Stuka Pilot (17 page)

The Russian tanks rarely deliver night attacks, but during the next few days we—our colleagues N. of us in particular—get a taste of them. At midnight my Int. Ops. Officer wakes me in some agitation and reports that some men belonging to a fighter squadron stationed at Malaja Wisky have just turned up with a request that I take off immediately: the Soviets have driven onto their airfield in among the aircraft and their billets in the village. A cloudless starry night. I decide to have a word myself wit h the refugees. Malaja Wisky is 19 miles to the N. and several Luftwaffe formations with their aircraft have been accommodated on this airfield.

“All we can tell you is that there was a sudden racket while we were asleep and when we looked out Russian tanks were going past with infantry perched on top of them.” Another describes the tanks’ invasion of the airfield. It all happened very quickly and it is evident that they were taken completely by surprise, for they have nothing on but their pajamas.

I weigh up the situation and conclude that for me to take off there and then is impossible and also pointless, because to hit a tank I must have relatively good visibility. It is not enough that it is a clear and starry sky. We shall have to wait till sunrise. It is useless to consider dropping a few bombs simply to put the wind up the infantry passengers, because the place is occupied by German units. They are supply organizations, more or less helpless against the Soviet tanks.

We must take off at the crack of dawn; unluckily, on the return flight we shall have to contend with fog, for it looks suspiciously like it even now. We approach the airfield at low level and see our heavy flak in action on the ground. They have already knocked out some of the most venturesome of the steel monsters; the rest have retired to cover and are out of range. All the personnel of the air formations are at their posts. As we fly over the airfield they perform a regular war dance, for they have no doubt that we shall get them out of their predicament. One T 34 has driven into the flying control but and stands there drunkenly, lopsidedly among the wreckage. Some have concealed themselves in a factory area. Here the approach is hampered by the tall chimneys. We have to be devilish careful not to fly into them. Our cannons reverberate in every comer of the village. We also drop bombs outside the place; at least those Ivans who have come on the farthest now perceive that it is better to beat a retreat. For the most part they make for the eastern exit from the village where a number of deep gulleys offer cover. Here, too, their supply lorries with ammunition and petrol are parked. They hope to hold us off with light and medium flak, but we plaster their A.A. guns with bombs and follow up with cannon. Now they are completely silenced. Shortly afterwards the lorries catch fire and blow up.

The Ivans are in flight across the snow towards the East. Our most troublesome job today is the landing at Slynka, as the fog on the airfield refuses to lift and only allows a very short field of view when coming in to land.

By nightfall we have been back and forth seven times with the squadron while I, with one other aircraft, have been out fifteen times. Malaja Wisky has been cleared of the enemy with the loss of sixteen tanks destroyed from the air.

Not long after this episode our flying personnel leaves to join our ground personnel at Pervomaisk North. The airfield there has a small concrete runway, but it is of no use except to park aircraft on so as to keep them from sinking into the mud. It is practically impossible to take off, land or taxi; the whole place is a quagmire. Near the airfield is a hamlet in which we are billeted. After the last sortie of the day, or on days when no flying is possible, Gadermann must have his exercise. After finishing up with a long cross country run we always take a hot and cold tub, and end with a roll in the snow in front of the house in
puris naturalibus
. One’s feeling of fitness after this routine is indescribable; it is like being born again. Some Pans and Paninkas, who take a poor view of water in any case, happen to be passing at a distance from the house and gape at us all in amazement. I am sure that our antics are a fresh confirmation of their propaganda cliché: “Germanski nix Kultura.”

Without met. reconnaissance it has proved a waste of time to make a dawn sortie with a larger formation in this sector. The target area may be obscured by fog and then an attack is impossible. To go out for no purpose is a waste of precious petrol, to say nothing of the fact that these met. conditions may be fatal to larger formations and inexperienced crews. Therefore a standing order has been issued that a met. flyer is to be sent out at daybreak, and his report on weather conditions in the area of our proposed target for that day determines whether we take off or not. The task is usually too important for me to pick anyone indiscriminately for this patrol; Fickel has to go out with him, or some one else if Fickel needs a rest.

