Hauptman d.R. Helmut Eberspächer
Träger des Ritterkreuz des Eiserne Kreuze

Flight Day June 1944

It is not completely incorrect to consider 6 June 1944 as the beginning of the end of the war. On that early June morning it was the beginning of H-Hour, when the giant American and British armed forces crossed the English Channel and landed along the Normandy coast, despite the 330 days it would take before the certificate of capitulation was signed in Reims, France.

As a Staffelkapitän (squadron captain) of a Kampfgeschwader (combat squardron) I was located along the Loire in Tours, France. Since the new year, we anticipated that the Allies would land under a full moon somewhere along the French coast; our daily conversations revolved around this topic. Of course our opponent would use the moon-phase to his advantage. Exactly when and along which sector of the Atlantic Coast the Allies would land was and remained unknown. I do not know if our reconnaissance or espionage were to blame, or if intercepted messages were simply not believed. There were, as always, many contradicting rumors. On 5 June 1944, my wife was informed by her Zimmernachbarin (apartment neighbor), who had close connections to the defense that "tonight they will land!"

The German Luftwaffe was a part of the German Armed Forces, albeit the aerial "force" was not far from complete impotentcy since almost every airport in Northern France and Belgium had been bombed. While crews and aircraft were operationally ready, they could no longer take-off. A humerous saying developed; When you see a blue aircraft in the sky it is American; when you see a red aircraft in the sky it is English; when you do not see anything in the sky it is German. The German Luftwaffe, for all practical purposes, no longer existed in the West. My own unit was one of the few exceptions. After the U.S. Air Force (USAAF) destroyed our airfield in Tours, France, we were able to miraculously salvage and operate a pair of planes from a meadow along the banks of the Loire River; despite the fact that the Americans could claim complete air-superiority. We flew missions to southern England only at night and camouflaged our planes in a forest before sun-rise to evade the ever-present watchful eyes of the daily US-reconnainssaince planes that controlled the skies across the entire northwestern France. For the most part, the Allies could maneuver freely in the skies and they were never faced with a threat of consequence. Our provisional airfield was known to everyone in France, however the French resistance did not function as well as it claimed to have, since our presence was never reported to the Allies. Had the Allies known about our airfield, our missions would have come to an end. None the less, we were able to take-off and land without interuption until later when American tanks approached from the south and eventually captured Tours. We never noticed any activitiy from the active resistance. During the day we sat in a Chateau-style house along the banks of the Loire River. Every day we anticipated an American aerial attack on our airfield since the last reconnaissance flight may have detected us.

Then came the night of 5-6 June 1944. Around 0300 and under complete darkness an alarming message arrived that enemy paratroopers and glider planes had landed at various locations throughout Normandy. At that point we were not aware of any attacks by the invasion fleet.

Orders were received from Luftflotte 3 that was located in Paris. Our mission was to immediately reconnoiter the Atlantic Coast from Caen on westward. Since we only had half a dozen Focke-Wulf 190's that were take-off ready, only a hand full of pilots received orders; everyone was to observe a specific sector along the Normandy coastline. After several diversionary attacks by British paratroopers, whereby sandbags with parachutes were thrown down instead of paratroopers, we remained skeptical as to whether or not the invasion had actually begun. This was in response to a message that British glider planes had landed, since they could not land boats on the beaches.

In the pitch dark morning hours we were frightened of the unknown and our fate. A full moon, partially covered with scattered clouds, illuminated the sky as the take-off from the meadow airstrip along the Loire was no different than any other routine night-time take-off. The airstrip was marked only by two necessary lamps, so that you actually had to "feel" your way through the dark. "Radar" was not yet a German word as we flew by way of a compass, a wrist watch, and knowing that the sun would rise and illuminate the familiar Normandy landscape.

The aircraft were pulled from the forested enclaves onto the field and everyone climbed into their machines. The aircraft watchman helped the pilots strap themselves in and communications, motor, and gun checks were conducted. The "start" button was depressed and the BMW 801 motor sprang to life as the watchman jumped off the wing and waved "take-off ready" with his flashlight. During such moments, as I sat alone in the cabine, there was not alot of time to ponder about anything; the horseback rider song by Schiller flew through my head: "da tritt kein anderer für ihn ein, auf sich selber steht er ganz allein."

Taking off from a meadow in the dark, in a single-seat combat aircraft that was constructed to fly during the day, was a rather hair-raising experience. The pilot's forward view is obstructed and there is no way of telling if the aircraft is moving straight or turning. However, during the early morning of 6 June 1944, everything progressed as it should have and I proceeded on a set course on the Contentin pensiula. The distance to the ocean from Bayeux was approximately 200 kilometers, roughly 30 minutes of flight in the FW 190. Below me the land remained in complete darkness, however as I approached the coast, gun-flashes became more and more frequent across the horizon. Without a doubt, hell was below me but I could not make an accurate picture of it. I flew at an altitude of approximately 1000 meters and above me was a layer of transparent clouds. The scene had a certain eiriness to it, something dangerous. In the death of Wallenstein it said, "In the skies there was profuce movement."

I did not receive any specific reconnaissance goal, however I was instructed to observe the Normandy coastline along the Caen-Bayeux-Carentan line. Slowly it became more and more light across the horizon and one minute after another it became more clear what was unfolding below. It was in fact gigantic. More and more contures of already hundreds of ships of various sizes continued to emerge from across the ocean. Directly in front and parallel to the coast lay the American battleships that were firing all their big guns at the German defensive bunkers along the Atlantic Wall. Landing crafts heading toward the beaches swam between the battleships similar to a string of perls, each pulled by a trawler. Flying at 450 kilometers per hour, nothing seemed to be mowing below, albeit I could imagine what was taking place. There were no more questions about the suspected diversionary attacks considering the situation on hand. It was clear that the moment we had been waiting for was now underway. At such a time, when you are in the midst of a dangerous situation, all safety precautions tend to be ignored. The long awaited landing were here.

In order to observed as much as possible I forgot all the precautions and descended to only several hundred meters and flew directly over a heavy battleship. Not a single shot was fired at me although the anti-aircraft fire could have easily cut my plane in half. Not until several years after the war I learned that General Omar Bradley ordered that aircraft would not be fired upon. This measure was to avoid the possibility of mistaken identification of Allied aircraft at night, considering the type of aircraft recognition techniques for that time period. The Allies did not shoot since the chances of a single German aircraft attacking a battleship were slim at best, especially with hundreds of Allied aircraft operating in the skies.

In the excitement I lost track of where I was. Considering the circumstances that was not of great concern. With a good conscience I could report that a never-before seen giant armada, consisting of several hundreds of ships that I could not count, had landed across a wide front along the southeast coast of the peninsula. I was not reporting on a several dozen ships.

My aircraft had enough fuel for no more than 2 hours and I had to think about returning home.

To be continued...

Copyright Stenger Historica 2003