man from Munich at the time. Ernst Udet, like Hermann, was doing everything in his power to make himself a part of the war’s action. Whereas Hermann had a relatively easy go of it, quickly transferring from the infantry to an Observer Training Course with the 3rd Army Air Detachment, Udet had to fight for his right to even join up with the infantry before making his excuses to transfer out of it into planes. Apparently the men afoot weren’t so keen to have him.
‘You’re too short,’ the Army Recruitment Officer said when the bright-eyed, 18 year-old Ernst put in his application. ‘You won’t be able to even see over the top of the trench to fire your rifle.’
Being barely above five foot tall had always been a sore point for Udet, but it was not about to stop him dragging the best out of life. Why should it when he had a handsome face and was so confident of his abilities? With such outstanding attributes at his disposal it would be insane for him to take no for an answer. If the system wasn’t prepared to accommodate him on the paltry issue of height restriction, then he would simply have to get around it in another way.
He had never been able to understand why being short equated to being inept, when in reality, it was quite the reverse. Although lucky and carefree by nature, he was a dogged little creature who had had to work hard to compensate for his height, forever pushing himself forward to stand out in the crowd while being utterly unfazed by walking over other people to gain a clearer perspective of the world around them. In lieu of another way to sign up for the services, he joined the 26thWurttenberg Reserve Regiment as a dispatch rider. They accepted him, not because they were any more tolerant of his size, but because he was prepared to provide his own motorcycle.
It wasn’t exactly where and how he wanted to start, but he was in and that was all that counted. From that point, he knew he could work his way around the rules: a practice with which he was well acquainted when he had never been able to abide the restrictions of red tape. His striking blue eyes had always been apt to glaze over at the petty prattling of bureaucrats with their limited insight, and he had quickly learnt that what could not be achieved with his good looks and charm could easily be done with money. Such was the course of action he took, a few months later, when he applied to the Pilot Replacement Unit.
‘You’re too young and too short,’ they said when they rejected him.
This time, however, Udet didn’t even bother to take offence or get depressed. Instead, he went straight to his father and asked:
‘Papa, would you be prepared to lend me 2000 marks to train privately as a pilot?’
His father hesitated. That was a lot of money for a man of his blue-collar means. But just one look at his son’s avid face had him dig down deep into the pockets of his overalls. There was no doubt in his mind that Ernst would succeed at whatever he set out to do. For as long as he could remember, his son had been set on flying machines. From building his model planes in the backyard to spending every spare moment of his childhood lingering around The Otto Flying Machine Works. There he stood for hours on end watching the wood, wire and canvas planes being built, casting his eyes skyward with mouth wide open to marvel as they soared and swooped over the airfield.
What’s more, at the age of fourteen Ernst helped to found The Munich Aero Club. Suffice to say, the writing was on the wall in regard to his future. But it was three years later, in 1913, that the deal was clinched:
‘I say, young Udet, would you like me to take you up?’ one of the freshly trained pilots asked. He added to the thrill of his invitation with a debonair flick of his scarf around his neck as he adjusted his goggles.
He had seen 17 year-old Udet a hundred times before hanging around the workshop with a look of lip-licking envy on his face. Why not humour the lad? After all, he was in the throes of flaunting his new flying talent and was up for a bit of hero-worship. He figured a few death rolls and dives should set the kid straight. And it had. Just that one joy-flight in the Taube Monoplane and the die was cast. Udet had not thought of anything since. And his father knew better than to even try to deprive him of his calling in life.
‘I’ll give you the money, but you must promise me not to get killed.’
‘Me? Get killed? Not a chance,’ Udet replied with a conviction that was just as consoling as the heartfelt hug he gave his father in receipt of the money.
So, in 1915, he had his civilian flying license in hand, and despite the fact that he was still too young and too short, the German Air Service welcomed him with open arms.
‘You’ve been assigned to Flyer Division 206, Udet,’ the Commander of Darmstadt Pilot Cadets informed him. ‘Twoseater Artillery Observation Unit. No need to panic. You’ll be going out strictly on Observer Missions, so you’re not likely to get your bum kicked. Gentleman’s agreement, you know, between the enemy and us. No shooting down unarmed craft.’
‘I’m not panicking,’ 19 year-old Udet replied with the bravado of a man who had not yet seen war and had never come within miles of watching another man die, let alone the fear of doing so himself.
That reality hit him for the first time in late1915 just before he was transferred to Habsheim Single-Seater Combat Command. Having already been awarded the Iron Cross (Second Class), for meritorious service, he was suddenly promoted to the prestigious rank of Fighter Pilot.
It was an honour which came as a complete surprise given that it followed shortly after Udet had been arrested for reckless flying. His piece of unnecessary, wartime showmanship had not only endangered the life of his fellow flyer and Observer, Lieutenant Justinius, but had destroyed an expensive government-owned plane.
Under the not-so-commendable circumstances, Udet supposed it understandable that none of his comrades visited him in the military prison. But what wasn’t clear was why they continued to cold-shoulder him when he returned, full of renewed vim and vigour, to the Air Base. After his two week sojourn behind bars every one of them literally turned their back on him, leaving him to stand alone in the middle of the airfield. It was an insult which would have been thoroughly humiliating had an urgent call to arms not glossed over the incident and forced his fellow pilots to scramble for their planes.
‘Would you be my pilot?’ the new Observer, Lieutenant Hartmann, raced across the airfield to ask him. Still in the process of putting on his leather flight jacket, Hartmann grabbed hold of Udet’s arm and blurted out an urgent explanation.
‘I’m sorry. You appear to be the only pilot available. I’ve just been transferred to this squadron and I don’t know anyone here.’
For a split second, Udet hesitated. He had been instructed to report to his Commanding Officer the minute he got back to Base. Until informed otherwise, he was grounded. But this was an emergency and he had never taken too kindly to having his wings clipped.
‘Well, you know me now. Come on, let’s go,’ he replied, snapping back into action. They both leapt into the only plane left on the tarmac.
‘This old duck will have to do,’ Udet yelled out over the sound of the propeller spinning into motion. ‘Let’s hope she’s got enough left in her to get us off the ground.’
As it turned out, she had enough pluck to survive the ensuring aerial dogfight and to go that one mile more to drop a few bombs over the city of Montreux.
Hartmann, of course, was an unknown entity. But who was Udet to question his methods when he was the only one prepared to share a plane and to fight at his side? The problem was that he had a new way of dropping the bombs from his Observer cockpit. Instead of throwing them overboard, he opened a small hatch beneath his seat and simply dropped them out of the bottom
