Stuka Pilot

In the afternoon we spot a few Soviet tanks. They are rolling at top speed in the direction of the aerodrome. We must destroy them, otherwise we are hopelessly lost. We go in with bombs. They maneuver to avoid them. The sheer urgency of self-defense gives us a precision we have never had before. After the attack we climb and fly back to the airfield by the shortest route, well satisfied with the good job we have done and with the success of our defensive measures. Suddenly I see straight in front of me… right on the edge of the airfield… it is surely impossible The last Soviet tank has escaped from the helter-skelter caused by our bombardment and is intent on carrying through its task. Alone it can shoot our whole airfield with everything on it to blazes. So into a dive, and the well aimed bomb hits the tank a few yards from the runway.

In the evening, I fly my seventeenth sortie of the day and we take a good look at the battlefield. It is quiet, everything is wiped out. Tonight we shall certainly sleep undisturbed. During the last sorties our A.A. on the airfield has left its sited positions and is forming a kind of protective screen in the forefield, in case any of the surviving Ivans should take it into his head to run in the wrong direction during the night. I personally think it unlikely. The few who have escaped will be more inclined to report back to some rear H.Q. that their late cavalry unit will not return and must be writ ten off.

Shortly before Christmas we are at Morosowskaja, a little further to the west. Here much the same thing happens to us. Ivan is lurking a few miles away from the airfield at Urjupin. The weather hampers every take-off. We do not want to be surprised by Ivan during the night without the prospect of any means of hit ting back from the air. On the 24th December we are, in any case, to retire to another airfield in the southeast. The continuous bad weather forces us to turn back during our flight and to spend Christmas, after all, as best we can at Morosowskaja. On Christmas Eve we are all aware that our sentries may sound the alarm at any moment. In that case we shall have to defend the airfield and all our aircraft. No one feels any too comfortable; it is more noticeable in some than in others. Although we sing the Christmas hymns, the proper Christmas atmosphere eludes us. Pissarek has had one over the eight. He seizes Jungklausen in a bear-like hug and whirls him round the room. The sight of the teetotaler dancing lady to the waltzing bear does something to liven things up. It amuses the men and dispels all gloomy thoughts and breaks the ice of unconviviality. Come what may, we are all conscious of the sense of fellowship.

The following day we learn that on Christmas Eve the Soviets have overrun the neighboring airfield at Tazinskaja, 30 miles west, where a transport squadron of our command is stationed. The Soviets have behaved shockingly; the corpses of some of our colleagues are completely mutilated, with eyes gouged out and ears and noses cut off.

We have now a clear demonstration of the full extent of the Stalingrad debacle. During Christmas week we are engaged with forces north of Tazinskaja and near our own airfield. Gradually operational Luftwaffe units are brought up from the rear and also fresh units are being assembled from reserve organizations. In this way a light combatant screen is built up covering our airfields. Optimists may call it a front; but there is no real fighting power until seasoned divisions can again be put into the line who can retrieve the situation for which they are not to blame. But till that happens the going is hard and there is much need of improvisation. Owing to the new situation, we are no longer able to continue the support we have been giving to the Tschir front along the river of the same name, in the areas Nishtschirskaja and Surwikino.

This front is the first newly created barrier in an east-westerly direction against the enemy attacking from the north. The country is perfectly flat and offers no sort of obstacles in the way of terrain. Everything is steppe as far as the eye can reach. The only possible cover is in so-called Balkas, clefts in the surface of the earth, or galleys, the bottoms of which lie some 30 feet below the surrounding plain. They are relatively wide so that vehicles can be parked in them, not only one behind the other but also side by side. The whole country stretches like this for many hundreds of miles from Rostow to Stalingrad. If the enemy is not encountered on the march, he is always to be found in these hiding places.