Stuka Pilot

12. FURTHER WESTWARD

Bolschaja Costromka is a typical Russian village, with all the advantages and disadvantages these adjectives imply; for us Central Europeans mostly disadvantages. The village is scattered and mainly consists of mud houses, few buildings are of stone. One cannot speak of a layout of streets, but the village is criss-crossed by unpaved lanes at the most peculiar angles. In bad weather our vehicles sink axle-deep into the mud and it is impossible to get them out. The airfield lies on the northern edge of the village on the road to Apostolowo, which is generally unusable for motor traffic. Therefore our personnel have lost no time in adapting ourselves—to the use of horses and ox-drawn carts so as to retain our mobility for all contingencies. The air crews often have to ride to their aircraft on horseback; they then dismount on to the wing planes, for the runway itself is not much better. In the prevailing weather conditions it resembles a sea of mud broken by tiny islands, and if it were not for the broad tires of the Ju. 87 we should never become airborne. One can tell how close we are to the river Dnieper. Our billets are scattered all over the village; the squadron staff is quartered in and near the schoolhouse at the southern end of it. We have a common room, a kind of “officers’ mess,” in the so-called H.Q. building.

The square in front of this building is frequently under water and when it freezes, as it sometimes does, we play ice hockey in front of the house. Ebersbach and Fickel never miss the chance of a game. Recently however both of them have become rather skeptical as a result of the many bruises on their shins. In the worst weather the ice hockey goal posts are occasionally erected indoors, only the shortening of the field always makes it even more uncomfortable for the goal-keepers. The furniture cannot possibly suffer any damage because there isn’t any.

The Russians are dumbfounded by the many little things our soldiers carry on their person. They think the snapshots of our homes, our rooms, our girls, are propaganda. It takes a very long time to convince them that they are genuine, that all Germans are not cannibals. They presently even doubt the truth of the indoctrinated catchword: Germanski nix Kultura. In a few days time, here as elsewhere, the Russians come and ask if they may be allowed to hang up again their icons and their crucifixes. Previously under the Soviet regime they have had to keep them hidden away because of the disapproval of a son, a daughter, or a commissar. That we raise no objection to their dis playing them evidently impresses them. If you tell them that there are any amount of crucifixes and religious pictures to be seen in our country they can hardly believe it. Hastily they re-erect their holy niches and repeatedly assure us of their hope that this permission will not be revoked. They live in terror of their commissars, who keep the village under surveillance and spy on its inhabitants. This office is often undertaken by the village schoolmaster.

At the moment we are having a muddy spell and consequent difficulties in getting up supplies, even our rations. When flying low over the Dnieper I have often seen both our own and the Russian ground troops tossing hand-grenades into the water and by this means catching fish. We are at war, the Dnieper is a battle zone, every possibility of feeding the troops must be exploited. So one day I decide to try my luck with a little hundred pound bomb. Gosler, our Q.M., is sent out ahead with a small fatigue party to the Dnieper.

I show him on the map beforehand the exact stretch of the river where I intend to drop my bomb inshore. After waiting until I have identified our chaps I drop my missile from between sixty and ninety feet. It falls into the river very near to the bank and explodes after a short delay. The anglers down below must have been a bit scared by the explosion, for they all suddenly fall flat on their stomachs. A few smart alecks who are already out in midstream in an ancient boat, so as to be quick off the mark in picking up the fish, are almost capsized by the wave caused by the explosion and the resultant fountain of water. From above I can see the white bellies of the dead fish floating on the surface. The soldiers join in the scramble to haul the lot in as quickly as possible. The native fishermen come out from their hiding places and also pull into the bank as many fish as they can. The lorry with the fishing party returns from the Dnieper a few hours after me; they bring back with them several hundredweight of fish. Among the catch are some monster specimens weighing 60 to 80 pounds; mostly sturgeon and a kind of river carp. For ten days we have an orgy of fish and find this an excellent diet. Particularly the sturgeon, smoked or boiled, tastes delicious; even the huge carp have no slimy taste at all. A couple of weeks later a fresh fishing operation is carried out with equal success.

Our almost daily sorties take us in the most different directions. To the east and the southeast the Soviets are continuously battering against our bridgehead at Nikopol, chiefly from the Melitopol area. The names of the key points on the map are many of them German: Heidelberg, Gruntal, Gustavfeld. They are the homes of German settlers whose forebears colonized this district centuries ago. Further north the front runs eastward along the other bank of the Dnieper beyond Zaporoschje and after crossing the river, into the Krementschuk sector. Dnjepropetrovsk lies behind the Russian lines. As so often, the Soviets exert pressure at different points and frequently succeed in making local penetrations of our front. The situation is restored by counter-attacks, generally by armored divisions. The industrial town of Kriwoi-Rog, which is in the front zone to our north, has a concrete runway, but we are not able to use it.

