Stuka Pilot (37 page)

I call out to him: “Don’t budge or else you will topple what remains of the Storch off the tree into a thirty foot drop.”

The tail is broke off as well as large pieces of the wing planes; they are all lying on the ground. I still have the stick in my hand, my stump is uninjured, I have not knocked it against anything. One must have luck on one’s side! We cannot get down from the tree, it is very high and has a thick, smooth trunk. We wait, and after a time the General arrives on the scene; he has heard the crash and now sees us perched up aloft on the tree. He is mightily glad we got off so lightly. As there is no other possible way of getting us down he sends for the local fire brigade. They help us down with a long, extending ladder.

The Russians have by-passed Dresden, and are trying to cross the Erzgebirge from the north so as to reach the protectorate and thus outflank Field Marshal Schörner’s army. The main Soviet forces are in the Freiberg area and southeast of it. On one of our last sorties we see south of Diepoldiswalde a long column of refugees with Soviet tanks going through it like steam rollers, crushing everything under them.

We immediately attack the tanks and destroy them; the column continues its trek towards the south. Apparently the refugees hope to get behind the protecting screen of the Sudeten mountains where they think they will be safe. In the same area we attack some more enemy tanks in a veritable tornado of flak. I have just fired at a Stalin tank and am climbing to 600 feet when, looking round, I notice a drizzle of bits and pieces behind me. They are falling from above. I ask:

“Niermann, which of us has just been shot down?” That seems to me the only explanation and Niermann thinks the same. He hurriedly counts our air craft, all of them are there. So none of them was shot down. I look down at my Stalin and see only a black spot. Could the explanation be that the tank exploded and the explosion flung up its wreckage to this height? After the operation the crews which were flying behind me confirm that this tank blew up with a terrific explosion into the air behind me; the bits and pieces which I saw raining down from above were from the Stalin. Presumably it was packed with high explosive, and its mission was to clear tank barriers and other obstacles out of the way of the other tanks. I do not envy Niermann on these operations, for now flying is certainly no life insurance; if I am forced to land anywhere there is no longer any chance of making an escape. He flies with an incomparable placidity; his nerve amazes me.

18. THE END

O
n the 7th May there is a conference of all Luftwaffe commanders in Schörner’s army zone at Group H.Q. to discuss the plan which has just been released by the Supreme Command. It is proposed gradually to retire the entire Eastern front, sector by sector, until it is parallel with the Western front. We perceive that very grave decisions are about to be taken. Will the West even now recognize its opportunity against the East or will it fail to grasp the situation? Opinions among us are divided.

On the 8th May we search for tanks north of Brüx and near Oberleutensdorf. For the first time in the war I am unable to concentrate my mind on my mission; an indefinable feeling of frustration suffocates me. I do not destroy a single tank; they are still in the mountains and unassailable there.

Wrapped in my thoughts I head for home. We land and go into the flying control building. Fridolin is not there; they tell me he has been summoned to Group H.Q. Does that mean…? I jerk myself sharply out of my depression.

“Niermann, ring up the squadron at Reichenberg and brief them for a fresh attack and fix the next rendezvous with our fighter escort.” I study the map of the situation… what is the use? Where is Fridolin all this time? I see a Storch land outside, that will be he. Shall I dash out? No, better wait in here… it seems to be very warm for this time of the year… and the day before yesterday two of my men were ambushed and shot dead by Czechs in civilian clothes… Why is Fridolin away so long? I hear the door open and somebody comes in; I force myself not to turn round. Someone coughs softly. Niermann is still speaking on the telephone… so that was not Fridolin. Niermann is having trouble getting through… it is a funny thing I notice that today my brain is registering every detail very sharply… silly little things without the least significance.

I turn round, the door opens… Fridolin. His face is haggard, we exchange glances and suddenly my throat is parched. All I can say is: “Well?”

“It’s all over… unconditional surrender!” Fridolin’s voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

The end… I feel as though I were falling into a bottomless abyss, and then in blurred confusion they fall pass before my eyes: the many comrades I have lost, the millions of soldiers who have perished on the sea and in the air and on the battlefield… the millions of victims slaughtered in their homes in Germany… the oriental hordes which will now inundate our country… Fridolin suddenly snaps out:

“Hang up that blasted telephone, Niermann. The war is over!”

