Nach Deutschland! - Ian Allan Aviation Tour August 2024

By Kev Baxter

The song rang in full voice throughout the Bar at the RAF Leuchars’, predictably well-oiled, Happy Hour, “Give to me your hand Fraulein, your lily-white hand Fraulein, for tonight we fly against England; England, England’s island shores, island shores, island shores…” and then something in German about ‘victory’ and ‘salvation’ with a salute of some description.  The West Germans, on detachment with their ECR Tonkas for a bit of manly, Scottish low-flying, thought this was hilarious; the recently re-integrated East German guys were easy to spot because they looked askance at the assembled throng, entirely scandalised and could be seen muttering covertly to themselves.  The whole thing was very funny, if massively politically incorrect, which the Ostseite chaps knew only too well in the original, Marxist-Leninist/Stasi sense of the phrase.

The memory of drinking together with Jevo, the bane of OC 43’s life - too impulsively aggressive to ever get anywhere in the Service, too skilled a fighter-gator to chop for his numerous indiscretions - while he lead the boisterous chorus floated again through my mind’s eye as the Ian Allan Aviation Tour to Germany assembled at Heathrow’s T5.  I had a wry smile to myself; we were flying off the other way, but I’d better not start singing about it!

This was to be a two-pronged attack on The Fatherland of the Tonkas, Fishbeds and Flogger’s.  Beginning near the Ardennes, we would drive south-east following Easy Company’s track to rout the Eagle’s Nest, before thrusting North and re-patriating the clients of Colditz on our way to join up with the Russians in Berlin.  By two-pronged, it was meant actually that we had two minibuses.  Interestingly, such are the vagaries of of human nature, this meant that once a seat was sat in that first evening never did the passengers intermingle, let alone just fill up from the back in their own van, thereafter; frustratingly unexpeditious in the heat, but easier to keep track of.  Our airfield of entry was Rhein-Main.  No longer was this bastion of the Cold War strewn with the ‘Reach’ callsigns of ‘Lizard’-painted Starlifters and Galaxies servicing the voracious requirements of a vast USAFE, but now littered with low-cost airlines.  The first evening was scheduled in Trier, so a leisurely, get-to-know-you drive ensued, together with the realisation that Ryanair’s marketing team had not been idle.  Almost every signpost on the way to the border pointed to Hahn, but this former USAFE base was still nowhere near Frankfurt, unlike Mr O’Leary asserted in his adverts!

Anyone who has enjoyed a tour with COAP and its sister company Ian Allan Aviation Tours will know that the itinerary is full-on.  So it was in this case too.  Sparing not a backward glance at the Romanesque grandeur of Trier, our first morning’s objective was the Peter Junier Museum at Hermeskeil.  What gem this private collection had become and it was indicative of the fare we would enjoy for the rest of the trip.  An eclectic mix of types ranging from Concorde to the Cold War, helos to airliners, all were enjoyed under a different, if equally well-remembered, melody from my memory, the F-16s from Spangdahlem echoing across the pristine countryside as they cavorted above us in what used to be the busy playground of 4 ATAF.

Over too soon, but welcome for the building heat that would be a feature of the Tour, we retired to the air-conditioned refuge of our minibuses.  We headed south-east-ish, battling the soon-to-be scourge of the trip, intermittent iPhone-vehicle satnav interface snags; oh for Jevo and a paper map! 

When we finally arrived in Speyer, an evening’s fine-dining by the Rhein ensued; followed by a ‘team-building exercise’ in the hotel bar by the ex-RAF guys, who had realised that they didn’t have to drive until really late the next day.  Home of one of the twin Technik Museums of Speyer and Sinsheim, Speyer’s array of imaginatively displayed aviation, automobile and maritime artefacts would never fail to impress, provided one can tune out the discordant melange of gigantic music-organs piping away very much in the foreground.  Moreover, provided one can use imagination to look for a creative angle and ignore certain liberties taken with the aviation exhibits and the architecture surrounding the Russian Buran space-shuttle, photography at Speyer can be a joy as well as provoking the odd crinkle.  Less of a crinkle was sitting in the garden of the runway-side café at Speyer/Ludwigshafen, adjacent to the Museum, enjoying a welcome brew in the sunshine and photographing some lovely GA aeroplanes in their natural habitat before it was time to go.

