his own power. "Well, you can have it. After due consideration,
my answer is a categorical no."
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 STORMY LIFE

I looked at Schiller's broad neck. At the moment he looked

exactly like a bull. His voice roared out over the bridge and
Glässel's cheeks began to turn red, but his voice was still controlled .
"I am responsible for this ship and for my company, not you,” he
replied. "We are out after the Blue Ribbon, to be quite plain, and
since you are not the Almighty and cannot guarantee me that there
will be no accident now that we are so near the goal, you will not
be flying. The Blue Ribbon is more important for Germany's
prestige than your flight."
I heard Schiller say, "I protest," and saw that Ziegenbein had
retired to a nearby room and left the two men to fight it out. I
followed his example and went to an open part of the bridge, from
where I could hear the angry exchange of rising voices. The cool
wind blew into my face and I could feel the speed at which the
ship was traveling.
The clash of voices went on and on till at last it calmed down
and ceased. A few minutes later, Schiller was at my side. He was
scarlet in the face. "Well, we're taking off on the twenty-second
at I P.M. New York daylight saving time.
"We're taking off," he went on, "when we come to the Nan-
tucket Lightship about 180 miles from New York. From then
on, the Bremen is assured of the Ribbon. She can't lose it any
more, not even if our bird falls into the drink. We shall be in
New York a few hours ahead of her."
On the announcement of our start, the ship's post office was
crowded with people, particularly women, who wanted to send
a letter by this new method. It would bear a catapult-mail post-
mark. Shortly before the start, 60,000 marks ' worth of mail was
loaded on the He 12 , but that hardly worried me.
At the official starting time, everyone was out on the sun deck.
Up to the last second, I was afraid something would happen.
Glässel might change his mind again. It was 12:54. At that moment
it was announced that the Bremen had beaten the Mauretania and
had won the Blue Ribbon . The ship was traveling at a good
twenty-eight knots as my catapult calmly and almost without a
sound turned into the wind. The Hornet engine was throttled
back, Studnitz and Kirchhoff climbed into their seats. I wonder
how many of the spectators realized they were witnessing a histori-
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cal moment in the development of flying. Schwärzler, at the

control panel, tightened the starting cable and two red lights went
on in the cockpit. They told Studnitz that the catapult was ready
to start. He flashed back the " O.K. " signal and Schwärzler pushed
the lever over to "Start."
Even the giant ship swayed a little beneath us as the compressed
air hissed out and the plane was launched, at great speed, along
the runway. Long before the spectators could grasp what had
happened, the plane was flying over the Atlantic swell. The wings
grew smaller and smaller and soon disappeared.
I made my way through the excited crowd to the radio room
in order to hear the radio messages from the plane. They had a
perfect flight. At 1:45 P.M. American daylight saving time
Kirchhoff announced his arrival in New York. The plane circled
over the North German Lloyd pier in Brooklyn . Then he sent his
last message. The machine had landed in the harbor; amid thou-
sands of spectators, the mailbags had been loaded into special
trucks. Schiller came up to me. "Glässel sends his congratulations
and invites you to have some champagne with him. ”
"Good," I said.
We went over to him. His features had changed completely as
he raised his glass. "Gentlemen, " he said, and there was a trace of
emotion in his voice , “I hope that you will never be in such a
quandary as I have been during the past few days. I am sure you
""
understand. . . •
At 3:45 P.M. the Bremen glided into New York Harbor. We
were received with a deafening concert of whistles and sirens
from all the ships at anchor. Police were needed to keep the crowd
under control. The papers reported that the first catapult mail
flight had been successful . My He 12 was rocking peacefully in
the water. Mayor Jimmy Walker, of New York, christened it
with the name of his city. Our stay in the city was a round of
parties. Schwärzler and the catapult crew returned with the
Bremen, but I remained for a few weeks in the States and traveled
through the whole country .
My plane was launched once more on August first, just outside
Cherbourg. The Bremen was still about 500 miles from Bremer-
haven. After a four-hour flight, the plane landed and the mail from
ΙΟΙ
 STORMY LIFE

America was in the hands of the recipients a good twenty- four

hours sooner than it had ever been before.
I had achieved a great success, whose fruits would soon be ripe
for the plucking. Not long afterwards, the Transport Ministry
gave me a contract for a new catapult for the Bremen's sister ship,
the Europa, and in addition commissioned a second mail plane, the
He 58 , capable of carrying a greater load. This was the beginning
of the Lufthansa's great struggle to fly across the South and later
the North Atlantic, based solely on the experience with my
catapults and planes on pilot flights. I was given a contract for a
giant launching catapult, the K.6. Whereas my first planes
launched from liners weighed only 7,500 lbs. , the demand was
now for a weight of 30,000 lbs. Super flying boats were envisaged,
which would be the first to fly the regular transatlantic service.
It was far beyond anything we had achieved, but we managed it.
In December, 1932 , the first great catapult was ready . It was
installed on the Westfalen, which the Lufthansa had converted
into a floating base for the forthcoming regular South Atlantic
service. In addition to the catapult, she also possessed a towed mat,
on which a Dornier Wal could taxi. After taxiing onto it, the
plane was hoisted on board by a crane, refueled and launched on a
further flight by my giant catapult. The Westfalen took up a
position between Bathurst on the West African coast and Natal in
Brazil, thus shortening the distance for the flying boats. The first
tests in the South Atlantic took place under the worst possible
weather conditions, but even though the Westfalen was rocking
in eigheen-feet-high waves, my catapult worked perfectly.
In 1934 a regular German mail service was initiated across the
South Atlantic. This led to my building several much larger
catapults for other floating bases, in both the South and North
Atlantic. The German transatlantic service was a real pioneering
effort, and led to rapid progress in aircraft design, which now
makes it possible to build planes that cross both the North and
South Atlantic in one hop in virtually absolute safety-huge fast
land planes without cumbersome floats or hulls.
In the 1930's, of which I am speaking, this future development
was still far off, but I wanted to be in the vanguard. I wanted to
design a seaplane that would cross the North Atlantic. So, at my
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own risk and expense, I built the He 6, a low-wing monoplane,

the first plane having an enclosed cabin with windows, equipped
with the most powerful engine I could find at the time, an 800-hp
Packard. It was essential that the plane should be able to make a
2,500- to 3,000-mile hop without refueling . This required enor-
mous fuel tanks, which meant a great deal of weight. The speed
was not so important; nevertheless the plane did 127 mph. It was
to take off on a surprise trip from Lisbon, make a landing in the
Azores and then go on to Newfoundland. Later it would attempt a
nonstop crossing.
When the He 6 with Captain Mertz and radio operator Bock
quietly set out from Warnemünde, I was extremely nervous. My
secretary kept trying to comfort me. "I assure you, Herr Doctor,"
she kept saying, “that everything will go off all right."
"How do you know ? " I said.
"Mertz has taken my chimney sweep with him."
"Your what?"
She stood there like a lighthouse in a storm. "My mascot," she
said. "I've given him my little chimney-sweep talisman ."
"May heaven reward you for your foresight."
The following day the He 6 was reported in Lisbon. She had
arrived safely. "What did I tell you ? " said Miss Hupertz trium-
phantly.
Two days later, we received a cable from Horta in the Azores.
The He 6 had arrived there safely. My secretary said , “I told you
so! I told you so ! " But a few hours later, we got a second cable.
On the start of the second leg to Newfoundland, the big waves
had caught the machine and smashed it to pieces.
It was a severe blow, not only to my optimism, but also to my
finances. But I had learned to take such blows in my stride.
After the success of my catapults in Germany, I soon obtained
foreign contracts of all types. The most important came from
the East. One Monday, at the beginning of 1930, Maria Hupertz
announced that there were two gentlemen outside who looked
rather suspect and might possibly be Bolsheviks. She suggested
she come in and keep an eye on them. My two visitors were shown
in and I must confess they did not inspire much confidence. They
did not even introduce themselves. The older of the two spoke
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only Russian, which his companion translated into fluent German.

"I represent the Trade Delegation of the U.S.S.R. in Berlin. "
The older man let his friend translate, while he looked around
distrustfully. "I have orders to ask you whether you can build a
catapult and a flying boat immediately. Just say yes or no. That's
all I want. We'll send you the specifications. You can send us the
plans. If they please us, we'll give you the contract ."
I had no complaints as to the integrity of the Soviets in business
matters. As in a hundred other cases, there was no need for me
to think the matter over. I matched the laconic style of my visitors
with a simple "Yes."
Two days later, I received a document from Berlin incorpor-
ating the technical specifications. A catapult was required for use
on a Soviet warship of the Black Sea fleet . The name and tonnage
of the ship were not revealed . It was merely stated that the catapult
must not be longer than 70 feet. The details for the flying boat
were only roughly outlined and the fulfillment of the Russian
demands seemed to present no particular problem. The plans for
the catapult and the flying boat, which was given the name He 55
and strongly resembled the He 15 I had built for the German
Navy, were ready in a month. They were sent to Berlin. A week
later, my two Russians reappeared. This time they introduced
themselves . It turned out that the older man was Alksnis, deputy
chief of the Red Air Force, and the younger man was his inter-
preter, Sasnow. I received the contract for a catapult and a proto-
type aircraft. " If this plane is good,” said Alksnis, “you can build
a great many for us. We'll see. " They laid a contract in front of
me, which incorporated in a few dozen clauses a staggering num-
ber of details: precise delivery dates, Russian supervision , penalties
for non-delivery and failure to carry out the stated specifications.
The most important thing, I thought, is the contract. The rest
will take care of itself.
When Alksnis had left, I sent for my business manager, Raphael
Thiel, who had traveled a great deal and was completely trust-
worthy. He was a colossus who had an insatiable appetite for good
food. He adored singing and he had a voice one usually finds only
among the Don Cossacks. If anyone knew how to deal with the
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Russians, it was Thiel ; so I decided to use him as a contact man

in our project.
I told him I had a wonderful new contract that would repair
the ravages my unlucky transatlantic experiment had wrought in
my bank account. A sly look appeared on his face.
"Russian supervision," he said. "That's all right, Herr Doctor.
If I can't manage to satisfy them, I'll go on a starvation diet."
That meant something, coming from Thiel, but it made me feel
nervous.
The Russians reappeared four days later-Tulupov, a former
Tzarist naval officer; Ganolich, a pilot; and Spiegelberg, an
engineer who seemed to be the commissar and without whom
neither of the others dared to utter a word . After a week my
assistant Kleinemeyer, completely broken up, came to my office.
“They're driving me crazy," he lamented . "They measure every
piece of wood. We have to scrap every single dark spot in it.
They go to the rubbish heaps to see if we really have thrown
away what we've cut out. No one can stand that for long. "
I told him we had coped with far more difficult things in the
past. We would cope with the Russians, too . Things went on
quite tolerably until the catapult and the prototype flying boat
were ready. The Russians measured and tested for a fortnight.
Then everything was packed up and their commission disappeared
with the crates. For six weeks I heard nothing. Then Alksnis
suddenly appeared and said to me, as curtly as usual, "The flying
boat is very good. You will get a contract to build twenty of them
for us."
At first I could not believe my ears. It was the largest order for
a single type I had so far received . I could clearly foresee the
initial technical difficulties. But one day I would have to take
the plunge and start mass production, so why not now? In the
meanwhile I asked, "Is the inspection commission coming back? "
"Naturally . We shall send a larger one this time," said Alksnis.
"Many airplanes need many eyes. Many eyes see much .”
Tulupov, Ganolich and Spiegelberg turned up this time with
an entourage. My people could not get rid of them. They tested
every wire, every piece of fabric, every piece of wood. Their
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 STORMY LIFE

inspection soon forced me to perfect my own supervision . We

suddenly began to work with an accuracy and at a tempo never
reached before. Kleinemeyer complained every day, but as soon
as he was outside, I winked at Maria Hupertz . “Well, well, ” I
said. "I used to think I had brought my workshops up to concert
pitch, but the Bolsheviks do it better. "
But my early satisfaction did not last long. The flying boats
were completed one by one and the Russians put each of them
on the scales. When Tulupov and Spiegelberg visited me for the
first time and, with a frown, told me that the first machine was
four pounds too heavy, I took it for a joke. But it was no joke.
When I dared to laugh and explained that nobody could build so
accurately, that a flying boat on a test start became heavier in the
water and then lighter when it got dry, Tulupov glared . He pulled
out his contract. "What is written here? " he asked. "Two pounds
too much, a fine ; four pounds too much, a bigger fine. It says so
in the contract, doesn't it? "
After the fifth machine proved too heavy, I lost my enthusiasm
for Russian methods of working.
"Kleinemeyer," I said, "something's got to be done about it.
The next kite's got to be the right weight to the very ounce, or
we shall go bust with our fines."
Two days later, Tulupov was back. His surliness had vanished.
"The sixth plane is the right weight," he said. "No fine. "
I thought at first that this plane must be as freakish as a white
raven, but the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth machines were all
exactly the right weight. I found so much accuracy alarming . I
sent for Kleinemeyer and said to him, "What have you been
doing? "
He grinned, and confessed. The flying boats, at the request of
the Russians, were put complete on the scales. One of our boys
stood on a platform and operated the lever that set the scales in
motion. The scales automatically printed a card, on which the
exact weight appeared . He handed these cards to the Russians
and they read the weight. Kleinemeyer had fixed the scales one
night so that they registered the exact figure required in the con-
tract. He then had a store of cards printed with the right weight
on them. Since then, the young assistant had not pulled the lever
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right down but let an already printed card fall out, which he
handed to Tulupov.
"Nice work, eh? " said Kleinemeyer.
"And if they find out? ”
"Then we're in the soup," he said cheerfully.
"And you'll have to sacrifice yourself for the good of the firm."
Each day I waited rather anxiously for Tulupov's arrival, but
his face brightened week after week. He accepted twenty
machines without a single protest. He noticed nothing. No harm
was done either, for the planes performed magnificently on their
arrival in the Black Sea and I received a contract for another
twenty machines.
The building of these planes for the Russians proved very
important for me, for it helped me over the severe crisis that struck
the German aircraft industry and in a short time swept away
such well-known factories as Albatros and the Bavarian Aircraft
Works. Even the great Junkers factory got into difficulties and
could not have survived without outside help.
We managed to keep going by hard work.

107
 Chapter VI

SPEED CRAZY

1930-1934

VARIOUS PERSONALITIES and events in the course of my life have

often been the agents of significant progress for me. The same
thing probably happened when I traveled to Venice in September,
1927, to see for the first time the famous air race for the Schneider
Cup.
The industrialist Jack Schneider had donated the Cup as a prize
for a yearly air race to determine which was the fastest machine
in the world. The race took place in whatever country had won
the Cup in the previous year. The only entrants were seaplanes for
it was considered impossible that such "incredibly fast " planes
(they flew in the neighborhood of 250 miles an hour) could land
on a small enclosed airfield.
The last race in 1925 had been won by an Italian, Major
Bernardi, at 247 mph. Now the eyes of the world were watching
to see whether Italy would win the race again. The rapid rise of
Italian aviation was closely bound up with Fascism and with the
names of Mussolini and Balbo . Winning the race was also a ques-
tion of international politics .
To what extent victory or defeat in Venice would be con-
sidered a matter of Italian honor, became clear to me when I
arrived at the Lido . For Venice, it was an unusually overcast day.
The town was crammed . From Milan alone, as far as I remember,
100,000 Italian workers had been brought to the Lido to see the
race. As the flights had to be postponed for a day on account of
the bad weather, Mussolini gave orders that the workers were to
be given special leave so that they could remain an extra day.
Wherever Major Bernardi, the victor of 1925 , appeared, he was
surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd. He had become the hero
of Italian youth, who cheered him wherever he went.
In the midst of this turmoil, the British , sober and serious, waited
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for the event. Several English ships lay off Venice. The British
were obviously determined to win the Cup, particularly as they
were the only ones who were left in the field with the Italians. The
Americans and the French had withdrawn their machines at the
last moment ; they had been unable to get ready in time. The
British had arrived in Venice with three brand-new racing air-
craft, which were guarded with the greatest secrecy. Italian
secrecy was not so strict. The Italians, thanks to government
subsidies, had developed their winner of 1925 into the Macchi 52 ,
whose specially built Fiat engine was rumored to have more than
1,000 hp.
This was an achievement, which we in Germany, with our
feeble and inefficient engines, could only dream of. One of the
first Germans I met in St. Mark's Square was Claudius Dornier.
As soon as we had exchanged greetings, he said : "If only we had
a single engine like that, we could be in this race. But the way
our aviation-engine industry is going, we shall never get a decent
one." Neither of us realized how right he was. Actually , the
German engines, as a result of the setbacks suffered between 1918
and 1933 , never caught up again with the rest of the world, and
all we achieved in the field of aerodynamics was nullified in the
last analysis by this lag.
On September twenty-sixth the whole of Venice was in a
fever. As soon as I woke up in the morning, I heard cheering in
the streets . The sun had swept away the gray sky and with it the
last fears that bad weather would postpone the race once more. A
few hours later, for the first time, I saw the planes, now ready for
the race. Particularly the three British planes were of striking
aerodynamic beauty. When I look back on that moment in Venice,
I realize that it was just as important in my life as my earlier
experience on the fields of Echterdingen . In Venice, face to face
with those beautiful fast machines, I was seized with an intense
desire to build similar ones myself and perhaps design the fastest
of them all .
I must have been standing there as in a trance, for I did not
notice that someone had tugged at my arm. When he gripped
me tighter, I recognized Walter Kleffel of the Ullstein publishing
house. He had his clever fingers in practically every pie. He knew
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 STORMY LIFE

that the English had almost come to blows with the Italian Fascists
and that the carabinieri had had to intervene . He also knew of a
row in the racing committee. The American Atlantic flyer, Levine,
had arrived in Venice the day before and the exuberant Italians
invited him to join the Committee. The British immediately
declared they would not start, and after a lot of palaver, Levine
resigned . Kleffel talked like a book. He was very dubious of an
Italian victory. The British had a fantastic new Napier engine.
Weiller, the director of the French airplane engine factory,
Gnôme-Rhône, had given him precise details about the British
engine for publication in his Berlin newspaper. After learning of
these details, Kleffel prophesied that the British would win. He
whispered in my ear that the Italians had overtaxed their Fiat
engine. Out of the twelve motors they had built, six had already
broken up during the test runs. Racing engines, in any case, lasted
only long enough to complete the race, but the Italians' might not
even do that.
I listened quite perfunctorily to everything Kleffel told me,
because I had no eyes for anything except the planes, and no
thoughts except for my own new goal.
The British had a biplane and two monoplanes, but even the
former was so wonderfully streamlined-at a time when aero-
dynamics normally played little part in airplane construction—that
I could not take my eyes off it. The same applied even more to
the Supermarine monoplane designed by an Englishman called
Mitchell. Its wings were still braced and not cantilever, but so
smooth and frictionless that one could sense its speed. An hour
later, after an exciting race, this plane, piloted by Webster, had
beaten the Italian Macchi. The Supermarine, with 282 mph, was
the fastest plane in the world.
Major Bernardi wept like a child after his defeat. The disap-
pointment of the Italians was indescribable. But eventually their
sense of sportsmanship triumphed and the disappointment was at
least tempered by the great fiesta at the Lido, which had actually
been prepared for an Italian victory.
I was invited to the party, although I had come to Venice as a
private individual. After dinner, I was introduced to the Italian
Crown Prince and to Balbo . The Marshal was the image of perfect
IIO
 SPEED CRAZY -
— 1930-1934

self-control. I did not know at the time that this was one of his
greatest virtues, which he proved so brilliantly on his visit to
Germany, so that no one, not even Goering, noticed how deeply
Balbo rejected the seemingly all-powerful Germany after 1933 .
In Venice, despite the Italian defeat, he was still at the height
of his fame as the creator of Italian aviation. Later in Rome I
saw the memorial he had erected to himself, the new Italian Air
Ministry. It was one of the most modern and progressive buildings
of that period and the embodiment of Mussolini's and Balbo's wish
to jolt their people out of their light-hearted gaiety and lead them
forward to great heights in all fields-a goal which could never
be attained and which under the great ordeals of the future the
Italians never genuinely desired . An observer, seeing this building
and the tangible success of Italian flyers and their aircraft, could
hardly have imagined that he was looking at a vast unnatural
edifice, whose pretentious and imposing façade was built on sand .
The fiesta at the Lido lasted well into the following day. My
most vivid recollection of that evening is of the haunting idea
that never left me during the party-the intoxication of speed. I
pondered that night how I could build better aerodynamic
machines than the British and achieve even higher speeds with
less powerful engines. I saw, of course, that the floats must dis-
appear in order to reduce wind resistance . I had to build fast land
planes with a moderate landing speed, the least possible wind
resistance and the smoothest possible surfaces. Three- ply wood
was still the best that could be found at that time, especially for
the wings. For the fuselage I would employ all-metal construction,
but it must be smooth, and not corrugated sheeting such as Junkers
used. This was something new in the experimental field, but we
had to try it out.
Fortunately I had no idea how many years of trouble and
disappointment and how many setbacks my new dream was to
cost me.

On May 22 , 1928, I found on my table a letter from the well-

known auto industrialist, Fritz von Opel, informing me that the
following day he was going to try out his rocket car (Opel
RAK.2 ) on the Avus (a super-speedway) in Berlin. He was
III
 STORMY LIFE

convinced that this form of propulsion, which would shortly

supplant every normal type of motor, would interest me. He
invited me to watch the first test.
Less than an hour later, Walter Kleffel rang me up from Berlin.
I had not seen him since Venice. He had the same request as Fritz
von Opel and spun a long yarn about the enormous importance
of "forthcoming events. " A very excited Fritz von Opel had
appeared on May twenty-first in Kleffel's press citadel. He told
him that in great secrecy he had perfected a rocket car he now
wanted to exhibit to interested auto and aviation circles and to
the Berlin press . But first he needed the publicity of Kleffel's
paper, and, furthermore, a man of authority and personal magnet-
ism, with a name as a technician, to preside over the occasion and
say a few words to the spectators. They had got hold of Dr.
Schütte, who was not only a well-known designer, but a very
imposing personality and an effective speaker. Opel and Kleffel
had sat far into the night in Schütte's villa, preparing the program.
Kleffel told me he insisted on my presence. It would be a big
thing and afterwards there would be a roaring party.
Rocket propulsion was largely related to the projects of space
ships that were to fly to the moon. It was a subject of burning
interest in those days, very different from the interest that
developed ten years later, when the problem was really tackled
in the silence of war laboratories and engineering offices. The
idea of rocket propulsion had come from an American, Professor
Goddard, in 1912. He conceived trains, cars and airships driven
not by internal combustion or steam engines, but by "reaction
motors." Complete banks of powder rockets, fired one after the
other, were to provide a continuous succession of impulses. Some-
what later Goddard had the idea of replacing the powder (e.g.,
cordite) by a mixture of gasoline and liquid air, burning explo-
sively in an exhaust duct and providing a continuous forward
impulse as long as the combustion lasted.
Since the First World War, Professor Oberth from Tran-
sylvania had worked on the same problem. The idea of the rocket
space ship became fashionable . UFA, under the direction of Fritz
Lang, made a sensational film from the novel, The Woman in the
Moon, and took Oberth on as technical adviser. While the film
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was in production, Oberth made enough money to build a liquid-

fueled rocket. This was to be fired when the film was released and
reach a height of at least thirty miles. Oberth naturally could not
keep up with the impatient requests of the UFA publicity depart-
ment. They lost interest in him and cut off his funds. But Oberth
did not give up.
That morning, when Kleffel was so excited on the phone, I
suddenly remembered Oberth. After Oberth, a second man
crossed my mind, the South Tyrolean Max Valier. I suddenly
remembered that Valier had been the real driving force behind
Opel's hitherto secret attempts. I had heard rumors that at the
beginning of March, Opel and Valier had tried out on the Opel
test track an experimental car driven by powder- filled rockets.
Evil tongues maintained that the car had advanced 150 yards at
the "fantastic" speed of a steam roller.
I told Kleffel that naturally I would come. It would have been
the first time in my life that I declined to be present at a new
scientific demonstration .
On May twenty-third I stood on the edge of the Avus with
countless other spectators and waited for things to happen. Schütte
made his opening speech and announced to an astonished audience
that a historic moment had arrived . In ten years we would fly
to the moon by means of rockets, and eventually to the fixed stars.
Then the car was rolled out. It was a racing car, to whose tail ,
like an enormous honeycomb, were attached twenty- four rockets
that would be set off one after the other by the driver.
Fritz von Opel himself steered the contraption, which had a
kind of horizontal fin behind the front wheels. The wind pressure
would thus keep the front part of the car on the road even if the
completely untried rockets produced some unforeseen effect.
Everyone was excited . It was a drive into the unknown, perhaps
a drive to certain death. No one who saw Opel step into the car
was without a slight feeling of discomfort. He looked around
once more-then we saw him pull one or two levers. At the same
moment there was a terrifying din. A long trail of smoke shot out
of the rear of the car, which was shot forward at a speed that
seemed to be somewhere between 65 and 125 miles an hour.
It all happened at such a pace that nearly every spectator saw
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 STORMY LIFE

something different. Some of them were dazed by the noise, others

noticed only the cloud of smoke. The close observer, however,
saw that the front part of the car, in spite of the fin, rose from
the concrete track, and that the car skidded wildly and was more
often in the air than on the ground . It was an indescribable sight.
No one would have given a dime for Opel's life . It seemed that the
car must turn turtle or be smashed to pieces on the embankment.
But before the spectators' worst fears were realized, the thunder-
ing noise suddenly ceased . The smoke trail subsided . The wheels
touched the ground once more. The car drove on. A moment
later, with a sigh of relief, I saw Opel, pale but alive, getting out
of the driver's seat.
The tension dissolved in an enthusiastic celebration. Champagne
flowed. The reporters rushed to the telephone booths. The event
was a sensation.
What we had just witnessed was, in fact, a proof that rocket
propulsion was no mere fantasy. But it was equally clear that
rockets could produce only great speeds. Opel reported after he
recovered that his speedometer registered 143 mph. For road use,
the rocket was therefore out of the question. Intuitively I realized
that rockets could be applied only to the airplane, and then only
provided one could build a rocket engine that developed power
over a long period . Powder-filled rockets could never achieve
sufficiently long flight, nor could liquid rockets hold out long
enough, because they would need too much fuel . But perhaps
another way could be found. I could not see it clearly, but some-
how I believed in it.
It was still too early. For the moment, engine and propeller
were the technical means of propulsion in the air. With them, and
with perfect streamlining, I had to realize my dream of a high-
speed machine. But the new possibility remained in the back of
my mind and was revived eight years later when the technical
fundamentals grew clearer. It would help me to take the first step
toward revolutionizing air propulsion.
I had to wait until 1930 before I could start to build all-metal
planes and risk a new departure without outside help and at the
expense of my other work during the rising economic crisis. In
the winter of 1929-30, I went to St. Moritz for a change of scenery.
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 SPEED CRAZY 1930-1934

On one of my walks, I came across a big car that seemed to have

broken down. The driver was repairing it and had his back to-
ward me .
I asked if I could give him a hand.
"It's already done," said the driver, wiping his hands on his
light-blue trousers as though they were rags.
I recognized him at once. "Fokker," I said. Of course it was
Fokker, the looping pilot from Johannisthal and now, in the 1930's,
probably the most famous aircraft industrialist in the world. He
had grown fatter and balder, but he still seemed prepared to
crawl about in his best clothes in any muck that offered him the
chance to mend or discover something.
He looked at me. “Ah, Heinkel, you must come and visit me
tomorrow. I've bought a châlet up there." And then, out of a clear
sky, came the curious remark, "Are you married or divorced? "
For a moment I was speechless.
"Divorced," I said.
"That's fine," replied Fokker, enigmatically.
During the fifteen years I had not seen him, he had become a
multimillionaire in dollars. He had survived the first war with
the 30 million marks earned by delivering his famous fighter planes
to the German Army. In 1919, he salvaged the greater part of his
aircraft factory by loading a number of half- completed planes
and countless valuable engines into half a dozen trains and shipping
them to his native Holland. He loaded most of his cash on his
yacht, which he sailed out of its German harbor, ostensibly on a
short trip, and made for Holland without papers. Fokker took
note of the burning protests emanating from Germany, France,
Belgium and Holland. They denounced him either as a war pro-
fiteer or as a German sympathizer. But obviously he was none
the worse for all these accusations. He founded an aircraft factory
in Holland, and later three more in the United States. His military
and civilian planes in the meantime flew all over the world . He
built the first three-engined aircraft. Countless flights that brought
their pilots world renown-Admiral Byrd's North Pole flight in
1926, his transatlantic flight in 1927 , and the round-the-world
flight of the Australian Kingsford-Smith in 1928 -were all accom-
plished with Fokker's huge cantilever high-winged monoplanes.
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 STORMY LIFE

I made some inquiries in the hotel and learned that Fokker's

châlet was famous. His house was always full of guests. This,
however, never stopped him from making a quick trip by air to
Holland or by ship to America. He enjoyed working in bed and
chewing sweets. He now employed a large staff of designers for
his scientific calculations. But he had remained a man of creative
imagination, who knew intuitively what was good or bad about
a plane.
From what I heard about Fokker, he was as eccentric as ever.
He was prejudiced against marriage in general, and about married
women in particular, and seemed to think divorce was the only
reasonable solution to one's private problems. Now I understood
the point of the question he had asked me.
So when I met him, I was prepared for anything.
His eyes often held a strange restless, rather frightening expres-
sion. Many years later, when I learned that despite the care of
the finest American brain specialist, Cushing, he had died of a
brain tumor, I remembered that curious look in his eyes. But in
those days at St. Moritz he was far from thinking of death. He
had a thousand plans.
"Are you in need of contracts?" he asked.
"Oh, I can't complain, but I'm always ready to take on interest-
ing jobs."
"I have a new idea for you," said Fokker . He told me that in
America he had been trying for a year to design one of those
large amphibians that were fashionable in the States for passenger
trips along the coast-planes that had both floats and wheels and
could be used on sea or land.
"It doesn't work," he said . "It has to be an all-metal plane.
That's such a new field. You get the most wonderful smooth wing
surfaces with it, but it's still all so new. Each time we try the
plane's too heavy . I hear you've got a first- class design office .
Perhaps you can succeed where my people have failed . You
would then have the American market, and it would be something
special for Europe."
All I heard was the words "all-metal plane." That was a problem
that had haunted me since Venice. I thought: Nowhere else would
I get the chance to gain experience in all-metal construction with
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 SPEED CRAZY - 1930-1934

the prospect of getting back my development costs by producing

under my patent.
Shortly afterwards, I went back to Warnemünde , informed
myself about the requirements in the United States and engaged
an American engineer who had experience in this field. My
colleagues and I plunged with great enthusiasm into this new field.
But the difficulties began immediately -getting the necessary
amounts of material in Germany at the time, particularly alumi-
num alloy. We had to learn painfully, step by step, about the
technique of light metal construction. At length we produced a
fuselage shell with transverse frames linked by a few longerons
and a smooth outer skin.
The plane was designed for a pilot and four passengers, with a
moderately comfortable cabin. The engine was a Pratt and Whit-
ney that Fokker had delivered . On the first flight I saw that I
had a dud on my hands. She did get off the water with four men
aboard, but it would have been impossible to take off with five
people as planned . When we introduced the He 55 , or Heron, on
the airfield, a white-haired old lady among the spectators cried
enthusiastically, "Look how massive, how heavy and solid it is! "
She had no idea what pain her words caused me. We had been
struggling for months to make the plane light and now it was
brought to my notice how "solid" she was. I went back to my
office, and toted up the development costs of the amphibian. They
reached an enormous figure. I was glad when the German Civil
Flying School bought the Heron for 126,000 marks. It was still
a big loss for me, but not too great a price to pay for the experi-
ence gained in light metal construction and the basic principles
of the speed plane construction.

One day about this time, a thirty-year-old man sat in my office.

