Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (14 page)

The manufacturers had protested as forcefully as they dared, and Milch had responded by calling this conference, to get the complaints out into the open. Unlike Göring, he could take some criticism, if it was couched in courteous terms and if he felt it was fair. The manufacturers knew that, but they also knew they could not press him too far without repercussions.

The only positive thing that could be said about his extensive personnel reassignments was that they were damaging to all parties and most of all to the still infant German jet engine development. For reasons known only to himself, Milch had acted on the advice of two of his deputies in the Air Ministry, Hans Mauch and Helmut Schelp. The two men believed that they were rationalizing the jet engine industry by assigning jet engines of
certain types and sizes to certain companies. In the mature airframe industry this had made sense and worked quite well. In the engine industry it was absurd, because there was not yet a sufficient body of knowledge on jet engines to make such a decision. Further, all of German industry, but particularly the more technologically advanced sectors, suffered enormously from the sweeping security restrictions that limited the spread of information on a rigorous “need to know” basis. The result was that the same mistakes would be made in many different factories, when a free exchange of information would have accelerated progress.

Milch ordered that Professor Herbert Wagner, Max Müller, and their development group at Junkers be transferred to the Heinkel factory, where they were placed under the nominal direction of von Ohain. The so-called Prussian group, under von Ohain, was immediately at odds with the “Swabian” group under Wagner, and there was a steep decline in research results and general productivity. Von Ohain’s men were considered by Wagner’s group to be theorists, academics unwilling or unable to get their hands dirty. In turn, von Ohain’s people believed the Wagner faction to be mechanics, unable to get their nails clean and totally incapable of seeing the larger goals to be sought.

Milch’s conference was to be held in one of the lavishly equipped conference rooms in the Air Ministry. Göring extended his openhanded style to the lowly workers in the building, ensuring that the polished marble halls were well supplied with seats, tables, telephones, and, on special occasions like this, refreshments.

Hans von Ohain waited nervously outside the doors of the conference room. Always conscious of his youth, he felt it even more keenly in these polished halls where a continuous flow of Luftwaffe airmen in their smart new uniforms hurried past, all seeming to say, “We are pilots and you are not.” He stood ramrod straight, but his eyes
searched for a man he knew only by reputation but whose position was almost as untenable as his own—Dr. Anselm Franz. With the reassignment of Wagner’s group, the primary responsibility for jet engine work at Junkers had been transferred to Franz. Because of his previous experience with superchargers, he had been working quietly on jet engine development since 1939. Von Ohain wanted to talk to him, to gain some insight into working with Wagner and his team, and to offer any help that he could, in spite of the galling “need to know” security restrictions that operated in Hitler’s Germany.

Franz walked in alone, spotted von Ohain, and came briskly down the hallway to meet him. Slightly shorter than von Ohain but of a much more athletic build, Franz was about ten years older, with a square, open face, a shock of blond hair already turning silver, and a flashing smile.

“Dr. von Ohain, it is a great honor to meet you. I greatly admire your work.”

Von Ohain flushed with pleasure. Franz was well-known in the industry, and von Ohain was pleased with the deference he extended. They talked of mutual friends for a moment until von Ohain, glancing at his watch, suggested that they move down the hallway to a point where they could speak privately.

Franz laughed. “Talk privately in Göring’s building? Impossible; there probably is a microphone in every potted plant.” The two men felt an instant empathy. Both had been tasked with crushing assignments and were harassed by both their employers and the Air Ministry to do the impossible with minimal resources.

Von Ohain came right to the point. “I’m having difficulty with Dr. Wagner and his group. They seem determined to go their own way, without regard to my instructions. Is there any way I can control them short of going to Dr. Heinkel and demanding that he do something?”

Franz shook his head. “The Air Ministry did me a great favor, and you a great disservice. Wagner and his group are simply too bright, and they are spoiled. They had their own way at Junkers for so long that they won’t be inclined to let someone—particularly an academic such as you—control them. I advise you to do as I did—let them go their own way, give them whatever help you can, but work on your own. If you try to control them, they will fight you every step of the way, and no one will make any progress. If you let them alone, they may surprise you and come up with something workable—they are really quite clever. But certainly do not expect them to help you. They just do not know how to cooperate.”

