Stuka Pilot

16. CHRISTMAS 1944

The battle for the relief of Budapest is in full swing. We are now stationed at Kememed St. Peter in the Papa area. We, the flying personnel, have just got in from the airfield at Varpalota, and before we have even had time to settle down Fridolin pops his head in and asks: “Don’t you chaps know it’s only two days to Christmas?” He is right; according to the calendar it must be so. Take-off—sortie—land—take-off—sortie—land, that has been our rhythm; day in, day out—for years. Everything else is absorbed into this rhythm: cold and heat, winter and summer, weekdays and Sundays. Our lives are condensed into a few ideas and phrases which fill our minds and refuse to be dismissed, especially now that the war has indeed become a struggle for survival. One day follows another, the breath of today the same as that of yesterday. “Sortie!” “Where to?” “Against whom?” “Met.” “Flak.” These words and thoughts preoccupy the very youngest pilot just as they do the Wing Commander. Will it go on like this forever?

So the day after tomorrow will be Christmas. Fridolin with one of the administrative staff drives over to Group

Headquarters to fetch our Christmas mail. Meanwhile greetings to the “Immelman Circus” come in even from army units. We return from our last sortie on Christmas Eve at five o’clock. The place looks really Christmassy, gay and festive, almost like home. As there is no large hall available, each flight has its own celebrations in the biggest room in their headquarters. I drop in on them all. Every unit observes the occasion in its own fashion, reflecting the personality of its skipper. It is jolly everywhere. I myself spend the greater part of Christmas Eve with the Wing staff company. Here, too, the room is festively decorated with mistletoe and holly, and cheerful in the light of many candles. Two large Christmas trees with a table covered with presents set up in front of them remind us of our childhood. My soldiers’ eyes are bright pools of nostalgic dreams, their thoughts are with wife and child at home, with parents and families, in the past and in the future. Only subconsciously do we perceive among the green the German flag of war. It jerks us back to reality: we are celebrating Christmas in the field. We sing “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht” and all the other Christmas songs. The raucous military voices blend in a softer euphony. Then the great miracle happens in our hearts: the thoughts of bombs and targets, shells and flak and death are softened by an extraordinary sense of peace, of serene and soothing peace. And we are able to think of sublime and beautiful things with the same ease as we think of walnuts, punch and pfefferkuchen. The final echo of the lovely German Christmas carols has died away. I say a few words about our German Christmas, I want my men to see me today, above all, as their comrade, not their commanding officer. We sit together happily for another hour or two; then Christmas Eve is over.

St. Peter is kind to us on the first day of the holidays: there is a dense fog. From conversations over the telephone during Christmas I know that Ivan is attacking and that we are urgently needed, but flying is absolutely impossible. The next morning I play a short game of ice hockey with my men, which this time means standing in goal in my fur boots as with my five weeks old wounds I can do no more than hobble clumsily about. Skating is out of the question. In the afternoon I am invited with a few colleagues by the people on which I am billeted to a shoot. I know very little about this “common or garden” shooting on terra firma. Our party consists of a large number of guns, but only a very few beaters. The hares know that the odds are on their side and invariably dart through the wide gaps in our “pocket” in the nick of time. Wading through the deep snow does not admit of any very rapid progress either. My driver, L.A.C. Bohme, is on my flank. All of a sudden I see a magnificent specimen of a hare break out of cover in his direction. Pointing my gun, I swivel round like a born hunter, close one eye, and… bang! I pull the trigger. A body rolls over, not the hare, but Bohme whom in my novice enthusiasm I have entirely overlooked. He is still mistrustful of my intentions, for he looks at me out of the snow with an expression of dismay and says reproachfully: “Really, sir!” He had noticed my aim in time and thrown himself flat in a flash. The buckshot missed him, but also the hare. Afterwards I am more scared by what happened than either of them. That would have been a Christmas surprise indeed. Another confirmation of the truth of our old Stuka maxim: “Nothing comes off-except what you have practiced.”

The following morning we have at last good flying weather. Ivan is early abroad; he raids our airfield. Again their bombing is pitifully bad, it is a disgrace. Their low level attacks stop at 1200 feet; we suffer practically no damage. We are out the whole of the second holiday to relieve the ground forces up in the N.E. on the River Gran and on the rest of the Budapest front. Our peaceful Christmas mood has been dispelled. The rigors of war envelope us again, the quiet cheerfulness of the peace of Christmas Eve has passed into the limbo of yesterday.

Fierce battles are raging in the air and on the ground. On our side fresh reinforcements have been thrown in, all old acquaintances of mine—friends from the Eastern Front, tank-men who, like ourselves, are the High Command’s “fire brigade.” Their task and ours will be to “punch a way out” for those parts of our divisions which are trapped in Budapest, to open a lane for them to rejoin the rest of the army. Together we should be able to pull the chestnuts out of the fire. Year in, year out, almost day by day, I have fought in every sector of the Eastern Front; I fancy that I have gained a fair knowledge of military tactics. Experience teaches that practice makes perfect; practical knowledge is the sole criterion of what is possible or impossible, good or bad. Through our daily flying we have learnt to know every ditch, every stretch, of country thoroughly, we are constantly low above them. It is quite impossible to approve of the conduct of the battle here.

Some of our armored units have been broken up and the grenadiers which are part of them are being thrown in separately. The tanks, who have always worked with them as a team, feel at sea and uncertain of themselves without them; the troops which have been assigned to them have no practical experience of co-operating with tanks, and this may result in dangerous surprises. I fail to understand how such an order can have been given; moreover one could hardly imagine a worse choice than the sector selected for the offensive, because of marshes and other difficulties of terrain, when there are so many other favorable alternatives. The infantry, on the other hand, have to advance across flat, open country which is ideal for tanks, but no place for infantry. The enemy takes full advantage of all this and so our infantry is opposed to the Soviet steel monsters without tank support. Why these unnecessary losses? This is courting failure. Who issues these orders? We sit together of an evening brooding over these questions.