He was extraordinarily solemn, and dressed in old-fashioned
clothes. He wore a stiff collar and a dickey. His vest was carefully
buttoned, his cuffs protruded from the sleeves and on his nose was
a pair of rimless glasses. The young man looked shy. He might
have been a parson or a schoolteacher, but under no circumstances
an airplane designer, and one who had succumbed to the intoxica-
tion of speed. Nevertheless he was all of that and his name was
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 STORMY LIFE

Siegfried Günter. I had sent for him from Hamburg, where he

worked with a small aircraft company, Bäumer- Aero. At the
beginning of 1930 my attention was attracted by a small sports
plane, a cantilever, low-wing monoplane, produced by this firm.
Powered only by a small 60-hp engine, it reached the astonishing
speed of 155 mph. The careful attention to aerodynamic require-
ments in its design, and its smooth surface finish, betrayed an
unusually gifted hand. It certainly deserved its name-Whirlwind.
The man who designed this machine must fit in, I felt, with my
plans and help me realize my ideas for a fast plane. I soon learned
that two men instead of one were behind this Whirlwind-twin
brothers, certainly the most remarkable pair of twins that were
ever to play a role in aviation.
Siegfried and Walter Günter were identical twins.
They complemented each other to an amazing degree . Sieg-
fried was a fine mathematician , while Walter was an artist
with an amazing flair for the aesthetic form of a plane-and
aesthetic meant fast. Both were theoreticians who never flew
themselves and were probably incapable of mechanical work.
But they both possessed a certain "something."
I did not allow Siegfried to return to Hamburg. Some days later,
brother Walter arrived, an equally solemn young man with pince-
nez on his nose. Both were bachelors. They took rooms with a
widow and hardly ever went out. If they had any passions, it was
for good food and fast cars.
This strange pair represented what unconsciously I had prob-
ably been seeking. The brothers could co-ordinate what I saw in
rough outline. They combined applied mathematics with a feeling
for artistic beauty. They could design the aerodynamic shape I
was looking for.
There was some scientific knowledge to be gleaned in Germany,
particularly from the Aeronautical Research Institute, but we
had to collect much more on our own. If aerodynamic perfection
was the true secret of the fast aircraft, then we had to cross several
fences, of which the elimination of "resistances" was the easiest.
At a time when biplanes were still in vogue, an obvious source of
drag lay in their many struts and bracing wires that disturbed the
airflow. However, even on the cantilever monoplane there was
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 SPEED CRAZY - 1930-1934

too much drag from the radiator, undercarriage and tail unit.
They, too, had to disappear. It was far more difficult to reduce the
wing area, to improve the shape of the fuselage, to eliminate skin
friction and to design the lines to obey the laws of compressibility.
There is no point in writing a detailed scientific treatise on the
subject. But even the layman will understand how important the
streamline shape and the smoothness of the aircraft surfaces were
when I say that, according to our figures, the use of protruding
rivets in the building of the shell considerably increased the drag
of an otherwise perfect aerodynamic design. The obvious thing
to do was to use rivets that were flush with the surface. Just as
impressive was the discovery that at higher speeds a sprayed coat
of paint and the resultant decrease in smoothness of the wing
surfaces was enough to increase the drag by about 14 per cent.
I had Walter Günter build a wind tunnel, and later a high-speed
wind tunnel in which, with the help of models, we experimented
with stability measurements and the streamlining of undercar-
riages, wing profiles and a great variety of fuselage shapes. A real
problem was to overcome the difficulty that so far had caused the
fastest planes to be built as seaplanes. Despite seeking the highest
possible speed in the air, we had to cut down the landing speed so
that the fastest plane could land on an average airfield.
We followed with great interest the developments in other
parts of the world, particularly in the United States, where since
my visits aircraft construction had made enormous strides. The
German Research Institute reported that among the growing
number of fast American mail planes, the increase in speed was
due not so much to superior engines, but above all to progress in
aerodynamic design and, particularly, to the first retractable
undercarriage.
In the summer of 1931 , I sent Siegfried Günter to America to
study this progress at first hand and bring back as much informa-
tion as he could . I shall never forget the day when he appeared in
my office. He had lost weight and was overwhelmed by the
American way of life.
He summarized his impressions in these words : “We'll really
have to step on it, Herr Heinkel. "
The third International European Circuit was announced for
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 STORMY LIFE

the summer of 1932. I decided to build a plane which, for the first
time, would possess the most modern aerodynamic lines we could
devise.
Painted red and christened the Red Devil, this He 64 was the
plane that brought fame to Hans Seidemann , later a general of the
Air Force . I decided that this machine would be made of wood . It
caught the eye by an unusually slender, well-faired fuselage of
oval cross-section, and a cockpit which was completely roofed in
by a streamlined plexiglas canopy . The shape of the fairing around
the relatively light 150 -hp engine flowed smoothly into the rest
of the plane. The wing was a complete cantilever affair, and the
wing skin was of plywood, made as smooth as possible. A low
landing speed was assured by a new kind of slotted wing. I did
not at this point go in for a retractable undercarriage.
For the 4,700-mile flight, scheduled to take six days, Seidemann
required only three. (On the first lap from Berlin via Warsaw,
Prague and Vienna to Rome, he left all the others miles behind.
He trounced the Italians who had entered their best machines to
be sure of arriving first in their capital . ) Seidemann was received
by a storm of applause when, on the last lap , he landed, like an
arrow shot from a bow, on August twenty - seventh at the Berlin-
Staaken airfield .
While the He 64 was winning fame as the first really efficient
sports plane, we were already in Warnemünde feverishly build-
ing the first rapid aerodynamically perfect passenger plane in
Europe, which meant a great step forward.
In late autumn of 1931 came the unexpected news from America
of a new single-engine mail plane that achieved a maximum speed
of 162 mph with a weight of 5,200 lbs. and a fairly weak 500-hp
engine. It had been built by Lockheed and bore the name Orion.
Since in Germany passenger and mail planes could fly only at
135 mph, both the Transport Ministry and the Lufthansa were
skeptical. I felt I was back in the old days when people did not
believe in the Wright brothers. After everything we had learned
about the overriding importance of streamlining for greater speed ,
I did not doubt the performance of the Orion . The pictures of
this plane showed it to be thoroughly streamlined. One thing was
certain ; the Lufthansa had to face the danger of seeing fast Ameri-
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 SPEED CRAZY - 1930-1934

can aircraft of the Orion type operated by other European airlines,

which were their competitors. If these competitors could speed up
the mail deliveries, the commercial results were entirely predic-
table.
I had just opened an agency in Berlin. My representative was a
Bavarian and a former General Staff officer, Major von Pfister-
meister, a man who was my direct opposite in temperament—calm,
unruffled, tactful and with an impressive style in his business
correspondence. I never regretted this choice.
Once a week I drove to Berlin to check on the latest develop-
ments in the airplane industry. During one such visit only a fort-
night after I learned about the Orion, I met the man who was
responsible for the technical development of the Lufthansa,
Engineer Schatzki .
The day I arrived, he said to me, "Well, what do you think of
the Americans? "
"You mean the Orion," I said. "If you want my opinion, the
story is true and we should get a move on and make something
better."
"Maybe," he said . "We've already started something."
He did not give me any details, but I soon learned that Junkers
in Dessau had been given contracts to develop fast civilian aircraft
on the lines of the Orion . The planes were to be designed for two
pilots and four to six passengers, in addition to postal freight, and
fly at 150 mph-in fact, nearly as fast as the American plane. I
pondered over this contract, for I was convinced that despite all
his achievements in heavy transport planes, this was no job for
Junkers, whose accomplishments were all-inclusive except for
speed. At the beginning of 1932 , it was known in Berlin that he
was making very slow progress. I learned a great deal more from
my old associate Köhler, who had gone to Junkers for a change of
air. He came back to me.
Köhler told me quite frankly that he was sick of having to stick
the bailiff's tickets on the wings and tails of the Junkers planes on
the airfield . Moreover, he had not received his November salary
and he took a dim view of the fact that every Friday several
hundred men were laid off and then taken on again on Monday,
although meanwhile not a single penny had come in. Köhler was
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 STORMY LIFE

really sorry for Junkers and could not stick it out any longer.
The crisis in Dessau, which was no secret, had much more serious
ramifications. It was a crisis that Junkers, in spite of his scientific
genius and personal modesty , could no longer overcome, because
he had spent too much on publicity and world-wide representa-
tion without the necessary financial returns. The Reich Transport
Ministry should have considered it their duty to subsidize him,
for the sake of his performance for postwar Germany's aircraft
industry, but even a man like Ernst Brandenburg had apparently
lost confidence in Junkers' business ability. In any case, the crisis
in Dessau had obviously contributed to the lag in building high-
speed aircraft. In February , 1932 , I received an unexpected call to
see Brandenburg.
"Are you in a position, " he asked, "to build in about six months
a fast plane for the Lufthansa with the same performance as the
Orion?"
"Yes," I said without hesitation .
Brandenburg looked at me with surprise when I replied to his
request for a speed of 155 mph. "Do you think it is worth it?
Even if we achieve this speed, the Americans will still be fifteen
to twenty miles an hour faster. " I proposed what I had been dis-
cussing with the Günter brothers and Schwärzler during the last
few months. "Our machine must do at least 200 mph in order to
rank as a competitor."
Brandenburg shook his head dubiously. "You'll never be able to
do that," he said.
"Give me the contract," I replied, "and I'll carry it out. Because
we have to."
"We're entering a completely unexplored field," said Branden-
burg. "I can't afford to take too big a risk. I appreciate your argu-
ments, of course, but I'm inclined to aim at a slightly lower per-
formance and build a machine capable of, say, 160 mph. However,
I'll discuss the question with my advisers and with Lufthansa's
managing director, Milch. Then we'll see ."
A few days later, on February twelfth, I drove to Berlin again.
This time I found Milch and Schatzki in Brandenburg's office .
Milch's powerful figure dominated the conference . As far as I can
remember, this was my first meeting with the man who, a few
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 SPEED CRAZY ― 1930-1934

years later, after a swift and ruthless career, would become one
of the most powerful figures in German aviation.
But even at that time, Milch's position as managing director of
the Lufthansa was very strong. His co-directors were not up to
his organizational abilities, his burning ambition and his single-
mindedness of purpose. No one knew that he was secretly in close
contact with the National Socialist Party . The fact that Hitler had
at his permanent disposal a Lufthansa pilot called Bauer and was
allowed favorable terms of payments for Lufthansa machines
would hardly have been possible without Milch's tacit support.
All this came to light after the political upheaval of January, 1933.
It was a surprise even to Milch's own friends. It helped this force-
ful and capable man to win the dominating position he was to
hold, and where he ultimately was to fail.
Milch and I did not exchange many words . He showed that he
was capable of making swift decisions, but that he was equally
prepared to make compromises. We agreed that I should develop
a fast plane for two pilots and four passengers with adequate
freight space and a speed of at least 177 mph. This was well below
the 200 mph I had proposed, but better than nothing.
With the contract in my pocket, I drove back to Warnemünde .
The next day, we started working on the new aircraft, which
was to be known as He 65. We designed a cantilever low-wing
monoplane, with an undercarriage that was not yet retractable,
though fully streamlined. This work was well under way when
on Sunday, May 15 , 1932 , as I was reading the papers, I received a
great shock. Swissair had put a Lockheed Orion into service on the
Vienna-Zurich line. Five minutes later, I had my Berlin director,
von Pfistermeister, on the telephone. He was still half asleep.
"Now we're in the soup," I said. "The Orion is in Europe, and
with the machine we're building, we can't possibly compete with
it. It's pointless building the present plane. We must carry out
what I originally proposed. We must build something faster than
the Orion." I repeated the arguments I had mentioned to Branden-
burg and Milch. "You must get hold of them at once," I said, "and
pass on my proposal. "
"But, Herr Heinkel, it's Sunday," said Pfistermeister.
"I can't help that. Get going and tell them what I propose to
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 STORMY LIFE

do. Also , tell them that even if we have to scrap all our work and
start all over, it will not mean any delay in the delivery date."
"I'll try," said my director, far from convinced . "But I tell you
again, it's Sunday. "
I waited impatiently. I drove over to the factory. Standing in
front of the drawings, I figured out what had to be done. Then I
drove back home. There was still no call from Berlin, so I rang
Pfistermeister again. He was out. About an hour later, Milch him-
self was on the phone. He displayed a characteristic even his
bitterest opponents could not later deny him; readiness at all
times.
Milch already knew about Swissair's scoop. He agreed at once
to my proposal that we should try for a maximum speed of more
than 200 mph. He said that he would communicate as quickly as
possible with Brandenburg and give me a decision .
This decision was made the following Wednesday at ten o'clock
in the morning. The Transport Ministry was in agreement pro-
vided that the change in design would not cost them any more
money. I must admit that for a moment I hesitated, but no longer
than that . The means so far at my disposal would never be adequate
to finance what I had now taken on-to surpass the Americans, who
obviously had millions of dollars to back them up. It was obvious
that all additional costs would have to be borne by myself, but I
could not turn back. The new goal was so tempting that nothing
in the world could have held me back. I said, "Agreed."
From this moment on, began a job that overshadowed in tempo
and risks anything we had achieved so far in the field of rapid
construction. A month later I delivered the blueprints, approxi-
mate calculations and preliminary sketches of the fast passenger
and mail plane, Heinkel He 70. The guaranteed maximum per-
formance was 195 mph and cruising speed of 178 mph. It was
taken for granted that these guaranteed performances were to be
exceeded if possible . Several features of the design were so new
and revolutionary that even Schatzki and his assistant Achterberg
were dubious.
"It's not possible," they lamented . "You're being too optimistic . "
"It's going to be all right."
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 SPEED CRAZY - 1930-1934

It would take too long to describe all the details of construction .

It was found, for example, that the speed could be increased
considerably if the wing surfaces did not meet the fuselage surfaces
at a sharp angle, but blended into them in rounded, flowing curves.
This problem was ingeniously solved by Walter Günter. I chose
a liquid-cooled engine. Cooling water was replaced by a mixture
of glycol and water boiling at 284°F. This enabled us to make the
radiator, which in earlier designs had caused a large drag, quite
small and retractable. Furthermore, by making both undercarriage
and the tail skid retractable, we obtained a speed increase of 22-25
mph, with an engine of a mere 600 hp. During the short time avail-
able, it was impossible to carry out any pilot experiments in the
wind tunnel. "Never mind," I said to the Günters. "It's got to
be O.K."
Much of our experience was gained during the progress of the
work itself. For example, we made flush joints on the wing sur-
faces and counter-sunk the bolts of the door handles, fittings and
footholds to reduce wind resistance.
Thanks to the short delivery date, I had to resort to special
measures. Even before the workshop blueprints were finished, the
fuselage ribs were ready in the shop, based on temporary sketches
from the design office.
At the end of November, 1932 , our new bird taxied for the
first time out of the hangar. To our eyes, she was an indescribably
beautiful plane with revolutionary lines, slender as an arrow.
December first was the tenth anniversary of my factory, and
Junck, my chief test pilot, proposed to celebrate this day by
taking off in the completely untested machine in my presence and
flying her to Travemünde.
Without my knowledge, Junck and Köhler on the previous
afternoon had made the first taxiing tests to be quite certain that
the retractable undercarriage of the He 70 was solid enough .
Köhler had clung to the struts like a monkey, to make sure it did
not bend while the machine taxied.
As we dared not retract the undercarriage on the first flight,
Köhler used plywood to fair over the openings in the underside
of the wings, into which the undercarriage was to disappear. We
125
 STORMY LIFE

had no idea how these openings would affect the airflow. Junck
had insisted on taking off alone on this first flight of about fifty
miles.
She was air-borne on December first. I stood by the telephone on
the airfield. With me were Schwärzler, the Günter brothers,
Köhler and many others who had worked on the machine. I put
through a long-distance call to Travemünde so that I would know
at once if anything happened. At last I heard the announcement,
"Aircraft in sight," and a moment later, "Smooth landing."
Further tests began the following day in Travemünde. At last,
Brandenburg, Milch, Schatzki and Achterberg drove out from
Berlin to see our miracle bird. Each day was full of excitement. No
one today can realize what it meant to retract the undercarriage
for the first time in full flight. I set up a telescope to follow the
first performance. Before Junck and Köhler started , I said, "Make
up your minds where you prefer to be buried if the wheels get
stuck. "
Junck was all for a meadow near the edge of a forest, but Köhler
thought that the wet sand on the beach would be more suitable. I
decided that they would probably come to terms if they had to,
but fortunately, there was no need for that. The undercarriage
disappeared like magic into the wings and slipped out again just
as easily. No one down below could see the sweat on Köhler's
forehead. For back in those days the whole mechanism was not
electrically operated; instead, we used a hand-operated hydraulic
pump. Köhler was still sweating when he landed.
Much of our progress was fortuitous, and there were some funny
incidents. On the first cross-country flight, one of the engines
broke an oil pipe . The oil ran out along the fuselage. I was standing
on the airfield when the machine landed and noticed that the soot
from the exhaust had mingled with the oil, making visible stream-
lines. We could see at once that where the wings fitted onto the
fuselage the streamline was still not perfect. Without the oil and
soot, we would have never discovered it so quickly.
"Take a look at that," I said to Köhler. "Let's make a soot test.
Paint the whole fuselage with oil. Behind the cowling, during the
flight, some soot should blow on the oil. Then we'll see whatever
aerodynamic flaws still remain."
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 SPEED CRAZY ― 1930-1934

"It shall be done, " said Köhler, "it shall be done. "
The following day, he attached pipes with nozzles to the cowl-
ing. The pipes led into the cabin to a fire extinguisher that was now
filled with soot. The plane took off on a long cross-country flight,
via Hanover to Leipzig. When she returned a few hours later, she
was unrecognizable, although she had achieved what I wanted.
The pattern of the airflow could be seen all over the plane, but the
pilots were invisible. The cabin windows were pitch-black and
when at last the door opened, a couple of chimney sweeps
appeared. Only their eyes gleamed white.
"What on earth have you done? " I asked .
"Ah, Herr Heinkel, " gasped Köhler. He sneezed the black dust
from his nose before he could talk.
On the flight, the rubber connector had somehow come loose
from the fire extinguisher, without Köhler noticing it. Just before
landing in Hanover he tried out the extinguisher and from then on
everything went black. The cabin was full of soot and they could
not see a thing. With the greatest difficulty, they came down in
Hanover and in their condition had not dared to get out of the
machine, until the airfield inspector arrived. He had heard rumors
of the new fast "Heinkel" and could not make out why it looked
so black. "I can understand that a fast machine might look black
outside," he said thoughtfully. "But I don't see why it should be
so black inside." They made off as quickly as possible, fastened the
rubber tube again and carried out the test.
We roared with laughter and carried out the necessary improve-
ments on the machine. All spots that showed flaws in the stream-
lining were filled with balsa wood.
But our greatest day came when Junck returned from a high-
speed flight and announced excitedly, "Two hundred twenty-five
mph ! But I think she's got a lot more in her. It's a phenomenal
kite.'
This was 30 mph more than I had guaranteed.

When the machine was thoroughly tested three weeks later,

Achterberg still refused to believe the high speed . "It's impossible,"
""
he said. "It couldn't possibly do more than 218 mph.'
"All right, let's make a bet. For each mile an hour under 218
127
 STORMY LIFE

mph you get two bottles of champagne, but you give me one for
every mile an hour over that figure."
"It's a deal," said Achterberg, sure he would win. After a few
last-minute alterations, the He 70 was flown to Staaken near Berlin.
Just as she had taken off, I got an urgent telephone call from
Berlin, saying, "Cancel the flight-heavy snowstorm over Berlin."
The warning came too late. The machine had no radio. We had
some extremely anxious moments. No message from Staaken.
Suddenly the telephone rang and somebody spoke in a great state
of agitation. "There's a plane just coming in that has lost its
undercarriage. The crash crew has been alerted ."
This alarm was greeted with roars of laughter. We breathed
freely again. We knew that our machine had got through and that
the first European airplane with a retractable undercarriage had
landed at Staaken. A few days later, Achterberg sent me twenty-
seven bottles of champagne, for with full throttle the He 70 ,
despite its rather small engine, had reached a speed of 234 mph,
the landing speed being only 68 mph.
Between March 14 and April 28 , 1933 , Lufthansa Captain
Untucht won eight international speed records, previously held
by France and the U.S.A. , with my He 70 passenger plane over
specified distances, with specified loads.
The Lufthansa christened my plane the Heinkel Blitz and put it
on the Berlin, Hamburg, Cologne and Frankfurt-am-Main express
network. Reactions from abroad showed keen surprise and con-
cern. France, in particular, was disturbed at the speed we had
reached, for the fastest French fighter plane did hardly more than
180 mph. The French publication Aeroplan wrote , "If a Heinkel
plane, flying at 200 mph from Stuttgart to Barcelona, crossed over
our prohibited zones as a result of low clouds on a hilly frontier, a
pursuing French fighter would be like a fat man trying to run
after a motorcar." But L'Air was concerned with the more per-
tinent question as to what speed the He 70 would be capable of
if, instead of being fitted with a BMW engine of hardly 600 hp,
it were equipped with the latest high-performance engines then
being built in France, England and America. They maintained
that the He 70, if fitted with the Gnôme-Rhône 900 -hp engine,
would reach a speed of 275 mph.
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 SPEED CRAZY 1930-1934

This was a problem that constantly troubled me. What would

the machine have accomplished if German aircraft engines had
been at their peak? I thought of Claudius Dornier's words in
Venice and of his bitter prophecy that but for a miracle our
engines would always lag behind. No one could have been more
pleasantly surprised than I was when, shortly afterwards, a repre-
sentative of Rolls-Royce came to visit me.
From various newspaper articles and letters, I knew that the
He 70 had aroused enormous interest in the British Air Ministry
and in the British aircraft industry after I exhibited one of these
planes at the Paris Air Salon.
During this Paris Exhibition I received a letter from a well-
known British aircraft builder, which said, in part:

We have recently gone into the question as to what influence

certain new English fighter engines would have on the He 70.
We must say, with regret, that your machine, despite its greater
size, is considerably faster than our fighters. It is, in fact, a tri-
umph.

Hence I had every reason to be hopeful when a Rolls-Royce

representative arrived in Warnemünde. His proposal was short
and concise. "Mr. Heinkel," he said, "I have not come here to
pay you any compliments, but at the moment there is no plane in
the world up-to-date enough to test our latest 810-hp Rolls- Royce
Kestrel V engine, except your new He 70. We should like to
obtain one of your planes so that we can display our engine all
over the world. What do you say?"
While he was speaking, I suddenly had an idea. I thought of
the bottleneck in the German engine industry, for which there
seemed to be no cure . What if Germany could obtain the patent to
to build and develop Rolls-Royce engines in Germany?
"In principle, I agree to your proposal," I said, "but I should
like to make a counter- proposition. What would your firm, and
the British Air Ministry, say if we made an exchange? I will grant
England a license to build the He 70 and you, in return, will give
me a license for your latest Rolls-Royce engine."
The Englishman looked somewhat surprised. "You seem to
129
 STORMY LIFE

know about this German weakness," he said, with a smile. "But

I think we could get together on this basis, since your plane is of
such exceptional merit."
Not long after, I had news from London that in principle they
were disposed to agree to the exchange. We merely would have
to make the necessary financial arrangements. I drove to Berlin,
but there I met a different viewpoint. The new heads of German
aviation had consolidated their power and were revealing their
true colors. The new German Air Ministry decided that at the
present stage of development it was impossible for Germany to
deliver its fastest plane into the hands of the British . The German
engine industry, they maintained, would experience such a rise
that in two years, at the latest, it would surpass the achievements
of all foreign engine builders.
This turned out to be a bitter illusion, but was typical of those
days. My co-operation with Rolls-Royce was limited to the de-
livery of one He 70 to house one Rolls- Royce engine. When the
plane, thus equipped , was flown for the first time, the Rolls- Royce
chief pilot visited us. I chatted with him while one of my riggers
climbed into the machine to warm up the engine as was the custom
with German engines. The Englishman turned around and beck-
oned to the rigger to climb out again.
"You want to warm her up? " he asked, mockingly. "We don't
do that any more. Our engines don't need warm oil like yours.
We take off as soon as the water temperature is right." He said
good-by to me, climbed into the cockpit and flew off.
Nothing could have been a better illustration of our shortcom-
ings. With a premonition of things to come I saw my plane fly
off with a high-performance engine at about 260 mph, a speed
we could have had as a basis for our own engine work if conceit
about our future potentialities had not blinded us.
In the meantime, the He 70 made history . Bound up with this
history, was the fate of a man who crashed to his death—a man
who had become a key figure in the new German Luftwaffe and
who-thanks to his capability , his creative but never unrealistic
genius and his good relations with Goering-could have steered
it on a better course than it later took. I am referring to Lieutenant
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 SPEED CRAZY 1930-1934

General Wever, first Chief of Staff of the Luftwaffe and certainly

the most competent man who ever held that post.
In 1933 and 1934, the Reich
swehr was compelled to relinquish
some of its staff officer to Luftwa
s ffe . They were reluctant to turn
over their best officer . But the new War Minis
s ter , von Blomberg ,
was right when he said to Goeri , "Weve is one of our best and
ng r
I only give him to you as a sign of my frien
dship for your future
Luftwa ." W ever l e t f a l a
arned o ly s ate s 1934 but with the
ffe
tireless energy he put into everyt
hing , he insisted on flying every
new type of machin . He had chose the He 70 as the faste
e n st
Germa plane for his person u s e , b u t h e d i d n o t k n o w s o m e o f
n al
its technica peculiari
l ties .
In the pilot's seat was a little lever which, during a stop on an
airfield, locked the control column. When Wever took off on
June 3 , 1936, from Dresden, his rigger had forgotten to release the
catch of the control. Normally, any experienced pilot, before he
takes off, wiggles his controls to see if they are in order, but
Wever was not experienced enough. When he was air-borne, he
noticed that the ailerons were locked, but he could not find the
lever. All he had to do was to move it a few inches to unlock them
and save his life. The machine crashed for apparently no good
reason and the general was killed on the spot.
Very few people ever knew that the fate of this man and, to a
great extent, the fate of the German Luftwaffe had depended on
a tiny lever.

131
 Chapter VII

FRIENDS AND FOES

1924-1933

ON THE MORNING of January 30, 1933 , when I arrived at my

factory, I looked with some amazement at our flagpole . The
swastika was fluttering in the breeze. I braked sharply, called the
gatekeeper from his lodge and said, "What is the meaning of that? "
"Herr Brenner ordered it to be hoisted," said the old man.
"Well, I'll be damned." Herr Brenner was one of my test pilots
and also an S.S. man. Yes, an S.S. man, as any other of my workers
and employees might have been a Storm Trooper, Social Demo-
crat, Communist or a member of the Stahlhelm.
These private factions had never given me a sleepless night.
With me, it all boiled down to the question of whether a man was
efficient or not. Those who worked with me and , above all, had
stuck it out with me, were highly efficient.
"Well, I'll be damned," I repeated . "Herr Brenner, eh ? Take
that thing down at once. If any flags are to be hoisted here, I'll
give the order. What the hell is going on here? "
I went into my office . Maria Hupertz was there, as though she
had been waiting to hear what I would say about this surprising
event.
"Herr Heinkel," she said as I watched the gatekeeper pull down
the flag, "Yesterday morning a certain Herr Bittrich was here, a
high-ranking S.S. official. He told Herr Brenner to see to it that
the flag was flown in honor of the Party coming to power."
"Is that so? " I replied, admittedly a trifle ignorant that events
had reached such a pitch. "Well, well, so now the flag's down
again and it will remain down. "
I got down to work, for we were busy preparing the first He
70's for mass production . Fräulein Hupertz appeared a little later
to tell me that Herr Bittrich had arrived in person. She asked me
whether she should remain in the room but I sent her out. Herr
Bittrich came in alone.
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 FRIENDS AND FOES - 1924-1933

"So you are the gentleman, " I said, "who ordered that flag to
be hoisted in my factory?"
"That's right. It was on my instructions. I've also noticed that
it's been taken down . I should like to know the reason. "
I began to feel rebellious. I am afraid this had nothing to do
with politics or my political convictions. I felt that in the place
where I worked and which I had built up , it was for me to say
whether a flag should be hoisted or not. "Seventy per cent of
my workers are Social Democrats," I said. "I can't afford to
antagonize them. As far as I know, I've only four or five National
Socialists here. I can't afford any trouble in my works."
"We'll soon deal with any trouble," said Bittrich. "You leave
""
that to us."
"But I don't want any trouble in my factory," I repeated. "We
have work to do and no time to lose.'
He stalked out of the room.
"I shall report your attitude to Berlin, " he said as he left. "You'll
be hearing from us."
I heard the same afternoon, but it was neither Bittrich nor any
other S.S. leader, but Hermann Goering who called from Berlin.
He had just been given total powers to rule in Prussia.
I had met Goering only once. In 1932 , the well- known flyer
and actress Antonie Strassmann, a woman of great intelligence and
charm , was my guest at Warnemünde when Goering-at that time
still a private individual-announced that he would like to visit
my factory. He arrived with Emmy Sonnemann and had coffee
at my house. She had considerable charm. When I drove them
both to my plant we met Tony Strassmann, who was just coming
back from there. She hurried up to Emmy and they greeted each
other affectionately. They had both appeared on the same stage
in Stuttgart. "How did you manage to get hold of such a marvelous
wife?" Antonie cried. "Gosh, Goering, she's far too good for you ."
We all went over to the factory. Goering kept on saying, “When
I become Air Minister. . . ." Finally he turned to Emmy and said,
rather emphatically, "You see here a factory that will become
one of the largest in Europe as soon as I become Air Minister."
Shortly afterwards, they took their leave. I had not taken the
matter as seriously as it deserved and this was the only visit that
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 STORMY LIFE

Hermann Goering ever paid to my factory until toward the end

of World War II.
But now his voice came over the telephone. "Herr Heinkel,
people are rather upset about you here. I remember my pleasant
visit with you last summer. What I predicted then has now taken
place. I have just been appointed Air Minister and we are going
to build up a German aircraft industry second to none in the
world. We shall need your help. I would not like for our future
collaboration to start off on the wrong foot. Hoisting that flag at
your place was arbitrary interference. I fully understand your
attitude, but I have to ask you for a favor."
"What can I do for you? " I said.
"Well, I must ask you to let our people hoist the flag to celebrate
this day, which for Germany in general and for German aviation
in particular, will have such a decisive meaning. In the meanwhile,
the flag is flying in all other aircraft factories. I'm sure you won't
refuse this request ."
This was my introduction to the new regime which came to
power in 1933 .
Until this flag-hoisting incident on January thirtieth, I had
only a vague conception of National Socialism . Outside the realm
of my work I always was a rugged individualist as soon as the
fruits of my labors allowed me to have any private life at all. Many
people regarded my life during that period as wild and stormy,
particularly after I was separated from my second wife in 1929
and passed through a restless ten years until I finally found the
woman who would be my permanent companion. In the first
years of this phase, there were only isolated incidents that brought
contact with Nazi ideology and left me with a certain aversion
which, for a politically minded man, would have led to active
opposition. I merely had a dislike for certain self-styled "nationa-
lists" in Mecklenburg, who one day took exception to my large
Swabian nose. This came as a tremendous surprise to me though I
should have known better. I attributed the fanatical campaign
against "the Jew Heinkel" to envy. Certain people were under-
standably discontented to see that my humble workshop in
Warnemünde had become the largest factory in agricultural
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 FRIENDS AND FOES - 1924-1933

Mecklenburg, employing close to 1,000 workers . It displeased

them, I thought, that I continued to work during the worst eco-
nomical crisis, and was half-seriously, half-jokingly, known as
"the King of Mecklenburg. "
On a summer day in 1924, I went with my wife and my two
oldest children to the Warnemünde beach. We were playing ball
and I missed a ball tossed to me by my oldest son, Eric. It happened
to hit a lady in a bathing suit, brushing against her back. She said
nothing, but a man who had obviously been watching us for some
time, began to swear at me in the most offensive manner. "The
shamelessness and bad manners of this race are growing more
intolerable each day." He then launched upon a diatribe against
the Jews until he went scarlet in the face. He looked so funny
that I began to laugh.
I did not realize that he was referring to myself and my family
until he came over to us. He was a customs official called Kohler.
I did nothing about this man until he attacked me and my family
and our "Semitic" behavior on the beach in the Warnemünder
Zeitung.
I sued him. This resulted in a series of hearings, during which
I was left in no doubt as to the meaning of anti-Semitism and real-
ized that quite a few North German lawyers were well- disposed
to this particular creed. I got no legal satisfaction .
One evening I was driving my car in the streets of Rostock. I
honked because three men were standing in the middle of the
road. They jumped to one side and one of them called out to me,
"Another of those damn Jews . . ." This time, I took the law into
my own hands. I stopped, got out and gave the tall fellow a
couple of cuffs over the head, left him flabbergasted and drove on.
I was fined 400 marks. I paid and said I would be glad to pay
the same amount for any such incident in the future.
The paper Der Völkische continued to publish attacks against
me. Since the other lawyers were too frightened to oppose the
newspaper, or perhaps sympathized with it, I engaged Jewish
attorneys. A leading member of the staff of Der Völkische
admitted in public that he would not rest until "the Jew Heinkel"
had left Warnemünde and Mecklenburg. As it so happens that
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 STORMY LIFE

there has been no Jewish blood in my family, the whole campaign

was inspired by my large nose.
The controversy grew more violent and it seemed that it would
never end. One evening I took a Swedish Air Force officer who
was staying at my house, to a Warnemünde bar. We sat down
and I ordered two cocktails. The barman looked at me and said,
"I don't serve Jews." I picked up my glass and threw the contents
in his face. Then I grabbed everything I could lay my hands on
and smashed his entire array of bottles and glasses. The barman,
who was an ox of a man, disappeared, white in the face, beneath
his counter. He screamed for help, and did not come out until I
left the bar with my Swedish guest. The Swede shook his head
and laughed.
"Was that a madman? " he asked when we were in the street.
"There are quite of lot of these madmen running about these
days,” I said, in a rage.
For some strange reason, the incidents ceased from this day on.
I do not know if the barman had anything to do with it: perhaps
the glasses flying past his ears had cleared the air. In any case,
until January, 1933 , I had no further personal contacts with these
gentlemen.
My professional and private interest belonged to a world remote
from the bitter internal political struggle. This fact decisively
affected my conduct in 1933. I had an increasing number of
friends and acquaintances, both male and female, who were guests
at my house. I had built it on land I had bought some years before,
by the beach, so that I could enjoy life and the company of people.
I had a conservatory and planned to build a roof garden.
One of my neighbors in Mecklenburg was a friend of Casti-
glioni's, Herr von Stauss. He lived not far from Warnemünde on
a huge property of 7,000 acres, with wonderful five-hundred-year-
old giant oaks and a beautiful but eerie castle in which there was
no plumbing. Only one room could be heated and the cold of
centuries nestled in the walls. Stauss' yacht lay anchored in
Warnemünde. He knew many celebrities and constantly brought
them over to look at my planes or eat my Swabian specialties. The
Crown Prince and the Crown Princess Cecilia visited me fre-
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 FRIENDS AND FOES - 1924-1933

quently during their summer holidays. Sometimes the Princess

brought one of her children. The Crown Prince usually appeared
alone.
His main hobby was flying and this was why he felt so much
at home in Warnemünde. Undoubtedly, he was not so great a
personality as his brother, Prince Oskar, but he was a man of
extraordinary charm, who had not entirely given up hope of
regaining his throne.
There were many other guests: Prince Heinrich, the younger
brother of the Kaiser; the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg and his
brother, the consort of Queen Wilhelmina of Holland. The latter
was a stout drinker, with a goatee and a reddish nose, and was
usually accompanied by his daughter, Juliana, now Queen of
the Netherlands . Other guests included Udet and the film star
Hans Albers. Then there was August Euler, one of my early
flying heroes, and Elly Beinhorn, who at that time was famous
for her international flights ; the actress Leni Riefenstahl, the
famous American dirigible captain, Rosendahl ; Prince Louis
Ferdinand and a host of other celebrities from all over the world.
I got to know Leni Riefenstahl when she made her first films.
She was a charming girl, inclined to be a dreamer and completely
idealistic in outlook . This idealism was the driving power that
inspired her documentary films . She had great courage and tenac-
ity. While filming The White Hell of Pitz Palu, she remained for
hours before the camera in sub-zero weather. She was already
plagued by the first symptoms of a kidney disease that became
increasingly severe and painful. The outside world did not know
she was suffering, and judged her only by her propaganda film
of the Olympic Games.
Elly Beinhorn, the best-known and most successful German
woman pilot, flew my small fast Heinkel 71 on one of her African
flights. She was often at Warnemünde, a good sport, full of
feminine vanity but not devoid of humor.
Up to 1933 my life had been singularly untrammeled by politics.
The incident of the flag hoisting and Goering's telephone call
changed all that. Also, I met another cabinet minister of the new
Nazi government .
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 STORMY LIFE

Dr. Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister, who was at the Baltic

resort of Heiligendamm with his wife, Magda, asked to look over
my factory. I never had such an enthusiastic and observant visitor
in my hangars again. Moreover, he was reserved and modest,
which seems quite incredible today . It is possible that his private
opinions were different from his propaganda speeches for the
masses. In any case he said, "We shall never be able to have a large
air force-we are too poor. But it really need not be larger than our
feeling of national sovereignty requires. With the general enthusi-
asm of our youth for sports flying, that will be sufficient to bring
Warnemünde a life that will overshadow all I have seen here
""
today ...
After visiting the factory, we had coffee in my garden. When
Goebbels was ready to leave, I offered to run him across to
Heiligendamm in my speed boat. He was delighted and sent his
car back. On the way, we ran into bad weather. The rain was com-
ing down in buckets. Soon we were soaked to the skin. At this
moment, the engine chose to conk out and refused to start again.
The wind was blowing from the land and we were driven out to
sea. I tried to steer with two empty gasoline cans to prevent us
from being driven further out to sea. Goebbels never said a word,
until he asked quietly whether he should try to call over to the
shore. He began to roar at the top of his powerful voice. We were
noticed at once and a boat was sent out. As we drew alongside, an
ironical smile appeared on his face. "You see," he said, "you've
22
got to have a big mouth for this sort of thing ...
That evening we met again in Heiligendamm and Frau Goebbels
began to reproach me angrily. "How could you do it? Have you
forgotten my husband is a cabinet minister? How could you? "
I could not get a word in edgeways, which gave me time to
think of an excuse. At last I managed to say, "My dear lady, your
agitation is quite unnecessary . I staged the breakdown on purpose,
because I wanted to know how a cabinet minister would behave
in such a spot. I'm pleased to tell you he behaved beautifully."
We all laughed. When Goebbels told them that my six-year-
old son, Ernst, had confused the words "Communist" and "Min-
ister" and greeted him with, "Good day, Herr Reichs-Commu-
nist," the atmosphere became very gay. We spent a pleasant
138
 FRIENDS AND FOES - 1924-1933

evening. Goebbels made many quiet, intelligent and moderate

observations, which were hardly compatible with what he said,
wrote and was responsible for in later years when he held almost
unlimited power.

It was as simple as that: at first, the new era was painful for
only a few. Most others looked forward to it, and their anticipa-
tions were still tinged with rationality....