“How did you work in parallel? Did Junkers have so many engineers that it could afford two entirely separate development lines?”

“No. I let them go on their own, and I’m not even certain what they have done. For myself, I worked with a tiny group and set modest aims. I had never seen a jet engine of course, and decided to build one first, to see how they operate, and only then attempt to design an airworthy engine. So I didn’t worry about weight or using strategic materials; I just used the best information I could gather—including all I could learn about your engine, I might add—and cobbled together a jet engine to see if it would run. It is axial flow, as you no doubt know, and it taught me a great deal. I also learned that I could not trust the Air Ministry.”

He laughed again and von Ohain leaned forward, intent.

“You see, they took my test engine, the Jumo 004A, and ordered me to put it in production! It didn’t make sense, I told them I had only made a model of an engine, but the Air Ministry did not care! So we are building a modified version of my test engine, calling it the Jumo 004B1. The first production engine came off the line this January. We are still having problems, of course, particularly in engine life—if we get ten hours we are fortunate,
twenty-five and we are ecstatic. Quite frankly, it is a miracle that it turned out as well as it did. A miracle.”

Von Ohain was stunned. Franz’s progress had been remarkable, from start to production engines in four years! Von Ohain was still a year or more away from mass production of his own design.

Two of Milch’s aides began circulating through the group, asking them to enter the conference room. Von Ohain and Franz shook hands, von Ohain saying, “I wish we could work together. I’m sure we would both benefit.”

Franz sighed. “Certainly that would be the best. We desperately need help to stop cracks and vibration in our turbine blades. But you can be certain that the Air Ministry will forbid us to do so.”

As was his invariable custom, Obermyer waited until almost everyone had gone in, then slid into a seat in the last row. One of his legacies from the previous war was an obsession for cleanliness; he bathed almost every day and had a supply of colognes that Müller had once remarked upon in a joking manner. He did it only once, for Obermyer had responded savagely. Now Obermyer’s nose wrinkled—the wartime shortages of soap and hot water became very evident in a closed room like this.

Müller, who had aggressively worked the refreshment table, continued grousing. “I don’t see why we have to be here. They never ask us our opinion; we never tell them anything.”

“Shut your face, Gerd. That’s enough. We’re here because I say we should be here.”

Obermyer knew the meeting was important for more reasons than one. The ever-increasing bombing raids had at last convinced the Air Ministry that it had made a mistake in neglecting the development of jet engine technology, particularly in metallurgical research. Now it was in a sudden frenzy to redress the balance and at the same time offset the problems caused by the haphazard reassignment of personnel that had set the entire industry on its ear.

The doors sprang open and Field Marshal Milch strode in, followed by his usual entourage, much smaller than Göring’s, of course, but still suited to his rank.

“Gentlemen, let me begin by saying that I have had enough of your complaints and not enough of your successes!”

He went on to catalog the latest American and British bombing raids, naming cities, casualties, the number of bombers employed, and the number shot down.

“The people are saying that thanks to the Luftwaffe, we are losing the war! And they are very close to being correct. The aircraft industry has not delivered the quantity or the quality of the airplanes that it should have.”

He went on to voice his dissatisfaction with all of the elements of the jet engine industry, giving equal weight to shortcomings at Heinkel, Junkers, and BMW.

“This is unsatisfactory. The
Reichsmarschall
has informed me that the Führer is placing great emphasis on the jet aircraft to offset the enemy’s numerical superiority. The Führer’s appreciation of the situation is, as usual, quite correct. Moreover, it is supported by operational personnel. I have in my hands a wire from General Galland. He says, and I quote, ‘The Me 262 is a major success which guarantees us an operational advance of unimaginable proportions, assuming the enemy continues to fly piston-powered aircraft. From a flying standpoint, the airframe makes quite a good impression. Its engine is quite satisfying, except on takeoff and landing. This aircraft opens up completely new tactical possibilities for us.’ ”

Galland’s report created a low rumble in the room. Grunts of pleasure came from the Messerschmitt people, while a suppressed groan of dismay came from the Heinkel faction. Anselm Franz looked understandably pleased, glanced at von Ohain, but then quickly looked away, for the statement was obviously damaging to the young engineer’s aspirations.

