Stuka Pilot

On the 20th March, after seven sorties in the Nikolajew and Balta area, I take off with my squadron on the eighth of the day, our first mission for five days against the bridge at Jampol. The sky is a brilliant blue and it can be taken for granted that after this prolonged respite the defense will have been considerably strengthened by flak and fighter protection. As my airfield and Rauchowka itself is a quagmire our fighter squadron has moved to the concrete airfield at Odessa. We, with our broad tires, are better able to cope with the mud and do not immediately become bogged down in it. We fix a rendezvous by telephone for a certain time about thirty miles from the target at 7500 feet above a conspicuous loop of the river Dniester. But apparently difficulties have also cropped up at Odessa. My escort is not at the rendezvous. The target is clearly visible, so naturally we attack. There are several new crews in my squadron. Their quality is not as good as it used to be. The really good men have by this time been long since at the front, and petrol for training purposes has been strictly rationed to so many gallons per man. I firmly believe that I, had I been restricted to so small an allowance, could not have done any better than the new trainees. We are still about twelve miles from our objective when I give the warning: “Enemy fighters.” More than twenty Soviet Lag 5s are approaching. Our bomb load hampers our maneuverability. I fly in defensive ellipses so as to be able at any moment to come in myself behind the fighters, for their purpose is to shoot down my rear aircraft. In spite of the air battle I gradually work round to my objective. Individual Russians who try to shoot me down by a frontal pass I disappoint by extremely mobile tactics, and then at the last moment dive through the midst of them and pull out into a climb. If the new crews can bring it off today they will have learnt a lot.

“Prepare for attack, stick together-close up-attack!”

And I come in for the attack on the bridge. As I dive I see the flash of a host of flak emplacements. The shells scream past my aircraft. Henschel says the sky is a mass of cotton wool, his name for the bursting flak. Our formation is losing its cohesion, confound it, making us more vulnerable to the fighters. I warn those lagging behind:

“Fly on, catch up, we are just as scared as you are.” Not a few swear words slip past my tongue. I bank round, and at 1200 feet see my bomb nearly miss the bridge. So there is a wind blowing.

“Wind from port, correct to port.”

A direct hit from our No. 3 finishes off the bridge. Circling round I locate the gun sites of the still aggressive flak and give the order to attack them.

“They are getting hell very nicely today,” opines Henschel.

Unfortunately two new crews have lagged slightly behind when diving. Lags cut them off. One of them is completely riddled and zooms past me in the direction of enemy territory. I try to catch up with him, but I cannot leave my whole squadron in the lurch on his account. I yell at him over the R/T, I curse him; it is no use. He flies on to the Russian bank of the Dniester. Only a thin ribbon of smoke rises from his aircraft. He surely could have flown on for another few minutes, as the other does, and so reached our own lines.