Stuka Pilot (31 page)

After explaining to me far-reaching improvements in other departments, such as artillery, infantry weapons and U-boats all with the same astonishing knowledge—he tells me that he has personally drafted the wording of the citation for my latest decoration.

We have probably been chatting for an hour and a half when an orderly reports that “the film is ready for showing.” Every new weekly newsreel is immediately shown to him and given his sanction for release. It so happens—we have gone down only one flight of stairs and are seated in the film theatre—that the first pictures actually show a scene taken at my dispersal at Stuhlweissenburg, followed by our Stukas taking off and ending with a picture of tanks being shot up by me in the area west of Budapest. After the film has been shown I take my leave of the Supreme Commander. Wing Commander von Below hands me the citation for the Knight’s Cross, the Oak Leaves, the Swords and the Diamonds, which have lain in the Reichs Chancery. Each of them weighs several pounds, especially the last two which are framed in gold and, apart from their great sentimental value, must be worth quite a lot. I drive to Goering’s H.Q. The Reichsmarschall expresses his pleasure which is all the greater because recent events have made his position very difficult. The enemy’s air superiority has aggravated almost all our troubles and even made things impossible, but who could prevent it? He is overjoyed and proud that at this moment one of his men should have been instrumental in making the Führer create a new German decoration for bravery. Drawing me a little aside he says to me roguishly:

“You see how envious the others are of me and the awkwardness of my position? At a conference the Führer said that he was creating a new and unique decoration for you because your achievement is unique. Whereupon the representatives of the other services objected that the recipient is a soldier of the Luftwaffe whose problems are the cause of so many headaches. They wanted to know whether it was not at least theoretically possible for a soldier belonging to one of the other services to earn this distinction? So you see what I am up against.”

He goes on to say that he would never have believed I could induce the Führer to change his mind about letting me go on flying. Now that I have his authorization he could not himself renew his prohibition. He begs me, as he has done repeatedly before, to accept the appointment offered me to command the attack units. But seeing that I have got round the Führer I do not think he seriously believes he will win me over today.

In the late afternoon I am on board the special train for Berlin where my aircraft is waiting to carry me back to my comrades at the front. I am in Berlin for only a few hours, but that is long enough to attract a whole mob of “Gold Oak Leaves rubbernecks” as the story has already been given out in the press and on the radio. In the evening I meet Ritter von Halt, at this time Leader of German Sport. He tells me that after prolonged endeavor he has succeeded in convincing Hitler that I ought to assume the leadership of the Reich sport movement at the end of the war. When my war experiences have been written and I have initiated my successor in my present field of activity I am to be offered the post.

I fly by way of Görlitz, stopping to see my family and taking off again for Budapest on the same day as reports from this sector of the front are very grave. The Wing has been paraded when I land, so that the senior squadron leader may congratulate me in the name of the unit on my new honor and promotion. Then into the air again on a sortie in the Budapest area.

“If the Russian flak only knew how much gold and diamonds was flying overhead,” said one of the ground staff with a grin, “you can bet they would shoot better and exert themselves more.”

Some days later I receive a message from the Hungarian Leader, Szalaszy, inviting me to his H.Q. South of Sopron. General Futterer, commanding the Hungarian air force, and Fridolin accompany me. In recognition of our operations against Bolshevism in Hungary he invests me with the highest Hungarian military decoration, the Medal for Bravery. This has hitherto been awarded to only seven Hungarians. I am the eighth to receive it and the only foreigner. The grant of an estate which goes with the award does not interest me much. It is to be presented after the war and doubtless it will become a holiday resort for the unit.

Shortly before the middle of January we get alarming reports that the Soviets have launched an offensive from the bridgehead at Baranov and have already made a deep penetration thrusting towards Silesia. Silesia is my home. I request an immediate transfer of my Wing to this sector of the front. No definite orders come through until 15th January when I am instructed to move the unit, with the exception of One Squadron, to Udetfeld in Upper Silesia . Being short of transport aircraft, we take the first shift and the armorer personnel with us on board our Ju. 87s so as to be ready for operations the moment we arrive, landing en route at Olmutz to refuel. When we are over Vienna the skipper of the anti-tank flight comes through over the R/T:

“I shall have to land… engine trouble.”