On 30th December a wireless signal is received ordering me to come to Berlin immediately and to report to the Reichsmarschall. I fume because I feel that now especially my presence here is indispensable during these difficult operations. I take off for Berlin the same day, going. via Vienna and determined to be back with my comrades in two or three days. Orders are orders. The only luggage I take with me is a large dispatch case with a change of linen and toilet articles. In view of the seriousness of the situation at the front I dismiss the possibility of being kept in Berlin for longer.

On the way I already have an uncomfortable hunch that I have not been sent for anything pleasant. When I was wounded the last time, in November, I received another order grounding me in spite of which I went up again as soon as I got out of hospital Up till now no one has taken the matter up and I had gradually interpreted this silence as tacit acquiescence; but now, I guess, the question has come to a head and I am going to be put on the mat. I am flying to Berlin very reluctantly, knowing as I do that I shall never obey this order. I cannot bear to be merely looking on, giving advice or issuing orders at a time when my country is in direct need, especially as my wide practical experience gives me an advantage over others who lack this training. Success is the fruit of experience and commensurate with it. In spite of having been wounded five times, some of them seriously, I have always had the luck to make a quick recovery and to be able soon afterwards to pilot my aircraft again day after day, year in, year out, up and down the Eastern Front—from the White Sea to South of Moscow, from near Astrakhan to the Caucasus. I know the Russian front inside out. Therefore I feel an unremitting obligation to go on flying and fighting until the guns are silent and our country’s liberty is assured. Physically, I can do this because I have a healthy constitution and a body trained by sport; my fitness is one of the most valuable sources of my strength.

After a short stay with friends in Vienna I land in Berlin three hours later and immediately report by telephone to Karinhall. I would prefer to drive straight out there, so as to be able to fly back without any loss of time. To my bewilderment I am told to remain at the Fürstenhof and to apply in the morning at the Air Ministry for a pass to travel on the Reichsmarschall’s special train which is leaving for the West. My trip is going to be longer than I expected—so much is clear. It does not seem to have anything to do with a reprimand.

We leave for the West the following evening from Grunewald station. This means I shall see the New Year in on board the train. I dare not let my thoughts dwell on my unit; if I do I shall see red. What does the year 1945 hold in store for us?

We are in the Frankfurt area early on 1st January. I hear the roar of aircraft and look out into the graying morning. An armada of fighter planes, flying low, roars past the carriage window. My first thought is: Americans! It is an age since I have seen so many of our aircraft in the sky at the same time. But this is unbelievable: they are all marked with the German swastika and are Me 109s and FW 190s. They are heading westward. Later I am to learn the nature of their mission. Now the train pulls up; it seems we are somewhere near Nauheim-Friedberg. I am met by a car and driven through a tract of forest to a building which resembles an ancient castle. Here I am greeted by the Reichsmarschall’s adjutant. He tells me that the Chief has not arrived yet, I shall have to wait. He does not know what I am here for. I have no choice but to kick my heels here at Western G.H.O.

I go for a walk for a couple of hours. What wonderful air in these German woods and hills! I fill my lungs with relish. Why have I been ordered here?—I have been instructed to be back at three o’clock, at which time the Reichsmarschall is expected. I hope I shall not be kept waiting before he receives me. He is not there when I return. Besides myself, a general has arrived, an old friend of mine from my Stuka training days at Graz. He tells me about today’s operations, for the planning and conduct of which he is very largely responsible. Reports continually come in of large-scale attacks on airfields in Belgium and Northern France.

“The aircraft you saw this morning were part of one of the formations we have sent out to make low level attacks on the allied air bases. We hope to be able to destroy so many aircraft that the enemy’s air superiority above their offensive, which has been halted in the Ardennes, will be neutralized.”

I tell the general that such a thing would be impossible on the Eastern Front because the distances which would have to be flown over enemy territory are too great, and to fly at low level is merely inviting heavy losses from the very strong ground defense. Could it be different in the West? It seems improbable. If the Americans are successful with similar attacks over Germany this is only because we have not sufficient protection for our airfields and their approaches, for the simple reason that we cannot divert enough men and material for this purpose. He tells me that today all formations have clearly mapped low level approach routes. In the East we have long since ceased to develop practice from theory; we do just the opposite. One can do no more than give the formation leader his assignment; how he performs it is his affair, for it is he who has to carry it out. At the present time the war in the air has become so variable that one can no longer rely on theories—only formation leaders have the necessary experience at the critical moment and are likely to make the proper decisions. It is a good thing we realized this in the East in time, otherwise it is a sure thing that none of us would be flying any more. Besides, have they not yet grasped the fact that we are helpless against the enemy’s masses of men and material?

For the enemy five hundred aircraft more or less on the ground is not decisive, as long as their crews remain in action. It would be infinitely better to use the fighters which have been saved up for so long over our own front to clear the air space above it. If we could remove for a while the nightmare of the allies’ immense air superiority we could give our comrades on the ground a chance to get their second wind. And movements of troops and supplies behind the lines could be carried out unmolested. Any enemy aircraft we might destroy would in most cases be a genuine loss, because the crews would be lost with them:

All these reflections pass through my mind. A few hours later the final result of the operation confirms my misgivings. Five hundred allied aircraft have been destroyed on the ground; over two hundred and twenty of ours with their crews have failed to return. Among those lost today are veteran formation leaders, old timers of which so few are left. It saddens me. Tonight the operation will be reported to the Reichsmarschall and to the Supreme Commander as a great victory. Is this intentional deception, or exaggerated personal ambition?

