Stuka Pilot

13. RETREAT TO THE DNIESTER

In March 1944 our southern front is on the defensive, fiercely contesting the efforts of strong Russian forces to effect a decisive southward breakthrough so as to liquidate the whole German front in the South. My Stuka squadron is operating from Rauchowka, 125 miles N. of Odessa, in support of our army units. We are in the air from dawn till dusk, doing our utmost to relieve our hard-pressed comrades on the ground by destroying tanks and attacking artillery and Stalin “barrel-organs.” Our efforts are successful in preventing any decisive breach of our front. Moreover the army, as a result of this victorious delaying action, is able a few weeks later to retire in good order to new positions further west.

One day during this battle we go out W.N.W. along the Dniester on a reconnaissance patrol. The river below us makes an elbow to the N.W. Urgent signals from the Rumanians have reported large convoys of Red motorized and armored formations on the move round and west of Jampol. On the face of it the report seems rather incredible, because if it is true it must mean that the Soviets have broken through to the north at the same time as they launched their offensive in the south and would already be 125 miles in our rear in Bessarabia. I carry out the reconnaissance with another aircraft for company. These fears are unfortunately confirmed. Strong Soviet concentrations of all arms are massing in the Jampol area, furthermore a large bridge is under construction.

One cannot help wondering how it is possible that this operation has hitherto been unobserved. It is nothing strange for us, we have had the same experience too often during the Russian campaign. Our East Front is always very thinly held; frequently whole areas between the momentary key points are only patrolled. Once this chain of outposts is breached the enemy advances into an undefended zone. Far behind the line perhaps he may come across a baking company, of some non-belligerent supply unit. The vastness of the country is Russia’s most valuable ally. With his inexhaustible man power he can easily pour his masses into any such weakly defended vacuum.

Although the situation in the Jampol area is menacing we do not regard it as absolutely hopeless because this sector, being the gateway to their own country, has been entrusted to the Rumanians. So in my briefing for this reconnaissance I have been told to expect the presence of Rumanian covering divisions on the Dniester, and have therefore been warned to be careful of the effects of any attack. Merely by their uniforms it is not easy to distinguish the Rumanians from the Russians from the air.

The strategic objective of the Soviet offensive is clear: a still wider encirclement of our forces in the south and a simultaneous thrust by way of Jassy into the Ploesti oilfields. As the intervention of my squadron in the Nikolajew area is still daily required, it is not possible at first for us to fly more than one or two sorties in this sector. For all our operations we are using the advance airfield at Kotowsk, S. of Balta. So now, unusually, this mission takes us west. Our main targets are troop concentrations in the neighborhood of Jampol, and the bridge which is being built there. After every attack the Soviets immediately replace the damaged pontoons and hurry on with the completion of the bridge. They try to smash our attacks by intense flak and fighter interception, but not once do we allow them to drive us back with our mission unaccomplished.

Our successes are corroborated by picked-up Russian radio messages. These chiefly consist of complaints against their own fighters, the Red Falcons, charging them with cowardice and enumerating their losses in men, arms and building material caused by their poltroonery. We are often able to listen in to Russian R/T conversations between their ground units and the Red Falcons. There is a Russian-speaking officer in my squadron who tunes in his wireless set to their wave length and instantly makes a verbatim translation. The Russians often yell wildly over the R/T in order to interfere with our reception. The Russian frequency is generally practically the same as ours. The Soviets frequently try to give us target alterations during flight. Of course the new targets lie inside the German lines. These pretended corrections are issued in fluent German, but we very soon see through this trick and once I am wise to it if ever I receive one of these fake corrections when in the air I invariably come down to make sure that the amended target is really an enemy objective. Often we hear a warning shout: “Cancel attack. Target occupied by our own troops.” The speaker is, needless to say, a Russian. His last words are then usually drowned by the noise of our bombs. We get many a good laugh when we overhear the ground control cursing the Russian fighters.

“Red Falcons, we shall report you to the Commissar for cowardice. Go on in and attack the Nazi swine. We have again lost our building material and a whole lot of equipment.”

We have long been familiar with the bad morale of the bulk of the Red fighter pilots; only a few crack units are an exception to the rule. These reports of losses of material are a valuable confirmation of our success.

A few days before the 20th March, 1944, we are hampered by vile weather with heavy rain storms. In airman’s lingo we say: “Even the sparrows have to walk.” Flying is impossible. While this weather lasts the Soviets are enabled to continue their advance and push on with their crossing of the Dniester unmolested. There is no prospect of forming a defensive front against this, threat on the ground; not even a single company can be spared from the Nikolajew sector and no other reserves are available. In any case we assume that our Rumanian allies will defend their own country with the fanatical fury of self-preservation and so compensate for our numerical weakness.

On the 20th March, after seven sorties in the Nikolajew and Balta area, I take off with my squadron on the eighth of the day, our first mission for five days against the bridge at Jampol. The sky is a brilliant blue and it can be taken for granted that after this prolonged respite the defense will have been considerably strengthened by flak and fighter protection. As my airfield and Rauchowka itself is a quagmire our fighter squadron has moved to the concrete airfield at Odessa. We, with our broad tires, are better able to cope with the mud and do not immediately become bogged down in it. We fix a rendezvous by telephone for a certain time about thirty miles from the target at 7500 feet above a conspicuous loop of the river Dniester. But apparently difficulties have also cropped up at Odessa. My escort is not at the rendezvous. The target is clearly visible, so naturally we attack. There are several new crews in my squadron. Their quality is not as good as it used to be. The really good men have by this time been long since at the front, and petrol for training purposes has been strictly rationed to so many gallons per man. I firmly believe that I, had I been restricted to so small an allowance, could not have done any better than the new trainees. We are still about twelve miles from our objective when I give the warning: “Enemy fighters.” More than twenty Soviet Lag 5s are approaching. Our bomb load hampers our maneuverability. I fly in defensive ellipses so as to be able at any moment to come in myself behind the fighters, for their purpose is to shoot down my rear aircraft. In spite of the air battle I gradually work round to my objective. Individual Russians who try to shoot me down by a frontal pass I disappoint by extremely mobile tactics, and then at the last moment dive through the midst of them and pull out into a climb. If the new crews can bring it off today they will have learnt a lot.

