Stuka Pilot

10. ON THE KUBAN AND AT BJELGOROD

I have taken a cannon-carrying aircraft with me and I introduce my squadron to the new machine. Wherever I see a chance of an operation for the experimental unit it takes off together with mine. Later it is reformed into an anti-tank squadron which operates independently, but in action it is subordinate to my supervision and command. The Briansk establishment now also follow us; Captain Steppe likewise returns to the squadron formation.

There is work enough for us Stuka bombers, for the Soviets have got across the Black Sea, and behind our front. They have landed and formed beach-heads on the hilly coast east and southwest of Novorossiysk. These are now frequently the target of our attacks. Reinforcements and material continue to arrive at the landing quays. The A.A. defense is as furious as at other crucial points of the Kuban bridgehead. Many of my comrades make their last flight here. My squadron commander bails out over the beach-head; he is lucky, the wind carries him over our lines. So we fly back and forth between the beach-head and Krymskaja. I generally dive with my flight almost to ground level and then fly off in a low level flight out to sea near the beach-head, or over the marshland further north where the defense is weaker. The small release height of the bomb improves the bombing results, and also the defense is not yet accustomed to our very low level tactics.

If, as we approach Krymskaja above the tobacco growing ravine, the flak begins and many a new crew gets windy, they are soon calmed down again when they hear the “old sweats” having their fun over the R/T with a joke or a snatch of song. Someone calls out: “Maximilian, get cracking!” This refers to the skipper of the second squadron; he keeps on circuiting in the flak, eternally delaying his dive, so that the aircraft behind lose their sense of direction. This selfconfident coolness then soon infects the tyros. Not infrequently I do a loop, a roll or some other stunt; I wonder if the A.A. gunners think I am having a lark with them?

The weather here does not hamper operations. Almost invariably a bright blue sky and glorious sunny summer weather.

Any day there is no flying we go off to the sea for a bathe, either to the Sea of Azov or the Black Sea; parts of the coast have magnificent beaches. If Schwirblat and I feel like diving we go into the harbour of Kertsch where there are cranes and walls of sufficient height.

The aerodrome at Kertsch is so crowded that we move with our squadron to Kertsch-Bagerowo, six miles to the west; we billet ourselves in a ‘Kolchose.’ As there is plenty of timber available we soon set about building ourselves a shack for our mess. Petrol is rationed at the moment and we fly only if it is absolutely necessary. So during these weeks we get a whole series of free days which each one of us spends in his own fashion. Schwirblat and I take our almost daily six mile run and so get to know the whole district, not only from the air.

Every night we receive a visit from Soviet Pe2s and old DBIIIs: they chiefly bomb the railway station, harbour and airfield in Kertsch. We have some A.A. sited there, occasionally also a few night fighters. We generally watch them coming and going, for almost every attack a few come down in flames. Our adversaries are not very skilled at night fighting; they evidently need much practice. They have an occasional stroke of luck every now and again. A bomb drops on an ammunition train standing in a siding and for hours explosions light up the night sky with a ghostly light, the earth trembles from the detonations. Very soon these raids become a part of our daily routine, and we generally stay in bed and sleep; otherwise we feel the effect of the lack of sleep on our own raids the following day, and that can be disastrous.

We are in the last days of June and nearing the end of our time in the Crimea. Minister Speer is here on a visit in connection with a vast construction project on the road from Kertsch; at the same time the Wing is visited by the Japanese.

At this time, too, Squadron Leader Kupfer, the skip per of our Wing, has his birthday; there is sufficient reason to celebrate. The beautiful garden of the summer quarters of the Wing is presently enlivened by the music of the gay but slightly out of tune band of an army unit. They play all the request items the musical clamor for. Everyone has his choice. In hours like these one forgets that home is so far away and that a war is going on. All are carried away out of time and space into an invisible world of beauty and of peace, where there is no Krymskaja, no beach-head, no bombs and no misery. Such hours of relaxation and reverie hearten all of us.

By the beginning of July the Soviet pressure has slackened and the German front is stabilized. It stands between Krymskaja and Moldawanskoje, a retirement of only a few yards. We never have the house-warming of our shack, for on the 4th July we receive urgent orders to move. Nobody knows exactly where we are going; at all events we are to fly today to Melitopol; there we are to receive further orders tomorrow. We take off northwards above the blue waters.

