Stuka Pilot (18 page)

The general offensive for the relief of the force encircled in the Tscherkassy area is successful, and our shock troops are able to create a kind of lane into the pocket. Once the link-up is established the front here is withdrawn together with the bulge. We move back in consequence from Pervomiask to Rauchowka, and as far as we are concerned the Nowo Mirgorod area is left far behind the Russian lines.

A short time after this American bomber formations flying east after accomplishing their missions over Germany land at Nowo Mirgorod, where their aircraft are overhauled by their allies for a fresh sortie. Their operational base as with many American formations is the Mediterranean.

South of us meanwhile the situation has also changed, and our bridgehead at Nikopol has been abandoned. The Soviets press forward in the Nikolajew area, and the German divisions N.W. of it find themselves engaged in very heavy fighting.

13. RETREAT TO THE DNIESTER

I
n March 1944 our southern front is on the defensive, fiercely contesting the efforts of strong Russian forces to effect a decisive southward breakthrough so as to liquidate the whole German front in the South. My Stuka squadron is operating from Rauchowka, 125 miles N. of Odessa, in support of our army units. We are in the air from dawn till dusk, doing our utmost to relieve our hard-pressed comrades on the ground by destroying tanks and attacking artillery and Stalin “barrel-organs.” Our efforts are successful in preventing any decisive breach of our front. Moreover the army, as a result of this victorious delaying action, is able a few weeks later to retire in good order to new positions further west.

One day during this battle we go out W.N.W. along the Dniester on a reconnaissance patrol. The river below us makes an elbow to the N.W. Urgent signals from the Rumanians have reported large convoys of Red motorized and armored formations on the move round and west of Jampol. On the face of it the report seems rather incredible, because if it is true it must mean that the Soviets have broken through to the north at the same time as they launched their offensive in the south and would already be 125 miles in our rear in Bessarabia. I carry out the reconnaissance with another aircraft for company. These fears are unfortunately confirmed. Strong Soviet concentrations of all arms are massing in the Jampol area, furthermore a large bridge is under construction.

One cannot help wondering how it is possible that this operation has hitherto been unobserved. It is nothing strange for us, we have had the same experience too often during the Russian campaign. Our East Front is always very thinly held; frequently whole areas between the momentary key points are only patrolled. Once this chain of outposts is breached the enemy advances into an undefended zone. Far behind the line perhaps he may come across a baking company, of some non-belligerent supply unit. The vastness of the country is Russia’s most valuable ally. With his inexhaustible man power he can easily pour his masses into any such weakly defended vacuum.

Although the situation in the Jampol area is menacing we do not regard it as absolutely hopeless because this sector, being the gateway to their own country, has been entrusted to the Rumanians. So in my briefing for this reconnaissance I have been told to expect the presence of Rumanian covering divisions on the Dniester, and have therefore been warned to be careful of the effects of any attack. Merely by their uniforms it is not easy to distinguish the Rumanians from the Russians from the air.

The strategic objective of the Soviet offensive is clear: a still wider encirclement of our forces in the south and a simultaneous thrust by way of Jassy into the Ploesti oilfields. As the intervention of my squadron in the Nikolajew area is still daily required, it is not possible at first for us to fly more than one or two sorties in this sector. For all our operations we are using the advance airfield at Kotowsk, S. of Balta. So now, unusually, this mission takes us west. Our main targets are troop concentrations in the neighborhood of Jampol, and the bridge which is being built there. After every attack the Soviets immediately replace the damaged pontoons and hurry on with the completion of the bridge. They try to smash our attacks by intense flak and fighter interception, but not once do we allow them to drive us back with our mission unaccomplished.

