Stuka Pilot

We are surrounded by scrub and forest. Once I am up on my feet I take stock of the scene of wreckage: about a hundred yards away lies the engine, burning; fifty or sixty yards to one side the wings, one of them also smoldering. Straight in front of me, a good distance away, lies a part of the fuselage with the R/T operator’s seat in which Gadermann was stuck. That is why his voice came from in front of me when I called out; normally it should have come from the other side because he sits behind me. We bandage our wounds and try to explain our luck in being still alive and relatively safe, for without a proper dressing I cannot contemplate escape as I am losing a lot of blood. Our ninety foot fall seems to have happened in the following stages the main force of our impact was broken by the trees on the edge of the forest, then the aircraft was flung onto a patch of sandy soil where it smashed up and the different parts flew asunder as already described. We had both unstrapped our safety belts and were ready to bail out. I still cannot understand why I did not hit my head against the instrument panel. I was lying a long way behind the remains of my pilot’s seat; I must therefore have been flung there with the tail. Yes—one must be born lucky.

There is a sudden rustling in the bushes; somebody is pushing his way through the undergrowth. We look in the direction of the sound with bated breath… then we heave a sigh of relief. We recognize German soldiers. They have heard the crash from the road, after hearing the noise of gunfire in the distance and shortly afterwards seeing a German aircraft on fire. They urge us to hurry.

“There are no more of our chaps behind us… only masses of Ivans…” One of them adds with a grin: “But I guess you noticed the Ivans yourselves,” and throws a significant glance at the smoldering wreckage of our aircraft. We climb into the truck they have with them and off we go, hell for leather, heading northwest.

We are back with the squadron early that afternoon. No one had seen us crash as everybody had his hands full at the time. The first four hours of my absence have not occasioned much concern as I often have to bring down a gallant Ju. 87 onto its belly some where near the front line as a result of enemy action and then report my whereabouts by telephone. If more than four hours elapse, however, faces darken and faith in my proverbial and infallible guardian angel sinks. I ring up the Field Marshal; he, more than anyone, rejoices with me that I have got back again and, needless to say, gives notice that yet another “birthday” cake will be on its way over tonight.

The sky is now a brilliant blue, the last vestiges of the blanket of fog are dissipating. I report to the Field Marshal that we are about to take off again, I myself being particularly incensed against our Soviet friends. They or I: that is a rule of war. It wasn’t me this time, logically therefore it must now be them. The wing has sent over their M.O. in a Fieseler Storch; he puts a fresh dressing on my wounds and declares that I have concussion. Gadermann has broken three ribs. I cannot say that I feel exactly in the pink, but my determination to fly outweighs every other consideration. I brief the crews, assigning them their targets. We shall attack the flak with all our bomber aircraft and when it has been neutralized destroy tanks and vehicles in low level attacks.

Quickly my squadron is airborne and heading S.E. The lake district comes into view. We are flying at 6,600 feet. We make our approach from the S.W. so that we can appear out of the sun; the A.A. gunners will have difficulty in distinguishing us and we shall be better able to pick out their guns if they are glittering in the sunshine. There they are, too, still on the same spot as before! Apparently they do not intend to make any further advance until reinforcements have arrived. We bank round our objective, baiting the flak to open up on us. The A.A. guns are partly mounted on lorries, the rest have made themselves emplacements in a circle ’round the vehicles. As soon as the fireworks have started I briefly recapitulate the targets and then follows the order to attack, beginning with the flak. I find this a satisfaction because I owe it to them that a few hours ago my life once again hung by a silken thread. We anti-tank aircraft fly through the bomb smoke and spurting clouds of dust and attack the T 34s. One has to keep a sharp look-out not to fly into the exploding bombs. The flak is soon silenced. One tank after another blows up, trucks catch fire. They will never reach Germany. This spearhead has certainly lost its impetus.