Stuka Pilot (3 page)

“What are you doing here?” he asks. His tone takes all the wind out of my sails.

“I am reporting for duty.”

“There’ll be no operational flying for you till you’ve learnt how to manage a Stuka.” I can hardly contain my anger, but I keep my self-control even when he adds with a supercilious smile: “Have you learnt that much yet?”

An icy silence—until I break the intolerable pause:

“I am completely master of my aircraft.”

Almost contemptuously—or is it only my momentary impression?—he says with an emphasis that sends a shiver down my spine: “I will put your case before the C.O. and we’ll hope for the best. It’s for him to decide. That’s all; you can go and get yourself fixed up.”

As I come out of the tent into the blazing sunshine I blink my eyes—not only because of the glare. I am battling with a steadily growing feeling of desperation. Then common sense tells me there is no reason to give up hope: the adjutant may be prejudiced against me, but his opinion of me is one thing, the C.O.’s decision another. And even supposing the adjutant to have so much influence over the C.O.—could that be possible?

No, the C.O. is unlikely to be swayed because he does not even know me and will surely form an independent judgment. An order to report immediately to the C.O. puts an end to my brooding. I am confident that he will make up his mind for himself. I report. He returns my salute rather lackadaisically and submits me to a prolonged and silent scrutiny. Then he drawls: “We already know each other,” and, probably noticing an expression of contradiction on my face, waves aside my unuttered protest with a motion of his hand. “Of course we do, for my adjutant knows all about you. I know you so well that until further orders you are not to fly with my squadron. If at some future date we are under strength…”

I do not hear another word of what he says. For the first tune something comes over me, a feeling in the pit of my stomach: a feeling I never have again until years later when I am crawling home in an aircraft riddled by enemy bullets and serious loss of blood has sapped all my physical strength. This “something” is a dark intuition that despite everything the human factor is the criterion of war and the will of the individual the secret of victory.

How long the C.O. goes on talking I have not the least idea and as little of what he is saying. Rebellion seethes inside me and I feel the warning hammering in my head: “Don’t… don’t… don’t…” Then the adjutant’s voice recalls me to reality: “You are dismissed.”

I look at him now for the first time. I had not until that moment been aware that he was present. He returns me a stony stare. Now I have completely recovered control of my temper.

A few days later Operation Crete begins. The engines roar on the airfield; I sit in my tent. Crete is the trial of strength between the Stukas and the Navy. Crete is an island. According to all accepted military axioms only superior naval forces can wrest the island from the British. And England is a sea power; we are not. Certainly not where the Straits of Gibraltar prevent us from bringing up our naval units. The hitherto accepted military axioms, the English superiority at sea, are being wiped out by Stuka bombs. I sit in my tent “…that until further orders you are not to fly with my squadron!” A thousand times a day this sentence riles me, mocking, contemptuous, derisive. Outside I listen to the returning crews excitedly chatting of their experiences and of the effective landings of our airborne troops. Sometimes I try to persuade one of them to let me fly in his place. It is useless. Even friendly bribes avail me nothing. Occasionally I fancy I can read something like sympathy in the faces of my colleagues, and then my throat goes dry with bitter fury.

Whenever the aircraft take off on a sortie I feel like stuffing my fists into my ears so as not to hear the music of the engines. But I cannot. I have to listen. I cannot help myself! The Stukas go out on sortie after sortie. They are making history out there in the battle for Crete; I sit in my tent and weep with rage.

“We already know each other!” That is just what we do not. Not in the very least. I am positive that even now I should be a useful member of the squadron. I am completely master of my aircraft. I have the will to carry out an operation. A prejudice stands between me and the chance of winning my spurs. A prejudice on the part of my superiors who refuse to give me the opportunity to convince them of the wrongness of their “judgment.”

I mean to prove in spite of them that an injustice has been done me. I will not let their prejudice stop me getting at the enemy. This is no way to treat a subordinate; I realize that now. Time and again the flames of insubordination blaze inside me. Discipline! Discipline! Discipline! Control yourself, it is only by self-restraint that you can achieve anything. You must have an understanding for everything, even for the mistakes, the crass blunders of your superior officers. There is no other way to make yourself more fit than they to hold a command. And to have an understanding for the mistakes of your subordinates. Sit calmly in your tent and keep your temper. Your time will come when you will really count for something. Never lose confidence in yourself!

