Stuka Pilot

General Pflugbeil, who is in command of all the Luftwaffe formations here, is often present at our dispersal. He brings us the news that we are to move further east to an, airfield near Terek. Here another push is in progress and we are to support it. It is aimed in the direction Grosny—Caspian Sea. At the time the move takes place our tank spearhead has reached a point just short of Okshokodnice. Over Georgiewski, Piatigorsk and Mineralnya Wody where one can look down on the vast and magnificent Elbruz mountains we fly to our new base at Soldatskaja. We make a short half way landing at Mineralnya Wody and rest. Here there is a real plague of mice. In palliasses, in cupboards and crannies, in every hold and comer they patter—everywhere mice. They jump out of our haversacks, they eat up everything. It is impossible to sleep minutes quiet, but immediately the noise begins again as loud as before. At Soldatskaja we are rid of this plague of mice. Presumably Ivan’s constantly falling bombs soon frightened them away from here. We have few A.A. guns. We do not now operate, as was originally intended, in support of the tank spearhead to the east, but our first mission is in the south.

A few days later Naltschik is captured by German and Rumanian troops. The panorama as we approach our objective to the south is glorious. Ahead of us the snow peaks of the 15,000 feet range, glittering in the sunshine in all imaginable colors, below us green meadows spotted with yellow, red and blue. These spots are plants and flowers. Above us a brilliant blue sky. When approaching the target I often forget entirely the bombs I am carrying and the objective. Everything makes such a soothing, peaceful and beautiful impression. The mountain world of which the Elbruz is the centre has such a gigantic and overpowering effect; in this or that valley here one could easily tuck away several of the Alps.

After the capture of Naltschik we make a few more sorties eastwards to the Terek front, beyond Mosdok. Then, quite unexpectedly comes the withdrawal to Beloretschenskaja in the battle zone of Tuapse where bitter fighting is still going on for the old key areas. It is getting on for November. I fly my 650th operational sortie and for some weeks I have not been feeling any too fit. Jaundice! I have guessed it for some time, but I hope that it will pass and that I shall not be taken out of operations because of this. The whites of my eyes are yellow, my skin the same color. Always I deny that anything is wrong with me to anyone who asks, especially to General Pflugbeil who has been trying for quite a while to order me to bed. Malicious persons say that I have been eating too much whipped cream. Perhaps there is some truth in this. The General had brought along a case of champagne to celebrate my 600th operational flight and was quite astonished when I told him I was sure my outfit would appreciate his gift and explained that my own particular weakness lay in another direction. A few days later several large cakes arrived with two pails full of whipped cream, not too difficult a problem in view of the number of cows in these parts. For two days we practically ate nothing but these sweets; the next day hardly a single crew was fit to fly. As I am now as yellow as a quince a Messerschmitt 108 arrives with the General’s orders that I am to be taken, by force if necessary, to hospital at Rostov. I succeed in persuading him to let me stop off to report to my Wing at Karpowa near Stalingrad. We fly there on a northerly course over Elistra. I immediately move heaven and earth to stay with the Wing and from here hand over my flight to someone else. It doesn’t work, but the Wing Commander promises me No. 1 Flight in which I began the Russian Campaign.

“But into hospital first!”

Then in the middle of November I am shut up in the hospital at Rostow.

^{Me. Bf. 108b “Taifun”}

7. STALINGRAD

This lying in hospital gets on my nerves. I have been here now for almost a week, I can see hardly any change in my condition except that I am not exactly picking up strength with the strict diet and the unaccustomed confinement to bed. I can scarcely expect a visit from my colleagues; it would take them too long to get here.

Although we are near to the sea it is already becoming cold; I can tell by the breeze through the windows which are paned less with glass than with the lids of packing cases.

The doctor in charge of my case is an excellent fellow but he has lost patience with me, and so he becomes the “case” the day he enters my room and informs me offhandedly:

“There is an ambulance train leaving for Germany the day after tomorrow; I am arranging for you to go by it.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“But you simply must go home for treatment. What are you thinking of?”

His professional wrath is aroused.

“But I can’t be sent out of the line for so ludicrous an illness. This is a very nice hospital, but I have had enough of lying in bed.”