Stuka Pilot

Ahead of us and below us Ivans with motor vehicles, artillery and other stuff on a road between isolated woods. The heavy flak is putting up a good show, the Red Falcons are already there, Aircobras attack us; I give the order to attack. A part of the formation dives onto the trucks and lorries, a smaller section onto the A.A. batteries, all maneuvering frantically. The fighters now think their opportunity has come. Flak clouds hang close to our aircraft. Shortly before he goes into a dive Fig./Off. Fickel gets a direct hit in his wing; he jettisons his bombs and flies off in the direction from which we have come. His aircraft is on fire. We have dropped our bombs and come out of our dive. I gain height to see where Fickel has got to. He makes a landing in the middle of quite unsuitable country, furrowed with ditches and full of potholes, tree stumps and other obstacles. His aircraft skips over two ditches like a rampageous he-goat; it is a miracle that he has not pancaked long ago. Now he and his gunner clamber out. The situation is bad: cavalry, followed by tanks, are already converging on his aircraft from the woods, naturally intent on capturing the crew. The Aircobras are now attacking us furiously from above. I call out:

“Someone must land at once. You know I am no longer allowed to.”

I have a horrible feeling, because I have been expressly forbidden to land and it goes against the grain to consciously disobey orders. We are still banking low above the fallen aircraft; Fickel and Bartsch down there can surely not imagine that anyone can land safely under the circumstances. The Soviets are gradually closing in and still no one sets about landing; outmaneuvering the fighters makes full demands on every crew’s attention. The decision to land myself in spite of everything is a hard one to make, but as I see it, if I do not act now my comrades are lost. If it is at all possible for anyone to rescue them, I have the best chance of anybody. To disobey an order is, I know, unforgivable, but the determination to save my comrades is stronger than my sense of duty. I have forgotten everything else, the consequences of my action, everything. I must bring it off. I give my orders:

“7 Flight: you are to attack cavalry and infantry at low level.

8 Flight: you are to circle at moderate height to cover Fickel and me.

9 Flight: you are to stay up and divert fighters from this intended maneuver. If fighters dive, then 9 Flight is to attack them from above.”

I fly very low over the scene of the forced landing and select a patch of ground which may serve, with a bit of luck, to land on. Slowly I open the throttle; now we are over the second ditch. Throttle back, a terrific jolt, for an instant my tail is in the air, then I come to a stop. Fickel and Bartsch run for their lives. They are quickly alongside. Ivan’s bullets have so far not hit anything that matters. Both are in behind, I open the throttle. I am seething with excitement. Can I make it? Will my aircraft become airborne before it hits an obstacle on the ground and is smashed to pieces? Now comes a ditch. I snatch up the aircraft, clear it, and again my wheels lightly bump the ground. Then she stays up. Slowly the tension eases. The squadron closes up and we get home without loss.

Rudel’s traveling circus has taken up a pitch on a stubble field near the town of Wenden, not far from the Latvian–Estonian frontier. Field Marshal Schörner has been trying his hardest all this time to get my squadron into his sector with the result that we are now up here on the Courland front. We are barely installed on our cornfield when the inevitable cake arrives with =the Field Marshal’s compliments; no matter where I turn up in his command one of these fabulous cakes always appears, usually with a T 34 in sugar icing and I the number, whatever it is at the time, of tanks I am credited with. The cake is now piped with the figures 320.