“Prepare for attack, stick together-close up-attack!”

And I come in for the attack on the bridge. As I dive I see the flash of a host of flak emplacements. The shells scream past my aircraft. Henschel says the sky is a mass of cotton wool, his name for the bursting flak. Our formation is losing its cohesion, confound it, making us more vulnerable to the fighters. I warn those lagging behind:

“Fly on, catch up, we are just as scared as you are.” Not a few swear words slip past my tongue. I bank round, and at 1200 feet see my bomb nearly miss the bridge. So there is a wind blowing.

“Wind from port, correct to port.”

A direct hit from our No. 3 finishes off the bridge. Circling round I locate the gun sites of the still aggressive flak and give the order to attack them.

“They are getting hell very nicely today,” opines Henschel.

Unfortunately two new crews have lagged slightly behind when diving. Lags cut them off. One of them is completely riddled and zooms past me in the direction of enemy territory. I try to catch up with him, but I cannot leave my whole squadron in the lurch on his account. I yell at him over the R/T, I curse him; it is no use. He flies on to the Russian bank of the Dniester. Only a thin ribbon of smoke rises from his aircraft. He surely could have flown on for another few minutes, as the other does, and so reached our own lines.

“He lost his nerve completely, the idiot,” comments Fickel over the R/T. At the moment I cannot bother about him any more, for I must try to keep my ragged formation together and maneuver back eastward in ellipses. After a quarter of an hour the Red fighters turn off defeated, and we head in regular formation for our base. I order the skipper of the seventh flight to lead the formation home. With Pilot Off. Fischer, flying the other staff aircraft, I bank round and fly back at low level, skimming the surface of the Dniester, the steep banks on either side. A short distance ahead in the direction of the bridge I discern the Russian fighters at 3000 to 9000 feet. But here in the bed of the river I am difficult to see, and above all my presence is not expected. As I climb abruptly over the scrub on the river bank I spot our aircraft two or three miles to the right. It has made a forced landing in a field. The crew are standing near it and they gesticulate wildly as I fly over at a lower level. “If only you had paid as much attention to me before, this delicate operation would not have been necessary,” I mutter to myself as I bank round to see whether the field is suitable for a landing. It is. I encourage myself with a breathed: “All right then… get going. This lot today will be the seventh crew I shall have picked up under the noses of the Russians.” I tell Plt./Off. Fischer to stay in the air and interfere with the fighters in case they attack. I know the direction of the wind from the bombing of the bridge.—Flaps down, throttle back, I’ll be down in a jiffy.—What is happening? I have overshot—must open up and go round again. This has never happened to me before at such a moment. Is it an omen not to land? You are very close to the target which has just been attacked, far behind the Soviet lines!—Cowardice? Once again throttle back, flaps down—I am down… and instantly notice that the ground is very soft; I do not even need to brake. My aircraft comes to a stop exactly in front of my two colleagues. They are a new crew, a corporal and a L.A.C. Henschel lifts the canopy and I give them a sign to hop in and be quick about it. The engine is running, they climb in behind with Henschel. Red Falcons are circling overhead; they have not yet spotted us.

“Ready, Henschel?”

“Yes.” I open the throttle, left brake—intending to taxi back so as to take off again in exactly the same way as I landed. My starboard wheel sticks deep in the ground. The more I open my throttle, the more my wheel eats into it. My aircraft refuses to budge from the spot. Perhaps it is only that a lot of mud is jammed between the mud-guard and the wheel.

“Henschel, get out and take off the mud-guard, perhaps then we can make it.”

The fastening stud breaks, the wheel casing stays on; but even without it we could not take off, we are stuck in the mud. I pull the stick into my stomach, ease it and go at full throttle into reverse. Nothing is of the very slightest use. Perhaps it might be possible to pancake, but that does not help us either. Plt./Off. Fischer flies lower above us and asks over the R/T:

“Shall I land?”

After a momentary hesitation I tell myself that if he lands he too will not be able to take off again and reply: “No, you are not to land. You are to fly home.”

I take a look round. There come the Ivans, in droves, four hundred yards away. Out we must get. “Follow me,” I shout—and already we are sprinting southward as fast as our legs can carry us. When flying over I have seen that we are about four miles from the Dniester. We must get across the river whatever we do or else we shall fall an easy prey to the pursuing Reds. Running is not a simple matter; I am wearing high fur boots and a fur coat. Sweat is not the word! None of us needs any spurring on; we have no mind to end up in a Soviet prison camp which has already meant instant death to so many dive bomber pilots.

We have been running for half an hour. We are putting up a pretty good show; the Ivans are a good half a mile behind. Suddenly we find ourselves on the edge of almost perpendicular cliffs at the foot of which flows the river. We rush hither and thither, looking for some way of getting down them… impossible! The Ivans are at our heels. Then suddenly a boyhood recollection gives me an idea. We used to slide down from bough to bough from the tops of fir trees and by braking our fall in this way we got to the bottom safely. There are plenty of large thorny bushes, like our dog—rose, growing out of the stone face of the cliff. One after the other we slide down and land on the river bank at the bottom, lacerated in every limb and with our clothes in ribbons. Henschel gets rather jittery. He shouts:

“Dive in at once. Better to be drowned than captured by the Russians.”

I advise common sense. We are aglow from running. A short breather and then strip off as many garments as we can. The Ivans have meanwhile arrived panting at the top. They cannot see us because we are in a blind angle of their field of vision. They rush up and down unable to imagine where we have disappeared to. It is a cinch they think it impossible that we have leapt over the precipice. The Dniester is in flood; the snows are thawing out, and here and there a lump of ice drifts past. We calculate the breadth of the river as six hundred yards, the temperature as 3-4 degrees above freezing. The three others are already getting into the water; I am just divesting myself of my fur boots and fur jacket. Now I follow them, clad only in shirt and trousers; under my shirt my map, in my trousers pockets my medals and my compass. As I touch the water, I say to myself: “You are never going in here”—then I think of the alternative and am already striking out.