Melitopol is a town on the lines of communication far behind the front. The aerodrome is occupied by a bomber formation with Heinkel IIIs; our colleagues let out that today of all days a German entertainment party is giving a performance, a ballet troop of ten pretty girls between the ages of 18 and 20. In less than no time the aircraft are under cover and overhauled for the following day. Cupid lends everyone wings. Everyone tidies up at lightning speed and literally flies to the theatre. The sight of pretty German girls after so long a time cannot fail to cheer the heart of every soldier from the Russian front, old and young alike. That inveterate clown, Pilot Officer Rickel, uproots the plants in front of the theatre with the intention of offering them later as bouquets. In duty bound to the honor of their regiments the army units do not easily yield ground, and we are involved in the keenest competition with them. I am not quite sure whether we shall succumb to the feminine glamour or whether after years in Russia we shall find the girls more or less pretty. Schwirblat is also dubious. Finally he says it would have been better if we had gone for our usual six mile run, we should then have been spared this misgiving.

In the morning the engines again hum their familiar song. We now know our destination: Kharkov. We land on the airfield to the north and are billeted outside the city. The city itself does not make too bad an impression and is doubtless one of the show places of Soviet Russia, such as we have seldom seen. A skyscraper in the Red Square is a typical specimen of Soviet architecture and, damaged though it is, is still a much gaped as object of Ivan’s pride; otherwise the buildings date back to the Tsarist era. The city has parks, a wide network of thoroughfares, cinemas and a theatre.

At the crack of dawn the next morning we take off in the direction of Bjelgorod, our operational area for the ensuing few weeks. On the ground we meet old acquaintances from the East Front, crack divisions, for whom we are happy to fly. We know that here we are going forward and there will be no unpleasant surprises. Besides armored divisions, the Guards divisions Totenkopf and Grossdeutschland are in the line. This offensive is a northward thrust with Kursk, occupied by very formidable Soviet forces, as its objective. We are pushing diagonally into the bulge of the Russian front which extends westwards to Konotop and hinges on Bjelgorod in the south and is bounded on its northern side by the open country south of Orel.

The ideal would be to establish a main front line between Bjelgorod and Orel; will the units thrown in be able to achieve this? We shall not let them down. We are in the air from dawn till dusk in front of our tank spearheads, which have soon gained 25 miles and have reached the outskirts of Obojan.

The Soviet resistance is strong, even in the air. On one of the first mornings when approaching Bjelgorod I see half to port an He. III formation flying above me. The flak opens up on them, one aircraft explodes in the air, and is blown to smithereens. Such experiences harden one. Our comrades’ sacrifices must not be made in vain. Afterwards we attack in the area of the same Soviet A.A. positions; during low level attacks I often catch sight of the wreckage of the shot-down Heinkel glittering in the sun. In the afternoon a Luftwaffe Flight Lieutenant comes to me and informs me that my cousin has been killed that day. I reply that my cousin must have been shot down this morning N.W. of Bjelgorod in a Heinkel III. He wonders how I can tell him so exactly what happened. My cousin is the third son of my uncle to be killed in the family; he himself will later also be reported missing.

The next weeks deal us severe blows in the Wing. My training school friend, Flight Lieutenant Wutka, skipper of the 8th Flight, is killed; so too is Flying Officer Schmidt whose brother had recently been killed in the air fighting over Sicily. In the cases of Wutka and Schmidt it is not quite clear whether their aircraft exploded when coming in to dive or when operating the bomb release. Is it possible that a short circuit was due to some act of sabotage which caused the explosion? Again some months later this idea occurs to us when similar things happen; at the moment, in spite of the most thorough investigation, we can establish no definite proof.

Great tank battles rage below us during these operations, a picture such as we have rarely had the chance of witnessing since 1941. The tank masses face each other on open plains. The enemy anti-tank defenses have sited themselves in the rear with their guns camouflaged. Sometimes also the tanks themselves are dug in defensively, especially when they have been immobilized but otherwise still retain their fighting efficiency.