2. WAR AGAINST THE SOVIETS

S
lowly Operation Crete draws to its conclusion. I am told to fly a damaged aircraft to a repair shop at Kottbus and wait there for further orders. Back again to Germany over Sofia—Belgrade.

I am left at Kottbus without news of the squadron and without any idea as to what they intend to do with me. During the last few days there have been constant rumors of a new campaign, based on the fact that numerous ground crews and flying formations as well have been moved East. Most of those with whom 1 discuss these rumors believe that the Russians are going to allow us to push forward across Russia to the Near East so that we can get near the oilfields, other raw materials and war potential of the allies from this side. But all this is the merest speculation.

At 4 A.M. on the 22nd June I hear on the radio that war with Russia has just been declared. As soon as it is daylight I go into the hangar where the aircraft belonging to the “Immelmann” squadron are under repair and ask if any one of them is serviceable. Shortly before noon I have attained my object, and now nothing holds me back. My squadron is believed to be stationed somewhere on the East Prussian-Polish frontier.

I land first at Insterburg to make enquiries. Here I get the information from a Luftwaffe H.Q. The place I am bound for is called Razd and lies to the S.E. 1 land there half an hour later among a crowd of aircraft which have just returned from a sortie and are about to take off again after being overhauled. The place is crawling with aircraft. It takes me quite a while to find my last squadron which had rather cold shouldered me when we were in Greece, and which I had not seen since. They have not much time for me at squadron H.Q. They have their hands full with operations.

The C.O. tells me via the adjutant to report to the first flight. There I report to the flight commander, a Flying Officer, who has also been in the doldrums and welcomes me if for no other reason than because the squadron has branded me a black sheep. As he is now skeptical of everything told him by his colleagues in the squadron I have the initial advantage that he is not ill disposed towards me. I have to hand over the aircraft I brought with me from Kottbus, but am allowed to join the next sortie flying an ancient aeroplane. From now on I am dominated by only one idea: “I am going to show all of you that I have learnt my job and that your prejudice is unjust.” I fly as No. 2 behind the flight commander, who has detailed me to look after the technical requirements of the flight when not on operations. With the assistance of the Senior Fitter it is my business to see that as many aircraft as possible are serviceable for each sortie and to maintain liaison with the engineer officer of the squadron.

During operations I stick like a burr to the tail of my No. 1’s aircraft so that he becomes nervous of my ramming him from behind until he sees that I have mine thoroughly under control. By the evening of the first day I have been out over the enemy lines four tines in the area between Grodno and Wolkowysk. The Russians have brought up huge masses of tanks together with their supply columns. We mostly observe the types KW I, KW II and T 34. We bomb tanks, flak artillery and ammunition dumps supplying the tanks and infantry. Ditto the following day, taking off at 3 A.M. and coming in from our last landing often at 10 P.M. A good night’s rest goes by the board. Every spare minute we stretch out underneath an aeroplane and instantly fall asleep. Then if a call comes from anywhere we hop to it without even knowing where it is from. We move as though in our dreams.

On my very first sortie I notice the countless fortifications along the frontier. The fieldworks run deep into Russia for many hundreds of miles. They are partly positions still under construction. We fly over half-completed airfields; here a concrete runway is Just being built; there a few aircraft are already standing on an aerodrome. For instance, on the road to Witebsk along which our troops are advancing there is one of these half-finished airfields packed with Martin bombers.

They must be short either of petrol or of crews. Flying in this way over one airfield after another, over one strongpoint after another, one reflects: “It is a good thing we struck”… It looks as if the Soviets meant to build all these preparations up as a base for invasion against us. Whom else in the West could Russia have wanted to attack? If the Russians had completed their preparations there would not have been much hope of halting them anywhere.

We are fighting in front of the spearhead of our armies; that is our task.