139
 Chapter VIII

BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE

1933-1937

FROM THE DAY Hermann Goering founded the Reichskommis-

sariat for German aviation and thereby laid the cornerstone for
the future Air Ministry, German aviation was given a perceptible
impetus. But this impetus could at first be only of a more or less
theoretical nature, since nearly all practical premises were lacking.
The men who, posing as civilians, held the key positions in the
future Luftwaffe and in civil aviation, came mostly from the
Reichswehr and the Lufthansa.
Erhard Milch became Goering's deputy and Secretary of State
for Air. When Goering promoted him to this position , he had
great reservations. He had intended to give this post to Admiral
Lahs, president of the Aircraft Industry Association ; but his obli-
gations to Milch were too great. So the latter took over this new
position. This was unfortunate. Up to the end of the war it pre-
vented a close co-operation between Goering as Air Minister and
a competent Chief of Staff, because no one could bypass Milch.
But if Goering hesitated to appoint Milch, despite the latter's
early sympathy for the Nazi movement, it was certainly not on
account of Milch's much-rumored and much debated half-Jewish
origin. Even in the first intoxicating days of his unlimited power,
Goering probably felt that Milch possessed greater abilities,
personal ambition and energy than he himself had shown on
occasion, and would stop at nothing.
In any case, he chose Milch and promoted him to the rank of
general . He could certainly not have made a better choice at the
time, though later it was proved that Milch's efficiency was
limited by a tendency to compromise when a direct approach
could have proved dangerous to his own career.
In addition to Milch, a series of hitherto unknown men were
appointed, who were to lay the foundations of the Luftwaffe:
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE - 1933-1937

Wever, formerly a Reichswehr colonel, became Chief of the

General Staff; Stumpff, another colonel, Chief of Personnel :
Colonel Kesselring, Chief of the Administration; and Lieutenant-
Colonel Wimmer, head of the Technical Department.
All these men were officially discharged from the Reichswehr
and worked as civilians in Goering's Kommissariat. During the
summer of 1933 , they visited me as civilians in Warnemünde and
brought me, more or less in confidence, the first news of the
planning of the new Luftwaffe.
The camouflaged Technical Department was an amorphous
collection of men, made up chiefly of officers and civil engineers
still thinking in the modest terms of the Reichswehr era and quite
incapable of following Goering's far-reaching aims and demands.
Characteristic of them was their rigid attachment to the biplane.
It was obvious that these limitations would soon be blown sky-
high as a result of Goering's wishes and fantasies. No one could
have been happier about this than myself, who had seen these
limitations only too clearly in the years I co-operated with the
aeronautical engineers of the Reichswehr.
During the first few months, I was brought in touch with the
plans and efforts of the new Technical Department. Apart from
three types of aircraft built by Dornier and Junkers, respectively,
nearly all German planes suitable for the new Luftwaffe had been
built by me over the past years as single prototypes.
One of the serviceable German single-seat fighters at the begin-
ning of 1933 came from my plant: the He 49 biplane, capable of a
top speed of 202 mph. So did the two operational short- distance
reconnaissance types-the two-seater biplane He 45 , and the He
46, a high-wing monoplane designed for artillery spotting. Both
planes had a top speed of about 170 mph. In 1932 I also built, and
tested the multi- purpose seaplane He 59 , a large biplane powered
by two 660-hp BMW engines. Another of my planes was the He
60, a naval reconnaissance two-seater biplane, fitted with floats
and a 600-hp BMW engine and a top speed of 149 mph. These
were available as prototypes.
The Technical Department had no other choice but to order
the types on hand in the greatest possible quantities if they wanted
to build up the new Luftwaffe as quickly as possible , at least for
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 STORMY LIFE

training purposes, and to create a few so-called "expendable"

squadrons. This is why the new Luftwaffe, when it came out into
the open two years later, was largely composed of Heinkel planes,
many of which served until far into World War II, even though
for me, as their designer, they had become obsolete.
When I think of the years 1933-35 ; when I remember that the
Do 11 was soon christened the Flying Coffin, and when I think of
the Ju 52 , with its temporary and comparatively useless gun turret
on top of the fuselage, its makeshift bomb bays and "dustbin"
turret below, I feel moderately satisfied with my own planes.
This holds good in particular for the stable, well-streamlined He 51
biplane. It should not be forgotten that these planes, in 1935, did
not even have machine guns firing through the prop. The He 59
sea biplane, which in my eyes was already an antiquated monster,
performed well way into the war.
In 1933 , the sudden demands of the Technical Department,
which decided to build these military aircraft as quickly as possible
and in the largest possible numbers, did not, as some outsiders
might imagine, arouse any enthusiasm in me. All my development
work seemed threatened, including the ground I had covered
toward modern fast aircraft. Suddenly I had to build planes by
the hundreds, instead of ten or twenty. This meant a changeover
which without a precipitate expansion of my works and the attend-
ant extraordinary financial demands and risks could not possibly
be achieved.
The Technical Department found a way out by arranging for
my Luftwaffe planes to be built in other factories that had no
suitable types to offer.
As these planes were still made of the old mixture of steel , wood
and fabric, this mass production under license was comparatively
easy, although even here there were a thousand difficulties, among
them the construction of efficient airplane engines. The engine
works were even less capable of meeting the new demands over-
night than the aircraft factories. When I think of the Siemens
engines that were put into my He 46 reconnaissance planes, they
still send a shiver down my spine. They made the whole plane
vibrate so badly that it was often impossible to read the instruments
on the panel.
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE - 1933-1937

This initial licensed production, however, did not spare me the

necessity of enlarging my factory because of the new and urgent
claims. But I probably would have held out longer had not the
Reichskommissariat informed me in the autumn of 1933 that I
must give up my hangars in the Warnemünde seaplane station, now
urgently needed for its original purpose-seaplanes. In this way I
lost most of my workshops and had to find new buildings,
In June, 1933 , a powerful-looking man, not quite fifty, was
announced. He wore civilian clothes as soldiers do who have worn
a uniform for decades. He introduced himself with a smile :
"Kesselring"-the future General Field Marshal.
Kesselring had come to discuss the quickest possible evacuation
of Warnemünde, and proposed that I build a new factory for
3,000 workers in or near Rostock.
This official interference of the Reichskommissariat in what
had hitherto been a private enterprise was something quite new.
But even then the first gentle approaches announced by Kesselring
would have infuriated me had he not impressed me by his matter-
of-factness, clear-headedness and generosity.
While the main ambition of the Technical Department was to
expand our industry as quickly as possible, Kesselring had to think
in terms of economics. He started with a conciliatory principle-
the least possible interference with private enterprise, as few state
subsidies as possible, but decent wages and profits so that the
indispensable credits for expansions could be paid back rapidly
and without any strings attached .
"In such circumstances," I said, "I'm willing to talk about a new
factory. So far, I've always been independent and I want to
remain so. If I build, let it be with my own money."
"So much the better," he said.
The fact that the new plant called for only 3,000 workers shows
how limited the new Luftwaffe plans were at the time. They
expanded only because of the unexpectedly favorable political
development.
At Kesselring's first visit, I could not foresee that I would never
finish the factory we were talking about, because production
demands would increase so rapidly that constant new buildings
and alterations became necessary .
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 STORMY LIFE

I advertised for an architect to build my new works . I chose a

young, hitherto unknown Bavarian named Rimpl. I never
regretted my choice.
The financing of my new factory was clear to me even though
it called for some involved transactions. The Heinkel Aircraft
Works had been founded in 1922 as a private company . As there
were only small series contracts, it was unnecessary to have large
workshops, and there was no unproductive administrative organi-
zation.
But the new planes needed longer development stages. Mass
production demanded the holding of larger stocks of material . In
1931 , I was compelled to turn my firm into a company with limited
liability, with a capital of four million marks. The official propri-
etor of the Ernst Heinkel Aircraft Works was a special holding
company called Rowa Ltd. , whose shares naturally belonged to
me.
Now, on the eve of building a new and far larger factory , I had
about three million marks in my reserve fund. In order to finance
the new works without being crippled by taxes, I had to change
my public company back to a private one and assume full responsi-
bility, as I had done in 1922. I was fully prepared to assume this
responsibility, provided I could preserve my financial independ-
ence.
More difficult than this financial problem was the question of
finding a new site. First, I thought it would be a good thing to
build it close to the airfield of the Arado Works.
"Out of the question ," von Pfistermeister telephoned from
Berlin. “We're already thinking in terms of aerial warfare and
two factories so close together would make too good a target."
Then I looked for a site near Rostock. Although the terrain we
found was not particularly suitable, we applied nevertheless for
a building permit, which could be granted only on special
authority.
But instead of receiving this permit I was paid a surprise visit
on August first, by the Gauleiter of Mecklenburg, accompanied
by his staff .
Hildebrand was a Mecklenburg farm laborer, reasonable enough
within his narrow political and human limitations, but he never
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE ― 1933-1937

progressed beyond them. When he visited me for the first time

he was apparently convinced that he had to do something for the
only industrial undertaking in his area. When he saw the heavy,
matronly women in my Rubens reproductions, he said with
peasantlike contentment, "They've stood up well to the winter."
My first conversation with him was simple and reasonable . No
one could have foreseen his bitter hostility toward me later. He
had brought along our plan, pointed with his thick forefinger to
the chosen site and said, "You can't build an aircraft factory
there. No one could take off from there."
"I know that, " I said, "but as we're not allowed to build in
Warnemünde, we must do the best we can."
Hildebrand looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. I could see
that this was his big hour. A member of his staff laid a map on the
table, and Hildebrand pointed to a broad strip of country between
Rostock and Warnemünde. "This is Marienehe," he said . "It's
one of the Mecklenburg state parks. There are 750 acres and it
lies direct on the Warnow. You've got everything there you want.
Enough room for an airfield and the river bank for seaplanes. I'll
sell it to you. I'll do anything for my Mecklenburg workers and
for German aviation!"
When I drove with Rimpl to the Marienehe estate to inspect
the site, the former tenant was running about with a gun, swearing
loudly at the traitor Hildebrand , who had robbed the peasants of
their land and turned it over to industry. "No one's coming here,"
he shrieked , "or I'll shoot! "
"Come on," I said with a laugh, "and don't forget that maybe
other people shoot better than you can."
At this, he quieted down, particularly when he heard something
about compensation. I rushed around the place with Rimpl, and
explained what my new factory should be like. The main principle:
it must be suitable for mass production . But, in particular, I wanted
a big design building.
This was the first time I had bothered my head about archi-
tecture, but after the first few days, it became a passion which
has never left me. Rimpl proved to be the right man to cope with
me. As I had no time during the day, I sat night after night with
him, poring over his plans. The first plan for Marienehe was a
145
 STORMY LIFE

well-integrated modern factory, scaled precisely to our produc-

tion needs.
The plans were not immediately passed by Berlin. On grounds
of air raid protection, the Ministry insisted upon scattering the
workshops . So long as we were building on a country estate, they
had the notion that the factory must look from the air like a
country seat with normal outbuildings.
Nevertheless, a beautiful factory eventually rose with lawns
and gardens around the large reinforced concrete administration
building and the design office. The hangars were also built of
reinforced concrete.
The building of Marienehe was accompanied, unfortunately, by
rather dramatic incidental music.
Late in the evening of June 17, 1934, a fire broke out in the old
Warnemünde factory. It was a Sunday. I drove at full speed
toward a black column of smoke rising from the airfield. Number
4 hangar was in flames; the fire brigade was already in action when
I arrived. Unfortunately, the fire had taken hold of the hangar
where the whole output of the past two weeks was stored-about
twenty-four land and seaplanes for the Luftwaffe. I had to watch
them go up in smoke.
My foreman told me that the night watchman, an S.S. man,
had inspected No. 4 hangar a few moments before the outbreak
of the fire, but found nothing suspicious. The whole affair was a
mystery. Soon afterwards, Hildebrand drove up. The excited
Gauleiter looked at me with a strange mixture of hate, anger and
contempt in his eyes. "That's what happens when you employ
Communists," he shouted. This was the first public declaration of
war in a struggle which had been brewing for several months, and
was typical of the period.
My relations with my workers and employees had always been
very close. They could always come to me with their personal
troubles. In 1933 the new shop steward began to complain about
my attitude . This was the beginning of the struggle between my
rather naive belief that I was master in my own house and the
conviction of the Party that it had a right to meddle in all matters
not strictly technical.
Time after time I was reproached for not asking the Party's
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE - 1933-1937

advice when hiring new personnel. The Party representative in

my factory reported me each time to Hildebrand, whose initial
benevolence now changed to a mood of surly distrust .
Finally, I had employed for a long time a few extremely com-
petent Jewish designers and statisticians. Thanks to the unpolitical
nature of my work and of my own views, I could not quite see on
what grounds I had to dismiss these capable people .
By the middle of 1934 , thanks to my obstinate refusal to comply
with his wishes, Hildebrand's attitude toward me had grown into
enmity. The fire seemed to him a gift from Heaven, a chance to
prove the unreliability of my personnel, take the control out of
my hands and make me more amenable.
He caused my foreman and my private secretary, Fräulein
Völkerling, to be arrested by the Gestapo. The following morning
he drove to Berlin to discuss the fire with Hitler, Goering and
Milch and establish a case of Communist sabotage in my plant.
An investigation was started . Himmler's deputy, Heydrich,
appeared and then the Gestapo chief himself. When I remarked
that the watchman on duty during the night of the fire was an
S.S. man, they pretended not to hear.
I finally drove to Berlin to discuss the matter with Milch or
Goering himself. I remembered Milch as the jovial man I had
met when I was building the He 70. Now he spoke acrimoniously
of the National Socialist spirit so painfully lacking in my factory,
and showed himself to be fully on Hildebrand's side. He obviously
would not interfere with the course of this inquiry.
I drove back to Warnemünde and on to Schwerin to talk to
Hildebrand, but got nothing but abuse and accusations. In the
meantime, Fräulein Völkerling and my foreman were grilled day
and night about the nature of my connections at home and abroad.
The situation became even more dramatic after the events of
June thirtieth-the so-called Röhm purge. Suddenly plain-clothes
policeman appeared before my door, and remained there for several
days and nights.
An atmosphere of gloom descended over my factory and my
house, such as I have never again experienced. Surprisingly enough,
my foreman and my secretary were released after they had sworn
to keep silent about their interrogation. My secretary had been
147
 STORMY LIFE

ordered to give me notice at once. Years later she returned to me

for good .
The atmosphere continued to be bleak until July eleventh, when
Admiral Lahs and Claudius Dornier visited me from Berlin. They
told me unofficially what presumably none of the people involved
had the courage to tell me openly: the cause of the fire had been
discovered. It was the S.S. watchman himself who was forced to
admit he had lit a cigarette and thrown the match on the floor. It
had fallen on to a patch of oil and caused the fire.
In the meantime, the hangars at Marienehe were rising, a set
of modern architectural structures in a pastoral setting, and I was
pleased and proud over the end results.

The first plane to come from my new works was the twin-
engined fast passenger plane, He 111. After the success of the He
70, the Lufthansa wanted planes that were larger and safer than
single-engined planes. The new specifications insisted on a mini-
mum of ten passengers and crew, as well as on several engines to
minimize the danger in case of a forced landing.
Our preliminary sketches for the He 111 showed further devel-
opments: streamlined body, elliptical wing and tail platforms ,
proper fairing of all junctions, retractable undercarriage and an
absolutely smooth surface. At that time two-engined passenger
planes were not popular. It had been general practice in the design
of multi-engined aircraft to provide three motors, so that if any
of them failed, the other two could insure the necessary safety and
maneuverability in the air. I had always taken a dim view of the
three-engined plane. I said to Schwärzler and the Günters: "We'll
build a twin-engine . We must prove that the center engine is
unnecessary for safety and merely prevents using the whole front
part of the fuselage for the cabin."
Whereas the wings of the He 70 were still built of wood, the
He became an all-metal construction.
The runway in Marienehe was only half-completed when the
first version of the He 111 , the He 111a, taxied out for the take-off.
It was a historic moment for me, although I had no idea how
important this new plane was to be and what a strange career it
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE - 1933-1937

would have as a peacetime aircraft-and as one of the best-known

bombers in the coming war.
Gerhard Nitschke, a thirty-year-old East Prussian, was my
new chief test pilot. He was both able and charming. He was the
first to fly the He 111 .
"Listen, " I said, while the engines were warming up, "if you
feel that the field isn't large enough for your speed, don't land
here, but fly over to Rechlin. Do you understand?"
He revved up and made a perfect take-off. I observed from
below that the plane had perfect maneuverability . She looked even
more beautiful and elegant than the He 70 Blitz and it was obvious
that she was much faster. I was still worried about the landing,
particularly as we did not know the landing speed, when I saw the
pilot circling over Marienehe for a landing.
"When I throttled back her engines in the air," said Nitschke,
"I knew it would be child's play to put her down." He proved to
be right, although the prototype was quite different from the
first mass-produced plane shown to the public in Tempelhof,
Berlin, on a gray January day in 1935 .
Nitschke flew over Tempelhof at maximum speed, at slow
speed with one engine, in vertical banks and in zooms. With her
253 mph, the He 111 was the fastest passenger plane in the world.
It was obvious that the Luftwaffe would immediately see the
possibilities of the He 111 as a bomber or, as it was thenceforth
called in Germany, as a combat plane.
When the Luftwaffe came out of hiding in 1935 , it possessed
certain convertible bombers, the Ju 52 and the Do 23 , but their
armament was quite inadequate for military purposes. It was
practically impossible to defend the Ju 52 against frontal attack.
She crawled along, thanks to the drag of her gun turrets, at just
over 120 mph. The gasoline tanks were completely unprotected
and it was easy to predict what would happen in combat. The
plane would burn like a torch. The twin-engined types were not
much better. By comparison, the He 111 as a twin-engined bomber
was an enormous advance.
Almost at the same time that my plane appeared, Junkers had
produced the twin-engined Ju 86, probably with military possibili-
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ties in mind, as it had a good range of fire astern between a double

tail unit. It was practically the same size as the He 111 , but con-
siderably slower, being equipped with a Junkers heavy-oil Jumo
205 engine.
The Technical Department planned to convert it into a bomber.
To this end, a machine-gun turret was built into the nose, with
additional machine guns above the fuselage and a retractable one
below.
This plane was a great disappointment to the first squadrons
which were equipped with it. On normal peacetime duties, the
engines overheated and the speed had to be reduced to 150 mph
and sometimes to 135 mph. Thus it was not much of an improve-
ment on the Ju 52 , for the 2,200-lb. bomb load of the former was
reduced in the Ju 86 to 1,750 lb. The plane was taken out of service.
In World War II it was used only as a high altitude and training
plane and for fighting the partisans in the East, and also -oddly
enough-by the British Desert Air Force against Rommel in North
Africa. The South Africans, having done well with the Ju 52
on their civil airlines for many years, bought the Ju 86 for their
Air Force and operated them in 1941 in the desert, equipped with
French Gnôme-Rhône engines.
It was therefore not surprising that the Luftwaffe called for a
speedy conversion and delivery of the He 111. It was converted
in a similar way to the Ju 86, with three machine-gun turrets
which were certainly better placed, especially when eventually
the entire nose including the pilot's cabin was built of plexiglas.
The He 111K became the standard German horizontal bomber
(as distinct from dive bombers) . Side by side with the 1939 Ju
88 heavy dive bomber, it was developed into the best-known
twin-engined plane Germany possessed until the end of World
War II. At the outbreak of the war, two-thirds of the bomber
squadrons were equipped with He 111's. The He 111K retained
its place as a medium bomber until 1945. Up to 1940, it was equal,
if not superior to, the enemies' planes, both in the East and in the
West. Later it continued in service because, as a result of the
internal situation I shall describe later, Germany was not in a
position to mass-produce planes capable of replacing the He 111 .
The first He 111K's to come off the assembly line for the
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE - 1933-1937

Luftwaffe in 1936-37 had an all-up weight of 17,700 lbs. , were

fitted with new Daimler-Benz DB. 600 engines of about 900 hp,
reached a top speed of about 250 mph, carried a bomb load of
2,200 lbs. and could penetrate from 310 to 370 miles into hostile
territory carrying a full bomb load. The last He 111P's were
considerably heavier and faster, and carried greater bomb loads.
Up to 1939, about 800 He 111K's were built for the Luftwaffe .
For 1944, the figure was 756. Twice they were taken out of mass
production, but they had to be put back because the new types
to replace them never materialized . The He 111 bore the major
burden of the bombing attacks in Poland and France, in the main
phase of the Battle of Britain and later in the East. In the Spanish
Civil War, it gave the Condor Legion the air mastery which the
Ju 52 had not been able to achieve. It was used by the Luftwaffe's
special unit, which from about 1937 on undertook long-distance
reconnaissance flights over the Soviet Union and, equipped with
auxiliary tanks, flew at great heights as far as the Crimea and the
Caucasus. One of the most curious developments was the He 111Z,
in 1940-41 . By amalgamating the wings of two He 111's and
building in a fifth engine, it became a five-engined, double- fuselage
machine intended to tow giant gliders for the landing in England.
Shortly after 1936, the demands of the Luftwaffe for the He 111
became so heavy that they could no longer be met in Marienehe.
Orders had to be farmed out to other firms. Since, generally speak-
ing, Junkers had the most important factory, I went to the Air
Ministry Ordnance Chief, Major Hamel and said, rather cockily,
"The day that Junkers start building Heinkels under license, I
shall have reached my goal, and I'll hang myself."
Sometime later Hamel appeared early in the morning at my
house . With a friendly grin, he dangled a rope in front of me.
"What am I supposed to do with it? " I asked . "Hang yourself,” he
replied. “Junkers has been ordered to build the He III instead of
the Ju 86."
Although my He 111 was now built in Marienehe, by Junkers
in Dessau, by Arado, by the Dornier Works and others, I still
could not cope with the increasing Luftwaffe demands. At the
beginning of 1936, Major Hamel appeared in my office.
"The Air Ministry has decided," he said, “to build a mass- pro-
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 STORMY LIFE

duction factory along the most modern lines for the exclusive
""
construction of the He 111. You are to build it.
"How?" I replied. "Am I supposed to borrow millions and
dance to the lender's tune? You should know me better than that."
“Very well,” said Hamel. “In that case I'm afraid the new
factory will bear the name of Junkers." He thought this would
involve my pride.
Meanwhile, in the course of the Luftwaffe boom many industrial
plants had been expanded or newly built. Countless license builders
owed their very existence to this boom and in most cases had been
financed and built by the Luftwaffe. Now I, too, was asked to
surrender my independence, but I was unwilling to take this
step. Four days later, General Loeb landed in Marienehe .
"I've heard you won't go along with us, " he said. "Personally , I
sympathize with you."
"I'm delighted."
"I'm not," he replied. "This is not a personal problem. I'm a
soldier who's got to build up an air force . I'll make you a straight-
forward proposal that you can accept. The new factory will be
built entirely with Luftwaffe money. It will not belong to you
and you will not be owing us millions. All we want you to do is,
so to speak, to become the godfather of this factory, lending us
your experience by supervising the building and organizing the
production. Once this is done, you are free of all further obliga-
tions . For your services you will get 150,000 marks in the form of
shares in the company. Furthermore, for the sake of appearances,
we should like the factory to be known as Ernst Heinkel Ltd. Do
you think your cherished independence would be compromised in
this way? "
I thought it over for a moment, and then I said, “All right, I
agree. Where's the factory to be, what output have you in mind
and when has it got to be ready?"
"I can answer only two of your questions. The factory must
be able to cough up 100 He 111's a month. You can find the site
yourself, but it must be near Berlin . As regards the time element—
rather today than tomorrow."
I immediately asked Rimpl and Pfistermeister to start looking
for sites. Oranienburg seemed the most favorable, as it was on
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE - 1933-1937

the suburban electric line from Berlin. For the moment, however,
there was no water there.
I drove out to see the site for myself. It was part tree- covered
hills, part heath—completely isolated and undeveloped ; a regular
wilderness. It took some imagination to visualize a modern factory
for thousands of workers rising there. After Rimpl had sent for a
water diviner, we drove to Berlin to look over other possibilities,
but I was given the same objections as in Marienehe. "Not in a
city-no compact block of buildings, but everything scattered , in
case of air attacks, " insisted Loeb.
"Production won't be profitable, ” I said. “ In a small place like
Marienehe, that was feasible, but here every increase in distance
will cost money."
"Don't worry about the cost," Loeb said emphatically. "It's
""
not your money."
Yet, I did not abandon the idea of having at least my administra-
tive offices in Berlin. Therefore, I visited Albert Speer, who had
not yet become Minister for Armaments but was solely pre-
occupied with the " new Berlin" he was planning on Hitler's
orders. I met him in his studio, where I found him completely
engrossed in his work.
From our very first meeting, I felt a great bond of sympathy
with Speer. Later, when he was Minister for Armaments, he visited
me often, but never mentioned a word about politics. All he saw
in Hitler was that particular characteristic which I myself was to
discover with some astonishment and which was bound to impress
any technical mind. Hitler had an exceptional grasp of all technical
matters, an amazing technical imagination and memory which at
times obliterated the politician in him.
Another bond between Speer and myself was our mutual passion
for speed. We used to race our respective cars on my runway,
and he could never get it through his head that my car was faster.
But when we first met we spoke of nothing but the new factory.
He told me curtly that in the new Berlin there was no room left
for my proposed administrative offices. He took me into his
studio and showed me the model he had built of the new city,
such as he and Hitler visualized it.
My own technical imagination was probably just as much fired
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 STORMY LIFE

by these fantastic plans as Speer's. But I remember that for a brief

instant my years of business training made me see the exaggerated
dimensions of this new city-a conception that did not rest on
solid foundations.
"And who is going to finance this? " I kept asking Speer.
His reply showed his complete indifference to anything outside
his own professional field. "Finance? " he said. "Why, the man
who ordered it, of course.'
In the meantime, water had been discovered about six feet
below ground level on our Oranienburg site. Once more Rimpl
and I sat night after night poring over the plans of the new factory.
My colleagues who had organized our mass production in
Marienehe were constantly called in for advice. We came up with
an architectural plan, which, as far as the aircraft industry was
concerned, was probably the most modern in the world. The
entire plant, deeply embedded among woods and fields and com-
plying with all demands of mass production, was split into two
separate groups. The factory itself comprised eight shops—a main
shop for raw material and individual parts to be delivered from
the outside: shops for building various units-fuselages, wings,
undercarriages-and pre-assembly hangars. To these were added
specialized accessories-such as heating supply, chemical baths,
paint shops, stores, fire station, garages, gasoline tanks, sidings and,
finally, a vast administrative building, a training school and
quarters for apprentices. The second group was adjacent to the
airfield. It comprised the hangar where all parts of the aircraft
were assembled , and the flight hangar, where the tested planes
were stored until they were turned over to the Luftwaffe.
For the first time, we installed an efficient system of air-raid
precautions, which, at that time, would have offered adequate
protection against aerial attack. The whole factory with its vast
areas of glass framed in steel and red-glazed brick could be blacked
out at a moment's notice. As Oranienburg was a long way from
the capital, we realized that we would have transportation
problems for our workers. To this end we built a new workers'
town, with more than 1,200 houses, a town hall, a school, a movie
and theater, a hotel, several shops, a laundry and a public swim-
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE 1933-1937

ming pool. At the beginning of April, 1936 , the plans were com-
pleted.
We finished Oranienburg in record time. A year to the day
after the first sod was cut, on May 4, 1937 , the first He 111 taxied
out of the assembly shop in the presence of a host of guests from
Berlin, among them Milch. Oranienburg became a showpiece
for the Luftwaffe, visited by nearly all foreigners who came to
Germany to look at our aircraft. They all came away highly
impressed.
From now on, the greater part of the combat He 111's for the
Luftwaffe squadrons were built here. They appeared for the first
time in Nuremberg at the Reichsparteitag in 1937 .
Three complete squadrons were to fly twenty-seven brand-new
planes each at Nuremberg. Two days before, I was called urgently
to the telephone in Warnemünde. Lucht, later chief engineer of
the Technical Department, informed me excitedly that one of the
planes intended for Nuremberg had a break in a wing and for
some unknown reason had crashed. All other planes would have
to be inspected at once, and their wings dismantled . The planes
were defective, he said.
I was absolutely certain there was nothing wrong with the
planes, but there had to be an investigation.
Two hours later, we knew what had happened. On leaving their
formations, the planes tried to split up by diving steeply. The
big He 111 tended to be rather heavy on the stick and needed a
greater effort to bring her back to horizontal. The inexperienced
young pilots had tried to make the job easier. They used the
auxiliary trim tab, which was not intended to right the plane, and
caused too much strain. After this was explained to the pilots,
the flight went off perfectly.
The fame of He 111 became so widespread that several foreign
air forces, with inadequate aircraft industries of their own, started
buying a number of my planes for their bomber squadrons. China
bought ten and Turkey wanted to acquire twenty-four. The sale
of planes now was no longer in my hands, but had to be authorized
by the Air Ministry . As it was the first secret Luftwaffe plane, it
seemed doubtful that they would grant an export license, but the
155
 STORMY LIFE

shortage of foreign currency, which was now beginning to be

noticeable, influenced their decision, and the deliveries were
authorized. For me, they started an export business which, until
the outbreak of the Second World War, over-shadowed every
thing I achieved during the 1930's in Warnemünde.
The delivery to Turkey was the most difficult I have ever
handled. After six and a half weeks of tedious negotiation,
Lammertz, the head of my export department, flew to Ankara to
expedite matters on the spot. When the delivery was at last under
way, there were still minor tragedies. A tiny hole in one of the
spars was bored in the wrong place. It was of no importance and
had been sprayed with dope. The Turkish inspectors discovered
it and began to talk of sabotage . They refused to accept the plane.
We wrestled with them for nine months, until at last I lost my
temper. I sent a telegram to the Turkish Defense Minister saying
that if the plane was not accepted within twenty-four hours, the
remainder would not be delivered, nor the spare parts for those
planes already in Turkey.
That did it. Next day the plane was Turkish property.
Unfortunately, the name of the He 111 is also connected with
the death of two well-known Germans-the famous fighter pilot
Werner Mölders, and the builder of the German speedways
(Autobahnen) , Dr. Todt.
Rumor had it that Mölders and Todt had fallen into disgrace
and were "purged" by sabotage to their planes ordered in highest
quarters.
He 111 specialists took part in both investigations . Mölder's
death on November 23 , 1941 , over Breslau Airfield was a typical
accident.
Coming from the Crimea and on his way to Udet's state funeral,
he made an intermediate landing at Lvov. Bad weather was
announced over Poland ; one of the engines had to be cut out as the
result of dangerously low oil pressure. All Mölders had to do was
to land on a military airfield, but he insisted on reaching the nearest
German airport, Breslau, to continue his journey by train. He
could have made it with only one engine, if clouds had not hidden
the Silesian airfields and made a blind landing necessary. In the
thick fog, the second engine conked out. Too late, the pilot saw
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 BUILDING THE NEW LUFTWAFFE - 1933-1937

a factory chimney and brushed against it. Mölders was in the

nose of the plane and when it hit the ground he was killed at once.
The cause of Dr. Todt's death, early in the morning of February
8, 1942, on Rastenburg airfield-serving Hitler's Headquarters-is
not so clear. The He 111 took off with Todt's regular crew and
an air force sergeant named Bäuerle , who wanted to go home on
leave and asked Todt to give him a lift. The plane climbed
quickly and set its course for Munich, when it suddenly banked
steeply and turned back to the airfield . At 150 feet it was clearly
preparing to crash-land, suddenly stalled, crashed and caught fire.
All occupants were burned to death beyond recognition.
The inquiry produced no clues as to technical defects. The
engines had run normally to the last moment and the rudder
controls were in perfect order . The undercarriage was locked
down, so that there was no need for a crash-landing. There was
no answer for the quick fire, either.
The theory put forward by various personalities around Hitler—
that the pilot had accidentally used the automatic destruction
device-does not hold good because the plane carried no such
device.
However dubious the postwar rumor that Sergeant Bäuerle, at
that time stationed at Hitler's headquarters in Rastenburg, had
been put on the plane by one of Todt's enemies and a time bomb
smuggled into his barracks bag, there is no precise technical ground
on which to refute it. The fate of Dr. Todt-of whom it was
later proved that on the evening before his death he did have a
violent quarrel with Hitler about Germany's hopeless armament
situation after the failure to achieve a quick victory over the
Soviet Union-was never cleared up satisfactorily for me. I always
had the greatest respect for Todt and at a Munich Probate Court
inquiry, I felt I had to get my opinions off my chest . I said . “People
are quick to condemn Todt, but they are happy to use his speed-
ways. In my opinion, there are only two possibilities : either to
put up a statue for him, or to close and destroy his speedways."

157
 Chapter IX

THE HELL-DIVERS

1936-1939

AMONG THE FIRST contracts of a strictly military character given

me by the Technical Department was one for the development of
a dive bomber that could dive almost vertically from a great height,
aiming the whole machine at the target and dropping a 500- or
1,000-lb. bomb, straighten out, and regain height.
After a transition period of two years, simultaneous orders
were given to several firms to mass-produce the most suitable of
our prototypes. The contract for the dive bomber was given to
me, to Junkers at Dessau, to Arado at Warnemünde and to the
new aircraft factory of the Blohm and Voss shipyards at Hamburg.
The idea of the dive bomber was by no means new. American
firms, particularly Curtiss, had been building them for some years.
Over there, they were known as "Hell- divers," for these aircraft
made exceptional demands on the pilots. As the Japanese were
always trying to keep up with the Americans, I had built the He
50 for them as early as 1932. It was a biplane of mixed construction,
with the special strength required for any dive bomber, unless it
wants to leave its wings behind in the air.
An adaptation of this plane, the He 66, equipped with an inade-
quate Siemens engine, was temporarily mass-produced for the
Luftwaffe to serve a dive-bomber squadron. In those first experi-
mental days, any available military aircraft was put into produc-
tion.
When von Richthofen ( the future Field-Marshal ) took over
the Development Branch of the Technical Department, the dive-
bomber idea was dropped.
Richthofen, I was told, maintained that a dive below 6,000 feet
was absolutely futile. German flak had made so much progress
that it could bring down any machine that ventured so low.
Therefore it seemed all the more peculiar that suddenly a large-
scale contract for precisely this type of plane was given.
But this was merely the outward sign of an important develop-
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 THE HELL- DIVERS - 1936-1939

ment in the Technical Department, where Ernst Udet, the famous

stunt flyer and World War I pilot, was now working.
On June 10 , 1936, Udet took over Wimmer's job. In one jump
he was promoted from lieutenant to colonel and then to the head
of the whole Technical Department of the Luftwaffe .
No one could have predicted what a fatal change this was, not
only for Udet's career and life, but also for the Luftwaffe.
I had known him for many years and found it difficult to imagine
him as a chair-borne colonel and head of a planning department.
"Ernie," or "Udlinger," as his friends called him, was an inspired
pilot, who flew entirely by intuition, with brilliant results. On
the other hand, he was a Bohemian, artistic , lighthearted and
frivolous, a reliable friend, but a confirmed enemy of any
bureaucratic routine . He had a sense of humor, but underneath it
all he was soft, vulnerable and impressionable. He charmed his
friends with his warmth, wit and daring. This reckless personal
freedom was also characteristic of his flying. The really great
German stunt flyer was a man like Gerhard Fieseler . Udet was a
flying acrobat and a clown of the air. The celebrated clown
Grock once said to him, "If you hadn't become a flyer, you would
have been what I am. ” Udet's picking up of a handkerchief from
the ground with a hook on the wing of his plane, his unforget-
table performances as the flying professor with a wig, beard, frock
coat and top hat, had little to do with usual stunt flying.
This is how Germany knew him and this is how the outside
world knew him. He was far more at home with artists, actresses,
musicians and painters than with soldiers, although he had retained
his patriotic pride as a soldier and sportsman. After he arrived in
Berlin in 1924 and settled down in a bachelor flat, I had many a
glimpse into his private life .
Udet had just been divorced from his wife Eleonore, or "Lo,"
as he called her. He married her against the wishes of her parents,
who did not approve of his penurious existence in the years after
1918. The marriage did not come to grief because they ceased to
love each other, but because Udet's passion for flying and a life
of adventure was stronger. Perhaps, had he remained with Lo,
he might never have gone to his death in 1941 .
The end of this marriage seems to have launched Udet on his
159
 STORMY LIFE

career as a stunter. He went from one stunt flying meet to another,

arousing enormous enthusiasm among the crowds. Many times he
made as much as 10,000 or 15,000 marks, which would last him
for a while. He had many newspaper friends who gave him
publicity. But when he was broke, it did not bother him. “Nothing
can dim our optimism,” was his favorite expression . He loved
good wine and good brandy , and he was a chain-smoker.
In the years when I knew him, politics were for Udet in the
nature of "funny noises off stage." But he, too, as a young war
pilot, had been raised in the old nationalist tradition. Patriotism
was something he took for granted, but as a result of his travels
abroad and his part in international competitions he was free from
chauvinism. War, to his mind, was still the same chivalrous combat
that it had been in his early days of flying. As a flyer, he had friends
all over the world and particularly in America. At first, he under-
stood as little about the rising Nazi Party as I did . When his
district leader in Berlin once asked him to distribute pamphlets in
the neighborhood houses, he replied : "Sorry, but I can't do that.
It makes me dizzy to climb stairs. ”
Goering had been anything but his friend until the late 1930's.
Udet had a low opinion of him, and often said so . They became
reconciled about 1930, because Udet was unable to carry a grudge
and thought they might as well bury the hatchet. In view of this
background , Udet's appointment as chief of the Technical Depart-
ment came obviously as a surprise.
After the reconciliation , Goering said to Udet, "When we
come to power, I shall be Air Minister. Can I count on you? "
Udet thought this was just a boastful bluff, and so he casually
said, "Yes." When this boast became a reality, Goering sent for
him and told him he needed him urgently. He needed his name
to build up the new Luftwaffe. He could not do this merely with
a few Reichswehr officers. He maintained that with the excep-
tion of Wever and a few others, they were all " stuffed shirts"
without imagination. He needed bold, imaginative men who
could really fly, instead of sitting in an office and flying on
paper. Goering reminded him that Udet had promised him his
help, and now he must keep his word, for the good of Germany
and German aviation.
160
 節
PPA
X

Above: Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh inspecting the He 51 in 1936.

Below: He 115 twin-motor seaplane off the Norwegian Coast in 1941 .
 TB
SF

Above: The He 112, first experimental plane to fly under rocket power, 1937.
Center: The world's first jet plane, my He 178. We flew the He 178 successfully in 1939.
Below: He 177 long-range bomber, with two pairs of coupled engines, on a trial
flight in 1941.
 THE HELL-DIVERS – 1936-1939

Udet was reluctant. He said that he would always fly for

Germany, but he wanted no rank or uniform and Goering must
leave him in peace with his politics. He wanted to remain free.
He wanted to carry on his stunt flying exhibitions, and fly to
Africa and America if he felt so inclined.
He underestimated Goering's diplomatic skill and persuasive-
ness. Goering took his cue from the word America. He replied,
with a smile, that of course Udet could never be tied down to a
military job, but America-that was a splendid idea. He must
go there and learn what he could to help German aviation. He
could visit his many American friends, look round and see what
was cooking, and stay as long as he wanted. Money was no object.
Udet fell for this bait immediately. He had just returned from
the United States where he had discovered the miracle of dive
bombing. American generosity allowed him to fly a Curtiss plane.
He described the machine in detail to Goering and pointed out
what an asset it would be for flying exhibitions as well as for an air
force.
Udet was convinced that while the Americans possessed high-
powered dive bombers they had no concrete ideas as to the proper
use for these machines. Udet's imagination set to work. “If a man
dropped a bomb in a vertical dive from 3,000 feet and lower," he
said, "he would hit the target on the nose." Goering's desire for
all innovations prompted him to agree at once. He commissioned
Udet to acquire a couple of Curtiss planes, ostensibly for Udet's
personal use in exhibition flights, but in reality intended for the
Luftwaffe. Udet returned with these planes, even more impressed
than before. His whole passion for flying was inflamed by this
diving idea. He demonstrated a Curtiss at Tempelhof. His dive
below 3,000 feet caused a sensation .
At Goering's request and driven by his own desire to convince
the Luftwaffe staff of the importance of his idea, he flew the second
Curtiss at Rechlin in the presence of technical officers and, in
particular, von Richthofen . He was due for a great disappoint-
ment. The officers were not convinced, even after his magnificent
performance. Richthofen remained opposed to the idea.
This resistance aroused in Udet a toughness that was normally
alien to him. Several engineers from the Technical Department
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 STORMY LIFE

who favored the dive-bomber project, got in touch with him.

