Stuka Pilot

18. THE END

On the 7th May there is a conference of all Luftwaffe commanders in Schörner’s army zone at Group H.Q. to discuss the plan which has just been released by the Supreme Command. It is proposed gradually to retire the entire Eastern front, sector by sector, until it is parallel with the Western front. We perceive that very grave decisions are about to be taken. Will the West even now recognize its opportunity against the East or will it fail to grasp the situation? Opinions among us are divided.

On the 8th May we search for tanks north of Brüx and near Oberleutensdorf. For the first time in the war I am unable to concentrate my mind on my mission; an indefinable feeling of frustration suffocates me. I do not destroy a single tank; they are still in the mountains and unassailable there.

Wrapped in my thoughts I head for home. We land and go into the flying control building. Fridolin is not there; they tell me he has been summoned to Group H.Q. Does that mean…? I jerk myself sharply out of my depression.

“Niermann, ring up the squadron at Reichenberg and brief them for a fresh attack and fix the next rendezvous with our fighter escort.” I study the map of the situation… what is the use? Where is Fridolin all this time? I see a Storch land outside, that will be he. Shall I dash out? No, better wait in here… it seems to be very warm for this time of the year… and the day before yesterday two of my men were ambushed and shot dead by Czechs in civilian clothes… Why is Fridolin away so long? I hear the door open and somebody comes in; I force myself not to turn round. Someone coughs softly. Niermann is still speaking on the telephone… so that was not Fridolin. Niermann is having trouble getting through… it is a funny thing I notice that today my brain is registering every detail very sharply… silly little things without the least significance.

I turn round, the door opens… Fridolin. His face is haggard, we exchange glances and suddenly my throat is parched. All I can say is: “Well?”

“It’s all over… unconditional surrender!” Fridolin’s voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

The end… I feel as though I were falling into a bottomless abyss, and then in blurred confusion they fall pass before my eyes: the many comrades I have lost, the millions of soldiers who have perished on the sea and in the air and on the battlefield… the millions of victims slaughtered in their homes in Germany… the oriental hordes which will now inundate our country… Fridolin suddenly snaps out:

“Hang up that blasted telephone, Niermann. The war is over!”

“We shall decide when we stop fighting,” says Niermann.

Someone guffaws. His laughter is too loud, it is not genuine. I must do something… say something… ask a question…

“Niermann, tell the squadron at Reichenberg that a Storch is landing in an hour from now with important orders.”

Fridolin notices my helpless embarrassment and goes into details in an agitated voice.

“A retirement westward is definitely out… the English and the Americans have insisted on an unconditional surrender by the 8th of May… that is today. We are ordered to hand over everything to the Russians unconditionally by 11 to-night. But as Czechoslovakia is to be occupied by the Soviets it has been decided that all German formations shall retire as fast as possible to the West so as not to fall into Russian hands. Flying personnel are to fly home or anywhere…”

“Fridolin,” I interrupt him, “parade the wing.” I cannot sit still and listen to any more of this. But will not what you have now to do be an even greater ordeal?… What can you tell your men?… They have never yet seen you despondent, but now you are in the depths—Fridolin breaks in upon my thoughts:

“All present and correct.” I go out. My artificial limb makes it impossible for me to walk properly. The sun is shining in its full spring glory… here and there a slight haze shimmers silvery in the distance… I come to a stop in front of my men.

“Comrades!”…

I cannot go on. Here stands my 2nd Squadron, the 1st is stationed down in Austria… shall I ever set eyes on it again? And the 3rd at Prague… Where are they now, now when I want so much to see them round me… all… our dead comrades as well as the survivors of the unit…

There is an uncanny hush, the eyes of all my men are riveted upon me. I must say something.

“…after we have lost so many comrades… after so much blood has flowed at home and on the fronts… an incomprehensible fate… has denied us victory… the gallantry of our soldiers… of our whole people… has been unparalleled… the war is lost… I thank you for the loyalty with which you… in this unit… have served our country…”

I shake hands with every man in turn. None of them utters a word. The silent hand-grip shows me that they understand me. As I walk away for the last time I hear Fridolin snap the order:

“Eyes-right!”