In a very short while the cold is paralyzing. I gasp for breath, I no longer feel that I am swimming. Concentrate hard, think of the swimming strokes and carry out the motions! Only imperceptibly the far bank draws nearer. The others are ahead of me. I think of Henschel. He passed his swimming test with me when we were with the reserve flight at Graz, but if he goes all out today under more difficult conditions he will be able to repeat that record time, or perhaps get very near it. In mid-stream I am level with him, a few yards behind the gunner of the other aircraft; the corporal is a good distance in front, he seems to be an excellent swimmer.

Gradually one becomes dead to all sensation save the instinct of self-preservation which gives one strength; it is bend or break. I am amazed at the others’ stamina, for I as a former athlete am used to overexertion. My mind travels back. I always used to finish with the 1500 metres, often glowing with heat after trying to put up the best possible performance in nine other disciplinary exercises. This hard training pays me now. In sporting terms, my actual exertion does not exceed ninety per cent of my capability. The corporal climbs out of the water and throws himself down on the bank. Somewhat later I reach the safety of the shore with the L.A.C. close after me. Henschel has still another 150 yards to go. The other two he rigid, frozen to the bone, the gunner rambling deliriously. Poor chap! I sit down and watch Henschel struggling on.

Another 80 yards. Suddenly he throws up his arms and yells: “I can’t go on, I can’t go on any more!” and sinks. He comes up once, but not a second time. I jump back into the water, now drawing on the last ten per cent of energy which I hope is left me. I reach the spot where I just saw Henschel go down. I cannot dive, for to dive I need to fill my lungs but with the cold I cannot get sufficient air. After several fruitless attempts I just manage to get back to the bank. If I had succeeded in catching hold of Henschel I should have remained with him in the Dniester. He was very heavy and the strain would have been too much for almost any one. Now I lie sprawled on the bank… limp… exhausted… and somewhere a deepseated misery for my friend Henschel. A moment later we say a Paternoster for our comrade.

The map is sodden with water, but I have everything in my head. Only—the devil only knows how far we are behind the Russian lines. Or is there still a chance that we may bump into the Rumanians sooner or later? I check up on our arms; I have a 6.35 mm. revolver with six rounds, the corporal a 7.65 with a full magazine, the L.A.C. has lost his revolver whilst in the water and has only Henschel’s broken knife. We start walking southward with these weapons in our hands. The gently rolling country is familiar from flying over it. Contour differences of perhaps six hundred feet, few villages, 30 miles to the south a railway running E. to W. I know two points on it: Balti and Floresti. Even if the Russians have made a deep penetration we can count on this line still being free of the enemy.

The time is about 3 p.m., the sun is high in the S.W. It shines obliquely in our faces on our right. First we go into a little valley with moderately high hills on either side. We are still benumbed, the corporal still delirious. I advise caution. We must try to skirt any inhabited places. Each of us is allotted a definite sector to keep under observation.

I am famished. It suddenly strikes me that I have not had a bit to eat all day. This was the eighth time we had been out, and there had not been time for a meal between sorties. A report had to be written out and dispatched to the group on our return from every mission, and instructions for the next one taken down over the telephone. Meanwhile our aircraft were refueled and rearmed, bombs loaded and off again. The crews were able to rest between whiles and even snatch a meal, but in this respect I did not count as one of them.

I guess we must now have been going for an hour; the sun is beginning to lose its strength and our clothes are starting to freeze. Do I really see something ahead of us or am I mistaken? No, it is real enough. Advancing in our direction out of the glare of the sun—it is hard to see clearly—are three figures three hundred yards away. They have certainly seen us.

Perhaps they were lying on their stomachs behind this ridge of hills. They are big chaps, doubtless Rumanians. Now I can see them better. The two on the outside of the trio have rifles slung over their shoulders, the one in the middle carries a Tommy-gun. He is a young man, the other two are about forty, probably reservists. They approach us in no unfriendly manner in their brown-green uniforms. It suddenly occurs to me that we are no longer wearing uniforms and that consequently our nationality is not immediately evident. I hastily advise the corporal to hide his revolver while I do likewise in case the Rumanians become jittery and open fire on us. The trio now halts a yard in front of us and looks us over curiously. I start explaining to our allies that we are Germans who have made a forced landing and beg them to help us with clothing and food, telling them that we want to get back to our unit as quickly as possible.

I say: “We are German airmen who have made a forced landing,” whereupon their faces darken and at the same moment I have the three muzzles of their weapons pointing at my chest. The young one instantly grabs my holster and pulls out my 6.35. They have been standing with their backs to the sun. I have had it in my eyes. Now I take a good look at them. Hammer and sickle—ergo Russians. I do not contemplate for a second being taken prisoner, I think only of escape. There is a hundred to one chance of pulling it off. There is probably a good price on my head in Russia, my capture is likely to be even better rewarded. To blow my brains out is not a practical consideration. I am disarmed. Slowly I turn my head round to see if the coast is clear. They guess my intention and one of them shouts “Stoi!” (Halt!) I duck as I make a double turn and run for it, crouching low and swerving to right and left. Three shots crack out; they are followed by an uninterrupted rattle of quick fire. A stinging pain in my shoulder. The chap with the Tommy-gun has hit me at close range through the shoulder, the other two have missed me.

I sprint like a hare, zig-zagging up the slope, bullets whistling above and below me, to right and to left. The Ivans run after me, halt, fire, run, fire, run, fire, run. Only a short while ago I believed I could hardly put one leg in front of the other, so stiff was I with cold, but now I am doing the sprint of my life. I have never done the 400 yards in faster time. Blood spurts from my shoulder and it is an effort to fight off the blackness before my eyes. I have gained fifty or sixty yards on my pursuers; the bullets whistle incessantly. My only thought: “Only he is lost who gives himself up for lost.” The hill seems interminable. My main direction is still into the sun in order to make it more difficult for the Ivans to hit me. I am dazzled by the glare of the sun and it is easy to miscalculate. I have just had a lesson of that. Now I reach a kind of crest, but my strength is giving out and in order to stretch it still further I decide to keep to the top of the ridge; I shall never manage any more up and down hill. So away at the double southward along the ridge.