One morning one of the Soviet thrusts reaches Kriwoi-Rog and the airfield. The brunt of the Soviet attack comes from the north from the direction of Piatichatki. Here Flg./Off. Mende is reported missing. Despite the most strenuous search we fail to find this good comrade swallowed up in the vastness of Russia. The situation here is also restored by a counterattack, and the front pushed back a few miles north. Supply traffic feeding this group is rolling forward uninterruptedly, so we attack the Dnieper bridges. Our target is then generally between Krementschuk and Dnjepropetrovsk. One morning, because of a fresh advance by the Russians pressing forward from the north, I have to go out in bad weather. My mission is to obtain an overall picture of the enemy dispositions and to assess the chances under prevailing met. conditions of attacking with a larger formation. Before taking off I am told that a certain village in the battle area is still held by our troops, but that they are being very hard pressed and urgently need relief. Operational contact is to be made with the unit in question and an operations officer is on the spot.

With low cloud cover we fly in threes into the target area, and presently I hear the voice of an operations officer I know; at all events I hope he is the one I have been told to contact and not another. I should mention that every one wants our support for his own division. We always have to insist on being given the call sign of the unit. The demands on us are so heavy that to satisfy them all we should need twenty times as many men and aircraft. Judging by the voice it is once again the footballer Epp speaking from the ground, but without waiting for his message I have already made out strong enemy concentrations 1 ½ to 2 miles ahead. I am still flying over our lines and banking round when I observe the flash of many flak batteries. I cannot see the shell bursts up in the air because they are hidden in the clouds, but now something hits the cockpit and the engine. I have flak splinters in my face and in my hands. The engine is likely to stop at any minute. It putters for another couple of minutes and then conks out. During this interval I discover a meadow west of the village. I feel sure that I have not yet been spotted by the Russians. I bring off a smooth landing on this meadow. Quickly Fickel brings his aircraft down beside me. We have no idea how long this area will remain in our possession; therefore Henschel and I take out the most essential things, our weapons, clock and parachutes and climb into Fickel’s machine. The third in the section has already flown home and reported the incident. Not long afterwards we, too, make a safe landing at Costromka. In these days Flg./Off. Fritsche also has a stroke of luck. After being hit by fighters S.E. of Zaparoschje, near Heidelberg, he bails out without mishap, although in the act of jumping he smashes something on the empennage. This grand flight leader and Knight of the Iron Cross is back in operations after a short convalescence.

But we are not always so lucky. Once on our way back from a battle area to the N.E. we are already close to the airfield and preparing to come in singly after flying low above it. In the last phase of our flying our flak suddenly opens fire. High above us are Russian fighters. They show absolutely no direct intention of attacking, but the flak looses off at them, trying of course to fire in between our aircraft. And Flg./Off. Herling, leader of the 7th flight and Flg./Off. Krumings, the squadron engineer officer, are both hit, and crash. A bit later Flg./Off. Fritsch is also killed. Three of my friends who have been as inseparable as a four leaved clover, all three decorated with the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, lay down their lives for their country. We are stunned by their loss as by a mean and furtive blow. They were first rate airmen and good comrades to their men. Sometimes there are periods here at the front when one is under a jinx and there seems to be no breaking the run of bad luck.

In November a radio message is received: I have been awarded the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords and am to report at once for the investiture to the Führer’s H.Q. in East Prussia.

It is about this time that I destroy my hundredth tank. Personally I am glad of this new decoration, not least because it is a tribute to my squadron’s achievement, but at the same time I am distressed that sanction for my recommendation of Henschel’s Knight’s Cross has not come through. It must be held up somewhere. I therefore decide in any case to take my rear gunner with me when I report. Henschel has just completed his thousand operational sorties, and with a recent bag of several Soviet fighters is easily our best gunner. We fly to East Prussia, over Winiza, Proskurow, Lemberg and Crakow, to the Führer’s H.Q. near Goldap.