“Eyes-right!” for the many, many comrades who sacrificed their young lives. “Eyes-right!” for the conduct of our people, for their heroism, the most splendid ever shown by a civilian population. “Eyes-right!” for the finest legacy that Germany’s dead have ever bequeathed to posterity… “Eyes-right!” for the countries of the West which they have striven to defend and which are now caught in the fatal embrace of Bolshevism…

What are we to do now? Is the war over for the “Immelmann” Wing? Could we not give the youth of Germany a reason to hold up their heads in pride again one day by some final gesture, such as crashing the whole Wing onto some G.H.Q. or other important enemy target and by such a death bringing our battle record to a significant climax? The Wing would be with me to a man, I am sure of that. I put the question to the group. The answer is no… perhaps it is the right one… there are enough dead… and perhaps we have still another mission to fulfill.

I have decided to lead the column which is going back by road. It will be a very long column because all formations under my command including the flak are to march with the ground personnel. Everything will be ready by 6 o’clock and then we shall make a start. The squadron leader of the 2nd Squadron has instructions to fly all his aircraft west. When the commodore hears of my intention to lead the ground column he orders me because of my wound to fly while Fridolin is to lead the march. There is a formation under my command on the airfield at Reichenberg. I can no longer reach it by telephone, so I fly there with Niermann to inform it of the new situation. On the way the cockpit hood of my Storch flies off, its climbing performance is bad; I need it, however, because Reichenberg lies on the other side of the mountains. I approach the airfield cautiously through a valley; it already presents an appearance of desolation. At first I see nobody and taxi the aircraft into a hangar with the intention of using the telephone in the flying control room. I am just in the act of getting out of the Storch when there is a terrific explosion and a hangar goes up in the air before my eyes. Instinctively we fall flat on our stomachs and wait for the hail of stones which tear a few holes in our aerofoil, but we are unscathed. Next to the flying control but a lorry loaded with flares has caught fire and the flares explode all around up in a harlequinade of colors. A symbol of the debacle. My heart bleeds—only to think of it. Here at all events no one has waited for my news that the end has come; seemingly it has arrived considerably earlier from another quarter.

We climb back into the crippled Storch and with an interminably long take-off she lifts herself wearily from the airfield. Following the same valley route by which we came we get back to Kummer. Everybody is busily packing his things; the order of march is arranged in a way that seems tactically most convenient. The A.A. guns are parceled up through the length of the column so that they may be able to put up a defense against attack, should the need arise, if anyone tries to hinder our westward march. Our destination is the American-occupied southern part of Germany.

After the column has started all the rest, except those who want to wait until I take off, will fly away; many of them will have a chance to escape capture if they can land somewhere near their homes. This being out of the question for me, I intend to land on an airfield occupied by the Americans as I need immediate medical attention for my leg; therefore the idea of my going into hiding is not to be considered. Besides, too many people would recognize me. I see no reason either why I should not land on a normal aerodrome, believing that the allied soldiers will treat me with the chivalry due even to a defeated enemy. The war is over, and so I do not expect to be detained or held prisoner for long; I think that in a very short time everyone will be allowed to go home.

I am standing by, watching the column loading up when I hear a droning high above; there are fifty or sixty Russian bombers, Bostons. I have barely time to give warning before the bombs come whistling down. I lie flat on the road with my crutches and think that if those beggars’ aim is good there will be appalling casualties with us all so close together. Already the crash of the bombs as they make impact with the earth, a little carpet of bombs in the middle of the town, a thousand yards from the road where we were drawn up. The poor people of Niemes!

The Russians come in twice to drop their bombs. Even at the second attempt they do no damage to our column. Now we are in column of route and make a start. I take a last comprehensive look at my unit which has been for seven years my world and all that means anything to me. How much blood shed in a common cause cements our fellowship! For the last time I salute them.

