BY Edward H. Sims
Most of the highly successful fighter pilots of World War II were shot down at least once, some many times. To tally an impressive record of aerial victories you had to be aggressive and fly hard, yet no matter how good you were, sooner or later it would be your turn to fall. Consequently it is not surprising that the highest-scoring aces of that war racked up most of their victories fighting on the defensive. If they were shot down over friendly territory, when their wounds healed they could fly and fight again. If they were bagged over enemy territory and survived, the odds were that they quickly wound up in a prisoner of war camp.
The Luftwaffe’s Adolf Galland scored most of his 103 victories early in the war.
He rose to command the entire fighter arm of the Luftwaffe, ultimately fell out with Goering over the proper use of that arm, and ended World War II in command of a jet fighter squadron. Even though he was good, superbly good, one June day in 1941 Spitfires shot him down twice.
In 1941 Adolf Galland was Kommodore of one of the two German fighter Geschwader left in the West to oppose the RAF — most of the Luftwaffe having been transferred to the East for the offensive against Russia. His Geschwader was distributed over various fields in the Pas de Calais, and in those days he often led his fighters against the RAF. He came to know the names of some of the RAF aces, several of whom he met when they were shot down over France and accepted his invitation to dinner. German fighter pilots in 1941 were confident and capable, and their fighters were perhaps the best in the world. Morale was good and Galland led his squadrons whenever he could. And it is with this period, and a memorable day for Galland, that we are now concerned.
Saturday, 21 June 1941, was warm and sunny over the Straits of Dover. Close to the
Coast of Kent, and the French coast between Calais and Boulogne (the Pas de Calais), were the strategically located advanced fighter fields of the RAF and the Luftwaffe.
The two air forces, flying from the same bases, had met in all-out battle in the summer of the preceding year, when the German Air Force had failed to subdue the RAF and bomb England into submission. At the conclusion of that struggle, the Luftwaffe discontinued massed daylight bomber attacks and bombed England largely by night. In the summer of 1941 it was the RAF which had gone over to the offensive in an effort to relieve pressure on Russian armies in the East, and RAF fighters and bombers were carrying out daylight attacks on targets in France. Because the escorting fighters (Spitfires and Hurricanes) had limited range, targets bombed by the RAF were usually close to the coast. German fighters, which a year before had often flown as bomber escorts over England and London, were now playing an opposite role — attacking RAF bombers over France.
On the French side of the Straits, midway between Calais and Boulogne and a few miles east of Cap Gris-Nez, sprawled the Luftwaffe fighter station of Wissant, named after the French coastal village. On a clear
Day German pilots could see the chalk cliffs of Dover across the Straits, and, higher, the radar and radio towers which stood out clearly on the green Kentish shore. The distance was twenty-two miles.
At the beginning of this summer of 1941 only two Luftwaffe Geschwader, 2 and 26, defended France and Occupied Europe against the RAF assault, then being referred to in the Allied press as the “nonstop” offensive. Kommodore (commander) of Jagdgeschwader 26, which had its headquarters at nearby Audembert in a farmhouse, was Oberstleut-nant Adolf Galland.
The morning of the twenty-first began without a hint of action. There were no reports of enemy activity. The breeze steadily increased from the Straits as the morning wore on and the rising sun warmed the green, rolling Calais hills. Galland was nervous. The weather was too good.
His Geschwader was composed of three Gruppen, each containing three Staffeln. The normal flying strength of squadrons was from eight to twelve fighters. Thus, using all nine squadrons, Galland could send up more than a hundred fighters. He also had a Stabschwarm (staff schwarm) of four, with which he normally flew as leader. (In general, a Geschwader’’s strength at this time could be
Estimated at 120 aircraft.) One squadron was based at Audembert with Galland; the other eight were stationed at three other nearby fields.
The double row of sheds housing the 109s at Audembert were effectively camouflaged to blend inconspicuously into the roll of surrounding farmland. Trees were painted on sides, netting was used extensively, and from only a moderate height installations became indiscernible. A few hundred feet west of the sheds, just south of the grass takeoff area, stood a white masonry chalet.
