War and Love

War and Love - The Berlin Airlift and a Fräulein

© JoeMo1619 - July 2025 ff.

The Berlin Airlift was the largest air supply operation of all time. At a time when all the Western Allies had massively reduced their air forces compared to World War II, an airlift operation to supply West Berlin -- with its 2.2 million inhabitants -- had to be established practically from scratch. There was a shortage of transport aircraft, a shortage of pilots, and a shortage of ground logistics both in the Western Germany occupation zones and in West Berlin.

Nevertheless, in a remarkable operation during the 11-month blockade of West Berlin, it was possible to increase the daily transport volume from just a few hundred to nearly 7,500 tons per day. This made it possible to thwart the Soviet attempt to starve and freeze the West Berlin population into submission and to force the Western Allies to withdraw from their sectors of the city.

The large, four-engine Short Sunderland flying boats played a small but very important role in the airlift due to their specific capabilities.

Hamburg-Finkenwerder, August 1948

RAF Flight Lieutenant Fred Miller went through the prescribed take-off routine of his flying boat with his co-pilot Harry MacIntosh, then cast off from the pier of the old German Luftwaffe and naval base in Hamburg-Finkenwerder, which was now occupied by the RAF, and guided his Short S.25 Sunderland Mark V into the open waters of the River Elbe to take off toward Berlin for the first time with more than 10 tons of cargo. He had landed in Hamburg only two days earlier, along with five other similar flying boats from the 205th Squadron of the Royal Air Force, having come from Singapore. These huge flying boats were intended to quickly increase the transport capacity of the airlift to supply West Berlin, which had begun five weeks earlier. In total, the RAF had pledged twelve of these large aircraft to the American General William H. Tunner, who commanded the entire airlift operation, and they were now being transferred to Hamburg from all available Empire bases.

At the first briefing in Finkenwerder, Fred Miller was able to greet a number of former comrades from wartime who were now flying as civilian pilots for various British and foreign airlines and had volunteered in response to the RAF's call for experienced flying boat pilots. After all, the flying boats were to operate in three shifts around the clock. Many of these fellow pilots had flown the twin-engine Catalina during the war like Fred Miller, but they also had experience with the much larger, four-engine Sunderland.

As he manoeuvred his nearly 26-ton flying boat into the middle of the Elbe, a flood of thoughts raced through Fred's mind. He had spent almost five years of war piloting flying boats against German targets in the Atlantic and later against Japanese targets in the Indian and Pacific Oceans. Now, he and his squadron were to help supply over two million people with life-essential goods, trapped in Berlin and cut off from all ground transport. On June 24th, the Soviet Union, after increasingly tense disputes with the Western Allies, had initiated a blockade of roads, railways, and inland waterways connecting West Berlin to the three western occupation zones. The immediate trigger had been the currency reform a few days earlier in the western zones, which replaced the largely worthless Reichsmark with the new and stable Deutsche Mark. In response, the Soviet-occupied zone introduced its own currency. When the Western Allies implemented the new Deutsche Mark in their sectors of Berlin and refused to recognize the East German currency in West Berlin, the Soviets initiated the blockade.

Fred Miller knew relatively little of these political backgrounds on this bright August morning. His briefings from the British RAF command had focused mainly on flying operations. He knew the landing point on the River Havel in West Berlin, as well as the strict rules for the air corridors from Hamburg to Berlin on the outbound journey and from Berlin to Hanover on the return. And he knew that thanks to the Sunderland's long range, he wouldn't have to refuel in Berlin. It was also the first flight over Germany for his co-pilot; only their navigator knew Berlin from the air, from several bombing missions during the war.

As a pilot of Catalinas and Sunderlands, Fred Miller had been extraordinarily lucky. During the long years of flying with Flight Lieutenant Charles M. Watts, and even after his own promotion to Flight Officer, he had never lost a crew member during the Second World War. Even during the three post-war years flying mainly out of Koggala in Ceylon and later Singapore in Southeast Asia, he hadn't caused any accidents, despite several difficult landings and take-offs in the open ocean and among countless islands. In contrast, his private life had been less fortunate. Unlike Charles, who had found happiness with ATA pilot Patricia Justin, the only British-Canadian Catalina delivery pilot, Fred had remained unattached throughout the war. A brief post-war marriage to a childhood sweetheart ended after just a year and a half, as he was still always in the air and rarely home.

