Stuka Pilot (24 page)

It is getting on for July; our sorties are much more frequent and the planned local offensive in the area N. of Jassy is under way. Not with the invented number of tanks and later than the date of the original plan, but nevertheless with fresher troops than we have recently been used to. It is necessary to capture the whole plateau between the Pruth and Targul Frumos. It is an easier line to hold and its capture will also deprive the enemy of a favorable springboard for an assault. The whole front line in this sector is on the move and we succeed in pushing the Soviets back a considerable distance. By stubborn resistance they manage to hang on to several key points. They are lucky because local attacks intended to mop up these nests of resistance are never carried out. Some of our assault units which are thrown in, like a fire brigade, wherever the fighting is hottest have to be withdrawn. I fly my 2100th operational sortie in the course of this offensive. My target is a familiar one: the bridge at Sculeni, of vital importance to the supply line of the hard-pressed Soviets. Every time we come in to attack it from N. of Jassy it is already hidden by a smoke screen and we can never be sure of not dropping our bombs too close to our own front line. Each time I see the smoke screen I have to laugh, imagining the faces of the Ivans down below gazing up at our approach. It does not require a linguist to distinguish the one always recurring word: “Stuka-Stuka-Stuka.” Our days at Husi are numbered.

After a birthday party in my vineyard in the first half of July orders arrive for us to move to Zamosc in the central sector of the East Front. Here the Russians have launched a new large-scale offensive.

We arrive at this new operational base flying over the North Carpathians, over Stryj and by-passing Lemberg. Zamosc is a pretty little town, it makes a good impression. We are quartered in an old Polish barracks on the northern edge of the town. Our airfield itself lies rather far outside it and consists of stubble fields; the landing strip is narrow and at once causes a very regrettable accident. On his very first landing Warrant Officer W.’s aircraft pancakes and the pilot injures himself rather seriously. He is one of my best tank-snipers and it will be a long time before we have him with us again. Here again there is ample work for tankbusters, especially as the front lines are not stabilized but fluid. Break-throughs by tanks are the order of the day. We hold Kowel, but the Soviets have by-passed it and are endeavoring to cross the Bug. It is not long before their spearheads appear in the area N.W. of Lemberg—at Rawaruska and Towaszow, and at Cholm to the north. During this phase we have another move, this time to Mielec, a small Polish town sixty miles N.W. of Krakau. The aim of the Soviet advance is clear: they are trying to reach the Vistula on a comparatively wide front. Our targets are the oncoming masses of men and material now trying to cross the San to the north of Premysl. The fighter opposition is not to be underestimated as American fighters now more and more often put in an appearance after flying as escort to fourengined bomber formations. Originally they come from air bases on the Mediterranean. As we now have reasons to perceive, they do not return to base immediately on completion of the mission, but land on Russian territory to refuel. Then one day they come back on another mission and afterwards fly south to their starting base. On one sortie over the San I run into one such Mustang formation as I am already coming in to attack. There are nearly three hundred of them. I am flying with a formation of fifteen bombers without any fighter protection; we are still 23 miles from Jaroslaw, our target for today. In order not to endanger the squadron, and, above all, its several new crews, I give the order to jettison bombs so that we shall be better able to maneuver in the all too unequally matched air battle. I am reluctant to give this order; hitherto we have always attacked the target assigned to us, even in the face of great enemy superiority. This is the first time; it will also be the last until the end of the war. But today I have no choice.

So I bring my squadron home without loss and we are able to make up for our failure to carry out our mission the next day under more favorable conditions. Success justifies my action, for in the evening I hear that a neighboring unit suffered heavy losses from this huge formation of Mustangs. At midday a few days later while we are refueling we are again surprised by an American formation which immediately comes down to attack our aircraft. Our airfield defense is not strong and our A.A. gunners, at first taken by surprise, are slow in opening up on the attackers. The Americans had not reckoned with flak, and as it is certainly no part of their programmed not to return today, they turn away without any material success in search of easier prey.

