Stuka Pilot (28 page)

The creation of many bridgeheads is always a warning that the Soviets are piling up material preparatory to a fresh advance. A minor offensive of our own is being successfully conducted in the area Szolnok—Mezotuer—Kisujzalas—Turkewe with the object of upsetting these preparations. We fly incessantly in support of it. The new Russian assault on the Theiss is considerably delayed and weakened by this interruption of their lines of communication, at least in this northern sector, but they are able to keep expanding the big bridgehead at Szeged and joining it up with a smaller one further north.

At the end of October the offensive is launched from the whole of this area; it begins with a thrust N.W. and N. from E. and S.E. against Kecskemet. Its objective is clear: to achieve the collapse of our defense line on the Theiss and to push forward across the plain as far as the Hungarian capital and the Danube. Ivan is extremely active in the air. He appears to have occupied the whole batch of airfields round Debrecen, and we are again in action against far superior numbers thereabouts.

We are further handicapped by the loss of a number of aircraft shot down by flak, and supplies and replacements leave much to be desired. The Soviets cannot claim the credit for our predicament; they can thank their Western allies who have seriously imperiled our communications by their four-engined attacks on railway stations and towns. The patrolling of railway lines and roads by American Jabos does the rest.

We lack the indispensable means of protecting our traffic routes owing to shortage of man-power and material. With the few aircraft left to my wing, including the anti-tank flight, I often take off on a sortie in the area S.E. of Kecskemet. Our aircraft strength, for the reasons set forth above, has been so greatly reduced that one day I go out alone, escorted by four FW 190s to attack the enemy’s armor in this area. As I approach my objective I can hardly believe my eyes; a long distance north of Kecskemet tanks are moving along the road; they are Russians. Above them, like a bunch of grapes, hangs a dense umbrella of Soviet fighters protecting this spearhead. One of the officers escorting me knows Russian and promptly translates for me everything he understands. The Soviets are again using almost the same wave length as ourselves. They are yelling at one another and making such an appalling din that it is a wonder anyone understands a word the other is saying. My interpreter in the 190 makes out this much:

“Calling all Red Falcons—a single Stuka with two long bars is coming in to attack our tanks—we are sure it is the Nazi swine who shoots up our tanks—there are some Fockes with him (my escort). You are all to attack the Stuka, not the Fockes—he must be shot down today!”

During this pandemonium I have long since come down and made an attack. One tank is on fire. Two FW 190s are weaving above me trying to draw off a few Lag 5s. The two others stick to me, maneuvering as I do; they have no intention of leaving me alone which is bound to happen if they engage in aerial combat with any Ivans. Twenty or thirty Lag 5s and Yak 9s now turn their attention to us; apparently the control officer on the ground directing the fighters is near the tanks, for he yells like a stuck pig: “Go on, go on and shoot the Nazi swine down. Don’t you see one tank is already on fire?” For me this is the surest confirmation of my success. Every time one of them attacks I make a sharp turn just as he is bearing down on me; his speed

prevents him from following my maneuver and he loses his firing position because he is carried out of range. I then bank round again and come in behind him, even if at some distance away. Although I am sorry to waste my anti-tank ammunition I fire two 3.7 cm. shells after him; of course I shall want them later for other tanks. Even if they now miss their mark the chap they were intended for cannot have failed to observe their trail and he gets a shock at seeing these fire balls streak close by him. Now again one of those I have fired at yells: “Look out—be careful—didn’t you see? The Nazi swine is firing back. Look out.” He bellows as if he had already been shot down. Another, certainly the leader of the formation:

“We must attack him from different angles simultaneously. Rendezvous over the village for which I am now heading. We will discuss what is to be done.”

