Stuka Pilot

6. TRAINING AND PRACTICE

Before taking over the job of training new crews I get married. My father is still Rector of his church and performs the ceremony in our little country village to which I am attached by so many happy memories of my scape-grace boyhood.

Then off to Graz, this time not as a learner but as an instructor. Formation flying, diving, bombing, gunnery. I often sit in the aircraft eight hours in the day, as for the time being I have hardly any help. In bad weather or when technical duties are on the schedule there are military exercises or sport. Crews are sent to me for further training from the Stuka schools after which they proceed to the front. When they have passed on I shall meet some of them again in days to come; perhaps have them in my own unit. If for no other reason, it pays to spare no trouble with their training. In my leisure hours I keep in training by athletics; I play tennis, swim, or spend my time in the magnificent country round Graz. After two months I get an assistant. Pilot Officer Jackel of the 3rd Flight has just been awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, and has at the same time been seconded for less exacting work. We carry out exercise operations against peaceful targets, as though at the front. I have two Messerschmitt aircraft on my flight strength so that we are also able to represent enemy interception. The training is stiff and arduous, but I believe the crews who stand up to it and do what is required of them are learning a lot.

Physical toughness and endurance is fostered by sport. Almost every Monday morning I take the flight for a six mile run; it does them all a world of good. In the afternoon we go to Andritz for a swim and tests of nerve. They all qualify as pole jumpers and there is keen competition for the swimming certificate.

Jackel is a few years younger than I and still quite a boy. One cannot be angry with him no matter how awkward a situation arises. He is gay and full of fun; he takes life in his stride. On Sunday afternoons I usually go off into the mountains. There is a bus stop in front of the guard room and I board it there on my way into the town. The shadow of the bus travels with us at the side of the road and I suddenly become aware of figures which form part of this shadow apparently perched on the roof of the bus. They are “cocking snooks” and in other ways playing the fool, especially when girls happen to be passing. I can guess who they are by their caps. They are soldiers belonging to our station, but they cannot be men of my unit because strict orders have repeatedly been issued forbidding all service men to climb on the top of the buses. Rather pointedly I remark to a lieutenant of a ground unit sitting next to me:

“Those chaps up there must be yours.”

With a faintly superior edge to his voice he retorts:

“You will laugh. They are yours!”

When the soldiers alight in Graz I order them to report to me at 11 A.M. on the Monday morning. When they troop in to receive what is coming to them I say:

“What the devil do you mean by it? You know you’ve been breaking an order. It’s unheard of.”

I can see by their faces that they want to say something and I ask if they have any excuse to offer.

“We only thought it was all right for us as Pilot Officer Jackel was up there with us too.”

I hastily dismissed them before I burst out laughing. Then I picture Jackel perched on the roof of the bus. When I tell him what he has let me in for he puts on his innocent expression, and then I can keep a straight face no longer.

In Graz a few days later we narrowly escape another off-duty accident. A Glider Club had begged me to tow their glider with an ancient Czech biplane because they had no one else to pilot it. I do this and, being a private flight, it is an opportunity for me to take with me my wife who is very keen to fly. After 21/2 hours I ask how much petrol we are likely to have left; the petrol gauge does not show this. They tell me the machine has enough for four hours; I can carry on flying without the least anxiety. I accept this assurance and fly back towards the aerodrome. As we are flying at low level above the middle of a potato field the engine conks out. I have only time to yell out: “Hold tight,” for I know that my wife is not strapped in, before I come down in the furrows. The aeroplane bounces over a ditch and then comes safely to a standstill in a cornfield. We fetch some petrol and then I take off again from a field path for the aerodrome two miles away.

How many of my colleagues, especially in the Luftwaffe, come through battles with the enemy unscathed only to crack up in some utterly stupid “civilian” accident This trivial incident once again confirms the necessity for the apparently silly rule by which we are obliged to be at least as careful when we have left the operational front as we are in the keenest attack. Similarly when in action with the enemy we are not allowed to accept unnecessary risks even if we are not inhibited or deterred by the thought of our lives during an operation.