First we land at Lotzen. I report to Wing Commander von Below. He tells me that Sgdn./Ldr. Hrabak is to receive the Oak Leaves at the same time as I; he is due to report with me. I have brought Henschel along with me and ask Below whether Henschel’s recommendation has reached his office. He tells me it has not, but immediately promises to find out from the Reichsmarschall how the matter stands. There also the papers cannot be found. They suppose they have been submitted to the Reichsmarschall for sanction. This obtained by word of mouth from Goering himself by von Below, who goes straight to the Führer and reports to him that I have brought Henschel with me for the aforementioned reasons, and that the Commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe has approved the award. The answer is: “Henschel is to come with the others.” This is a great occasion for my faithful rear-gunner. Only a few receive the Knight’s Cross at the Führer’s hands, as personal investiture by the Commander-in-Chief begins with the Oak Leaves.

And so Sgdn./Ldr. Hrabak, Henschel and I stand in the presence of the Führer. First he pins on our decorations and then drinks tea with us in his study. He speaks of past operations in the East and of the lessons to be learnt from them; he tells us about the creation of new units now in progress which will certainly be needed to meet the coming invasion by the Western Allies. The country will still be able to raise a large number of divisions and our industry can equip them with sufficient armament. Meanwhile German inventive genius, he informs us, is still working on stupendous projects, and we must succeed in wresting victory from Bolshevism. Only the Germans are in a position to do this, he affirms. He is proud of his Eastern Front soldiers, and he knows their tremendous exertions and the difficulties they face. He is looking well; and is full of ideas, and of confidence in the future.

On leaving Lotzen we must make a slight detour over Hohensalza to Görlitz where we give our gallant Ju. 87 a two days’ rest. Henschel’s home in Saxony is not very far from here, and he goes on by train to rejoin me two days later for our return to the front. We then fly over Vienna, Krakau, Lemberg and Winiza to Kirowograd in filthy weather. The further east we get, the more we feel the imminence of winter. Low lying clouds with densely driving snow hamper our flight and make it difficult for us to keep our course. We feel much happier when as dusk is falling our kite taxies in on the frozen airfield at Costromka and we are home again with our comrades. It is already cold here, but we have no reason to grumble at that because the frost improves the condition of the roads in the village. Large open spaces are solid ice and it is not always the easiest thing to cross them without skates. When we are grounded by bad weather we restart our ice hockey games. Even the least sportingly inclined becomes infected by the enthusiasm of the rest. We use every conceivable implement from regulation hockey sticks to old brooms and shovels. The most primitive Russian skates compete with special footgear fitted with proper hockey blades. Many just lumber about in airman’s fur boots. It is all one, it is the exercise that matters.

Here in South Russia we get occasional warm days which turn everything back into an inconceivable quagmire. Perhaps it has something to do with the influence of the Black Sea or the Sea of Azov. Our airfield cannot stand up to such vagaries of climate, and we always clear out of it and move over to the runway at Kirowograd. One of these muddy spells coincides with Christmas and New Year. Consequently units are compelled to celebrate these holidays in isolation instead of in a general squadron party. Father Christmas has brought a surprise for every soldier, and to look at their faces no one would guess that this is already the fifth winter of our campaign.

At the beginning of 1944 the hard weather really sets in and operational activity is increased. The Soviets push forward to the west and southwest from the area W. of Dnjepropetrovsk, and for a short time cut road communications between Krivoi Rog and Kirowograd. A counter-offensive by our old friends, the 14th and 24th armored divisions, is very successful. Besides taking a large number of prisoners and a mass of captured material, we manage to bring about a lull, at least temporarily, in this sector. We fly continually from Kirowograd and are billeted quite close to the airfield. The Wing staff is quartered near by. The day they move in they have a most uncomfortable surprise. The Wing adjutant, Squdn./Ldr. Becker, alias “Fridolin,” and the engineer officer, Flt./Lt. Katschner, are not quite conversant with the local heating arrangements. Carbon monoxide gas is generated in their rooms during the night, and Katschner wakes up to find Fridolin already unconscious. He staggers out into the fresh air dragging Fridolin with him, thus saving both their lives. For a soldier to lose his life as the result of a silly accident instead of by enemy action is particularly tragic. Afterwards we see the funny side of it and their mishap becomes a standing joke; both have to put up with many a leg-pull.

In the course of our operations during this period we witness a most unusual drama. I am out with the anti-tank flight S. and S.W. of Alexandrija; after firing off all our ammunition we are homeward bound for Kirowograd to refuel and remunition for another sortie. We are skimming the almost level plain at a low altitude half way to Kirowograd and I am just above a dense hedgerow. Behind it twelve tanks are on the move. I recognize them instantly: all T 34s heading N. In a twinkling I have climbed and circled round the quarry. Where on earth have they come from? They are Soviets beyond all doubt. Not one of us has a round of ammunition left. We must therefore let them rumble on. Who knows where they will get to by the time we can return with fresh ammunition and attack them.