Now Fred Miller was 32 years old and had logged many thousands of flight hours. "I'm married to my aircraft," he had told his squadron leader when the pilots for the Germany deployment were being selected. "Where my aircraft is stationed, that's where I live." Now that place was Hamburg, though like most of his fellow pilots, he assumed the mission would only last a few weeks.

"Supplying Berlin from the air through the whole winter? That's impossible." He'd heard this assessment repeatedly in the first few days. "The politicians have to find a solution before then."

The first landing on the Havel was just as smooth as the take-off from the Elbe. As the flight speed in the air corridor from Hamburg to Berlin was set at exactly 200 mph for all aircraft, regardless of type, the Sunderlands, powered by four 1,200 HP Pratt & Whitney engines, had no trouble maintaining the scheduled flight pattern, despite their massive size. Over West Berlin, they veered off onto their own flight path. While British land planes landed at RAF Gatow and the American planes at Berlin-Tempelhof, the flying boats used the long stretch of the River Havel as their runway. Everything here was different than at land-based airports. The Sunderlands were pure flying boats, so they had to be unloaded and, if necessary, reloaded directly on the water. This was done using small barges that docked at the main cargo hatch and carried the manually unloaded sacks and packages to shore.

During their approach over the Havel, Fred and Harry flew over a German city for the first time in their lives -- during the Elbe approach, they had only flown above the river. Though the war had ended over three years ago, the aerial view of Berlin still left a lasting impression on the pilots.

"My God, the city is destroyed," Fred blurted out as they banked sharply over Reinickendorf and Siemensstadt, preparing to land on the long stretch of the Havel.

"And more than 2 million people still live in just the western part of that rubble city," Harry replied. "How do they survive the winter?"

Fred shrugged. "No idea. But the first two postwar winters in Europe were bitterly cold, only the last one was milder. Hundreds, maybe thousands, must have frozen to death."

"And now the Russians have cut off their supplies. Only air transport remains."

"Let's hope the politicians sort this out before winter. Supplying this city from the air in this state? No way," Fred said grimly. "Unless we bring in a huge number of large aircraft."

"But where would they land?" Harry was sceptical. "I heard in Hamburg they need 7,500 tons per day."

"Madness!" Fred calculated. "That would be 750 planes a day if we carry 10 tons each. Even with two full roundtrips per aircraft per day, that's 350 to 400 large planes. That's 15 landings an hour--one every four minutes. Insane!"

The cockpit then went quiet as they neared their first landing. In calm summer weather, it went off without a hitch.

Unloading the nearly 10 tons of salt and food sacks by hand into the barges took over two hours. During that time, the four crew members sat idly in the Sunderland. Fortunately, the large flying boats had proper toilets and a mini-kitchen onboard from their long ocean missions.

Their surprise was all the greater when a young, fair-haired woman with a picnic basket arrived on the second barge, bringing a thermos of hot coffee, another of hot tea, some pastries, and sandwiches. "We're from the RAF Gatow Officers' Mess and responsible for looking after the flying boat crews," she said in English with a very German accent. "Real coffee. And English tea. Very rare in Berlin."

The crew was delighted. The coffee, biscuits, and fresh sandwiches were a very welcome improvement over their usual rations.

"This'll perk us up for the return trip," Fred said happily after the first sips of hot coffee.

"Revives the soul," Harry added. "We really needed this."

"I'm glad you like our service," said the woman with a smile. "It's a small thank-you for your mission. And it's my first job with the RAF."

"What did you do before?" Fred asked, curious. The young woman, with light blonde braids wrapped around her head, looked slim beneath her loose but thin summer dress.

"Like so many women: rubble work, breaking and sorting stones. It paid a bit extra on top of the food ration cards. That's how I fed myself and my daughter."

Fred wasn't sure how to respond. Having spent years in the Far East, he was unfamiliar with conditions in Europe, especially Germany. "I think German women have had to work very hard these past years."

"Oh yes," she sighed. "Many lost their husbands and now have to support their families alone. I'm lucky I only have one daughter--just two mouths to feed."

"Is your husband still a prisoner?" Fred had noticed her simple gold wedding ring.