Northwest of Prague, near Kladno, the column runs into Russian tanks and a very strong enemy force. According to the terms of the armistice arms must be surrendered and laid down. A free passage is guaranteed to unarmed soldiers. It is not long after this that armed Czechs fall upon our now defenseless men. Bestially, with outrageous brutality, they butcher German soldiers. Only a few are able to fight their way through to the West, among them my young intelligence officer, Pilot Officer Haufe. The rest fall into the hands of the Czechs and the Russians. One of those who fall victim to the Czech terrorism is my best friend, Fridolin. It is infinitely tragic that he should meet with such an end after the war is over. Like their comrades who have laid down their lives in this war, they too are martyrs for German liberty.

The column has set off and I return to the Kummer airfield. Katschner and Fridolin are still at my side; then they drive away after the column to meet their fate. Six other pilots have insisted on flying West with me; we are three Ju. 87s and four FW 190s. Among them are the 2nd Squadron leader and Pilot Officer Schwirblatt who, like myself, has lost a leg and has nevertheless in recent weeks done grand work knocking out enemy tanks. He always says: “It is all the same to the tanks whether we knock them out with one leg or two!”

After bidding a difficult farewell to Fridolin and Flight Lt. Katschner—a dark premonition tells me that we shall never see each other again—we take off on our last flight. A singular and indescribable feeling. We are saying goodbye to our world. We decide to fly to Kitzingen because we know it to be a large aerodrome, and therefore assume that it will now be occupied by the American Air Force. In the Saaz area we have a skirmish with the Russians who appear suddenly out of the haze and hope, in the intoxication of victory, to make mincemeat of us. What they have failed to do in five years they do not succeed in doing today, our last encounter.

After close on two hours we approach the aerodrome, tensely wondering if, even now, the American A.A. guns will open up at us. The large airfield already lies ahead. I instruct my pilots over the R/T that they may only crash-land their aircraft; we do not mean to hand over any serviceable planes. My orders are to unlock the undercarriage and then rip it off in a high speed taxi in. The best way to achieve our object will be to brake violently on one side and to kick the rudderbar on the same side. I can see a crowd of soldiers on the aerodrome; they are paraded—probably a sort of victory roll-call—under the American flag. At first we fly low above the aerodrome in order to make certain that the flak will not attack us as we land. Some of the parade now recognize us and suddenly perceive the German swastika on our wing planes above their heads. Part of the ceremonial muster falls flat. We land as ordered; only one of our aircraft makes a smooth landing and taxis to a stop. A flight sergeant of the 2nd Squadron has a girl on board lying in the tail of his aircraft and is scared that if he makes a so-called bellylanding the damage will extend to his precious feminine stowaway. “Of course” he does not know her; she just happened to be standing so forlornly on the perimeter of the airfield and did not want to be left behind with the Russians. But his colleagues know better.

As the first to come down, I now lie flopped at the end of the runway; already a soldier is standing beside my cockpit pointing a revolver at me. I open the canopy and instantly his hand is outstretched to grab my golden oak-leaves. I shove him back and shut down the hood again. Presumably this first encounter would have ended badly had not a jeep driven up with some officers who dress this fellow down and send him about his business. They come closer and see that I have a blood-drenched bandage: the result of the skirmish above Saaz. They take me first to their dressing station where I am given a fresh bandage. Niermann does not let me out of his sight and follows me like a shadow. Then I am taken to a large partitioned-off room in an upstairs hall which has been fitted out as a kind of officers’ mess.

Here I meet the rest of my colleagues who have been brought straight there: they spring to attention and greet me with the salute prescribed by the Führer. On the far side of the room stands a small group of U.S.A. officers; this spontaneous salute displeases them and they mutter to themselves. They evidently belong to a mixed fighter wing which is stationed here with Thunderbolts and Mustangs. An interpreter comes up to me and asks if I speak English. He tells me that their commanding officer objects, above all things, to this salute.

