BIG, BAADE AND NOT VERY BEAUTIFUL
The Second World War was won by the Allies. Of that there is no doubt. It was not because the Allies were more capable, had better equipment or were more courageous, though they held a higher moral position and a determination born of justice. It was simply a numbers game. A game that the Germans and the Japanese should never have set in motion.
In the end the Allies simply had more equipment and ordnance to expend. They had a continuously refreshed supply line of ships, tanks, aircraft, field weapons, ammunition, fuel and trained men and women. This supply line, fed by the gargantuan military industrial complex of North America, was, save for the threat of U-boats, largely safe from being cut off.
We look back at the processing of the war and we proudly and rightly recognize the role that certain great Allied aircraft designs played in the ultimate victory—the P-51 Mustangs, B-17 Flying Fortresses, Supermarine Spitfires, Handley-Page Halifaxes, Avro Lancasters, Chance Vought Corsairs and Ilyushin Il-2 Sturmoviks of this period in history. These are of course some of the most important aircraft designs of all time and we can sing the praises of the roles they played. Of this there is no doubt.
While these winged executors of the war can claim to be the greatest and certainly the victorious aircraft of their day, I believe it may be safe to say that the Germans, whether it be through ingenuity, experience or exigency, well and truly held the lead until the last day of the war as the most advanced aerodynamicists, aircraft designers and creative aviation thinkers in the conflict.
When the fires died down and the smoke had cleared away, German airfields, aircraft factories and design office floors were littered with the staggeringly creative output of their incredible minds—fighter jet interceptors, jet bombers, rockets, cruise missiles, “mistel” composites and aircraft of such audacious configuration and leading edge technology and science that Western Allies rushed headlong to capture as much of it and as many of the designers as possible before the Soviets did. It is incredible that such advanced scientific research and technological development was authorized, funded and continuously worked on even as the Soviet Red Army was at the gates of Berlin.
These advanced designs fit into two categories—both of which the West and the East were eager to collect, study and keep from each other. First were those aircraft already in tactical use with the Luftwaffe—the Messerschmitt Me 262s, Me 163s, Arado Ar 234s, V-1 and V-2 rockets and others. These aircraft and missiles were shipped back as war trophies, but the fact is that the science behind them was the real prize. The second group, and perhaps the most important, included many types that were in the late stages of development or on paper still. These included such futuristic types as the Horten Ho IX flying wing and the ramjet delta wing Lippisch P.13a, aircraft that would not be out of place in a Star Wars episode.
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The capture and employment of the scientists and designers behind these works of aerospace technology gave a massive intellectual property boost to aircraft science on both sides of the Iron Curtain. It may be apocryphal, but telling regardless, that when President Eisenhower asked how the Russians had gotten Sputnik into orbit around the planet, the response was “Their Germans are better than our Germans.” In the race into space and to advanced aviation-based weapons systems, Germany’s design skills were highly sought after. It doesn’t take a genius or a military historian to figure that most of these aircraft designers and aerospace engineers knew they would be in demand and that most if not all of them wished to be “captured” by the Western Allies rather than the Soviets. Unfortunately, many of Germany’s most celebrated aircraft design and manufacturing companies were headquartered well within what would become Soviet-dominated East Germany—including Junkers in Dessau and Leipzig, Heinkel Flugzeugwerke in Warnemünde, Rostock and Schwerin, Arado Flugzeugwerke in Warnemünde, Bücker Flugzeugbau GmbH in Rangsdorf, Gothaer Waggonfabrik in Gotha, Siebel Flugzeugwerke and Klemm Leichtflugzeugbau GmbH in Halle an der Saale.
Some of the Nazi’s greatest aerospace designers may have been born German and been Nazi party members, but many died of old age as Americans or other Allied nationals. Alexander Lippisch, perhaps the most creative of the Germans, was born in Munich but died in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Blohm und Voss’s Richard Vogt, a Württemburger, lived out his life in Santa Barbara, California. Werner von Braun the great rocket designer, born in Prussia, died in Alexandria, Virginia. Werner Dahm was born in Cologne, but retired to Huntsville, Alabama. Hellmuth Walther died in New Jersey; Kurt Debus in Florida and on and on.