"Officially missing. Since 1944, in Russia. I don't know more."

"Hope dies last," Fred said, immediately regretting the cliché. He had meant to comfort her but sensed that it landed poorly. He saw two small tears appear in her eyes.

"I wish. But my hope has shrunk over the years. I don't even dream of him anymore. And I would if he were still alive."

Fred wanted to comfort her, maybe even embrace her, but it felt totally inappropriate in the cockpit doorway.

Meanwhile, the third barge had been loaded, and the young woman was preparing to leave. She packed the thermoses and mugs into her basket.

"What's your name?" Fred suddenly asked.

The young woman turned. "Hildegard Müller, but everyone calls me Hilde."

Fred laughed. "Then we almost have the same last name. I'm Fred Miller." He held out his hand.

Hilde stepped closer and shook his hand. "Very nice to meet you. Fly safely and stay healthy. We need men like you -- more than ever." Then she left the flying boat, turned back one more time from the barge as it pulled away, and waved.

That image of Hilde waving goodbye burned itself into Fred's memory. During the return flight to Hanover and on into the Bizone toward Hamburg, it kept reappearing in his mind. "Fly safely and stay healthy," she had said. He silently promised himself to do just that.

The next morning, when Fred and his crew returned to their Sunderland, it was already loaded with another 10 tons of salt, yeast, and some chemicals. In the early weeks, flying boats could only land on the Havel during daylight, until lights were installed. Otherwise, confusion with the nearby Gatow airfield posed too great a risk, especially in poor visibility. Radar guidance also had to be developed for water landings--currently, they landed visually, which was no issue for experienced pilots in daylight.

"Think we'll get coffee again today?" Fred asked his co-pilot during a quiet flight moment.

"I hope so. That coffee yesterday was better than what we get at the Hamburg mess. Really revived me."

"Let's see." As they approached the Havel, Fred again had the image of Hilde waving in his mind -- soon it became reality. She appeared again with her picnic basket on the second barge, fulfilled her duties with cheerful friendliness, and chatted with the crew as best she could with her limited English. In a quiet moment, Fred and Hilde caught each other gazing deeply into each other's eyes -- just two meters apart, but as if in their own world.

"Eyes are the window to the soul," Fred thought -- and Hilde let him look into hers.

That moment -- just a few seconds -- felt like an eternity for both of them.

Fred cleared his throat awkwardly when the gaze broke and poured himself more coffee. "Are you always out here in the mornings?"

"Yes. I can only work the morning shift because a friend watches my daughter. In the evening, Inge works, and her two kids sleep at my place so they're not alone." Hilde didn't mention that she and her friend had once worked at a bar for British soldiers -- a form of female "support" for the troops many German women pursued during hard times. The pay was good. Hilde had been asked twice to return, but a severe venereal disease she'd contracted the previous winter -- and only recovered from in spring -- had held her back.

Fred and his crew flew to Berlin every day in August, always with the morning shift. Almost always, Hilde was there to greet and care for them. Only on Sundays was someone else assigned. With each visit, Fred and Hilde became more familiar -- at least as far as the flying boat's conditions allowed. But the moments where their eyes met in silent depth became more frequent and lasted longer.

Still, strict orders from the airlift commander forbade crew members from leaving their aircraft during unloading, to prevent delays -- this rule applied even to the flying boats.

Early September, after almost four weeks of continuous operation -- interrupted only by one day of maintenance in Finkenwerder -- a weather warning was issued during the morning pilot briefing: "By midday and afternoon, severe thunderstorms with sudden gusts of wind are expected over Berlin."

Fred and Harry, who had gained a lot of experience with thunderstorms during their long missions in Asia, simply shrugged their shoulders.

"It'll just be a bit bumpy," the two pilots commented casually on the weather warning.

The forecast proved accurate. By late morning, during the approach to Berlin, the sky was already filled with towering clouds indicating thunderstorm activity. As they approached the Havel, strong turbulence caused Fred's Sunderland to slam down onto the water with a series of forceful splashes. The first barge was already struggling, fully loaded, against the strengthening wind and increasing waves to reach the shore. On the second barge came Hilde, actually, with her picnic basket in hand, coming to supply "her favourite crew," as she now referred to Fred and his three crew members.