I am very annoyed at this, not so much because I can make a shrewd guess that the fact that his fiancee lives in Vienna has contributed to the misbehavior of his engine, as because my operations officer, Pilot Officer Weisbach, is traveling in his aircraft. This means that Weisbach will not be with me when we land on our new airfield and I shall again have to be bothered with that confounded telephone!

We approach our destination above the familiar, snow clad slopes of the Sudeten. Who would ever have thought I should one day be flying on operations over this region? When we were over the endless steppes of Russia—1250 miles from home—and the first retreat became necessary we used to say jokingly: “If this goes on we shall soon be based on Krakau.”

We regarded this town as a typical L. of C. supply base with all the amenities associated with such a town and possessing a certain attraction for some—at least for a few days. Now our jest has actually come true, even worse. Krakau now lies a long way behind the Russian lines.

We land at Udetfeld. I learn very little from the air division stationed here. The situation is confused, communications with our forward units being mostly cut. They tell me that Russian tanks are already 25 miles east of Tschenstochau, but nothing is yet known for certain as is always the case when things have got out of hand. The Panzer “fire brigade” in this sector, the 16th and 17th Armored Divisions, is at the moment isolated and fighting desperately for its existence, unable to come to the aid of the other Divisions. The Russian drive seems again to have been mounted on a massive scale; overnight they have penetrated the defense positions of the 16th and 17th Panzer Divisions and consequently our air attacks will have to be carried out with the greatest caution, for the fact that a unit is far behind the apex of the Russian drive does not guarantee its being an enemy.

They may well be units of ours trying to fight their way back. So I order all pilots to make certain by low level flying before attacking that they are really Soviet troops. We munition before leaving Hungary, but there is as yet no sign of our tanker lorries. I glance at my petrol gauge: we shall just have enough petrol for a short sortie. Twenty minutes after landing at Udetfeld we take off on our first sortie in this area. We are now in sight of Tschenstochau. I am searching the roads running eastward, where the Russian tanks have been reported. We fly low over the houses of the town. But what on earth is going on there? There is a tank moving along the main street, it is followed by a second and then a third. They look very like T 34s, but surely that is not possible. They must belong to the 16th and 17th Panzer Divisions. I circle round once more. Now no mistake is admissible; they are T 34s sure enough with infantry perched on top of them. There is no doubt that they are Ivans. They cannot be captured enemy tanks which we are using to supplement our own, for if this were so they would identify themselves by firing Vereys or showing the swastika. My last hesitation is dispelled when I see that the snipers mounted on them are opening fire at us. I give the order to attack. We must not drop bombs inside the town; there is always the chance that the population is still there, that the people have been taken by surprise and have not been able to evacuate the town. The high trolley cables and the tall houses with wireless aerials and other obstructions make low level attack with our cannon-carrying aircraft extremely difficult. Some of the T 34s career in circles round the blocks of houses so that one is apt to lose sight of them when coming in to dive. I shoot up three of them in the centre of the town. These tanks must have come from somewhere; the first of them certainly did not enter the town alone. We fly on eastward following a railway line and a road. Only a few miles beyond the town the next party of tanks are rolling forward in front of a convoy of lorries with infantry, supplies and A.A. guns. Here in the open country we are in our element and give the tanks an unwelcome surprise. Gradually the light begins to fail and we return to base. Eight tanks are burning. We have run out of ammunition.

We have never taken our task lightly, but we may perhaps have been inclined to regard these tank-hunts as a kind of sport; now I feel it has ceased to be a game. If ever I see another tank after I have used up all my ammunition, for two pins I would ram the thing with my aircraft. I am seized with an uncontrolled fury at the thought that this horde from the Steppes is driving into the very heart of Europe. Will anyone ever be able to drive them out again? Today they have powerful allies supporting them with material and the creation of a second front. Will not poetic justice one day bring a terrible retribution?

We are out from dawn till dusk irrespective of losses, regardless of opposition and bad weather. We are in volved in a crusade. We have become very taciturn between sorties and in the evenings. Every one carries out his duty in tight-lipped silence, ready if need be to lay down his life. Officers and men are conscious of a vital current uniting them in the spirit of comradeship without distinction of rank and class. It has been that way with us always.