“Even if I can speak English,” I reply, “we are in Germany here and speak only German. As far as the salute is concerned, we are ordered to salute in this way and being soldiers we carry out our orders. Besides, we do not care whether you object to it or not. Tell your C.O. that we are the ‘Immelmann’ Wing and as the war is now over and no one has defeated us in the air we do not consider ourselves prisoners. The German soldier,” I point out, “has not been beaten on his merits, but has simply been crushed by overwhelming masses of material. We have landed here because we did not wish to stay in the Soviet zone. We should also prefer not to discuss the matter any further, but would like to have a wash and brush up and then have something to eat.”

Some of the officers continue to scowl, but we are able to perform our ablutions in the mess room so copiously that we make something of a puddle. We make ourselves perfectly at home, why shouldn’t we? We are after all in Germany. We converse without embarrassment. Then we eat, and an interpreter comes and asks us in the name of his commanding officer whether we would like to have a talk with him and his officers when we have finished our meal. This invitation interests us as airmen and we oblige, especially as all mention of “the whys and wherefores of the winning and losing of the war” is taboo. From outside comes the noise of shots and rowdiness; the colored soldiers are celebrating victory under the influence of liquor. I should not care to go down into the ground floor hall; jubilation bullets whistle through the air on every side. It is very late before we get to sleep.

Almost everything except what we have on our persons is stolen during the night. The most valuable thing I miss is my flight log-book in which is recorded in detail every operational flight, from the first to the two thousand, five hundred and thirtieth. Also a replica of the “diamonds,” the citation for the diamond pilot medal, the high Hungarian decoration and a lot else are gone, not to mention watches and other things. Even my bespoke peg-leg is discovered by Niermann under some fellow’s bed; presumably he had meant to cut himself a souvenir out of it and sell it later as “a bit of a high-ranking Jerry officer.”

Early in the morning I receive a message that I am to come to the H.Q. of the 9th American Air Army at Erlangen. I refuse until all my pilfered belongings have been returned to me. After much persuasion in which I am told that the matter is very urgent and that I can rely on getting my things back as soon as the thief has been caught, I set off with Niermann. At Air Army H.Q. we are first interrogated by three General Staff officers. They begin by showing us some photographs which they claim to have been taken of atrocities in concentration camps. As we have been fighting for such abominations, they argue, we also share the guilt. They refuse to believe me when I tell them that I have never even seen a concentration camp. I add that if excesses have been committed they are regrettable and reprehensible, and the real culprits should be punished. I point out that such cruelties have been perpetrated not only by our people, but by all peoples in every age. I remind them of the Boer War. Therefore these excesses must be judged by the same criterion. I cannot imagine that the mounds of corpses depicted on the photographs were taken in concentration camps. I tell them that we have seen such sights, not on paper, but in fact, after the air attacks on Dresden and Hamburg and other cities when Allied four-engined bombers deluged them indiscriminately with phosphorus and high explosive bombs and countless women and children were massacred. And I assure these gentlemen that if they are especially interested in atrocities they will find abundant material—and “living” material at that—among their Eastern Allies.

We see no more of these photographs. With a venomous glance at us, the officer making out his report of the interrogation comments when I have had my say: “Typical Nazi officer.” Why one is a typical Nazi officer when one is merely telling the truth is not quite clear to me. Are these gentlemen aware that we have never fought for a political party, but only for Germany? In this belief also millions of our comrades have died. My assertion that they will one day be sorry that in destroying us they have demolished the bastion against Bolshevism they interpret as propaganda and refuse to believe it. They say that with us the wish to divide the allies against each other is father to the thought. Some hours later we are taken to the General commanding this Air Army, Wyland. The general is said to be of German origin, from Bremen. He makes a good impression on me; in the course of our interview I tell him of the theft of the articles already mentioned, so precious to me, at Kit zingen. I ask him if this is usual. He raises Cain, not at my outspokenness, but at this shameful robbery. He orders his adjutant to instruct the C.O. of the unit concerned at Kitzingen to produce my property and threatens a court martial. He begs me to be his guest at Erlangen until everything has been restored to me.

