Stuka Pilot

8. WITHDRAWAL

Jungklausen has just flown out the last remaining stores of bombs and petrol and is back with the Wing. He has done an excellent job under difficult circumstances, but even here in Oblivskaja the conditions in which he finds us are anything but quiet. One morning there is musketry fire on the far side of the aerodrome. As we discover later, the ground staff of another unit is engaged in a battle with the regular Soviet troops. The met. flier gives the alert by firing a succession of red Vereys. I immediately take off with the squadron and close to the airfield I see horses, their dismounted riders beside them, all Ivans. To the north, an incalculable army of horses, men and material. I climb, knowing the condition of our defenses and wanting to make a preliminary survey of the general situation. It does not take me long: a Russian cavalry division is advancing and there is nobody to stop them. North of us there is, as yet, no coherent front, so that the Soviets have infiltrated unnoticed through a newly created gap. Their main force is two to three miles distant from our air field with its spearhead on its periphery. There are no ground forces in this area; this is therefore the direst emergency. The first thing we do is to destroy their artillery with bombs and cannon fire before they can take up positions; then we attack the other constituents. A dismounted cavalry unit is immobilized and loses its fighting efficiency. Therefore we have no choice but to shoot down all their horses.

Without intermission we take off and land; we are all in feverish haste. Unless we can wipe them all out before dusk our airfield will be threatened by nightfall.

In the afternoon we spot a few Soviet tanks. They are rolling at top speed in the direction of the aerodrome. We must destroy them, otherwise we are hopelessly lost. We go in with bombs. They maneuver to avoid them. The sheer urgency of self-defense gives us a precision we have never had before. After the attack we climb and fly back to the airfield by the shortest route, well satisfied with the good job we have done and with the success of our defensive measures. Suddenly I see straight in front of me… right on the edge of the airfield… it is surely impossible The last Soviet tank has escaped from the helter-skelter caused by our bombardment and is intent on carrying through its task. Alone it can shoot our whole airfield with everything on it to blazes. So into a dive, and the well aimed bomb hits the tank a few yards from the runway.

In the evening, I fly my seventeenth sortie of the day and we take a good look at the battlefield. It is quiet, everything is wiped out. Tonight we shall certainly sleep undisturbed. During the last sorties our A.A. on the airfield has left its sited positions and is forming a kind of protective screen in the forefield, in case any of the surviving Ivans should take it into his head to run in the wrong direction during the night. I personally think it unlikely. The few who have escaped will be more inclined to report back to some rear H.Q. that their late cavalry unit will not return and must be writ ten off.

Shortly before Christmas we are at Morosowskaja, a little further to the west. Here much the same thing happens to us. Ivan is lurking a few miles away from the airfield at Urjupin. The weather hampers every take-off. We do not want to be surprised by Ivan during the night without the prospect of any means of hit ting back from the air. On the 24th December we are, in any case, to retire to another airfield in the southeast. The continuous bad weather forces us to turn back during our flight and to spend Christmas, after all, as best we can at Morosowskaja. On Christmas Eve we are all aware that our sentries may sound the alarm at any moment. In that case we shall have to defend the airfield and all our aircraft. No one feels any too comfortable; it is more noticeable in some than in others. Although we sing the Christmas hymns, the proper Christmas atmosphere eludes us. Pissarek has had one over the eight. He seizes Jungklausen in a bear-like hug and whirls him round the room. The sight of the teetotaler dancing lady to the waltzing bear does something to liven things up. It amuses the men and dispels all gloomy thoughts and breaks the ice of unconviviality. Come what may, we are all conscious of the sense of fellowship.

The following day we learn that on Christmas Eve the Soviets have overrun the neighboring airfield at Tazinskaja, 30 miles west, where a transport squadron of our command is stationed. The Soviets have behaved shockingly; the corpses of some of our colleagues are completely mutilated, with eyes gouged out and ears and noses cut off.

We have now a clear demonstration of the full extent of the Stalingrad debacle. During Christmas week we are engaged with forces north of Tazinskaja and near our own airfield. Gradually operational Luftwaffe units are brought up from the rear and also fresh units are being assembled from reserve organizations. In this way a light combatant screen is built up covering our airfields. Optimists may call it a front; but there is no real fighting power until seasoned divisions can again be put into the line who can retrieve the situation for which they are not to blame. But till that happens the going is hard and there is much need of improvisation. Owing to the new situation, we are no longer able to continue the support we have been giving to the Tschir front along the river of the same name, in the areas Nishtschirskaja and Surwikino.

This front is the first newly created barrier in an east-westerly direction against the enemy attacking from the north. The country is perfectly flat and offers no sort of obstacles in the way of terrain. Everything is steppe as far as the eye can reach. The only possible cover is in so-called Balkas, clefts in the surface of the earth, or galleys, the bottoms of which lie some 30 feet below the surrounding plain. They are relatively wide so that vehicles can be parked in them, not only one behind the other but also side by side. The whole country stretches like this for many hundreds of miles from Rostow to Stalingrad. If the enemy is not encountered on the march, he is always to be found in these hiding places.