Our successes are corroborated by picked-up Russian radio messages. These chiefly consist of complaints against their own fighters, the Red Falcons, charging them with cowardice and enumerating their losses in men, arms and building material caused by their poltroonery. We are often able to listen in to Russian R/T conversations between their ground units and the Red Falcons. There is a Russian-speaking officer in my squadron who tunes in his wireless set to their wave length and instantly makes a verbatim translation. The Russians often yell wildly over the R/T in order to interfere with our reception. The Russian frequency is generally practically the same as ours. The Soviets frequently try to give us target alterations during flight. Of course the new targets lie inside the German lines. These pretended corrections are issued in fluent German, but we very soon see through this trick and once I am wise to it if ever I receive one of these fake corrections when in the air I invariably come down to make sure that the amended target is really an enemy objective. Often we hear a warning shout: “Cancel attack. Target occupied by our own troops.” The speaker is, needless to say, a Russian. His last words are then usually drowned by the noise of our bombs. We get many a good laugh when we overhear the ground control cursing the Russian fighters.

“Red Falcons, we shall report you to the Commissar for cowardice. Go on in and attack the Nazi swine. We have again lost our building material and a whole lot of equipment.”

We have long been familiar with the bad morale of the bulk of the Red fighter pilots; only a few crack units are an exception to the rule. These reports of losses of material are a valuable confirmation of our success.

A few days before the 20th March, 1944, we are hampered by vile weather with heavy rain storms. In airman’s lingo we say: “Even the sparrows have to walk.” Flying is impossible. While this weather lasts the Soviets are enabled to continue their advance and push on with their crossing of the Dniester unmolested. There is no prospect of forming a defensive front against this, threat on the ground; not even a single company can be spared from the Nikolajew sector and no other reserves are available. In any case we assume that our Rumanian allies will defend their own country with the fanatical fury of self-preservation and so compensate for our numerical weakness.

On the 20th March, after seven sorties in the Nikolajew and Balta area, I take off with my squadron on the eighth of the day, our first mission for five days against the bridge at Jampol. The sky is a brilliant blue and it can be taken for granted that after this prolonged respite the defense will have been considerably strengthened by flak and fighter protection. As my airfield and Rauchowka itself is a quagmire our fighter squadron has moved to the concrete airfield at Odessa. We, with our broad tires, are better able to cope with the mud and do not immediately become bogged down in it. We fix a rendezvous by telephone for a certain time about thirty miles from the target at 7500 feet above a conspicuous loop of the river Dniester. But apparently difficulties have also cropped up at Odessa. My escort is not at the rendezvous. The target is clearly visible, so naturally we attack. There are several new crews in my squadron. Their quality is not as good as it used to be. The really good men have by this time been long since at the front, and petrol for training purposes has been strictly rationed to so many gallons per man. I firmly believe that I, had I been restricted to so small an allowance, could not have done any better than the new trainees. We are still about twelve miles from our objective when I give the warning: “Enemy fighters.” More than twenty Soviet Lag 5s are approaching. Our bomb load hampers our maneuverability. I fly in defensive ellipses so as to be able at any moment to come in myself behind the fighters, for their purpose is to shoot down my rear aircraft. In spite of the air battle I gradually work round to my objective. Individual Russians who try to shoot me down by a frontal pass I disappoint by extremely mobile tactics, and then at the last moment dive through the midst of them and pull out into a climb. If the new crews can bring it off today they will have learnt a lot.

“Prepare for attack, stick together-close up-attack!”

And I come in for the attack on the bridge. As I dive I see the flash of a host of flak emplacements. The shells scream past my aircraft. Henschel says the sky is a mass of cotton wool, his name for the bursting flak. Our formation is losing its cohesion, confound it, making us more vulnerable to the fighters. I warn those lagging behind:

“Fly on, catch up, we are just as scared as you are.” Not a few swear words slip past my tongue. I bank round, and at 1200 feet see my bomb nearly miss the bridge. So there is a wind blowing.

“Wind from port, correct to port.”

A direct hit from our No. 3 finishes off the bridge. Circling round I locate the gun sites of the still aggressive flak and give the order to attack them.

“They are getting hell very nicely today,” opines Henschel.

Unfortunately two new crews have lagged slightly behind when diving. Lags cut them off. One of them is completely riddled and zooms past me in the direction of enemy territory. I try to catch up with him, but I cannot leave my whole squadron in the lurch on his account. I yell at him over the R/T, I curse him; it is no use. He flies on to the Russian bank of the Dniester. Only a thin ribbon of smoke rises from his aircraft. He surely could have flown on for another few minutes, as the other does, and so reached our own lines.