At seven-thirty that morning Galland was awakened in one of its five bedrooms. He washed and shaved and dressed in black, sheep’s-wool flying boots and flying suit, and a brown RAF flying jacket. The first officer to report to him was the weather officer, who confirmed what he had already seen — flying conditions were excellent. He was also briefed on the latest information gleaned from intercepted radio traffic and prisoners of war. (The German Signals Corps supplied valuable information about RAF activities, down to details such as which squadron leaders had gone on leave.) For breakfast Galland drank a mixture of raw eggs and red wine. He could never eat much in the mornings. In spite of his nervousness, nothing was
Apparently happening on the other side of the Straits.
He resigned himself to paperwork relating to Friday’s activities. The morning progressed and soon it was ten o’clock, then eleven. Outside, it grew warmer. Apart from an occasional roaring start-up, of one of the 109s by a crewman, the only sounds through the open farmhouse window this summer morning were those of breezes, birds, and insects. But Galland couldn’t relax. It was a quarter past eleven.
The telephone rang. It was an officer in the plotting room, a wooden building a few hundred feet from the front door, left. “Viele, iiber Kent,” the voice said. Galland answered, “Komme sofort. ” In sixty seconds he was hurrying through the door of a ninety-by-ninety-foot plotting room. Inside the curved-roofed building, which was covered with green netting stretching away to each side, were a number of tables on which were charted plots from Freya radar stations on the coast. Galland went from one to another, scanned the situation map where all the data was combined into a single picture. The picture was clear enough; he immediately ordered an alert and a briefing and hastily departed, leaving instructions that he be informed of any change in the
Developing picture.
Time was very short, for the distance was not great. Crewmen hurriedly began checking the 109s to have engines warm and ready to go. The distant roar permeated the countryside, and frenzied activity on all sides betrayed the sudden change of pace of the fighter station; an atmosphere of imminent action had fastened its grip on the field. Gal-land meanwhile was explaining the prospect to hurriedly assembled pilots at the farmhouse. “We have detected three wings of bombers, probably with fighter protection, at three thousand meters. We expect them to penetrate the coast a few kilometers west of Dunkirk.” Using a map, he continued, “We expect to intercept between here and here” — he indicated an area to the east, slightly inland. “All squadrons are assembling. If there’s time, I will lead them all in a concentrated formation; if not, we’ll attack in separate groups.”
There were few questions, little time. Gal-land, wrapping a yellow scarf around his neck, and fifceen other pilots ran toward their 109s. Galland would lead the staff Schwarm of four, in addition to the Staff el of twelve. Since the Gefechtsalarm (battle alert) had sounded, all crewmen were present at their 109s. Galland greeted his crew chief, Unter-
Ojfizier Meyer, bounded into the cockpit of the ready 109 F.2, and after strapping himself in, started the engine by pulling the start button.
After quickly checking instruments and gauges, he signaled ready. A crewman standing nearby pointed a flare pistol into the air and fired. A small green ball of fire shot up a hundred feet. Galland closed his canopy, released the brakes, eased the yellow knob on the left of the cockpit wall forward with his left hand; the Daimler-Benz howled louder as the prop pulled the fighter forward. Other pilots — only a short distance back — taxied out behind. Galland taxied north to the southern edge of the field, turned right to reach the eastern edge, and halted. Close to him were three other fighters, the rest of the Schwarm. Behind the Schwarm, in twos and fours, came the Staffel, now all taxiing rapidly into position. It was 12:24 and Galland opened the throttle all the way. The 109 began to gather speed, leaping and lunging over the grass as all the power of the big engine thrust the light (5,500 pounds) aircraft faster and faster. Sleek, pointed-nosed, gray-green fighters, with three-foot black crosses behind the cockpits on the fuselages, followed the Kommodore lifting off the field into a blue western sky.