Müller nudged Obermyer in the ribs. “It looks like we
may be backing the wrong horse.” Obermyer gave him his steel-eyed death stare and Müller lapsed into silence.

Milch went on. “General Galland provided this opinion directly to
Reichsmarschall
Göring. The general also advised me to stop production of the Messerschmitt Bf 109 in favor of the 262, and continue only the Focke-Wulf FW 190 as a piston engine fighter.”

There was dead silence. Such a decision would be a short-term catastrophe for Messerschmitt from which it could probably never recover financially. The 109 was its milk cow of money.

Now Milch seemed momentarily to lose control of his anger; his voice cracked and his face contorted. “However, thanks to your lack of progress we are faced with the same problem we faced with the Messerschmitt 210. For those of you who don’t know the hard facts, that miserable design cost the Reich at least six hundred aircraft and many millions of
Reichsmarks.
”

This time the Messerschmitt people looked down at the floor or stared fixedly at the ceiling, for the Me 210 had been a financial disaster, a net loss of 30 million
Reichsmarks.
Intended to supplant the workhorse Bf 110, the Me 210 had been rushed into mass production, only to develop into an operational nightmare as a wide variety of problems caused fatal crash after fatal crash. The 210 was eventually pulled from production, with some finished aircraft being sent to be salvaged before they ever flew. Some said that the 210 was the straw that broke Udet’s back, driving him to suicide.

Relentless, Milch went on. “Nonetheless, we must press on with jet aircraft. If Dr. Messerschmitt had his way, we would devote all our resources to the 262. But we cannot. A failure would be a disaster; it would lose the war for us. Therefore I’ve decided that only twenty percent of our resources for fighter aircraft production will be allocated to the 262 program. The rest will continue to be applied to the Bf 109 and Focke-Wulf 190 programs.”

His voice again took on a sharp edge. “But I want to warn you gentlemen that we must have more jet fighters and jet bombers by 1944, or we will have lost the air war forever. So I do not want to hear any more complaints from you about who works where and who does what. What I want to hear is that you are meeting your program guidelines, and that the Reich will have new jet engines in mass production this year—not 1945, not next year, but this year.”

Milch slammed his fist down so hard on the podium that he knocked his field marshal’s baton to the floor. Few in the room were superstitious, but even Milch recognized this instantly as an extraordinarily bad omen. He grabbed the baton, saluted with it to the appalled group scrambling to its collective feet, and, fuming, marched out of the room.

Obermyer looked at an obviously shaken von Ohain, who was staring at the door through which Milch had departed. Then von Ohain turned, caught Obermyer’s eye, and said, “Is this how business is conducted at the top?”

It was a dangerous, inflammatory statement, especially when made to a man like Obermyer. But instead of quailing at Obermyer’s narrow-eyed look, von Ohain came up to him and said, “How do you expect to win a war with leaders like this? Udet commits suicide; this man Milch threatens everyone. Is this the Nazi way of doing business?”

Obermyer took a step back. Perhaps he had underestimated this young man. He had guts as well as brains.

June 14, 1943, Wright Field, Ohio

Brigadier General Franklin O. Carroll was slim, of average height, and totally unaware that his thinning black hair and graying mustache gave him the appearance of an aging Adolf Hitler. A longtime veteran of Wright
Field, Carroll had an infectious grin and a tittering laugh that unnerved those who did not know him well, for when combined with his habit of eagerly rocking back and forth in his seat it seemed to place him one step short of the loony bin. But his nervous mannerisms masked a managerial genius that had overseen the expansion of Wright Field’s engineering capability from its relatively small size in 1939 to its current gigantic status. In the past, Carroll’s amazing faculty for deciding where the Air Corps research efforts should be directed had achieved great things with a tiny budget. Now, with a virtually unlimited budget, Carroll still sought to get the maximum for the Army.