Meanwhile I attack another tank. So far they have not run for cover, doubtless believing that they are sufficiently protected by their fighters. Again one bursts into flame. The Red Falcons are circling over the village and making the craziest hullabaloo; they all want to give advice on the best way to shoot down my Ju. 87. The control officer on the ground rages, threatens, asks whether they have not seen that four tanks are already burning. Now they come back again, from different angles in fact, and I am glad that my fifth tank has used up my last round of ammunition, for if we keep up this game much longer one cannot count on a happy ending. The sweat has been pouring off me all the time though it is very cold outside; excitement is more warming than any fur jacket. The same is true of my escort. Flying Officers Biermann and Kinader are less afraid of being shot down themselves than of failing in their duty to protect me, yet it is more than likely that one or other of the Ivans may say to himself: if I cannot bring down the Stuka with the bars as ordered, I can at least have a go at the Fockes. We set course for home; the Ivans do not stay with us very long before turning back. For quite a while we still hear the reproachful bellowing of the control officer on the ground and the Red Falcons making their excuses.

Often nothing stands in the way of the Russian advance apart from local units thrown together in some critical emergency and frequently composed of airfield and flak personnel and army service corps troops. We lack men and material: the old story, all over again, Individual gallantry and isolated actions may delay but cannot entirely check the advance of colossal numbers of men and material. The few crack units we still have left cannot be everywhere at the same time. Nevertheless our comrades on the ground are putting up an in conceivably gallant fight. The Theiss front is no longer tenable; the next defense line has to be the Danube. I am disturbed by signs of a Soviet thrust in the extreme South through Fünfkirchen in the direction of Kaposvar; if it succeeds, then this new position is again in danger. It is only a very short time before my fears are confirmed.

15. BATTLE FOR HUNGARY

I
t is one of our last days at Farmos. A message has just been received that Ivan had infiltrated with a strong armored spearhead in the direction of the Matra Mountains and has reached the outskirts of Göngjes. Our troops, which have been outflanked, are anxious if possible to restore the situation and close the gap. The weather is bad, and we find this particularly trying because this part of the country is very hilly and the cloud cover is even lower than elsewhere. We leave Budapest to port and soon see the Matra Mountains ahead, and shortly afterwards the town of Göngjes. Fires are burning some miles to the south; it is apparent that something is going on there. Sure enough, tanks are traveling along the road, and they are certainly not German. As I make a wide sweep in that direction to obtain a general picture of the enemy’s strength I am met by intense light and medium flak fire. We circle round the advance guard at low level. Right out in front of the T 34s and Stalins is a type of tank I have never seen before; nor have I yet come across it as an American model. I deal with this stranger first, and then turn my attention to the others. When five tanks are in flames I have used up all my ammunition. The anti-tank flight has also done an excellent job and it has been a bad morning for Ivan. We reform and head for home, being engaged for part of the way by Soviet Yak 9 fighters which have appeared on the scene but do us no harm.

We are within ten minutes of our base and well be hind our own lines when it suddenly strikes me: how am I to describe the first tank I shot up when making out my report? Will my automatic camera have taken a good enough photograph for me to be able to say for certain what type of tank it was? It is very important that the general staff should be informed whether and what new types are appearing on any sector of the front; such information is an indication that new weapons are being put into production, or delivered from other countries. I must know what model that first tank was. So I tell the 3rd Squadron leader to take the formation home while I turn round and fly back to the tanks.

^{Stalin tank}

I throttle back a little and circle four or five times at 12-15 feet in a narrow radius round the mysterious steel monster and give it a leisurely examination from the closest proximity. To one side of it stands a Stalin, which has apparently just driven up from the rear of the party to see what has happened here. The strange tank is still burning. As I circle round it for the last time I see some Ivans crouching under the projecting chain guard of the Stalin behind a 13 mm. A.A. machine gun mounted on a tripod. Squeezed close against the tank with their heads down they look up at me and, seeing smoke come out of the muzzle of their machine gun, I perceive that they are busy firing at me. I am within about fifty, at the very most sixty yards range, but the variations caused by the wide arc I am describing are too great for them to make sure of hitting me, unless they are experienced gunners and have learnt just the right thing to do. I am still speculating in this fashion when two hammer blows strike my aircraft and I feel a searing pain in my left thigh. I struggle hard to overcome the blackness in front of my eyes and become aware that a wet, warm flow of blood is running down my leg. Gadermann sits behind me; I tell him, but he cannot do anything for me because it is impossible for him to get forward. I have no bandages with me. The country we are flying over is only thinly inhabited, the terrain not specially suitable for a forced landing. If we come down here goodness knows how long it will take to get proper medical aid, and I shall bleed to death. So I must try to reach Budapest twenty-five minutes away.