Numerically the Soviets’ tanks are always vastly superior to ours, qualitatively one immediately recognizes the superiority of our tanks and armament. Here for the first time our Tiger tank is used in larger formations. All our tank types invariably have a more rapid rate of fire and their gunnery is more accurate. The chief reason for this is the better quality of our weapons, but the decisive factor is the superior quality of the men who handle them.

More dangerous for our tanks is the Soviet heavy and very heavy anti-tank artillery which appears at every key point of the battle area. As the Russians are masters of camouflage their Pak is only spotted and neutralized with difficulty.

The sight of these masses of tanks reminds me of my cannon-carrying aircraft of the experimental unit, which I have brought with me from the Crimea. With this enormous target of enemy tanks it should be possible to try it out. It is true the flak defenses covering the Soviet tank units are very heavy, but I say to myself that both groups are facing each other at a distance of 1200 to 1800 yards, and unless I am brought down like a stone by a direct hit by flak it must always be possible to crash-land the damaged aircraft in our own tank lines. The first flight therefore flies with bombs behind me in the only cannon-carrying aeroplane. So the attempt is made.

In the first attack four tanks explode under the hammer blows of my cannons; by the evening the total rises to twelve. We are all seized with a kind of passion for the chase from the glorious feeling of having saved much German bloodshed with every tank destroyed.

After the first day the fitters have their hands full, for the aircraft have been heavily damaged by flak. The life of such an aeroplane will always be limited. But the main thing is: the evil spell is broken, and in this aircraft we possess a weapon which can speedily be employed everywhere and is capable of dealing successfully with the formidable numbers of Soviet tanks. There is great rejoicing in the flight, the squadron, the wing and the group over this newly-gained discovery and its practical confirmation. In order to secure supplies of this aircraft a signal is immediately sent to all sections of the antitank experimental unit, asking for all serviceable aircraft to be flown here at once with crews. So the anti-tank flight is formed. For operational purposes it is under my command.

The succeeding days and battles complete the picture and further successes are not denied us. While the cannon-carrying aircraft go in to attack, a part of the bomber formation deals with the ground defenses; the rest circle at a fairly low level like a broody hen round her chickens in order to protect the anti-tank aircraft from interception by enemy fighters.

Little by little I discover all the tricks. Skill is often the result of getting hurt. We lose aircraft in weakly defended areas because we are cruising in the middle of an artillery duel. The air space in the line of the artillery trajectory must be avoided, otherwise there is the danger of being shot down “by accident.”

After some time the Soviets have managed fairly successfully to cope with our air attacks against their tanks. If it is at all possible they move up their A.A. guns with the leading tanks. The tanks also are equipped with smoke shells to create a fog screen or to imitate a conflagration in the hope that their pursuers may veer off in the belief that they have achieved their purpose. Experienced crews soon get wise to this maneuver and are no longer deceived by it. A tank which is really on fire will show very bright flames, and to simulate such flames is far too risky a business. In many cases the tank will blow up as the fire catches the ammunition normally always carried in every tank. It is very uncomfortable for us if the explosion is instantaneous and our aircraft is flying at an altitude of 15-30 feet above the tank. This happens to me twice in the first few days when I suddenly fly through a curtain of fire and think: “This time you are for it.”

I come out, however, safe and sound on the other side even though the green camouflage of my aircraft is scorched and splinters from the exploding tank have riddled it with holes.

Sometimes we dive onto the steel monsters from behind, sometimes from the side. The angle of attack is not too steep to prevent us flying in quite close to the ground, and so also when pulling out from getting into any trouble in case the aircraft overshoots. If it overshoots too far it is hardly possible to avoid contact with the ground with all its dangerous consequences.

We have always to try to hit the tank in one of its most vulnerable places. The front is always the strongest part of every tank; therefore every tank invariably tries as far as possible to offer its front to the enemy. Its sides are less strongly protected. But the best target for us is the stem. It is there that the engine is housed, and the necessity for cooling this power centre permits of only a thin armor plating. In order to further assist the cooling this plating is perforated with large holes. This is a good spot to aim at because where the engine is there is always petrol. When its engine is running a tank is easily recognizable from the air by the blue fumes of the exhaust. On its sides the tank carries petrol and ammunition. But there the armor is stronger than at the back.

