He began at the very beginning: how to get into the aircraft. Never, ever, tread on any fabric surface. Place your left hand on the front edge of the cockpit sill, support yourself with your right hand on the rear edge, draw up your legs and–without stepping on the seat–slide your feet under the instrument panel and on to the rudder pedals. When my turn came I followed these instructions to the letter. As the pupil, I occupied the front cockpit. Sitting there, waiting for the mechanic to swing the propeller into life, I was so keyed up with excitement that I very nearly took to the air before the machine did.

The propeller started to turn, the engine caught, the mechanic removed the chocks from the wheels and jumped quickly out of the way. Now came the big moment. The throttle at my side slid forward as the instructor in the rear cockpit smoothly increased power. The Focke-Wulf Fw 44 Stieglitz–registration CA+GG–bumped across the grass quickly picking up speed. The tail lifted and we rose into the air climbing steadily. The thirty-two-minute flight passed in a flash–a kaleidoscope of sights, senses and emotions. The two-and-a-half-year wait was at last behind me. It had all been worthwhile. Now all that mattered were the flying hours going into my logbook.

And those hours soon began to mount up. Early in July 1942 our course was moved out to the school’s satellite field at Bad Wörishofen. This small station was set in picturesque countryside about fifty kilometres WSW of Fürstenfeldbruck. The buildings were all of wooden construction and there was an altogether informal and relaxed–in fact, almost civilian–air about the place. It was here on 15 July 1942, after forty-five flights with the instructor literally looking over my shoulder, that I first went solo. I lifted off in Stieglitz PF+UT at exactly 10.36hrs. One careful circuit and I brought her gently back down to earth again at 10.40hrs. Although flight number forty-six may have lasted only four minutes, it was entered into my logbook with a real sense of achievement. Another hurdle cleared in my ambition to become a fighter pilot.

Three days later I was promoted to Oberfähnrich, or officer aspirant. This rank was the first real rung on the ladder to becoming an officer, without the holder actually being commissioned. It was a sort of hierarchical no-man’s land: on the one hand, an Oberfähnrich could no longer be called upon to perform tasks such as ‘duty NCO’ but, on the other, he was not yet qualified to carry out an officer’s responsibilities. It meant, in effect, that I was required to do nothing except concentrate on my flying. On reflection, that is not strictly accurate. In their wisdom, the authorities had decided that we were not just learning to be pilots. We also needed to be reminded that we were soldiers too–soldiers who, if the worst came to the worst, would be capable of defending their airfield from enemy attack. And so a series of field exercises was organized.

There was only one flaw. The fifty kilometres or so that separated Bad Wörishofen from Fürstenfeldbruck also meant that we were that far removed from the eagle eye of the school commander, Generalmajor Sonnenberg, and his disciplinary watchdogs. The result was that the exercises quickly developed into a riotous game with everyone hurling thunderflashes about with abandon. The climax came when our arch mischiefmaker, one Materleitner, smuggled one of these very noisy but harmless devices back into camp and dropped it down a latrine.

The thunderflash exploded with a tremendous ‘whoomph’ and the occupants of the latrine hut–five stalls a side; what we called a ‘ten-cylinder’ job–emerged with their trousers round their knees and their backsides liberally bespattered with the fruits of many previous visitors’ labours. “They’re bombing the shithouse!” somebody yelled in panic. Everyone stared up into the clear blue sky, some less innocently than others, but there wasn’t a single enemy aircraft to be seen.

Such episodes aside, our flying training continued uninterrupted as we gradually developed our newly acquired skills, were taught new ones, and were introduced to other aircraft types. We had already been shown how to respond to various emergencies–what to do in the event of a stall, for example–prior to going solo. Next came what were known as small, better described as local orientation flights.

These consisted of the instructor tooling around in the general vicinity of the field while the pupil marked the course the aircraft was following on the flight map strapped to his thigh. It was a perfect summer’s day with excellent all-round visibility when my turn came to climb into the front seat of the Focke-Wulf. Convinced that this was going to be a piece of cake, I relaxed in the warmth of the sun as I casually jotted down the first orientation points that showed we were heading WSW into the picturesque Allgäu region.

After a little while, however, doubts began to creep in. Was that lake coming up on the left–the one with the wood on one side and the road junction on the other–really the same as the one shown on my map? Despite our slow speed, the landscape below was hurtling past far too quickly as I desperately searched for some sort of landmark to fix our position. And then, when the instructor unkindly threw in a few extra turns for good measure, I was well and truly lost. Luckily, a few minutes later I was able to pinpoint exactly where we were…or where I thought we were. After landing I confidently showed the instructor my map marked with the route we had taken. I was promptly disabused. We had indeed flown over the Allgäu, but not along the course I had plotted. At first I flatly refused to believe this, pointing out that facts shouldn’t always be taken at face value; I even had the temerity to suggest that the map might be wrong.