I can see that my strength is failing fast. The blood is still flowing freely… I have a queer feeling in my head… a sort of trance… but I keep on flying and feel that I still have control of my senses. I switch on the intercom, and ask Gadermann:

“Do you think I will pass out suddenly… or will my strength go on ebbing gradually?”

“You’ll never reach Budapest… in all probability… but you won’t faint suddenly.”

The last words are a quick addition, presumably so as not to upset me.

“Then I’ll go on flying… and chance it.”

The throttle is forward as far as it will go… minutes of anxious tension…. I won’t give in… I won’t… there is the fighter airfield, Budapest… flaps down… throttle back… I am down… it’s all over!…

I come to on an operating table in a private hospital. The nurses gathered round me are watching me with a peculiar look on their faces. Behind the surgeon, Professor Fick, stands Gadermann; he is wagging his head. He tells me afterwards that while I was under the anesthetic I had just said some very curious things which did not seem to have exactly delighted the nurses. What can one do in a situation like that? Professor Fick explains that he has extracted a 13 mm. machine gun bullet which had entered my leg at an angle, another having passed clean through the flesh. He tells me I have lost a great deal of blood and that as soon as he has set my leg in plaster of Paris I must go into a nursing home on Lake Balaton to recuperate as quickly as possible under the best medical care and to give my wounds a chance to heal in peace and quiet.

Fridolin has meanwhile arrived as well and curses me for having let my curiosity land me in this mess, but although he does not admit it he is glad it was no worse. He reports that we are to move back into the Stuhlweissenburg area, we ourselves will be at Börgoend. Now they hoist me onto a Storch ambulance plane and fly me to Hevis on Lake Balaton where I am admitted to Dr. Peter’s sanatorium. I have already asked Professor Fick how long it will be before I am able to walk, or at least fly. His answer was ambiguous, presumably because he had been tipped off by Gadermann who has sufficient reason to know my impatient nature. I insist on Dr. Peter immediately taking off my bandage and telling me how long he thinks I shall have to remain here. He refuses to disturb the dressing, then after a good deal of argument he examines the wound and says:

“If there are no complications you will be on your back for six weeks.”

Up till this moment I had not been depressed because of my wound, but now I feel that I am again out of everything, condemned to inactivity at a time when every able bodied man is needed. I could play merry hell I am so mad. That’s a good one when my leg is in plaster of Paris and I can hardly move. But one thing I am sure off: I shall never stand it that long. No matter how good the nursing and the bodily rest may be for me, I shall never have any rest until I am back with the Wing and able to fly with it. Fridolin comes over from Börgoend and visits me every other day with a briefcase full of papers for me to sign and keeps me posted about the unit’s operations, its worries and requirements. Between Farmos and our present airfield the Wing was temporarily stationed, for a few days only, one the aerodrome at Veces, a suburb of Budapest. Latterly bad November weather condit ions have often prevailed, and despite the critical situation only very few sorties could be carried out. On the eighth day he visits me again with the news that the Soviets are attacking Budapest with strong forces, and have already established bridgeheads on this side of the Danube; worse still, a fresh offensive from the South towards Lake Balaton is aimed at thrusting a wedge between our lines. He is not a little astonished when I tell him that I have had enough of lying in bed and am going to get up and drive back with him to the wing.