One morning we are heading towards the front at dawn. I have taken advantage of the weather and we have taken off before it is fully daylight. I concentrate on memorizing the whole front in this sector. In the twilight I see clearly the enemy’s artillery fire. From its volume one can draw one’s conclusions for the coming day. The artillery positions, once spotted, are instantly marked on my map. In less than no time they will be unrecognizable, and very likely a few hours later may be under bombardment by our Stukas. This reconnaissance information is also of great interest to our colleagues on the ground. If I have flown low over the front in the early morning I can give the army exact intelligence of enemy concentration points. In this way any surprises for the coming day are eliminated. It is an impressive picture, and to me, up there the flash of the many guns in the semi-darkness, resembles a vast railway station in which the lights flicker or are being constantly switched on and off. Fiery strings of bright and darkly colored beads reach up at me and form a sort of connecting line with the ground. The enemy defense has spotted us. Gaily colored Vereys shoot up from down below, prearranged signals between units on the ground. Gradually on our regular early morning visits we have begun to get too close for Ivan’s liking. This is a special nuisance, because in the early hours we often catch his tanks unawares. They, too, like to take advantage of the first daylight in order to effect a surprise and are now shot up by me. One cannot be sore with Ivan for sending his Red Falcons up to scour the front soon after dawn. We often have a skirmish with the Red Falcons. It is not exactly agreeable for the two of us to maneuver against a superior number without fighter protection.

During this phase Fickel looks very wan and Gadermann advises me to let him knock off for a good while fairly soon or at least to relieve him of these sorties alone with me. Even though Fickel speaks half in jest when he says after making a landing with a badly damaged aircraft: “That has taken another few years off my life,” I can see for myself that he is no athlete, and that even his stamina is not inexhaustible. But I appreciate that he does not suggest not coming with me, and at moments like these I always feel this comradeship is something very fine.

Our present dawn reconnaissance is focused at points W.N.W. and S.W. of Kirowograd, where the Soviets are making repeated attempts to break through with their inexhaustible masses. If any kind of flying weather prevails we take off with the whole squadron on a fresh sortie half an hour after our first landing, to attack the important targets which have just been reconnoitered. Now in winter a thick veil of mist makes all observation more or less guess work, and we take off without any certainty that we shall be able to land here again in another hour’s time. Dense fog comes up quite suddenly and then often hangs for several hours, impenetrable. When it is like this a car would be more useful than an aeroplane.

On one occasion I am out with Fickel; we have completed our reconnaissance and made some low level attacks in the Kirowograd area. It is already daylight and we are flying west on our way home. We have still more than half way to go, and have reached Nowo Ukrain ka when suddenly we fly into a densely gathering fog. Fickel keeps very close to my aircraft so as not to lose sight of me entirely. The ground is now barely visible. Above the place just mentioned I perceive some tall chimneys in the very nick of time. The fog bank rises to a great height so that we cannot possibly fly above it. I shall have to come down again somewhere or other. Who knows for how far these weather conditions stretch? To keep to a westward course for as long as our petrol holds out and trust to luck, and then perhaps to make a landing in a partisan area, is no solution either. It cannot be long before we shall reach our lines, and I shall be urgently needed. Besides, our petrol is very low after our long reconnaissance patrol, so the only thing to be done is to stay close to the ground and try to reach our airfield with minimum visibility. Everything is one grey blur. No horizon. Flg./Off. Fickel’s aircraft has disappeared. I haven’t caught sight of him since Nowo Ukrainka. Perhaps he hit a chimney after all.

As long as the terrain remains level we can fly on through this wall of fog. As soon as an obstacle looms up, telegraph poles, trees or rising ground, I have to pull on the joy stick and instantly run into an impenetrable pea-souper. To grope my way slowly at haphazard out of this fog would be an irresponsible risk. The ground is only visible from ten or twelve feet, but at this level some obstacle may suddenly emerge from the fog. I am flying only by compass, and judging by the clock I should be twenty flying minutes from my airfield at Pervomaisk. Now either the plain gives place to hills or the fog becomes denser; the slightest pull on the stick and I am right in the thick of it. I have just been hard put to it to clear some high poles. Now it is too much of a good thing.

“Henschel, we are coming down to land.”

Where I have no idea, for I can see next to nothing, only a grey opacity. I lower my landing flaps and throttle back. I hold the aircraft at low speed and feel my way on the ground. No overshoot. We come to a standstill. Henschel pulls back the canopy roof and jumps out with a grin all over his face.