Various expressions chased each other across the instructor’s face. He finally settled for foaming rage, and than proceeded to give me an almighty rocket, not forgetting to trot out the phrase that I was beginning to think was obligatory for any NCO in a fury–the one about ‘not since the days of Frederick the Great…’ As a punishment I was ordered to run along beside the Focke-Wulf as the instructor taxied it back to dispersal; not a pleasant experience in the baking heat and with the seat pack parachute bumping against the backs of my knees the whole way.

But it was a lesson well learned. Never again did I set out on an overland flight without giving it my full attention. The next such exercise was a straightforward hop from Bad Wörishofen to Fürstenfeldbruck and back. The two stages went into my logbook as flights forty-nine and fifty. They were made in Fw 44 PF+UT, the machine in which I had first soloed, and took just forty minutes. Later I would start to venture further afield to such destinations as Roth near Nuremberg, Wels in Austria, Strasbourg and Vienna.

It was in DB+CO that I was introduced to the ‘slip’, the steady banking turn made just before touching down. One of the objects of the slip was to shorten the landing approach. During the manoeuvre the pilot was able to look down sideways at the ground sliding past not far below. But, inexplicably, we had great difficulty at first in mastering the art of the slip. We would invariably start to bank far too soon–over the grounds of the local spa hotel, in fact. To be even more precise, right over that secluded part of the grounds reserved for the lady guests who wished to indulge their passion for nude sunbathing. Sadly, the strident protests of the hotel management soon put a stop to our fun and games, and the slip became just another item to add to our growing repertoire.

As part of the preparations for our overland, or cross-country, flights we had also been shown how to carry out ‘precision’ landings. The instructor would switch the engine to idle at an altitude of about 1,200 metres somewhere close to the field and we would then have to put the machine down as close to the landing cross as possible. This was to give us the confidence to make a deadstick landing should we suffer engine failure in the middle of a cross-country. To the same end, it was also drummed into us that we must always keep a close eye on the passing terrain and make a mental note of all suitable emergency landing sites along our route.

I made nine consecutive flights, mostly in Fw 44 BO+CH, practising precision landings. The next, number ninety, saw me go up for the first time in the Bücker Bü 131 Jungmann. This was a two-seater biplane very similar to the Fw 44 in speed and performance, and the four-minute circuit that constituted my familiarization flight on the type posed no problems. And it was in another Bü 131, DB+GE, that I was taught how to perform a steep turn. This, however, took a lot more getting used to. For during such a manoeuvre the elevators and the rudder appear to exchange roles.

They have not actually done so, of course: they are still moving the aircraft in the same direction relative to itself. But when in a steep bank, it is the elevators that govern the direction of flight and the rudder that has to be employed to make the machine climb or dive. After wrestling long and hard with this, it was almost a relief to climb back into an Fw 44 (BB+EM) for flight number 154: my first solo cross-country. By this time–it was now August–we had been recalled to Fürstenfeldbruck, and the 120-kilometre flight from there to Roth took me exactly sixty-seven minutes.

The trip to Roth had gone like clockwork. But another cross-country the following month–to Crailsheim in Bü 131 BA+WT–was a different matter. Foolishly, I ignored the warning that we had been given in the classroom never to fly with a head cold. The climb to my cruise altitude of 800 metres was trouble-free. But when I started to let down on approaching Crailsheim a piercing, agonizing pain immediately lanced from my left ear, through my head and into the back of my neck.

I quickly regained the twenty-thirty metres of height that I had already lost and began to circle, wondering what on earth to do next. But there was no option. I would have to land sooner or later. Very cautiously, keeping my rate of descent to an absolute minimum so that the pain was just about bearable, I started to come down. When I finally landed some fifteen minutes later, the staff at Crailsheim naturally wanted to know what the problem was. After I had explained, the duty MO was summoned. He unblocked my ear passages and all was well.

We had been transferred back to Fürstenfeldbruck (or ‘F Bruck’ as it was then commonly called; today’s ‘Fürsty’-ites’ please take note!) in order to be given tuition on some of the other aircraft types operated by the school. These included the Arado Ar 66 biplane, the Klemm Kl 35, a two-seater low-wing monoplane originally designed for private ownership, and the Bücker Bü 181 Bestmann, another monoplane initially intended for sports flying, but with an enclosed cabin seating two side-by-side. We flew numerous training circuits in each of these machines, none lasting much more than five minutes. But in recompense for our enforced return to F Bruck with its stricter rules and more military regime, we also began to practise close formation flying. This demanded the utmost concentration, but proved to be great fun.

Then, late in September, we were sent back to the freedom of Bad Wörishofen to begin the most interesting part of the whole course: aerobatic flying. On 28 September we were each taken up for a thirty-minute demonstration flight–in my case in Fw 44 BO+EI–before getting down to practice in earnest. The programme we would be required to fly to prove our proficiency consisted of a climb to 1,500 metres, slow roll to left, dive full throttle into a loop, half loop to right, half roll recovery to left, and land.

The entire sequence had to be flown in a straight line, and a stretch of railway track that carved arrow-straight through the countryside nearby was to prove an invaluable aid in helping us keep our bearings as we gradually mastered the required figures. The instructors paid particular attention to the loop, which had to form a perfect circle in the sky–woe betide anyone who ‘laid an aerial egg’!