They were mostly from the branch responsible for aircraft arma-
ment, including bombsights. Their sympathy for the dive bomber
was inspired largely by their knowledge that Germany did not
possess a reliable bombsight that would allow a horizontal bomber
to hit the target with any degree of accuracy . The dive bomber
seemed a way out of this dilemma, which incidentally, was solved
only in 1938-39 when a German fitter who worked for the
Norden factory in New York, betrayed the secret of their bomb-
sight to the Luftwaffe.
These engineers and officers on their own responsibility and
with Udet as pilot, carried out tests with a light sports plane, a
Focke-Wulf Stösser. They hung bombs under the wings, and
Udet dive bombed the targets until the crowds were literally
dizzy. At least 40 per cent of the bombs hit the target. But the
only result of these successful activities was a severe reprimand
from the department in Berlin.
When Udet complained to Goering about the short- sightedness
of such judgment, he received the answer, "You're telling me!"
This had been Goering's complaint all along. His staff was not
adaptable enough. Dive bombers were fine but the Luftwaffe
would never get them unless Udet himself joined the Luftwaffe
and went to bat for his idea. The superiority of the new Air Force
depended to a large extent on the dive bomber. Udet had con-
ceived the idea and now he had to carry it through.
What followed was a struggle between Goering, Wever's and
Wimmer's persuasive eloquence on the one side, and Udet's
healthy distrust of a military technician's post in any shape or
form , on the other. But anyone who knew Udet's fundamental
weakness would have realized that sooner or later he would bow
to a stronger will, and that his own passion for flying stood in the
way of his better judgment.
So Udet took the post of Inspector of Fighters. At the same
time, he accepted an industrial assignment , namely to prepare
the ground for a Stuka prototype.
The first step to tie him down to a military job had been taken
and the next would inevitably follow.
It was obvious that Udet, as long as he was, in the eyes of the
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 THE HELL-DIVERS – 1936–1939

department, an outsider without rank or office, would in practice

be without influence in questions of technical development.
Goering convinced him that unless he had a high military rank
and was given precise responsibilities he would never be in a
position to overcome the opposition to the Stuka idea.
At last, Udet gave in. He was made a colonel and took over the
Technical Department. The first thing he did-characteristically
enough-was not to familiarize himself with the organization, but
to fly the Stösser to Rechlin and display it in a power-dive to
Wever and the officers of the general staff. His accuracy of aim
was completely convincing. The way was clear for the Stuka
contract which was in my hands in 1936.
Supported by our experiences with the He 70, we now devel-
oped a two-seater, single-engined monoplane with retractable
undercarriage, whose newly developed Daimler-Benz DB 600
engine of 900 hp enabled it to reach a top speed of about 250 mph.
A 550 or 1,100 lb. bomb could be stowed in a bomb bay in the
belly of the fuselage. The bomb was ejected by a special device
during the dive, and this caused it to fall right over the target just
before the plane pulled out. The plane was of specially strong all-
metal construction . Its type number was He 118.

Udet told me rather apologetically that he had admitted to

Goering, "I don't understand anything about production or big
airplanes. The whole thing makes me uneasy . It's not in my line."
Goering replied, "It all depends on the ideas you produce. For
the rest you can get as many people as you like. For the outside
world, we want your name more than anything else. That is the
most important of all."
This was the beginning of a human and technical tragedy, both
for the Luftwaffe and for Udet himself-the tragedy of the right
man in the wrong job.
When the He 118 was ready to be tested, its development for
mass production was not entirely complete, owing to the short-
comings of my technical director, Hertel. The machine was
entrusted to one of my pilots, Heinrich, who had proved himself
to be reliable. I did not know, however, that he was averse to
taking power dives and the risks they entailed at that stage.
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 STORMY LIFE

For purposes of comparison, three other planes appeared at

Rechlin. Arado sent a solid biplane of mixed construction—the Ar
81-with a fixed undercarriage and double tail unit. The bombs,
as far as I can remember, hung uncovered beneath the fuselage.
The speed was comparatively low.
Blohm and Voss sent an all-metal low-wing monoplane-Ha 137
-also of sturdy design, with a fixed undercarriage. Junkers sent
the Ju 87 , which had dispensed with all streamlined elegance;
the bomb also hung beneath the body. All planes were equipped
with dive brakes which enabled them to pull up over the target.
The competition between these hell-divers was an indescribably
dramatic spectacle filled with ear-splitting noise. It heralded the
totally unnerving effect produced by the Stukas in the first phase
of World War II , an effect still heightened by a typical Udet
invention, a motor siren known as the "Jericho trumpet." For me,
however, the whole show was a disappointment, although the
choice finally rested between the Junkers 87 and my own plane .
At the decisive moment, Heinrich faltered before making his
power dive. While the Junkers pilot virtually turned the plane
upside down, Heinrich never got beyond some " belly" dives.
The decision to choose the Junkers 87 seemed a foregone con-
clusion.
Then Udet came over to me. "I won't make up my mind at
the moment. I must dive your damned plane myself. I'll come out
to Marienehe."
On that same day I received a visit from Colonel Charles A.
Lindbergh, who was in Germany to acquaint himself with the
progress of German aviation. I received instructions from the Air
Ministry to show him everything.
Lindbergh landed in Warnemünde, accompanied by the
American Air Attaché in Berlin , lean, black-haired Major Koenig,
and the Naval Air Attaché, a tall Commander named Mail. I had
not met Lindbergh before. He looked older than he really was,
despite his lanky appearance and his boyish face.
He examined with great interest all the types I showed him ,
particularly the He 70, the 111 and the 118. He scanned the
all-metal planes with an experienced and professional eye. As he
had been received with the same frankness in all other German
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 THE HELL-DIVERS -— 1936–1939

factories, in 1936, he probably knew more about the Luftwaffe

than anyone in the whole world . This frankness was no doubt
prompted by the wish to impress the famous American, but it
also indicated that there was not the slightest hint of rivalry
between the German and American air forces at that time.
While I tried to answer his questions in my rusty English,
Köhler came up and announced, "Udet has landed at Marienehe
and wants to fly the He 118."
"Let him fly it, then," I said. “I can't get away now, but tell
him to watch the propeller pitch control and treat the plane with
caution. "
I then drove Lindbergh to Rostock to show him my other
factory. As we were wandering among the planes on the third
floor, I thought I heard some unusual sound , like an engine being
revved up by a madman. Then there was silence and we went on.
A few minutes later, Raphael Thiel, my business manager, caught
my arm and tried to pull me aside . I made my excuses to Lindbergh
and told Schwärzler to take care of the visitor.
"Udet has crashed with the 118," Thiel whispered.
I looked at him in horror. "Is he dead? " I asked.
Thiel shrugged . He did not know .
I dashed off without saying good-by to Lindbergh. I found
Nitschke, the pilot, who told me that Udet had baled out and
landed in a cornfield.
"He was careless," he said, still out of breath. "He didn't look
at the propeller pitch control. The prop and the whole box of
tricks came off. The tail broke off and the pieces are lying over
there. We saw Udet dangling from the parachute and picked him
""
up. He came to, but only for a moment.
"Go on-what's happened ? "
Nitschke knew nothing more. Udet had groaned and said they
should leave him there, because he was finished. Then he swore
at our “ damn death trap," and fainted again when he was taken off
in an ambulance. Köhler had gone with him to the Rostock
hospital. I followed as fast as I could , but Udet was being examined.
I waited outside while he was being X-rayed . All I could hear was
a few muttered words and an occasional groan. I thought the
worst had happened and was just about to burst into the room,
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 STORMY LIFE

when I heard the voice of the chief surgeon. "Well, that's all,
Colonel. "
At the same moment, Udet's exhausted voice came through
clearly. "Doctor, you'd better X-ray my pants to see if I disgraced
myself."
I have never been so relieved in my life. Udet was alive and he
still had his sense of humor.
A few moments later, Köhler came out. “Well, he just about
made it, Herr Heinkel, " he said, “but the crate is smashed and
the Colonel would be dead if he had not been wearing Oxfords."
I was only listening with one ear . I was so relieved that I was no
longer interested in the smashed plane.
"Oxfords? "
"Yes, his foot was caught. If he'd been wearing riding boots,
he'd never have gotten out of the machine . One of his shoes got
stuck in the plane. "
I drove back and found that Lindbergh had finished his inspec-
tion. The news of Udet's crash must have spread, for the first
thing he asked me was how Udet was doing. We would have
preferred to keep the accident secret, but now that it was out I
could reassure Lindbergh and ask him to my home for coffee . I
remember a remark he made to me that day. “It must never come
to an air war between Germany, England and America. Only the
Russians would profit by it."
I often thought of these words later when Lindbergh returned
to America and, as a result of his advice against America's entering
the war and his opposition to Roosevelt's policy, some people
called him friendly to the Nazis. The motive for his advice was
perhaps to be found in his remark to me , but certainly did not re-
sult from any sympathy for the new regime in Germany.
How little friendship there was between Lindbergh and Goering
became apparent the following day when I was invited to a lunch
in Lindbergh's honor at the American Embassy in Berlin.
Goering was of course invited to the reception. He arrived
very late, without apologies. In passing, as it were, he handed
Lindbergh a decoration, which many Americans later blamed
him for accepting. Goering casually pushed a small case into his
hands and said, with his usual boastfulness, "From the Führer,"
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 THE HELL-DIVERS - 1936-1939

and turned to the American Ambassador and the Military Attaché,

Truman Smith. Lindbergh looked mockingly at Goering, shook
his head, and put the decoration in his pocket like a handkerchief,
without bothering to look at it.
Lindbergh's stay in my factory ended at five o'clock in the
afternoon. Goering had telephoned several times to inquire after
Udet, but I had no information from the hospital. I began to get
worried, when at seven o'clock my telephone rang. I heard a
hoarse whisper, "Heinkel, I'm thirsty," and then, “Come over at
once, I'm dying of thirst."
It was Udet. His words were music in my ears. If he was thirsty,
it meant he was out of danger. I packed six splits and two quarter
bottles of champagne. I picked the half-bottles because I did not
know whether he would be allowed to drink at all, but when I
arrived he was in good shape, sitting up in bed, and, an hour later,
all the splits were empty. The nurses were in a panic. They
begged, implored and threatened. At last, he was ready to go to
sleep, but at this moment another visitor appeared. We brought
out the quart bottles . I warned Udet that he would be thirsty
next morning if we drank up everything, but he had taken care
of that problem.
"I telephoned Köhler as well," he said. "He's bringing another
load tomorrow. Anyhow, I'm bored here. They're only after my
money, and the nurses are too old for me."
We left the hospital at midnight. I felt much better now,
although I was convinced that Udet's crash would sound the
death knell of the He 118 .
I have never realized so clearly how much decisions on the
choice of planes depend on chance and human fallibility. I am
still convinced that the He 118-although there was room for
improvement—was far ahead of the Ju 87 even after that plane,
as the Ju 287 , was belatedly streamlined and equipped with a
retractable undercarriage. But our misfortune started with Hein-
rich's failure in Rechlin and ended with Udet's crash resulting
from his frivolous disregard for indispensable information before
a flight. The Technical Department finally chose the Ju 87 as the
standard Stuka and I was free to sell the He 118 to Japan.
The Japanese Naval Attaché in Berlin was immediately inter-
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 STORMY LIFE

ested. He was followed by a representative of the Army. We

promised the Navy a prototype plane to be delivered by February
13 , 1937. A second plane was to be delivered to the Japanese Army
in October, 1937. The negotiations were entirely separate, with
the Navy and Army acting like competitors.
The Ministry of Trade instructed me to deal with the Japanese
only if they paid the full price, in foreign currency, for the planes
and the license. Thanks to the confidence of Japanese aviation in
German aircraft, we had no difficulties. New Japanese officers
and engineers came to my works and, again, were welcome visitors.
My relations with them were excellent.
Now a new technical phase of co-operation with the Japanese
began in my factory. It lasted until well into the war. The first
He 118 was sent to Japan in the middle of February, 1937 ,
followed by the second a few months later. By this time we were
already busy with new plans. They opened another chapter in
the struggle for speed.

168
 Chapter X

WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS

1935-1939

AS SOON AS THE Luftwaffe began systematically to replace their

provisional planes with modern military aircraft, they concen-
trated to a great extent on fighters .
From 1935 to 1937 , while the offensive units of the future were
still in their infancy , it was of primary importance to give modern
equipment to the defensive fighter units.
The transition from biplane to monoplane had meanwhile
become universal. The only chance for the German Luftwaffe in
those years lay in making this transformation more quickly than
the others and thus forging ahead. This called for a single-seater
fighter with a speed of more than 280 mph, or more than 60 mph
above that of the normal fighters of that period.
The most important designs emanating from various German
firms were the Bf 109 from BFW (chief designer, Messerschmitt) ;
the Ar 80 from Arado (chief designer, Walter Blume) ; the
FW 159 from Focke-Wulf at Bremen (chief designer, Kurt
Tank) ; and the He 122 , based on the He 70. The Ar 80 low-wing
monoplane was eliminated because it had a fixed undercarriage.
The FW 159, a high-wing plane with a rather complicated retract-
able undercarriage, was also unsuitable . Eventually only the BF
109-later known as Me 109-and the He 112 remained in the
running. Both were low-wing all-metal planes of similar dimen-
sions, with retractable undercarriages, heavily armed with cannon
built into the wings and machine guns firing through the propeller.
Both planes had a 650-hp Junkers Jumo 2 10 motor.
The test flights showed that there was little difference between
the two. Their maximum speed was about 300 mph. In the autumn
of 1937 both planes achieved this speed at the international flying
meet in Zürich, creating quite a sensation ; for the most modern
French monoplane, the Dewoitine 510, still with a fixed under-
carriage but with an 860-hp engine, hardly surpassed 250 mph.
This was a success for aero-dynamic construction , which was now
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 STORMY LIFE

eagerly adopted in Germany. In its general streamlining and its

solidity the He 112 was superior to the Me 109. The latter was
more angular but made up for this by its light construction , which
for Willi Messerschmitt, a former glider and light- plane builder,
was a natural solution to seek. This light construction made a great
impression on the Luftwaffe planners, who were primarily con-
cerned with producing as simply as possible and paid little heed
to the dangers of light construction.
But there was also another factor involved. The Me 109 was
now ready for mass production and in this respect Messerschmitt
had won a lead over the He 112 for reasons which would be of
great significance for my future work and for the development of
German aviation in peace and war.
The year 1934 saw the beginning of a phase in my work in
which I no longer could be what I had always been-my own
chief designing engineer, making all basic decisions personally.
The building of Marienehe and Oranienburg, the start of mass
production, the constant reorganization, the employment and
lodging of an ever-increasing number of workers forced me to
relinquish the reins of the design office until the new undertaking
was on a solid foundation. As if this were not enough, the infuriat-
ing differences with Gauleiter Hildebrand and the Mecklenburg
Party headquarters took a lot of my time and resulted in a per-
manent warfare between us.
This would have had no consequences for the constructive work
of my factory if my leading lights, Schwärzler and the Günter
twins, had been able to work as before, but now a new and dis-
turbing element had entered the arena. His progressiveness and
self-assured toughness had impressed me when I hired him and
because of my preoccupation with other problems he acquired
greater influence than he would normally have had. This was
Professor Hertel of the Research Institute for Aviation, whom I
had taken on as technical assistant at Marienehe. Later, because
I was busy with general problems and Party attacks, I promoted
him to technical director with full authority. I thought that
through him Schwärzler's caution and the unassuming genius of
the two Günters would be given the push they themselves did not
possess and which hitherto they had received largely from me.
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 WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS -- 1935-1939

It is never easy to judge others, for we all have blind spots in

this respect, but Hertel's manner of working had such disastrous
results that even a biased judgment could hardly be wrong. Hertel
was at first glance an impressive, extraordinarily intelligent and
energetic man. He had great initiative and an enormous drive
toward technical progress, but he was also a man for whom the
climate after 1933 was dangerous. His excessive optimism, and
the feeling that will power alone would conquer every difficulty,
responded dangerously to the ideological slogan of the time:
"There's no such thing as the impossible. " I had always been for
progress and the risks it entailed, but I always kept my feet on
the ground. Hertel was quite different. He would take three
technical steps forward where one or two would have been
enough. He would often overreach himself in his designs and
dimensions, so that in many of them the margin of safety was
ignored. This necessitated constant alterations, and as a result the
planes were never ready for mass production. He was a born
experimenter , trying out a thousand variations on the same plane.
While our goal was to have one plane for mass production, we
ended up with many planes, none of them ready. At the same
time—and this was particularly fatal-the impact of his personality
impressed even my older associates so strongly that he completely
dominated them for a time and hardly anyone dared to give me a
true picture of the errors he had made.
It was in the construction of the He 112 that he showed for the
first time his predilection for continuous alterations, experiments
and innovations. In consequence, the Me 109 was first to be ready
and the He 112 had to undergo its first test flight without a self-
starting undercarriage mechanism. The Luftwaffe engineer who
carried out the test had to operate the hydraulic pump by hand to
lower the undercarriage. Afterwards, he climbed out of the
machine covered with sweat and cursing roundly. This was a bad
omen for the He 112.
When Udet, after making several flights, agreed with the
opinion of his engineers and decided that from now on the Luft-
waffe would concentrate on the Me 109 as the only German fighter
plane, he followed for the first time the dangerous and foolish
basic principle of the German Fighter Command: building only
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 STORMY LIFE

one standard type . Udet saw the advantage of this method in the
economy of material and labor it represented. He underestimated
the danger of putting all his eggs in one basket by choosing a
single plane which could never meet all frontline requirements.
Udet said to me, "I'm not quite sure, but I think your bus
climbs a bit better and is more solid in construction, particularly
in the undercarriage. But if I can build the straight- edged wings
of the Messerschmitt faster and more easily than your curved
wings, I'd rather do it. We have at the moment such a fantastic
advance in fighter construction that it doesn't really matter
whether the machine is a bit better or worse. Palm your crate off
99
on the Turks or the Japs or the Rumanians. They'll lap it up .'
I must admit that I was extremely disappointed . By turning
down the He 112 , Udet had hit my deepest striving-to build the
fastest possible airplane .
"The next fighter must be a Heinkel," I said to Udet.
He was evasive. "The department now thinks that the aircraft
factories should specialize on certain types only. Messerschmitt
will take over the fighters with the Me 109, and you're to develop
bombers on the lines of the He 111. The Me 109 is now getting
a 1,000 horsepower Daimler-Benz engine . With that she'll do
340 miles an hour-and with the next engine well over 370. At
the same time, Messerschmitt is working on a new twin-engined
fighter. We're not worrying about fighters for the time being."
"But look," I said, "I have always built fighters, and bombers
are not my line. Specialize your production as much as you like,
but don't push the designers around . If you figure that in the
coming years you can fly at 370 miles an hour, what would you
say if within a year I built a fighter that could do 450? "
"That's impossible," said Udet. "The necessary engines won't
be available for four or five years."
"I'd rather not wait for the engine," I said. "I'm convinced that
the main possibilities for an increase of speed lie in improving the
airframe shape, and we haven't yet fully exhausted those pos-
sibilities."
Udet puffed away at his cigar. "All right," he said. “I can't
stop you, but I simply don't believe in the 450 mile an hour
fighter."
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 WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS - 1935-1939

"But I do." I had recovered my optimism. "First tests are

scheduled for the end of 1937."
"You'll never make it," he said, with a laugh.

In those days, he was still the same old Udet. Although by no

means technically infallible and threatened by errors which, in
his position, could have far-reaching effects, he was still his old
generous self. In the background, however, and in his words, I
could sense the growth of the Air Ministry into a completely
regimented bureaucratic structure. Later it lost all mobility as a
result of intramural rivalries, unbridgeable differences of opinion
and conflicting ambitions, not to mention actual corruption.
Udet still lived to some extent outside this apparatus, although
he was the head of it . I cannot express it in any other way: he
believed in leadership in the air, and not from an office desk.
He ignored his office, which grew larger and larger, and pro-
portionately less and less efficient.
Where could they have found so many capable men? Many
of the best ones preferred better paid jobs in industry. But even
industry had to content itself with the mediocre and the sub-
standard, because everything was suddenly going too fast. How
many of the difficulties and shortcomings in my own factory could
be traced to the same cause !
Before the Technical Department, well on its way to ossification ,
was put under political pressure to build a super-Luftwaffe far
beyond the material capacity of Germany, Udet could still remain
aloof from this bureaucratic monster and follow his own optimistic
bent.
Udet had three years ahead of him, in which he achieved the
peak of his life. These were the years when he flew from factory
to factory, enthusiastic about his job, cigar in his mouth, ready
for action. His Siebel courier plane was complete with a private
bar stocked with the choicest brandies. Udet was still willing to
live and let live.
Before I began to discuss with Hertel and Günter the design
of the new 450-mph fighter, I studied the details of previous
international contests for the world speed record. The flight had
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 STORMY LIFE

to comply with the requirements of the Fédération Aéronautique

Internationale.
The course, over which the plane had to fly twice in both
directions, measured 3,280 yards. This was called the basic course,
and had to be marked out clearly at both ends by solidly anchored
markers. For approach and departure, a further 546 yards were
to be available at either end of the basic course . During the flight
over the latter, the plane had to fly not higher than 246 feet. The
idea was to prevent the plane from diving and thus gaining addi-
tional speed which would not correspond to its true performance.
A new record would be established if a speed at least 5 mph faster
than the existing record were attained . Finally, the plane was
required to land smoothly and undamaged after its record-break-
ing flight.
In 1934, the absolute world speed record was held by the Italian,
Francesco Agello, with 440.4 mph. Now that the Italians had lost
the Schneider Cup to the British and had made several vain
attempts to get it back, keeping the speed record had become a
matter of Italian prestige.
In consideration of the Italian speed record and my proposed
450 mph, I decided to aim for 470 mph. I remember the day when
the blueprints of the new plane were ready; it was May 25 , 1937 .
For our engine we chose the Daimler-Benz DB 601 , which
went into mass production shortly thereafter. It was supposed to
develop 1,100 hp and with increased compression ratio and high
octane fuel it could certainly be souped up to 1,600 or 1,800 hp
over a short period. Everything else must be accomplished by
improvement of the shape, reduction of weight, improvement of
wing surface finish, reduction of the wing area to a minimum and,
above all, by the removal of the large drag caused by the protrud-
ing water and oil coolers beneath the engine.
On that May day in 1937 I insisted for the first time that a
cooling system in the wings, rather than the bulky radiator
normally found protruding beneath the engine, was essential not
only in a record-breaking airplane but above all in a highly
vulnerable military plane. It was a step into no man's land which
entailed many risks and exhaustive research studies. I nevertheless
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 WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS - 1935-1939

insisted that the first experimental plane must be ready at the

latest by the beginning of 1938, to be completed in stages on the
basis of our tests.
It was clear that we could not take over the simple Italian
method of driving the cooling water through pipes. The water
would have run out through every bullet hole in the wings, and
the wings were a far larger target than the previous cooling
system under the belly. We decided to experiment with evapor-
ative cooling.
The Daimler-Benz engines developed and tolerated high tem-
peratures. The cooling water around the engines was pressurized
in various ways. It could be heated to 230 ° Fahrenheit without
forming steam in the engine itself. After being ducted away from
the engine this water was depressurized and steam formed . Steam
and water were parted in a steam separator, the water returned
to the cooling circuit and the steam was piped to the wings, where
it was condensed to water by cooling, and this water was again
returned to the engine circuit by centrifugal pumps. This process
appeared very complicated until the necessary equipment—such
as centrifugal pumps-was developed. After that it was quite
simple.
While it was possible to dispense with the normal cooler and
thus increase the speed by about 50 mph, our endeavors to elimi-
nate the oil cooler as well ran us into extraordinary difficulties,
caused mainly by the characteristics of the engine. The DB 601
transferred much more heat to the oil than we had expected .
We then thought of using the Junkers Jumo 210, because it
had considerably lower oil temperatures. But it was not as heat-
resistant as the DB 601 and vaporization cooling could not be
applied to it. Years would pass before it became the ideal engine
for us. Meantime, we had to install a small oil cooler.
In spite of this I was able to report to Udet at the end of October,
1937:
"After preliminary tests of the basic new features such as
dragless methods of water and oil cooling, we have completed the
design for the new high-performance single-seater fighter, as per
attached description. A speed of over 435 mph is attainable at
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 STORMY LIFE

maximum boost altitude, and all requirements for rate of climb

and flying characteristics, as well as the installation of the latest
devices in the cockpit, have been taken into account. "
On January 22 , 1938, the first test of the new fighter, known as
the He 100, took place at Marienehe . Bearing in mind the many
failures with the undercarriage that the Me 109 had suffered owing
to its light construction even when landing on normal runways,
we adopted a wide-track undercarriage, located not under the
fuselage but under the wings, and retractable by inward folding.
Moreover the plane, equipped for the installation of two cannons
and four machine guns, was designed from the start to facilitate
mass production.
But that was not all . The He 112 was composed of 2,885
individual parts, while the He 100 in its later stages used only 969.
· Instead of 26,864 rivets, the He 100 used only 11,543 , while the
number of standardized parts had risen tremendously. The saving
of rivets alone reduced the building time for a wing by 1,150
man-hours. Furthermore, in inaccessible places we used a new
explosive-type rivet, which two of my engineers, the Butter
brothers, had developed at Marienehe. The rivets were no longer
fixed by a press tool, but by small detonators inside , whose explo-
sive force "fixed" them, in the truest sense of the word . The
Luftwaffe did not recognize the importance of this invention,
until not only Japan but also the American du Pont company
acquired a license.
The sale to du Pont in 1940, after the outbreak of the war, was
a dramatic occasion . Owing to the interruption in direct telephonic
communication with America, the call was put through from
neutral Italian territory. My representative was on the phone in
Milan, together with the intermediary , Signor Rossi; Mr. von
Stauss, the American Consul in Milan; and the director of the
Bank of Milan. Speaking from New York were a director of du
Pont, the German Consul in New York and the manager of the
Deutsche Bank in that city. It took half an hour for the gentlemen
to introduce themselves and for the Consul to confirm the authen-
ticity of the documents. Then New York said: "We have here a
check for 250,000 dollars. We are prepared to hand it over to the
German Consul for the firm of Heinkel. Are you prepared at the
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same time to hand over the technical blueprints to our Consul in

Milan?"
"We are agreed," replied Milan.
The deal was thus completed.
We had used these particular rivets in the He 100. On the first
flight-January 22 , 1938 -Nitschke, who had flown the He 111 ,
was at the controls. When he landed, he was fully satisfied with
the take-off, landing and flying characteristics.
The following day I sent for Köhler . "We must now, as quickly
as possible, break the world speed record over the 60 -mile course ,
which the Italians hold at 344 mph. And later we'll tackle the
absolute speed record. "
I knew I could rely on Köhler. By the late spring of 1938 ,
Köhler had completed all preparations for the first record flight. A
plane with a normal DB 601 engine stood ready. This engine,
without being "souped up," would be good enough for the first
record. We had chosen the thirty-mile stretch between the Baltic
seaside resort of Müritz and the Wustrow airfield .
I had picked an excellent pilot, Captain Herting, who had
already carried out several successful test flights.
The record attempt was to be flown at 18,000 feet, the best
altitude for the DB 601. The flight was to take place shortly after
Whitsuntide. On Whitsunday at ten o'clock, Udet's plane
appeared over Warnemünde. He had come to pay me a Sunday
visit. He was wearing baggy gray flannels, a bow tie and a flying
jacket.
"Well , how's your bus coming along? " he said.
"In a couple of days, we're going for the world record ,” I said.
After that he gave me no rest until we drove to Marienehe to
have a look at her. On the way he confessed that he himself had
flown the first He 100 prototype earlier at Rechlin.
He would not say any more. On the airfield we found Köhler,
Herting and the riggers painting the slim belly of the He 100
yellow. The test flight had shown that with a blue-gray sky it
was difficult to spot in the air.
"We could go for the record today," I said. "Whitsunday would
""
be most propitious.'
Köhler looked at me.
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"We can, you know. Everything is ready ."

At that moment Udet walked over to Köhler and said, "Say,
can't I fly her?”
Köhler looked at Herting. "I don't mind," he said, uncom-
fortably, "if . . ." He looked at me. The idea that Udet himself
might break the record with my plane was very tempting, but
could I expect a comparatively unknown pilot like Herting to
forego such an opportunity? Meanwhile Udet had spoken to
Herting, and the captain reluctantly stepped aside.
Shortly after four o'clock we were all set. Herting and Köhler
explained the plane once more to Udet.
I can still hear Köhler's remarks: "The plane, because of its
new cooling system, has no gauges, but red warning lights which
light up when there is any danger. The little bulbs are on the panel
to your left. If they light up, Herr General-and it may happen,
for we still have difficulties with the cooling-it's high time to
land. "
But, as usual , Udet scarcely listened .
"Well, I'm only making a test flight," he grumbled. "Switch on
her engine . "
At 4:27 Udet roared off. He zoomed to a great height and
disappeared in the direction of the coast. Shortly afterward, he
crossed the starting line, flew around the Wustrow turning point
indicated by flak bursts, and started on the return trip. He needed
for the 60-mile course a flying time of 9 minutes, 27-2/5 seconds,
which meant a speed of 394.2 mph. Udet with the He 100 had
broken the record of the Italian Niclot by 50 mph.
Before he landed, we got the news over the telephone from the
spotters . We drove out to meet Udet when he roared in and made
a perfect landing at precisely seven minutes to five. At first he
did not know what had happened.
"What goes on? " he shouted.
"The record," Köhler shouted even louder. "Three hundred
and ninety-four miles an hour! A record! "
Udet shook his head incredulously.
"I didn't do anything in particular," he said, still at a loss to
understand our enthusiasm. "In any case, what did those damn
red lamps on the left mean? They never stopped twinkling."
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 WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS 1935-1939

"What? " shouted Köhler. "They lit up? " He turned pale. "Herr
General, I told you , " he lamented, "those are the warning lamps.
You should have landed immediately. What did you do? "
“What did I do? " asked Udet, as he got out of the machine. “I
looked to the right-there were no lamps glowing there."
The Sunday record caused quite a sensation, especially in
England and France.
In the meantime, Goering for the first time used the Luftwaffe
during the Anschluss of Austria to exert political pressure and
embarked upon a course that contained the seeds of its own
destruction. Each new record was from now on automatically
publicized as a new German trump card and was regarded in
England and France as a threat.
These undercurrents of international politics did not reach us
in Marienehe . There, we concentrated on attacking the absolute
world record and the further development of the new plane.
Udet did not carry out his flight at maximum boost altitude,
where the engine develops its maximum power. Had he done so,
we could assume that his speed would have increased to about 400
mph. Also, the record-breaking plane was still provided with a
small external cooler of the old type, since surface cooling was
still in the development stage. If this external cooler could eventu-
ally be eliminated, a speed increase to 425 mph could be reckoned
on. I gave instructions for further reduction of the wing area and
we experimented on the possibility of getting additional thrust
for the plane by expanding the exhaust gases through special
nozzles. In this way, a top speed of 435 mph was possible, even
with a normal DB 601 engine of 1,100 hp.
An increase of the engine power by 400 or 500 hp however,
would enable the He 100 to attack the world speed record. As the
engine had to develop this high output only for a very short period,
Daimler-Benz promised an increase of output to 1,600 or even
1,800 hp.
Unfortunately, I still had difficulties with my prototype, which
I must attribute largely to Hertel's disorganized work and his
mania for changes. It was not until August, 1938 , that three planes
were built for the world record and Daimler-Benz delivered the
record engine to Marienehe. The engine was so sensitive that it
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had to be under their constant supervision. The test flights, there-

fore, had to be done with normal engines.
The record course was measured out along the coast of
Warnemünde.
After many delays, we were ready at last. Just before our
preparations were finished, I had a call from Udet, asking me to
come to the Oranienburg Works on Saturday, August twentieth.
"Furthermore," he said, "on the same day at ten o'clock in the
morning, an He 100 must be ready on the runway at Marienehe,
so that it can fly to Oranienburg and land there. We're expecting
the Chief of the French Air Force, Vuillemin, with his staff."
Apart from Udet, the Luftwaffe was represented at Oranien-
burg by Milch and a host of other high-ranking officers. After the
French general had been taken through the huge hangars, saw the
amazing maneuverability of an He 111 , with only one engine
running, and dozens of them ready for delivery, one could see by
his face that he was highly impressed. As he was lead through the
vast air raid shelters and found everything ready, even down to
ten sharpened pencils on every desk, Vuillemin muttered, "Je suis
écrasé."
Meanwhile, Udet tugged at my sleeve and asked me to send for
the He 100 from Marienehe. He planned to take Vuillemin up in
a slow plane to give him a view of Oranienburg from the air.
While the slow plane landed, the He 100 was to shoot across the
field like lightning and then land there.
As Udet took off with the French general, my youngest test
pilot, Hans Dieterle, a twenty-three-year-old Swabian, was air-
borne at Marienehe. He needed a bare twenty minutes for the
flight. The slow plane was drifting earthward when the attention
of the French was caught by a strangely high- pitched engine
noise. Almost at the same moment, the He 100 hissed past them
at incredible speed, like a shadow.
The French were disturbed. The slender General d'Astier de
la Vigerie, who was with Vuillemin, moved his hands nervously
while the He 100 landed and taxied up toward the group of French
guests. They immediately went over to the plane and plied Milch
and Udet with questions.
While the interpreter translated, Milch turned first to the
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French and then to Udet. "This is the latest German fighter," he

said, "which Udet used to break the 60-mile speed record . Tell
me, Udet, how far are we with mass production? "
Udet screwed up his eyes. "The second production line is ready
and the third will be in two weeks."
I was rather surprised. I thought of the three prototypes, no
more, that had been built for the world record, and of the amount
of work we had to do before they could be mass produced . I took
Udet aside and said, "When will you put the He 100 into mass
production? "
But he just muttered : "This sales talk is part of the show. We
must talk so fast that none of them will even dream of making war
on us . After all, we want nothing from them...."
That was Udet. If anyone had told him that war with France
was imminent, he would not have believed it.
At the beginning of September , 1938, everything in Warne-
münde was ready for the record flight. The pilot this time was
Nitschke. He had just recovered from one serious accident when
he had another crack-up that set us back for months.
We saw from the ground that one leg of the undercarriage had
not quite retracted . This was probably due to a minor defect, but
it spelled disaster. Nitschke tried with all his might to unstick the
undercarriage, but in vain.
It was quite impossible to land on one wheel at a speed of about
110 mph. It meant certain death. The record engine, which
Nitschke could not throttle back, could not hold out much longer,
either.
When, after a last desperate attempt, he crossed the field at an
altitude of about sixty feet, Köhler and I tried to signal to him to
climb, sacrifice the plane and bail out. He finally did .
As he jumped, he broke his collarbone, but at least he was alive,
while the plane with the record engine was smashed .
The engine had to be rebuilt ; the plane had to be rebuilt and
modified; and the right pilot had to be found . I decided on young
Hans Dieterle.
He had watched the test flights carefully. In his opinion, the
Warnemünde course was unsuitable on account of the constantly
changing weather. He was right, since the record flight could take
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 STORMY LIFE