The following day, Speyer’s twin at Sinsheim was visited, which exhibits some fascinating gems from WWII and has a vast array of automobilia to satiate the appetite of those who like that sort of thing.  It has been over a decade since this museum was visited and gone were the weirdly dressed mannequins mixing Edwardian ladies and Elvis together with hot-rods and hearses; someone must have said something!  What had not disappeared were the ‘mating swans’ on the roof, namely the Tu-144 and Concorde in close trail, together with a multitude of non-sequitur aviation subjects arranged similarly around the grounds.

Thence, it was onwards to the Bavarian bierkellers of Munich.  Arriving in the evening and meeting back in the hotel bar shortly thereafter, we found ourselves a suitably fitting hostelry not far away.  Over, schnitzel, sauerkraut and steins of pilsner it seemed some of our Group plotted their very own non-violent bierkeller putsch concerning the use of public transport the next day.

Arriving at the airfield at Schleisheim the next morning revealed the limits of an extremely average German ‘O’Level.  The Museum is in two parts: the down-town Munich venue and the airfield at Oberschleisheim.  It was understood, prior to visiting, that the down-town venue had been closed for maintenance and would not be seen by us.  However, we were told that down-town was open and that that was the venue we had tickets for.  We were at the airfield site and the tickets for that venue were priced differently.  Ordinarily, these simple facts would be acted upon and honours would be even.  However, the grasp of pidgin German and lack of English (to be fair the chap’s English was better than my German) stretched vocabulary, syntax and tense to breaking point very early on in the proceedings.  Simply getting extra tickets and paying for the additional venue saw the cat-herding reach proportions not yet visited on this trip, since kindly the Curator had let our friendly horde immerse themselves in the exhibits already, while we tried to sort out the dosh.  After the larger part of an hour of phone calls, e-mail checks, Germ-lish and teeth-sucking were completed, Tour Leader Graham and I were released finally to marvel at the fabulously unique inhabitants packed haphazardly into the custom-built hangars.  However, a rapid re-plan was also required to accommodate our change of circumstances and this would require returning to the City and delving into the murky world of public transport and the U-bahn…

Parking back at the hotel, a Google search revealed that it was simplicity itself and a short distance only to negotiate the gap between us and aviation gold in the centre of town.  However, whilst spoken in jest, Ian Allan Aviation Tours clientele do, indeed, appear to be ‘COAP - Aged For A Fuller Flavour’™.  Accordingly, trying to encourage our retinue, at least one of whom might well have been an original target for the Junkers and Heinkels departing the airfields we were visiting, to embrace the technology of a ticket machine (despite it having English sub-titles) was a ‘Leadership Challenge’.  Nevertheless, we managed negotiate the transport hurdle and having delighted in the rarity of the exhibits down-town, the weirdness of human factors kicked in once more.  Having found a bier keller that ‘worked’ near to the hotel the previous evening, the putsch was on to return to it, despite it being tea time and having equally hospitable establishments only 300 yards walk from the Museum.  Thus, a grumbling mitosis of sorts occurred, which was a most unsettling outcome (and the cause of the grumbling) from those not conversant, despite having been shown, with how to buy a ticket for the Underground.  That said, our small breakaway group sat fat, dumb and happy in a siding for 10 minutes having only clocked that the train had terminated at a station along the track after our driver walked down the platform past the window.  Nobody died, so it was all good and we continued back to the bar to laugh about our own stupidity!