The tanks frequently carry infantry; if we are in sectors where we are already known these tank rifle men jump off, even when traveling at full speed. They all think their hour has come and that they have only a second before we are upon them. And Ivan prefers to meet the attack on terra firma.

In the second half of July the resistance in front of the German divisions stiffens; hedgehog after hedgehog has to be overcome and progress is only very slow. We take off daily from morning till night, and support the spearheads of the attack which have advanced northwards across the Pskoll river far along the railway from Bjelgorod.

One morning on dispersal we are surprised by a strong formation of IL II bombers which has approached our aerodrome unobserved flying at a low level. We take off in all directions in order to get away from the airfield; many of our air craft are still taxiing up to the take-off in the opposite direction. Miraculously, nothing happens; our A.A. guns on the airfield open up for all they are worth and this evidently impresses the Ivans. We can see normal 2 cm. flak ricocheting off the armor of the Russian bombers.

Only very few places are vulnerable to this ammunition, but with 2 cm. armor-piercing ammo. our light flak can bring down the armored Ivans.

Quite unexpectedly at this time we receive the order to move to Orel, on the other side of the bulge where the Soviets have gone over to the offensive and are threatening Orel. A few hours later we arrive at the aerodrome north of Orel over Konotop. We find then situation around Orel roughly corresponding to the rumors we have already heard at Charkow. The Soviets are attacking the town from the north, east and south.

Our advance has been halted all along the front. We have seen too clearly how this has happened: first the landing in Sicily and afterwards the Putsch against Mussolini, each time our best divisions have had to be withdrawn and speedily transferred to other points in Europe. How often we tell one another during these weeks: the Soviets have only their Western Allies to thank that they continue to exist as a militarily effective force.

It is a hot August for us in every sense of the word; to the south there is bitter fighting for the possession of Kromy. In one of our first attacks in this area directed against the bridge in this town a very odd thing happens to me. As I am diving, a Russian tank just starts to cross the bridge; a moment before the bridge was clear in my sights. A 500 kg. bomb aimed at the bridge hits him when he is half-way across it; both tank and bridge are blown to smithereens.

The defenses here are unusually strong. A few days later in the northern area, west of Bolchow, I get a direct hit in my engine. I receive a full burst of splinters in the face. I think first of bailing out, but who can tell where the wind will carry the parachute? There is very little hope of coming down safely, especially as Jaks are in this area. I succeed, however, in making a forced landing in the very front German line positions with my engine cut off. The infantry unit occupying this part of the line takes me back to my base in a couple of hours.

I take off at once on a fresh sortie and in the same region, too. It is a peculiar feeling to return a little later to the same place where one has been shot down a short while before. It stops one from becoming hesitant and brooding over the risks one is running.

We are about to take up positions. I have climbed rather too high and observe the heavy flak; it is now directing its fire on our formation, and the gun positions are recognizable from the flash of the guns. I immediately attack them and order the aircraft accompanying me to drop their bombs at the same time on the Russian gun-sites. I fly home relieved with the comforting feeling that they too must now be sweating hard.

Russian aircraft raid our airfield in the Orel sector every night. At first we are under canvas, later in stone buildings on the airfield. There are slit-trenches alongside the tents; we are supposed to take cover in them as soon as the raiders appear. Some of us, however, sleep through the raids because, in view of the uninterrupted all day flying, a good night’s rest is indispensable if we are to be fit to go out again the neat day. In any case Ivan generally keeps up his bombing all night. My friend, Walter Kraus, then skipper of the 3rd Squadron, is killed in one such raid. After his training period with me in the Reserve-Flight at Graz, being a former reconnaissance pilot, he soon found himself at home in the new sector and was a great asset to our Wing. He had just been promoted to Squadron Leader and awarded the Oak Leaves. We mourn the loss of a friend and comrade with bitter grief; his death is a staggering blow. How many hard blows of incomprehensible destiny must we yet experience?