The adjutant comes in and says to me:

“Wing Commander von Below has just rung up. He would like you to go over for a cup of coffee.”

“But can I not report direct to the Reichsmarschall?”

“The Reichsmarschall is not here yet, and there is no reason why you should not pay this short visit to Wing Commander von Below.”

I consider whether I ought to change, but decide against it because I would like to keep my last clean shirt for my interview with the Reichsmarschall.

A fairly long drive through the forest brings us into a town of huts and chalets, the Führer’s Western H.Q. Over coffee I tell Wing Commander von Below about the latest happenings on the Russian front; after twenty minutes he leaves me, comes back at once and briefly asks me to follow him. Quite unsuspectingly I follow him through several rooms, then he opens a door, stands aside for me to pass and I am face to face with the Führer. All I can think of is that I have not put on a clean shirt; otherwise my mind is a blank. I recognize the other persons standing round him: the Reichsmarschall, beaming—very unusual of late—Admiral Dönitz, Field Marshal Keitel, the Chief of the General Staff, Lieutenant General Jodl and a number of other military notabilities including Generals from the Eastern Front. They are all grouped round an enormous table spread with a map showing the present situation in the field. They look at me and this scrutiny makes me nervous. The Führer has noticed my embarrassment and regards me for a while in silence. Then he offers me his hand and praises my last operation. He says that in recognition of it he is awarding me the highest decoration for bravery, the Gold Oak Leaves with Swords and Diamonds to the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, and is promoting me to the rank of Group Captain. I have been listening to his words in a semi-daze, but when he says with marked emphasis: “Now you have done enough flying. Your life must be preserved for the sake of our German youth and your experience,” I am on the alert in a twinkling. This means I am to be grounded. Goodbye to my comrades!

“My Führer, I cannot accept the decoration and promotion if I am not allowed to go on flying with my wing.”

My right hand is still clasped in his, he is still looking me in the eyes. With his left hand he gives me a black, velvet lined case containing the new decoration. The many lights in the room make the diamonds sparkle in a blaze of prismatic colors. He looks at me very gravely, then his expression changes, and he says: “All right, you may go on flying,” and smiles.

At this a warm wave of joy wells up in my heart and I am happy. Afterwards von Below tells me that he and the generals nearly had a stroke when I made my proviso; he assures me that the sheet lightning in the Führer’s face does not always resolve into a smile. Everyone offers his congratulations, the Commander in Chief of the Luftwaffe with especial cordiality; he gives me a hefty pinch in the arm from sheer delight. Admiral Dönitz’s congratulations are rather qualified, for he adds a trifle snappishly:

“I consider your persuading the Führer to allow you to go on flying unsoldierly. I have also had good U-boat captains, but sooner or later they have had to give up.”

It is a good thing he is not my C-in-C.

The Führer takes me over to the map table and tells me that the conference they have just had concerned the situation at Budapest; I have come from that sector, have I not? He recapitulates the reasons given him for the not exactly satisfactory operation now in progress in the Budapest area, which has so far failed to affect a link-up with the encircled city. I gather that weather, transport and other difficulties have been offered as an excuse, but no mention has been made of the blunders which we see every day on our sorties: the splitting up of the armored divisions and the choice of unsuitable terrain for both the tank and infantry assaults. I express my opinion, based on long experience of the Eastern Front and the fact that during this engagement I have flown as much as eight hours daily over this sector, mostly at low altitudes. They all listen to me in silence. After a short pause the Führer remarks, with a glance at the circle of his advisers:

“You see, this is how I have been misled—who knows for how long?”

He reproaches nobody although he knows the true circumstances, but it is evident that he resents the deception practiced on him. With reference to the map he shows his willingness to regroup our forces for a fresh attempt to relieve Budapest. He asks me where I think would be the most favorable terrain for the armored units to attack. I give my opinion. Later this operation is successful, and the assault group reaches the outposts of the defenders of Budapest who are able to break out.

When the conference is ended he takes me into his private study in an adjoining room, furnished in good taste and with utilitarian simplicity. I wished my comrades could be there and live through these hours with me, for it is because of their achievement that I am here. The Führer gives me a drink, and we talk of many things. He asks after my wife, our boy, my parents and my sisters. Having made the most detailed enquiries about my personal affairs, he begins to speak of his ideas of rearmament. Not unnaturally he starts with the Luftwaffe, dwelling particularly on the proposed modification of the aircraft we are using. He asks me if I still think it practicable to continue flying with the slow Ju. 87 now that the enemy’s fighters are as much as 250 m.p.h. faster than they are. Referring to some blue prints and calculations he points out to me that a retractable undercarriage might increase the speed of the Ju. 87 by 37 m.p.h. at the very most; on the other hand, its diving performance would be disadvantageously affected. He solicits my opinion on every point. He discusses the minutest details in the field of ballistics, physics and chemistry with an ease which impresses me who am a critical observer in this department. He also tells me of his wish to have experiments carried out to test the feasibility of installing four 3 cm. cannon in the wings instead of the present two 3.7 cannon. He thinks that the aerodynamic qualities of our antitank aircraft would be very greatly improved by this change; the ammunition would have the same Wolframkern with the result that the total effectiveness of the aircraft as a weapon would certainly be enhanced.

After explaining to me far-reaching improvements in other departments, such as artillery, infantry weapons and U-boats all with the same astonishing knowledge—he tells me that he has personally drafted the wording of the citation for my latest decoration.