I cannot believe my eyes: on the hill top twenty Ivans are running towards me. Apparently they have seen everything and now mean to round up their exhausted and wounded quarry. My faith in God wavers. Why did He first allow me to believe in the possible success of my escape? For I did get out of the first absolutely hopeless comer with my life. And will He now turn me over unarmed, deprived of my last weapon, my physical strength? My determination to escape and live suddenly revives. I dash straight downhill, that is, down the opposite slope to that by which I came up. Behind me, two or three hundred yards away, my original pursuers, the fresh pack to one side of me. The first trio has been reduced to two; at the moment they cannot see me, for I am on the far side of the hill. One of them has stayed behind to bring in my two comrades who stood still when I took to my heels. The hounds on my left are now keeping a parallel course, also running down hill, to cut me off. Now comes a ploughed field; I stumble and for an instant have to take my eyes off the Ivans. I am dead tired, I trip over a clod of earth and lie where I have fallen. The end cannot be far off. I mutter one more curse that I have no revolver and therefore not even the chance to rob the Ivans of their triumph in taking me prisoner. My eyes are turned towards the Reds. They are now running over the same ploughland and have to watch their step. They run on for another fifteen yards before they look up and glance to the right where I am lying. They are now level with me, then diagonally in front, as they move forward on a line 250 yards away. They stop and look about them, unable to make out where I can have got to. I lie flat on the slightly frozen earth and scratch myself with my fingers into the soil. It is a tough proposition; everything is so hard. The miserable bits of earth I manage to scrape loose I throw on top of me, building up a fox-hole. My wound is bleeding, I have nothing to bandage it with; I lie prone on the ice cold earth in my soaking wet clothes; inside me I am hot with excitement at the prospect of being caught at any moment. Again the odds are a hundred to one on my being discovered and captured in less than no time. But is that a reason to give up hope in the almost impossible, when only by believing that the almost impossible is possible can it become so?

There now, the Russians are coming in my direction, continually lessening the distance between us, each of them searching the field on his own, but not yet methodically. Some of them are looking in quite the wrong direction; they do not bother me. But there is one coming straight towards me. The suspense is terrible. Twenty paces from me he stops. Is he looking at me? Is he? He is unmistakably staring in my direction. Is he not coming on? What is he waiting for? He hesitates for several minutes; it seems an eternity to me. From time to time he turns his head a wee bit to the right, a wee bit to the left; actually he is looking well beyond me. I gain a momentary confidence, but then I perceive the danger once more looming large in front of me, and my hopes deflate. Meanwhile the silhouettes of my first pursuers appear on the ridge, apparently, now that so many hounds are on the scent, they have ceased to take their task seriously.

Suddenly at an angle behind me I hear the roar of an aeroplane and look up over my shoulder. My Stuka squadron is flying over the Dniester with a strong fighter escort and two Fieseler Storches. That means that Flt./Off. Fischer has given the alarm and they are searching for me to get me out of this mess. Up there they have no suspicion that they are searching in quite the wrong direction, that I have long since been six miles further south on this side of the river. At this distance I cannot even attract their attention; I dare not so much as lift my little finger. They make one circuit after another at different levels. Then they disappear heading east, and many of them will be thinking: “This time even he has had it.”

They fly away—home. Longingly I follow them with my eyes. You at least know that tonight you will sleep under shelter and will still be alive whereas I cannot guess how many minutes more of life will be granted me. So I lie there shivering. The sun slowly sets. Why have I not yet been discovered?

Over the brow of the hill comes a column of Ivans, in Indian file, with horses and dogs. Once again I doubt God’s justice, for now the gathering darkness should have given me protection. I can feel the earth tremble under their feet. My nerves are at snapping point. I squint behind me. At a distance of a hundred yards the men and animals file past me. Why does no dog pick up my scent? Why does no one find me? Shortly after passing me they deploy at two yards’ intervals. If they had done this fifty yards sooner they would have trodden on me. They vanish in the slowly falling dusk.

The last glow of evening yields to blue, feebly twin kling stars appear. My compass has no phosphorescent dial, but there is still light enough to read it. My general direction must remain the south. I see in that quarter of the sky a conspicuous and easily recognizable star, with a little neighbor. I decide to adopt it as my lodestar. What constellation in the Russian firmament can it be? It is growing dark and I can no longer see anybody. I stand up, stiff, aching, hungry, thirsty. I remember my chocolate—but I left it in my fur jacket on the bank of the Dniester. Avoiding all roads, footpaths, villages, as Ivan is sure to have sentries posted there, I simply follow my star across country, up hill and down dale, over streams, bogs, marshes and stubbly harvested maize fields. My bare feet are cut to ribbons. Again and again in the open fields I stub my toes against big stones. Gradually I lose all feeling in my feet. The will to live, to keep my freedom, urges me on; they are indivisible; life without freedom is a hollow fruit. How deep is Ivan’s penetration of our front? How far have I still to travel? Wherever I hear a dog bark I make a detour, for the hamlets hereabouts are certainly not inhabited by friends. Every now and again I can see gun-flashes on the distant horizon and hear a dull rumble; evidently our boys have started an artillery bombardment. But that means the Russian break-through has gone far. In the gullies which cut through the occasionally rising ground I often lose my footing in the darkness and slump into a ditch where the gluey mud stands knee-deep. It sucks me in so tightly that I have no longer the strength to pull myself out, and flop with the upper part of my body sprawled on the bank of the ditch—my legs deep in slime. Thus I be exhausted, feeling like a battery gone dead.

After lying there for five minutes I am faintly recharged and summon up the strength to crawl up the sloping bank. But remorselessly the same mishap is repeated very soon, at latest at the next uneven ground. So it goes on till 9 p.m. Now I am done in. Even after longish rests I cannot recover my strength. Without water and food and a pause for sleep it is impossible to carry on. I decide to look for an isolated house.