Brunolf Baade, one of Junkers’ aircraft designers, was captured by the Soviet Red Army in April of 1945. Baade was a respected advanced theoretical aircraft designer, who was working with a small team of fellow Junkers designers and engineers under the direction of Dr. Hans Wocke on a jet-powered bomber test bed/prototype called the Junkers Ju 287. Powered by four Jumo turbojets, the prototype featured a revolutionary forward-swept wing set into the scavenged fuselage of a Heinkel He 177 Greif. Rounding out the Frankensteinian aircraft was the tail from a Junkers Ju 388 Störtebeker, the main gear set from a Ju 352 Herkules, and, most oddly, twin nose-gear salvaged from crashed B-24 Liberators. Two of its four engines were mounted underwing and the other two were uniquely attached to the forward fuselage.
It was a strange looking beast indeed, but apparently it flew rather well. The forward-swept wing gave better flight characteristics at slower speeds—a boon to any aircraft which used jet engines that required up to ten seconds to spool up to full power. There were issues with wing warping and aileron distortion at higher speeds, but the aircraft had some degree of promise. The two additional and unfinished prototypes, with purpose-built fuselages and tail assemblies promised better performance, but never got to fly before being captured by the Red Army in April along with Baade and his colleagues.
Baade and numerous other German aircraft designers whose design offices were in the path of the Soviets, ended up as Soviet-sponsored and indentured aircraft designers spread out across various design bureaus. Baade worked as Chief Designer with the Moscow-based OKB-1 (Opytno-Konstrooktorskoye Byuro – Experimental Design Bureau), beginning work in on a hybrid variation of his Junkers Ju 287 called the EF-131 (EF stood for Entwicklungflugzeu, meaning “development aircraft” in German). The German team from Junkers was press-ganged into working on the captured Ju 287 prototypes with the immediate goal to show it off as a Russian design at the forthcoming 1947 Aviation Day at Tushino Air Base near Moscow. The new design dispensed with the original configuration of engines, opting for an equally unique alternative—two underwing pods, each with three Jumo jet engines. Technical and bureaucratic delays meant that the EF-131 would not be ready for Tushino and the aircraft was stored outside throughout the 1947–48 Russian winter. In the spring, the project was shelved and Baade and his men were instructed to focus on the development of the EF-140, using the airframe from the remaining prototype.
The EF-140 from OKB-1 was a reconnaissance-bomber derived from the second EF-131 prototype, but rather than two pods of three engines, it had two more powerful Klimov (originally Mikulin turbojets) engines on wing-mounted pylons. The aircraft was flight tested at a specially-built airfield near the OKB-1 manufacturing facility for the simple reason that its German designers and test pilots were not granted security clearance to visit Soviet test facilities around Moscow. The EF-140 suffered from severe wing vibration, and the second heavier prototype held less promise when the soviets scrapped the entire Ju 287-inspired hybrid project. Baade then led a design team working on an entirely new design for a jet-powered, swept-wing bomber called the OKB-1 150. Work began in earnest in 1948 and, as Wikipedia explains: “As with the earlier project, progress was hampered by the inconsistent nature of support from the Soviets when it came to obtaining materials and permitting the German expatriates the freedom necessary to develop and test the aircraft effectively. By 1951 the OKB-1 150 had been developed into a heavy bomber with a range of approximately 1,500 km and a bomb capacity of around only 600 kg, but in 1952 this project, too, was abandoned as resources were again reprioritized.”
All this time, the Germans had been held in a compound near Moscow and the East German aircraft manufacturing industry had been essentially banned from developing new projects. Baade and his colleagues languished under the “hospitality” of the Soviets until after Stalin’s death in 1953. Late in that year, Baade received agreement from the Soviet military to develop the abandoned 150 project into a jet-powered airliner. Baade and his fellow engineers were allowed to go home in 1954 and in 1955 the ban on East German aircraft manufacturing was finally lifted. Armed with permission to turn a heavy bomber into an airliner, Baade began the process of regenerating the once dominant East German aircraft industry. It would not end well.
