Stuka Pilot (26 page)

We return home with the feeling that we have done all that lies within our power. In the night the Field Marshal rings up again to tell me that our comrades on the ground have counter-attacked successfully, the break-through has been sealed off and the encircled enemy mopped up. He thanks us in the names of his command for our support. I shall pass on his message to the squadron first thing tomorrow. It is always our highest reward to hear from our brothers-in-arms on the ground that our co-operation was indispensable and made their own success a possibility.

Alarming reports reach us in Latvia that the Soviets are driving into Rumania. We are transferred overnight to Buzau, a town N. of Bucharest, our route being East Prussia—Krakau—Debrecen: a wonderful flight across Eastern Europe in brilliant Indian summer sunshine. The flight is made by the III Squadron with the Wing staff, the H is in the Warsaw zone and the I already in Rumania. At Debrecen a lot of time is wasted refueling so it becomes too late to take off for Rumania before dark. We have to cross the Carpathians and I have no intention of losing a crew on a transfer flight. So we stay the night at Debrecen, and at my suggestion go for an evening bathe. There are marvelous baths in the town, supplied by natural warm, medicinal springs. We find women of all ages sitting stolidly in the baths with handbags, books, needlework or their lapdogs, to the delight and amazement of my companions; this squatting in the baths with the in terminable female gossip which is part of the routine is their daily occupation. It is a strange spectacle for old Russian campaigners to see such a collection of scantily clad femininity.

The neat morning we take off for Klausenburg, a lovely old town where the Transylvanian Germans settled centuries ago; that is why the natives here speak German. We make only a short stop here to refuel, for we are in a hurry. At the same time an American reconnaissance plane appears at about 20,000 feet which means that a visit from American bomber formations may be expected before very long. The flight over the Carpathians to Buzau is grand, as is every flight above beautiful mountain scenery in perfect weather. The town now comes into view ahead of us; it used to be an unimportant landing stage on the way up to the front which ran a long way to the north of it, it is now an operational base. What has happened to the stable front line Jassy—Targul—Frumos, and to Husi?

The aerodrome lies in the open country and offers no possibilities of camouflage for our aircraft, and Ploesti, the oil centre of Rumania, which is quite close, is being attacked incessantly by American bombers with very strong fighter protection; the fighters can afterwards turn their attention to us, in as far as we may be thought worth a plastering. The number of American fighters sent up to escort a bomber formation on every sortie here is greater than the total German fighter strength on the whole front.

As I come in to land I see the roads leading to the aerodrome are packed with endless streams of Rumanian military trekking southward; in places convoys are halted by traffic jams. Heavy artillery of all calibers are among them. But there are no German units there. I am witnessing the last act of a tragedy. Whole sectors were held by Rumanian units which have ceased to offer any resistance whatever and are now in fall retreat. The Soviets are at their heels. Where the front line ran the German soldier fights and stands his ground, and will therefore be cut off and taken prisoner. He does not think it possible that our Rumanian allies will let the Russians invade Rumania without a fight and expose their people to this gruesome fate; he just does not believe it.

After landing our aircraft are immediately got ready for operations while I report to my old wing. They are glad to have us back with them. They think we are going to have our hands full. The Russian tanks are already up to Foscari, their objective being the quick capture of Bucharest and Ploesti. Further north, German units are still putting up a fight in the Southern Army Group.

In the meantime our aircraft have been got ready and we take off at once, flying high and following the main road north to Foscari. Six miles south of this town we observe gigantic clouds of dust: if that is not already the tanks—it is! We attack; they leave the road and scatter in the fields. But that does not save them. We shoot up some of them, then go back for fresh ammunition and continue our engagement with the same column. Wherever you look, masses of men and mate rial, all Russian, mostly Mongolians. Are their reserves of manpower so inexhaustible? We get fresh practical evidence that the productive capacity of the U.S.S.R. has been greatly underestimated by everybody and that no one knows the true facts. The masses of tanks, time and again unimaginable in their number, are the most convincing proof of this. Many motor vehicles are also of American origin. One sortie follows hard upon another, from dawn till dusk, as during all these years.

It is one of the last days of August. I take off early in the morning to fly into the area where the Reds have broken through in the north and have climbed to 150 feet above my own aerodrome. Suddenly the flak opens fire; it is manned by Rumanians who are supposed to defend our airfield against attacks by Russian and American aircraft. I look in the direction of the bursting shells and search the sky for enemy bombers. Have the Americans got up so early this morning? I bank over the runway with my formation so as to wait for further developments under the protection of our own A.A. defense. Curiously, the puffs of the bursting shells have shifted lower down and some of them are unpleasantly close to my aircraft. I look down at the firing batteries and see that the guns are swiveling round to follow our maneuvers; one burst just misses me. There is not an enemy plane in sight. Now there is no longer any doubt, the flak is firing at us. It is quite inexplicable to me, but it must be so. We fly north on our mission against the Soviet offensive which is pushing on in force from the area Husi—Barlad—Foscari.

On our return to the aerodrome I am prepared for any further flak antics on the part of the Rumanians; my ground control has already told me as we fly back that the guns were aimed at me. From now on, Rumania is at war with us. We at once come in at low level, landing singly. Individual A.A. guns again open fire on us, but with no more success than before. I immediately go to the telephone and get put through to the Rumanian Air Commodore Jonescu. He is in command of Rumanian air force units, including flak, and I know him well personally from Husi, he wears German decorations. I tell him I have to assume that the unfriendly attentions of this morning were meant for me and my squadron, and ask him if this is so? He does not deny it; he says that his A.A. gunners have seen a German fighter shoot down a Rumanian courier plane and that consequently, even here, they are greatly incensed and are firing at all German aircraft. He does not yet make any mention of the state of war existing between Germany and Rumania. I reply to his complaint that I have not the least intention of standing for this nonsense and that I was going out on another sortie against the Russians N. of Ramnicul Sarrat. Now, however, I propose first to bomb and machine gun the flak on our aerodrome with my Stuka squadron in order to eliminate the possibility of any interference with our start. With the other squadron we shall attack his staff headquarters; I know exactly where they are.

“For God’s sake don’t do that. We have always been the best of friends and we cannot be held responsible for the actions of our governments. I made you a proposition: we will neither of us do anything and, as far as we are concerned, the declaration of war does not exist. I give you my personal guarantee that not another shot will be fired in my command against your Stukas.”

He reasseverates his old friendship for me and his friendly feelings towards us Germans in general. With this a separate peace enters into force for both of us, nor have I any further grounds for complaint. A curious situation: I am here alone with my flying personnel on this aerodrome in a country at war with us. Two Rumanian divisions with all their equipment, including heavy artillery, surround our airfield. Who is to stop them liquidating us overnight? In the hours of darkness this is a very uncomfortable predicament, in the daylight we are strong again. Even two divisions are not likely to show themselves too aggressive against my Stukas when they are so concentrated and exposed in this open country.

Our store of bombs and petrol on the aerodrome are running low, and no supplies are reaching us as Rumania can no longer be held. Our only chance is to move to the other side of the Carpathians and to attempt there to form a new front out of the remnants of our armies which are able to fight their way out of Rumania, and such other troops as can be scraped together anywhere as reserves. It is perfectly clear that our heavy artillery will never get across the Carpathians, but will be left behind in Rumania. If only a large part of our gallant army could extricate itself from this witches’ cauldron of treachery for which the Rumanian government is to blame! Weapons can be replaced, however difficult it may be, but men never! Our ground staff gets ready to take the road over the Bazau pass; we use up the last drop of petrol attacking the Russian spearhead which has thrust closer and closer to Buzau. Partly, our missions take us far behind the Russian lines to relieve German units which are still engaged in bitter fighting here. It is a pitiful spectacle, enough to drive one to desperation, the way these veterans of the Russian campaign, surrounded by the enemy, still butt their heads against an oncoming wall of vastly superior numbers until gradually they have nothing left to resist with save their small arms. The artillery have long since used up all their ammunition, soon they will not have even a rifle or revolver cartridge. To attack and attack again is the only way to endure it. A little Stalingrad.