We stay for short periods at Ulla, Lepel and Janowici. Our targets are always the same: tanks, motor vehicles, bridges, fieldworks and A.A. sites. On and off our objectives are the enemy’s railway communications or an armored train when the Soviets bring one up to support their artillery. All resistance in front of our spearheads has to be broken so as to increase the speed and impetus of our advance. The defense varies in strength. The ground defense is in the main considerable, ranging from infantry small arms fire to flak, not to mention M.G. fire from the air. The only fighter aircraft the Russians have at this time is the Rata I 16, very much inferior to our Me 109. Wherever the Ratas put in an appearance they are shot down like flies. They are no serious match for our Messerschmitts, but they are easy to maneuver and of course a great deal faster than we Stukas. Consequently we cannot afford entirely to ignore them. The Soviet operational air force, its fighter and bomber units, is remorselessly destroyed both in the air and on the ground. Their fighting power is small; their types, like the Martin bomber and the DB III, mostly obsolete. Very few aircraft of the new type, P II, are to be seen. It is not until later that American deliveries of the twin-engined Boston are noticeable even on this front. We are frequently subjected to raids by small aircraft at night with the object of disturbing our sleep and interrupting our supplies. Their evident successes are generally few. We get a taste of it at Lepel. Some of my colleagues sleeping under canvas in a wood are casualties. Whenever the “wire crates,” as we call the little wire-braced biplanes, observe a light they drop their small shrapnel bombs. They do this everywhere, even in the front line. Often they shut off their engines so as to make it difficult to locate them and go into a glide; then all we can hear is the wind humming through their wires. The tiny bomb drops out of this silence and immediately their engines begin to purr again. It is less a normal method of warfare than an attempt to fray our nerves.

The flight has a new skipper, Fit. Lt. Steen. He joined us originally from the same formation in which I received my first instruction in flying a Stuka. He gets accustomed to my sticking close behind him like a shadow on a sortie and keeping only a few yards distance even when diving. His marksmanship is excellent—if he misses the bridge it is a certainty I hit it. The flight aircraft following us can then drop their bombs on the A.A. guns and other targets. He is delighted when the squadron at once give him their opinion of his pet lambs, among which I am included. He makes no bones about it when one day they ask him: “Is Rudel O.K. yet?” When he replies: “He is the best man I have in the flight” there are no more questions. He recognizes my keenness, but on the other hand he gives me only a short lease of life because I am “crazy.” The term is used half in jest; it is the appreciation of one airman by another. He knows that I generally dive to too low a level in order to make sure of hitting the target and not to waste ammunition.

“That is bound to land you in trouble in the long run,” is his opinion. By and large he may be right, if it were not that at this, time I am having a run of luck. But one gains experience with every fresh sortie. I owe a lot to Steen and count myself fortunate to be flying with him.

In these first few weeks, however, it looks very much as if he is likely to be proved right in his predictions.

In low level attacks on a road along which the Russians are advancing, damage by enemy flak compels one of our aircraft to make a forced landing. Our comrade’s aircraft comes down in a little clearing surrounded on three sides by scrub and Russians. The crew take cover behind their machine. I can see the Russian M.G. bursts spattering up the sand. Unless my colleagues are picked up they are lost. But the Reds are right among them. What the heck! I must bring it off. I lower my landing flaps and already I am gliding down to land. I can spot the Ivans’ light grey uniforms among the bushes.
Whang!
A burst of M.G. fire hits my engine. There seems no sense in landing with a crippled aircraft; if I do we shall not be able to take off again. My comrades are done for. Their waving hands are the last I see of them. The engine conks like mad, but picks up and is running just sufficiently for me to pull out on the other side over a copse. The oil has plastered the window of my cockpit and I expect a piston seizure at any moment. If that happens my engine will stop for good. The Reds are below me; they throw themselves on the ground in front of my kite while some of them shoot at it. The flight has climbed to nearly a thousand feet and is out of range of the tornado of small arms fire. My engine just holds out till I reach our front line; there I land. Then I hurry back to base in an army lorry. Here Officer Cadet Bauer has just arrived. I know him from my time with the reserve flight at Graz. He later distinguishes himself and is to be one of the few of us who survive this campaign. But this day on which he joins us is an unlucky one. I damage the right wing plane of my aircraft because when taxiing in I am blinded by the thick swirl of dust and collide with another aircraft. That means I must change my wing plane, but there is not one on the airfield. They tell me that a damaged aircraft is still standing on our last runway at Ulla, but it still has a sound right wing plane.