“He lost his nerve completely, the idiot,” comments Fickel over the R/T. At the moment I cannot bother about him any more, for I must try to keep my ragged formation together and maneuver back eastward in ellipses. After a quarter of an hour the Red fighters turn off defeated, and we head in regular formation for our base. I order the skipper of the seventh flight to lead the formation home. With Pilot Off. Fischer, flying the other staff aircraft, I bank round and fly back at low level, skimming the surface of the Dniester, the steep banks on either side. A short distance ahead in the direction of the bridge I discern the Russian fighters at 3000 to 9000 feet. But here in the bed of the river I am difficult to see, and above all my presence is not expected. As I climb abruptly over the scrub on the river bank I spot our aircraft two or three miles to the right. It has made a forced landing in a field. The crew are standing near it and they gesticulate wildly as I fly over at a lower level. “If only you had paid as much attention to me before, this delicate operation would not have been necessary,” I mutter to myself as I bank round to see whether the field is suitable for a landing. It is. I encourage myself with a breathed: “All right then… get going. This lot today will be the seventh crew I shall have picked up under the noses of the Russians.” I tell Plt./Off. Fischer to stay in the air and interfere with the fighters in case they attack. I know the direction of the wind from the bombing of the bridge.—Flaps down, throttle back, I’ll be down in a jiffy.—What is happening? I have overshot—must open up and go round again. This has never happened to me before at such a moment. Is it an omen not to land? You are very close to the target which has just been attacked, far behind the Soviet lines!—Cowardice? Once again throttle back, flaps down—I am down… and instantly notice that the ground is very soft; I do not even need to brake. My aircraft comes to a stop exactly in front of my two colleagues. They are a new crew, a corporal and a L.A.C. Henschel lifts the canopy and I give them a sign to hop in and be quick about it. The engine is running, they climb in behind with Henschel. Red Falcons are circling overhead; they have not yet spotted us.

“Ready, Henschel?”

“Yes.” I open the throttle, left brake—intending to taxi back so as to take off again in exactly the same way as I landed. My starboard wheel sticks deep in the ground. The more I open my throttle, the more my wheel eats into it. My aircraft refuses to budge from the spot. Perhaps it is only that a lot of mud is jammed between the mud-guard and the wheel.

“Henschel, get out and take off the mud-guard, perhaps then we can make it.”

The fastening stud breaks, the wheel casing stays on; but even without it we could not take off, we are stuck in the mud. I pull the stick into my stomach, ease it and go at full throttle into reverse. Nothing is of the very slightest use. Perhaps it might be possible to pancake, but that does not help us either. Plt./Off. Fischer flies lower above us and asks over the R/T:

“Shall I land?”

After a momentary hesitation I tell myself that if he lands he too will not be able to take off again and reply: “No, you are not to land. You are to fly home.”

I take a look round. There come the Ivans, in droves, four hundred yards away. Out we must get. “Follow me,” I shout—and already we are sprinting southward as fast as our legs can carry us. When flying over I have seen that we are about four miles from the Dniester. We must get across the river whatever we do or else we shall fall an easy prey to the pursuing Reds. Running is not a simple matter; I am wearing high fur boots and a fur coat. Sweat is not the word! None of us needs any spurring on; we have no mind to end up in a Soviet prison camp which has already meant instant death to so many dive bomber pilots.

We have been running for half an hour. We are putting up a pretty good show; the Ivans are a good half a mile behind. Suddenly we find ourselves on the edge of almost perpendicular cliffs at the foot of which flows the river. We rush hither and thither, looking for some way of getting down them… impossible! The Ivans are at our heels. Then suddenly a boyhood recollection gives me an idea. We used to slide down from bough to bough from the tops of fir trees and by braking our fall in this way we got to the bottom safely. There are plenty of large thorny bushes, like our dog—rose, growing out of the stone face of the cliff. One after the other we slide down and land on the river bank at the bottom, lacerated in every limb and with our clothes in ribbons. Henschel gets rather jittery. He shouts: