Stuka Pilot

Explosions briefly illuminate the battle field with an eerie light. Visibility is now pretty poor. I head north, flying at low level along the road and catch up with two steel monsters traveling in the same direction, probably with the intention of carrying the sad news back to the rear. I bank and am on to them; I can only discern them at the very last second as I skim the ground. They are not an easy target, but as they, like their predecessors, carry the big drums, I succeed in blowing them both up, though I have to use up all my ammunition. With these two, a total of seventeen tanks for the day. My squadron has destroyed approximately the same number, so that today the Ivans have lost some thirty tanks. A rather black day for the enemy. Tonight at all events we can sleep quietly at Jassy, of that we can be sure. How far the general impetus of the offensive has been impaired we shall learn tomorrow. We make our final landing in the dark. Now gradually I become conscious of pain, as the tension slowly relaxes. Both the army and the air group want to know every detail. For half the night I sit by the telephone with the receiver to my ear.

The mission for tomorrow is obvious: to engage the same enemy forces as today.

We take off very early so as to be up in the forward area at the crack of dawn, for we can be certain that Ivan will also have made good use of the interval. The foulest weather, cloud ceiling 300-450 feet over the airfield. Once again, St. Peter is helping the other side. The surrounding hills are obscured. We can only fly along the valleys. I am curious as to what is in store for us today. We fly past Falesti; there everything is wreckage just as we left it yesterday. Due south of Balti we meet the first armored and motorized convoys. We are greeted by fierce opposition, from both flak and fighter aircraft. It must have got round that we put up a good show yesterday. I should not much care to make a forced landing hereabouts today. We attack without intermission; on every sortie we are engaged in aerial combat without protection, for in this sector there are virtually none of our fighters available. In addition we have plenty of trouble with the weather. Through having to fly low all the time we are not without losses; but we have to keep at it, for we are dealing with an emergency and it is in our own interest not to let up for an instant. Unless we stay in the air it will not be long be fore Ivan occupies our airfield. It is unfortunate that I no longer have Henschel with me on these difficult sorties; with his gunnery experience the brave fellow would have been able to make things a whole lot easier for me. Today my rear-gunner is W. O. Rothmann. A good chap, but he lacks experience. We all like flying with him because we say: “Even if no one else gets back you can bet old Rothmann will.” On our return from the first sortie I am again impatient at the delay and sandwich in a “solo,” accompanied by Plt./Off. Fischer. We go out after tanks on the outskirts of Balti. We have a rendezvous with a few fighters over the target. We fly there as low as possible; the weather is worse than ever, visibility not more than 800 yards. I look for our fighters, climbing shortly before we reach the town. There are fighters there—but not ours, all Russians.

“Look out, Fischer, they’re all Aircobra. Stick to me. Come in closer.”

They have already spotted us. There are about twenty of them. We two alone are just their meat; they come at us confidently, hell-for-leather. There is no air space up above; we are flying at bottom level, taking advantage of every little gully in the effort to lose ourselves. I cannot take any violent evasive action because I cannot kick the rudder-bar with my feet; I can only make weary changes of direction by pulling my joy-stick. These tactics are not good enough by a long chalk if I have behind me a fighter pilot who knows the first thing about his business. And the one now on my tail knows all about it. Rothmann shows signs of the jitters:

“They are shooting us down!”

I yell at him to shut up, to fire instead of wasting his breath. He gives a shout—there is a rat-a-tat-tat against my fuselage, hit after hit. I cannot shift the rudder-bar. A blind rage possesses me. I am beside myself with fury. I hear the impact of large calibre shells; the Aircobra is firing with a 3.7 cm. cannon in addition to its 2 cm. guns. How long will my faithful Ju. 87 hold out? How long before my kite bursts into frames or falls apart? I have been brought down thirty times in this war, but always by flak, never yet by fighters. Every time I was able to use the rudder-bar and maneuver with the aid of it. This is the first and last time a fighter hits my aircraft.

^{Bell P 39 Aircobra}