A telephone call from the Air Command: for the first time in this war the Russians have set foot on German soil and are pushing into East Prussia from the Willkowiscen area in the direction of Gumbinnen—Insterburg. I want to move to East Prussia at once; the transfer order arrives and the following day I am already at Insterburg with my flying personnel. In the heavenly peacefulness of East Prussia it is quite impossible to imagine that the war has already come so close, and that sorties with bombs and anti-tank air craft have to be flown from this quiet spot. In the town of Insterburg itself the people have not yet adjusted themselves to the gravity of the situation. The aerodrome is still overcrowded with installations which are useless for such concentrated operational activity. Therefore it is better to move to Lötzen in the Mazurian lake district where we are alone on the tiny airfield.

Midsummer in the lovely East Prussian country. Is this land to become a battlefield? It is here that we realize that we are fighting for our homes and for our freedom. How much German blood has already drenched this soil in vain! It must not happen again! These are the thoughts which fill our minds as we fly towards our target—north of the Memel or at Schaulen, at Suwalki or Augustowo—and on the way home the same thoughts torment us. We are now back where we started from in 1941; it was from here that the invasion of the East began. Will the monument at Tannenberg acquire an even greater significance? The emblem of German chivalry is painted on our squadron air craft; never has it meant so much to us as now.

Stiff fighting in the area round Wilkowiscen; the town itself changes hands time and again. A small German armored unit stands its ground here, supported by us from the first to the last minute of daylight, resisting the incessant onslaught of the Russians for several days. Some of the T 34s take cover behind the corn stooks standing on the harvested fields. We set the stooks on fire with incendiaries so as to uncover the tanks, then we go for them. A broiling summer; we live quite close to the water and often bathe in a half hour break between sorties, a sheer enjoyment. The effects of the ceaseless activity on the ground and in the air are soon perceptible: the initial fury of the Russian assault has noticeably slackened. Counter-attacks are more and more frequent, and so the front can to some extent be stabilized again. But when fighting dies down in one place it is sure to flare up in another; so it is here. The Soviets are thrusting towards Lithuania, trying to outflank our armies in Estonia and Latvia. Consequently for us in the air there is always a job to be done. The Soviets are relatively well informed as to the strength of our defense on the ground and in the air.

One sortie again provides Flg./Off. Fickel with an occasion to celebrate his birthday. We are on our way to attack enemy concentrations and the Reds are up to their old trick of using our wave length. Personally I cannot at the moment understand what they are jabbering, but it evidently refers to us because the word “Stuka” keeps on recurring. My linguist colleague and a ground listening post which has an interpreter tell me the story afterwards. This is, more or less, what happened:

“Stukas approaching from the West—calling all Red Falcons: you are to attack the Stukas immediately, there are about twenty—in front a single Stuka with two long bars—it is sure to be Squadron-Leader Rudel’s squadron, the one that always knocks out our tanks. Calling all Red Falcons and A.A. batteries: you are to shoot down the Stuka with the long bars”.

Flg./Off. Markwardt gives me a rough translation while we are in the air. Fickel says with a laugh:

“If they aim at No. 1 you can bet they’ll hit No. 2.”

He generally flies as my No. 2 and therefore speaks from experience.

Ahead of us and below us Ivans with motor vehicles, artillery and other stuff on a road between isolated woods. The heavy flak is putting up a good show, the Red Falcons are already there, Aircobras attack us; I give the order to attack. A part of the formation dives onto the trucks and lorries, a smaller section onto the A.A. batteries, all maneuvering frantically. The fighters now think their opportunity has come. Flak clouds hang close to our aircraft. Shortly before he goes into a dive Fig./Off. Fickel gets a direct hit in his wing; he jettisons his bombs and flies off in the direction from which we have come. His aircraft is on fire. We have dropped our bombs and come out of our dive. I gain height to see where Fickel has got to. He makes a landing in the middle of quite unsuitable country, furrowed with ditches and full of potholes, tree stumps and other obstacles. His aircraft skips over two ditches like a rampageous he-goat; it is a miracle that he has not pancaked long ago. Now he and his gunner clamber out. The situation is bad: cavalry, followed by tanks, are already converging on his aircraft from the woods, naturally intent on capturing the crew. The Aircobras are now attacking us furiously from above. I call out:

“Someone must land at once. You know I am no longer allowed to.”