Galland pushes a button at the bottom of the instrument panel and the 109’s wheels begin to fold. He eases back on the throttle, begins a slow turn still climbing, and checks in with operations. “Die dicken Hunde,” he hears, are continuing on course. (German controllers called a stream of bombers or bombers and fighters Fat Dogs, referred to fighters as Indians.) Galland closes the air scoop, adjusts the wheel on the left of the cockpit floor for proper climbing trim, and sets course at 110 degrees. His 109 — with Mickey Mouse insignia on the side of its canopy — climbs initially at three thousand feet per minute. (As the air gets thinner, the rate slows.) Galland estimates it will take a little over five minutes to reach the desired height above the oncoming bombers — about 13,000 or 14,000 feet.
The airspeed needle at the bottom of the right side of the panel shows a climbing speed of close to 400 kph (top speed indicated on the dial is 750). Galland checks to be sure his engine and oil temperatures are within limits. The German system is easy. Water lines and gauges are painted in green, oil in brown, air in blue, fuel in yellow. The fire extinguisher is red. He flips the stick cover lid to ready his guns and cannon, and
Switches on the electrical gunsight button. Directly in front of his face, on a glass rectangle measuring four inches high and two wide, a yellow-white electric-light circle appears. At a hundred meters a Spitfire’s wingspan (thirty-six feet) fills the circle. Galland can fire his two 20-millimeter wing cannon by depressing an uncovered button on top of the stick with his thumb and can fire two 7.8 machine guns by depressing the front of the black, hand-shaped stick handle. He is now ready for action; the yellow-nosed 109 Schwann of four reaches higher and higher into the eastern sky, the Stajfel in position behind. . . 6,000 feet, 7,000, 8,000.
The English bombers — twin-engined Blenheims — prepare to go into their bombing runs over an airfield. It is at Arques, near St.-Omer. The Blenheims, Galland is informed by radio, are already east (ahead) of Galland’s climbing yellow-noses, so there will be no time for Galland to assemble the Geschwader. The controller at Wissant also reports large formations of RAF fighters located above the bombers. Galland acknowledges, continues his climb. Altitude 9,000, 10,000, 11,000 feet. He follows a course furnished by the plotters below, points slightly south of due east. He should be seeing the enemy formation and scans the
Sky ahead. Nothing is in sight. He checks the sky behind, continues on course. Up ahead . . . he can see St.-Omer. Then. . . just past St.-Omer on a road leading southwest he sees the airfield — and bombs bursting! It’s under attack. The RAF bombers are over Arques at 11,000 feet. A pack of escorting Hurricanes and Spitfires are above. Galland and all the German pilots feel the tension of impending battle upon seeing the enemy; they move their throttles all the way forward and steepen their climb. Galland will get above the RAF fighters and into position to make a diving attack. The 109s roar upward higher and higher above the bombers, now off to the right. Galland leans into a wide right turn, keeps his stick back climbing, and pulls up above the escorting fighters and well above the enemy bombers, still below, right. The Blenheims appear to have finished their bombing and are turning homeward.
His Staff el is in position. But English fighters are between the 109s and the bombers. Can he get through the escort to get to the bombers? No other German fighters are yet attacking. He must dive through the escort, presses the mike button of his brown helmet: “Angriff!” Diving pass to the right. His port wing flips up, exposing a black-and-white cross, and the 109 accelerates downward and
Right as Galland pushes stick forward and applies right rudder. The 109s quickly stretch out in the dive. Airspeed rapidly increases. Galland keeps the nose well down and peers ahead and down through the gun-sight glass. The Spits and Hurricanes, above the Blenheims, appear to be rushing up to meet him as they bank above their larger comrades but Galland pays them no attention. He is suddenly on them, flashes through the enemy fighter formation at 400 mph. Taken by surprise, the RAF fighters bank sharply to take on the 109s. But so fast are the German fighters diving that they are now down and far away from the enemy fighters and approaching the Fat Dogs.