place only under absolutely ideal conditions. If the weather forced

the plane lower than the specified altitude, it would mean hitting
the earth in a fraction of a second, whereas going above it—as the
result of an air pocket-would mean disqualification.
We changed the course to Oranienburg. It was not until March
30, 1939, that the new flight could take place. It was perfect
record weather. Dieterle undertook his last test flight in the after-
noon and started at 5:23 P.M.
The He 100 was equipped with a DB 601 engine, souped up to
an output of 1,800 hp. Its speed was 3,000 rpm, as compared to
2,200 for the normal engine. A special oil and a special fuel with
remarkably high methyl alcohol content were used. At the most,
the life of the engine was about sixty minutes.
After a perfectly normal start, the He 100 entered the course
at 5:25 P.M. By 5:32 it had crossed it four times, according to
plan. At 5:36 it made a perfect three-point landing. By our calcula-
tions, Dieterle must have flown at least 445 mph and must there-
fore have broken Agello's previous record . From his observations
of the airspeed indicator, Dieterle thought he must have touched
at least 455 mph.
We had to wait for the exact result until the spotters had worked
out their own calculations. The following morning, at six o'clock,
they told us that the speed had exceeded all expectations.
The He 100 had flown 463.67 mph. Germany held the world
speed record for the first time in history.
The following day I arrived at Marienehe in time to read the
congratulatory telegrams. On top of the heap was one from Hitler,
and also one from Goering .
In the meantime I had been awarded some high and unexpected
honors.
The great surprise came on September 1 , 1938 , when I received
an invitation to the Nuremberg Party Rally, due to open on the
sixth. I was asked to attend an opera gala performance . I never
cared for opera and was, therefore, not enthusiastic, particularly as
I had been invited to go stag-hunting in Hungary. I wrote a letter
declining the invitation . On the morning of the third, the Gauleiter
of Nuremberg, Julius Streicher, called me on the telephone. "You
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 WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS 1935-1939

can't refuse," he said. "You've got to appear. The Führer himself

wants you to be present."
There goes my stag-hunting, I thought, and said, "Very well,
""
I'll come .'
At the opera that evening, I was not especially surprised to see
Todt, Porsche and Messerschmitt. Shortly before I went to my
seat, Dr. Goebbels came over to me and said, with a laugh, "Well,
Herr Heinkel, we've done a nice job. We know how to keep our
trap shut, eh? "
I looked utterly bewildered, so much so that he went on , "We've
given you all the National Prize for Art and Science-you, Todt,
Porsche and Messerschmitt. You'll hear about it soon."
That was how I was awarded the National Prize of 1938. What
went on behind the scenes, I learned from General Engel, whom
I had previously known in Rostock and who later became Hitler's
adjutant.
At the time of the 1938 Party Rally, Bormann was still subordi-
nate to Rudolf Hess, but he was already the exponent of uncom-
promising Gauleiter politics. He had done his best, through Hess ,
to see that only Messerschmitt got the prize and to cut me out
because of my disputes with Hildebrand . Goering, then at the
height of his power, had successfully opposed this. Hitler took
Goering's side. He said about me, "We must give that Swabian
mule his due." So the National Prize was shared by Messerschmitt
and myself.
The Order for Art and Science was handed to me a few months
later by Hitler himself at the Reichs Chancellery, where Porsche,
Todt and Messerschmitt were also present.
My impression of Hitler that day was brief. I would have a
clearer picture after a personal conversation with him later on.
Our conquest of the absolute world speed record was in a large
measure made possible by all those who had contributed to our
previous success in Marienehe and Rostock. I planned a large
party for the end of April. Shortly before, we learned that Wendel,
the Messerschmitt test pilot, had broken our record with the Me
109 at a speed of 469 mph.
My first thought was of Udet, whom I had seen a few days
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 STORMY LIFE

before. He had known of Messerschmitt's preparations and had no

reason to keep them secret from me. His attitude was incompatible
with his usual frankness.
It was understandable that Dieterle, Köhler and others who had
done so much to make the record possible, would not acknowledge
this new record without making inquiries. They found out that
whereas the FAI requirements insisted that the height above the
ground should be 150 feet, nothing was said about the height
above sea level. When the FAI drew up its rules, there was no
such thing as a supercharged engine. At a greater altitude above
sea level it was obvious that the thinner air would reduce the drag,
so that the plane would be correspondingly faster. When the He
100 flew at Oranienburg it was 150 feet above sea level, but the
Me 109 in South Germany had flown at 1,500 feet. This accounted
for the disparity of the results.
"Well, if that's the case," I said to Köhler and Dieterle, when
they pointed this out to me, "the problem is simple. We'll try for
a new record at the same altitude above sea level, in Lechfeld."
When I met Udet again, I asked him about the reasons for his
silence. To my surprise, he was evasive. First, he said he had
never believed Messerschmitt would beat the record. "Good
Lord, ” he added impatiently, “it simply won't do for the rest of
the world for a fighter like the He 100, which is not mass-produced ,
to hold the record and the Me 109 , which everyone knows is our
standard fighter, not to. That's all there is to it, and I don't like your
""
new idea of another record attempt.'
On July 12 , 1939 , Flight Engineer Lucht of the Air Ministry
asked me in a letter to stop all preparations to this end.
From Udet's hints, I knew what to expect regarding the chances
of the He 100 as the next Luftwaffe fighter. Lucht expressed him-
self clearly after the outbreak of war. "We've geared our whole
production to the Me 109 and we don't want to build another
fighter. We shall win this war with the Messerschmitt, even if it
is 50 mph slower."
This one-type production was a delusion, and not only because
the Me 109 showed certain shortcomings under combat stress . It
was outfought in the Battle of Britain because of its limited range
and rate of climb, but the same would have happened to any other
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 WINNING THE WORLD'S SPEED RECORDS -1935-1939

fighter plane. The decisive fault lay in the pig-headedness of the

Technical Department, which here, as in the case of the bombers,
plumped for one type and under the pressures of war could find
no way out of this impasse. Udet's and Lucht's rigid insistence
upon a single standard type was to be a fatal error.
After the Luftwaffe lost interest in the mass production of the
He 100, permission was given to export the completed planes to
foreign countries. This time we sold to Japan-and to the Soviet
Union. The Japanese were old customers and we started deliver-
ing toward the end of October, 1939 ; but when Lucht spoke of the
Russians, I had to ask him whether or not this was a mistake.
It was at the beginning of October, 1939. The Russo- German
pact, the joint occupation of Poland and the German-Soviet
agricultural treaty were known even in Marienehe. I could hardly
help reflecting, however, that one of the main issues in my struggle
with Hildebrand was my alleged "underestimation and encourage-
ment of the danger of Bolshevist agents. " Obviously , I would have
to turn a complete mental somersault if I accepted this new situa-
tion and received a Russian technical commission in Marienehe.
"It's quite all right," said Lucht. "We are getting appreciable
quantities of raw materials from the Russians. The payments are
to be made in armaments and, in your case, with the He 100. "
On October thirtieth a Russian Air, Naval and Engineering
Commission, headed by Alexander Gussev, Vladimir Shevchenko
and Vassili Kuznetzov, visited my works to make up their minds
about the He 100. One of the most interesting of the Russians
was a certain Alexander Yakovlev, who stayed for a while in
Marienehe as acceptance engineer. Later during the war, when
the Soviet YAK 1 to 9 and the jet YAK 15 to 19 appeared and Air
Force General Yakovlev won the 150,000-rouble Stalin prize six
times in succession, I remembered the young Russian of Marienehe.
The Russians had not changed very much since the 1930's.
They were no longer so picturesque, but more self- assured. They
were, however, just as suspicious. All of them seemed convinced
of the growing might and progress of their own country. They
had an astonishing capacity for alcohol and loved to play billiards.
Their parties usually lasted till four in the morning. They were
forever trying to find parallels between their own country and
185
 STORMY LIFE

Germany, probably in view of the brand new co-operation

between the two countries. On a Hitler Youth Day in Mecklen-
burg, with its many parades, they kept repeating: "Exactly the
same as at home. Young Pioneers . Merely a different flag."
Our collaboration with the Japanese was as cordial as it always
had been. They lived in Warnemünde and greeted the outbreak
of war with an enthusiasm which we, in our gloomy mood, found
hard to understand. When Lammertz told Captain Wada the
news, the Japanese jumped up from his sofa and said, “Now you'll
take Danzig, and Singapore will be next."
When the He 100 planes were turned over to the Japanese,
Captains Wada and Kikuoka participated in the transaction. They
bought three planes for 1,200,000 marks and a license to build
them for 1,600,000. The planes were put aboard a Japanese block-
ade runner and taken to Japan.

186
 Chapter XI

UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE

1938-1941

SINCE 1945 , MANY THEORIES have been put forward as to why the
Luftwaffe, after its powerful rise, should have ended in utter
catastrophe.
Some argue that it was only a bluff from the start, and hence
doomed to failure. But the majority of German aviators who with
enthusiasm, faith and persistence led the early squadrons to
spectacular initial victories, who when outnumbered, fought with
immense sacrifice, who experienced and suffered the defeat of
their air force, have attributed its downfall to many different
circumstances .
These circumstances range from the professional incompetence,
vacillation and ultimate indifference of Goering and the real or
presumed inefficiency of other individuals to accusations of delib-
erate sabotage in the various departments of the Luftwaffe and
airplane industry.
If I considered it worth while, I could add a great many more
accusations, especially in my own field as design engineer and
industrialist. I would have to condemn, in particular, the failure
of the Air Ministry and its technical officials. I would have to
describe the inconceivable way in which this mammoth bureauc-
racy, composed of mediocrities , broke up the original system of
genuine competition between designers and builders for the best
standard plane and substituted an increasingly sterile regimenta-
tion of all construction work. From 1939 on, jealous disunity and
irresolution, a mania for alterations and a lack of contact with the
front, so prevalent in many specialist groups, combined to prevent
any plane from reaching the stage of mass production.
But no single argument hits the heart of the matter. Nearly all
these arguments are merely the consequence of basic errors, and
only those who try objectively to get to the bottom of them will
discover the real reason for the catastrophe.
It is all the more easy to draw a picture for an outsider, since
187
 STORMY LIFE

the path of defeat was closely connected with the fate of Ernst
Udet. His fate, one might almost say, is the human reflection of
the rise and fall of the Luftwaffe, and my own work was involved
in it through one particular plane-the four-engined heavy bomber,
He 177.
Early in 1939 I received a confidential report on certain impor-
tant Luftwaffe decisions from my Berlin director, von Pfister-
meister, but paid no attention to it at the time, disinterested as I
was in all politics. I put it aside and read it only years later.
Von Pfistermeister informed me of the impending retirement
of General Stumpff, who was then Chief of Staff of the Luftwaffe.
My representative told me that Stumpff would be replaced by
one of the youngest Luftwaffe colonels, the thirty-nine-year-old
Hans Jeschonnek, formerly chief of the operational branch of
the Luftwaffe General Staff. Jeschonnek was undoubtedly a very
talented and enthusiastic young man, completely in sympathy
with Hitler's foreign policies and plans, while Stumpff belonged to
the tradition-bound older generation of Reichswehr officers.
Von Pfistermeister apparently knew the cause of these changes.
Their origin went back to 1938, when Hitler demanded a vast
expansion of the Luftwaffe, which clashed with the General
Staff plan based on Germany's limited resources of money and
raw materials. The carrying out of Hitler's plans, in particular
the speedy formation of numerous new bombing squadrons,
would have cost billions.
Today, the reasoning behind Hitler's demands is no longer a
secret . He became convinced that the hypnotic power of even an
improvised air force could be used to exert pressure in international
politics. The craven reaction in England and France confirmed his
opinion.
In 1936, for example, faked "secret" plans manufactured by the
General Staff were made to fall into Anthony Eden's hands when
he visited Germany. They gave an inflated impression of the
strength and deployment of the new Luftwaffe ; in them, the
smallest training units were shown as bomber squadrons. The
far-reaching effects of this fraud are described in Churchill's
memoirs.

In 1938 , therefore, Hitler realized that his rapidly growing air

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 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE ― 1938-1941

force was a first-class instrument of political power. Confronted

with this weapon, England and France, the main opponents of
his expansion plans in the East, were cowed . Hitler was convinced
that he would never again be in such a favorable position because
England and France had already begun to modernize their out-
dated air forces in an attempt to catch up with Germany.
This awareness produced the hectic plan of action that led
straight to the Polish war in 1939. This, then, was the reason behind
his demands for the vast Luftwaffe mentioned in Pfistermeister's
report. Hitler was banking on an enormous increase of German
air power as the most effective means of forcing the Western
powers to remain neutral in a war.
Pfistermeister further maintained that the General Staff and
the Technical Department of the Luftwaffe realized from the
start that Hitler's demands could never be fulfilled . In decisive
conferences, all Ministerial and departmental heads had proposed
to reject them as impossible. At the same time, everyone knew
the Führer's inclination to overrule his advisers. Therefore they
worked out a compromise plan. Although they knew this could
not be fulfilled either, they thought it would serve to satisfy the
Führer. But then, according to Pfistermeister, matters took an
unexpected turn.
Jeschonnek, as head of the most important department of the
General Staff, had deep faith in Hitler's political course and was
in favor of fulfilling the Führer's demands to the letter. Goering,
delighted that he would not have to thwart Hitler but, on the
contrary, would be able to keep the glory of his air force expansion
untarnished, supported Jeschonnek. The changes at the top level,
according to Pfistermeister, were merely the end result of this
development. The step to accomplish "the impossible " had been
taken. From this point on the story of Udet's fate will exemplify
the downward course of the Luftwaffe.
One day in 1938, some time before the change in the leadership
of the General Staff, Udet landed in Marienehe. We were work-
ing not only on the He 100, but also on a four-engined mail plane
for the Lufthansa, the He 116. It was planned for the Far Eastern
service. The He 116, in 1939 , won a long- distance record with
a 6,000-mile non-stop flight in forty-eight hours, eighteen minutes.
189
 STORMY LIFE

Two models were then sold to the Japanese air transport service
in Manchukuo and remained in service until the end of the Second
World War.
We were also working on a new naval reconnaissance plane, the
one and a half decker He 114, as well as on a two-engined torpedo-
carrying and multipurpose seaplane, the He 115. On March 20,
1938, the latter won eight speed records in its class, flying the
620-and 1,240-mile courses unladen and with payloads of 1,100,
2,200 and 4,400 lbs. The average speed was 203.4-204.6 mph .
When Udet came to visit us, he was in a cheerful mood. There
was only one drop of bitterness in his cup: Hitler, fearing to lose
anyone who was irreplaceable, had forbidden him to do any stunt
flying.
After we sat down, he told me: "In the future there won't be
any more multiengined bombers unless they can attack as dive
bombers. The He III is the last horizontal bomber. Thanks to its
accuracy, a medium-sized twin-engined machine which in a dive
can hit the target with a bomb load of 2,000 pounds has the same
effect as a four-engined giant carrying 6,000-8,000 pounds of
bombs in horizontal flight and scattering them all over the place.
We don't want these expensive, heavy machines which cost us
more in raw material alone than a whole medium, twin-engined
dive bomber. Junkers has completed his first twin-engined Stuka,
the Ju 88. We can build two or three with the same amount of
material needed for a four-engined plane and achieve the same
bombing effect. Jeschonnek is greatly in favor of this plan .
Furthermore, with the cheap super-Stukas, we can build the exact
numbers that the Führer wants."
In this way I learned for the first time of the lopsided solution
Jeschonnek and Udet had found to carry out, at least mathemati-
cally, Hitler's bomber program.
On my drawing board, at the time, was the design for a new
development, the four-engined heavy bomber to be known as
the He 177. The contract for this plane had been given me by the
Ministry about a year before, with the stipulations that the plane
must have a maximum speed of 370 and a cruising speed of 310
mph, and carry 4,400 lbs . of bombs or torpedoes on a 2,000-mile
trip, or 2,200 lbs. for 3,700 miles. This insured an operational range
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 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE ― 1938-1941

over enemy territory of at least 1,000 to 2,000 miles, as compared

to the 250 to 350 miles then achieved by German twin- engined
bombers.
The contract went back to the time of General Wever, who had
always upheld the theory that any war in Europe would find
England, in line with her traditional policy of the balance of
power, as the enemy of Germany. In view of the weakness of the
German Navy, Wever considered that the Luftwaffe would be
the decisive factor in such a struggle. In contrast to his successors,
and in particular to Jeschonnek, Wever had demanded bombers
that could carry a heavy load over distances great enough to
attack any part of the British Isles and fly far out into the Atlantic
to harass British shipping. Only large four-engined planes could
do this.
With this end in view, Dornier and Junkers, between 1934
and 1936, built two four-engined bombers, the Do 19 and the
Ju 289. The Ju 289, in spite of certain technical shortcomings,
was essentially a forerunner of the American "Flying Fortress,'
which were to lay waste a great part of German industry and
inflict so much damage on German cities. On Wever's death, the
Do 19 and the Ju 289 were dropped.
It was not clear to me then that this was the beginning of the
one-sided strategic and technical conception that Udet now
announced to me. On the surface, the Technical Department con-
tinued to experiment with four-engined long-distance bombers
such as the He 177. I got this contract for various reasons.
They resulted mainly from the German engine bottleneck ; the
industry had produced no engine which would give the necessary
high speed to large bombers. In 1936, we had developed the He
119, a prototype fast bomber, and made special attempts to offset
the lack of powerful engines by putting two engines together to
drive one propeller .
The genius behind this idea was Siegfried Günter, whose
principal concern was streamlining. In reply to our request,
Daimler-Benz declared they could offer us two DB 601 engines,
which, coupled together, would develop about 2,000 hp. I had my
reservations, but Hertel, with his overpowering eloquence,
declared himself in favor of this coupled engine. It was therefore
191
 STORMY LIFE

installed in the He 119, a slender " single-engined" plane; it was

located in the center of the fuselage and the propeller shaft passed
through the cockpit, which occupied the whole of the fuselage
nose. At first it was a success. In 1937 , it won the international
speed record previously held by the Italian Niclot for land planes
over a 620-mile course , carrying 1,000 and 2,000 pound loads.
The He 119 reached 313.4 mph.
The coupled unit DB 606 was incorporated into the He 177.
With double engines, this plane required only two engine cowlings
and two propellers, with a proportionately higher speed and
reduced wind resistance.
For reasons I have already explained , the development was
almost entirely entrusted to Hertel, whose powers had increased
because I was busier than ever with constant expansions of my
factories and my struggles with Hildebrand and his henchmen.
Hertel put all his ambitious but rather irresponsible daring into
this design. To obtain the highest speed , he adopted for the giant
plane, with its heavy power plant, the principle of surface cooling
to reduce drag, even though it had scarcely been tested on the
small He 100. To save weight, he made the dimensions of important
components too small, and committed an error in fitting the
engine and the undercarriage structure too close together in the
same part of the machine. I was still unaware of this on the after- I
noon when Udet told me of the plan to produce the “ super Stukas "
which seemed to supply the answer to all the Luftwaffe's problems.
The time came when Hertel's arbitrary and egotistic pro-
cedures brought on a sudden crisis. In 1939 I saw where he was
leading us, and quickly ended our collaboration . But we had not
yet reached that point.
When Udet told me that the four- engined bomber was dead, I
could not help thinking of the He 177.
"What about our 177? " I asked . "If the four-engined bomber is
no longer of any interest, there's no use in our continuing to
develop it."
He hesitated for a moment. "Jeschonnek and the General Staff,"
he said, “unfortunately cannot see any way in which we can use
it. A war with England is absolutely out of the question. If any-
thing happens at all, it will be a scrap with Poland or Czechoslo-
192
1 2 3 4 5 6 7
A tense moment- Hitler and the commanders of the Luftwaffe watching
the experimental rocket plane He 176 in flight at Rechlin in the summer of
1939. 1 : General Field Marshal Keitel. 2: Goering. 3: Hitler. 4: Luftwaffe
Chief of Staff Jeschonnek. 5 : General Udet, Chief of Technical Depart-
ment, Luftwaffe. 6: General Engel, Hitler's Army Adjutant. 7: Myself.
Inset: The He 280, the world's first twin-engined jet fighter, in 1941 .
 The Marienehe plant after all-out Allied air attack in 1942.

Right: 1952 : At work again,

together with my oldest
associates . Left to right:
Schwärzler, myself, Supervis-
ing Engineer Töpfer, Kleine-
meyer, Jupp Köhler.
 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE - 1938-1941

vakia. The Führer will never let it come to a war that spreads
beyond the European continent. For the conflicts we are likely
to be involved in, we need only a medium bomber with a small
range and small bomb load, but with the increased dive-bombing
accuracy that we've now got in the new Ju 88. We can build as
many as the Führer wants and impress England and France, so
that they will leave us in peace. We'll go on developing the He 177
for research purposes. Perhaps later we can use it as a long distance
plane for the Navy, but it must be able to dive, or else it won't
have a chance."
"A giant plane like that," I objected, "can't be a dive bomber."
"But in practice the plane is twin-engined," said Udet, "and
if the twin-engined Ju 88 can be a dive bomber, why can't the
He 177?"
"Because it's nearly twice as heavy ."
But Udet would not listen to objections. "We've got to get
the maximum results with the means at our disposal. We can
accomplish this only with dive-bombing attacks . In any case the
decision to make the Ju 88 the future standard bomber can't be
changed now. The plane was demonstrated to the Fuhrer in
Rechlin and convinced him that it's the only efficient twin -engined
dive bomber we have. Milch alone has objections . " A look of
distaste appeared on Udet's face . "But he'll certainly give in. He
never commits himself, so that no one can hold anything against
""
him if things go wrong.
Then Udet smiled mischievously . "This time it's Koppenberg's
move." He was talking of the general manager of the Junkers
factory. Udet was always delighted to exploit the rivalry between
industrialists because, not unjustly, he thought that the best
results were achieved by fair competition.
"The Ju 88 is the biggest trump card we've got," he said.
This conversation with Udet was probably the most serious I
ever had with him. If what he said was true, the Luftwaffe was
trying to meet Hitler's requirements in the hope of avoiding war
with England. As the range of medium dive bombers was at best
no more than 300-odd miles, they would be inadequate in any war
fought over the British Isles or at sea.
Dropping the heavy bomber was a gamble based on England's
193
 STORMY LIFE

staying out of the war. It would be a catastrophe if we found

ourselves fighting England without them.
Since Udet had become head of the Technical Department, his
former good relationship with Milch had steadily deteriorated.
Milch's self-confidence drove him to a continuous expansion of
his activities, which contrasted with Udet's obvious unsuitability
for his post. Milch thought that he was the man who ought to be
in control of the Technical Department.
Udet's instinctive reaction against Milch was to make an ally
of the general manager of Junkers, Koppenberg, the ardent sup-
porter of the Ju 88. The further equipment of the German bomber
fleet was beyond the reach of Udet, who had handled light, single-
engined fighters. Even more alien to him was the subject of
bomber mass production . The depressing knowledge that Milch
possessed the organizing ability and experience for building large
planes drove Udet to look for someone who had the same qualities
in addition to the ruthlessness he himself lacked.
Koppenberg was competent, ambitious and relentlessly deter-
mined, with the sole aim of furthering his own and Junkers' cause .
He knew what he was doing when he accepted Udet's friendship.
He fought for the adoption of the Ju 88 as the only bomber to
solve all problems. At the same time, he strove for Junkers' com-
plete supremacy . In 1940, with Britain in the war and long-range
heavy bombers as an urgent necessity, he shouted when he was
drunk, “ I've already killed the Do 217 and now I have killed the
He 177." Commercial rivalry was stronger than common sense,
for the He 177 was the only available big four -engined bomber
which should, and could have been, mass-produced for the war
against England .
Udet's personal relationship with Koppenberg led to the adop-
tion of a type of bomber plane that was suitable only for a local
continental war. In the autumn of 1938 , Koppenberg received full
powers from Goering to mass-produce the Ju 88 as the standard
Luftwaffe bomber. The order ended with the words, "And now
you will give the signal to go and build me in the shortest possible
time a tremendous bomber fleet of 88's."
It is common knowledge that at the end of 1939, owing to the
many flaws of the Ju 88's, only sixty-nine planes had been built,
194
 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE 1938-1941

and the He 111 had to be put back into production because the
Junkers were not forthcoming. It was not until the second half of
1940, during the Battle of Britain with its urgent need for long-
range bombers, that they were delivered in any quantity, and even
then many lacked efficient dive-bombing and night-flying equip-
ment.
All this hastened the defeat of the Luftwaffe. But it does not
detract from the indisputable virtues of the later and improved
Ju 88 as a medium bomber. The aircraft was merely the symbol
of wrong decisions at top level that could no longer be corrected.
Meanwhile we continued our work on the He 177 without any
special interest on the part of the Ministry. Hertel informed me,
with his usual persuasiveness, that all was going well . Only Günter
sometimes complained that he had no confidence in the use of the
DB 606 in the heavy machine. Therefore I proposed to the
Ministry on November 19 , 1938 , that they should authorize a
second and third prototype of the He 177 , to be built as a normal
four-engined aircraft, with four single Jumo 211's.
This proposal was turned down flat by the General Staff, with
the following reasons: "The efficiency of the He 177 in dive
bombing depends upon the use of only two power units. The
normal four-engined plane cannot be used as a dive bomber. A
development in that direction is consequently ruled out."
When on September 3 , 1939 , Britain declared war and upset the
entire strategic and technical edifice of the Luftwaffe, the first
prototype of the He 177 was on the stocks. In the spring I had
parted company with Hertel, but the He 177 , whose major short-
comings did not become apparent until later, was left behind as
his legacy. It was a large low-wing monoplane, of twenty tons
weight, and for a crew of five. Because of its size, the plane was
provided with an enclosed double machine-gun turret at the rear
of the fuselage, with a completely free field of fire to the rear.
Furthermore, it had a specially heavy defensive armament of
five machine guns. The compartment for the other four members
of the crew was large and well planned, and for the first time
equipped with solidly built-in instruments for astro-navigation.
The bomb bay had space for bomb loads of up to three tons,
depending on the range. For long-distance attacks on shipping,
195
 STORMY LIFE

the bombs could be replaced with torpedoes. The cruising speed

was fixed at 335 mph and the range at 3,730 miles.
On November 1 , 1939, Udet came to inspect my He 178 -the
first jet plane in the world. He and his staff were apparently
delighted with the success of the Luftwaffe during the Polish
Blitzkrieg, but when I talked to him alone, he seemed rather
depressed .
"I never really believed we would be at war with England,”
he said as he gulped down several glasses of brandy. "The General
Staff thinks that the Ju 88 can destroy the British fleet in port
and make the British sue for peace. After all, we want nothing
from them ."
I hated to remind him that even the Ju 88's weren't available,
but I remarked, "Suppose the fleet retires beyond the range of
the Junkers? "
"We must attack them in Scapa Flow, then," Udet replied
nervously. "We must bring the He 177 into mass production at
all costs ."
The first prototype of the He 177 was ready to take off on
November 19, 1939. It was flown by the head of the test unit at
Rechlin, Engineer Francke.
He reported—as was confirmed throughout the career of the
plane in service-unusually good flying, take-off and landing
characteristics and a great reserve of speed for fighting purposes,
but he had to land prematurely because the oil temperature of the
engines had reached a dangerous level. This was the first sign of
engine troubles that were never wholly overcome. Other key
troubles -above all, the weakness of the wings under heavy loads
-appeared only later. Now, at incredibly short notice and with-
out sufficient testing, mass production was ordered. Behind the
demands from Berlin one could sense the nervousness of men who
were no longer sure of themselves. The Oranienburg and Weser-
Flug factories were to undertake the building of the aircraft and
produce 120 planes monthly from the middle of 1940. I demanded
that part of the construction should take place at Marienehe, where
we had the necessary experience to eliminate whatever technical
flaws were still present in this comparatively untested new design.
The answer was no.
196
 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE - 1938-1941

I met Udet during the latter part of March, 1940 , in Berlin. I

was completely absorbed in the new field of jet propulsion and
only marginally concerned with the He 177 , whose inherent faults
had not yet come to light. He seemed uneasy.
"I hope we shan't have any difficulties with the He 177," he
said, puffing nervously at his cigarette. "I've had enough trouble
with the Ju 88. The 177 has got to fly. We haven't another heavy
bomber to fling against the British. The 177 must fly. It must ! "
I was, therefore, surprised when on June 1 , 1940-in the midst
of the triumph of the French campaign-I received instructions
from the Technical Department signed by Udet, postponing the
delivery date and limiting the production of the He 177 , and
temporarily canceling all contracts farmed out for this plane.
It is true that Pfistermeister immediately informed me that
Koppenberg, in his effort to retain supremacy, had persuaded Udet
to stop the mass production of my plane, because it might endanger
his Ju 88. The relationship between the two men was now
extremely close. Still, Koppenberg would probably not have
gotten away with this if the recent campaigns against Norway
and Western Europe had not generated a wave of optimism among
the Luftwaffe leaders, who considered that Britain was half-
defeated anyway and certainly could not successfully strike back
in the air.
Udet had also succumbed to this mood. It was characteristic
of him that in a moment of pride, when he was made a general,
he would say, "I am now the Commanding General and the front
has to accept the planes I send them. "
The belief that the war was as good as won and would soon be
over, made everyone lose sight of reality . The result was an order
from above that all technical developments which could not be
completed during 1940-41 must be stopped to release all men and
materials for the building of airplane types for immediate use.
This halting of technical progress, later known as the " 1940
stoppage," robbed the Luftwaffe of the advance it had achieved
and could never be made up when it turned out that the short war
was an illusion.
All the valor of German pilots in the Battle of Britain could not
overcome the handicap of a Luftwaffe wrongly armed and
197
 STORMY LIFE

equipped. The ranges of the medium bombers, from the He 111's

to the Ju 88's, were totally inadequate. The effect of heavy dive-
bombing attacks on mainland and naval targets fell short of expec-
tations. The single-engined Stuka, Ju 87 , which had achieved
such success on the continent, was practically useless. A far-
reaching air attack across the sea, striking at England's western
ports, was impossible. The lightly armed He 111 and Ju 88 were
too weak to defend themselves against British fighters . Fighter
protection turned out to be nonexistent, because the standard
fighter, Me 109, had such a short flying time that it was forced
to abandon the bombers to their fate and fly home. The new Spit-
fire disposed of the illusion that the Messerschmitt was superior.
Guided by radar, the Spitfires shot down the Me 109's when the
latter were forced to turn back owing to lack of range . The twin-
engined destroyer Me 110 , which Goering liked to call "My
Ironsides," had been designed as a bomber escort, but failed so
disastrously because of its short range, slow speed and lack of
maneuverability that it often had to be protected by other fighters.
At the end of October, 1940 , after the first phase of the Battle of
Britain, I met Udet at the Hotel Bristol in Berlin . I hardly recog-
nized him. He looked pasty-faced and deeply disturbed. I thought
he was on the verge of collapse. He was suffering from a constant
buzzing in the ears and bleeding from the lungs and gums. This
no doubt was partially due to his unhealthy diet-he ate almost
nothing but meat-combined with strong drinking and smoking,
but primarily it was the result of his terrible disappointment over
the air war. He drank more than ever.
"The 'Iron Man,' " he said, meaning Goering, "wants to send
me to Bühlerhöhe" -the well-known sanitarium in the Black
Forest-"but I'm not going."
A few days later he left all the same, but came back to Berlin
on his own account, as ill and exhausted as before , probably
because he was afraid Milch would usurp his post.
And yet the catastrophe was only beginning. The result of the
technical failure over England could no longer be overlooked.
The idea of the standard fighter had to be scrapped and a second
fighter, the Focke-Wulf FW 190, which promised a better per-
198
 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE ― 1938-1941

formance, was put into mass production . This caused lengthy

changeovers with resultant drop in production, and could not
make up for the losses over the British Isles . At the same time the
He 177, which had been neglected for months, was put into
production again without further tests. This, too, called for time-
consuming alterations in the factories, and caused a falling off in
production until the changeover was completed . This lasted well
into 1941 , while the squadrons over Britain were being bled white.
The long-range, well-armed heavy bomber alone seemed to
promise any help. And precisely at this point tragedy struck.
The He 177 with its double engines proved inadequate for
combat. Countless planes went up in flames when the engines
caught fire, or crashed when their wings broke for no apparent
reason, until once again the plane had to be withdrawn from
production. Time was lost, enormous amounts of materials were
wasted.
Early in February, 1941 , von Pfistermeister reported from
Berlin that the confusion in the Technical Department and in the
whole industry had reached its peak. Milch declared that Udet
was responsible for the failure over England . Pfistermeister wrote
that the air war against England was lost for the time being and
could not be resumed without complete re-equipment with long-
range planes. This, however, would take years. No one knew
what might happen in Britain and possibly in America by then.
Everything was slipping through Udet's fingers.
In the meantime a new development was in the making. Right
in the middle of the technical confusion in the Luftwaffe, Goering
summoned Udet to inform him that Hitler had decided to attack
the Soviet Union.
Goering looked tired and shattered . He had allegedly explained
to Hitler the precarious situation of the Luftwaffe ; made it plain
to the Führer that his squadrons were weakened and that the
technical and manufacturing ends of the industry were in the
midst of a changeover that had already lowered production figures.
There was only one way of arriving at a negotiated peace with
England : namely, to reorganize the Luftwaffe and give it time to
recover. War with Russia meant that whatever remained of the
199
 STORMY LIFE

decimated air force must be shifted to the East, without sufficient

replacements from industry. This would give England a breathing
spell that could never be made good .
To this Hitler gave his historic reply, "For Russia we need, at
the most, six weeks. For that space of time you can remain in the
defensive in the West. In eight weeks at the latest, your Luftwaffe
will be back in the West." Reportedly Goering had voiced his
doubts but, as usual, he bowed to the Führer.
Thus began the last act. In attacking the Soviet Union, the
Luftwaffe left the relatively narrow confines of the European
conflict and had to fight an intercontinental war against over-
whelming material resources. It never had the ghost of a chance.
The best it could hope for was a brief respite.
Even if all errors of judgment by the High Command could
have been avoided ; even if there had been the highest degree of
industrial and technical efficiency instead of the existing chaos ;
even if the changeover to a defensive air war had been made in
time to fill the sky with fighters- nothing could have altered the
inherent disparity of strength between the opposing sides.
On the morning of November 17, 1941 , when Udet put a
bullet through his head, all this was clear. The Blitzkrieg against
Russia had failed. The German Luftwaffe, flung against the East,
had spent itself and was scattered over the Russian steppes. Its
back was broken.
There was not the slightest chance that it could ever return to
the Western front. But from beyond the ocean, from America,
came a stream of American planes. Udet knew America. It was the
end.
Perhaps his greatest concern was his trouble with Milch. When I
met him in the spring of 1941 , he seemed like a hounded man, and
said Milch "gave him no peace." Then he went on, “Why did all
this have to happen to the He 177? Everything is against me.
'The Iron Man' has simply gone off on leave and left me alone
with Milch, who is now his deputy with access to the Führer. I'm
sure he'll see to it that Hitler hears about every mistake I've ever
made." His face was pale and his forehead covered with sweat.
"I can't face all this any more," he moaned. "I can't cope with all
these personal intrigues any longer. ..."
200
 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE - 1938-1941

And that was exactly what happened . Hitler persuaded Goering

to give Milch full authority for directional control of the Tech-
nical Department. The Marshal, to keep up his own prestige with
Hitler, gave way and Milch, confident of his ability to put things
right, did not miss his opportunity.
He won Hitler's confidence for all time by an achievement that
was extraordinary by any standards. The aircraft supplies for
the Eastern front had almost broken down in the summer of 1941
and the tired squadrons were at the end of their tether. Hundreds
of planes were lost through crashes and lack of spare parts. Milch
realized the valuable reserve represented by these planes. He
organized flying repair squads, personally flew to the Eastern
front, repaired all the equipment he could find and thus relieved the
shortage of planes. This heroic improvisation, which later would
become routine, caused the Führer to look upon Milch as the
coming man.
By August, 1941 , Udet was a broken man. He still hoped Goer-
ing would support him because he, too , was afraid of Milch's
ambition, but the Marshal was trying to protect himself, and
gave Udet no support. He was still loath, however, to dismiss him
and put Milch in his place, which would have been the natural
solution . "You must stay," he said. "If I relieve you of your post
the whole world will know that something's wrong .'""
At the end of 1941 , Udet was once more on the point of collapse.
Goering persuaded him to retire to his hunting lodge and forget
about airplanes and Milch for a few weeks. Udet reported sick on
August 25, 1941 .
During his absence, Milch virtually took over the Technical
Department. When Udet, still sick and suffering from a troubled
conscience, returned to Berlin, he found his office reorganized and
his most faithful supporters gone .
I saw him for the last time on November tenth. He was merely
a shadow of his former self. "Good-by," he said gloomily. "Those
were happy times in Warnemünde . Good-by...."
A week later, on November seventeenth, at noon , Pfistermeister
telephoned from Berlin . "Udet's dead," he said. I held my breath.
"How did it happen?"
"Shot himself," came the reply.
201
 STORMY LIFE