“We shall decide when we stop fighting,” says Niermann.

Someone guffaws. His laughter is too loud, it is not genuine. I must do something… say something… ask a question…

“Niermann, tell the squadron at Reichenberg that a Storch is landing in an hour from now with important orders.”

Fridolin notices my helpless embarrassment and goes into details in an agitated voice.

“A retirement westward is definitely out… the English and the Americans have insisted on an unconditional surrender by the 8th of May… that is today. We are ordered to hand over everything to the Russians unconditionally by 11 to-night. But as Czechoslovakia is to be occupied by the Soviets it has been decided that all German formations shall retire as fast as possible to the West so as not to fall into Russian hands. Flying personnel are to fly home or anywhere…”

“Fridolin,” I interrupt him, “parade the wing.” I cannot sit still and listen to any more of this. But will not what you have now to do be an even greater ordeal?… What can you tell your men?… They have never yet seen you despondent, but now you are in the depths—Fridolin breaks in upon my thoughts:

“All present and correct.” I go out. My artificial limb makes it impossible for me to walk properly. The sun is shining in its full spring glory… here and there a slight haze shimmers silvery in the distance… I come to a stop in front of my men.

“Comrades!”…

I cannot go on. Here stands my 2nd Squadron, the 1st is stationed down in Austria… shall I ever set eyes on it again? And the 3rd at Prague… Where are they now, now when I want so much to see them round me… all… our dead comrades as well as the survivors of the unit…

There is an uncanny hush, the eyes of all my men are riveted upon me. I must say something.

“…after we have lost so many comrades… after so much blood has flowed at home and on the fronts… an incomprehensible fate… has denied us victory… the gallantry of our soldiers… of our whole people… has been unparalleled… the war is lost… I thank you for the loyalty with which you… in this unit… have served our country…”

I shake hands with every man in turn. None of them utters a word. The silent hand-grip shows me that they understand me. As I walk away for the last time I hear Fridolin snap the order:

“Eyes-right!”

“Eyes-right!” for the many, many comrades who sacrificed their young lives. “Eyes-right!” for the conduct of our people, for their heroism, the most splendid ever shown by a civilian population. “Eyes-right!” for the finest legacy that Germany’s dead have ever bequeathed to posterity… “Eyes-right!” for the countries of the West which they have striven to defend and which are now caught in the fatal embrace of Bolshevism…

What are we to do now? Is the war over for the “Immelmann” Wing? Could we not give the youth of Germany a reason to hold up their heads in pride again one day by some final gesture, such as crashing the whole Wing onto some G.H.Q. or other important enemy target and by such a death bringing our battle record to a significant climax? The Wing would be with me to a man, I am sure of that. I put the question to the group. The answer is no… perhaps it is the right one… there are enough dead… and perhaps we have still another mission to fulfill.

I have decided to lead the column which is going back by road. It will be a very long column because all formations under my command including the flak are to march with the ground personnel. Everything will be ready by 6 o’clock and then we shall make a start. The squadron leader of the 2nd Squadron has instructions to fly all his aircraft west. When the commodore hears of my intention to lead the ground column he orders me because of my wound to fly while Fridolin is to lead the march. There is a formation under my command on the airfield at Reichenberg. I can no longer reach it by telephone, so I fly there with Niermann to inform it of the new situation. On the way the cockpit hood of my Storch flies off, its climbing performance is bad; I need it, however, because Reichenberg lies on the other side of the mountains. I approach the airfield cautiously through a valley; it already presents an appearance of desolation. At first I see nobody and taxi the aircraft into a hangar with the intention of using the telephone in the flying control room. I am just in the act of getting out of the Storch when there is a terrific explosion and a hangar goes up in the air before my eyes. Instinctively we fall flat on our stomachs and wait for the hail of stones which tear a few holes in our aerofoil, but we are unscathed. Next to the flying control but a lorry loaded with flares has caught fire and the flares explode all around up in a harlequinade of colors. A symbol of the debacle. My heart bleeds—only to think of it. Here at all events no one has waited for my news that the end has come; seemingly it has arrived considerably earlier from another quarter.

We climb back into the crippled Storch and with an interminably long take-off she lifts herself wearily from the airfield. Following the same valley route by which we came we get back to Kummer. Everybody is busily packing his things; the order of march is arranged in a way that seems tactically most convenient. The A.A. guns are parceled up through the length of the column so that they may be able to put up a defense against attack, should the need arise, if anyone tries to hinder our westward march. Our destination is the American-occupied southern part of Germany.