I have a horrible feeling, because I have been expressly forbidden to land and it goes against the grain to consciously disobey orders. We are still banking low above the fallen aircraft; Fickel and Bartsch down there can surely not imagine that anyone can land safely under the circumstances. The Soviets are gradually closing in and still no one sets about landing; outmaneuvering the fighters makes full demands on every crew’s attention. The decision to land myself in spite of everything is a hard one to make, but as I see it, if I do not act now my comrades are lost. If it is at all possible for anyone to rescue them, I have the best chance of anybody. To disobey an order is, I know, unforgivable, but the determination to save my comrades is stronger than my sense of duty. I have forgotten everything else, the consequences of my action, everything. I must bring it off. I give my orders:

“7 Flight: you are to attack cavalry and infantry at low level.

8 Flight: you are to circle at moderate height to cover Fickel and me.

9 Flight: you are to stay up and divert fighters from this intended maneuver. If fighters dive, then 9 Flight is to attack them from above.”

I fly very low over the scene of the forced landing and select a patch of ground which may serve, with a bit of luck, to land on. Slowly I open the throttle; now we are over the second ditch. Throttle back, a terrific jolt, for an instant my tail is in the air, then I come to a stop. Fickel and Bartsch run for their lives. They are quickly alongside. Ivan’s bullets have so far not hit anything that matters. Both are in behind, I open the throttle. I am seething with excitement. Can I make it? Will my aircraft become airborne before it hits an obstacle on the ground and is smashed to pieces? Now comes a ditch. I snatch up the aircraft, clear it, and again my wheels lightly bump the ground. Then she stays up. Slowly the tension eases. The squadron closes up and we get home without loss.

Rudel’s traveling circus has taken up a pitch on a stubble field near the town of Wenden, not far from the Latvian–Estonian frontier. Field Marshal Schörner has been trying his hardest all this time to get my squadron into his sector with the result that we are now up here on the Courland front. We are barely installed on our cornfield when the inevitable cake arrives with =the Field Marshal’s compliments; no matter where I turn up in his command one of these fabulous cakes always appears, usually with a T 34 in sugar icing and I the number, whatever it is at the time, of tanks I am credited with. The cake is now piped with the figures 320.

The general situation up here is as follows: in the Tuckum area we have launched an attack to re-establish the broken communications with the rest of the :East Front. It is delivered by the assault group under the Command of the distinguished Colonel Count Strachwitz, and is successful. The Soviets are, however, making a persistent effort to indent our front on the east of Courland. This sector has long been a thorn in their side. Hitherto they have been held by the unbounded gallantry of our German soldiers despite their immense numerical superiority. At this particular moment this sector is again being subjected to unusually violent pressure; it is to relieve this pressure that Field Marshal Schörner has called for our support. On our very first sorties we observe that the front lines here are not too fluctuating; the Red positions everywhere are well fortified, their camouflage is excellent, their A.A. batteries well sited quite close to the front line and everywhere strong. Enemy activity in the air is constant and lively. Hordes of enemy fighters and very few of our own formations, if only because of the difficulties of bringing up supplies. Stores of petrol, bombs and equipment must always be immediately available when we require them and demand much transport space. The bread we eat here is bitterly earned, no matter in which direction we fly, whether to the east or the south of the pocket, on the Tuckum front or where the main thrust of the Russian offensive is aimed at Reval via Dorpat. In several sorties we are successful in destroying a big motorized convoy, including escorting tanks, which had reached the gates of Dorpat, so that this breakthrough was checked and could be finally sealed off by the army. Where do they get these endless masses of men and material from? It is positively uncanny. The lorries we have shot up are mostly of American origin. Only occasionally among the tanks have we come across small groups of Shermans. The Russians do not even need these American tanks, for their own are better adapted to the fighting conditions in Russia and their production is fabulous. These enormous quantities of material bewilder and often depress us.