Stuka Pilot (14 page)

One morning on dispersal we are surprised by a strong formation of IL II bombers which has approached our aerodrome unobserved flying at a low level. We take off in all directions in order to get away from the airfield; many of our air craft are still taxiing up to the take-off in the opposite direction. Miraculously, nothing happens; our A.A. guns on the airfield open up for all they are worth and this evidently impresses the Ivans. We can see normal 2 cm. flak ricocheting off the armor of the Russian bombers.

Only very few places are vulnerable to this ammunition, but with 2 cm. armor-piercing ammo. our light flak can bring down the armored Ivans.

Quite unexpectedly at this time we receive the order to move to Orel, on the other side of the bulge where the Soviets have gone over to the offensive and are threatening Orel. A few hours later we arrive at the aerodrome north of Orel over Konotop. We find then situation around Orel roughly corresponding to the rumors we have already heard at Charkow. The Soviets are attacking the town from the north, east and south.

Our advance has been halted all along the front. We have seen too clearly how this has happened: first the landing in Sicily and afterwards the Putsch against Mussolini, each time our best divisions have had to be withdrawn and speedily transferred to other points in Europe. How often we tell one another during these weeks: the Soviets have only their Western Allies to thank that they continue to exist as a militarily effective force.

It is a hot August for us in every sense of the word; to the south there is bitter fighting for the possession of Kromy. In one of our first attacks in this area directed against the bridge in this town a very odd thing happens to me. As I am diving, a Russian tank just starts to cross the bridge; a moment before the bridge was clear in my sights. A 500 kg. bomb aimed at the bridge hits him when he is half-way across it; both tank and bridge are blown to smithereens.

The defenses here are unusually strong. A few days later in the northern area, west of Bolchow, I get a direct hit in my engine. I receive a full burst of splinters in the face. I think first of bailing out, but who can tell where the wind will carry the parachute? There is very little hope of coming down safely, especially as Jaks are in this area. I succeed, however, in making a forced landing in the very front German line positions with my engine cut off. The infantry unit occupying this part of the line takes me back to my base in a couple of hours.

I take off at once on a fresh sortie and in the same region, too. It is a peculiar feeling to return a little later to the same place where one has been shot down a short while before. It stops one from becoming hesitant and brooding over the risks one is running.

We are about to take up positions. I have climbed rather too high and observe the heavy flak; it is now directing its fire on our formation, and the gun positions are recognizable from the flash of the guns. I immediately attack them and order the aircraft accompanying me to drop their bombs at the same time on the Russian gun-sites. I fly home relieved with the comforting feeling that they too must now be sweating hard.

Russian aircraft raid our airfield in the Orel sector every night. At first we are under canvas, later in stone buildings on the airfield. There are slit-trenches alongside the tents; we are supposed to take cover in them as soon as the raiders appear. Some of us, however, sleep through the raids because, in view of the uninterrupted all day flying, a good night’s rest is indispensable if we are to be fit to go out again the neat day. In any case Ivan generally keeps up his bombing all night. My friend, Walter Kraus, then skipper of the 3rd Squadron, is killed in one such raid. After his training period with me in the Reserve-Flight at Graz, being a former reconnaissance pilot, he soon found himself at home in the new sector and was a great asset to our Wing. He had just been promoted to Squadron Leader and awarded the Oak Leaves. We mourn the loss of a friend and comrade with bitter grief; his death is a staggering blow. How many hard blows of incomprehensible destiny must we yet experience?

I am relieved of the command of the first flight, and given the 3rd Squadron instead. I know it inside out from earlier on; was I not its old Squadron engineer officer? As far as new faces have appeared I know them all from my visits to the squadron. It is not difficult to knock them into shape as Squadron Leader Becker is there. We have nicknamed him Fridolin. There is nothing he does not know; he is the soul and the mother of the ground personnel. Our medical care is in the hands of Stabsarzt Gadermann, who is also the friend and counselor of everybody. Soon the 3rd Squadron Command consists of a kind of family in which all orders are given and carried out in the best cooperative spirit. In the air this means no sort of reorganization because during the last year I have often led the squadron formation.

Here I soon fly my 1200th operational flight. I have as escort a fighter squadron to which, incidentally, the famous skier Jennewein belongs. Between sorties we often chat about our native mountains and, of course, about skiing. He fails to return from one joint mission with our squadron and is reported missing. Apparently he was hit, then, according to the account of his colleagues, he transmitted over the R/T: “Got a hit in the engine, am flying into the sun.” At the time, however, the sun was hit by flak in the area northeast of Orel he nose-dives and makes a belly-landing in No Man’s Land. He and his aircraft remain there, lying on the slope of a small gulley. At first I believe he has made a forced landing although it seemed as if he had been badly hit already in the air; also the impact was too violent when his aircraft struck the ground.

After flying over the spot several times at low level I can perceive no movement in the aircraft. Our Medical Officer goes forward and with the help of the army reaches the wreck, but it is too late to save any of the crew. He has taken a priest with him and so our two comrades are laid to their eternal rest.

There is very little conversation in our squadron for the next few days, only the most necessary exchanges; the bitterness of these days oppresses us all. It is not very different in other units. In a dawn attack on important Soviet artillery emplacements east of Orel the flights of the 1st Squadron fly with mine, the second flight led by Flying Officer Jackel. He has become a magnificent airman and has a pet stunt which he does habitually. Wherever he sees a fighter he attacks it even though it is far superior to his aircraft in speed and armament. Already on the Kuban front he has given us many a laugh. He always contends that his Ju. 87 is particularly fast; that at full throttle he can leave the others standing. This cheery soul often brings down a fighter; he reminds one of a stag roaming the forest in search of a hunter and when he finds one instantly charging him with lowered antlers. He is the life and soul of his flight; without repeating himself he can tell jokes from nine in the evening till four o’clock in the morning. ‘Bonifacius Kiesewetter’ and other ballads of course belong to his repertoire.