On one of these days a wireless priority message from the Reichsmarschall summons me immediately to Karinhall; I am absolutely forbidden to fly, this is an order from the Führer. I am feverishly agitated. To have to miss a day’s flying and go to Berlin with the situation what it is! Impossible. I just won’t do it! At this moment I feel answerable only to myself. I ring up Berlin between two sorties with the intention of asking the Reichsmarschall to grant me a reprieve until the present crisis is past. Relying on the Führer’s latest concession I must obtain leave to continue flying; I cannot look on, it is unthinkable. The Reichsmarschall is not there. I try to contact the Chief of the General Staff. They are all in conference with the Führer and so unreachable. The matter is urgent; I am anxious to leave no stone unturned before wittingly disobeying the orders. As a last resort I ring up the Führer. The switchboard operator at the Führer’s headquarters does not seem to understand me and presumably jumps to the conclusion that I wish to be connected with some general or other. When I repeat that I want my call put through to the Führer the voice enquires: “What is your rank?”

“Corporal,” I reply. Somebody at the other end of the line laughs as if he understood the joke and puts me through. Wing Commander von Below answers.

“I know what you want, but I beg you not to exasperate the Führer. Hasn’t the Reichsmarschall told you?”

I reply that this is the reason for my ringing up and describe the seriousness of the present situation. It is no use. He advises me at all events to come to Berlin and talk to the Reichsmarschall; he believes he has a new assignment for me.

Furious because for the moment I am baffled I hang up. A hush descends upon the conversation in the mess. Everyone knows that when I am boiling over it is best to let me simmer down in silence.

Tomorrow we are to move to Klein-Eiche. I know the district well; our “tank acquaintance,” Count Strachwitz lives near by. The best way to forget my distress at this new move is to fly to Berlin to see the Reichsmarschall. He receives me at Karinhall; I am struck by his irritability and lack of geniality. We have our talk during a short walk in his forest. He opens up at once with his heaviest guns:

“I went to see the Führer about you a week ago and this is what he said: when Rudel is there I have not the heart to tell him that he must stop flying, I just cannot do it. But what are you the C.-in-C. of the Luftwaffe for? You can tell him, I cannot. Glad as I am to see Rudel, I do not want to see him again until he has reconciled himself to my wishes. I am quoting the Führer’s words and now I am telling you. Nor do I want to discuss the matter any further. I know all your arguments and objections!”

This is a stunning blow. I take my leave and fly back to Klein-Eiche. On the journey my mind is full of the last hours. I know now that I shall have to defy the order. I feel it my duty to Germany, to my native land, to throw into the scales my experience and my continued personal effort. Otherwise I should seem a traitor to myself. I shall go on flying whatever the consequences may be.

The Wing flies a sortie in my absence. Pilot Officer Weisbach, whom I have grounded because I need him as operations officer, goes out on a tank hunt with W.O. Ludwig, a first rate gunner and holder of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. They fail to return, a loss to us of two invaluable comrades. These days we must give everything we have, we cannot spare ourselves. To me these operations are a greater strain than ever before because my disobedience to an order of the Supreme Commander preys on my mind. If anything should happen to me I should be refused military honors and be disgraced; the thought often worries me. But I cannot help it, I am in the air from morning till night. All my officers have been tipped off that if I am wanted I am not flying, but “have just gone out.” Individual claims of tanks destroyed have always to be entered on the daily returns, sent every evening to the Group and the Air Command naming the gunner in every case. Since the new order grounding me has been in force my claims are no longer included, but are credited to the unit as a whole. Hitherto claims have been entered in this category only when two separate gunners have attacked the same tank when, in order to avoid duplication, the claim was reported under the heading: “Name of gunner doubtful; success attributed to unit.” Latterly we have constant queries from higher levels pointing out that we have previously always been able to give the gunner’s name, why this sudden large entry under “joint account?” At first we get out of it by saying that now whenever one of us spots a tank we all dive onto it simultaneously as everyone wants to be in at the kill.