After the column has started all the rest, except those who want to wait until I take off, will fly away; many of them will have a chance to escape capture if they can land somewhere near their homes. This being out of the question for me, I intend to land on an airfield occupied by the Americans as I need immediate medical attention for my leg; therefore the idea of my going into hiding is not to be considered. Besides, too many people would recognize me. I see no reason either why I should not land on a normal aerodrome, believing that the allied soldiers will treat me with the chivalry due even to a defeated enemy. The war is over, and so I do not expect to be detained or held prisoner for long; I think that in a very short time everyone will be allowed to go home.

I am standing by, watching the column loading up when I hear a droning high above; there are fifty or sixty Russian bombers, Bostons. I have barely time to give warning before the bombs come whistling down. I lie flat on the road with my crutches and think that if those beggars’ aim is good there will be appalling casualties with us all so close together. Already the crash of the bombs as they make impact with the earth, a little carpet of bombs in the middle of the town, a thousand yards from the road where we were drawn up. The poor people of Niemes!

The Russians come in twice to drop their bombs. Even at the second attempt they do no damage to our column. Now we are in column of route and make a start. I take a last comprehensive look at my unit which has been for seven years my world and all that means anything to me. How much blood shed in a common cause cements our fellowship! For the last time I salute them.

Northwest of Prague, near Kladno, the column runs into Russian tanks and a very strong enemy force. According to the terms of the armistice arms must be surrendered and laid down. A free passage is guaranteed to unarmed soldiers. It is not long after this that armed Czechs fall upon our now defenseless men. Bestially, with outrageous brutality, they butcher German soldiers. Only a few are able to fight their way through to the West, among them my young intelligence officer, Pilot Officer Haufe. The rest fall into the hands of the Czechs and the Russians. One of those who fall victim to the Czech terrorism is my best friend, Fridolin. It is infinitely tragic that he should meet with such an end after the war is over. Like their comrades who have laid down their lives in this war, they too are martyrs for German liberty.

The column has set off and I return to the Kummer airfield. Katschner and Fridolin are still at my side; then they drive away after the column to meet their fate. Six other pilots have insisted on flying West with me; we are three Ju. 87s and four FW 190s. Among them are the 2nd Squadron leader and Pilot Officer Schwirblatt who, like myself, has lost a leg and has nevertheless in recent weeks done grand work knocking out enemy tanks. He always says: “It is all the same to the tanks whether we knock them out with one leg or two!”

After bidding a difficult farewell to Fridolin and Flight Lt. Katschner—a dark premonition tells me that we shall never see each other again—we take off on our last flight. A singular and indescribable feeling. We are saying goodbye to our world. We decide to fly to Kitzingen because we know it to be a large aerodrome, and therefore assume that it will now be occupied by the American Air Force. In the Saaz area we have a skirmish with the Russians who appear suddenly out of the haze and hope, in the intoxication of victory, to make mincemeat of us. What they have failed to do in five years they do not succeed in doing today, our last encounter.

After close on two hours we approach the aerodrome, tensely wondering if, even now, the American A.A. guns will open up at us. The large airfield already lies ahead. I instruct my pilots over the R/T that they may only crash-land their aircraft; we do not mean to hand over any serviceable planes. My orders are to unlock the undercarriage and then rip it off in a high speed taxi in. The best way to achieve our object will be to brake violently on one side and to kick the rudderbar on the same side. I can see a crowd of soldiers on the aerodrome; they are paraded—probably a sort of victory roll-call—under the American flag. At first we fly low above the aerodrome in order to make certain that the flak will not attack us as we land. Some of the parade now recognize us and suddenly perceive the German swastika on our wing planes above their heads. Part of the ceremonial muster falls flat. We land as ordered; only one of our aircraft makes a smooth landing and taxis to a stop. A flight sergeant of the 2nd Squadron has a girl on board lying in the tail of his aircraft and is scared that if he makes a so-called bellylanding the damage will extend to his precious feminine stowaway. “Of course” he does not know her; she just happened to be standing so forlornly on the perimeter of the airfield and did not want to be left behind with the Russians. But his colleagues know better.