On Meeting an Enemy

Staff Sergeant Erwin Meier of the German Luftwaffe was a highly decorated pilot during World War 2. Unlike most air forces of today, the Germans allowed non-commissioned officer to be pilots, and Meier was one of the best the Germans had. Flying his Messerschmitt Bf-109 machine, Meier had recorded double digit kills on the difficult Eastern Front of the war by 1942. For his service and skill, the pilot was awarded medals and other air awards. And that’s why, when he was shot down by a Russian pilot, he was somewhat surprised.

The time was September, 1942, and the decisive Battle of Stalingrad had finally begun to turn to the Soviets’ way. However, the end of the struggle was still undecided, and establishing air superiority was still important to both sides. While the Germans had their faster and more maneuverable Messerschmitts, the Russians were able to counter with their own fast and nimble Yaks. However, unlike the German crates, the speed of the Yaks was because they were made of wood and that made them much more vulnerable to enemy fire.

It was a clear day when a squad of four Yaks spotted some German bombers and their fighter escorts headed for the Russian lines around Stalingrad, and the Russians closed in for an attack. Meier saw the Russians at distance, and he peeled away from his group and looped back around to come in on the Russians from behind. Now, the pursuer became the pursued. Meier’s tactic was so bold and smart that he managed to gain an advantageous position on the rear of the Russian squad leader, a man named Major Danilov. As he was squeezing off some machine gun rounds into the now-splintering tail of the Russian’s plane, Meier felt a violent jolt. Somehow, a Russian pilot had managed to come in on his tail, and his Messerschmitt was being pelted with rounds. Several Russian rounds found his engine, and the German ace realized that his plane was doomed. He veered off from his attack on the Russian major and tried to keep his craft steady while he unlatched and then pushed back the glass covering over his head. He checked his horizon and then bailed out of the doomed aircraft, deploying his parachute after he was sure he had cleared the plane.

As he gently fell to earth under the canopy of white silk, Meier cursed himself for being so careless. How could he not have seen the pilot that snuck up on him from behind? That guy must be a good pilot, Meier thought. And, when he reached the safety of the ground, a squad of Russian soldiers were there to quickly take him captive. Meier thought he knew the names of the best Russian pilots he was facing daily in the skies above Stalingrad; he had studied their tactics and their tendencies, and, in his mind as he was being questioned and moved to a POW camp, Meier ran through the list of who he thought might have been the one who shot him down using such a good maneuver.

“Would it be possible to meet the pilot who shot me down?” he asked his questioners through the interpreter. Sure, came the answer back. The Russians were happy to oblige him because they realized that a meeting between their own pilot and the German hero would make for good publicity and would boost morale in the Soviet press, good news for a people hungry for any victory in the war, no matter what the size of it. So, Meier was taken to the makeshift airfield where Major Danilov’s squadron was based. And he was introduced to Lieutenant Litvyak, a 21 year old blond Russian who looked like someone you’d meet in a school yard rather than in a deadly air duel. But Meier thought the Russians were kidding him, trying to embarrass him. Surely, this kid couldn’t’ve been the expert pilot who got the drop on him and shot him down so expertly. Still incredulous, Meier asked Litvyak to describe how the short battle unfolded. The Russian described the encounter to a tee. Meier became convinced that this, this, this child had bested him in combat. The Russians, of course, were gleeful. For his part, Major Danilov acknowledged that Lt. Litvyak had saved his life, that he was probably doomed if Meier had been able to finish him off. What made it worse in Meier’s mind was that the young Russian pilot had only been on the front for less than a week and already been credited with three “kills” including Meier. The brave and skilled Lt. Litvyak would soon be promoted to command a squadron of Russian planes and be credited with dozens of sorties and several more kills before being shot down and killed in August of the next year.

But that was long after the Soviet propaganda machine made a big deal out of the fact that the German ace Erwin Meier had been bested in combat by a girl.

On a Vital Modification

The year 1941 was one of those years in history that could easily be called a “make-or-break” year. Germany had swept across the European continent since World War 2 had been declared in September 1939, taking almost every nation in its path. Hitler and his armies were attacking Russia in the east, while only England stood between the Nazis and complete control over the continent in the west. The United States had yet to enter the war, and it seemed like only a matter of time until the Germans would launch an invasion of the British Isles and end the war on that front.

All that seemed to stand in Hitler’s way was the British Royal Air Force. Hitler preferred to bomb the British into submission, as he knew that an invasion of Britain would be costly in Reichsmarks and in lives lost. And as the German Air Force, the Luftwaffe, was pounding Britain with bombs day after day, the only British response was the work of the RAF. Thus, the Battle of Britain was also the battle for Britain. Those British planes would engage and harass the Luftwaffe bombers and fighters in daily dogfights, and the British public came to realize how important those planes were to keeping the invaders from their shores. For every fighter or bomber shot down by the British, that meant a slightly better chance the Germans could not invade. Later, Prime Minister Winston Churchill would say that never in history had so many owned so much to so few; he was speaking of the brave pilots, mechanics, and crews of the RAF.

The best fighter plane the British had was the Spitfire. While the Hurricane aircraft were more numerous, the Spitfire was faster (upwards of 400mph/600kph), better built, and much more maneuverable than the Hurricane. The British plan was to destroy the German fighters that accompanied the larger bombers. If left undefended by fighters, the bombers would be much easier to pick off and shoot down. But the Germans had the Messerschmitt B-109, a worthy adversary to the Spitfire. Both machines had 12 cylinder engines, with the Spitfire’s power being supplied by the Rolls-Royce company.

