Stuka Pilot

We are about to take up positions. I have climbed rather too high and observe the heavy flak; it is now directing its fire on our formation, and the gun positions are recognizable from the flash of the guns. I immediately attack them and order the aircraft accompanying me to drop their bombs at the same time on the Russian gun-sites. I fly home relieved with the comforting feeling that they too must now be sweating hard.

Russian aircraft raid our airfield in the Orel sector every night. At first we are under canvas, later in stone buildings on the airfield. There are slit-trenches alongside the tents; we are supposed to take cover in them as soon as the raiders appear. Some of us, however, sleep through the raids because, in view of the uninterrupted all day flying, a good night’s rest is indispensable if we are to be fit to go out again the neat day. In any case Ivan generally keeps up his bombing all night. My friend, Walter Kraus, then skipper of the 3rd Squadron, is killed in one such raid. After his training period with me in the Reserve-Flight at Graz, being a former reconnaissance pilot, he soon found himself at home in the new sector and was a great asset to our Wing. He had just been promoted to Squadron Leader and awarded the Oak Leaves. We mourn the loss of a friend and comrade with bitter grief; his death is a staggering blow. How many hard blows of incomprehensible destiny must we yet experience?

I am relieved of the command of the first flight, and given the 3rd Squadron instead. I know it inside out from earlier on; was I not its old Squadron engineer officer? As far as new faces have appeared I know them all from my visits to the squadron. It is not difficult to knock them into shape as Squadron Leader Becker is there. We have nicknamed him Fridolin. There is nothing he does not know; he is the soul and the mother of the ground personnel. Our medical care is in the hands of Stabsarzt Gadermann, who is also the friend and counselor of everybody. Soon the 3rd Squadron Command consists of a kind of family in which all orders are given and carried out in the best cooperative spirit. In the air this means no sort of reorganization because during the last year I have often led the squadron formation.

Here I soon fly my 1200th operational flight. I have as escort a fighter squadron to which, incidentally, the famous skier Jennewein belongs. Between sorties we often chat about our native mountains and, of course, about skiing. He fails to return from one joint mission with our squadron and is reported missing. Apparently he was hit, then, according to the account of his colleagues, he transmitted over the R/T: “Got a hit in the engine, am flying into the sun.” At the time, however, the sun was hit by flak in the area northeast of Orel he nose-dives and makes a belly-landing in No Man’s Land. He and his aircraft remain there, lying on the slope of a small gulley. At first I believe he has made a forced landing although it seemed as if he had been badly hit already in the air; also the impact was too violent when his aircraft struck the ground.

After flying over the spot several times at low level I can perceive no movement in the aircraft. Our Medical Officer goes forward and with the help of the army reaches the wreck, but it is too late to save any of the crew. He has taken a priest with him and so our two comrades are laid to their eternal rest.

There is very little conversation in our squadron for the next few days, only the most necessary exchanges; the bitterness of these days oppresses us all. It is not very different in other units. In a dawn attack on important Soviet artillery emplacements east of Orel the flights of the 1st Squadron fly with mine, the second flight led by Flying Officer Jackel. He has become a magnificent airman and has a pet stunt which he does habitually. Wherever he sees a fighter he attacks it even though it is far superior to his aircraft in speed and armament. Already on the Kuban front he has given us many a laugh. He always contends that his Ju. 87 is particularly fast; that at full throttle he can leave the others standing. This cheery soul often brings down a fighter; he reminds one of a stag roaming the forest in search of a hunter and when he finds one instantly charging him with lowered antle rs. He is the life and soul of his flight; without repeating himself he can tell jokes from nine in the evening till four o’clock in the morning. ‘Bonifacius Kiesewetter’ and other ballads of course belong to his repertoire.