In fine, cold weather there is a good deal of fog in the early hours of the morning, but it frequently does not come up until we are already in the air. During one flight to the Tschir front we have just started on our way back when it suddenly thickens. I immediately make a landing with my flight on a large field. There are none of our own troops to be seen. Henschel goes off with some of the gunners to reconnoiter. They are back in three hours, they can find us again only by shouting for the last few hundred yards. I can hardly see my hand before my face. Shortly before mid-day the fog lifts a little, and a bit later we land smoothly on the airfield.

The month of January is quickly past and we pitch our H.Q. temporarily at Tazinskaja before moving to Schachty. The fighting from here is mainly against those enemy forces which are threatening the Donetz area. For sorties further north my squadron uses the airfield at Woroschilowgrad. It is not far from here to the Donetz; possible attempts to cross the river can be more easily countered from here. Because of the uninterrupted sorties and the stiff fighting we have done since Stalingrad, we are greatly reduced in the number of aircraft we can daily put in the air. The whole squadron has at the moment scarcely more than enough aircraft to form one strong flight. To fly on separate missions is seldom profitable, we fly in formation the leadership of which usually devolves on me. The whole Donetz area is full of industrial installations, chiefly mines. If the Soviets once get among these plants it will be difficult to throw them back; here they can find good cover and camouflage. Low level attacks among chimneys and mine shafts have generally only limited success, the pilots have to pay too much attention to their surroundings and the obstacles to be avoided, and cannot concentrate on the objective.

On one of these days Flying Officers Niermann and Kufner celebrate their birthday. Northwest of Kamensk we look for the enemy, especially tanks, and the individual aircraft have separated somewhat from each other. On the tail of Kufner’s aircraft, with Niermann aboard it, flies a Lag 5. I warn them and Niermann asks “Where?” He doesn’t see it because the Lag has sneaked up from behind. Now it has already opened fire at close range. I had immediately turned back though without much hope of getting there in time. In the nick of time I shoot him off their tail before he realizes what is happening. After this Niermann no longer claims that he is infallible in spotting every fighter.

Such a “birthday celebration” is quite good fun, and many practical jokes are played; so also on this occasion. We have with us an acting M.O. Our airmen say that he cannot stand the “noise of firing.” In the small hours of the morning Jungklausen goes to the telephone and gets this doctor out of bed. Jungklausen pretends to be his superior officer in the Air Medical Corps:

“You are to prepare immediately to be flown into the pocket.”

“Would you repeat that please?”

“You are to prepare immediately to be flown into the pocket of Stalingrad. You are to relieve a colleague there.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

The doctor lives only on the floor below; we wonder that he does not hear Jungklausen’s loud voice from the room above. He must be too excited.

“But you know that I have a bad heart.”

“That is beside the point. You are to take off for the pocket immediately.”

“But you know I have recently had an operation. Wouldn’t it be better to give this assignment to a colleague?”

“You can’t mean that seriously! I cannot imagine that you are trying to wriggle out of this assignment. What sort of a hole should we be in if we cannot even count on you?”

We are splitting our sides with laughter. The next day the doctor runs around in a terrible stew, but he boasts to anyone who is willing to listen to him that perhaps he is going to be required for this highly dangerous assignment. A few days later he has tumbled to the joke and is transferred. Better for us, better for him.

In these days for quite a short time we use the airfield at Rowenki and then we move to Gorlowka, not far from Stalino, the centre of the Donetz industrial region. Heavy snowstorms hamper our flying activity: it is always a slow business getting the whole squadron into the air.

Pilot Officer Schwirblat is sent to me as replacement officer, and on his first operational flight he has to fly alone with me into the Artemowsk area. I have flown some way ahead because apparently he has had difficulty taxiing on the snow.

Then after he becomes airborne, instead of taking a short cut to join me he follows my track without closing up on me. Some Lags have fun with him and use him for target practice. It is a marvel that he is not shot down; he flies straight on without taking any defensive action; obviously he thinks that is the correct thing to do. I have. It is a marvel that he is not shot down; he flies straight on without taking any defensive action; obviously he thinks that is the correct thing to do. I have to turn back and come in behind him; whereupon the fighters sheer off. After landing he discovers holes in his fuselage and tail unit. He says to me:

“The flak peppered me properly; it must have been flak, for I never even saw a fighter.”

I say with a touch of sarcasm:

“I must warmly congratulate you on the excellence of your rear gunner who was presumably determined to see nothing—not even when the Lags were using him for target practice.”

Later, however, Schwirblat is to prove himself the best man in the Wing, of an exemplary toughness. Everyone in the outfit speaks of him only as my shadow; for when on operations he sticks to me like a burr. In addition, he joins me in all my sporting activities with the same keenness, and he never smokes or drinks. It is not very long before he gives proof of his flying skill. He nearly always flies as my No. 2 and we often go out alone. We cannot let up for a moment because the Soviets are attempting a westward thrust across the road from Konstantinowska to Kramatorskaja in the direction of Slawiansk to our north. In one of these attacks my record of operational sorties reaches the 1000 mark. My colleagues offer their congratulations by presenting me with a lucky chimney sweep and a pig. Despite stubborn recalcitrance on my part, my 1001st operational flight ends for some months to come my employment at the front.