“We were lucky that time.”

Visibility on the ground is a bare fifty yards. We are apparently on a knoll from which the fog is still drifting downwards. I tell Henschel to walk back a little way; I can hear what I take to be the sound of motor vehicles. Perhaps a road. Meanwhile I sit tight in my trusty Ju. 87 and once again rejoice to be alive. Henschel comes back. My guess was right; a road runs behind us. Army drivers have told him that it is a good twenty five miles to Pervomaisk and that the road leads straight to it. We restart the engine and taxi towards the road. Visibility is still little more than thirty, at most forty, yards. We taxi along the very broad highway as if we were driving a car, obeying the usual traffic regulations and allowing heavy lorries to pass. Where the traffic is congested I stop to avoid the risk of an accident in case the lorry drivers should fail to see my aircraft until they are right on top of us. Many of them think they are seeing a ghost plane. So I taxi on for two hours, uphill, downhill. Then we come to a level crossing; there is no way of getting through it with my wings however I tack and maneuver. Here I ditch my aircraft at the side of the road. Only 71/2 miles to Pervomaisk. With a lift from a passing army car I am quickly back on our dispersal. Meanwhile Henschel stands guard over our machine and is relieved by the first shift. Our comrades have been worried about us, because the time our petrol could be expected to last has elapsed, and also because in the meantime we had not rung up from anywhere, and they are overjoyed at our return.

There is still no sign of Fickel. We are very concerned. By midday the fog lifts, I drive back to my air craft and take off from the road. A few minutes later she is once again on our airfield at Pervomaisk and the faithful mechanics gaze at her as at a prodigal returned. Another sortie in the afternoon. When I come in Gadermann tells me that Fickel has rung up from Nowo Ukrainka. Both he and his rear-gunner have found their way safely out of the fog. He lost me when it became thickest and landed at the same time. Now our joy is great.

Very soon after this the focal point of our operations shifts further north. A German force is encircled in the Tscherkassy area, and a relief operation is to be undertaken with freshly brought-up reserves. The relief attack is delivered mainly from the S. and S.W. We generally support the 11th and 13th armored divisions which, thrusting northward W. of Nowy Mirgorod, have reached a sector of the river. The Soviets are very strongly entrenched behind it. Here there are plenty of good targets for us; air activity on both sides is intense, the Iron Gustavs in particular trying to emulate us by attacking our tank divisions and their supply units. With our slow Ju. 87s we always do our best to break up and chase away these IL II formations, but they are a little bit faster than we are because, unlike ourselves, they have a retractable undercarriage. Besides, being more strongly armored, they are considerably heavier. This is noticeable when coming in to attack; they can pick up speed very much more quickly. But as we usually have our hands full with low level attacks to try to overtake them is anyhow out of the question.

During this phase I am lucky in one encounter with Iron Gustavs. My flights are out on a bombing mission against Soviet prepared positions in a wood. I am circling round above them because I am flying the cannon-carrying aircraft and have not yet succeeded in finding any tanks to attack. A IL II formation flies past diagonally ahead of us, 900 feet below on a S.E. course, escorted by Lags and Airocobras. My No. 2 is carrying bombs. I tell him that we are attacking the IL formation. We are already losing height. When I have got to within three hundred feet of them I see that I cannot gain on them any more and that the Iron Gustavs are again traveling faster than I am. Moreover, the fighters are becoming interested in me. Two of them have already banked round behind me. It is a longish shot, but I get one of the ungainly birds into my sights and loose off a round of anti-tank ammunition from each of my slow-firing cannons. The Gustav becomes a ball of flame and disintegrates into a rain of fiery particles. The rest appear to have got the wind up properly; they streak away downwards even faster and the distance between us increases visibly. Besides, it is high time for me to start weaving, for the fighters are hard on the tail of the miscreant. My evasive tactics bring me closer to my squadron, whereupon the Russians turn away. No doubt they guess that our fighter escort is not far off so that it will not be so easy to shoot me down. In the afternoon Flg./Off. Kunz fails to return from a sortie in the same sector; with seventy claims he topped the list of tanks destroyed. His run of luck began in the Bjelgorod and Charkow area, since when he has gained a great deal more experience. His loss is a great blow to us and makes one more gap in our circle of comrades.