I hear a dog barking in the distance and follow the sound. Presumably I am not too far from a village. So after a while I come to a lonely farmhouse and have considerable difficulty in evading the yelping dog. I do not like its barking at all as I am afraid it will alarm some picket in the near-by village. No one opens the door to my knocking; perhaps there is no one there. The same thing happens at a second farmhouse. I go on to a third. When again nobody answers impatience overcomes me and I break a window in order to climb in. At this moment an old woman carrying a smoky oil lamp opens the door. I am already half way through the window, but now I jump out again and put my foot in the door. The old woman tries to shove me out. I push resolutely past her. Turning round I point in the direction of the village and ask: “Bolshewisti?” She nods. Therefore I conclude that Ivan has occupied the village. The dim lamplight only vaguely illumines the room: a table, a bench, an ancient cupboard. In the comer a grey-headed man is snoring on a rather lopsided trestle bed. He must be seventy. The couple share this wooden couch. In silence I cross the room and lay myself down on it. What can I say? I know no Russian. Meanwhile they have probably seen that I mean no harm. Barefoot and in rags, the tatters of my shirt sticky with coagulated blood, I am more likely to be a hunted quarry than a burglar. So I lie there. The old woman has gone back to bed beside me. Above our heads the feeble glimmer of the lamp. It does not occur to me to ask them whether they have anything to dress my shoulder or my lacerated feet. All I want is rest.

Now again I am tortured by thirst and hunger. I sit up on the bed and put my palms together in a begging gesture to the woman, at the same time making a dumb show of drinking and eating. After a brief hesitation she brings me a jug of water and a chunk of corn bread, slightly mildewed. Nothing ever tasted so good in all my life. With every swallow and bite I feel my strength reviving, as if the will to live and initiative has been restored to me. At first I eat ravenously, then munching thoughtfully, I review my situation and evolve a plan for the next hours. I have finished the bread and water. I will rest till one o’clock. It is 9:20 p.m. Rest is essential. So I lie back again on the wooden boards between the old couple, half awake and half asleep. I wake up every quarter of an hour with the punctuality of a clock and check the time. In no event must I waste too much of the sheltering dark in sleep; I must put as many miles as possible behind me on my journey south. 9:45, 10 o’clock, 10:15, and so on; 12:45, 1:00 o’clock.—Getting up time! I steal out; the old woman shuts the door behind me.. I have already stumbled down a step. Is it the drunkenness of sleep, the pitch dark night or the wet step?

It is raining. I cannot see my hand before my face. My star has disappeared. Now how am I to find my bearings? Then I remember that I was previously running with the wind behind me. I must again keep it in my back to reach the South. Or has it veered? I am still among isolated farm buildings; here I am sheltered from the wind. As it blows from a constantly changing direction I am afraid of moving in a circle. Inky darkness, obstacles; I barge into something and hurt my shins again. There is a chorus of barking dogs, therefore still houses, the village. I can only pray I do not run into a Russian sentry the next minute. At last I am out in the open again where I can turn my back to the wind with certainty. I am also rid of the curs. I plod on as before, up hill, down dale, up, down, maize fields, stones, and woods where it is more difficult to keep direction because you can hardly feel the wind among the trees. On the horizon I see the incessant flash of guns and hear their steady rumble. They serve to guide me on my course. Shortly after 3 a.m. there is a grey light on my left—the day is breaking. A good check, for now I am sure that the wind has not veered and I have been moving south all right. I have now covered at least six miles. I guess I must have done ten or twelve yesterday, so that I should be sixteen or eighteen miles south of the Dniester.

In front of me rises a hill of about seven hundred feet. I climb it. Perhaps from the top I shall have a panorama and shall be able to make out some conspicuous points. It is now daylight, but I can discover no particular landmarks from the top; three tiny villages below me several miles away to my right and left. What interests me is to find that my hill is the beginning of a ridge running north to south, so I am keeping my direction. The slopes are smooth and bare of timber so that it is easy to keep a look out for any one coming up them. It must be possible to descry any movement from up here; pursuers would have to climb the hill and that would be a substantial handicap. Who at the moment suspects my presence here? My heart is light, because although it is day I feel confident I shall be able to push on south for a good few miles. I would like to put as many as possible behind me with the least delay.

I estimate the length of the ridge as about six miles; that is interminably long. But—is it really so long? After all, I encourage myself, you have run a six mile race—how often?—and with a time of forty minutes. What you were able to do then in forty minutes, you must now be able to do in sixty—for the prize is your liberty. So just imagine you are running a marathon race!

I must be a fit subject for a crazy artist as I plod on with my marathon stride along the crest of the ridge in rags—on bare, bleeding feet—my arm hugged stiffly to my side to ease the pain of my aching shoulder.

You must make it… keep your mind on the race… and run… and keep on running.

Every now and again I have to change to a jog-trot and drop into a walk for perhaps a hundred yards. Then I start running again… it should not take more than an hour…

Now unfortunately I have to leave the protective heights, for the way leads downhill. Ahead of me stretches a broad plain, a slight depression in exactly the same direction continues the line of the ridge. Dangerous because here I can be more suddenly surprised. Besides, the time is getting on for seven o’clock, and therefore unpleasant encounters are more likely.

Once again my battery is exhausted. I must drink… eat… rest. Up to now I have not seen a living soul. Take precautions? What can I do? I am unarmed; I am only thirsty and hungry. Prudence? Prudence is a virtue, but thirst and hunger are an elemental urge. Need makes one careless. Half left two farmhouses appear on the horizon out of the morning mist. I must effect an entry.

I stop for a moment at the door of a barn and poke my head round the corner to investigate; the building yawns in my face. Nothing but emptiness. The place is stripped bare, no harness, no farm implements, no living creature—stay!—a rat darts from one comer to another. A large heap of maize leaves lies rotting in the barnyard. I grub amongst them with greedy fingers. If only I could find a couple of corncobs… or only a few grains of corn… But I find nothing… I grub and grub and grub… not a thing!

Suddenly I am aware of a rustling noise behind me. Some figures are creeping stealthily past the door of another barn: Russians, or refugees as famished as I am and on the self—same quest? Or are they looters in search of further booty? I fare the same at the next farm. Here I go through the maize heaps with the greatest care—nothing. Disappointedly I reflect: if all the food is gone I must at least make up for it by resting. I scrape myself a hole in the pile of maize leaves and am just about to lie down in it when I hear a fresh noise: a farm wagon is rumbling past along a lane; on the box a man in a tall fur cap, beside him a girl. When there is a girl there can be nothing untoward, so I go up to them. From the black fur cap I guess the man is a Rumanian peasant.

I ask the girl: “Have you anything to eat?”

“If you care to eat this…” She pulls some stale cakes out of her bag. The peasant stops the horse. Not until then does it occur to me that I have put my question in German and have received a German answer.

