Stuka Pilot (21 page)

Jassy is a pretty Rumanian town, at present completely unscathed. To us a magnificent sight; it reminds us of home. We gape at the shop windows and are as delighted as children.

The next morning our reconnaissance discovers strong armored and motorized formations already almost due N. of Balti, probably they have even reached the town. At first the weather is bad; the country is mountainous and the highest peaks are shrouded in mist. The situation is grave; there are no longer any troops covering our front. Motorized units can get here in half a day. Who is to stop them? We stand alone. Reconnaissance reports strong opposition by flak which the advancing Reds have brought up with them. Soviet Lag 5s and Aircobras continually fly above their armored spearhead. Our southern front in Russia, the Rumanian oilfields, both factors of vital importance, are threatened. I am blind and deaf to all advice with regard to my physical condition. The Soviets must be checked; their tanks, the striking force of an army, destroyed. Another weeks goes by before our colleagues on the ground can build a defense line.

W.O. Rothmann, my loyal first shift, carries me to my aircraft. Six of the stiffest sorties in the worst of weather till three in the afternoon. Intense flak. I have to change aircraft after almost every sortie because of damage by flak. I am myself in pretty bad shape. Only the determination to halt the Soviets wherever I can still keeps me going. Besides, these are certainly the troops who tried to take me prisoner, and on the day I escaped the Moscow radio has already given out that they have captured Squadron Leader Rudel. Apparently they did not believe it possible for me to reach our lines. Have my colleagues who failed to make their escape betrayed the name of the one who did?

We attack tanks, supply convoys with petrol and rations, infantry and cavalry, with bombs and cannon. We attack from between 30 and 600 feet because the weather is execrable.

I go out with aircraft of my anti-tank flight carrying the 37 mm. cannon on tank hunts at the lowest possible level. Soon all the rest of the flight are grounded because when my aircraft is hit I have to use another, and so one after the other gets a rest. If it takes too long to refuel the whole squadron I have my aircraft and another quickly refueled and remunitioned, and the two of us go out between sorties on one of our own. Generally there are none of our fighters there; the Russians realize their enormous numerical superiority over us alone. Maneuvering is difficult in these air battles, for I am unable to operate the rudder controls, I only use the stick. But up till now I have only been hit by flak; in every sortie, however, and that is often enough. On the last sortie of the day I fly with a normal Stuka (not a cannon-carrier) with bombs and two 2 cm. calibre cannon. With this weapon one cannot penetrate a moderately thickly armored tank. Presumably the Reds are not expecting us to be out so late; our only object is to locate their concentrations and to obtain an overall picture of the general situation which is of the very greatest importance for tomorrow. We fly along the two roads running North in the direction of Balti. The sun is already low on the horizon; half-left huge clouds of smoke are rising from the village of Falesti. Perhaps a Rumanian unit. I drop down below the squadron and fly low over the village, and am met by flak and strong opposition. I see a mass of tanks, behind them a long convoy of lorries and motorized infantry. The tanks are, curiously, all carrying two or three drums of petrol. In a flash it dawns upon me; they no longer expected us and mean to dash through tonight, if possible into the heart of Rumania, into the oil region, and thereby cutting off our southern front. They are taking advantage of the twilight and the darkness because by day they cannot move with my Stukas overhead.

This also accounts for the petrol drums on board the tanks; they mean, if necessary, to push through even without their supply columns. This is a major operation and they are already under way. I now see that perfectly plainly. We are alone to possess this knowledge; the responsibility is ours. I give my orders over the R/T:

“Attack of the most vital importance—”

“You are to drop every bomb singly—”

“Follow up with low level attack till you have fired every round—”

“Gunners are also to fire at vehicles.”

I drop my bombs and then hunt tanks with my 2 cm. cannon. At any other time it would be a sheer waste of effort to fire at tanks with this calibre ammunition, but today the Ivans are carrying petrol drums; it is worth while. After the first bombs the Russian column stops dead in its tracks, and then tries to drive on in good order, covered by savage flak. But we refuse to let ourselves be deterred. Now they realize that we are in deadly earnest. They scatter in panic away from the road, driving at random into fields and spinning round in circles in every conceivable defensive maneuver. Every time I fire I hit a drum with incendiary or explosive ammunition. Apparently the petrol leaks through some joint or other which causes a draught; some tanks standing in the deep shadow of a hill blow up with a blinding flash. If their ammunition is exploded into the air the sky is criss-crossed with a perfect firework display, and if the tank happens to be carrying a quantity of Verey lights they shoot all over the place in the craziest colored pattern.

Each time I come in to the attack I am sensible of the responsibility which rests on us and hope we may be successful.

What luck that we spotted this convoy today! I have run out of ammunition; have just knocked out five tanks but there are still a few monsters in the fields, some of them even yet moving. I long to put paid to them somehow.

“Hannelore 7,”—that is the call sign for the leader of the Seventh Flight—“you are to lead the way home after firing your last round.”

I, with my No. 2, fly back at top speed to the airfield. We do not wait to refuel, we have enough petrol to last us; only more ammunition. The dusk is falling fast. Everything goes too slowly for my liking although the good chaps handling the bombs and shells are giving us all they have. I have tipped them off as to what is at stake and now they do not want to let down their comrades in the air. Ten minutes later I take off again. We meet the squadron returning; it is already approaching the airfield with position lights. It seems an age before I am back at last over my target. From a long way off I can see the burning tanks and lorries.