Galland eases back on the stick, feels the drain of blood from his head, but keeps his eyes fixed on the Blenheim formation. One of the twin-engined bombers is off to the right, trailing behind the formation. Galland maneuvers feet and stick, leveling the 109, still hurtling forward at great speed, and rushes up from directly behind. The distance rapidly closes in a straight-from-behind approach. The dorsal turret gunner hasn’t seen him. Galland keeps his eyes on the electric-light circle, his fingers on the trigger buttons . . . closer. . . closer. The wingspan of the Blenheim spreads wider and wider, now a
Line of diameter. Galland is on him.
Thumb and forefinger down! Cannon and machine guns roar amid vibration. Aim is dead on. Shells rake the bomber and the Blenheim staggers under the sudden barrage. Pieces fly backward and there is a flash of flame — high octane!
Galland is so close he must bank away to avoid fiery death. He veers to the side and the Blenheim wings over and plunges. . . smoke pouring back behind streaks of flame. A parachute opens, then another. Two of the three-man crew are out. There is no return fire from victory number sixty-eight for Galland.
In the attack he has lost his comrades, who have selected targets of their own. Most of the Staffel seems occupied with enemy fighters, but Galland is alone, scans the sky, and climbs at full power back above the bombers. He will come down again in another diving attack if enemy fighters don’t interfere. Gradually the lone 109 out to the side pulls above the boxes and milling fighters around them. Galland manages to stay out of the melee and now, back at 12,000 feet, is ready to make a second pass. He checks the rear. . . clear behind. A little higher. . . over 12,000 feet now, above the enemy fighters. Once more he dips stick and
Starts down in a diving pass. His speed quickly accelerates and down he flashes through the fighters again. But this time one of the RAF pilots spots the diving Messer-schmitt, stands his Spitfire on a wing, opens the Rolls-Merlin engine wide, and starts down after him. Galland is diving faster, however, and pulls away, eyeing the bombers below through his sighting glass. Rapidly closing them as he levels out at great speed, he decides to attack the lead bomber, then make his way out and away in front of the formation. He has the necessary speed, maneuvers rudder pedals and stick to bring the 109 in dead astern of the leading Blenheim.
The bomber grows larger and larger in his sights as he comes on fast. The rear gunner hasn’t time to take him under fire. The wingspan is stretching across the circle. Galland presses the buttons. Again cannon and gun shells streak straight into the victim, Galland so close behind he can’t miss. His firing pattern concentrates in the starboard wing, and from the starboard engine dark smoke streams backward. Galland takes a second to watch as he pulls off to the side. The Blenheim begins to yaw. . .it’s falling out of formation to the right, leaving a dark trail of smoke. Once again the crew, or some of them, get out. Galland sees one chute, then a sec-
Ond. Victim number two. His sixty-ninth victim of the war.
Whump! Whump! Tracers, streaking by above, to the side. A second for the new situation to register. Smoke! He’s hit. Fighter behind! Instantly he kicks rudder, dips stick, and does a diving turn down and away. The fuel injection of the Daimler-Benz again proves its worth. He dives into a patch of haze, and this and his quick change of direction save him. (The Me-109s enjoy a tactical advantage over Spits and Hurricanes in a sudden dive, when centrifugal force momentarily interrupts the flow of fuel to the engine; the Daimler-Benz is equipped with fuel injection and in such dives continues to perform normally. That brief moment, the distance gained, is enough to enable Galland to get away. British pilots often attempted to nullify the German advantage by rolling or half-rolling as they dived in pursuit.)
Galland checks behind. He has evaded the Spit but has lost much altitude. And smoke leaves a long, white, funnel-like trail behind his F.2. He can see his right radiator is shot up and coolant is pouring out. The engine is certain to overheat. He pushes his stick down, looks behind again, and begins to search the landscape below for a place to get down. The engine begins to run roughly.