Later, we received the official notification of his death, accom-

panied by the announcement that Udet had crashed to his death
while testing a new plane.
On instructions from Goering, care was taken that Udet's
suicide should remain a close secret. Nevertheless the news leaked
out. There were also rumors about some remarks Udet had scrib-
bled down before he died. When they were confirmed after the
end of the war they showed that he was obsessed by the notion
that Milch was his enemy and that Goering had left him in the
lurch. He described himself as their victim. He also confessed that
he had reached the point of no return.
In August, 1943 , less than two years after Udet's death, Hans
Jeschonnek, Luftwaffe Chief of Staff, went the same way. He
had lived to see how the air support operations at Stalingrad
knocked the wind out of the Luftwaffe once and for all.
To Hitler's demand for air support, Jeschonnek had replied ;
truthfully; “Mein Führer, we can supply Stalingrad, but you have
to realize that afterwards our air force will have no striking power
left. We shall have to use everything, including our training
planes, and probably sacrifice them too . And we shan't have any
flying schools left. If you are convinced, however, that the decision
will be made in Stalingrad, we will make this sacrifice ..."
Goering was not in Rastenburg when Jeschonnek made this
statement, but he was of course informed of it. Knowing how low
his star had sunk, he wanted to rescue his waning prestige by
saving Stalingrad . He hurried to Rastenburg and changed
Jeschonnek's "if" to an unconditional promise that the Luftwaffe
would supply Stalingrad. The new catastrophe that ensued was
just another step toward the inevitable end. It was also a step
toward Jeschonnek's death. When he learned of the heavy bomb-
ing attacks on the V-weapon research station at Peenemünde -a
development that harbored so many desperate hopes-he killed
himself.
In this connection , there remain only a few remarks to be made
about the He 177 , and its technical failure.
The failure of this Luftwaffe four-engine bomber, the only one
that was ever built for this purpose, was due to two major causes
that were closely allied.
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 UDET AND THE ROAD TO CATASTROPHE 1938-1941

The first main cause was the engine bottleneck, which forced
us to seek a solution in the twin engine. The second was the demand
by the General Staff and the Technical Department for dive-
bombing performance, which was never withdrawn. A third cause
lay in those over-hasty technical alterations and size reductions
which Dr. Hertel introduced into the construction at the time
when I had to leave the plane largely in his hands.
In 1941 , after the "stoppage" and during the ensuing frenzied
mass production of the He 177, these weaknesses were revealed,
and I took over. The faults could have been comparatively easily
overcome by certain reinforcements and by dispensing with the
wing cooling. But once more it was the insistence upon dive-
bombing performance that caused the difficulties.
Even after insuring the absolute safety of the air-frame under
dive conditions, the use of the DB 606 ( later DB 610 ) twin- power
plant remained the Achilles' heel of the plane. Daimler-Benz were
unable to increase the operational safety of the twin engines to
eliminate further fires. Valves became fouled after only five or
six hours' flying. Connecting-rod breakages produced holes in the
engine crankcases ; oil flowed out and first the engine, then
the whole plane, caught fire. The engine was an inverted
one, and the escape of drops of gasoline from the carburetors
was practically unavoidable. They fell onto the hot exhaust
manifolds and the gasoline vapor-air mixture thus produced ignited
spontaneously, destroying the whole aircraft. Only the most
careful screening of the engine with fireproof bulkheads and the
strictest control of operation could prevent such fires, which made
servicing and maintenance at frontline airfields difficult, if not
impossible. Apart from the Daimler- Benz power plant, no unit
was produced until 1944 that was powerful enough to operate the
He 177 as a two-propeller plane . And so long as the General Staff
insisted on its "two-engined" solution there was no other power
plant for the He 177 except the DB 606.
This dilemma continued to bedevil the Luftwaffe command.
Since the first exclusion of the He 177 from mass production in
1941 , the Luftwaffe had gone back to the four-engined Focke-
Wulf Condor, in order to have at least some aircraft capable of
long sorties over the Atlantic. In 1941 , fifty-eight Condors were
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 STORMY LIFE

built and equipped with defensive armament, bomb bays and

armor. All this made the converted passenger plane so heavy that
its cruising speed was kept down to 155 mph. As the Condor had
to be flown carefully since it was not solid enough for military
use, it failed as soon as the armament of Allied escorts was
strengthened. The Condor was equally unsuitable for the attack
on England.
Since the He 177 was the only large long-range bomber under
development in 1939, it remained the only plane upon which
all hopes rested during the war. In view of the long period of
time required for the building of a new large- type bomber, the
planning of any other type was out of the question, particularly
as long as the idea of a short war was still alive.
Finally, in the autumn of 1942 , several dozen specialists of the
Ministry were exclusively engaged in making the He 177 opera-
tional.
But they were primarily concerned with the installation of
weapons and equipment that had come into existence at the front.
The pilot's cabin had to be completely rebuilt four times. Remote-
control turrets were tried out and the bomb bays altered fourteen
times. The documents dealing with these alterations alone filled
fifty-six thick files at Marienehe.
The plane was loaded with more and more weight, which made
it slower and clumsier . Time and time again one group of inspec-
tors would demand equipment that another group canceled.
It was pointless, as I always maintained, to continue with these
alterations, which were not the crux of the matter, as long as the
problem of the engine remained unsolved . It could be solved only
by eliminating the dive-bombing requirements.
At last, on September 12 , 1942 , Goering called a conference at
Karinhall. I learned later from General Engel that Hitler, who was
losing confidence in Goering, had begun to interfere with the
Luftwaffe. He wanted to know why Germany had no long-dis-
tance bomber to attack British shipping and Soviet armament
factories in the Urals. This conference left a gloomy impression,
because it showed that Goering, who at least at the start had
encouraged many developments by his own personal drive, now
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took action only under duress, as a result of Hitler's outspoken

distrust. He had no technical knowledge whatsoever.
He confused Heinkel and Dornier types-something I had never
heard him do before . Then he let out a coarse stream of insults.
When it came to the question of dive bombing, he sprang to
his feet. It was madness, he maintained, to expect such a huge
plane to dive. "If anybody had told me before I would have replied :
'Damned nonsense. To dive with a four-engined plane is lunacy .'
Now we're in the soup."
Unfortunately this brief outburst of Goering's, which as usual
was not backed up by competent judgment, brought no change
in the development of the He 177. It took another nine months
before the Technical Department and the General Staff in the
middle of 1943 at last canceled the double-engine project and
instructed me to turn the plane into a regular four-engined bomber.
I do not know how much this decision was influenced by my
conversation with Hitler on May twenty-third when, suddenly
and under rather mysterious circumstances, I was summoned to
Obersalzberg. On my arrival, I found six of the best-known
German aircraft designers-Dornier, Messerschmitt, Tank, Blume
of Arado, Hertel (who had gone to Junkers) , and Dr. Vogt ( of
Blohm and Voss ) . I was surprised to see no representatives of the
Luftwaffe, neither Goering, nor Milch, nor even Hitler's Luft-
waffe adjutant .
One by one we were called in to see Hitler. I had brought
Schwärzler along and was the first to go in. The Führer was calm
and serious ; he still looked in good health.
His first words cleared up the situation. He said with great
frankness: "The Luftwaffe knows nothing of this conference. I
summoned you here to prevent any interference by Goering or
Milch . I want to obtain a personal picture of the technical situa-
tion, and one that is not distorted by the gentlemen of the Luft-
waffe. Until today, I have never interfered in Luftwaffe questions,
because Goering produced the strongest air arm in the world and
I wished to demonstrate my utmost confidence in it. However, the
terrible disappointments of the past two years, and an endless
chain of information and promises that have proved to be false ,
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have compelled me to make this direct approach. I must ask you

for absolutely honest replies to my questions, and I want you to
give me an equally honest picture of the situation. "
He proceeded to ask me pertinent questions, displaying a sur-
prisingly expert knowledge. In comparison with Goering, he had
an astonishing grasp of aeronautics, even in its details. I began to
understand why technicians like Todt and Speer were strong
supporters of Hitler. There has probably never been another
politician with such a burning interest in technical problems.
After a while the conversation turned to the He 177 .
"For three years this plane has been promised to me," declared
Hitler. "For three years I've been waiting for a long- distance
bomber. I can't bomb the convoys in the North Sea, nor can I
bomb the Urals. The Navy is screaming for air support in the
Atlantic. Everything depends upon this airplane. I want a frank
reply to my question . When shall I get the He 177?"
I gave him my opinion. When I mentioned the obstinate insist-
ence upon a dive-bombing performance, Hitler sprang to his feet.
"But that's madness," he cried. "I've heard nothing of this until
today. Is it possible that there can be so many idiots? " Ultimately
he began to develop a theme which was obviously a great favorite
with him. He wanted forty or fifty planes that could fly over
England at 45,000 feet, out of reach of enemy fighters, and appear
in shifts over London to bomb it day and night. "Such continuous
bombing attacks," he said, "would bring life to a standstill." He
felt a desperate need to strike back at England.
I have grounds for believing that this conversation was the
turning point in the attitude of the Ministry toward the He 177 .
After I had received instructions to develop the model as a four-
engined plane, about 360 He 177's were built, some of which
eventually got to the front. Up to a point the flying characteristics
of this plane were judged to be extremely good, while the technical
reliability of the power drive and the danger of fire were con-
sidered correspondingly bad. But in the autumn of 1943 , what
with the gloomy course of the war, I could see that this plane
would come too late to play any role. Even if all went well, mass
production could not begin before 1945. But as a designer I at
least wanted to prove that four-engined development was the
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solution to all the difficulties that had beset us for years. We

started to work. . . .
As a result of the heavy bombing attacks that partly destroyed
Marienehe in 1942 , I had transferred my whole design and devel-
opment branch to Vienna. I was pleased with this idea because I
thought this might be the end of my quarrels with Hildebrand.
This turned out to be an illusion, because soon I had similar trouble
with the local Gauleiters, who had been incited against me by
Bormann and other Party leaders.
The move to the South with the eight hundred men of the
design office alone caused many difficulties, to say nothing of
our final establishment. First we had to move into the buildings at
the flying center of Schechat, where the technical direction,
blueprint and design offices, prototype construction and test-flight
units-the brains, so to speak, of my organization—could all be
together. Much new building was necessary. The airfield was
yet without concrete runways. As soon as our new installations
were ready in 1943 -including living houses for most of the
employees-we had to move again, this time to Vienna. There we
had our workshops partly in beer cellars and partly in a building
on the Fichtegasse which had formerly housed a printing works.
Here, in a short time, the new version of the He 177 , now the
four-engined He 277 , took shape.
The He 277 was basically a new airplane. It corresponded in
size to the American " Super-Fortress," which at that time was
appearing over Germany in increasing numbers. However, with a
speed of 356 mph, the He 277 was considerably faster. It was
powered by four DB 603 engines, weighed 45 tons and was fitted
with every item of up-to-date equipment that had proved of
value, including an articulated undercarriage, which in Germany
was still a novelty for planes of this size. The crew of six were
housed in a cabin that could be pressurized for high-altitude flight.
The entire defensive armament-forward, aft, above and below-
could be remotely controlled from the cabin. The minimum bomb
load was 4,400 lbs. and the range 3,875 miles. Moreover, in flight
the He 277 was 30 mph faster than the 177. The first plane was
produced in the spring of 1944 near Vienna. And suddenly our
difficulties with the previous He 177 were at an end.
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In the meantime Hitler had not lost interest in the plane, as I

learned from his adjutant, General Engel. The more clearly he
realized that the time for a German offensive was irretrievably
past, the more he clamored for a powerful offensive plane. Mean-
while, his interest in the plane kept Goering on the alert, although
by the spring of 1944 it was obvious that the Ministry would soon
be handed over to Speer. The 75 per cent destruction of German
aircraft factories by bombing attacks between February twentieth
and twenty-sixth had resulted in Speer's appointment. Immedi-
ately thereafter, the so-called Fighter Staff was founded by a
Speer man named Saur, in order to concentrate the remaining
capacity of the aircraft industry on building fighters. It was the
decisive step on the path which ultimately convinced Hitler that
there remained no opportunity for attack in the air and that the
best solution lay in a strong fighter defense force capable of delay-
ing the end for a while.
This was the situation when Goering called a meeting of leading
industrialists for May 25 , 1944 , in the S.S. barracks at Obersalz-
berg. The conference already revealed the sober influence of
Speer and Saur. Their aim was to scrap many of the major types
still serving with the Luftwaffe and to concentrate on building
only defensive weapons. On that day numerous planes were
shelved .
Goering as chairman was a mere façade, since he was as badly
informed and ignorant as ever. On the question of the He 277,
however, probably with a view to pacifying Hitler, he was sur-
prisingly active. He insisted that this plane be put into production
as quickly as possible for an output of 200 a month. No one,
neither Milch nor any of the other officers of the Ministry , dared
to contradict him. Colonel Marienfeld, who was sitting next to
me, whispered , "The He 277 is the most important plane of all .
The Reichsmarschall goes to bed with it every night and gets up
with it every morning."
I made no reply. At that time, what could I have replied? Goer-
ing had not once taken the trouble to attend a test of the plane.
Two weeks before we had eagerly awaited a visit from him when
he was in Vienna. Next day I learned that instead of keeping our
appointment he had spent several hours in a well-known jewelry
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shop on the Lobkowitzplatz . His present insistence upon the He

277 was no more than a tactical move unconnected with our real
preoccupations. I let it pass in silence, for I knew it would take at
least a year before we could think of mass production. And what
would have happened by then?
"Let nobody come in two weeks, " said Goering at the end of the
meeting, "and tell me that any of our decisions today have been
changed! "
Several industrialists congratulated me later on the decision
about the He 277. Seldom before or since have I experienced such
consummate lunacy.
A few weeks later, on July 3 , 1944, the He 277 was silently
removed from the production program. At the same time all
completed or half- completed He 177's still in the workshops or
hangars, as well as many other obsolete planes like the Me 210
and the Me 410, were broken up for salvage.
Only one other four-engine variant of the He 177 was developed
by us: in the Farman Works in occupied Paris. Known as the
He 274, it was a high-altitude bomber, and was intended to fly
at between 40,000 and 50,000 feet. It was not completed until
after the end of the war in the West, and made its test flights in
the new French Air Force in 1945. For Farman, this work had
served only one purpose-to employ as many of his men as possible,
to prevent them from being sent to work outside France.
When young Farman paid me a visit at Warnemünde to discuss
this plane in 1941 , he noted that I treated him as my equal and not
as a subject of a conquered land. While we were having coffee in
my garden, he asked me: "Would you, as a German, act differently
in my situation? ”
I had to reply "No. " I do not know whether his actions ever
earned him any gratitude .

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 Chapter XII

I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD :

ROCKET POWER AND JET PLANES

1939-1945

IF I NOW TURN to that part of my work which I am convinced

was the most important, because it was a step across the threshold
into a new era in the history of aviation, I must go back to the
year 1935, when I was at work on an article entitled An Inquiry
into Engine Development.
I was convinced that 500 mph was the peak that would ever
be reached with propeller- driven airplanes. How then could
higher speeds be achieved? And what type of power unit would
equal the speed of sound and perhaps achieve supersonic speeds?
This led me to the problem of turbine or jet engines.
The principle of the turbine or jet engine emerged early in
the development of aeronautics, but it never got beyond the stage
of speculation. The principle was to suck in air, compress it in a
compressor, then inject it into a combustion chamber into which
the fuel, for instance gasoline, was simultaneously injected. The
resulting compressed air-gasoline mixture burned and the hot
gases, requiring a great deal more space because of their thermal
expansion, streamed out of the combustion chamber through an
exhaust nozzle at high velocity. This flow of gas produced a thrust
that drove the plane forward , if the whole process took place in a
sort of duct disposed parallel to the longitudinal axis of the plane
and ejecting the heated gases at the tail end. While the thrust
developed by the propeller of a conventional plane decreased with
increasing flight speed , the thrust of a turbine or jet engine theo-
retically was not only maintained in high-speed flight but increased
with the speed of the plane, because the air coming into the
compressor was already compressed by the "ram" effect of the
plane. Hence a turbine or jet engine would give its maximum
performance only at very high flight speeds.
In November, 1935 , I met a young man, today famous, but
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who at that time was unknown. Wernher von Braun, since his
first year at college, had been passionately interested in the devel-
opment ofrockets.
When I met him he was testing a primitive rocket engine on
the artillery testing grounds at Kummersdorf. The fuels were
methyl alcohol and liquid oxygen. The fuels ignited spontaneously
on mixing, and produced an explosive impulse that lasted about
thirty seconds, until the fuel was exhausted.
"With this rocket engine, " von Braun said to me, "one should
be able to propel a plane. We've built a turntable and placed the
power units on the outside of the wheel. The units finally exploded,
but the turntable spun at a great speed. My work has now come
to a standstill because the Army isn't interested in such experi-
ments, and the Air Ministry doesn't seem very keen either. They
don't believe that a plane can be pushed forward by means of a
propulsive jet in the tail. They think it would turn turtle. I intend
to prove the contrary, but I need a plane. I don't mean a whole
plane, but a fuselage into which I can build the engine and make
bench tests. One of the men from the Ministry who wants to help
me is your former test pilot, Junck. He thinks an He 112 fuselage
would be the most suitable. " He added, "Of course this must be
kept completely secret."
This was the beginning of my close association with von Braun.
I drove to Kummersdorf, where he was working with some of his
friends in a dreary shed . After our first discussions, I delivered to
him a fuselage of the He 112 fighter, complete with undercarriage.
I also lent him a team of riggers headed by my engineer, Walter
Künzel. At the beginning of 1936 this team moved to Kummers-
dorf.
Through Junck, von Braun had found a flyer who had enough
courage and ability to act as test pilot for this revolutionary rocket
plane. This was Erich Warsitz, who until then had been a test
pilot in Rechlin.
Von Braun's rocket propulsion unit was installed in the fuselage
of the He 112 , with the liquid oxygen tank immediately in front
of the pilot's seat, and an alcohol tank behind it. The contents of
both tanks were under pressure, by means of which they were
forced into the combustion chamber at the tail end. Here the two
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liquids met, producing a continuous explosion whose pressure

forced the very hot combustion gases out of the combustion
chamber, through its specially shaped nozzle, in the form of an
enormous tongue of flame jetting out from the rear end of the
aircraft. Braun anchored the undercarriage of the He 112 to the
ground. The end of the fuselage was jacked up so that the stream
of exhaust gases was not directed obliquely downward toward
the ground, but horizontally. The engine operated as long as the
supply of alcohol and oxygen entered the combustion chamber.
At the beginning of February, 1936, I met Warsitz. Prior to my
visits all tests with the unit had been carried out by remote control
from an observation post behind a concrete wall. The "pot" was
several times blown to pieces, but now von Braun and Warsitz
wanted to demonstrate the safety of the apparatus by placing a
crew in the fuselage. As it started up, they stood on the stubs
flanking each side of the open pilot's cabin. The rest of us waited
behind the concrete wall . A few moments later, a sinister red-and-
white glow appeared at the tail of the plane and developed into a
bright flame thirty feet long. Even behind the wall , we began to
tremble as a result of the slipstream and the noise . About forty
yards behind the plane some heavy steel plates were hurled into
the air and tossed about.
After thirty seconds, all was quiet again. The plane was
undamaged . Von Braun and Warsitz were standing slightly dazed,
but unhurt, on the wing stubs. From this moment on I was con-
vinced that the rocket plane would become an accomplished fact.
While these first bench experiments in Kummersdorf-a matter
of life or death for those who took part, particularly for the pilot-
were being carried out, I received a letter from Professor Pohl,
head of the Science Institute at the University of Göttingen. He
informed me that he had an assistant, Pabst von Ohain, who was
working on a new power unit for airplanes, which did not use a
propeller. Von Ohain was very capable. He had already spent his
private means carrying out experiments, but now he had reached
the end of his resources. Pohl assured me that the young man's
ideas were scientifically sound and that it should be possible to put
them into practice.
I wrote at once and arranged for von Ohain to come to
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Warnemünde on March seventeenth . He turned out to be a very

likeable young man, scarcely twenty-four years old, a brilliant
scientist obviously filled with a burning faith in his idea. He
admitted that he was a pure theoretician, and needed both techni-
cians and money to realize his theories. His theories corresponded
to what I have already outlined about turbine or jet propulsion,
and were primarily concerned with the type of engine that was
later known as a centrifugal jet unit.
I hired von Ohain at once, together with a technician named
Hahn who had been his assistant in Göttingen. I pledged both of
them to utmost secrecy. The same was true for the Günter
brothers and Schwärzler, whom I now took into my confidence.
Within a month I had a special shed built in Marienehe, completely
cut off from the rest of the factory. No one had access to it apart
from those directly engaged in the work. I placed this shed at the
disposal of Ohain and Hahn.
In this way the development and construction of the first turbine
or jet propulsion unit began in Germany as a private venture. A
year and a half later, on one September night in 1937 , the unit was
started up for the first time. I shall never forget the moment when
Hahn jubilantly called me up about one o'clock that morn-
ing. The unit had functioned for the first time. As fuel for the
combustion chamber we still used hydrogen and not gasoline or
crude oil as we did later. A quarter of an hour later I heard with
my own ears that remarkable howling and whistling noise which
made the whole workshop shudder and which today most of us
take in stride when a jet plane passes over.
After another six months of difficult work the He S 3 turbo-jet
engine was born; its performance was no longer a matter of chance
but scientifically controllable, and it burned gasoline instead of
hydrogen. Even this primitive apparatus developed approximately
1,100 pounds of thrust . Now my great goal was to make a plane
fly with this engine. I planned the building of a test plane, to be
called He 178 , which for the first time would be equipped with a
jet engine.
This whole project was kept top secret at the factory, though
several dozen of my workers had to be initiated as the scope of
the work expanded. In the meantime I had built a larger test shed
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 STORMY LIFE

with one end facing the Warnow River. It had large doors which
could be opened so that the experimental engines could blast out
their hot flames onto the river unobserved . In the neighborhood of
of the factory the mysterious whine was heard, giving rise to
countless rumors. Despite this, however, very few people knew
what was really happening.
By this time the parallel development of rocket power had
made great strides, in spite of many setbacks. The rocket “pot"
was constantly being torn off because the material we used
was unable to stand up to the temperature of more than 1,800 °
Fahrenheit that was developed. The first and second He 112
fuselages were destroyed by explosions. Finally von Braun asked
me to give him a complete and airworthy He 112 with reciprocat-
ing engine because he now wanted to build his rocket unit into it as
an auxiliary engine. It would be used as soon as the plane had
reached a certain height on conventional power. Warsitz would
try out the rocket unit in flight and by means of a successful
demonstration put an end to the hesitations of the Luftwaffe.
I agreed. The Braun-Warsitz-Künzel group moved with a
brand-new He 112 to a remote airfield, Neubrandenburg. In
March, 1937 , they made their first trial flight. Fortunately they
first let the rocket unit run a few times on the bench. The apparatus
was still not entirely under control . Warsitz, jammed between
two highly explosive tanks of alcohol and liquid oxygen, had to
wait until the pressure in the tanks reached a certain figure. Only
then, by means of a lever, could he let the fuel stream into the
combustion chamber to be ignited. After that, he had to hope for
the best. The maximum strain that the chamber could stand was
thirty seconds, and it exploded and blew the whole plane to pieces.
Warsitz was flung out of the stationary plane and by a miracle
escaped with his life.
A few days later, however, he turned up at Marienehe, ready to
start again . “ Herr Doctor, ” he said, “I know this is costing you
a pile of money. But if you don't give us another plane, we'll have
to pack up and the whole project will go by the board."
I gave them a second brand-new He 112. It disappeared from
Marienehe, destination unknown . A month later Warsitz took off
with normal engine power, turned on the pressure in the rocket
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unit, cut out the engine and switched over to the rocket when
he was flying level at about 190 mph. The plane was given such
tremendous impetus that the air -speed indicator rose in a few
seconds to 250 mph. Everything happened in a matter of seconds.
Warsitz felt a terrible heat in the cabin. Fumes and gases poured
into the cockpit. He thought the unit and the plane itself were
going to explode any moment. He released his harness and was
about to open the roof and bail out when he noticed that he was
only 1,000 feet up . It was not high enough to jump so he tried
to land. The undercarriage would not go down but he managed to
make a crash landing. Hardly had he left the plane than it began
to burn, but the flames were put out at the last minute by the
waiting crash wagon.
This did not alter the fact that for the first time a large plane
had flown with rocket propulsion ; it had not turned turtle. A
flight without propeller and with thrust from the rear alone was
possible.
A few days later Künzel and his men had repaired the plane.
They found the root of the trouble : faultily adjusted exhaust vents
had allowed part of the combustible material to seep into the
cockpit.
Warsitz made several more flights. At the outset he invariably
took off with the engine. Then came the next daring step . He took
off with engine and rocket unit simultaneously and, to his surprise,
was shot almost vertically into the air.
In the summer of 1937 he took off for the first time with rocket
power alone. The take-off went smoothly. Immediately after
leveling out he went into a dive, flew around the airfield with the
tail of fire streaming behind him until there was no more fuel in
the chamber, and then glided to a landing at the edge of the field.
The landing was also made without difficulty. We had at last
proved that flight without a propeller was a reality. The interest
of the Air Ministry was aroused for the first time.
Meanwhile an engineer in Kiel named Walter, who had no
connection with von Braun, had developed another rocket pro-
pulsion unit. In contrast to the Braun unit, Walter's rocket unit
worked on hydrogen peroxide as the oxidant and a mixture of
methanol, water and hydrazine as fuel. When allowed to react
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together, these two liquids produced, in the confined space of the

combustion chamber, hot gases at very high pressure. The Walter
rocket unit had already attained a higher degree of operational
reliability than the Braun unit.
The moment the Air Ministry was informed of this by Wernher
von Braun, who unexpectedly told them about it without consult-
ing me, it was installed in the He 112 experimental plane and trial
flights confirmed our previous results. In this way, however, the
Ministry's interest was largely diverted from the real crux of the
problem-the purely rocket-propelled plane-to a development
which, compared with this great object, was merely a side issue .
When Warsitz had taken off with both reciprocating engine
and rocket propulsion, it became apparent that the rocket could
develop enormous extra take-off power. It was obvious that rockets
might be used for heavily loaded aircraft. I had an He 111 taken
to Neubrandenburg and so heavily loaded that its ordinary engines
could no longer lift it from the ground. Then two Walter power
units were fixed beneath the wings, to be started at the same
time as the engine, and these carried the heavy plane smoothly
into the air. Without the extra load the heavy bomber shot so
fast and steeply into the sky with this rocket aid that the sight
was truly awe- inspiring. Despite this important development,
however, the rocket plane was my real aim. In the autumn of 1937
I went to Neubrandenburg and had a talk with von Braun and
Warsitz.
"What would you say? " I asked them, "if instead of the He
112 I built a real rocket plane?"
They were enthusiastic.
We had a round-table conference with all the top designers and
technicians at Marienehe to discuss what this new rocket plane
should look like. The question was whether we should build a
larger plane with a margin of safety-which would diminish the
performance-or a small one designed entirely for performance
and speed. Then I thought, however, that so long as we were trying
to break the world speed record of about 450 mph, and in view of
the successful flights already made, we might as well aim higher
-perhaps at 550 or even 600 mph. I was aiming to achieve a speed
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that would mean far more than a record ; it would mean a step into
unexplored regions.
After the discussion had continued for a while, I said : "Well,
Warsitz must decide. He's the man who'll have to fly it."
I looked at him. "What do you think? " I asked.
Warsitz did not hesitate long.
"Herr Doctor," he said. "I'm all for the small plane, and I'm
convinced that once I have enough experience nothing will happen
to me."
Afterward I called him back.
"Do you know what I'm after? " I asked .
"I think so," he said with a nod .
"If we can make it, 600 miles an hour."
In the meantime I had built a special hangar for the construction
of the first experimental jet plane, the He 178 ; and all outsiders ,
including the countless visitors from the Air Ministry, were rigidly
excluded. It was here that the rocket plane He 176 took shape.
At that time our knowledge of the constructional requirements
for a plane flying at the speed of sound was full of gaps. The
pronouncements of the theorists were never in agreement. The
wing area of the He 176 was 54 square feet and the wing span
not more than 13.1 feet. The wings were designed in the light of
the existing knowledge, and had symmetrical profiles.
The whole plane was kept as small as possible, and tailored for
Warsitz. This in itself was not so simple, as he was over six feet
tall. The plane stood only three feet high, and at its broadest point
the fuselage was 24 inches wide. Warsitz found he was slightly
cramped if he forgot to take out his wallet before he got in. The
pilot's seat was tilted back in a recumbent position inside a plexiglas
cabin with maximum visibility.
In spite of Warsitz's readiness to take risks, I insisted upon
installing every possible safety device. At a speed above 600 mph
it was no longer possible to jump from a damaged airplane with a
normal parachute. There was no chance whatever of getting out
of the plane or even sticking a limb out of the cockpit without
its being torn off. I so arranged the plane, therefore, that in case of
an accident the whole cockpit together with the pilot could be
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 STORMY LIFE

ejected by means of a compressed-air device. This cockpit had

its own retarding parachute, which opened as soon as the rate of
descent of the cockpit was slowed down by its resistance to the
air. When the rate of fall was reduced to about 180 mph, the
pilot threw back the canopy of the cockpit and jumped out with
his own regular parachute . Despite every care and the installing
of many safety devices, however, the risk for the pilot was great
enough, particularly as we felt the ejection should take place at
an altitude of at least 20,000 feet to give room for the necessary
braking of the speed of fall .
While we were working on this plane in Marienehe, the primi-
tive conditions under which von Braun had begun his work had
been transformed. Following the obvious success of rockets
demonstrated at Kummersdorf and Neubrandenburg, the Army
General Staff decided to establish a vast experimental station for
rockets of all kinds, and the Air Ministry , though still not much
interested, had joined in. Von Braun and Warsitz had flown
together along the Baltic coast. On the completely deserted
northern promontory of Usedom Island they had discovered
Peenemünde, a place made for secret work.
From 1937 on the new buildings, offices and hangars of the East
and West Peenemünde Rocket Experimental Station mushroomed
out of the ground through the labor of some 10,000 workers. Here
Wernher von Braun, whose main interest was no longer in a
rocket plane but in liquid-fuel rockets of the type of the future
V- 2, had the opportunity to build his trial rockets in complete
secrecy and shoot them out over the open Baltic . The secret
testing of the first He 176, which could not be carried out at
Marienehe, also took place at Peenemünde.
One summer night in 1938 several special trucks left Marienehe,
carrying the He 176 with its dismantled wings and my special
group headed by Künzel to Peenemünde. Two days later, the
first taxiing tests began.
The Walter unit we had installed had a thrust of about 1,100
lbs. and a working life of about sixty seconds. The effect of this
thrust on a small plane was so enormous that on the first attempt it
shot forward like a bullet, and Warsitz had to cut out the unit
immediately. From then on, similar taxiing tests went off accord-
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I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD —

ing to plan. Then he started making his first short flights into the
air. As they became longer, the Peenemünde airfield ceased to be
adequate and the runway had to be extended by nearly a mile.
Throughout this period I kept constantly in close contact with
Künzel and Warsitz and many times drove over to Peenemünde,
especially in view of difficulties with Luftwaffe engineers which
arose there. The first interest of the Luftwaffe in my privately
built He 176 became evident at the time the first flights were
taking place. The direction this interest took did not please me at
all . While I looked upon the plane exclusively as an advance into
new realms of speed, the General Staff was thinking in terms of
a rocket interceptor fighter which, in view of the low altitude of
bomber squadrons at that period, could attack them when they
were already thick over the target. It was to shoot up vertically,
seek out its target, and land again. Accordingly, they demanded
that this tiny plane, designed solely for speed, should have room
for built-in machine guns. Since these demands-absurd at this
early stage-were not abandoned, we solved the problem by
building in certain blisters which ostensibly represented the
required space but were actually used for housing instruments and
switches.
In June, 1939, the plane was advanced far enough for Warsitz
to think about making his first flight. I made him promise that I
would be notified in plenty of time to see it, but he did not keep
his promise. He had decided to surprise me.
On June 30, 1939, the telephone rang imperiously. It was War-
sitz. He burst out, "Herr Doctor, I'm pleased to tell you that
I've just carried out the first true rocket flight with your He 176.
And, as you hear, I'm still alive."
"What's that? " I shouted.
"It's a fact," said Warsitz, "and please don't blow your top.
Everything went off fine. I was fifty seconds in the air, after a
perfectly smooth start, and then I landed ." Then he added, "We
really had no opportunity to let you know."
"But that's wonderful," I said. "I'll be over tomorrow. "
"Good. We've notified Udet and he wants to bring Milch,
Lucht and a few others."
Udet who, like everyone else in the Air Ministry, had been
219
 STORMY LIFE

largely disinterested in the new development, was standing near

the plane when I arrived the next morning. Milch and a number
of other officers were there as well. The expression on their faces
was either skeptical or else condescendingly amused. Udet was
no exception.
"You mean to say you want to fly with that thing?" he said.
"Why, it's got no wings. They look like running boards."
This was the first time I saw an actual flight. The weather was
unfavorable. The plane rocked badly, but the flight was otherwise
quite smooth, and for anyone with scientific imagination and belief
in progress it must have been convincing and highly exhilarating.
Milch went over to Warsitz when he landed, and promoted him to
the rank of captain . Udet congratulated him too, but to our
amazement he added : "That's no airplane. Stop it. I forbid any
further flights."
Warsitz tried to explain why the first test plane had been built
in that particular way and how convinced he was that unheard-of
speeds would be achieved. He spoke with real enthusiasm, but he
could not convince Udet. Things had obviously gone beyond his
powers of imagination .
It took several visits to Berlin to prove to Udet that further
flights with the He 176 were indispensable to gain experience
before he half-heartedly withdrew his ban: "All right. Buzz off
and do what you want. " But that wasn't the end of the matter.
Although Warsitz carried out several perfect flights of seventy
seconds' duration during the next few days, out of the blue came
an order forbidding him to fly. I never learned who instigated this
new order. I realized, however, that it was the first overt sign of
irritation toward me on the part of the Air Ministry, because
Warsitz told me that when he complained to Lucht, the General
declared, "This is a Heinkel plane. Heinkel built it on his own
responsibility, so let him test it with his own pilots . We aren't
going to risk any of our men." This was the first manifestation of
the Luftwaffe's aversion to my whole development of rocket and
jet planes. I had acted too independently.
But in this case, Warsitz approached Udet personally, asking for
permission to fly again. Udet finally told the other officers: "War-
220
 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD - 1939-1945

sitz has risked his own skin so far. I'm in favor of letting him go on.
He'll make it all right."
We had hardly resumed our test flights when there was another
ban on further flights before July 3 , 1939 , and we received instruc-
tions to take the plane to Rechlin for a special demonstration. We
were eager to know the reason for this mysterious order. On
July first, Udet telephoned and told me that two days later there
would be a display of new types of planes in Hitler's presence.
My He 176 was to take part. Udet forbade any further test flights
or alterations that might interfere with its airworthiness.
"Very well, " I said. "That the plane will fly at the present stage
is pretty well a foregone conclusion, but I shall consider it a
success only if we can reach a speed of between 550 and 600 miles
an hour. That will require a lot more work. "
"That's of no importance," said Udet. "The Führer's got to see
something new, so I remembered your funny kite, and if it can
get around the airfield that'll be quite good enough."
My plane was ready to fly on July third. At last Hitler's car
arrived. The Führer was accompanied by von Keitel, Jodl, Goer-
ing, Milch, Jeschonneck and Udet. He came over to us and gravely
shook hands with Udet and myself. He examined the plane for a
moment, listened to Udet's hasty explanations, and then stepped
back about a hundred yards with his staff.
I held my breath as Warsitz squeezed himself into his seat. A
stream of smoke shot from the tail of the plane, and the birdlike
craft moved off across the airfield.
Then the plane was air-borne, the undercarriage retracted. At
a height of between two and three thousand feet, Warsitz circled
above us, throttled back, glided down to the ground, then suddenly
switched on again, so that the plane shot once more into the air.
At last, he closed his throttle and landed at a speed of nearly
200 mph. The plane taxied across the airfield.
With great relief, I turned to the group standing around Hitler,
trying to read in their faces what impression the performance had
made on them, but I did not get anywhere. Hitler congratulated
the pilot. Then, turning to me, he asked, "What do you pay
Warsitz for this flight?"
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 STORMY LIFE

Somewhat surprised , I named the figure. I did not know what

his Peenemünde salary was. Hitler did not press the point, but
made a few more complimentary remarks expressing his interest,
and took his leave.
Goering, Milch and Udet remained behind. The Field- Marshal
took Warsitz aside and said, "Well, and what do you think of this
whole rigmarole ? "
"Herr Generalfeldmarschall, I am convinced that in a year or
two very few military planes will have propellers and reciprocat-
""
ing engines.'
Goering put his chubby hand on my pilot's shoulder and smiled
good-naturedly.
"You're an optimist," he said, and there was a tone of con-
descension in his voice. He asked a few more questions, but
refrained from discussing what concerned us most. All he said was,
"Well, Herr Warsitz , since everything went off so well today , I am
giving you twenty thousand marks." He turned to Udet. "You
know what I mean, out of the special fund."
He drove off and I remained behind, somewhat disappointed.
But three days later, when Warsitz was called to Berlin to see
Udet, my hopes revived.
I was due for another disappointment.
The following day, Warsitz telephoned late in the evening. He
had returned from Berlin and was over at my house an hour later.
"Well, what happened? " I asked.
"I had a twenty-minute interview with the Führer. He was very
""
interested and asked a lot of technical questions.'
"Did he say anything about a new era beginning for aviation and
about the wonderful opportunity for Germany to be in the lead? "
"No, he said nothing about that. "
"What about Goering?"
"He said nothing, either."
"What about Udet? "
"He never mentioned the He 176."
"So that was all? " I asked . I could not understand this apparent
indifference to a revolutionary development in flying that was
within our very grasp .
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD — 1939-1945

Warsitz looked at me. "In Berlin I was under the impression

that they look on the whole thing as a joke, and that none of them
sees its practical value in the near future."
"Thanks for your information," I said. "But now let's get a
plane ready to show them. We'll give top priority to completing
the He 178. Warsitz, you are going to fly that plane, and you are
going to fly her here , where we don't have to get permission, as
we would in Rechlin."
He thought for a moment. "The Marienehe airfield is too small.
It won't do," he said. "It wouldn't be safe."
"There's no other way. We can't allow Berlin to talk the
project to death before the plane gets into the air.”
"Right,” replied Warsitz, “but you must let me decide when I
think the plane is ready."
"All the same, you'll fly it," I said, “and you'll fly it at more
than six hundred ."
To complete my report on the He 176 rocket plane, we worked
on this craft until the outbreak of the war put a stop to all record-
breaking and the Luftwaffe clamped down on any new attempts.
The first He 176 was packed in a crate and sent to the Air Museum
in Berlin, where it was later destroyed by bombing.