When I land again on the aerodrome with the ancient biplane I learn that the reserve flight of another squadron has been transferred to Russia. In that case it should soon be our turn. For a long time it has been preying on my mind that I have been home now for several months, and all of a sudden I realize how I have been fidgeting to get to the front. I constantly fret at being kept out of it for so long, and I feel this restlessness particularly strongly when I sense that too long an absence from the front line might well be dangerous to me. For I am only human, and there are many instincts in me which would gleefully exchange the intimate fellowship of death for the more intimate fellowship of life. For I want to live, the desire is stronger every time—I feel it in the throbbing of my pulses whenever I escape death once again in an attack, but I am also conscious of it in the exhilaration of a head-long rush down a steep Alpine slope. I want to live. I love life. I feel it in every deep drawn breath, in every pore of my skin, in every fiber of my body. I am not afraid of death; I have often looked him in the eye for a matter of seconds and have never been the first to lower my gaze, but each time after such an encounter I have also rejoiced in my heart and sometimes cried out with a whoop of jubilation trying to overshout the roar of the engines.

All this I think of as I mechanically chew down my supper in the Mess. And then already my mind is firmly made up. I will doggedly pull every possible string until they take me out of this rut and send me back again to a fighting formation at the front.

I do not accomplish my real object, but it is not long before we are all ordered to the Crimea. Sarabus, close to Simferopol, is our new station and there, at any rate, we are closer to the front than we were before. We solved the transport problem by using our Ju. 87’s as tug aircraft for freight gliders. Over Kracow—Lemberg—Proskurow—Nicolajew we are soon at our destination. The aerodrome there is a very large one and suitable for training purposes. Our makeshift quarters are not very different from those of the front, but where there is a will there is a way. We resume our routine training as at Graz. We specially enjoy it when we practice landings on other airfields, for then sometimes we land in the morning in the west on the shore of the Black Sea, and perhaps in the afternoon in the northwest near the sea of Asow. We bathe for at least half an hour on the lovely beaches in the broiling sunshine. There are no hills except near Kertsch, and in the south where the Jaila range of about 5,000 feet runs along the south coast of the Crimea. All the rest of the country is flat; vast steppes, in the middle of them huge tomato plantations. A very narrow coastal strip stretches between the sea and the Jaila mountains: the Russian Riviera. We are often there and fetch kindling with lorries; there is no timber where we are stationed. The comparison with the Riviera turns out to be rather feeble. I see a few palm trees at Jalta—so far so good—but two or three of these trees are far from making a Riviera. From a distance the buildings gleam brightly in the sun, especially when one is flying at low level along the coast. It makes a surprisingly good impression; but if you walk through the streets of Jalta and get a close view of everything the general primitiveness and vulgarity of this Soviet watering place is a tremendous disillusion. It is no different in the neighboring towns of Aluschta and Alupka. My men are delighted by the many vineyards between these two places; the vintage season is just beginning. We sample the grapes on every hillside and often arrive home late with a prodigious bellyache.

I have been chafing now for some considerable time at not being sent back to the war. I ring up the General of the Air Command in the Caucasus and offer him my Stukas as an operational unit; most of the crews are ready for the front. I point out that it will be splendid training for all of them, and that the Wing may consider itself lucky to get crews which have already had experience. First, we receive an order to move to Kertsch. It appears that Soviet supply trains often travel along the south coast. From here we would be able to attack them. But it gets no further than “would”. For hours together we stand by waiting for the supply trains, but nothing happens. Once I want to try my luck with my Messerschmitt fighter; my objective being enemy reconnaissance aircraft. But the blighters at once sheer off far out to sea setting a course for Tuapse—Suchum, and I can no longer overtake them because, naturally, I cannot take off until after I have spotted them. Soon afterwards, however, I succeed in effecting our transfer to Beloretschenkaja, near Maikop, where another wing is stationed. Here we shall get proper operational flying again, for we are to be used together in support of the advance in the direction of Tuapse.