Hardly had she come aboard when Fred, from the cockpit and through the cargo hatch, spotted the black storm front rapidly approaching from the west, lightning and thunder announcing its presence.

He ordered unloading operations to cease and the half-loaded barge to return to shore as quickly as possible.

"Close the hatches," came his command. "All hands to stations." When he looked back from the cockpit, Hilde was still standing there with her basket. "What are you still doing here?"

"I missed the barge. When I came down, the cargo hatch was already closed, and the barge had left."

"All right. Find a safe spot below and sit down. I'm afraid, things are about to get rough."

Hilde followed his instructions, while Fred and Harry started the engines to turn the Sunderland to face the storm front.

"Now we're going to ride out the thunderstorm on the water," Harry grinned at his captain. "Haven't done that in a while."

Then, at midday, the sky over the Havel turned pitch black. Lightning flashed, and two bolts struck the river within visible range. One could actually see the lightning dancing a few meters above the water surface before an ear-splitting thunderclap echoed through the seaplane.

Fred noticed that the other two Sunderlands, which had landed before and after him, were executing similar manoeuvres. This way, they avoided being torn from their moorings by the gusts and drifting uncontrollably to the opposite bank.

Twenty minutes later, the thunderstorm had passed.

Fred shut off the engines and left the cockpit to check on Hilde. He found the young woman crouched on one of the sleeping bunks, pale as chalk.

"That was as bad as an air raid," she murmured apologetically. "What would've happened if lightning had hit the plane?"

Fred smiled, held out both hands, and helped her to her feet. Hilde was shaking noticeably. He embraced her, like a comforting father.

"Nothing at all, my dear. The flying boat is a full-metal construction--a Faraday cage. Lightning would have travelled along the wet outer surface and gone straight into the water. The only real risk is to the radar and radio equipment. The antennas could be damaged."

Hilde pressed herself against Fred's chest. She had her arms around his waist, and they stood together for a long moment. Fred's nose was right above Hilde's head, and he inhaled her natural scent in several deep breaths. It felt... nice.

Then came a loud knock at the hatch. The next barge had arrived over the still-choppy water to continue the unloading.

Fred and Hilde parted -- right as Harry descended from the cockpit ladder to open the door.

"I would've liked to stay in your arms a little longer," Hilde whispered and looked deeply into Fred's eyes. "That was nice."

"Thank you, Hilde," Fred replied, a little sheepishly. "It was really nice holding you."

Fred and Hilde continued speaking in English, so the shift from formal to informal address ("Sie" to "du" in German) happened naturally and neither of them noticed it. They now called each other by their first names.

Then they both went back to their tasks, interrupted by the storm.

In the following four weeks, Fred and Hilde saw each other practically every morning when the mighty Sunderland completed its morning flight and was being unloaded on the Havel. Twice, Hilde even brought a small, homemade cake for Fred and his three crewmates.

"Where did you get the ingredients?" Fred and Harry asked admiringly. "Everything's so scarce here."

Hilde giggled softly. "With kind support from the officers' mess at RAF Gatow. I baked the cake there -- with the agreement that half goes to the crew, the other half to the canteen."

"And nothing left for you and your daughter?" Fred was genuinely upset.

Hilde waved it off. "No, no. I was able to make a small extra portion with the batter. That's our cake." She shrugged a little helplessly. "My little one cried when I brought the cake home yesterday. She hadn't seen cake in a long time. She carefully divided her piece so it would last several days."

"And you?"

Hilde shrugged again. "Not so important."

Fred immediately stopped eating his own slice of the rich, chocolatey marble cake. "This piece is for you," he said, offering it to her. "And so that you treat yourself for once, you'll eat it here. Otherwise, you won't."

Hilde hesitated for a moment, then beamed and took the cake. "Sweet of you to make me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have." She enjoyed the next few minutes of cake with obvious pleasure.

Neither Fred nor Hilde could stop thinking about the shared cake in the days that followed. It felt like a profound gesture of love -- sharing something so rare and delicious.

"I wish I could share more than just cake with this man," Hilde sighed one evening, watching her friend's children. "But I don't know how. The crew isn't allowed to leave their planes, and I only have a small window of time to stay on board before heading to my next stop."