We had programmed a non-aviation visit for the next day: the Kehlstein at Berchtesgaden, or Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest.  Easier said than done to get to the place without breaking the hire rules about cross-border travel; Austria might have been tickled to see us for one junction on the autobahn - but who knew with our satnav issues?  The other Team managed to struggle up the backroads, but were hampered by dawdling tractors, a gentleman on a bike and an asthmatic dachshund with a limp herding some soon-to-be lederhosen.  Moreover, since it was requirement to take a special bus up the mountain, it became evident that German protocol and efficiency was not going to be swayed in the slightest should some Brits turn up two minutes late. Through no real fault of our own, the answer was simply, “You haff missed your assigned time, we don’t care iff seats are affailable on ze layder buses, your time was eleven-sirty, id iss now eleven sirty-two; es ist nicht in ordnung!”.  The scene was reminiscent of 617 Sqn’s raid on the same target, only some of our cargo reached the aiming point, those with the persistence to walk up the hill like a stick of bombs; the others were sanguine about missing out and joined us for a coffee and some lunch in the car-park hotel.  Having seen the place before, I had elected to shunt the 2 minibuses around in the chock-a-block car park, successfully to avoid a parking ticket, whilst waiting for two legitimate spaces to open up.  A young lady approached and inquired whether your’s truly could a) speak English - yes, after a fashion and b) was I going to move one of our buses so she could park also - sorry, that’s not going to happen!  She was asked, by way of reply and to alleviate any stress in my negativity, why Hitler was still so popular; but, like the Americans she had gleaned her accent from and Sir Keir Starmer, her sense of irony was stillborn and it seemed that a rapid back-pedal and explanation that that had been a joke was needed to avoid an international hissy-fit incident.  Despite her withering deadpan, she was still very attractive, more so on her departure back across the car park to her camper-van, which killed a few moments pleasantly.

Licking our wounds after our failure, nobody said that every Tour was going to run perfectly, we were programmed to run away north the next day.  Deciding that seeing just museum pieces could become dull, despite the novelty of the items, an en-route diversion was planned to Manching in order to add value to the Itinerary.  Sadly, the test and evaluation element of the Luftwaffe were having the morning off and of the little flying that was seen, it was all GA.  However, our number-crunchers were happy to have seen a few grounded Grizzlies and wrecked Do27 hiding in the bushes.

Crossing the Iron Curtain on our way to Altenburg was an eerie feeling.  The great swathe that carved the country in two was still there, a starkly naked piece of ground sandwiched between the dense forest either side.  Where once had been warning signs, guard towers, barbed wire, dogs, minefields and death, weeds were now being fostered by the peace.  Arrival in Altenburg brought home that despite re-unification having been over 30 years ago, a disparity could still be felt in living standards.  However, when a hugely welcome, large bier only cost €2.50, we could deal with the lack of A/C for a night.  Besides, we had spotted on Google Maps that the airfield nearby had some old aeroplanes lying around; although, sadly, the museum was closed.  However, when the old boy tinkering with his motorbike saw who was descending upon him to fence-check his charges, he opened up for us, bade us in and was very reluctant to accept the token of our appreciation that we insisted we thrust upon him having enjoyed unrestricted access to the exhibits.  Good times!

Our target for the next day was Colditz Castle.  To almost everyone we spoke to locally, it was just a Schloss, little being known or cared about about its use during the War.  To us and our Guide Steffi, it was fascinating.  Her knowledge and access to the areas of the castle unavailable to the visiting general public made our day.  The audacity, ingenuity and sheer bravery of several hundred very clever men, who had no wish to be held captive was breathtaking.  None less so than to witness the Colditz Cock replica in situ in the very attic space in which the original was built.  All of this was utterly lost on the hipsters lunching at the Summer Music School in the grounds of the old German administration building, as a bunch of sweaty, old blokes traipsed avidly through their picnic to follow the route that Pat Reid had done from the potato store to the terraced battlements, whence he made his escape.

We all called Göring ‘Meyer’ as we trundled into Berlin that evening, ebullient from our day in the sun, unlike the poor buggers spending weeks digging through castle walls, only to enjoy the hospitality of solitary confinement, or worse, when caught.  When Hitler declared that escaping was no longer to be regarded as a sport, things got dreadfully serious.

We were back fully to old aeroplanes the next day with a visit to Cottbus in the morning.  Unsurprisingly, the guys running the Museum on the other side of the old Wall were just like their visitors that day, avid enthusiasts.  Sadly, access to funds and an ennui towards the previous puppet-masters and the machines they brought with them were evident.  However, it was abundantly clear that the grey-haired old-boys chatting sh*t and taking the p*ss loved their machines and each other and had poured in their heart and souls to keeping the aeroplanes flying back in the day and each other sane; just as we in the West had done, despite griping about it the whole time.  Incidentally, a hangar from the airfield was removed nut and bolt to Jerry Yagen’s Military Aircraft Museum in Virginia Beach, fully restored and now houses his collection of German types, while still bearing the wartime graffiti of a forced labourer on one of the joists - small world.