I am relieved of the command of the first flight, and given the 3rd Squadron instead. I know it inside out from earlier on; was I not its old Squadron engineer officer? As far as new faces have appeared I know them all from my visits to the squadron. It is not difficult to knock them into shape as Squadron Leader Becker is there. We have nicknamed him Fridolin. There is nothing he does not know; he is the soul and the mother of the ground personnel. Our medical care is in the hands of Stabsarzt Gadermann, who is also the friend and counselor of everybody. Soon the 3rd Squadron Command consists of a kind of family in which all orders are given and carried out in the best cooperative spirit. In the air this means no sort of reorganization because during the last year I have often led the squadron formation.

Here I soon fly my 1200th operational flight. I have as escort a fighter squadron to which, incidentally, the famous skier Jennewein belongs. Between sorties we often chat about our native mountains and, of course, about skiing. He fails to return from one joint mission with our squadron and is reported missing. Apparently he was hit, then, according to the account of his colleagues, he transmitted over the R/T: “Got a hit in the engine, am flying into the sun.” At the time, however, the sun was hit by flak in the area northeast of Orel he nose-dives and makes a belly-landing in No Man’s Land. He and his aircraft remain there, lying on the slope of a small gulley. At first I believe he has made a forced landing although it seemed as if he had been badly hit already in the air; also the impact was too violent when his aircraft struck the ground.

After flying over the spot several times at low level I can perceive no movement in the aircraft. Our Medical Officer goes forward and with the help of the army reaches the wreck, but it is too late to save any of the crew. He has taken a priest with him and so our two comrades are laid to their eternal rest.

There is very little conversation in our squadron for the next few days, only the most necessary exchanges; the bitterness of these days oppresses us all. It is not very different in other units. In a dawn attack on important Soviet artillery emplacements east of Orel the flights of the 1st Squadron fly with mine, the second flight led by Flying Officer Jackel. He has become a magnificent airman and has a pet stunt which he does habitually. Wherever he sees a fighter he attacks it even though it is far superior to his aircraft in speed and armament. Already on the Kuban front he has given us many a laugh. He always contends that his Ju. 87 is particularly fast; that at full throttle he can leave the others standing. This cheery soul often brings down a fighter; he reminds one of a stag roaming the forest in search of a hunter and when he finds one instantly charging him with lowered antlers. He is the life and soul of his flight; without repeating himself he can tell jokes from nine in the evening till four o’clock in the morning. ‘Bonifacius Kiesewetter’ and other ballads of course belong to his repertoire.

On this particular morning he has, with his flight, attacked a neighboring battery and we are returning to base. We are just flying over our front line when someone yells: “Fighters!” I can see them, a long distance away; they show no signs of attacking us. Jackel turns round and joins issue with them. He shoots one of them down but even fat Jensch, his at other times dependable rear-gunner, appears to be looking round instead of in front of him. There is apparently another Lag 5 coming up behind him. I see his aircraft go into a kind of backward dive from a height of 600 feet and burst into flames. I can only imagine that in his eagerness for battle Egbert forgot how low he was flying and that he had no business to indulge in such acrobatics. So we lose this dear comrade also.

The thought occurs to many of us: “Now when one after the other of the old-timers goes, I can almost reckon by the calendar when my own number will be up.” Every jinx must come to an end sooner or later; we have long been waiting for our bad luck to change. To live in constant danger induces fatalism and a certain callousness. None of us any longer gets out of bed when the bombs are dropping at night. Dead tired from being in the air without intermission all day and every day we hear, half awake and half asleep, the bombs bursting close at hand.

In the east to west break-through area north of us things go from bad to worse; now Kareitschew, northwest of us, is threatened. In order to reach this target area more quickly and the Shisdra sector further to the north, we move to the airfield at Kareitschew. Much of the fighting is developing in the forest regions which are very hard to see into clearly from above. They make it easy for the Reds to camouflage their positions and our attacks are very difficult. I hardly ever catch sight of a tank; so I mostly fly with a bomber. Since I took over the command of the squadron the anti-tank flight has been more closely incorporated in my squadron, and the staff work, both technical and tactical, has quickly been adapted to the employment of the cannon-carrying aircraft I introduced.

Our stay at Kareitschew is not a long one. There has been talk again for some days of another move to the south where the situation is critical. After several sorties based on Briansk we do indeed move back again to Charkow. But this time our operational base is the aerodrome on the south side of the city.