Acton Acton. So this extract is from the Dari of Heinz Nocker, who was a Luftwaffe fighter

pilot on the Western Front, who joined up early in 1940 and went to a frontline

action. I guess at the time of the zenith of the Luftwaffe, but also was still flying

at its nadea. And the extracts I've chosen are from end of November right up to Christmas

and beyond in 1943. It was later published the Dari as I flew for the Fuhrer and it's

an absolutely fantastic book, incredibly honest. And you can't help but feel a little

bit sorry for him, I have to say, and all his other beleaguered Luftwaffe colleagues,

as they systematically get slaughtered over northwest Europe. Anyway, this extract is from the

19th of November, 1943. Yesterday, after an unsuccessful attempt to intercept an approaching

Yank Formation, we landed late in the evening at St. Tront in Belgium. The weather closed

in. Holland and Belgium lay blanketed by a murky overcast and swept by heavy blizzards.

Through a gap in the clouds we climbed up to the usual altitude for operations. Inside

the cloud bank there was a serious risk of icing. A stretch like a vast expanse of white

blanket northwards as far as the sea. Our good meshesmiths were sparkling in the sunshine.

From the Daimler Benz engines, the exhaust traced long trails of moisture across the brittle

cold of the pallid autumn sky. On our oxygen masks, the frozen breath congealed. So we headed

north in close formation, just like migrant cranes. Base reported the approach of a strong

formation of fortresses coming in over the sea. One of the planes, it was firm and gradually

fell behind the formation and began losing altitude as if overtired after the long climb.

To my radio inquiry, he answered that he was having trouble with his blasted engine.

Over this sort of muck, anyone let down by his engine has no alternative but to bail

out if he values his life. The flight sergeant was in luck, however, his engine did not

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