We have probably been chatting for an hour and a half when an orderly reports that “the film is ready for showing.” Every new weekly newsreel is immediately shown to him and given his sanction for release. It so happens—we have gone down only one flight of stairs and are seated in the film theatre—that the first pictures actually show a scene taken at my dispersal at Stuhlweissenburg, followed by our Stukas taking off and ending with a picture of tanks being shot up by me in the area west of Budapest. After the film has been shown I take my leave of the Supreme Commander. Wing Commander von Below hands me the citation for the Knight’s Cross, the Oak Leaves, the Swords and the Diamonds, which have lain in the Reichs Chancery. Each of them weighs several pounds, especially the last two which are framed in gold and, apart from their great sentimental value, must be worth quite a lot. I drive to Goering’s H.Q. The Reichsmarschall expresses his pleasure which is all the greater because recent events have made his position very difficult. The enemy’s air superiority has aggravated almost all our troubles and even made things impossible, but who could prevent it? He is overjoyed and proud that at this moment one of his men should have been instrumental in making the Führer create a new German decoration for bravery. Drawing me a little aside he says to me roguishly:

“You see how envious the others are of me and the awkwardness of my position? At a conference the Führer said that he was creating a new and unique decoration for you because your achievement is unique. Whereupon the representatives of the other services objected that the recipient is a soldier of the Luftwaffe whose problems are the cause of so many headaches. They wanted to know whether it was not at least theoretically possible for a soldier belonging to one of the other services to earn this distinction? So you see what I am up against.”

He goes on to say that he would never have believed I could induce the Führer to change his mind about letting me go on flying. Now that I have his authorization he could not himself renew his prohibition. He begs me, as he has done repeatedly before, to accept the appointment offered me to command the attack units. But seeing that I have got round the Führer I do not think he seriously believes he will win me over today.

In the late afternoon I am on board the special train for Berlin where my aircraft is waiting to carry me back to my comrades at the front. I am in Berlin for only a few hours, but that is long enough to attract a whole mob of “Gold Oak Leaves rubbernecks” as the story has already been given out in the press and on the radio. In the evening I meet Ritter von Halt, at this time Leader of German Sport. He tells me that after prolonged endeavor he has succeeded in convincing Hitler that I ought to assume the leadership of the Reich sport movement at the end of the war. When my war experiences have been written and I have initiated my successor in my present field of activity I am to be offered the post.

I fly by way of Görlitz, stopping to see my family and taking off again for Budapest on the same day as reports from this sector of the front are very grave. The Wing has been paraded when I land, so that the senior squadron leader may congratulate me in the name of the unit on my new honor and promotion. Then into the air again on a sortie in the Budapest area.

“If the Russian flak only knew how much gold and diamonds was flying overhead,” said one of the ground staff with a grin, “you can bet they would shoot better and exert themselves more.”

Some days later I receive a message from the Hungarian Leader, Szalaszy, inviting me to his H.Q. South of Sopron. General Futterer, commanding the Hungarian air force, and Fridolin accompany me. In recognition of our operations against Bolshevism in Hungary he invests me with the highest Hungarian military decoration, the Medal for Bravery. This has hitherto been awarded to only seven Hungarians. I am the eighth to receive it and the only foreigner. The grant of an estate which goes with the award does not interest me much. It is to be presented after the war and doubtless it will become a holiday resort for the unit.

Shortly before the middle of January we get alarming reports that the Soviets have launched an offensive from the bridgehead at Baranov and have already made a deep penetration thrusting towards Silesia. Silesia is my home. I request an immediate transfer of my Wing to this sector of the front. No definite orders come through until 15th January when I am instructed to move the unit, with the exception of One Squadron, to Udetfeld in Upper Silesia . Being short of transport aircraft, we take the first shift and the armorer personnel with us on board our Ju. 87s so as to be ready for operations the moment we arrive, landing en route at Olmutz to refuel. When we are over Vienna the skipper of the anti-tank flight comes through over the R/T:

“I shall have to land… engine trouble.”

I am very annoyed at this, not so much because I can make a shrewd guess that the fact that his fiancee lives in Vienna has contributed to the misbehavior of his engine, as because my operations officer, Pilot Officer Weisbach, is traveling in his aircraft. This means that Weisbach will not be with me when we land on our new airfield and I shall again have to be bothered with that confounded telephone!

We approach our destination above the familiar, snow clad slopes of the Sudeten. Who would ever have thought I should one day be flying on operations over this region? When we were over the endless steppes of Russia—1250 miles from home—and the first retreat became necessary we used to say jokingly: “If this goes on we shall soon be based on Krakau.”

We regarded this town as a typical L. of C. supply base with all the amenities associated with such a town and possessing a certain attraction for some—at least for a few days. Now our jest has actually come true, even worse. Krakau now lies a long way behind the Russian lines.

We land at Udetfeld. I learn very little from the air division stationed here. The situation is confused, communications with our forward units being mostly cut. They tell me that Russian tanks are already 25 miles east of Tschenstochau, but nothing is yet known for certain as is always the case when things have got out of hand. The Panzer “fire brigade” in this sector, the 16th and 17th Armored Divisions, is at the moment isolated and fighting desperately for its existence, unable to come to the aid of the other Divisions. The Russian drive seems again to have been mounted on a massive scale; overnight they have penetrated the defense positions of the 16th and 17th Panzer Divisions and consequently our air attacks will have to be carried out with the greatest caution, for the fact that a unit is far behind the apex of the Russian drive does not guarantee its being an enemy.