The aircraft which would lead the rebirth of a nation’s industrial pride was called the Baade 152 or alternately the Dresden 152 or even the VLDDR 152. No doubt, the 152 numeral was a nod to its Soviet-sponsored progenitor.
The aircraft would be built at new facilities in Dresden as part of the Volkseigener Betrieb (VEB) system of industrialized enterprise. VEBs, essentially publicly-owned industrial companies, were formed after wholesale nationalization of East German industry. Some VEBs, such as VEB Flugzeugwerke where the Baade 152 was to be built, came into being when the Soviets handed back control of some 33 enterprises that had previously been taken for war reparations. To get the ball rolling for the rebirth of the East German aircraft industry, VEB Flugzeugwerke in Dresden began building Ilyushin Il-14 Crate transports under licence. While the Il-14 program proceeded in vast new facilities at the Dresden Airport, Baade and his team began the design, drawings, wind tunnel testing and manufacture of the Baade 152. Such was their eagerness to get back in the game and their confidence in Baade and his staff, that the VEB and indeed the German Democratic Republic just didn’t proceed with one or two prototypes; they actually opened up the entire assembly line and commenced building as many as twenty of the large airliner before confirming its capabilities through flight testing or learning about its likely technical teething problems. It was full speed ahead to put East Germany back in the aerospace game.
In hindsight, the Baade 152, an extreme adaptation of an already cancelled project seems like a poor choice for leading the German aircraft industry out of the wilderness, but Baade and his design team must have been very persuasive. Just as the Baade 152 assembly hall was building its jigs and tooling up to build Brunolf’s untested aircraft in numbers, Western and Soviet designers were already launching purpose-built jet-powered passenger aircraft. The gorgeous de Havilland Comet 4 was finally dispelling fears brought about by the Comet 1’s early metal fatigue tragedies. The sleek Tupolev Tu-104 had just made its first flight and would become the world’s first jet airliner to enter uninterrupted service—the Comet having been taken out of service for a couple of years. In France, the piscine Sud Caravelle had just made its first flight. These three aircraft were important, built in respectable numbers and they were beautiful, but it was in Seattle, Washington in July 1954 that the Boeing 367-80 made its first official flight and changed everything.
The “Dash 80”, as it was called, heralded a revolution in airline travel and spoke to the efficiency, the speed, the beauty and the glamour of the coming jet age. Only one was built, but when Boeing was certain of its guaranteed success, it went into production in 1957 as the 707. The production line would operate for more than two decades, producing more than 1,000 aircraft.
Though the Pirna was first tested in 1956, it was not going to be ready for the first test flights of the Baade 152, scheduled for later in 1958. In fact, the first prototype was redesigned to accommodate four Soviet-designed Tumansky turbojets. VEB Flugzeugwerke and the East German government had hoped for a public “rollout” presentation of the Baade 152 on May Day of 1958. In order to achieve this, the V-1 prototype had only empty engine pods with intakes covered by red inlet plugs.
The rollout of the Baade 152 was a massive propaganda affair. The day was 30 April 1958. Photographs show thousands in attendance listening to speeches from massive dais with scores of political VIPs backed by a triumphant Russian Constructivist mural trumpeting the glorious rebirth of East German industry under communist rule. There were television crews in attendance, a large choir and orchestra and ranks of smartly dressed East German soldiers.
While the orchestra played, a red tractor slowly and dramatically pulled the all-aluminum Baade 152 Dresden from the depths of the voluminous VEB Flugzeugwerke hangar and assembly hall. Once clear of the hall, the tractor detached and left the big, mostly-complete aircraft standing alone while the doors were closed behind it. There it stood, alone, for all to admire and gaze upon while politicians extolled its virtues and those of communist life from the dais. The first prototype differed from subsequent prototypes and production models in that it had rather large glazing across its nose, meant to provide navigators with a view forward. As wonderful as this would be for a navigator, it was too expensive, no longer needed and made the jet seem old fashioned. The rollout Baade 152 would be the only airframe to have this feature.