Engine temperature steadily rises. No more coolant. The liquid-cooled engine will soon be finished. Directly below, he sees an open place in the landscape, two miles east of Calais. He looks carefully. . . airfield. Ca-lais-Marck! He was so busy fighting he hadn’t known his position. The engine is now throbbing and clanking, louder and louder. Galland eases back on the yellow throttle knob, but at the very moment the Daimler-Benz stops completely. The whirling three-blade prop out front turns slower and slower and then freezes. No power!
The airfield is just below, fortunately. Checking behind, thankful no enemy fighter has spotted his crippled 109, Galland circles to stay directly over the field. He will circle until very low and then bank in a last turn which will take him out and around to its edge where he is down to a few hundred feet. Silently the Messerschmitt circles downward. The whistling of the wind and the billow of white smoke accompany him as he calls on his training as a glider pilot. No wheels. He will belly in canopy open. He prepares to jump out as soon as the 109 stops sliding. Fast descending, he glides out to the field’s edge and makes the last turn, levels the wings, dips the stick, and noses her down over the grass. Stick back, slower and slower,
Seventy-five feet, fifty, twenty-five. . . solid bumping, sliding, crunching. The 109 rushes over the ground, sliding straight, slows and comes to a halt. Galland is up and out of the cockpit as soon as the fighter stops. Men are rushing out from all directions. He is down safely on a German field.
His first request to onrushing field personnel is that they radio Audembert for a light plane to come and pick him up, which is done immediately. (Audembert is only ten miles down the coast to the southwest.) He walks around the battered 109. The prop is bent under, belly thoroughly skinned, and the right radiator, about two feet back from the propeller under the nose, is badly shot up. The Spit must have come up from behind and low!
Galland answers questions about the action and tells of his two victories. Field personnel prepare to move his damaged 109, and an Me-108 looms into sight in the western sky. It is from Audembert and Galland is soon on his way back to the base — in time for a late lunch. There he learns his wingman, Hegenauer, has been shot down, too. It has been a hard day. . . two victories in a few minutes but both he and his wing-man shot down. The action is thoroughly discussed by excited German pilots.
After lunch, Galland — with no injuries — returns to his desk and paperwork and red tape. The weather is still perfect. . . but surely the RAF has had enough for one day. He works on until three o’clock. Half past the hour, and then four. And then. . .
The telephone. Plotting house. Large formations once again assembling across the Straits. Galland hurries over and soon is among the tables looking at radar plots. . . enemy formations, several heading toward France. From the plots it appears they’ll cross in fifteen to twenty miles south. For the second time that day Galland sounds the Gefechtsalarm and pilots hurry into action. With whom shall he fly? His wingman is missing. He hasn’t had time to arrange things. For one of the few times in his career Galland decides to take off alone. It’s against the rules of fighter combat. Perhaps he can join one of his Gruppen when airborne. And so, without waiting to find a wingman, Galland races out to his other Me-109, which has been made ready (two aircraft-are always at his disposal) and is soon leaving a cloud of dust in his wake as he taxies out to take off.
The lone, roaring 109 soon lifts off the grass into the still-blue western sky. It is minutes after 4 P. M. Galland banks left into
The south, toward the area where the enemy will cross in. Retracting landing gear, he makes a quick cockpit check, turns on his guns and sight — all in order — and continues a solitary climb into the south. He soon reaches 10,000 feet, then 11,000 and then 12,000. He checks with control. . . enemy formations should be a few miles ahead, a bit higher, and are thought to be fighters. He can’t make them out, but below, forward, he sees Boulogne. The Daimler, at maximum climb, continues to pull the 109 upward into the south, and he reaches 15,000, 16,000, then 17,000 feet and is approaching Boulogne off to his right, still climbing. He searches the sky ahead. . . wants to find friends before the enemy. Southeast of Boulogne. . . dots. . . aircraft. His eyes remain fixed on the approaching specks. . . fighters. He can distinguish the silhouettes. . . Me-109s! It’s Gruppe I of his Geschwader! He will join them. He’s up to 20,000 feet, levels out, points the yellow nose of his fighter in the direction of his comrades. Then off to the left of the 109s he sees another formation of fighters. . . Spitfires! He sees only six and they’re at lower altitude. He has the altitude advantage and, quickly changing his mind, stands the 109 on its left wing to curve in above them. Perhaps he can dive down at
Speed, utilizing the element of surprise, and bring down the last in the formation, get away before the others turn.