On this particular morning he has, with his flight, attacked a neighboring battery and we are returning to base. We are just flying over our front line when someone yells: “Fighters!” I can see them, a long distance away; they show no signs of attacking us. Jackel turns round and joins issue with them. He shoots one of them down but even fat Jensch, his at other times dependable rear-gunner, appears to be looking round instead of in front of him. There is apparently another Lag 5 coming up behind him. I see his aircraft go into a kind of backward dive from a height of 600 feet and burst into flames. I can only imagine that in his eagerness for battle Egbert forgot how low he was flying and that he had no business to indulge in such acrobatics. So we lose this dear comrade also.

The thought occurs to many of us: “Now when one after the other of the old-timers goes, I can almost reckon by the calendar when my own number will be up.” Every jinx must come to an end sooner or later; we have long been waiting for our bad luck to change. To live in constant danger induces fatalism and a certain callousness. None of us any longer gets out of bed when the bombs are dropping at night. Dead tired from being in the air without intermission all day and every day we hear, half awake and half asleep, the bombs bursting close at hand.

In the east to west break-through area north of us things go from bad to worse; now Kareitschew, northwest of us, is threatened. In order to reach this target area more quickly and the Shisdra sector further to the north, we move to the airfield at Kareitschew. Much of the fighting is developing in the forest regions which are very hard to see into clearly from above. They make it easy for the Reds to camouflage their positions and our attacks are very difficult. I hardly ever catch sight of a tank; so I mostly fly with a bomber. Since I took over the command of the squadron the anti-tank flight has been more closely incorporated in my squadron, and the staff work, both technical and tactical, has quickly been adapted to the employment of the cannon-carrying aircraft I introduced.

Our stay at Kareitschew is not a long one. There has been talk again for some days of another move to the south where the situation is critical. After several sorties based on Briansk we do indeed move back again to Charkow. But this time our operational base is the aerodrome on the south side of the city.

11. BACK TO THE DNIEPER

H
ere also at Charkow there have been all sorts of changes in the few months since we left. On our side full strength divisions have been withdrawn, and the Soviets have gone over to the offensive. We have not been here more than a day or two when Soviet shells begin falling in the city. Our airfield has no large stores of petrol or bombs for us to use, and so another transfer to a more favorable airfield does not come as a surprise. It lies 100 miles to the south, close to the village of Dimitriewka. As it is a considerable distance from here to the present front we use two take-off airfields, one at Barwenkowo for the front on the Donetz at Isjum, the other at Stalino for missions on the Mius front. Each of these airfields has a small detachment to service us during the day. We take our first shift and armorer personnel up with us every morning. Both at Isjum on the Donetz and at Mius a stable defensive line has been established, and is under heavy attack by strong Soviet forces. Often our operations officer assigns us the same old target: the same wood, the same ravine. We can soon dispense with map readings and all the rest of it. As Steen used to say: “We are big boys now.”

On one of our first sorties in the Isyum sector somebody calls over the R/T: “Hannelore!”—that is my call-sign—“Aren’t you the bloke who used to crack nuts?” I do not reply, and now he keeps on repeating his question over and over again. Suddenly I recognize the voice as that of an Int. Ops. Officer with whom we have often co-operated and with whose division we always got on splendidly. It is of course a breach of security regulations, but I cannot resist answering that I did indeed use to crack nuts and that he was a keen footballer. He admits it delightedly and all the air crews who have been listening to the conversation, amused by the episode, give the cold shoulder to the furiously barking flak. This Flg./Off. of the Air Intelligence service, Epp by name, is one of the best Vienna centre forwards. Since he is with a unit in the thick of the battle I shall have frequent occasions to meet him.

Flg./Off. Anton who took over the command of the 9th Flight after Homer’s death is killed on the Mius. His whole aircraft blows up as he is coming in to dive, in the same inexplicable way as has happened several times before. Again another of our old-timers gone, a Knight of the Iron Cross. Among our air crews there is a constant come and go, never any settling down—the remorseless rhythm of war.

Autumn is already in the air when we receive orders to include the Dnieper front in our operations. So further westward. For days we go out on missions from the airfield N.W. of Krasnoarmaiskoje. Here the Soviets are pushing into the Donetz industrial area from the east and the northeast. Apparently this is a large scale operation; they are everywhere. Besides, they raid our airfield uninterruptedly with Boston bombers: a nuisance, because maintenance work is held up and so we are late in getting into action. During these raids we squat in slit trenches behind our aircraft and wait there till Ivan has had his bit of fun. Luckily our losses in aircraft and material are small.

No one tells us that the army units which pass our airfield are almost the last, and that Ivan is on their heels. It will not be long before we find it out for our selves. We have taken off from the western airfield and are flying over the town and gaining height. Our mission is to attack enemy forces about 25 miles N.E. On the other edge of the town I see obliquely and at some distance six to eight tanks; they are camouflaged and otherwise very similar to ours. Their shape, however, strikes me as rather odd. Henschel interrupts my reflections: “Let’s take a look at those German tanks on the way back.”

^{Douglas A20 Boston}