And there was a major problem with the Spitfire. When the German fighters were being pursued by a Spitfire, all the German had to do was to execute a roll–a simple spin of the aircraft–and peel off from its flight path. Spitfire pilots were chagrined to find that, when the Spitfire tried the same maneuver, the plane’s engine would stall because the carburetor would flood the engine with fuel. That meant the German pilot–flying his Messerschmitt with fuel injection–could easily escape a pursuing Spitfire.

To fix this problem, the British turned to the most unlikely of sources: An engineer who had experience working on motorcycles with the improbable name of B.T. Shilling. Shilling also didn’t look the part of a war hero. Bespeckled, frumpy, and slightly pudgy, Shilling was nonetheless the foremost expert in the UK on handling problems with carburetors. Despite having a long background as a grease monkey, working on racing bikes and cars, Shilling had a masters degree in mechanical engineering. Recognizing the talent they had at their disposal in Shilling, the RAF had given the engineer the position of chief technical officer over carburetors when the war began. And now, with the Spitfire’s engine flooding problem, they turned the situation over to Shilling.

Sure enough, within a few weeks, Shilling had an answer, and it was deceptively simple. The solution was to restrict the flow of fuel to the Spitfire’s engine during the rolls and dives. That would keep the fuel from flowing into the engine too rapidly and killing it. The restrictor that Shilling designed ended up being a small, nut washer size disc with a hole in it that would be added to the fuel line in all the Spitfires. After testing the device, it was soon evident that Shilling had resolved the issue. Soon, after fitting the restrictor into the Spitfires, the German fighters couldn’t escape the power and speed of the British planes–nor could they escape the bravery of the British pilots. For the work that perhaps saved their nation, Shilling was awarded the Order of the British Empire (O.B.E.) after the war.

And the grateful mechanics and pilots, who realized how important that little device was, named the life-saving (and probably also war-saving) restrictor after its inventor.

Miss Shilling’s Orifice, they lovingly called it, after its inventor, Beatrice “Tilly” Shilling.

On an Airplane Jump

Nicholas Alkemade was a British man who fought in World War 2. His job during the war was not an enviable one–he was the tail gunner in a British bomber. That position was one that had a short life-span. Many of the men who were tail gunners never lived to tell the tales of what they experienced as the bombers flew miles above Germany during the war. You see, the tail gunner had a great responsibility. The German attack planes that were sent up to stop the bombers would usually attack the Allied bombers from below and from behind. Men like Nicholas had the difficult task of trying to fend off the attackers so that the bombers could carry out their tasks. But that also meant that they and their small, cramped nest at the rear of the plane were incredibly vulnerable. They were the first ones to see and sometimes even feel the bullets the Nazi airplanes spewed into the bombers. And, too often, the bombers retuned to England after the bombing raids with no tail gunner at all.

On March 24, 1944, Nicholas, who was 21 years old, and his bomber group were tasked with making a raid on Berlin, the German capital city. And the attack was scheduled, as many were, at night, when it would be more difficult for the enemy to see the bombers. Three hundred planes were sent on the mission. Now, once the bombers crossed the English Channel, they were over enemy territory and thus susceptible to anti-aircraft fire as well as the harassing German fighters, fighters that were much faster than the lumbering big bomber.

Nicholas’s plane, a British Lancaster bomber, had a crew of 7 men. They had dropped their bombs, and they turned for home. That’s when a small squadron of German Stukas, a heavily armed fighter/bomber, attacked. Nicholas and the other gunners tried to fend off the Stukas, but their plane was shot up badly. It caught fire. It began to spiral down towards the earth. There was nothing Nicholas could do but abandon the burning plane.

When he landed, Nicholas was quickly captured. He’d sprained his leg when he landed, so he had to be assisted by the German soldiers who captured him. The Lancaster had crashed nearby, and four of his fellow crewmates never made it out of the burning plane. Nicholas was taken to the local Gestapo (the Nazi secret police) headquarters for interrogation. That part was routine; the Nazis wanted to know the location of Nicholas’s airbase, what the number of planes were in his squadron, and other such information that might help them in the war. Of course, Nicholas didn’t reveal anything other than his name, rank, and serial number. Oh, and he told them about jumping out of the burning plane, of course.

And that’s when the Nazis began to doubt Nicholas’s story. How did he manage to jump out and survive when four of his fellow crewmembers didn’t, the Nazis wanted to know. His tale seemed too incredible to believe. The plane was at 18,000 feet (5,500 meters) above the German nation when Nicholas bailed out. Something didn’t add up about his story, the Nazis said. Yet, Nicholas insisted that his version of what happened was the truth.

The Nazis called him a liar. They made the injured man return with them to the crashed Lancaster. They forced him to show them where he was when he jumped. And then he pointed to his parachute. That’s when the Nazis shook their head in disbelief, but they had to admit that Nicholas was telling them the truth. You see, the charred parachute that Nicholas pointed to, the one that he was to use in case of the bomber being shot down, was still in the plane, still lying in the burned out wreckage of his tail gunner’s position.

And Nicholas Alkemade had somehow survived when he jumped 18,000 feet to earth without it.