The Spits are now ahead and below and Galland noses down into a dive which will bring him into position behind the sixth enemy fighter. He must get in and out quickly. Airspeed increases as he holds the nose down, carefully sighting through the glass. The trailing Spit is in view. . . still small in the pale yellow light circle. He eases slightly back on the stick as the 109 approaches 700 kph, levels out, and comes in behind the enemy. Blood drains from his head, he is pressed down hard in his seat as he pulls stick back further, fast coming in from behind on the Spit, now growing bigger and bigger in the sighting circle.
The RAF fighter stays in the same flying altitude just long enough. The thirty-six-foot wingspan widens, now fills the circle. A hundred meters. Galland presses both buttons. The cannon and 7.8 shells smash into the larger Spitfire. Debris flies backward. Smoke streaks from the engine. Almost at once Galland knows his foe is finished. The enemy pilot probably didn’t know what hit him. The Spit’s wing goes up and over he flips, the roaring Merlin engine points earthward, and down plunges Galland’s seventieth vic-
Tim — his third of the day. Galland dives away to avoid the flight path of other Spits. He checks behind, sees nothing, and watches the falling Spitfire plunge to the ground a few miles southeast of Boulogne. Unlike his regular 109, which he flew in the morning, this one has no camera and he wants to see where the Spitfire crashes.
But he pays the price for a lone-wolf attack. For the second time in the day he is startled by ominous sounds. Whumph! Whumph! Whumph! Whumph! He can hear, feel the 109 taking hits. . . many hits. A sudden pain in his head, his right arm! Desperate, trapped, Galland rams the stick forward, dives straight down, down — and pulls out, banking. At last he’s out of the line of fire, but too late. The 109 is mortally crippled and Galland is bleeding profusely. His frantic evasive action has shaken off the pursuing fighter, but the engine is banging loudly and vibrating heavily. Soon it will be finished. Galland switches it off to lessen chances of fire, which all pilots dread, especially 109 pilots, who sit in front of the fuel tank. The 109 begins its glide downward silently, just as another did earlier that morning.
On the right side of the cockpit and fuselage is a large gaping hole, through which the
Wind rushes in; there are holes in the wings. The enemy fighter’s aim was deadly accurate. But the 109 responds to the controls and Galland feels he can make another belly landing. He is still high, over 17,000 feet, and points the nose northward. Ominously, fuel and coolant begin leaking onto the cockpit floor. Galland, head and arm bleeding, notices the liquid on the floor and realizes his danger. Then, whump! The enemy again? He looks back. Flames stretch out behind. The tank, behind, is afire! His breath almost stops as he notices small streams of liquid fire running between his legs from behind the seat into the cockpit. He must get out!
Galland jerks off his seat straps, reaches up with his left hand to release the top of the canopy. The Kabinennotabwurf doesn’t work! The top won’t fly off, is jammed! He pushes up hard with both hands. No movement. The fire is hotter. He must get out or burn to death. He pushes with all his strength, straight up. Flames now reach up from the bottom of the cockpit. He has seconds. Still he can’t open the canopy. With all his strength in a desperate leap he throws his whole body against the roof. The front section of the top finally lifts, is caught by the wind, and hurtles back and away in the slipstream. Galland at the same time pulls back
On the stick, stands in his seat, and tries to spring out of the cockpit as the 109 stands on its nose. He gets part of the way out, but his parachute, on which he sits, catches on the back part of the canopy, which hasn’t dropped away as it should have. And as he stands struggling, half in and half out in the biting wind, the 109 stalls, falls down and away on a wing, and goes into a spin. Gal-land, still caught, falls with the burning plane. The force of the wind pushes his body backward against the very part of the cockpit from which he needs to free himself. His parachute is stuck into it. Desperately, he tries with hands and feet as he turns and falls to pull free, but he’s stuck fast. The fighter falls on downward, his feet burning, his body violently buffeted as the 109 spins. For some strange, unexplainable reason Gal-land’s mind turns to his electric train set — he has an elaborate installation at Audembert and he received two new engines that morning. Through his mind at this critical second flashes the thought he won’t be able to try them out. Strange how the mind works!