After our first ten aerobatic practice flights we transitioned to the Focke-Wulf Fw 56 Stösser, a single-seat high-wing monoplane advanced trainer. Fully aerobatic, it was an absolute joy to fly, as I discovered for myself the moment I lifted off in TN+HL for my first brief familiarization hop. Although light and responsive, the Stösser–or Sparrow Hawk–was also exceptionally sturdy. It was rumoured that the manufacturer was actually offering a cash prize to any pilot who could make the machine’s parasol wing part company with the fuselage while in a dive.

We needed no further urging. But, despite all our best efforts, the Focke-Wulf company’s finances remained intact–and fortunately so did we. Just to be on the safe side, I first climbed to an altitude of 4,000 metres before tipping the Fw 56 into a near vertical dive. Standing upright on the rudder pedals, I reached a speed of nearly 450km/h before having to pull out. The engine was screaming like a banshee the whole time, making enough noise to waken the dead. It certainly upset the local populace. Somewhat thoughtlessly, we had been conducting our trials over the town. And this proved too much even for the worthy citizens and hotel guests of Bad Wörishofen, who were usually remarkably tolerant of our antics. Strong protests were voiced and an official complaint was lodged by the Bürgermeister. As a result we were forced to conduct our operations over the open land some kilometres to the east of town.

Aerobatic training did not occupy all our time. During October, in addition to a number of cross-countries–some flown in formation–we were also introduced to night flying. This caused some apprehension at first, but once we began to get the hang of it, we discovered that flying in darkness had a special appeal all of its own. On 1 November 1942 I was promoted to Leutnant (although this was not made substantive until 3 January 1943). Three days later I celebrated my commission by making my first night solo: flight number 293 in Arado Ar 66 BO+DN.

During our night flying the field’s perimeter lights were kept on for take-offs and landings. This was to enable the pupil to judge his position and height. And the runway itself was illuminated immediately prior to touchdown. But in between these times the trainee pilot was very much on his own. As it was now November the nights were dark and the skies were generally overcast. Once aloft, however, a few glimmers of light could always be seen despite the stringent blackout regulations, and there was just enough residual visibility left to distinguish the dim outline of the horizon. Swaying gently, an occasional small shower of sparks spraying from its exhaust, the easy-going Arado purred along contentedly. I completed two circuits without any fuss or bother and another ten minutes of flying time were added to my logbook.

But the highlight of the course, as far as I was concerned, was the aerobatics test. I took this on 11 November–quite by chance, it happened to be my 300th flight–and I managed to achieve eight out of the nine possible marks awarded. We had already been questioned as to which branch of the flying arm we wanted to join. My reply, of course, had been fighters. And I hoped that this performance would boost my chances and help get me the posting of my choice.

In the final weeks of our training we became acquainted with two other aircraft. The Arado Ar 96 advanced trainer was a modern all-metal monoplane in which the pupil and instructor sat in tandem beneath a long glazed canopy. In contrast, the Heinkel He 51 was a rugged, single-seat open cockpit biplane that had been the Luftwaffe’s first standard fighter back in the mid-’thirties. Another difference between the two machines was that the Arado had a retractable undercarriage. This was a refinement we had not encountered before–and it was very nearly my undoing. Like a complete idiot, I accepted a bet that I couldn’t retract the Arado’s wheels during take-off while still on the ground.

Luckily, I somehow managed it; judging the exact moment and pulling up the undercarriage just as the machine was on the very point of lifting off. For a split second it tipped to the right as the mainwheel on that side began to retract a fraction before the left-hand one. Then I was safely up and away. It was all over in a flash, but my action had not escaped the notice of the instructors, who kicked up the devil of a fuss. I will forever be grateful that they very sportingly decided to keep the matter to themselves. Otherwise I would have been well and truly for it under Para. 92 of the Luftwaffe disciplinary code, subsection ‘endangering life and machine’.

On 13 January 1943 I took off from Fürstenfeldbruck for the last time–and in the regulation manner, I hasten to add. During my ten months’ flying training at the air warfare school I had made 354 flights, racking up a total of some 103 flying hours. As at the end of every course, there followed a general parting of the ways. I was subsequently to meet up with only two of my fellow F Bruck pupils again when Leutnant Otto Wania, Oberfähnrich Peter Ullmann and I all served together in 4./JG 2 ‘Richthofen’. Sadly, both came to tragic ends. Otto, although himself born in Czechoslovakia, was murdered by vengeful Czechs at the end of the war. Peter died from burns suffered in a fire at his Munich home in 1966.

But the strongest bond of friendship that I forged at LKS 4 was with my regular instructor, Feldwebel Maurer. We were to remain in touch well into the post-war years. It was then he told me that he had still been flying the Fw 44 Stieglitz right up until the end of hostilities. During those final weeks, however, he was no longer instructing–his machine had been crudely armed with machine guns and he was carrying out low-level attacks on American troops advancing on Munich.