Overnight we have now become a busy frontal formation. We are in the air from early to late in the area where the army is attacking up the Psich valley by way of Chadykenskaja-Nawaginskaja, over the Goitsch pass in the direction of Tuapse. It is not exactly easy for us because in our training unit we use only relatively old and obsolete aircraft, and the Wing operating here, with which we frequently fly together, has the very latest type. When flying in formation at high altitudes this puts us at a noticeable disadvantage.

Fighting in the narrow valleys is a thrilling experience. We are often unwarily enticed by our eagerness for a fight into a trap, if we pursue the enemy or try too persistently to discover his hiding places. If in our search we fly into one of these narrow valleys we are frequently unable to maneuver at all. Sometimes, however, a mountain suddenly looms up at the end of such a valley, rising sheer and blocking the way ahead. Then we have to make a quick reaction, and time and again we owe our escape to the good performance of our aircraft. But that is still child’s play compared with the situation we find ourselves in when 600 feet above us the mountains are wreathed in dense cloud.

The mountain crests here are between 3,500 and 4,500 feet. It is easier after we have been into every valley a few times and know which valleys have exits, and behind which mountain it is possible to get out into open country. This is all guess work in bad weather and with low lying clouds. When we make low level attacks on some valley road occasionally the defense, fires down at us from above because the mountain sides on either side of us are also occupied by the Ivans.

Our numerically weak mountain troops are putting up a stubborn fight against a far superior enemy lodged in strong mountain positions. We are in close liaison with the ground forces and do our best to answer their every call for attack and support. The battles in the mountain forests are particularly difficult; it is fighting blind-fold. If our Operations Officer gives us permission to attack a certain belt of forest we carry out his instructions even when we are unable to see it clearly. It is on such occasions as these that the Army commends our usefulness and the effectiveness of our attack.

The Geimamberg, the neighboring heights, are in German hands. By stiff fighting we are pushing forward to the south west. Less than thirteen miles separate our comrades from Tuapse. But the casualties in the mountain fighting are too high and there are practically no reserves available. So the assault on the Goitsch pass is abandoned and final success is denied us.

There is a ding-dong battle for the Goitsch railway station.

A Soviet armored train hurls its heavy stuff into our thin attacking line. This armored train is crafty. It belches fire and then, like a dragon, retires into its lair. This dragon’s lair is a mountain tunnel in the neighborhood of Tuapse. If we fly up it streaks back like lightning at our approach into the shelter of the tunnel and we only glimpse its tail. Once we catch it napping-nearly. We have “crept up on it,” but at the last minute it must have received a warning. It is hit, but the damage cannot have been serious; a couple of days later it has been repaired and re-appears. But now this steel monster is extremely wary; we never once catch sight of it again. Then we make the following decision: if we are unable to get to close quarters with this armored train we will make its guardian angel its fatality! We block the exit from the tunnel with a special bomb, thereby preventing the armored train from any excursion and giving our comrades on the ground, at least for a time, a sorely needed respite. “Give and take is the whole philosophy of life,” says my rear gunner with a grin.

We also attack the port of Tuapse, which, like all ports, is strongly defended by flak. The town and the harbour itself, behind the chain of mountains, is still in Soviet hands. If we fly at an altitude of 9,000 feet the light flak reaches us long before we approach the target. A.A. guns are sited on the mountains for the last few miles of our approach. To avoid the flak we fly at an altitude of only 2,500 feet, for the mountain ridges rise perpendicularly from the sea to a height of 4,500 to 5,000 feet. Our attacks are directed against the dock yards, port installations and ships lying in the harbour, principally tankers. Generally everything mobile starts to career in circles in order to avoid our bombs. If they were not so already, my crews are now fully fledged operational airmen. The flak over the port is not at all comparable with the defense at Kronstadt; it is nevertheless impressively heavy. It isn’t possible to fly straight back over the mountains because they are much too high. We usually dive very low on to the harbour and then sheer off seawards at our maximum ceiling and so escape relatively quickly out of the range of the defense. Out at sea, however, the Soviet pursuit aircraft are already waiting for us. We have now to climb to a good 9,000 feet in order to get back home with a margin of at least 3,000 feet above the mountain flak because in air battle it is easy to lose altitude.