The following day was May Day and the VEB Flugzeugwerke ramp was opened to the general public. Thousands thronged to see the massive Baade 152 which stood in front of the closed hangar doors of the assembly building. It must have been a day of enormous pride for the German people and especially Brunolf Baade, a statement that said they were back in the game.
As finished as the Baade 152 appeared to be to the general public, it was still a long way from being flyable. It would take an additional seven months of development and testing before the aircraft was ready for its first flight.
On a cold, crisp Thursday morning on 4 December 1958, pilot Willi Lehmann and co-pilot Kurt Bemme along with flight engineers George Eismann and Paul Heerling strapped themselves into their positions aboard the big silver airliner. When everything was set, Bemme fired up the four Soviet-built Tumansky RD-9 turbojets and the ship began to shriek like a banshee. After all items on the checklist were done and green-lighted, Lehmann pushed the throttles and the Baade 152 trundled out to the active runway. Waiting for just a moment at the threshold, Lehmann pushed the throttles to takeoff power and the ship thundered down the runway, lifting off into the East German skies and a hopeful future—two years later than originally planned. The delays had been as much about politics and materials prioritization as with technical problems. It was a great moment for East German aviation, albeit a fleeting one. Brunolf Baade must have been conflicted—joyous that his baby was now in the air, but dreadfully nervous about the outcome of the flight.
Lehmann was instructed to leave the landing gear down for the entire flight, which must have limited what they could do. He brought the aircraft back over the airfield before landing after just 35 minutes aloft. Following a smooth landing and a shrieking return to the ramp, the crew was greeted with cheering VEB Flugzeugwerke employees, but the flight was not a public affair. There must have been some serious technical problems discovered during the flight, for the Baade 152 would not fly again for three months. This time it would end very tragically.
Three months later, on 4 March 1959, Lehmann took the Baade 152 back into the air for a second test flight. His original plan dictated that he was to retract his landing gear and climb to an altitude of 20,000 feet to conduct tests and to collect data. Lehmann was last photographed as he passed overhead of the spectators en route to the test altitude. He was then to bring the airliner back down in steps before landing. At the last minute, a change of plans was made to execute a flyby of the airfield. Apparently this request came from Baade himself to allow for promotional photographs and films to be taken. But it may have been more than that. This time, there was more than just VEB Flugzeugwerke technicians and management observing the flight. In attendance that day was none other than Nikita Khrushchev, First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
It is not known what happened exactly as the investigation afterward was short, secretive and inconclusive. Lehmann requested an increase in maximum speed from 500 to 600 kilometres/hour but was denied. The low flypast was a risky thing to do, considering how little they knew about the performance of this aircraft, but Khrushchev was watching and management felt that if he could be impressed, the Baade 152 might live to see full production.
After 55 minutes and at sometime during the descent to the low flypast and about six kilometres from the Dresden airport, the aircraft stalled and crashed into a field, killing all on board. The investigation that followed was cursory at best and the results were made secret by the Ministry of State Security. To this day, only a few details about what happened have come out, but it seems, according to the report, that the Baade 152 entered an aerodynamic stall due to excessive angle of attack. What led to this extreme situation is not certain, but the report, looking for a scapegoat, concluded pilot error. When Lehmann pulled out of a steep descent in preparation for the flyby to impress Khrushchev, his engines were at idle. The Tumansky RD-9s required as many as 15 seconds to spool up to full power from idle and it’s possible that the aircraft, in a high angle of attack, stalled in this interval. The aircraft did not recover before impacting the ground. Later, flights with the second prototype revealed very serious fuel feed problems with the Baade 152, but it is not known for sure whether this had any effect on Lehmann’s situation that led to the catastrophe.
Such a disaster might have ended another test program, but the German Democratic Republic had more than just money invested in the project. To fail now would mean the failure of the East German aircraft industry to self determine their future. Although the setback staggered the already battered program, Baade and his team fought on. Six months later, a completed Pirna 014 engine was fitted to the underside of an Ilyushin Il-28 Beagle bomber and successfully air tested in East German skies. Things began to have a more positive feeling about them.