The T 34s pay no attention to us and proceed on their way behind the hedge. Further north I see something else moving on the ground. We fly over at low level and recognize German comrades with type IV tanks. They gaze up at us from their tanks, thinking of anything else but the nearness of an enemy and a possible skirmish. Both lots of tanks are traveling towards each other, separated only by this tall line of bushes. Neither can see the other because the Soviets are moving in sunken ground below a railway embankment. I fire red Vereys, wave and drop a message in a container in which I inform my tank colleagues who and what are coming in their direction two miles away, assuming they both keep to the same course. By dipping my aircraft towards the spot where the T 34s are traveling at the moment I tip them off to the nearness of the enemy.

Both parties drive steadily on. Circling low we watch for what is going to happen. Our tanks halt at a point where there is a gap of a few yards in the hedge. At any minute now they may both be suddenly surprised by the sight of the other at point blank range. I wait tensely for the second when both will get the shock. The Russians have closed down their turrettops; perhaps they suspect something from our astonishing maneuvers. They are still rolling in the same direction, traveling fast. The lateral distance separating the two parties is not more than fifteen or twenty yards. Now!

The Russians in the sunken ground have reached the gap and see the enemy in front of them on the other side of the hedge. It takes exactly two seconds for the first IV tank to set his opposite number on fire at a range of twenty yards; bits and pieces pepper the air. In another few seconds—up till then I have not seen a shot fired from the rest of the T 34s—six Russian tanks are ablaze. The impression is that they have been taken completely by surprise and have not yet grasped what is happening even now. Some T 34s move in closer under cover of the hedge, the rest try to escape over the railway embankment. They are immediately picked off by the German tanks which have meanwhile got a field of fire through the gap. The whole engagement lasts one minute. It is in its way unique. Without loss to ourselves every one of the T 34s have been destroyed. Our comrades on the ground are proudly elated at their success; we are not less delighted. We throw down a message of good wishes and some chocolate, and then fly home.

After a series of comparatively uneventful sorties it is not usually very long before we get another jolt. We get one now. Three of us go out, Flg./Off. Fickel and Flg./Off. Stapler escorting me with bombers on a tank hunt. We have no fighter escort with us and have just flown past one of our own armored units when 12 to 15 Aircobras appear with very aggressive intentions. They have all red noses and look as if they belong to a good unit. A wild helter-skelter begins close to the ground and I am glad when I have brought my two colleagues safely home, even though our aircraft are not entirely undamaged. Our experience is often the topic of evening arguments and reminiscences. Fickel and Stapler think that we had a pretty narrow squeak. At the same time the discussion is a useful lesson to our newcomers in correct evasive action in aerial combat.

Our One Squadron has been stationed for some time at Slynka, N. of Nowo Ukrainka, W. of us. My III Squadron also receives orders to transfer there with all 123 flying personnel, while our ground personnel proceeds by road to Pervomaisk on the Bug. Notification of my promotion to the rank of Squadron Leader comes through at the end of our time at Kirowograd.

At Slynka it begins to look as if winter had really set in. A bitter East wind blows almost every day. Temperatures fall to 20-30 degrees below zero. The effect of the cold is perceptible in the number of serviceable aircraft, for maintenance and repair in the open at these temperatures is a specialized business. It is particularly bad luck, because a spearhead of the Russian offensive N. of Kirowograd has just made a penetration into the neck of the Marinowka valley. They are bringing up very strong reserves in order to consolidate the positions won as a springboard for a fresh advance. Every halfserviceable aircraft on the airfield is used for low level attacks. On one sortie to the east, Flg./Off. Fickel is forced down after being badly shot up. The terrain is not unfavorable , and I am able to make a landing quite close beside him and take him on board my aircraft with his rear-gunner. In a short time we are back on our airfield, the poorer by yet another aircraft.

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.

The general offensive for the relief of the force encircled in the Tscherkassy area is successful, and our shock troops are able to create a kind of lane into the pocket. Once the link-up is established the front here is withdrawn together with the bulge. We move back in consequence from Pervomiask to Rauchowka, and as far as we are concerned the Nowo Mirgorod area is left far behind the Russian lines.

A short time after this American bomber formations flying east after accomplishing their missions over Germany land at Nowo Mirgorod, where their aircraft are overhauled by their allies for a fresh sortie. Their operational base as with many American formations is the Mediterranean.

South of us meanwhile the situation has also changed, and our bridgehead at Nikopol has been abandoned. The Soviets press forward in the Nikolajew area, and the German divisions N.W. of it find themselves engaged in very heavy fighting.