They may well be units of ours trying to fight their way back. So I order all pilots to make certain by low level flying before attacking that they are really Soviet troops. We munition before leaving Hungary, but there is as yet no sign of our tanker lorries. I glance at my petrol gauge: we shall just have enough petrol for a short sortie. Twenty minutes after landing at Udetfeld we take off on our first sortie in this area. We are now in sight of Tschenstochau. I am searching the roads running eastward, where the Russian tanks have been reported. We fly low over the houses of the town. But what on earth is going on there? There is a tank moving along the main street, it is followed by a second and then a third. They look very like T 34s, but surely that is not possible. They must belong to the 16th and 17th Panzer Divisions. I circle round once more. Now no mistake is admissible; they are T 34s sure enough with infantry perched on top of them. There is no doubt that they are Ivans. They cannot be captured enemy tanks which we are using to supplement our own, for if this were so they would identify themselves by firing Vereys or showing the swastika. My last hesitation is dispelled when I see that the snipers mounted on them are opening fire at us. I give the order to attack. We must not drop bombs inside the town; there is always the chance that the population is still there, that the people have been taken by surprise and have not been able to evacuate the town. The high trolley cables and the tall houses with wireless aerials and other obstructions make low level attack with our cannon-carrying aircraft extremely difficult. Some of the T 34s career in circles round the blocks of houses so that one is apt to lose sight of them when coming in to dive. I shoot up three of them in the centre of the town. These tanks must have come from somewhere; the first of them certainly did not enter the town alone. We fly on eastward following a railway line and a road. Only a few miles beyond the town the next party of tanks are rolling forward in front of a convoy of lorries with infantry, supplies and A.A. guns. Here in the open country we are in our element and give the tanks an unwelcome surprise. Gradually the light begins to fail and we return to base. Eight tanks are burning. We have run out of ammunition.

We have never taken our task lightly, but we may perhaps have been inclined to regard these tank-hunts as a kind of sport; now I feel it has ceased to be a game. If ever I see another tank after I have used up all my ammunition, for two pins I would ram the thing with my aircraft. I am seized with an uncontrolled fury at the thought that this horde from the Steppes is driving into the very heart of Europe. Will anyone ever be able to drive them out again? Today they have powerful allies supporting them with material and the creation of a second front. Will not poetic justice one day bring a terrible retribution?

We are out from dawn till dusk irrespective of losses, regardless of opposition and bad weather. We are in volved in a crusade. We have become very taciturn between sorties and in the evenings. Every one carries out his duty in tight-lipped silence, ready if need be to lay down his life. Officers and men are conscious of a vital current uniting them in the spirit of comradeship without distinction of rank and class. It has been that way with us always.

On one of these days a wireless priority message from the Reichsmarschall summons me immediately to Karinhall; I am absolutely forbidden to fly, this is an order from the Führer. I am feverishly agitated. To have to miss a day’s flying and go to Berlin with the situation what it is! Impossible. I just won’t do it! At this moment I feel answerable only to myself. I ring up Berlin between two sorties with the intention of asking the Reichsmarschall to grant me a reprieve until the present crisis is past. Relying on the Führer’s latest concession I must obtain leave to continue flying; I cannot look on, it is unthinkable. The Reichsmarschall is not there. I try to contact the Chief of the General Staff. They are all in conference with the Führer and so unreachable. The matter is urgent; I am anxious to leave no stone unturned before wittingly disobeying the orders. As a last resort I ring up the Führer. The switchboard operator at the Führer’s headquarters does not seem to understand me and presumably jumps to the conclusion that I wish to be connected with some general or other. When I repeat that I want my call put through to the Führer the voice enquires: “What is your rank?”

“Corporal,” I reply. Somebody at the other end of the line laughs as if he understood the joke and puts me through. Wing Commander von Below answers.

“I know what you want, but I beg you not to exasperate the Führer. Hasn’t the Reichsmarschall told you?”

I reply that this is the reason for my ringing up and describe the seriousness of the present situation. It is no use. He advises me at all events to come to Berlin and talk to the Reichsmarschall; he believes he has a new assignment for me.

Furious because for the moment I am baffled I hang up. A hush descends upon the conversation in the mess. Everyone knows that when I am boiling over it is best to let me simmer down in silence.

Tomorrow we are to move to Klein-Eiche. I know the district well; our “tank acquaintance,” Count Strachwitz lives near by. The best way to forget my distress at this new move is to fly to Berlin to see the Reichsmarschall. He receives me at Karinhall; I am struck by his irritability and lack of geniality. We have our talk during a short walk in his forest. He opens up at once with his heaviest guns:

“I went to see the Führer about you a week ago and this is what he said: when Rudel is there I have not the heart to tell him that he must stop flying, I just cannot do it. But what are you the C.-in-C. of the Luftwaffe for? You can tell him, I cannot. Glad as I am to see Rudel, I do not want to see him again until he has reconciled himself to my wishes. I am quoting the Führer’s words and now I am telling you. Nor do I want to discuss the matter any further. I know all your arguments and objections!”

This is a stunning blow. I take my leave and fly back to Klein-Eiche. On the journey my mind is full of the last hours. I know now that I shall have to defy the order. I feel it my duty to Germany, to my native land, to throw into the scales my experience and my continued personal effort. Otherwise I should seem a traitor to myself. I shall go on flying whatever the consequences may be.

