Stuka Pilot

ATTACK!

We fly in low over the water from the south; it is dark and murky; I cannot distinguish anything more than 2000 to 2500 feet ahead. Now I see straight in the line of my flight a black moving mass: the road, tanks, vehicles, Russians. I at once yell: “Attack!” Already at almost point blank range the defense looses off a concentrated fire from in front of me, twin and quadruple flak, machine guns, revealing everything with a livid brightness in this foggy light. I am flying at 90 feet and have bumped right into the middle of this hornet’s nest. Shall I get out of it? I twist and turn in the craziest defensive maneuvers to avoid being hit; I shoot without taking aim… my head is as hot as the metal screaming past me. A few seconds later a tell-tale hammering. “Engine on fire!” Flames lick the cockpit. Our kite will be our crematorium. Can we bail out in time?