My conversation with Warsitz was followed by many weeks of

concentrated work both in the special project workshop and on
the Marienehe airfield . Von Ohain and his men worked almost
day and night to perfect the two He S 3 turbo-jet engines that
had been built there. After dozens of bench trials the first He S 3B
was installed in an He 118 , which was at hand in the factory.
This plane stood high enough to give sufficient ground clearance.
Warsitz flew it with Künzel. Test flights took place every day at
dawn, while the factory was still empty and deserted, so there
would be no observers. After the He 118 took off with the normal
engine, Künzel would switch on the jet unit.
These air tests were repeated day after day until the turbine
burned out one day on landing. Since this was merely due to an
unfortunate coincidence, we decided to build the second unit
into the He 178, which in the meantime had been completed as
the first entirely jet-driven plane . It was a completely experimental
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 STORMY LIFE

design but with a normal wing span of twenty-four feet. The

major constructional problem had been the installation for the
first time of a jet unit behind the pilot's seat, with a jet exhaust and
a forward intake for air which entered through a huge opening
in the nose and led beneath the cockpit.
I gave Warsitz plenty of time for reflection, but he said curtly,
"The day after tomrrow, on August 27 , we'll fly it."
It was a clear and beautiful morning, without a breath of wind
when we drove out to the airfield . Warsitz was already waiting
with the specialist riggers. The tension was great. This no longer
involved merely a new airplane, but a completely new source of
power that could start us off on a new path. Compared to the
short-lived rocket propulsion units, the jet promised flights of long
duration. The plane was brought to the starting point and Warsitz
climbed in. I grasped his hand and wished him "Happy landing."
He started the turbine. The plane took off and rapidly climbed
to 2,000 feet.
But something was wrong with the undercarriage. Warsitz did
everything he could to retract it; then he gave up and flew
with it at 1,500 feet in a wide circle around the field . With or
without undercarriage, he was flying. He was flying! A new era
had begun. The hideous wail of the engine was music to our ears.
He circled again, smoothly and gracefully. The riggers began to
wave like madmen. Warsitz had now been three minutes in the
air, but it seemed an eternity. Calmly he flew around once more,
and when six minutes were up he started to land . He cut out the
jet unit, then misjudged his approach and had to sideslip . Sideslip
with a new, dangerous and tricky plane !
We held our breath, but the He 178 landed perfectly, taxied and
came to a stop right in front of the Warnow-a magnificent land-
ing. Within seconds we had all rushed over to Warsitz and the
plane. The riggers hoisted both of us on to their shoulders and
carried us round, roaring with enthusiasm. The jet plane had
flown.
We had no doubt that ours was the first jet plane in the world
to be air-borne. I wanted to report this triumph to Berlin. I had
waited long enough for this moment. I dragged Warsitz to the
telephone . We called Udet at his home. It was half past four. We
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD - 1939-1945

would have to get him out of bed, but I was sure, in spite of my
earlier disappointments, that Udet would be just as enthusiastic
as we were.
It took some time before he came to the phone, sleepy and
grumbling.
"Good morning, " I said. "This is Heinkel. I just wanted to tell
you that Captain Warsitz has just flown the world's first jet
plane, He 178 , with the first jet unit, He S 3B, and after a success-
ful flight, has made a safe landing."
There was silence at the other end of the wire. "Well, that's
fine," Udet growled at last. "Congratulations to both of you, but
now let me get back to bed." That was all he said.
Throughout that August week of 1939 I was so absorbed in
the problems of jet flight that I hardly noticed the threatening
developments on the political horizon. Every day I phoned Berlin
to learn when the He 178 could be demonstrated to Udet, Lucht,
Eisenlohr and, possibly, Milch or Goering. I simply could not
understand the hesitation in Berlin. If I had watched the political
situation more closely, I would not have been so baffled.
At last on August thirtieth I arranged to meet Udet on the late
afternoon of the next day, together with my wife, at Horcher's
famous restaurant in Berlin . I was sure that at his favorite haunt
Udet would unbend . But as soon as I began to speak of the problem
on my mind, he changed the subject.
In the early morning of September first, we drove back to his
apartment. I sat down in an armchair and turned on the radio. It
turned out to be a fatal moment. At that instant came the
announcement that German troops had crossed the Polish frontier
and war had been declared on Poland. Udet sat down wearily.
"Well, there you are," he said.
He did not say another word. Soon we took our leave , and
drove back in silence to Warnemünde. The following day we
were ordered to step up war production and postpone all research
and development work, which could be of no practical use in
what Berlin considered would be a short war. For weeks, the
problem of jet flight was relegated to the background.
After the war in Poland had come to a surprisingly quick end, I
managed to jog Berlin's memory about my He 178. After several
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 STORMY LIFE

fruitless attempts, von Pfistermeister got an answer from Lucht,

"What would be the use now? There will be time enough to take
that up after the war."
But being the sort of man I am, I gave them no peace . Even so,
it was not until October twenty- eighth that Pfistermeister called
me from Berlin. "Goering, Milch and Udet, with their staff, will
come to Marienehe to see a demonstration of the He 178 on
November first."
We had everything ready for the second flight when Milch's
Junkers 52 touched down at Marienehe, but only the General
himself, with Udet, Lucht and their adjutants got out. We waited
in vain for Goering. When I greeted Milch, I saw that his face
was cold and unfriendly. He made no excuse for Goering's absence.
He merely said, "The Field-Marshal is otherwise engaged ."
The atmosphere was somewhat frosty while I explained the
plane and the engine. Udet made a few facetious remarks. He ran
his hand over the unit and said to Warsitz, "I bet that'll get nice
and hot." Then Warsitz began to take off.
As the plane was about to rise, it began to wobble. The noise of
the jet unit ceased abruptly . Warsitz taxied toward a nearby
railroad track, but managed to swerve at the last moment. I sensed
a catastrophe that would destroy all my hopes. I jumped into my
Mercedes, leaving my visitors behind, and dashed over to Warsitz.
By some miracle, the 178 seemed undamaged. Warsitz was stand-
ing beside it. "Hell ! " he said furiously. "The damn gasoline pump
seized up."

"The plane must fly," I roared at him. "If those fellows over
there go back to Berlin, everything is finished , absolutely finished."
He passed his oily hands over his face. “If you take Milch and
the others over to the club for a while, we'll put the plane in
order."
"How long do you need ? "
"Two hours ."
"Fine," I said, and took him into my car. "Now give Milch
some harmless explanation for the accident. Think of something.
Say whatever occurs to you, but for heaven's sake, think of some-
thing! "
The faces of the visitors were even icier than before. Milch
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD - 1939-1945

turned to Warsitz and said, with a hint of a jeer. "Well, what's it

all about? " Warsitz looked him straight in the face. "A tire blew
out," he said.
"What blew out? " Milch asked in cold astonishment. "You
were already air-borne."
"True, sir," said Warsitz. "The moment I took off, the tire
blew out. It's happened to me before. I have had to land at full
speed with a flat tire. This time I preferred to bring her down as
she was."
I could not be certain that Milch believed a word of it. I had
only one thought-to prevent them from flying back to Berlin. I
can't remember how I managed it. But when Milch, two and a half
hours later, gave orders for his return flight and we drove out to
the airfield, Warsitz was waving to me. The 178 was ready to
take off. My people had made it.
Outwardly calm, I said, "Gentlemen, surely you are going to
see the He 178?"
"But it's out of commission for the time being," replied Milch.
"On account of a blown-out tire? " I said. "No, it has been ready
to fly for some time. If you'll wait a second, you'll see a take-off."
At that moment the jet started, and this time luck was with us.
She made a perfect take-off and flew several times around the
field . Warsitz dived so close over our heads, that both Milch and
Udet had to duck.
Udet, amazed, shouted, "That crazy madman Warsitz must
come down! You can't possibly fly so long with that thing ."
However, even Udet seemed not unimpressed by this overthrow
of all earlier aviation technology.
Warsitz made such a perfect landing that the plane came to a
stop right in front of the group. I felt that we had won. My
disillusionment came when the visitors, without any further
remark, took their leave.
I must now go back a little to April, 1939, when I was in contact
with a group of scientists who were working with Junkers on the
development of jet propulsion. These men had worked under
Professor Wagner at the Aviation Institute in Berlin from 1936
on. When Wagner joined the Junkers works and was engaged on
plans for a transatlantic plane, he maintained that no normal engine
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 STORMY LIFE

would be suitable. He then did some research into the possibility

of jet-plane construction and tried to arouse the interest of the
BMW, Daimler-Benz and Junkers airplane-engine concerns. He
was still making no headway in so doing at a time when we were
already working at Marienehe.
Wagner and his staff, however, continued his research at the
Junkers on combustion chambers and heat-resistant steel with a
view to building a jet unit that would correspond essentially to
our own experiments. In 1937 , Wagner was sufficiently advanced
to proceed from theory to practice. Once more , he tried to interest
the engine manufacturers, but in vain.
After considerable difficulty the Wagner group managed to
make arrangements to continue this work in the Magdeburg tool
factory, a subsidiary of Junkers. There they experimented with
heat-resisting materials, built and tested compressors, and pro-
duced combustion chambers until the summer of 1938. Then
they were faced with the threat of abandoning the work because
they needed steel alloys, which owing to their use in armaments
production could be obtained only by a special permit. At this
juncture they approached Goering for help .
Until then, only a small special branch at the Ministry, under a
bureaucrat named Mauch, had been concerned with the jet prob-
lem. This department was founded primarily for rocket research
and the question of jet propulsion had been handed over to a
young colleague of Mauch's named Schelp. The latter, with
insufficient knowledge of the subject, and inadequately supported
by the important men at the Ministry , was trying to control the
whole field of jet development. As soon as he heard of the work
being carried on by Junkers and by myself, he tried to acquaint
himself with the results and then-very ineptly-to take over its
direction.
When Wagner's jet unit group first approached the Ministry
they were told that all preliminary experiments and experiences
must be turned over to an aircraft engine works, which alone
could guarantee the necessary "practical application. " The result
was that most of Wagner's people quit Junkers and returned to the
Aviation Institute in Berlin . Some of them, however, had appar-
ently heard of the progress of my own work. They applied for
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jobs in my factory and I took them on. When they came to

Marienehe in October, 1939 , the He 178 had already made its
first successful flights, and I organized a large, compact develop-
ment branch for jet units and jet planes, which by November
employed more than 120 engineers, technicians and scientists of
the most varied attainments.
While the group under Ohain devoted its main attention to an
engine with a centrifugal compressor similar to the He S 3 , I
decided to form a new group, partly composed of the new techni-
cians but under the general direction of Ohain , to undertake the
construction of an engine with an axial compressor. I meant to
pursue two parallel lines of development in order to determine
which one produced the best results.
In the centrifugal compressor, the air entering the compressor
axially near the center is caused to flow and accelerate in a
radial direction toward the periphery of the compressor by the
impeller. In the axial type, the air always flows axially through
the compressor, its pressure being raised in stages by the action of
several rotors carrying radially disposed blades shaped like airfoils,
which alternate with "stators" exactly similar to the rotors, but
fixed in position.
The second engine group, however, also had its eye on other
types of propulsive unit, particularly the mixed type which,
designated as a "compound engine," is today fairly common in
America for large airplanes of moderate speed.
This resulted in the formation of several special divisions which
concerned themselves with the development and testing of the
most diverse new kinds of engines. The divisions had such code
designations as TL (Turbo-jet ; Turbine-Luftstrahl) ; STL ( ram-
jet-turbo-jet; Staurohr- Turbine-Luftstrahl) ; or ML ( reciprocat-
ing engine and jet; Motor-Luftstrahl) . The ML-also known as the
"Marie Louise"-was a compound power unit of 2,000- hp output
with a high-speed, 16-cylinder, two-stroke engine as its recipro-
cating component. For the time being I went along with this
trend, because nothing can be so instructive as a number of
parallel developments. We also made a start on the building of the
testing facilities that would be necessary in meeting our various
problems. These included a compressor test installation with a
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 STORMY LIFE

power consumption of 14,000 KW and a speed of 12,000 rpm,

which had never been constructed before. After 1945, this equip-
ment was taken abroad, where for a long time it was regarded as
the most up-to-date research equipment of its kind.
In addition, I planned a large factory for engine development
in Rostock, for it was obvious that my own specialized aircraft
plant was not adequate for the enormous expansion now in the
making.
Since I was aware that the installation of a jet engine in the
fuselage of a single-engined airplane was not then the best solution,
because of the length of the intake and exhaust ducts, I had begun
the design of a two-engined fighter. The object was to set the
engines directly in the air flow underneath the lifting surfaces.
The airplane designed for this purpose was named He 280. It
proved to be the first twin-engined jet-powered plane ever to fly.
This happened on April 5 , 1941 -forty days before the single-
engined Gloster-Whittle E.28 /39 jet airplane flew in England
for the first time, and about eighteen months before the first
American jet plane, the Bell P- 59A, took off for the first time on
October 1 , 1942 .

Because the perfecting of the engine and air-frame were the

best ways of getting experience, we now worked in the direction
of a really advanced type of twin-engined jet plane, using numer-
ous new design elements. In particular, the He 280 was equipped-
for the first time in Germany-with a tricycle undercarriage
instead of the usual tail wheel, so that the plane could run with its
axis horizontal up to take-off and after touch-down. This insured
that the thrust of the jet engine was not directed toward the
ground and gave the aircraft unusual take-off and landing charac-
teristics.
At the same time Ohain's group started on the development of
an improved engine of the centrifugal type ( designation He S 8 ) ,
which was to have a smaller diameter because it was intended
to be installed underneath the wings of the He 280. Its thrust was
1,100-1,300 lbs. Parallel with this the second group concentrated
on the development of an axial-type engine, He S 30, with a
planned thrust of 1,760 lbs. , but which could not be expected to be
ready before the summer of 1942.
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD — 1939-1945

My work was now so extensive that I was no longer in a position

to carry it on with only my own financial resources. Furthermore,
on account of the increasing centralization, I could get hold of
neither sufficient raw materials-particularly heat-resistant metals
-nor the necessary labor, since after the outbreak of war permits
from the Ministry were needed for these purposes. These troubles
ceased during the last months of 1939, after that day when Milch
and Udet had watched the test flight of my first single-engined
jet plane, the He 178. Mauch and Schelp , however, now set up a
more or less strong opposition to my efforts within the Ministry.
Mauch based his resistance on the well-worn pretext that since I
had an airplane works but not an engine factory, I should turn
over the work to an airplane-engine concern. Schelp was of the
opposite opinion and thought that jet engines and jet planes should
be built in the same factory , but he demanded a rigid limitation
to a single type instead of the various experimental units that were
already being developed.
In view of the shrinking number of specialists at my disposal, he
was to a certain extent right, but he was wrong insofar as at that
stage of development in a new field it was not possible to adopt
certain types and write off others, as could be done later. The
capable scientists and designers now working together under me
already knew the snags to be avoided-for our parallel develop-
ments embraced nearly the entire field.
This apparently was also Udet's opinion when finally, at the
end of 1939, I won him over to the idea that this new development
was of the utmost importance. He decided that the Ministry
should take over the further financing of my development project
and that I should be given raw materials and specialists. I never
received enough of either. Udet also found a way to protect me
from Mauch's and Schelp's obstructionist tactics by selling me the
Hirth aviation engine works at Zuffenhausen, near Stuttgart, as
well as their branch in Berlin, which had been closed down after
Hellmuth Hirth's death and taken over by the Ministry. This
enabled me to move my engine plant to these new premises . Six
other firms were bidding for the Hirth works. The scales were
weighted in my favor on April 5 , 1940, at Marienehe, when in the
presence of Udet, Lucht and other officers the He 280, equipped
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with two He S 8 jet units, took off on its first important flight in
competition with the fastest mass-produced Luftwaffe plane of
its time, the Focke-Wulf FW 190. With its extraordinary maneu-
verability and speed, the He 280 completed four circles before
the Focke-Wulf plane had made three. Warsitz again piloted the
plane.
At last it happened : Udet hurried over to me and said, “ I must
thank you for what you have achieved here today. This is probably
the proudest moment in the history of the Heinkel firm . If we
had a few such planes on the Channel, so that the English could
record their performance, they'd start scrapping their entire
program."
Four days later I owned the Hirth engine factory at Zuffen-
hausen. After his optimism of 1939, Udet must have come to the
realization that it was hopeless to keep up the strength of the
Luftwaffe, even for a short time, without introducing some
revolutionary developments. I had no idea that Udet's impending
breakdown and death would also have a retarding effect in the
field of jet planes.
Zuffenhausen was a development factory for sport- plane engines
and had to be expanded and partly remodeled before my work
could start. It was particularly suited to my needs, because it had
produced exhaust-gas turbines under license, and possessed a great
many assembly specialists who would be useful for jet work.
The Ohain group remained in Marienehe to complete the He
S 8, which seemed near the mass-production stage . My second
unit moved to Zuffenhausen to produce the He S 30. To avoid
friction between those in charge at Zuffenhausen and the new-
comers, I assigned Harold Wolff, who had worked with me at
Marienehe, to supervise the new jet developments. Unfortunately
I learned, too late, that while he was highly articulate he had no
capacities to direct this project.
Shortly after my unit settled down in Zuffenhausen, Wolff
started a campaign against some of the Hirth people, which I
could hardly believe when complaints about it reached me. In
the beginning I was inclined to take Wolff's part, for I had fore-
seen friction between the practical men of Zuffenhausen and the
scientists of Marienehe. But it turned out that Wolff tried to get
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rid of some of the best experts, because he thought they stood in

his way. In any case a civil war was in full swing. Under Wolff's
management specialists sent to Zuffenhausen for the exclusive
purpose of working on the jet project were wasted on miscellane-
ous jobs. After Udet's death, Wolff transformed Zuffenhausen
into a mass-production factory that turned out a wide variety of
equipment and neglected its true purpose. When I became aware
of this I sent for him to come to Warnemünde. He gave me every
reassurance, as well as his word of honor that if the tensions con-
tinued he would let me know, so that I could clear the matter up
myself. He did not keep his word . In 1942 , when I had to move my
Marienehe works to Austria, one of the leading engineers working
on the He S 30 threw up his job and left.
After many promises that he would take the jet development in
hand and get a new unit, the He S 11 , ready for mass- production
by 1943 , Wolff once more demonstrated his irresponsibility.
While I continually demanded from Vienna that he achieve better
progress and results, he complained to Milch that my constant
interference disturbed his work. Whereupon Milch, on March 25 ,
1943 , made him Commissioner for Jet Propulsion , with full respon-
sibility under the Technical Department, and informed me to
that effect in a letter that virtually cut me off from my work in
Zuffenhausen.
This was one of the saddest experiences of my life, and it was
even more tragic because it ended with the complete failure of
all the work in Zuffenhausen. The most modern and promising
of my jet units, the He S 30, was first tested after great delay at the
end of 1942. Yet this was only one of the reasons why the develop-
ment of jet engines and planes, which I had been the first to start,
was suddenly taken away from me.
When Professor Wagner's collaborators left Junkers, the
Junkers engine works declared themselves ready to take up the
development of the jet engine. And indeed, they did develop , at
the behest of Schelp, the simplest possible axial form , which
appeared to offer few sources of trouble and received the designa-
tion 004. If I remember rightly they took over an existing com-
bustion chamber, coupled it to an axial compressor that had been
developed as an altitude supercharger for a normal Junkers air-
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craft engine, and finally installed an AEG turbine , which likewise

was designed for a different purpose. Schelp believed this was the
quickest way to obtain a jet engine suitable for mass production
which would meet modest claims and suffice for short flights. The
unit was of large diameter and relatively heavy .
Compared with these axial engines, the axial unit I had under
development, the He S 30 , could well claim to be the most pro-
gressive and modern of its kind, mainly because of its new form
of reaction compressor, its small diameter and its lightness.
This He S 30 ran in October, 1942, with a normal thrust of
1,100 lbs. and a peak thrust for take-off of 1,650 lbs. Later tests
showed that this engine had been designed along the right lines.
Its performance characteristics, such as fuel consumption rate per
unit thrust (specific fuel consumption) and frontal area per unit
thrust (i.e. , the total frontal are divided by the total thrust) were
not equaled in any subsequent developments, even in England,
until 1947. In spite of this, further development of the He S 30
was suddenly stopped after the first test runs on the instructions of
the Ministry and with Wolff's acquiescence, and the designers
concerned were shifted to other tasks.
I still maintain that it would have been better to develop the
He S 30 by every available means. Instead, Schelp had made a
decision that sounded the death knell of my future jet work, and I
am convinced that he did not act merely from technical ignorance.
We were given orders to stop all other developments and con-
centrate the work of von Ohain's group on the development of a
unit with a 2,870-lb . thrust. For this unit, von Ohain was to design
a completely new type of oblique- flow compressor, advocated by
Schelp, although the men of my second jet team, in their Junkers
days, had gone a long way to showing the wrong-headedness of
such an attempt .
Thus firmly established on the wrong track, my entire jet
department worked until the end of the war on the He S 11. The
optimistic expectations of Schelp that the He S II would be ready
in a short time proved as illusory as Wolff's repeated promise of
speedy mass production . It was only at the end of 1944 and the
beginning of 1945 that the He S 11 was sufficiently advanced to
run on the bench and achieve the required 2,870 -lb. thrust . It was
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD - 1939-1945

now the most powerful unit in Germany, but it came too late.
After the Americans entered Zuffenhausen and built a number of
these units in my factory for experimental purposes for the Ameri-
can Navy, our progress finally continued.
In addition to the tragic end of my work on jet engines there
was the equally painful and incomprehensible fact that my greatly
advanced work on the jet plane, in the shape of the He 280, was
robbed of its ultimate success. This machine-like the Me 262 ,
which was a year behind it in development- went the way of all
such planes when the new era under Milch set in.
Milch's system of mass production was also doomed to failure,
owing to the heavy bombing attacks at the beginning of 1944.
An attempt to reach parity with the enemy, after America entered
the war, was obviously bound to fail. Only superior performance
could make good our inferiority in numbers.
However, Milch was unable to put a single new machine on the
assembly lines. In his fear of disappointing Hitler's expectations of
production figures, he confined himself to old planes-Me 109,
Me 110, He 111, Do 217 , etc. The engines were improved and
other modifications made, but Milch never found a "maid-of-
all-work" plane, whose production would not reflect adversely on
output figures, because there was no such thing. This reveals a
characteristic of Milch that until then was realized only by those
who knew him well-his tendency toward compromise.
Milch lacked the strength of character to take the risk of build-
ing anything new, although there were plenty of excellent new
planes, such as the Do 335 fighter, which was discovered only after
Milch handed over his powers to Speer, and went into production
too late. This unusual plane, with one engine in the nose driving
a traction propeller and a second in the tail with a pusher propeller
behind the tail unit, attained a speed of 435 mph. Even this plane
could have given new life to the fighter arm, then equipped with
outmoded planes, if only the Ministry had decided to build it.
But Milch's timidity in the face of novelty had its worst effect in
the one field where Germany might have established at least a
temporary technical superiority-that of jet planes.
On September 15, 1942 , Milch virtually banned the He 280 jet
fighter, although it had in the meantime flown with various jet
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 STORMY LIFE

engines, including the Junkers 004. The Me 262 , which had flown
for the first time with two 004 jet units in July, 1942 -more than
a year later than the He 280-shared the same fate.
I shall never forget the conference of industrialists at the begin-
ning of that year, when the subject of jet planes came up and it
became apparent that Milch and his colleagues exhibited a notice-
able sense of uneasiness about the jet. This feeling was so strong
that even the apprehension that the enemy might develop jets
and surprise Germany while she was unprepared was not enough
at first to overcome it. Furthermore, the talk was always about jet
bombers, although both the He 280 and the Me 262 had been
developed as fighters and had long proved their superiority in
this category .
On this occasion I was so upset that I declared, "At the present
stage of jets units I am convinced we can produce jet bombers as
well as very fast fighters in an extremely short time. I cannot see
why we should delay for a moment. The Ministry must form a
commission to eliminate all difficulties. It's a matter of indifference
whether Junkers or BMW units or any other units are used . The
plane can, in any case , be built by the middle of next year."
The conference ended without result. Neither Milch nor his
colleagues would decide upon the building of jets. Only after
Goering was once more jolted into action and after Messerschmitt
privately got in touch with Hitler and reported on the subject, did
Milch swing into action and the jet was selected for production
parallel with the Me 109 and the FW 190.
I still find it curious that when this ultimate decision for jets
was made, the completed He 280 was suddenly canceled in favor
of the half-ready Me 262 on grounds that were nothing short of
nebulous. The nose landing wheel had always aroused a certain
distrust in the minds of the Ministry . Now the nose wheel caused
the downfall of the He 280-the very feature which made it
possible for the plane to land on a ploughed field , and which later
had to be built into the Me 262 to keep the hot exhaust trail hori-
zontal and thereby reduce fire damage .
No one will take exception to my having had my doubts about
the technical soundness of the reasons for scrapping my He 280,
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD - 1939-1945

for at the same time a significant struggle was going on about

another type of plane , which showed that personal prejudice
against me played a considerable part.
This battle against the Air Ministry was being waged by General
Kammhuber, commander of the Night Fighter Force, who had the
support of his front-line pilots. His aim was to put into mass
production a plane that would meet the demands made by night-
flying against enemy bomber squadrons, particularly one that
could cope with the fabulously fast RAF Mosquito. The plane in
question was my twin-engined night fighter, the He 219.
Apart from the neglect in developing German radar, the
standard Me 110 and Ju 88 had been inadequate since 1941 .
General Kammhuber managed to see Hitler and was given special
powers, over the Ministry's head , to establish a close collaboration
between front and industry to produce an efficient night fighter.
In my works Kammhuber discovered the He 219, a long-range
twin-engined reconnaissance type, which had been dropped by
the Ministry—a completely modern plane with a tricycle under-
carriage. The night fighter had to have not only extraordinary
speed, a high rate of climb and heavy armament, but also a good
view from the cockpit and the capacity to house many heavy
radar installations, without any lowering of the standards of per-
formance.
General Kammhuber used his special powers to push the He
219. Some of the most successful night-fighter pilots came to
Marienehe to cooperate in the building of the plane. After being
equipped with its special apparatus and five cannon the He 219 ,
with its two DB 603 engines, made 370 mph when early in 1943
it was finally ready for the front lines.
Meanwhile the Ministry and Junkers between them had modi-
fied the Ju 88 as the Ju 188 (later known as the Ju 288 and Ju
388 ) , and now tried at the last moment to push this plane into the
foreground. When this happened Kammhuber used his special
powers to insure that the He 219 would have its final trials right
at the front, at Venloe in Holland . The Ministry, which in spite
of Kammhuber's special powers, still had to be reckoned with,
ordered a trial flight in which the two planes could be compared.
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 STORMY LIFE

Insofar as the Ministry had any legitimate ground for objection ,

it was based on the fact that turning out a newly modified Ju 88 -a
type that had been in production for a long time-would be cheaper
than starting from scratch on the new He 219. But on March 25,
1943 , the Ju 188 was hopelessly outclassed by my plane. It was
fifteen miles an hour slower and was beaten on the turns. A few
weeks later, after the first trial planes were shipped to the pilots in
Venloe, the first He 219 went into combat on the night of June
11, 1943. On this flight, the pilot shot down five R.A.F. bombers.
The following morning General Kammhuber wired his thanks
and gratitude to me and my workers.
Young General Pelz of the Fighter Command confirmed this a
few days later, saying that the He 219 was "the first plane designed
without compromise" that he had ever flown. A few days later, it
managed to shoot down De Havilland Mosquitoes for the first
time. General Kammhuber demanded from the Ministry the mass
production of 1,200 He 219's. He declared that the whole fate of
the Night Fighter Force depended upon its being equipped with
this new plane.
But Kammhuber failed, despite all his powers, in the teeth of
sullen opposition from the Ministry. Hitler was far away in
Rastenberg and Milch carried on the contest with all his tactical
mastery, determined not to build the He 219. Again I had shown
too much initiative in building this plane.
When General Kammhuber, after a long, embittered struggle,
gave up his command of the Night Fighter Force because he could
not accept the responsibility for the protection of Germany with
totally inadequate planes, he took leave of me with these words,
"The story of the He 219 is the sorriest one I have ever heard.
But let those who were responsible for it take the blame."
Speer took over in the spring of 1944, and he and Saur, the
armaments dictator in the last years of the war, set about reforming
the production priorities. For all his brutality and blind trust in
Hitler, Saur did bring a touch of common sense to the scene. One
of Saur's first questions was why the He 219, in view of its great
success at the front, had not been mass-produced but instead had
virtually been killed. Staff Engineer Beist replied, "The front
prefers the Ju 388. " Saur snapped : "Herr Beist, the Ju 388 has
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD - 1939-1945

never been at the front. How can the front form an opinion of a
plane still in the blueprint stage? "
Beist fell silent, and the He 219 was reinstated in the building
program. But although she was now equipped with Jumo 222
engines and flew at nearly 450 mph, it was too late.
Soon the course of the war focused attention once more on the
jet program. The Me 262 planes which at the end of 1944 were
tried out against Mosquitoes, would have been ideal as Mosquito-
chasers and night fighters, on account of their superior speed, if
the decision for jet planes had not come too late.
After the rejection of the He 280 I remained excluded until the
summer of 1944 from the development of jet airplanes, which
Saur now carried on with great vigor. This development, however,
remained limited chiefly to the Me 262 and the outstanding Arado
reconnaissance plane Ar 234. Much time had been lost and the
general situation was now so precarious that up to October, 1944,
only from one to three Me 262's appeared each month. Then for
the first time Saur's ruthlessness and powers of organization and
improvisation made themselves felt, and by the end of the war
about 1,600 Me 262's were built, under the indescribable condi-
tions that prevailed during those last six months.
They were produced in countless factories and small work-
shops , both above and below ground . Because of the disorganized
railroad system, road convoys had to bring the individual parts to
the assembly sheds. Smaller parts were brought by courier in
haversacks. It is understandable that only a few hundred of these
planes actually reached the last front-line units which still
remained in South Germany and were largely destroyed from
the air simply because it was no longer possible to supply them
with some last piece of equipment, such as a cabin canopy. German
industry could not bring the two-engined Me 262 into mass pro-
duction, in spite of all improvisations and efforts. Destruction by
enemy bombing, shifting of plants, the flight from occupied
territory and constant communications breakdowns made it
impossible.
The recognition of this fact encouraged Saur and his circle in
July, 1944, to develop a so- called “rush job,” a simple, single-
engined jet which required little material to build. Saur's un-
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 STORMY LIFE

realistic notion was that this plane should be a " people's fighter"
in which the Hitler Youth, after a short period of training, could
fly for the defense of Germany.
When I, too , received orders at Vienna to build a light single-
engined jet fighter, I realized that this was a last attempt to struggle
against the inevitable. Yet the fact that I had been shut out from
the revolutionary development of jet aircraft, even though I had
been the first to take it up, had left such scars in me that I was
eager to prove my supremacy in the field once more.
It was plain that any design in which the jet unit was built into
the fuselage would run into initial difficulties and probably demand
too much experimenting. We decided in favor of the primitive
method previously used for the V- 1 missiles: placing the jet unit
above the fuselage. Lightness and simplicity in the construction
seemed best insured by the use of wood for the wings and tail unit.
The fuel would be contained in specially sealed spaces between
the wing spars. A nose landing wheel simplified take- off and
landing, and an ejection seat gave the pilot greater safety.
Twelve days after the specifications were received, on Septem-
ber twentieth, we were ready with the preliminary plans. At the
same time the blueprints of the other designers were inspected. On
September twenty-third the choice was narrowed down to the
Blohm and Voss plane and my own, and mine was selected . Now
we started to work on the last jet fighter of the German Luftwaffe
in World War II . It was the He 162 , misnamed "people's fighter."
Construction began on September 24, 1944, in Vienna. The
designs were completed on November fifth. The building of the
prototype progressed simultaneously with the completion of the
drawings. On December sixth the first plane was ready to fly and
the first twenty-minute test flight took place. After six weeks'
work the plane, with countless modifications-from strengthening
the wing ribs to lowering the trailing edge-was ready for produc-
tion. The He 162 flew several times at more than 520 mph above
20,000 feet. The duration was twenty minutes at low altitude and
fifty-seven minutes at 36,000 feet. Beginning with January, 1945,
mass production was to start with 50 in the first month, increase to
100 in the second, and so on until 1,000 a month were being built.
The entire production was to be shared between Heinkel and
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 I CROSS A NEW THRESHOLD - 1939-1945

Junkers, but now there was no time for the jubilation I had once
felt when the latter had built for me.
All arrangements had been made when the heavy Allied attacks
on German communications started in the spring of 1945. A few
weeks later, despite our efforts, there was no further possibility
of achieving a regular output. On April 1 , 1945 , we had to close
all our factories in Vienna in the face of the advancing Russian
armies .
Thus ended the last great effort in the field of jet-plane building,
without a single plane ever getting to the front. Most of the
completed planes were destroyed in the factories or in Oranien-
berg, where the Lufthansa had tried to open a test-flight center, or
they fell into the hands of the British, American or Russian
engineers advancing with their victorious armies through Ger-
many.
There is a special irony in the fact that though Germany was
the first country in the world to develop jet flight, her efforts
matured too late. The earlier completion of our work, however,
would not have altered the outcome of the war because Germany's
position was hopeless from 1941 on. However far our technical
advances had gone, it could never have changed the outcome of
the air war. A breathing spell in the fighting would not have
meant victory. Any other theory is mythical-consoling, perhaps,
but far from the truth.