The Wing flies a sortie in my absence. Pilot Officer Weisbach, whom I have grounded because I need him as operations officer, goes out on a tank hunt with W.O. Ludwig, a first rate gunner and holder of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. They fail to return, a loss to us of two invaluable comrades. These days we must give everything we have, we cannot spare ourselves. To me these operations are a greater strain than ever before because my disobedience to an order of the Supreme Commander preys on my mind. If anything should happen to me I should be refused military honors and be disgraced; the thought often worries me. But I cannot help it, I am in the air from morning till night. All my officers have been tipped off that if I am wanted I am not flying, but “have just gone out.” Individual claims of tanks destroyed have always to be entered on the daily returns, sent every evening to the Group and the Air Command naming the gunner in every case. Since the new order grounding me has been in force my claims are no longer included, but are credited to the unit as a whole. Hitherto claims have been entered in this category only when two separate gunners have attacked the same tank when, in order to avoid duplication, the claim was reported under the heading: “Name of gunner doubtful; success attributed to unit.” Latterly we have constant queries from higher levels pointing out that we have previously always been able to give the gunner’s name, why this sudden large entry under “joint account?” At first we get out of it by saying that now whenever one of us spots a tank we all dive onto it simultaneously as everyone wants to be in at the kill.

One day during my absence on a sortie a spy in the person of an officer of the Luftwaffe turns up to investigate and pumps my operations officer who after exacting a promise that he will keep it under his hat lets the cat out of the bag. On top of this a general catches me once at Grottkau airfield to which we have recently been moved just as I return from a sortie. He does not believe my assurances that it was only “a short test flight,” but it does not matter, for he tells me “he has seen nothing.” I was soon to discover, however, that the truth had filtered through to the High Command. One day soon after the general’s visit I am again credited in the war communiqué with eleven tanks destroyed and simultaneously another distance call summons me to Karinhall. I fly there and meet with a very disagreeable reception. The Reichsmarschall’s first words are:

“The Führer knows that you are still flying. I presume you have realized that the news has reached him from yesterday’s communiqué. He has told me to warn you to give it up once and for all. You are not to embarrass him by forcing him to take disciplinary action for disobedience to an order. Furthermore he is at a loss to reconcile such conduct with a man who wears the highest German decoration for gallantry. It is not necessary for me to add any comments of my own.”

I have heard him out in silence. After briefly asking me about the situation in Silesia he dismisses me and I fly back the same day. Obviously I have now reached the end of my tether. I am clear in my own mind that I must go on flying if I am to keep my mental balance in my country’s present predicament. Regardless of the consequences, I still feel that I am answerable only to myself. I shall continue to fly.

We hunt for tanks in the industrial and woodland region of Upper Silesia, where it is comparatively easy for the enemy to camouflage himself and difficult for us to spot him. Our attacking Ju. 87s dodge in between the chimney stacks of the Upper Silesian industrial towns. At Kiefernstadtel we meet some of our own shock artillery whom we have not seen for a long time, and help them liquidate the numerically greatly superior Soviets and their T 34s. Gradually a new line is being established on the Oder. To build up a new front out of nothing, that is something only Field Marshal Schörner can do!

We often see him now when he visits our base to confer with me on the momentary situation and to discuss possible operations. The results of our reconnaissance, especially, are of the greatest value to him. At this time Squadron Leader Lau is reported missing with his crew; he is hit by flak and has to force-land in the Gross-Wartenberg area and is captured by the Russians. He comes down right in the midst of a Soviet force after an attempt to land near-by has proved impossible.

Slowly the Oder front is established a little. I receive an order by telephone to move the Wing immediately to Märkisch Friedland in Pommerania and the 2nd Squadron to Frankfurt, the situation there being more dangerous than it is in Silesia. Thick driving snow prevents our moving in close formation, so we take off at intervals in threes heading for Märkisch Friedland over Frankfurt. Some of our aircraft come down at the intermediate airfields at Sagan and Sorau. The weather is abominable. At Frankfurt they are already waiting for me to land; I am to ring up my old base at Grottkau without delay.

When my call has been put through—I learn that soon after my departure Field Marshal Schörner had been over to see me and had raised Cain. Banging his fist on the table he had asked who had given the order for me to leave his sector. Flight Lieutenant Niermann, my operations officer, had told him that the order came from the Group and the Air Command.

“Group and Air Command indeed! All window dressing! I want to know who took Rudel away from here. Ring him up at Frankfurt and tell him to wait there. I am taking the matter up with the Führer himself. I insist on his staying here. Am I supposed to hold the front with nothing but rifles?”

I learn all this over the telephone. If I am to reach Märkisch Friedland before dark I have no time to waste. I ring up the Führer’s H.Q. to ask whether I am now to continue or return to Silesia. In the first case, Field Marshal Schörner must release my personnel at present detained by him at Grottkau so that I may have my full complement of staff and material when I arrive. I am informed that a decision has just been reached: my wing has definitely been transferred to the north as the situation in that sector which has recently been put under the command of S.S. Reichsführer Himmler is indeed more serious. I land at Märkisch Friedland with the first few aircraft in a dense snow storm and complete darkness; the rest of the unit is due to arrive tomorrow, the 2nd Squadron will remain at Frankfurt and operate from there. When we have found makeshift quarters for the night I ring up Himmler at Ordensburg Krossinsee to report my arrival in his sector. He is pleased that I am here and that he has won the duel with Field Marshal Schörner. He asks me what I would like to do now. The time is 11 P.M., so I reply: “Go to sleep”—for I want to be out early to get a general picture of the situation. He thinks differently.

“I can’t sleep,” he says.

I tell him that he has not got to fly tomorrow morning, and that when one is flying without intermission sleep is indispensable. After much palaver he tells me that he is sending over a car to fetch me as soon as possible. As in any case I am short of fuel and ammunition an introduction to the new sector by its commander may at least simplify a number of organization problems. On the drive to Ordensburg we are stuck in a snow drift. When I get there at last it is 2 A.M. I first see his Chief of Staff with whom I have a long talk about the situation and general matters. I am particularly curious to hear from him how Himmler is squaring up to his new task seeing that he lacks the necessary training and experience. The Chief of Staff is an army officer, not a member of any S.S. unit. He tells me that it is a pleasure to work with Himmler because he is not opinionated and does not seek to impose his authority. Instead of thinking that he knows better than the experts on his staff, he readily falls in with their suggestions and then lends the full weight of his authority to implement them in every way. And so everything goes smoothly.