After the interview Niermann and I are driven in a jeep to a suburb of the town where an uninhabited villa is placed at our disposal. A sentry at the gate shows us that we are not entirely free. A car comes out to fetch us to the officers’ mess for meals. The news of our arrival has soon got round among the people of Erlangen and the sentry has trouble in coping with our numerous visitors. When he is not afraid of being surprised by a superior he says to us: “Ich nix sehen.”

So we spent five days at Erlanger. Our colleagues who have remained behind at Kitzingen we do not see again; there are no complications to detain them.

On the 14th May Captain Ross, the I.O. of the Air Army, appears at the villa. He speaks good German and brings us a message from General Wyland regretting that so far no progress has been made towards the recovery of my belongings, but that orders have just come through that we are to proceed immediately to England for interrogation. With a short stopoff at Wiesbaden, we are delivered to an interrogation camp near London. Quarters and food are austere, our treatment by English officers is correct. The old captain to whose care we are “entrusted” is in civilian life a patent lawyer in London. He pays us a daily visit of inspection and one day sees my Golden Oak Leaves on the table. He looks at it thoughtfully, wags his head and mutters, almost with awe: “How many lives can that have cost!”

When I explain to him that I earned it in Russia he leaves us, considerably relieved.

In the course of the day I am often visited by English and also by American intelligence officers who are variously inquisitive. I soon perceive that we have contrary ideas. This is not surprising seeing that I have flown most of my operational flights with aircraft of very inferior speed and my experience is therefore different from that of the allies who are inclined to exaggerate the importance of every extra m.p.h., if only as a guarantee of safety. They can hardly believe my total of over 2,500 sorties with such a slow aircraft, nor are they at all interested to learn the lesson of my experience as they see no life insurance in it. They boast of their rockets which I already know about and which can be fired from the fastest aircraft; they do not like to be told that their accuracy is small in comparison with my cannon. I do not particularly mind these interrogations; my successes have not been gained by any technical secrets. So our talks are little more than a discussion of aviation and the war which has just ended. These island Britishers do not conceal their respect for the enemy’s achievement, their attitude is one of sportsmanlike fairness which we appreciate. We are out in the open air for three quarters of an hour every day and prowl up and down behind the barbed wire. For the rest of the time we read and forge post-war plans.

After about a fortnight we are sent north and in terned in a normal American P.O.W. camp. There are many thousand prisoners in this camp. The food is a bare minimum and some of our comrades who have been here for some time are weak from emaciation. My stump gives me trouble and has to be operated on; the camp M.O. refuses to perform the operation on the ground that I have flown with one leg and he is not interested in what happens to my stump. It is swollen and inflamed and I suffer acute pain. The camp authorities could not make a better propaganda among the thousands of German soldiers for their former officers. A good many of our guards know Germany; they are emigrants who left after 1933 and speak German like ourselves. The negroes are good-natured and obliging except when they have been drinking.

Three weeks later I am entrained for Southampton with Niermann and the majority of the more seriously wounded cases. We are crowded onto the deck of a Kaiser freighter. When twenty four hours pass without our being given any food and we suspect that this will go on till we reach Cherbourg, because the American crew intend to sell our rations to the French black market, a party of Russian front veterans force an entry into the store-room and take the distribution into their own hands. The ship’s crew pull very long faces when they discover the raid much later.

The drive through Cherbourg to our new camp near Carentan is anything but pleasant as the French civilian population greet even seriously wounded soldiers by pelting them with stones. We cannot help remembering the really comfortable life the French civilians of ten led in Germany. Many of them were sensible enough to appreciate that while they were living in comfort we were holding back the Soviets in the East. There will be an awakening, too, for those who today throw stones.