Moving on from the corroding Cold War spectacle of Cottbus, the third of the trilogy of Technik Museums was visited, this time in Berlin.  Sporting a C-47 dangling spectacularly from the roof commemorating the Berlin Airlift, the Capital’s effort included many of the types seen elsewhere, Ju-52s were like buses - you hadn’t seen one for years and then three came along at once - but amongst the congested melée arranged about the place lay some truly unique exhibits and a poignant memorial in the shape of a mangled Lancaster that came to grief in the flak over the City.

The last day full day of the Tour was just that - full.  Three museums were visited: Finowfurt was fantastic, history layered upon history.  The airfield from which KG200 tested their experimental types such as Mistel Combinations and captured aircraft was not only full of aviation archaeology, but also the Soviet types once based there occupied the HAS site, where they still sheltered.  Having spent a Tour at RAF Laarbrüch before the Wall came down, the targets our jets were aimed for were very close-hold.  However, it was a little eerie to think that I may have been standing very close to where our JP233s, 1000 pounders and, if the worst came to the worst our WE177s would have smashed into, me having shone the green Aldis light for to the crews to do so.

Back into Berlin and another old friend was visited, RAF Gatow.  Having been fortunate enough to have attended the one and only Air Cadet camp to be hosted by the Station in 1982, it was there that I met 5 lads from all over the country, with whom I was to serve subsequently and one, who became a life-long mate, who I saw only two months previous to the Tour.  The Museum at the old RAF Station suffers much as most places with outside storage , losing the battle with the elements one day at a time.  However, it was fabulous to see types that would otherwise have been lost to history still being husbanded in their slow decline into entropy.

Lastly, an additional venue was added: Clayallee, once the former US commissary, houses various Cold War items particular to the City in a small museum, which are fascinating in themselves.  Outside the museum, however, is an original Checkpoint Charlie guard hut, one that I transited through in 1982 and had my picture taken by the Soviets, I hope they got my good side - I doubt it, I was sitting on it - and the former Gate Guardian from RAF Gatow, the Hastings C1, in front of which we got our picture taken and that I do have a copy of.

A free day in the City was programmed before we pulled chocks the next afternoon.  As ever, there was one of our intrepid group willing to push the envelope and he spent a very sweaty few hours yomping around to Templehof in 34C trying to glimpse their aeroplanes.  Sadly, neither could he see anything from the fence, nor could we get tickets to gain access to the hangar tour, they being sold out for the day.  Fortunately, our boy had thought to have a change of clothes ready for the flight home, since we would have had to declare a drowned rat to Customs on our entry to the UK.

In summary, the Tour was rated as another great success and hugely enjoyable by the clients.  Granted there had been one glitch with the Eagle’s Nest, where all but the most avid succeeded in getting to see Hitler’s mirrored elevator, he was claustrophobic, bless ‘im; but, no plan survives first contact with the enemy.  Purposefully, other venues had been introduced along the way to add value to the Tour.  As a famous photographer once said, “…f8 and be there!”, meaning, if you don’t even try to make the effort to be somewhere, you guarantee that you will never get the shot.  We made that effort and came away with something for our troubles at least.  The Museums we visited were stocked with a lot of the same types, granted; however, to witness first hand some of the unique articles that had made history, or were just the last remaining of many, was extremely satisfying.  Although not providing a washing list of the types seen, consciously, the impression that should be taken away from this blog is that this was an extremely worthwhile experience providing something for the avgeek in all of us, be it spotting, history, photography, modelling or if you just want to take along your Mam, as one chap did!  Unlike our bomber crews flying from Fortress England, a trip by air takes less than two hours to anywhere in Germany; if ever you can make the trip Sausage-side do so.  Look up these museums mentioned online and choose what suits you best, disappointment will not be something you take back in your suitcase.  And remember the words of the song, “The flag flies high on the mountain top, we sing to the glory of the err, the third form of a thousand year projected empire once extant in the Rheinland…”, Nach Deutschland!