With hand reaching out and gripping the aerial mast and feet kicking, Galland makes a final desperate effort to free himself And then, without knowing how it happens, he is falling free.
Ward, turning over and over as he falls. With relief, but suffering shock, Galland grips the release handle of his chute! With a start, he realizes what he’s doing just in time. He’s about to get out of his parachute harness, in midair! If he had pulled the Schnelltrenn-schloss, he would have fallen free without his chute. Shaken, he carefully grips the ripcord handle (Aufreissgrif/), pulls. For a moment he fears his chute is not working. Then, with a jolt that straightens him up, feet downward, the chute opens and he is oscillating back and forth, softly and noiselessly floating down.
It’s quite a contrast to the desperation and terror of only seconds ago. He is still high. Below a green summer landscape stretches in all directions. He notices his burning Me-109 smash into the ground about a mile away, thinks how close he came to going in with it. Then a Spitfire looms in view, flashing through the sky ahead, and apparently takes some pictures of him descending. Others are farther away and he hears them firing. Boulogne is easily visible to the west. He is coming down on top of a big forest . . . the wind is taking him toward the edge. He mustn’t land in the trees. . . down, down; the wind carries him toward the edge; it will be close. He’s over the forest, drifts
Toward a hedgerow. A large poplar tree is directly in his path. He passes below but the canopy of his chute strikes the limbs and collapses. As the air spills out, his descent quickens and he strikes the ground falling too fast. A sharp pain stabs him in the left ankle. Luckily the ground is wet and soft — a meadow — or he would certainly have been hurt badly. Even as it is, he’s not in good condition.
Until now he hasn’t realized he is badly burned, but lying on the ground, bleeding from the head and right arm, his ankle dislocated, burned over the bottom part of his body, he begins to realize his condition. He makes an effort but can’t stand up. His ankle is swelling rapidly, energy draining away. He can hardly move. He can feel pieces of metal in his head. He just lies there, glances around half-dazed. At some distance he notices a French farmer, and then another, and slowly they approach. Galland is helpless and at their mercy. Soon there are several others with them, but they are extremely cautious and approach slowly. Galland speaks: “I’m German and I’m wounded. Please help me.” One of the French onlookers is a woman; all are elderly. Another man speaks: “He will die very soon. We must call the Germans. If he
Dies before the Germans come, they will say we killed him.”
Galland, understanding the conversation, replies, “Ich zverde nicht sterben. Ich bin sehr krdftig.” (I will not die. I am very strong.) The Frenchmen look at him in surprise. Several reach down and begin to drag him to a nearby farmhouse. When they finally arrive at the house, Galland asks, “Haben Sie etwas cognac?” They have none but they have some eau-de-vie. It’s in a dirty bottle but Galland takes a long drink. One of the old men starts down the road to inform a group of German Todt Organization workers, the nearest Germans.
In a few minutes a car approaches. Galland can see they’re Germans and is relieved. Quickly they ask, “Wohin sollen zvir Sie bringen?” Galland tells them to take him to his fighter station. They tell him he should go to the hospital. Galland insists and they help him into their car and drive him to Audembert, 26 Geschzvader headquarters. At his arrival there is excitement and relief. Galland even has a cognac and a cigar and feels somewhat better. But they soon pack him off to the nearby naval hospital at Hardingham, where his good friend Dr. Heim removes various pieces of metal from his head and patches him up. Heim
Suggests he stay a few days at the hospital. Galland, however, refuses to remain and is soon back at headquarters; he will remain in command, if necessary from the ground!
World History
