The Ho 229 was a real jet flying wing, flown from 1944; the surviving V3 is in the Smithsonian's restoration shop. A 2008 Northrop Grumman team built a replica and measured it: the shape alone significantly reduced its radar cross-section against 1940s British radar, shaving detection range, but the claimed radar-absorbing charcoal mixture appears in no wartime documentation of the actual aircraft, only in Reimar Horten's later account.
The genre logic: anything that futuristic must have seeded something hidden, so the Ho 229 gets drafted into Nazi-saucer stories, Roswell reverse-engineering stories, and B-2 ancestry stories. The B-2's designers knew of the Hortens' work, but the wing's lineage to secret programs is a genealogy assembled by silhouette.
The Ho 229's real lesson is about futurism as evidence: the flying wing was a drag-reduction solution, not a time traveler, and its modern look is why it anchors every documentary. We keep mistaking aesthetically advanced for technologically impossible, which says more about our picture of the past than the Germans' picture of the air.
If the shape alone half-works as stealth by accident, how many wonder weapons are aerodynamics mistaken for intent?