was duly parceled out among the officers on the field marshal’s
staff with a note, “A gift of Field Marshal Göring.” His charisma
was undeniable. One Luftwaffe officer said that for all his fancy
uniforms Göring was still a Kamerad. “First-rate guy,” agreed
another. “Pity he’s so fat.” “He’s got a pot belly,” said another
officer, a lieutenant whom Göring had recently decorated. “He
looks a bit unhealthy, carries a knobbed cane and an outsize
pistol, and wears brown boots and a white cap a bit ridiculous,
to tell the truth.” One squadron commander heard Göring tell
fighter pilots not to panic if they heard a Spitfire coming up be-
hind. “I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up!” said
the squadron commander. “Donnerwetter, the ignorance! In a
plane’s cockpit you can’t even hear your own machine guns.”
Attempting to stay informed, Göring called conferences
right down to squadron-commander level. “Hermann,” re-
ported one pilot to comrades shot down over Britain, “listens to
men like [Major Werner] Mölders and [Colonel Adolf] Galland
in preference to any of his generals. He had one meal with us
and kept asking, ‘What do you think, major?’ And people tell
him, too: ‘First, broadcasting should cease at dusk; second, only
experienced men as squadron commanders, not men who’ve
never seen combat; third, don’t send home all our best men as
instructors.’ ”
Once he ordered a forester from Carinhall to bring a deer
down to France for him to shoot. Donning hunting costume, he
sallied forth, leaving Milch, Jeschonnek, and other staff members
to hold the situation conference without him. Milch finished
not only the conference without him, but dinner and dessert as
well. Göring returned in a foul temper, having fallen asleep on
his stand and missed the deer when it appeared. Finding both
conference and dinner over, he spluttered angrily, then bright-
ened. “Right,” he snapped to an aide. “Take down this order.