“How do you come to know German?”

The girl tells me that she has come with the German soldiers from Dnjepropetrowsk and that she learnt it there. Now she wants to stay with the Rumanian peasant sitting beside her. They are fleeing from the Russians.

“But you are going straight in their direction.” I can see by their faces that they do not believe me. “Have the Russkis already reached the town over there?”

“No, that is Floresti.”

This unexpected reply is like a tonic. The town must lie on the Balti-Floresti railway line which I know. “Can you tell me, girl, if there are still any German soldiers there?”

“No, the Germans have left, but there may be Rumanian soldiers.”

“Thank you and God speed.”

I wave to the disappearing wagon. Now I can already hear myself being asked later why I did not “requisition” the wagon… the idea never entered my mind… For are the pair not fugitives like myself? And must I not offer thanks to God that I have so far escaped from danger?

After my excitement has died down a brief exhaustion overcomes me. For those last six miles I have been conscious of violent pain; all of a sudden the feeling returns to my lacerated feet, my shoulder hurts with every step I take. I meet a stream of refugees with handcarts and the bare necessities they have salvaged, all in panic-stricken haste.

On the outskirts of Floresti two soldiers are standing on the scarp of a sandpit; German uniforms? Another few yards and my hope is confirmed. An unforgettable sight!

I call up to them: “Come here!”

They call down: “What do you mean: come here! Who are you anyway, fellow?”

“I am Squadron Leader Rudel.”

“Nah! No squadron leader ever looked like you do.” I have no identification papers, but I have in my pocket the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords. I pull it out of my pocket and show it to them. On seeing it the corporal says:

“Then we’ll take your word for it.”

“Is there a German Kommandantur?”

“No, only the rearguard H.Q. of a dressing station.”

That is where I will go. They fall in on either side of me and take me there. I am now crawling rather than walking. A doctor separates my shirt and trousers from my body with a pair of scissors, the rags are sticking to my skin; he paints the raw wounds of my feet with iodine and dresses my shoulder. During this treatment I devour the sausage of my life. I ask for a car to drive me at once to the airfield at Balti. There I hope to find an aircraft which will fly me straight to my squadron.

“What clothes do you intend to wear?” the doctor asks me. All my garments have been cut to ribbons. “We have none to lend you.” They wrap me naked in a blanket and off we go in an automobile to Balti. We drive up in front of the control hut on the airfield. But what is this? My squadron officer, Plt./Off. Ebersbach opens the door of the car:

“Pilot Officer Ebersbach, in command of the 3rd Squadron advance party moving to Jassy.”

A soldier follows him out carrying some clothes for me. This means that my naked trip from Floresti has already been reported to Balti from there by telephone, and Ebersbach happened to be in the control but when the message came through.

He has been informed that his colleague who has been given up for dead will shortly arrive in his birthday suit. I climb into a Ju. 52, and fly to Rauchowka to rejoin the squadron. Here the telephone has been buzzing, the news has spread like wild fire, and the wing cook, Runkel, has already a cake in the oven. I look into grinning faces, the squadron is on parade. I feel reborn, as if a miracle had happened. Life has been restored to me, and this reunion with my comrades is the most glorious prize for the hardest race of my life.

We mourn the loss of Henschel, our best gunner with a credit of 1200 operational sorties. That evening we all sit together for a long while round the fire. There is a certain atmosphere of celebration. The Group has sent over a deputation, among them a doctor who is supposed to. “sit by my bedside.” He conveys to me the General’s congratulations with an order that I am to be grounded and to be flown home on leave as soon as I am in a fit condition to travel. Once more I shall have to disappoint the poor general. For I am deeply worried in my mind. Shall we be able to hold the Soviets now advancing southward in force from the Dniester? I could not lie in bed for a single day.

We are due to move to Jassy with all personnel the next morning. The weather is foul, impossible to fly. If we all have to be idle perforce I may as well obey the doctor’s orders and rest. The day after I fly with my squadron to Jassy, from where we have not so far to fly on our coming sorties over the Dniester. My shoulder is bandaged and I cannot move my arm, but that does not matter much when flying. It is worse that I have hardly any flesh on my feet and so naturally cannot walk. Every pressure on the controls involves acute pain. I have to be carried to my aircraft.

Jassy is a pretty Rumanian town, at present completely unscathed. To us a magnificent sight; it reminds us of home. We gape at the shop windows and are as delighted as children.

The next morning our reconnaissance discovers strong armored and motorized formations already almost due N. of Balti, probably they have even reached the town. At first the weather is bad; the country is mountainous and the highest peaks are shrouded in mist. The situation is grave; there are no longer any troops covering our front. Motorized units can get here in half a day. Who is to stop them? We stand alone. Reconnaissance reports strong opposition by flak which the advancing Reds have brought up with them. Soviet Lag 5s and Aircobras continually fly above their armored spearhead. Our southern front in Russia, the Rumanian oilfields, both factors of vital importance, are threatened. I am blind and deaf to all advice with regard to my physical condition. The Soviets must be checked; their tanks, the striking force of an army, destroyed. Another weeks goes by before our colleagues on the ground can build a defense line.

W.O. Rothmann, my loyal first shift, carries me to my aircraft. Six of the stiffest sorties in the worst of weather till three in the afternoon. Intense flak. I have to change aircraft after almost every sortie because of damage by flak. I am myself in pretty bad shape. Only the determination to halt the Soviets wherever I can still keeps me going. Besides, these are certainly the troops who tried to take me prisoner, and on the day I escaped the Moscow radio has already given out that they have captured Squadron Leader Rudel. Apparently they did not believe it possible for me to reach our lines. Have my colleagues who failed to make their escape betrayed the name of the one who did?

We attack tanks, supply convoys with petrol and rations, infantry and cavalry, with bombs and cannon. We attack from between 30 and 600 feet because the weather is execrable.