24I
 Chapter XIII

BETWEEN TWO ERAS

1945-1953

WHEN THE AMERICANS marched through the Tyrol at the end

of April, 1945 , I was with my family at Jenbach. But during the
turmoil of the collapse the first engineer officers who visited me
at my home were British-Captains Bingham and Lee.
I must have been a disappointment to them. They no longer
found in me the well-informed, unquestioned boss of my own
factories, as I had been despite the many restrictions during the
first years of the war, but a man who since 1942 had been gradually
robbed of every bit of independence.
When the two British captains arrived, I had no idea that I
might be subjected to internment and interrogation . A few weeks
later, however, I was told that I was to be taken to England for
questioning. Accompanied by the officers, we drove in my car to
Munich. From there, on May twenty-sixth, I was flown to Paris
and later taken by jeep to the charming little chateau of Chesney.
Here I found many well-known personalities. It turned out that
Chesney was a British camp for German professional men, repre-
senting all branches of industry, science and finance, who would
have to reveal the secrets of their work during the war. Nearly
all of us felt inclined to remain silent, but this was hopeless. There
was no longer any comparison with our defeat in 1918.
Shut off completely from the outside world in our new place of
residence, we realized that silence was a childish gesture in the
face of the fact that nearly everything in the way of factories,
plans and armaments still intact had fallen into the hands of the
victors.
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 BETWEEN TWO ERAS 1945-1953

The most pressing question for us now was whether the Eastern
or the Western conquerors should become the possessors of our
knowledge. Under the circumstances there was only one choice
to be made, and for us there was no question as to whom we should
favor. We felt, too, that we must call the attention of the West to
the fact that the Soviet Union, through her "requisitioning" of
German engineers, scientists, plans and prototypes, could remedy
whatever deficiencies remained in her armament. We warned the
Allies and asked them to take care that as many surviving German
experts as possible should be able to find their way to the West.
But our interrogators gave us a scant hearing. The alliance between
the Western powers and the Soviet Union seemed at the moment to
be unshakeable.
Chesney was only one of many transit camps where people were
screened. Hjalmar Schacht was there. Just freed from imprison-
ment by the Americans, he was filled with a burning hatred for
Hitler, which he poured out to everyone. I struck up a lasting
friendship with him, although I could not agree with him in all
his angry tirades.
Besides Schacht I met Speer, who wrote enormous statements
and was full of optimism about the role he would play in the
future rebuilding of Germany and Europe.
I also met Saur, the armaments boss of the final years. One
could recognize him from afar by his booming voice, a trait which
gave rise to an anecdote once related to me by Todt. Saur, in a
room next to Todt's, had telephoned to Munich, and roared so
loud that Todt said to his adjutant, "What on earth is Saur doing? "
The adjutant replied, "He's talking to Munich. " "Why on earth
doesn't he use the telephone? " retorted Todt. At first Saur was
left very much alone; he had made a great many enemies.
The old President of the German State Railways, Dorpmüller,
stood out among all the others. He had just undergone a severe
operation, was accompanied by a nurse and spent most of his
time sitting on a chair in the park. He was surrounded by his
friends and told the most atrocious stories I have ever heard. He
drank prodigiously.
The seventy-two-year-old industrialist Thyssen, at one time an
undoubted supporter of Hitler, but later handed over to us by
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 STORMY LIFE

the French as his opponent, had spent most of the war in mad-
houses, prisons or concentration camps. Now he found himself
interned again and supported the idea of incorporating the British-
occupied part of Germany in the Commonwealth. Schacht at that
point would rise to his feet as a sign of protest. Yet in the same
breath Thyssen would express his contempt for Pastor Niemöller,
who briefly turned up in Chesney, for making insulting remarks
in Capri as to the incapacity of the Germans to rule themselves.
On July fourth, I was flown from Frankfurt to London. At
first I was lodged in a boarding house that had been taken over by
the Royal Air Force. The first person I met on the doorstep was
Schelp, the jet propulsion inspector of the German Air Ministry. I
heard that Milch had also been in London and that a British general
had given him a good going over with his own Field-Marshal's
baton when he had taken him prisoner. It spoke well for British
fairness that the general in question had to apologize.
On July seventh, I was transferred to a former children's home
in Wimbledon, with a garden surrounded by barbed wire. About
a week later the interrogations began.
The emphasis was on my jet units and planes. The chief inter-
rogator, Captain Tooth, admitted frankly that I and my col-
laborators had been first in the field, that we were still ahead of
England and that their own pioneer, Whittle, had come up against
difficulties and opposition that were similar to my own. These
conversations took place in an atmosphere of politeness and
cordiality.
On July seventeenth we drove out to Farnborough , the large
British air center, so that I could explain technical details of the
German planes that had been captured. My heart beat faster when
I saw eight airworthy He 162's that had been flown to England
undamaged. I read the report of an English test pilot who achieved
460 mph with one of them and described the plane from take- off
to landing as "the best in the world . " The main interest of the
British was to find out how the He 162 had been developed in such
a short time. I had no idea that day that a few years later, in 1952 ,
as a free man working for the modest beginnings of a new German
air force, I would be once more in Farnborough watching British
jets, the realization of my dreams and hopes since 1936.
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The interrogations lasted until July twenty-fourth. Four days

later, we flew back to Germany. Regardless of the complete
eclipse of German aviation, I hoped to be able to start operations
at least at my smaller workshops in occupied Western Germany.
Today I cannot help laughing when I think of these hopes, partic-
ularly of any resumption of work at the Jenbach factory in
Austria. My ears still rang with the genuine cheering of the
Austrians during the Anschluss in 1938 and I had forgotten how
short-lived feelings and opinions can be when the wind blows in
another direction.
A British officer named Littlefair accompanied us home. As we
could get no accommodations in Frankfurt, I asked him to take
us to Schloss Cranzberg, where we were on good terms with
Williams, an English sergeant-major, and where I hoped to see
Schacht, Speer and the others. From their lips I heard for the
first time, hints of what the world had in store for Germany. I
also learned of the fate of the Germans in Austria. When Littlefair
told me on July thirtieth that he would accompany me home, I
asked him to drive me first to Windsbach near Ansbach, where
my in-laws lived . I had the feeling that my wife and children
might have made their way there from Austria. When we drove
up to the house, I saw my boys playing in the garden and breathed
freely for the first time.
What followed was the normal experience of those years at all
levels. The small illusions I had nursed in England were now
completely dispelled .
My Marienehe factory had been seized and dismantled by the
Russians. The Rostock works were blown up and the other factory
in the same town had been taken over by the Russians. Orianen-
berg had been completely dismantled and taken piecemeal to
Russia, as had the branch works of Zuffenhausen.
The Jenbach factory was seized by the French occupation
forces . Most of the planes were carried away and the rest of them
handed over to the new Austrian government in trust in Novem-
ber, 1948. Only the Zuffenhausen factory near Stuttgart remained
undamaged on West German soil. But the American military
authorities had requisitioned this, too, and turned it over to a
trustee. I no longer was allowed to cross the threshold.
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 STORMY LIFE

After returning home on August 5 , 1945 , I wanted to see the

situation in Jenbach with my own eyes. I went to Lindau to
try to get a pass from the French military government to visit
the French zone of Austria . It was a fruitless effort.
Stopping at Landsberg, I searched for Siegfried Günter, who
had escaped there in the middle of April, 1945 , and had managed to
carry on a primitive office with thirty-five other employees from
my design office. I found him-the most important expert on
airplane structures and aerodynamics that Europe had at that time
-living with his wife in a small room. He was working with ten
of my people in a technical office that an American, Major
Cardenas, had established on the airfield. They had tried in vain
to call the attention of the American military authorities to the
importance of Günter.
Günter was too modest and shy to blow his own horn. Now he
was happy that Cardenas had enabled him to carry on his scientific
work. This work embraced everything we had planned for the
future in the way of fresh developments in jet propulsion. He was
particularly engrossed with new "flying wing" types. I hoped on
this visit that Günter would find a permanent outlet for his
activities, either in Landsberg or in America.
I knew him. His only happiness was in scientific work and I told
this to Cardenas. A few weeks later, however, at the end of
September, Cardenas closed his office and flew to England. He
informed Günter that a larger office was planned in Wiesbaden
and that he would send for him, but he never did.
Günter remained in Landsberg until the spring of 1946, when
his money ran out. During the last weeks he constantly repeated
that he had no skill for anything else-he had to build airplanes.
If the West didn't want him, he might have to work for the East.
At that moment, I was empty-handed and could do nothing for
the man who for so many years had been my closest collaborator
and whose unique abilities no one could appreciate better than
myself.
In the spring of 1946 he used the last of his money to go to
Berlin to see his father-in-law, who kept a garage. He still hoped
the Americans would send for him, and left his address in case
some message should arrive, but no message came.
246
 BETWEEN TWO ERAS - 1945-195
3

Instead, the Soviet special experimental unit OKB IV, in Berlin,

took him on. Günter continued to work on our latest designs and
was then taken to Russia, where, I am convinced, he worked on
constructions that today have become a problem for the Western
world.
After I returned from Landsberg, I was taxed with the question
of my ideology. This was the de-Nazification process, largely
devised by credulous ideologists abroad. It was carried out by
equally credulous ideologists inside Germany and by the oppor-
tunists and riffraff that sprang up after the defeat. It attempted
to judge a whole people ( docile like any other) instead of being
satisfied with passing judgment on its leaders.
It was a long time before I was eventually de-Nazified at the
end of 1949, and my Zuffenhausen factory was returned to me on
February 1 , 1950. I found that it had been virtually ruined by the
trustees and the irresponsibility of the Finance Ministry. At the
same time the currency reform practically wiped out the large
claims of many industrialists, including myself, against the former
State for unpaid deliveries for which the Federal Republic should
legally have been responsible. On the other hand, the obligations
my factories had incurred in terms of loans from banks and insur-
ance companies while carrying out the policy of the same State
were not allowed to lapse, and pressed heavily on whatever
remained of the former vast factories owned by me and other
industrialists.
On February 1 , 1950, after five unbelievably idle years for
someone of my restless temperament, I managed to start working
again on automobile engine parts and motorcycles in Zuffenhausen
and at a few small factories in Württemberg, thereby creating
work for over 1,000 men where previously I had employed no
fewer than 50,000 . This was the beginning of a new road.
Step by step, parallel with the slow reintegration of Germany
into the world community as well as into the strategic air power
plans of the Western world, I have continued to pursue this road.
As in 1918, it has taken me to many nations in Europe and abroad,
to countries that wanted to put German experience to use while
it was lying fallow. It has enabled me to visit many countries and
peoples of the Western world which, after the split between the
247
 STORMY LIFE

West and the Soviet Union, would like to make use of Germany's
experience in airplane construction , and German-trained designers
and technicians to build up Western strength in the air.
This road has led me to the present day, bringing to a close the
story of the first sixty -eight years of my life.

248
 INDEX

ACHTERBERG, 124, 126, 127-128 Aircraft-cont.

Adikkes, Mayor of Frankfurt, 19 Hansa-Brandenburg GWD, 59
Adriatic, 59, 60 Hansa-Brandenburg NW, 52
Aerodynamics, 36, 109-110, 118-119, Hansa-Brandenburg W 13 , 61
126-127, 169-170 Hansa-Brandenburg W 20, 56-57, 68
Aeronautical Research Institute , 118 Hansa-Brandenburg W 29, 56, 66, 69,
Agello, Francesco, 174, 182 83
Ahlborn, Professor, 18 Hansa-Brandenburg ZM, 58-59
Aichi Tokei Denki (Japanese airplane He 1 , 69
firm), 74, 87 He 3, 71, 72-73
Air freight, 77 , 80-81 He 5, 92 , 93
Air raid protection, 146, 154 He 5a, 92
AIRCRAFT He 5b, 92
Albatros B I, 37 He 6, 103
Albatros B II, 43 He 12, 95, 100, 101
Arado Ar 80, 169 He 14, 75
Arado Ar 81 , 164 He 15, 94, 95, 104
Arado Ar 234, 239 He 17, 74, 76
B.F.W. Bf 109, 169 He 18, 76
Bell P- 59A, 230 He 21 , 76
Blohm and Voss Ha 137, 164 He 24, 92, 93
Boeing's Flying Fortresses, 86, 191 He 25, 82, 84, 89
Curtiss dive bombers, 158, 161 He 26, 84, 88
Curtiss flying boats, 56 He 39, 80
De Havilland Mosquitoes, 237, 238, He 40, 81
239 He 45, 141
Dewoitine 510, 169 He 46, 141 , 142
Dornier Do II , 142 He 49, 141
Dornier Do 19, 191 He 50 , 158
Dornier Do 217, 194, 235 He 51, 142
Dornier Do 335 fighter, 235 He 55 (Heron) , 104, 117
Dornier Wal, 77, 102 He 58, 102
Etrich Taube , 18, 23 , 26, 41 , 42 He 59, 141 , 142
Focke-Wulf Condor, 203-204 He 60, 141
Focke-Wulf FW 159, 169 He 64, 120
Focke-Wulf FW 190, 198-199 , 232, He 65, 123
236 He 66, 158
Focke-Wulf Stösser, 162, 163 He 70 (Blitz) , 36, 124-131 , 132, 148,
Gloster-Whittle E 28/39, 230 149, 163, 164, 169
Hansa-Brandenburg W 12, 50, 52, 54, He 71 , 137
55-56 He 100, 176, 177 , 179, 180-182 , 184,
Hansa-Brandenburg W, 43, 48 185, 186, 189, 192
Hansa-Brandenburg type, 50 He 111 , 147-156, 164, 172 , 177 , 190,
Hansa-Brandenburg CC, 61 195, 198, 216, 235
Hansa-Brandenburg GF, 59 He 111a , 148
Hansa-Brandenburg GW, 59 He 111K, 150-151
249
 INDEX

Aircraft-cont. Aircraft-cont.
He 111P , 151 Spitfires, 198
He 1112, 151 Supermarine Monoplane, 110
He 112, 169, 170, 171 , 176, 211 , 212, U 1, 68
214, 216 Aircraft carriers, 84
He 114, 190 Albatros Company, 34-35, 36-41 , 42, 77.
He 115, 190 79-80, 81 , 107
He 116, 189-190 Albers, Hans, 137
He 118, 163-165, 167-168, 223 Alksnis, Deputy Chief of Red Air
He 119, 191 , 192 Force, 104-105
He 122, 169 Allied Air Control Commission, 65, 68,
He 162 , 240, 244 70, 74-75, 85
He 176, (rocket plane) , 218-219, 220, Allied occupation of Germany, 242-248
221-222 Altitude records , 93
He 177, 188 , 190, 191–192, 193 , 194, Amphibian planes, 116
195, 196, 197, 199, 200, 202-205, Angström (Swedish naval officer) , 69-
206-207 , 209 70
He 178 (jet) , 196, 213 , 217, 223-224, Ansbach, 247
225, 226-227, 229, 231 Anti - Semitism, 63, 134-135
He 219 (night fighter) , 237, 238-239 Arado Works, 144, 151 , 158
He 227 , 207 Armament, 52
He 274, 209 Askania company, 94
He 277, 207-209 Augsburg, 77
He 280, 230, 231-232, 235-237, 239 Austria, 59, 60, 179, 245
Junkers F 13 , 77-78 World War I, 49-64
Junkers Ju 52, 142 , 150, 151 , 226 Austro-Hungarian Air Arsenal, 46, 50
Junkers Ju 86, 150 Aviation Guarantee Committee, 70
Junkers Ju 87, 164, 167, 198 Aviation Institute, Berlin, 227, 228
Junkers Ju 88, 190, 193 , 194-195, 196, Avour, France, 18
197, 198, 237-238 Azores, 103
Junkers Ju 188, 237, 238
Junkers Ju 287, 167 BACH, LIESEL, 78
Junkers Ju 288, 237 Balbo, Air Marshal, 108, 110-111
Junkers Ju 289, 191 Baltic Seaplane Prize, 48
Junkers Ju 388, 237, 238-239 Banfield, Lieutenant, 61
Junkers W 33 , 93 Bankverein, Wiener, 46
Lockheed "Orion," 120-121 , 122, 123 Bathurst, West Africa, 102
Macchi 52, 109, 110 Battle of Britain , 151 , 184, 195 , 197, 198
Mail planes, 76-77, 189 Bauer, 123
Messerschmitt Me 109, 169, 170, 171 , Bäuerle, (air force sergeant) , 157
172, 176, 183-184, 198, 235 , 236 Baumann, Professor, 16-17 , 24, 58
Messerschmitt Me 110, 235, 237 Bäumer- Aero company, 118
Messerschmitt Me 210, 209 Bavarian Aircraft Works ( BFW) 107
Messerschmitt Me 262, 235, 236, 239 Bavarian Motor Works (BMW) , 60,
Messerschmitt Me 410, 209 62, 63-64
RAF Mosquito, 237, 238 Beese, Melly, 33
SI, 69-70, 71 Beinhorn, Elly, 137
S2, 70, 71 Beist, Staff Engineer, 238-239
Siebel courier plane, 173 Berlin, 59, 62-63 , 77, 79, 80, 112, 121 ,
Soviet jet YAK 15 to 19, 185 126, 128, 159
Soviet YAK 1 to 9, 185 Bernardi, Major, 108, 110
250
 INDEX

Biplanes, 33, 36, 40, 61 , 68-69 Churchill, Sir Winston, 188

Bissingen, 15 Cunard Line, 97
Bittrich, Herr, 132 Cushing, Harvey, 116
Black Forest, 15 Czechoslovakia, 193
Black Sea fleet, 104
Blériot, Louis, 14, 18, 20 DAIMLER WOrks , 26-27, 28, 29, 30
Blohm and Voss shipyards, Hamburg, de Caters, 20
158, 205, 240 de la Roi, Captain, 23
Blue Ribbon, 97-98, 99, 100 de la Vigerie, General d'Astier, 180
Blume, Walter, 169, 205 Delagrange , 14
Bock (radio operator) , 103 De- Nazification process, 247
Boeing, 86 Denmark, 93
Borchert, 72 Dessau, 77
Bormann, Martin, 183 , 207 Deutsche Luftreederei, 77
Bosch, Robert, 57-58 Dierlamm (balloonist) , 25
Bosch Works, 57 Dieterle, Hans, 180, 181-182 , 184
Brandenburg, Ernst, 81 , 122, 124, 126 Dirigibles, 14, 83
Brandenburg, 61-62, 65 Dive bombers, 158-168 , 190-209
Brandenburg Aircraft Company, 42-43, Döberitz, 23, 37
45, 46, 49-64, 62 Dornier, Claudius, 58, 77, 109, 129, 148,
Brandt , 21 205
Bremen (German passenger ship) , 94- Dornier Works, 151
102 Dorpmüller, 243
Bremerhaven, 95, 96, 97, 101 Dresden, 131
Brenner, Herr, 132-133 duPont Company, 176-177
Briest, 42-43, 49
Bringham, Captain, 242 ECHTERDINGEN , 11 , 12 , 16, 109
British Air Ministry, 129 Eden, Sir Anthony, 188
Brunnhuber, Simon, 23-24 Eisenlohr (Engineer ) , 225
Buchmann, Iphigenie, 51-52 , 61 Engel, General, 183 , 204, 208
Bücker, Clemens, 69, 70, 72, 85, 87, 88, ENGINES
89 AEG turbine, 234
Budapest, 50 Austro- Daimler, 60
Butter brothers, 176 Austro- Daimler 350 h.p., 61
Byrd, Admiral Richard E., 115 BMW, 80
BMW 600 h.p. , 81 , 128, 141
Caesar and Cleopatra (Shaw) , 51 BMW 660 h.p., 141
Cannstatt, 15 Daimler-Benz 150 h.p., 43, 56
Cantilever biplane , 68-69 Daimler-Benz 1000 h.p., 172
Cardenas, Major, 246 Daimler-Benz DB 600, 151 , 163
Carras , 40 Daimler-Benz DB 601 , 174-175 , 177,
Caspar, Carl, 66-67 , 70, 71 , 72 179, 191-192
Castiglioni, Camillo, 44-48, 50-52, 59-64, Daimler-Benz DB 603 , 207, 237
136 Daimler-Benz DB 606, 192, 195, 203
Catapults and catapulted aircraft, 83- Daimler-Benz DB 610, 203
107 Fiat 800 h.p., 75
Cecilia, Crown Princess, 136 Fiat 1000 h.p., 109
Cherbourg, 101 Gnôme-Rhône 420 h.p., 92
Chesney, France, 242-243 , 244 Gnôme-Rhône 900 h.p., 128
China, 155 Gnôme-Rhône rotary, 31
Christiansen, H., 54-56, 66, 69, 72 He S 3 turbo-jet, 213 , 223 , 229-230
251
 INDEX

Engines-cont. Franz Josef, Kaiser, 46, 47

He S 3B turbo-jet, 223, 225 Freight-carrying planes, 77, 80-81
He S 8 turbo jet, 230, 231, 232 French Air Force, 209
He S 11, 233, 234 French occupation forces, 245-246
He S 30 turbo -jet, 230, 232-234 Friedrich III, Kaiser, 11
Hispano-Suiza 300 h.p., 84 Friedrichshafen, 77
Jet, 210, 211-241
Junkers 004, 233 , 236 GANOLICH, (Russian pilot) , 105
Junkers Jumo 210, 169, 175 German Admiralty, 56, 90, 92, 94
Junkers Jumo 211 , 195 German Aero-Lloyd, 78
Junkers Jumo 222, 239 German Air Ministry, 130, 173 , 187 ,
Liberty 400 h.p., 76 211 , 215 , 216, 218, 220, 237
Maybach 160 h.p., 59 German Air Transport Association , 92
Mercedes, 75 h.p., 36 German airlines, 77-78
Mercedes 100 h.p., 36 German aviation, 160-161
Napier Lion 450 h.p., 84, 92 German Research Institute for Avia-
Packard 800 h.p., 103 tion, 92
Pratt and Whitney Hornet 450 h.p., Germany
95 Allied occupation, 242-248
Rolls-Royce, 129-130 World War I, 49-64
Siemens, 142, 158 Gestapo, 147
Siemens & Halske 100 h.p., 71 Glässel , 96-97, 99-100, 101
turbine, 210, 213-241 Gliders, 13, 78, 151
World War I, 50 Goddard, Robert Hutchings, 112
England see Great Britain Goebbels, Magda, 138
Etrich, Ignatz, 41-42 Goebbels, Joseph Paul, 138-139, 183
Etrich , Igo, 18, 23, 41-42, 43 Goering, Emmy, 133
"Etrich Taube ," 18, 23 , 26, 41 , 42 Goering, Hermann, 63 , 81 , 111 , 130-131 ,
Euler, August, 19, 20-21 , 26, 137 133-134, 137, 140-141 , 147 , 160, 161 ,
Europa (German passenger ship) , 102 162, 163 , 166-167 , 179 , 182, 183 , 187-
Euting, balloonist, 27 209, 221-222, 225, 226, 228, 236
Göteborg, aviation meet at, 71 , 72
FARMAN, HENRI, 14, 18, 21 , 209 Gottingen, University of, 212 , 213
Farman Works, 209 Grade, Hans, 19, 25
Farnborough (British aircenter ) , 244 Grammel, Professor, 90
Fascism, 108, 110 Great Britain, 108-111 , 128-130, 166,
Fédération Aéronautique Interna- 174, 179, 188-189, 192 , 193-195, 196,
tionale , 40, 174 199-200, 204, 206, 230, 241
Felmy, Lieutenant, 40 Griesheim, 19
Fiedler , 24-25 Grock (clown) , 159
Fieseler, Gerhard, 78, 159 Grunbach, 11 , 15 , 65, 67
Fighter planes, 169-186 Grotz Company, 15
Flying boats, 50, 60-61 , 77 Günter, Siegfried, 117-118, 119, 122,
Catapults for, 94 126, 148, 170, 173 , 213 , 246-247
Fokker, Anthony, 32, 115-117 Günter, Walter, 118, 122 , 125, 126, 148,
France, 73 , 81 , 109, 128, 151 , 179, 181 , 170, 173, 213
188-189, 193 Gussev, Alexander, 185
Francke, Engineer, 196
Frankfurt HAHN (technician) , 213
International Flying Exhibition, 19- Hamburg, 55, 92
20 Hamel, Major, 151-152
252
 INDEX
Hanover, 127 Junkers factory, 92 , 107, 121-122 , 151-
Hasse, General, 73 152, 227-228, 233 , 241
Hedinger, Dr., 13, 14, 15
Heiligendamm, 138 KAGA, CAPTAIN, 74, 75, 85
Heinkle, Paula, 33-34 Kammhuber, General, 237-238
Heinkel Aircraft Works, 140-157 Keinath, 23-24
Heinrich, Prince, 20, 137 Kesselring, Colonel, 141 , 143
Heinrich (test pilot ) , 163-164 Kiel, 62
"Hell-divers," 158-168 Kingsford-Smith, Sir Charles, 115
Hering, Captain, 53 Kirschhoff (radio operator) , 96, 100, 101
Hertel , Professor, 163, 170-171 , 173, 179, Kleffel, Walter F., 79, 109-110, 112-113
192, 195, 203, 205 Klein, Herr, 57
Herting, Captain, 177-178 Kleinemeyer, 68, 70, 72 , 85-86, 105-107
Hess, Rudolf, 183 Klemperer, Wolfgang, 78
Heydrich, Standartenführer, 147 Koenig, Major, 164
Hildebrand, Gauleiter, 144-147 , 170, Köhler, Josef, 43-44, 49, 53-55, 68, 69-
183, 185, 192, 207 70, 72, 121-122, 125-127, 165-167, 177-
Himmler, Heinrich, 147 179, 181 , 184
Hirth, Albert, 25-26, 57 Kojima, Captain, 84
Hirth, Hellmuth, 25-26, 34-35, 36, 37- Koppenberg, 193, 194
40, 57-58, 231 Kramer, Martin, 72
Hirth, Wolf, 26 Kreger, 20
Hirth aviation engine works, 231-233 Krischan see Christiansen, H.
Hitler, Adolph , 63 , 64, 123 , 147, 153 , Krüger, Gottfried, 42-44, 46
157, 182-183 , 186, 188-189 , 190, 193 , Kuhn foundry, 15
199-201 , 204-206, 208 , 221-222, 236, Kummersdorf, 211 , 212, 218
237, 238, 243 Künzel, Walter, 211 , 214-215 , 218-219,
Hünemörder, 96 223
Hungary, 59, 60, 93 Kuznetzov, Vassili, 185
Hupertz, Maria, 82 , 103 , 106, 132
Huth, Dr. Walter, 23
LACHMANN, 80
Inquiry into Engine Development, An, Lahs, Admiral, 140, 148
210 Lammertz, Kurt, 186
International European Circuit, 119-120 Landsberg, 246-247
Iron Cross, awarded, 56 Lang, Fritz, 112
Italy, 60, 108-111 , 174 Lang, Hermann , 162
Lee, Captain, 242
JAPAN, 67, 69, 71 , 74, 84-90, 91 , 93 , 158 , Levine (American flyer) , 110
167-168, 185-186, 190 Liebau, 42, 43, 49
Jatho, Karl, 18-19 Lilienthal, Otto, 13
Jenbach, 242 Lindbergh, Charles A., 40, 164-167
"Jericho trumpet," 164 Lipetzk Airfield, U.S.S.R., 73-74
Jeschonnek, Hans, 188, 189, 190, 191 , Lisbon, 103
192, 202, 221 Littlefair (British officer) , 245
Jet propulsion, 196, 197 , 210-241 , 246 Loeb, General , 152 , 153
Jodl, General, 221 London , 244
Johannisthal, 23 , 31-48, 79, 115 Louis Ferdinand, Prince, 137
Juliana, Queen of the Netherlands, 137 Lucht, (Engineer ) , 155 , 184-185 , 219,
Junck (test pilot) , 125-127 , 211 220, 225-226, 231
Junkers, Hugo, 77-78 Ludwigsburg, 22
253
 INDEX

Lufthansa, 78, 94, 95, 96, 99, 102, 120- Natal, Brazil, 102
121 , 122-123, 128, 140, 148,189, 241 National Socialist Party, 123 , 133, 147
Luftverkehrs-Gesellschaft (LVG) , 31 , Nazism, 132-139, 160, 170, 182, 247
34, 37 Neubrandenburg air field, 214, 216, 218
Luftwaffe, 55, 130-131 , 165 , 169, 176, 219 New York City, 86, 95-96, 101
Newfoundland , 103
beginnings, 140-157, 160
defeat of, 187-209 Newspaper plane, 79-81
General Staff, 192, 195, 203 , 205, 219 Niclot, Signor, 178, 192
Technical Department, 158-159, 161- Niemöller, Pastor, 244
162, 163 , 173 , 185 , 189, 191 , 194, 197, Nieuport et Cie, 31 , 33
199, 201 , 203, 205, 233 Night Fighter Force, 237
Night-flying equipment, 195
MAIL, COMMANDER, 164 Nitschke, Gerhard, 149, 165, 177, 181
Mail planes, 76-77, 120-121 Norden factory, New York, 162
Catapult for, 94-102 North German Lloyd, 85, 95, 96, 98, 101
South Atlantic, 102 North Pole flights, 115
Marienehe, 145-148, 151 , 153 , 165, 170, Norway, 66, 68, 197
176, 177, 179, 180, 182 , 183 , 185 , 189, Nuremberg, 155 , 182-183
196, 204, 207, 213 , 218, 223 , 226, 229,
231, 233, 245 OBERSALZBERG, 205
Marienfeld, Colonel, 208 Oberth, Professor, 112-113
Mass production, 86, 105, 154, 170, 185 , Oberwiesenfeld, 31
194 Oranienburg, 152-155 , 170 , 180, 182,
Mauch, 228, 231 184, 196, 241 , 245
Mauretania, 97, 100 Order for Art and Science, 183
Mecklenburg, Grand Duke of, 137 Oskar, Prince, 137
Mecklenburg, 134-135, 170, 186
Merkle , 26, 30 PARIS ACCORD, 91
Mertz, Captain, 103 Passenger airliners, 77-78, 120
Messerschmitt, Willi , 77, 169, 170, 183 , Pecek (banker in Prague) , 46
184, 205, 236 Peenemünde Rocket Experimental
Milch Erhard , 123 , 124, 126 , 147, 155, Station, 202 , 218-219, 222
180, 193 , 194, 198, 199, 201 , 202, 205, Pelz, General, 238
208, 219-220, 221-222 , 225, 226-227, Phönix Aircraft Factory, Vienna, 46,
231 , 233, 235, 236, 238, 244 50
Mitchell (English airplane designer) , Pohl, Professor, 212
IIO Pola, 50, 61
Mölders, Werner, 156-157 Poland, 73 , 151 , 185 , 189 , 192 , 196, 225
Monoplanes, 33 , 36, 40, 50 , 69, 118-119, Porsche, Ferdinand, 60, 183
123
Moscow, 73 RADAR, 237
Motorcycles, 247 Rasche, Thea, 78
Müller, Richard, 79-80 Rechlin, 161 , 163 , 164, 167 , 211 , 223
Multi-engined planes, 50, 57-58, 86, 148 Red Air Force, 74
Munich, 77 Reich Transport Ministry, 81 , 94, 102 ,
Münz, Friedrich, 21-23 , 24, 28 122, 124
Mussolini, Benito, 108, 111 Reichswehr, the, 70-71 , 73 , 74, 76, 90,
131, 140-141
Nagato (Japanese battleship) , 84, 85, Reinhard, 17-18
88-89 Research Institute for Aviation, 170
Nantucket Lightship , 100 Retractable undercarriage , 123, 125, 128
254
 INDEX

Riefenstahl, Leni, 137 Social Democrats, 133

Rimpl (architect) , 143-145 , 151-154 Sonnemann, Emmy, 133
Rocket propulsion, 112-114 , 211-212 South America, 78
Röhm purge, 147 South Atlantic, 102
Rohrbach , 92 South German Airplane Works, 24
Rome, 111 Soviet Union see Union of Soviet
Rommel, General Erwin, 150 Socialist Republics
Rommel , Master, 21 , 24, 25 Spanish Civil War, 151
Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 166 Speed records, 169-186, 216-217
Rosendahl , Captain, 137 Speer, Albert, 153-154, 208, 235, 238,
Rossi, Signor, 176 243, 245
Rostock, 143 , 144, 164, 183 Spiegelberg (Russian engineer), 105 , 106
Rowa, Ltd., 144 Staaken, 128
Royal Air Force, 244 Stagge (test pilot) , 53
Ruhr, 73 Stalingrad, 202
Rumpler (Engineer) , 23 , 26 Starke (test pilot) , 95
Rumpler Company, 34 Starke, Admiral , 50
Russia see Union of Soviet Socialist Stinnes, Hugo, 59, 62
Republics Stockholm, 72
Russo- German pact, 185 Stoka, 28
Strassmann , Antonie, 133
SALZER (racing driver) , 12 Streamlining, 36, 49, 110, 114, 119, 120,
Sasnow (Russian interpreter) , 104 123 , 148 170
Saur, Party Leader, 208, 238-240, 243 Streicher, Julius, 182-183
Schacht, Hjalmar, 59-60, 63 , 243-244, 245 Student, 73, 74, 75-76
Schatzki, Engineer, 121 , 124, 126 Stumpff, General, 141-188
Schechat, 207 Stuttgart, 11 , 15 , 16-30, 57 , 65 , 71 , 90
Scheible, Master , 15 Technical High School, 13, 15-16, 30
Schelp , 228, 231 , 233-234, 244 Stuttgarter Tagblatt, 27, 29
Schieck, 16 Submarine-borne planes, 50, 56-57, 66-
Schiller, Captain, 95-100, 101 67, 68, 74
Schleier, Austrian General, 50-51 Sweden, 66, 69-71 , 72-73, 93
Schneider, Jacques, 31 , 33-34, 35 , 108 Swissair, 123-124
Schneider Cup races, 108, 174
Schorndorf, 15 TANK, KURT, 169, 205
Schütte, Doctor , 112, 113 Tempelhof Airfield , 81 , 149, 161
Schwärzler, 67-68, 70, 72 , 76, 85, 87, 89, Thiel, Raphael, 104-105, 165
95, 96, 98-99, 101 , 122, 126, 148, 165, Thunberg, Swedish Captain, 93
170, 205, 213 Thyssen, 243-244
Seaplanes, 36, 43 , 69, 108 Todt, Fritz, 156-157, 183, 243
Catapults for, 83 , 107 Tokyo, 87
fighters, 50 Tooth, Captain, 244
reconnaissance , 52, 54 Torpedo-carrying planes, 59, 74, 196
World War I, 52-57 Transatlantic flights, 115
Seattle, Washington , 86 Trautenau, Austria, 41
Seekatz , Friedrich Wilhelm, 32-33 Travemünde, 66, 67 , 68, 73 , 125-126
Seidemann, Hans, 120 Trieste, 50, 61
Shaw, George Bernard, 51 Tulupov (Russian naval officer) , 105,
Shevchenko, Vladimir, 185 106-107
Siburg, Captain, 53 , 90-91 Turbine engines, 210-241
Skolnik, 31 Turkey, 155-156
255
 INDEX

U-BOATS, 57 WADA, Captain (Japanese) , 186

Udet, Eleonore, 159-160 Wagner, Professor, 227-228, 233
Udet, Ernst, 77, 78, 80, 137 , 156, 159- Walker, Mayor Jimmy, 101
167, 171-173 , 175, 177-181 , 183 , 184- Walter (engineer) , 215-216
185, 187-202, 219, 220, 221-222, 224- Warnemünde, 43 , 48, 52 , 55, 56, 71 , 76,
225, 226, 227, 231 , 232 79, 80, 92, 134-137, 143 , 145, 147, 164,
UFAG, Budapest, 50 177 , 180, 181 , 186, 209, 213 , 233
Ullstein Brothers, 79-81 , 109 Warsitz, Erich, 211 212, 214-224, 225 ,
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, 73- 226-227, 232
74, 151 , 157, 166, 185-186, 199-200, Wasen, 23-24
204, 241 , 243, 245, 247-248 Webster , 110
Catapults and catapulted aircraft Weingartner, Captain, 51
ordered by, 104-107 Weiss, Manfred, 46
Untertürkheim, 28 Wendel (test pilot) , 183
United States, 66, 69, 71 , 76-77, 85-86, Westfalen, 102
90, 109, 117, 119, 120, 160, 161 , 166, Western Germany , 245
199, 200, 230, 235, 241 , 243, 245-247 Wever, Lieutenant-General , 130-131 ,
Untucht, Captain, 128 141 , 160, 162 , 191
Urals, 204, 206 Whittle, Sir Frank, 244
Wiener, Otto, 23 , 35, 37 , 41 , 42 , 43
Wilhelm I, Kaiser, 11
V- I MISSILES, 240 Wilhelm II , Kaiser, 11 , 20
Valier, Max, 113 Wilhelmina, Queen of Holland, 137
Venice, 108-111 William of Wurtemburg, King, 25
Versailles Treaty, 91 Williams, Sergeant-Major, 245
Vienna, 61 , 207, 208, 233 , 240 Wimmer, Lieutenant-Colonel , 141 , 159,
Vögler, Albert, 59 162
Voisin , 14, 19 Wittgenstein Company, 31
Vogt, Doctor, 205 Wolff, Harold, 232-234
Völkerling, Fräulein, 147 Wright, Orville, 14, 18, 83
Volkswagen, 60 Wright, Wilbur, 14, 18, 83
Vollmöller, Hans, 37-38, 39 Württemberg, 247
von Blomberg, War Minister, 131 Württemberg, King of, 25
von Braun, Wernher, 211 , 214, 215-216, Wustrow, 177 , 178
218
von Dewitz, Lieutenant, 53-54, 92-93 YAKOVLEV, ALEXANDER, 185
von Gronau, Wolfgang, 92-93 Yamanishi, Japanese Admiral, 87 , 88,
von Keitel, Field Marshal, 221 89-90
von Ohain, Pabst, 212-213 , 223 , 229, Yokohama, 86-87
230, 232, 234 Yokosuka, Japanese naval base, 87-89
von Opel, Fritz, 111-114 Yonezawa, Japanese engineer, 74-75, 87
von Parseval, 83
von Pfistermeister, Major, 121 , 123-124,
144, 151 , 189, 197 , 199, 201 , 226 ZEEBRUGGE STATION, 52, 54, 56
von Richthofen, Field Marshal, 158, 161 Zeppelin, Graf, 12, 14, 16, 57-58
von Stauss, Herr, 136, 176 Zeppelins, II
von Studnitz, Captain, 96, 98, 100, 101 Ziegenbein, Captain, 96-100
von Tschudi, Herr, 32, 79 Zuffenhausen factory, 231 , 232, 233 ,
Vuillemin, Chief of French Air Force, 235, 245, 247
180-181 Zürich, 169

256