“Only one thing will strike you. You will always have the feeling that Himmler never says what he really thinks.”

A few minutes later I am discussing the situation and my task in this sector with Himmler. I notice at once that he looks worried. The Soviet have by-passed Schneidemühl on both sides, pushing on into East Pomerania towards the Oder, partly along the Netze valley and partly to the north and south of it. There are very few of our formations in the area which can be described as effective. A battle group is being formed in the neighborhood of Märkisch Friedland to hold up the enemy forces which have broken through and to prevent their further advance to the Oder. No one can yet foresee to what extent our units in the Poser—Graudenz area will be able to fight their way back; in any case they would not immediately recover their full fighting strength. The present reconnaissance leaves much to be desired so that it is not possible to take stock of the position comprehensively. This will therefore be one of our tasks, besides attacking the enemy at points which he is known to have reached, chiefly his mechanized and armored forces.

I detail my requirements in bombs, petrol and ammunition. If they are not satisfied it is a matter of days before I shall cease to be able to operate. In his own interest he promises to see that the matter receives priority attention. I explain to him what possibilities I see for the use of my formation, basing my views on the picture he has given me of the position here.

I leave Ordensburg Krossinsee at 4.30 A.M. knowing that in two hours time I shall already be flying above this sector. From now on the Stukas are out without a pause the whole day long. Our aircraft are painted with the emblem of the German Order of Chivalry, for now, as six centuries ago, we are engaged in a battle with the East. Intensely cold weather has set in, a powdery snow lies on the airfield an inch and a half deep in places; when we take off this snow dust is blown into the mechanism of the cannon of our antitank aircraft and ices up as soon as we are airborne. After firing one or two rounds the cannon jam when we are on the target. I feel an agony of frustration. There are the Russian armored columns advancing into Germany and when we come in to the attack in the face, at times, of a very strong defense what happens?

Nothing comes out of our cannon. One has half a mind to crash the aircraft onto the tank in sheer desperation. We come in again and again for another try—it is hopeless. This happens to us at Scharnikau, at Filehne, at many places. The T 34s race on westward. Sometimes a single shot is enough to blow up a tank, but more often not. Most valuable days are lost before I finally get enough labour to have the runway more or less cleared of snow. The enormous numbers of tanks make one’s hair stand on end. We fly to all points of the compass; if the day were three times as long it would be too short. The co-operation of our fighter squadron in this area is excellent; they react to every fresh reconnaissance report from us—”The enemy’s advance guard is at this point or that.” In a joint operation east of Deutsch Krone we are able to inflict considerable losses on the Soviets, also at Schloppe in the forest regions lying south of it. When the tanks are in a village they generally drive into the houses and try to conceal themselves there. Then one can only spot them by a long pole projecting from the front of the house; this pole is the barrel of their gun. Behind them the house is open and as it is unlikely that any Germans are still living in these houses we come in from behind and fire into the engine. No other method of attack is feasible. The tanks catch fire and blow up into the air with the ruins of the houses. If the crew is still alive they sometimes attempt to drive the blazing tank out into fresh cover, but in that case it is indeed lost because the tanks are then assailable in every vulnerable place. I never drop bombs on villages even if it is militarily expedient, for I shudder at the thought of hitting the German inhabitants with our own bombs when they are already exposed to the Russian terror.

It is a dreadful thing to be flying and fighting above our homes, the more so when one sees what masses of men and material are pouring into our country like a flood. We are no more than a boulder, a small obstruction but unable to stem the tide. The devil is now gambling for Germany, for all Europe. Invaluable forces are bleeding to death, the last bastion of the world is crumbling under the assault of Red Asia. Of an evening we are more exhausted by this realization than by the incessant operations of the day. Stubborn refusal to accept this fate and the determination that “this must not happen” keep us going. I would not like to have to reproach myself for having failed to do everything within my power till the eleventh hour to stave off the appalling, menacing spectre of defeat. I know that every decent young German thinks as I do.

South of our sector the situation looks very grim. Frankfurt-on-the-Oder is threatened. So overnight we get the order to move to Fürstenwalde which brings us nearer to the critical sector. A few hours later we are flying in the operation area Frankfurt—Küstrin. The spearheads of the Soviet advance have reached the Oder on the outskirts of Frankfurt. Further north Küstrin is encircled and the enemy is wasting no time in his efforts to establish a bridgehead at Göritz-Reitwein on the west bank across the frozen river.

One day, like the Prussian cavalry general Ziethen three hundred years ago, we are in battle east of Frankfurt above historic soil. Here a small German force has been surrounded by Soviet tanks. We attack them and those tanks which have not immediately caught fire try to escape across the open country. We come in at them time and again. Our comrades on the ground who had already given themselves up as lost leap for joy, throwing their rifles and steel helmets into the air and heedless of over pursue the fleeing tanks. Our fire put every one of them out of action. We in the air have for once the exhilaration of witnessing our success. After all the tanks have been captured I prepare a container and scribble a message of congratulations to our comrades from the Wing and me. I circle round very low and drop the container with some chocolate at their feet. The sight of their grateful, happy faces will steel us for the difficult operations ahead of us and spur us on to fresh, unremitting efforts to relieve our brothers-in-arms.