I go out with aircraft of my anti-tank flight carrying the 37 mm. cannon on tank hunts at the lowest possible level. Soon all the rest of the flight are grounded because when my aircraft is hit I have to use another, and so one after the other gets a rest. If it takes too long to refuel the whole squadron I have my aircraft and another quickly refueled and remunitioned, and the two of us go out between sorties on one of our own. Generally there are none of our fighters there; the Russians realize their enormous numerical superiority over us alone. Maneuvering is difficult in these air battles, for I am unable to operate the rudder controls, I only use the stick. But up till now I have only been hit by flak; in every sortie, however, and that is often enough. On the last sortie of the day I fly with a normal Stuka (not a cannon-carrier) with bombs and two 2 cm. calibre cannon. With this weapon one cannot penetrate a moderately thickly armored tank. Presumably the Reds are not expecting us to be out so late; our only object is to locate their concentrations and to obtain an overall picture of the general situation which is of the very greatest importance for tomorrow. We fly along the two roads running North in the direction of Balti. The sun is already low on the horizon; half-left huge clouds of smoke are rising from the village of Falesti. Perhaps a Rumanian unit. I drop down below the squadron and fly low over the village, and am met by flak and strong opposition. I see a mass of tanks, behind them a long convoy of lorries and motorized infantry. The tanks are, curiously, all carrying two or three drums of petrol. In a flash it dawns upon me; they no longer expected us and mean to dash through tonight, if possible into the heart of Rumania, into the oil region, and thereby cutting off our southern front. They are taking advantage of the twilight and the darkness because by day they cannot move with my Stukas overhead.

This also accounts for the petrol drums on board the tanks; they mean, if necessary, to push through even without their supply columns. This is a major operation and they are already under way. I now see that perfectly plainly. We are alone to possess this knowledge; the responsibility is ours. I give my orders over the R/T:

“Attack of the most vital importance—”

“You are to drop every bomb singly—”

“Follow up with low level attack till you have fired every round—”

“Gunners are also to fire at vehicles.”

I drop my bombs and then hunt tanks with my 2 cm. cannon. At any other time it would be a sheer waste of effort to fire at tanks with this calibre ammunition, but today the Ivans are carrying petrol drums; it is worth while. After the first bombs the Russian column stops dead in its tracks, and then tries to drive on in good order, covered by savage flak. But we refuse to let ourselves be deterred. Now they realize that we are in deadly earnest. They scatter in panic away from the road, driving at random into fields and spinning round in circles in every conceivable defensive maneuver. Every time I fire I hit a drum with incendiary or explosive ammunition. Apparently the petrol leaks through some joint or other which causes a draught; some tanks standing in the deep shadow of a hill blow up with a blinding flash. If their ammunition is exploded into the air the sky is criss-crossed with a perfect firework display, and if the tank happens to be carrying a quantity of Verey lights they shoot all over the place in the craziest colored pattern.

Each time I come in to the attack I am sensible of the responsibility which rests on us and hope we may be successful.

What luck that we spotted this convoy today! I have run out of ammunition; have just knocked out five tanks but there are still a few monsters in the fields, some of them even yet moving. I long to put paid to them somehow.

“Hannelore 7,”—that is the call sign for the leader of the Seventh Flight—“you are to lead the way home after firing your last round.”

I, with my No. 2, fly back at top speed to the airfield. We do not wait to refuel, we have enough petrol to last us; only more ammunition. The dusk is falling fast. Everything goes too slowly for my liking although the good chaps handling the bombs and shells are giving us all they have. I have tipped them off as to what is at stake and now they do not want to let down their comrades in the air. Ten minutes later I take off again. We meet the squadron returning; it is already approaching the airfield with position lights. It seems an age before I am back at last over my target. From a long way off I can see the burning tanks and lorries.

Explosions briefly illuminate the battle field with an eerie light. Visibility is now pretty poor. I head north, flying at low level along the road and catch up with two steel monsters traveling in the same direction, probably with the intention of carrying the sad news back to the rear. I bank and am on to them; I can only discern them at the very last second as I skim the ground. They are not an easy target, but as they, like their predecessors, carry the big drums, I succeed in blowing them both up, though I have to use up all my ammunition. With these two, a total of seventeen tanks for the day. My squadron has destroyed approximately the same number, so that today the Ivans have lost some thirty tanks. A rather black day for the enemy. Tonight at all events we can sleep quietly at Jassy, of that we can be sure. How far the general impetus of the offensive has been impaired we shall learn tomorrow. We make our final landing in the dark. Now gradually I become conscious of pain, as the tension slowly relaxes. Both the army and the air group want to know every detail. For half the night I sit by the telephone with the receiver to my ear.

The mission for tomorrow is obvious: to engage the same enemy forces as today.

We take off very early so as to be up in the forward area at the crack of dawn, for we can be certain that Ivan will also have made good use of the interval. The foulest weather, cloud ceiling 300-450 feet over the airfield. Once again, St. Peter is helping the other side. The surrounding hills are obscured. We can only fly along the valleys. I am curious as to what is in store for us today. We fly past Falesti; there everything is wreckage just as we left it yesterday. Due south of Balti we meet the first armored and motorized convoys. We are greeted by fierce opposition, from both flak and fighter aircraft. It must have got round that we put up a good show yesterday. I should not much care to make a forced landing hereabouts today. We attack without intermission; on every sortie we are engaged in aerial combat without protection, for in this sector there are virtually none of our fighters available. In addition we have plenty of trouble with the weather. Through having to fly low all the time we are not without losses; but we have to keep at it, for we are dealing with an emergency and it is in our own interest not to let up for an instant. Unless we stay in the air it will not be long be fore Ivan occupies our airfield. It is unfortunate that I no longer have Henschel with me on these difficult sorties; with his gunnery experience the brave fellow would have been able to make things a whole lot easier for me. Today my rear-gunner is W. O. Rothmann. A good chap, but he lacks experience. We all like flying with him because we say: “Even if no one else gets back you can bet old Rothmann will.” On our return from the first sortie I am again impatient at the delay and sandwich in a “solo,” accompanied by Plt./Off. Fischer. We go out after tanks on the outskirts of Balti. We have a rendezvous with a few fighters over the target. We fly there as low as possible; the weather is worse than ever, visibility not more than 800 yards. I look for our fighters, climbing shortly before we reach the town. There are fighters there—but not ours, all Russians.

“Look out, Fischer, they’re all Aircobra. Stick to me. Come in closer.”