The conditions in the new camp are very much the same as in England. Here also an operation is at first refused me. I cannot look forward to being released, if only because of my rank. One day I am taken to the aerodrome at Cherbourg, and at first I believe I am to be handed over to Ivan. That would be something for the Soviets, to have Field Marshal Schörner and myself as prizes from the war on the ground and in the air! The compass points to 300 degrees, so our course is set for England. Why? We land some twenty miles inland on the aerodrome at Tangmere, the R.A.F. formation leaders’ school. Here I learn that Group Captain Bader[1] has effected my removal. Bader is the most popular airman in the R.A.F. He was shot down during the war and flew with two artificial legs. He had learnt that I was interned in the camp at Carentan. He had himself been a prisoner of war in Germany and had made several attempts to escape. He can tell a different story from the inveterate agitators who seek by every means to brand us Germans as barbarians.

This time in England is a rest cure for me after the P.O.W. camps. Here I discover again for the first time that there is still a respect for the enemy’s achievement, a chivalry which should come naturally to every officer in the service of every country in the world.

Bader sends to London for the man who made his artificial limbs with an order to make one for me. I decline this generous offer because I cannot pay for it. I lost all I had in the East and I do not yet know what may happen in the future. At any rate it will not be possible to pay him back in sterling. Group Captain Bader is almost offended when I refuse to accept his kindness and am worried about payment. He brings the man down with him, and he makes a plaster of Paris cast. The man returns a few days later and tells me the stump must be swollen internally as it is thicker at the bottom than at the top; therefore an operation is necessary before he can complete the artificial leg.

Some days after this an enquiry comes from the Americans, saying that I have “only been lent” and must now be returned. My rest cure is nearly over.

On one of my last days at Tangmere I have an illuminating discussion with the R.A.F. boys attending a course at the school. One of them—not an Englishman—hoping no doubt to anger or intimidate me, asks me what I suppose the Russians would do with me if I had now to return to my home in Silesia where I belong.

“I think the Russians are clever enough,” I reply, “to make use of my experience. In the field of combating tanks alone, which must play a part in any future war, my instruction may prove disadvantageous for the enemy. I am credited with over five hundred tanks destroyed, and assuming that in the next few years I were to train five or six hundred pilots each of whom destroyed at least a hundred tanks, you can reckon out for yourself how many tanks the enemy’s armament industry would have to replace on my account.”

This answer provokes a general murmur of consternation and I am asked excitedly how I reconcile it with my former attitude towards Bolshevism. Hitherto I have not been allowed to say anything disparaging about Russia—their ally. But now I am told of the mass deportations to the East and tales of rape and atrocities, of the bloody terrorism with which the hordes from the steppes of Asia are martyring their subject peoples… This is something new to me, for previously they have been most careful to avoid these subjects; but now their views are an exact reflection of our own often enough proclaimed theses, and expressed in language which is frequently copied from us. Formation leaders of the R.A.F. who have flown Hurricanes on the Russian side at Murmansk tell their impressions; they are shattering. Of our crews which were shot down there hardly one was left alive.

“And then you want to work for the Russians?” they exclaim.

“I have been very interested to hear your opinion of your allies,” I reply. “Of course I have not said a word about what I think, I have only answered the question you put to me.”

The subject of Russia is never brought up in my presence.

I am flown back to the camp in France where I continue to be interned for a short time. The efforts of German doctors are finally successful in effecting a transfer to a hospital camp. Niermann has been released some days before in the British zone. He has several times wangled it so that he can stay with me, but he cannot put it over any longer. Within a week of leaving the French camp I am on an ambulance train which is supposed to be going to a hospital on the Starnbergersee. At Augsburg the engine turns round and steams into Fürth. Here in a military hospital in April 1946 I succeed in obtaining my release.

As one of the millions of soldiers who has done his duty and by the grace of providence has had the great good fortune to survive this war, I have written my experiences of the war against the U.S.S.R. in which the youth of Germany and many convinced Europeans laid down their lives. This book is no glorification of war nor a rehabilitation of a certain group of persons and their orders. Let my experiences alone speak with the voice of truth.

I dedicate this book to the dead in this war and to youth. This new generation now lives in the frightful chaos of the postwar period. May it, nevertheless, keep alive its faith in the fatherland and its hope in the future; for only he is lost who gives himself up for lost!