Now our stores on the aerodrome are finally exhausted and we fly west over the Carpathians to our new operational base at Sächsisch-Regen in Hungary. In this little town almost everyone speaks German; it is a citadel of the Transylvanian Germans. Here there is a German church and German schools; as one walks through the town one never has the feeling that one is not in Germany. It nestles picturesquely between chains of hills and little mountains, with large tracts of woodland in the vicinity. Our airfield is on a kind of plateau with woods on either side; we are billeted in the town and in neighboring purely German villages N. and N.E. of it. Our operations at the moment are directed against the enemy pushing across the Carpathian passes from the east. The country offers excellent defensive positions, but we have not the strength to hold it, having lost the essential heavy artillery in Rumania. Even the most favorable terrain cannot be defended against the most modem weapons by heroism alone. We make low level attacks on the Oitoz Pass and the Gymnoz Pass and the mountain roads to the north of them. I have had experience of mountain flying in the Caucasus, but the valleys here are extremely narrow, particularly at the bottom, and it is necessary to gain considerable height before one can turn round in them. The roads over the passes are tortuous and for long stretches are engulfed in cuttings hewn out of the craggy mountain slopes. As the vehicles and tanks generally keep under the lee of the cliffs one has to be devilishly careful not to bump into them here or there. If another formation is out in the same area at the same time, perhaps approaching its target from the other side of the valley and not so quickly recognized through the haze, then for a fraction of a second “Death lays a bony finger on the joy-stick” when the one formation meets the other flying in the opposite direction. That is a greater danger than the flak, through this is by no means negligible. It is partly sited on the mountain sides, to right and to left of the roads over the passes, because the enemy flak has realized its relative ineffectiveness if it remains with the convoys on the road while we, for in stance, attack a unit lower down from behind another group of rocks. There is for the time being not much fighter opposition. Are the Russians so slow in getting the Rumanian airfields in operation? I doubt it, because they have plenty of supply lines and the available airfields, at Buzau, Roman, Tecuci, Bakau and Silistea, are perfectly situated and amply sufficient for this battle. Presumably the Ivans do not take any too kindly to mountain flying; they seem especially shy of low level flying in the valleys because of the possibility of suddenly running into a
cut de sac
blocked by a sharply rising mountain. I gained the same impression two years ago in the passes and valleys of the Caucasus.

I receive orders at this time to take over the command of the Wing and to relinquish my 3rd Squadron. As my successor as commander of the old squadron I put up the name of Flt./Lt. Lau; he served with it in Greece in the battle with the English fleet and distin guished himself there. After the first phase of the Russian campaign he was seconded for staff duties and is now back at the front. As far as operational flying is concerned the change hardly affects me; I have all types of utilizable aircraft put on the Wing staff strength so that I may be able to fly with one or other of my units at any time.

One day at the beginning of September I am out early with my 3rd Squadron, the 2nd accompanying us as escort; I myself am tank-hunting in the Oitoz Pass with an anti-tank aircraft. The situation up there does not look too pretty. I decide, therefore, to take off again as soon as we return in my FW 190. In the meantime the others can have their aircraft serviced for the next sortie. Plt./Off. Hofmeister has one ready to take off and accompanies me as scout.

We fly back to Oitoz, make low level attacks and reconnoiter the state of affairs in all the Carpathian passes and on the heights, from which we gain an overall pic ture of the general situation in our sector. I return, literally without a drop of petrol or a round of ammunition, to our airfield, where I see forty silvery shining air craft flying towards me at the same altitude. We race close past each other. No deception is any longer admissible. They are all American Mustangs. I call to Hofmeister: “You are to land at once.” I lower my undercarriage, my landing flaps, and am down before the Mustang formation has time to turn round and attack.