Stuka Pilot

I receive orders at this time to take over the command of the Wing and to relinquish my 3rd Squadron. As my successor as commander of the old squadron I put up the name of Flt./Lt. Lau; he served with it in Greece in the battle with the English fleet and distin guished himself there. After the first phase of the Russian campaign he was seconded for staff duties and is now back at the front. As far as operational flying is concerned the change hardly affects me; I have all types of utilizable aircraft put on the Wing staff strength so that I may be able to fly with one or other of my units at any time.

One day at the beginning of September I am out early with my 3rd Squadron, the 2nd accompanying us as escort; I myself am tank-hunting in the Oitoz Pass with an anti-tank aircraft. The situation up there does not look too pretty. I decide, therefore, to take off again as soon as we return in my FW 190. In the meantime the others can have their aircraft serviced for the next sortie. Plt./Off. Hofmeister has one ready to take off and accompanies me as scout.

We fly back to Oitoz, make low level attacks and reconnoiter the state of affairs in all the Carpathian passes and on the heights, from which we gain an overall pic ture of the general situation in our sector. I return, literally without a drop of petrol or a round of ammunition, to our airfield, where I see forty silvery shining air craft flying towards me at the same altitude. We race close past each other. No deception is any longer admissible. They are all American Mustangs. I call to Hofmeister: “You are to land at once.” I lower my undercarriage, my landing flaps, and am down before the Mustang formation has time to turn round and attack.

^{P 51 Mustang}

The gliding in to land was nervous work, for this is the moment when your aircraft is absolutely defenseless and there is nothing you can do but wait patiently until you come to a stop. Hofmeister has evidently not come down as quickly as I have; I have lost sight of him. I am still taxiing in at speed when looking out I see the Mustangs coming in for the attack and one of them heading straight for my aircraft. I hurriedly throw up the cockpit hood—I must still be moving at about 30 m.p.h.—climb out onto the wing and drop off onto the ground, and lie there flat, a few seconds before the Mustang’s cannon begin to bark. My aircraft which has taxied on by herself for quite a distance catches fire in the first attack. I am glad I am no longer in her.

We have no flak on the airfield, because no one had anticipated or been prepared for our withdrawal to the Hungarian airfields. Our material is unfortunately so reduced that “all the airfields of Europe” cannot be provided with A.A. defense at the drop of a hat. Our enemies who have unlimited material at their disposal can site flak batteries at every street comer, we unhappily cannot. The Mustangs have dispersed over the whole airfield and are having some peacetime target practice. My squadron which should have refueled and reloaded during my absence is still on the ground. A number of transport planes which have brought up ammunition, petrol and bombs stand exposed in the open. Serviceable aircraft are in improvised hangers in the forest and are difficult to hit. But aircraft under repair and transport planes with bombs and petrol fly up into the air; the forty Mustangs’ cannon keeps up an unbroken tattoo as they shoot everything they see in flames. A helpless fury takes possession of me at having to look on without being able to hit back; all round the airfield, mushrooms of black smoke where isolated aircraft are on fire. In this pandemonium one might think the end of the world has come. Absurd as it must sound, I try to snatch a wink of sleep; by the time I wake up it will all be over. If the chap who keeps on coming at me happens to hit me, it will be easier to take if I am asleep.