They have already spotted us. There are about twenty of them. We two alone are just their meat; they come at us confidently, hell-for-leather. There is no air space up above; we are flying at bottom level, taking advantage of every little gully in the effort to lose ourselves. I cannot take any violent evasive action because I cannot kick the rudder-bar with my feet; I can only make weary changes of direction by pulling my joy-stick. These tactics are not good enough by a long chalk if I have behind me a fighter pilot who knows the first thing about his business. And the one now on my tail knows all about it. Rothmann shows signs of the jitters:

“They are shooting us down!”

I yell at him to shut up, to fire instead of wasting his breath. He gives a shout—there is a rat-a-tat-tat against my fuselage, hit after hit. I cannot shift the rudder-bar. A blind rage possesses me. I am beside myself with fury. I hear the impact of large calibre shells; the Aircobra is firing with a 3.7 cm. cannon in addition to its 2 cm. guns. How long will my faithful Ju. 87 hold out? How long before my kite bursts into frames or falls apart? I have been brought down thirty times in this war, but always by flak, never yet by fighters. Every time I was able to use the rudder-bar and maneuver with the aid of it. This is the first and last time a fighter hits my aircraft.

“Rothmann, fire!” He does not answer. His last word is: “I am jammed—Ouch!” So now my rear defense is eliminated. The Ivans are not slow to grasp the fact; they become even more aggressive than before, coming in behind me and from port and starboard. One fellow comes at me again and again with a frontal pass. I take refuge in the narrowest ravines where there is barely room to squeeze through with my wings. Their marksmanship against their living target is not bad, they score one hit after another. The chances of my getting back are once again very small. But close to our own airfield at Jassy they abandon the chase; presumably they have run out of ammunition. I have lost Fischer. He was diagonally behind me all the time and I could not keep track of him. Rothmann, too, does not know what has happened to him. Has he made a forced landing or has he crashed? I do not know myself. The loss of the smart young officer hits the squadron particularly hard. My aircraft has been riddled by the 2 cm. guns and hit eight times by the 3.7 cannon. Rothmann would no longer insure my life for very much.

After such an experience one is mentally harassed and exhausted, but that cannot be helped. Into another aircraft and off again. The Soviets must be halted. On this day I knock out nine tanks. A heavy day. During the last sorties I have to peel my eyes to catch sight of a tank. This is a good sign. I believe that for the moment the main impetus of the enemy has been stemmed; infantry by itself without armor makes no great forward leaps.

Dawn reconnaissance the next morning confirms my supposition. Everything seems quiet, almost dead. As I land after the first sortie of the day a young aircraftsman springs onto the wing of my aircraft with wild gesticulations and congratulates me on the award of the Diamonds. A long distance message has just been received from the Führer, but it also includes an order forbid ding me to fly any more. Some of his words are drowned by the noise of the running engine, but I guess the drift of what he is telling me. To avoid seeing this prohibition in black and white I do not go into the control room, but remain close to my aircraft until the preparations for the next take-off are completed. At noon the General summons me to Odessa by telephone.

Meanwhile telegrams of congratulations have been pouring in from every point of the compass, even from members of the Reich government. It is going to be a hard fight to obtain leave to continue flying. The thought that my comrades are getting ready for another sortie and that I have to go to Odessa upsets me. I feel like a leper. This rider to the award disheartens me and kills my pleasure at the recognition of my achievement. In Odessa I learn nothing new, only what I already know and do not wish to hear. I listen to the words of congratulation absently; my thoughts are with my comrades who do not have this worry and can fly. I envy them. I am to proceed immediately to the Führer’s headquarters to be personally invested with the Diamonds. After stopping off at Tiraspol we change over to a Ju. 87—if only Henschel were with me, now Rothmann sits behind. Over Foskani—Bucharest—Belgrade—Keskemet—Vienna to Salzburg. It is no every-day occurrence for the Head of the State to receive an officer reporting in soft fur flying boots, but I am happy to be able to move about in them, even though in great pain. Wing Commander von Below comes in to Salzburg to fetch me while Rothmann goes home by train, it being agreed that I shall pick him up in Silesia on my way back.

For two days I bask in the sun on the terrace of the Berchtesgadener Hotel, inhaling the glorious mountain air of home. Now gradually I relax. Two days later I stand in the presence of the Führer in the magnificent Berghof. He knows the whole story of the last fortnight down to the minutest detail and expresses his joy that the fates have been so kind, that we were able to achieve so much. I am impressed by his warmth and almost tender cordiality. He says that I have now done enough; hence his order grounding me. He explains that it is not necessary that all great soldiers should lay down their lives; their example and their experience must be safeguarded for the new generation. I reply with a refusal to accept the decoration if it entails the stipulation that I may no longer lead my squadron into action. He frowns, a brief pause ensues, and then his face breaks into a smile: “Very well, then, you may fly.”

Now at last I am glad and happily look forward to seeing the pleasure in the faces of my comrades when they hear that I am back. We have tea together and chat for an hour or two. New technical weapons, the strategic situation, and history are the staple of our conversation. He specially explains to me the V weapons which have recently been tried out. For the present, he says, it would be a mistake to overestimate their effectiveness because the accuracy of these weapons is still very small, adding that this is not so important, as he is now hopeful of producing flying rockets which will be absolutely infallible. Later on we should not rely as at present on the normal high explosives, but on something quite different which will be so powerful that once we begin to use them they should end the war decisively. He tells me that their development is already well advanced and that their final completion may be expected very soon. For me this is entirely virgin ground, and I cannot yet imagine it. Later I learn that the explosive effect of these new rockets is supposed to be based on atomic energy.

The impression left after every visit to the Führer is enduring. From Salzburg I fly the short distance to Görlitz, my home town. All the receptions given in my honor are more of a strain than some operational sorties. Once when I am lying in bed at seven o’clock in the morning a girls’ choir serenades me; it requires a good deal of persuasion on the part of my, wife to make me say good morning to them. It is hard to explain to people that in spite of being decorated with the Diamonds one does not want any celebrations or receptions. I want to rest and that is all. I spend a few more days with my parents in my home village in an intimate family gathering. I listen to the news bulletins from the East on the wireless and think of the soldiers fighting over there. Then nothing holds me back any longer. I ring up Rothmann at Zittau and a Ju. 87 flies over Vienna—Bucharest southwards to the Eastern Front once more.