Explosions briefly illuminate the battle field with an eerie light. Visibility is now pretty poor. I head north, flying at low level along the road and catch up with two steel monsters traveling in the same direction, probably with the intention of carrying the sad news back to the rear. I bank and am on to them; I can only discern them at the very last second as I skim the ground. They are not an easy target, but as they, like their predecessors, carry the big drums, I succeed in blowing them both up, though I have to use up all my ammunition. With these two, a total of seventeen tanks for the day. My squadron has destroyed approximately the same number, so that today the Ivans have lost some thirty tanks. A rather black day for the enemy. Tonight at all events we can sleep quietly at Jassy, of that we can be sure. How far the general impetus of the offensive has been impaired we shall learn tomorrow. We make our final landing in the dark. Now gradually I become conscious of pain, as the tension slowly relaxes. Both the army and the air group want to know every detail. For half the night I sit by the telephone with the receiver to my ear.

The mission for tomorrow is obvious: to engage the same enemy forces as today.

We take off very early so as to be up in the forward area at the crack of dawn, for we can be certain that Ivan will also have made good use of the interval. The foulest weather, cloud ceiling 300-450 feet over the airfield. Once again, St. Peter is helping the other side. The surrounding hills are obscured. We can only fly along the valleys. I am curious as to what is in store for us today. We fly past Falesti; there everything is wreckage just as we left it yesterday. Due south of Balti we meet the first armored and motorized convoys. We are greeted by fierce opposition, from both flak and fighter aircraft. It must have got round that we put up a good show yesterday. I should not much care to make a forced landing hereabouts today. We attack without intermission; on every sortie we are engaged in aerial combat without protection, for in this sector there are virtually none of our fighters available. In addition we have plenty of trouble with the weather. Through having to fly low all the time we are not without losses; but we have to keep at it, for we are dealing with an emergency and it is in our own interest not to let up for an instant. Unless we stay in the air it will not be long be fore Ivan occupies our airfield. It is unfortunate that I no longer have Henschel with me on these difficult sorties; with his gunnery experience the brave fellow would have been able to make things a whole lot easier for me. Today my rear-gunner is W. O. Rothmann. A good chap, but he lacks experience. We all like flying with him because we say: “Even if no one else gets back you can bet old Rothmann will.” On our return from the first sortie I am again impatient at the delay and sandwich in a “solo,” accompanied by Plt./Off. Fischer. We go out after tanks on the outskirts of Balti. We have a rendezvous with a few fighters over the target. We fly there as low as possible; the weather is worse than ever, visibility not more than 800 yards. I look for our fighters, climbing shortly before we reach the town. There are fighters there—but not ours, all Russians.

“Look out, Fischer, they’re all Aircobra. Stick to me. Come in closer.”

They have already spotted us. There are about twenty of them. We two alone are just their meat; they come at us confidently, hell-for-leather. There is no air space up above; we are flying at bottom level, taking advantage of every little gully in the effort to lose ourselves. I cannot take any violent evasive action because I cannot kick the rudder-bar with my feet; I can only make weary changes of direction by pulling my joy-stick. These tactics are not good enough by a long chalk if I have behind me a fighter pilot who knows the first thing about his business. And the one now on my tail knows all about it. Rothmann shows signs of the jitters:

“They are shooting us down!”

I yell at him to shut up, to fire instead of wasting his breath. He gives a shout—there is a
rat-a-tat-tat
against my fuselage, hit after hit. I cannot shift the rudder-bar. A blind rage possesses me. I am beside myself with fury. I hear the impact of large calibre shells; the Aircobra is firing with a 3.7 cm. cannon in addition to its 2 cm. guns. How long will my faithful Ju. 87 hold out? How long before my kite bursts into frames or falls apart? I have been brought down thirty times in this war, but always by flak, never yet by fighters. Every time I was able to use the rudder-bar and maneuver with the aid of it. This is the first and last time a fighter hits my aircraft.

^{Bell P 39 Aircobra}

“Rothmann, fire!” He does not answer. His last word is: “I am jammed—Ouch!” So now my rear defense is eliminated. The Ivans are not slow to grasp the fact; they become even more aggressive than before, coming in behind me and from port and starboard. One fellow comes at me again and again with a frontal pass. I take refuge in the narrowest ravines where there is barely room to squeeze through with my wings. Their marksmanship against their living target is not bad, they score one hit after another. The chances of my getting back are once again very small. But close to our own airfield at Jassy they abandon the chase; presumably they have run out of ammunition. I have lost Fischer. He was diagonally behind me all the time and I could not keep track of him. Rothmann, too, does not know what has happened to him. Has he made a forced landing or has he crashed? I do not know myself. The loss of the smart young officer hits the squadron particularly hard. My aircraft has been riddled by the 2 cm. guns and hit eight times by the 3.7 cannon. Rothmann would no longer insure my life for very much.

After such an experience one is mentally harassed and exhausted, but that cannot be helped. Into another aircraft and off again. The Soviets must be halted. On this day I knock out nine tanks. A heavy day. During the last sorties I have to peel my eyes to catch sight of a tank. This is a good sign. I believe that for the moment the main impetus of the enemy has been stemmed; infantry by itself without armor makes no great forward leaps.

Dawn reconnaissance the next morning confirms my supposition. Everything seems quiet, almost dead. As I land after the first sortie of the day a young aircraftsman springs onto the wing of my aircraft with wild gesticulations and congratulates me on the award of the Diamonds. A long distance message has just been received from the Führer, but it also includes an order forbid ding me to fly any more. Some of his words are drowned by the noise of the running engine, but I guess the drift of what he is telling me. To avoid seeing this prohibition in black and white I do not go into the control room, but remain close to my aircraft until the preparations for the next take-off are completed. At noon the General summons me to Odessa by telephone.