In late July of 1960, a year and a half after the fatal crash of the first prototype and the loss of the four men, a second prototype was ready for flight testing. During the two takeoffs and one landing from the previous flights, it was determined that the centre line tandem landing gear and outrigger system was unsuitable for an airliner. One of the reasons for the year and a half delay in the test program was that the new V-2 prototype had an entirely new landing gear system. Now the mains retracted into bays at the rear of the engine pods—still an unsatisfactory compromise forced upon the team as a result of originally choosing to build the airframe around the shoulder-mounted wing of the OKB-1 150.
The second prototype series (Baade 152 II) had the glazing (the Bugverglasung) removed from the nose in favour of a weather radar and finally, the next prototypes had the Pirna 014 engines installed. On 29 August 1960, a Pirna-powered Baade 152 (DM-ZYB) made its first flight—a cautious 22 minutes. This was followed by another flight the following week, this time for only 20 minutes. These two flights and ensuing ground tests and high speed rolling tests up to 160 km/hr, conducted with another airframe (V-5 DM-ZYC) revealed serious problems with the fuel system which led to fuel starvation issues. By the end of the October 1960, it was clear that the fuel system problems would necessitate a major redesign, resulting in another year-long delay. Also, in early November, they lost their flight approval certificate as a result of these issues. By now, even the latest prototype (Baade II V-5) was already years behind schedule. The aircraft was obsolete on the drawing board when compared to aircraft like the Boeing 707 but now, years later, it didn’t take an aeronautical engineer to see they were fielding a turkey.
In January of 1961, two and a half years after Pan Am had inaugurated transoceanic 707 service, Baade was still fumbling with an increasingly obsolete aircraft—the proverbial white elephant. The potential earliest date for an airworthiness certificate for Deutsche Lufthansa (east) was looking like 1963 and beyond. Then Aeroflot, which had originally committed to purchase 100 Baade 152 aircraft, pulled the plug, deciding to push their own native jet passenger aircraft—the Tupolev Tu-104 and the smaller Tu-124.
Attempts to foist the Baade 152 on African and South American airlines failed and the only commitment was from Deutsche Lufthansa. The 30 machines they had promised to buy would not sustain an economical production line. On 28 February 1961, the Politburo of the German Democratic Republic took the decision to cancel the project and made it public on 17 March.
This meant more than simply the end of the Baade 152. On 31 July, the council of Ministers of the GDR finally dissolved the entire enterprise including the Pirna 014. The fledgling East German aircraft industry was smashed. At a time of great postwar austerity, the Pirna and Baade projects had cost the government two billion GDR Marks by the summer of 1961. The engines were used in electrical generation and on naval vessels, while the remaining airframes, jigs and tools were scrapped almost overnight. Such was the embarrassment to the government that they wanted it all gone. Only one airframe hull (Construction No. 11) somehow avoided the scrapper’s blade and the smelter’s furnace. Whether it is true or not, it is said that when Hull 11 was recovered in 1995 by EADS for restoration, it was being used as a chicken coop.
The destruction of the 152 and the constructed hulls and wings must have been a crushing blow to Brunolf Baade. Here was the chance (in his mind) to have his name associated with the resurrection of East German aviation and pride and a great line of East German aircraft designs possibly extending long into the future. Instead of becoming, like William Boeing, Andrei Tupolev and Geoffrey de Havilland, part of the lexicon of aviation, Baade quietly exited stage left and never designed another aircraft.
Awakening from his “Baade dream”, Brunolf Baade was made Director of the newly created Institute of Lightweight Structures and Economical Use of Materials in Dresden, taking 700 employees from the failed 152 assembly line. The old VEB Flugzeugwerke assembly hall in Dresden was reconfigured to make potato harvesting equipment in the interim. Later in the same hall, racing bicycles and bobsleighs were also manufactured.
Baade retired at age 65 from the Institute in 1969 and died in November of the same year. The Wikipedia entry for Baade sums up his life very eloquently: “There is some consensus between the sources that Baade’s real brilliance lay not so much in his engineering talents as in his personal gifts as a political and institutional fixer. He was an imposing man, capable of great achievements when supported by good technicians and economists.”