The conditions under which we attack are much the same as the Gelendshik area where we also occasionally participate in attacks on airfields or naval targets in. the bay of the same name. The Soviets have soon located our station at Beloretschenskaja; at first they bomb it day and night. Small as is the material damage, they nevertheless inflict a serious blow on the wing whose guests we are. Their C.O., Squadron Leader. Orthofer, is killed in one of these raids. I choose this very moment to land and taxi in; bombs are dropping to port and starboard. My aircraft is hit by many splinters and becomes unserviceable, but I escape unhurt.

General Pflugbeil, who is in command of all the Luftwaffe formations here, is often present at our dispersal. He brings us the news that we are to move further east to an, airfield near Terek. Here another push is in progress and we are to support it. It is aimed in the direction Grosny—Caspian Sea. At the time the move takes place our tank spearhead has reached a point just short of Okshokodnice. Over Georgiewski, Piatigorsk and Mineralnya Wody where one can look down on the vast and magnificent Elbruz mountains we fly to our new base at Soldatskaja. We make a short half way landing at Mineralnya Wody and rest. Here there is a real plague of mice. In palliasses, in cupboards and crannies, in every hold and comer they patter—everywhere mice. They jump out of our haversacks, they eat up everything. It is impossible to sleep minutes quiet, but immediately the noise begins again as loud as before. At Soldatskaja we are rid of this plague of mice. Presumably Ivan’s constantly falling bombs soon frightened them away from here. We have few A.A. guns. We do not now operate, as was originally intended, in support of the tank spearhead to the east, but our first mission is in the south.

A few days later Naltschik is captured by German and Rumanian troops. The panorama as we approach our objective to the south is glorious. Ahead of us the snow peaks of the 15,000 feet range, glittering in the sunshine in all imaginable colors, below us green meadows spotted with yellow, red and blue. These spots are plants and flowers. Above us a brilliant blue sky. When approaching the target I often forget entirely the bombs I am carrying and the objective. Everything makes such a soothing, peaceful and beautiful impression. The mountain world of which the Elbruz is the centre has such a gigantic and overpowering effect; in this or that valley here one could easily tuck away several of the Alps.

After the capture of Naltschik we make a few more sorties eastwards to the Terek front, beyond Mosdok. Then, quite unexpectedly comes the withdrawal to Beloretschenskaja in the battle zone of Tuapse where bitter fighting is still going on for the old key areas. It is getting on for November. I fly my 650th operational sortie and for some weeks I have not been feeling any too fit. Jaundice! I have guessed it for some time, but I hope that it will pass and that I shall not be taken out of operations because of this. The whites of my eyes are yellow, my skin the same color. Always I deny that anything is wrong with me to anyone who asks, especially to General Pflugbeil who has been trying for quite a while to order me to bed. Malicious persons say that I have been eating too much whipped cream. Perhaps there is some truth in this. The General had brought along a case of champagne to celebrate my 600th operational flight and was quite astonished when I told him I was sure my outfit would appreciate his gift and explained that my own particular weakness lay in another direction. A few days later several large cakes arrived with two pails full of whipped cream, not too difficult a problem in view of the number of cows in these parts. For two days we practically ate nothing but these sweets; the next day hardly a single crew was fit to fly. As I am now as yellow as a quince a Messerschmitt 108 arrives with the General’s orders that I am to be taken, by force if necessary, to hospital at Rostov. I succeed in persuading him to let me stop off to report to my Wing at Karpowa near Stalingrad. We fly there on a northerly course over Elistra. I immediately move heaven and earth to stay with the Wing and from here hand over my flight to someone else. It doesn’t work, but the Wing Commander promises me No. 1 Flight in which I began the Russian Campaign.

“But into hospital first!”

Then in the middle of November I am shut up in the hospital at Rostow.