Unluckily the first days of February are very cold; at many places the Oder is frozen so hard that the Russians are able to cross the river. For stability they lay planks on the ice and I often see vehicles driving over them. The ice does not seem to be strong enough yet to bear the weight of tanks. As the Oder front is still in flux and there are gaps in the line where there is not one German soldier to oppose them, the Soviets are successful in establishing several bridgeheads, one, for example, at Reitwein. Our Panzer forces which are brought up too late arrive to find a strong enemy already lodged with heavy artillery on the west bank of the Oder. His crossing places are powerfully protected by flak from the first day. Ivan is accurately informed of our presence in this sector. My orders are to destroy all bridges day after day so as to delay the enemy and to give us time to bring up reinforcements and material from the rear. I report that at the moment this is more or less pointless, because it is possible to cross the Oder almost anywhere. The bombs crash through the ice, leaving relatively small holes, and this is the sum total of our achievement. I am, for attacking only recognized enemy targets on both sides of the river or the traffic crossing it, but not the so-called bridges of which in point of fact there are none. What look like bridges on aerial photographs are really the tracks of feet and vehicles on the ice; these and the planks laid between them to simulate bridges. If we bomb these tracks Ivan simply crosses the ice to the side of them. This is clear to me from the very first day because I have flown over them at low level countless times and, besides, this trick is nothing new to me, I know it from the Don, the Donetz, the Dniester and other Russian rivers.

So disregarding the order I concentrate my attacks on genuine targets on either bank: tanks, vehicles and artillery. One day a general sent from Berlin turns up and tells me that reconnaissance photographs always show new bridges.

“But,” he says, “you do not report that these bridges have been destroyed. You must keep on attacking them.”

“By and large,” I explain to him, “they are not bridges at all,” and when I see him contort his face into a question mark an idea occurs to me. I tell him that I am just about to take off, I invite him to sit behind me and promise to give him practical proof of this. He hesitates for a moment, then observing the curious glances of my junior officers who have heard my proposition with some glee, he agrees. I have given the unit a standing order to attack the bridgehead, I myself approach the objective at the same low level and fly from Schwedt to Frankfurt-on-the-Oder. At some points we encounter quite respectable flak and the general soon admits that he has now seen for himself that the bridges are in fact tracks. He has seen enough. After landing he is as pleased as Punch that he has been able to convince himself and can make his report accordingly. We are quit of our daily bridge chore. One night Minister Speer brings me a new assignment from the Führer. I am to formulate a plan for its execution. Briefly, he tells me:

“The Führer is planning attacks on the dams of the armament industry in. the Urals. He expects to disrupt the enemy’s arms production, especially of tanks, for a year. This year will then give us the chance of exploiting the respite decisively. You are to organize the operation, but you are not to fly yourself, the Führer repeated this expressly.”

I point out to the minister that there must surely be some one better qualified for this task, namely in Long Distance Bomber Command, who will be far more conversant with such things as astronomical navigation, etc. than I am who have been trained in dive-bombing and therefore have quite a different kind of knowledge and experience. Furthermore, I must be allowed to fly myself if I am to have an untroubled mind when briefing my crews.

“The Führer wishes you to do it,” objects Speer.

I raise some fundamental technical questions regarding the type of aircraft and the kind of bombs with which this operation is to be carried out. If it is to be done soon only the Heinkel 177 comes into consideration, though it is not absolutely certain that it will prove suitable for this purpose. The only possible bomb for such a target is, in my opinion, a sort of torpedo, but that too has yet to be tested. I flatly refuse to listen to his suggestion to use 2000 lb. bombs; I am positive that no success can be achieved with them. I show the Minister photographs taken in the Northern sector of the Eastern Front where I dropped two thousand pounders on the concrete pillars of the Neva bridge and it did not collapse. This problem must therefore be resolved and also the question of my being allowed to accompany the mission. These are my stipulations should the Führer insist on my undertaking the task. He already knows my objections that my practical experience is confined to a totally different field.

Now I take up the file of photographs of the factories in question and study them with interest. I see that a high percentage of them are already underground and are therefore partly unassailable from the air. The photographs show the dam and the power station and some of the factory buildings; they have been taken during the war. How can this have been done? I think back to my time in the Crimea and put two and two together. When I was stationed at Sarabus and keeping myself fit by a little putting the weight and discus throwing after operations a black-painted aircraft often used to land on the airfield, and very mysteriously passengers alighted. One day one of the crew told me under the seal of secrecy what was going on. This air craft carried Russian priests from the freedom-loving states of the Caucasus who volunteered for important missions for the German command. With flowing beards and dressed in clerical garb each of them carried a little packet on his chest, either a camera or explosives according to the nature of his mission. These priests regarded a German victory as the only chance of regaining their independence and with it their religious liberty. They were fanatical enemies of world Bolshevism and consequently our allies. I can still see them: often men with snow white hair and noble features as if chiseled out of wood. From the deep interior of Russia they brought back all kinds of photographs, were months en route and generally returned with their mission accomplished. If one of them disappeared he presumably gave his life for the sake of freedom, either in an unlucky parachute jump or caught in the act of carrying out his purpose or on his way back through the front. It made a profound impression on my mind when my informant described to me the way these holy men unhesitatingly jumped into the night, sustained by their faith in their great mission. At that time we were fighting in the Caucasus and they were dropped in different valleys in the mountains where they had relations with whose help they proceeded to organize resistance and sabotage.

It all comes back to me as I puzzle over the origin of the photographs of these industrial plants.

After some general remarks on the present state of the war, in which Speer expresses his complete confidence in the Führer, he leaves in the small hours of the morning, promising to send me further details about the Urals plan. It never got as far as that, for a few days later the ninth of February made everything impossible.

So the task of working out this plan devolved upon somebody else. But then in the rush of events to the end of the war its execution was to be no longer practical.