Stuka Pilot

After a while the deep blue of Lake Ilmen sparkles ahead of us. How many times have we come this way, to Nowgorod at the northern end of the lake or near Starja Rusa to the South! Both are key points, and with a rush memories of the tight comers we have been in come to mind. As we approach our objective a sheer black wall of storm blots out the horizon. Is it just before or beyond our target? I see Flt./Lt. Steen studying his map and now we are flying through a development of dense cloud, the advance guard of the storm front. I cannot make out the target. It must therefore lie below the storm. We should now be very near it by the clock. In this monotonous landscape the tattered clouds increase the difficulty of finding one’s bearing by eye.

For seconds we are in darkness, then it is light again. I close up to an interval of perhaps 3 to 6 feet so as not to lose sight of the wing plane of my skipper’s aircraft in the clouds. If I do I run the risk of a collision. Why does not Steen turn back? Surely we shall not try to attack in this storm. It would not be possible. The flights behind us have already taken positions, evidently with the same idea in mind. Perhaps the skipper is trying to find the enemy’s front line on the map with the intention, maybe, of attacking some target there. He loses a little height, but there are banks of cloud at every level. Steen looks up from his map and suddenly banks round at an angle of 180 degrees. He has presumably given heed to the bad weather situation, but of course does not reckon with the nearness of my wing-plane. My reaction is instantaneous; I bank sharply, and still more sharply, and so avoid a collision. I have turned over so far that I am almost flying upside down. My aircraft is carrying 700 Kg. bombs and now this weight pulls my aircraft at a terrific speed onto her nose, and I disappear in the inky sea of clouds.

It is pitch dark all around me. I hear the whistling and the howling of the wind. Rain pours into the cockpit. From time to time a flash of lightning illumines everything bright as day. Fierce gusts of wind shake and rattle the aircraft, and send violent shudders

through the structure. No earth is visible; there is no horizon by which I can right my aircraft. The needle of the vertical speed indicator has ceased to oscillate. The ball and arrow which indicate the aircraft’s position in relation to its lateral and longitudinal axes and which should be nicely one above the other, are both in one comer of the dial. The vertical speed indicator points to zero. The air speed indicator accelerates with every second. I must do something to bring the instruments back into a normal position and that as quickly as possible, for the altimeter shows that we are racing madly downwards.

The A.S.I. soon registers 375 m.p.h. It is clear that I am in an almost perpendicular dive. I read on the illuminated figures of the altimeter 6900, 6600, 6000, 5400, 5100, 4800, 4500 feet. At this rate it is only a matter of seconds before there will be a crash, and that will be the end. I am in a sweat; water just pours off me. Is it rain or is it sweat? 3900, 3300, 2400, 1800, 1500 on the altimeter. Gradually I succeed in getting the other instruments functioning properly except for an alarming pressure on the joy stick. So I continue to hurdle earthwards.

The vertical speed indicator is still set at maximum. All this time I am completely benighted. Ghostly lightning flashes stab the darkness, making it even more difficult to fly by instruments. I pull on the stick with both hands to bring the aircraft back into a horizontal position. Altitude 1500, 1200 feet! The blood is throbbing in my temples, I gasp for breath. Something inside me urges me to give up this struggle with the unleashed forces of the elements. Why go on? All my efforts are of no avail. Now it also strikes me that the altimeter has stopped at 600 feet; it still oscillates feebly like an exhausted barometer. That means the crash will come at any moment with the altimeter still registering 600 feet. No, carry on, dourly, with might and main. A groaning thump. There now, I am dead… I think. Dead? If I were I should not be able to think. Besides, I can still hear the noise of the engine. It is still as dark all around as it was before. And now the unruffled voice of Scharnovski says serenely: “It looks as if we had bumped into something or other, sir.”

Scharnovski’s imperturbable calm leaves me speechless. But one thing I now know: I am still airborne. And this knowledge helps me to go on concentrating. It is true that even at full throttle I travel no faster, but the instruments show that I am beginning to climb, and that is already enough. The compass points due West; not exactly unlucky. It is to be hoped the thing is still working. I keep my eyes rigidly fixed on my instruments, hypnotizing them with all the power of my will.