Stuka Pilot

I have taken a cannon-carrying aircraft with me and I introduce my squadron to the new machine. Wherever I see a chance of an operation for the experimental unit it takes off together with mine. Later it is reformed into an anti-tank squadron which operates independently, but in action it is subordinate to my supervision and command. The Briansk establishment now also follow us; Captain Steppe likewise returns to the squadron formation.

There is work enough for us Stuka bombers, for the Soviets have got across the Black Sea, and behind our front. They have landed and formed beach-heads on the hilly coast east and southwest of Novorossiysk. These are now frequently the target of our attacks. Reinforcements and material continue to arrive at the landing quays. The A.A. defense is as furious as at other crucial points of the Kuban bridgehead. Many of my comrades make their last flight here. My squadron commander bails out over the beach-head; he is lucky, the wind carries him over our lines. So we fly back and forth between the beach-head and Krymskaja. I generally dive with my flight almost to ground level and then fly off in a low level flight out to sea near the beach-head, or over the marshland further north where the defense is weaker. The small release height of the bomb improves the bombing results, and also the defense is not yet accustomed to our very low level tactics.

If, as we approach Krymskaja above the tobacco growing ravine, the flak begins and many a new crew gets windy, they are soon calmed down again when they hear the “old sweats” having their fun over the R/T with a joke or a snatch of song. Someone calls out: “Maximilian, get cracking!” This refers to the skipper of the second squadron; he keeps on circuiting in the flak, eternally delaying his dive, so that the aircraft behind lose their sense of direction. This selfconfident coolness then soon infects the tyros. Not infrequently I do a loop, a roll or some other stunt; I wonder if the A.A. gunners think I am having a lark with them?

The weather here does not hamper operations. Almost invariably a bright blue sky and glorious sunny summer weather.

Any day there is no flying we go off to the sea for a bathe, either to the Sea of Azov or the Black Sea; parts of the coast have magnificent beaches. If Schwirblat and I feel like diving we go into the harbour of Kertsch where there are cranes and walls of sufficient height.

The aerodrome at Kertsch is so crowded that we move with our squadron to Kertsch-Bagerowo, six miles to the west; we billet ourselves in a ‘Kolchose.’ As there is plenty of timber available we soon set about building ourselves a shack for our mess. Petrol is rationed at the moment and we fly only if it is absolutely necessary. So during these weeks we get a whole series of free days which each one of us spends in his own fashion. Schwirblat and I take our almost daily six mile run and so get to know the whole district, not only from the air.

Every night we receive a visit from Soviet Pe2s and old DBIIIs: they chiefly bomb the railway station, harbour and airfield in Kertsch. We have some A.A. sited there, occasionally also a few night fighters. We generally watch them coming and going, for almost every attack a few come down in flames. Our adversaries are not very skilled at night fighting; they evidently need much practice. They have an occasional stroke of luck every now and again. A bomb drops on an ammunition train standing in a siding and for hours explosions light up the night sky with a ghostly light, the earth trembles from the detonations. Very soon these raids become a part of our daily routine, and we generally stay in bed and sleep; otherwise we feel the effect of the lack of sleep on our own raids the following day, and that can be disastrous.

We are in the last days of June and nearing the end of our time in the Crimea. Minister Speer is here on a visit in connection with a vast construction project on the road from Kertsch; at the same time the Wing is visited by the Japanese.

At this time, too, Squadron Leader Kupfer, the skip per of our Wing, has his birthday; there is sufficient reason to celebrate. The beautiful garden of the summer quarters of the Wing is presently enlivened by the music of the gay but slightly out of tune band of an army unit. They play all the request items the musical clamor for. Everyone has his choice. In hours like these one forgets that home is so far away and that a war is going on. All are carried away out of time and space into an invisible world of beauty and of peace, where there is no Krymskaja, no beach-head, no bombs and no misery. Such hours of relaxation and reverie hearten all of us.