Stuka Pilot

We are further handicapped by the loss of a number of aircraft shot down by flak, and supplies and replacements leave much to be desired. The Soviets cannot claim the credit for our predicament; they can thank their Western allies who have seriously imperiled our communications by their four-engined attacks on railway stations and towns. The patrolling of railway lines and roads by American Jabos does the rest.

We lack the indispensable means of protecting our traffic routes owing to shortage of man-power and material. With the few aircraft left to my wing, including the anti-tank flight, I often take off on a sortie in the area S.E. of Kecskemet. Our aircraft strength, for the reasons set forth above, has been so greatly reduced that one day I go out alone, escorted by four FW 190s to attack the enemy’s armor in this area. As I approach my objective I can hardly believe my eyes; a long distance north of Kecskemet tanks are moving along the road; they are Russians. Above them, like a bunch of grapes, hangs a dense umbrella of Soviet fighters protecting this spearhead. One of the officers escorting me knows Russian and promptly translates for me everything he understands. The Soviets are again using almost the same wave length as ourselves. They are yelling at one another and making such an appalling din that it is a wonder anyone understands a word the other is saying. My interpreter in the 190 makes out this much:

“Calling all Red Falcons—a single Stuka with two long bars is coming in to attack our tanks—we are sure it is the Nazi swine who shoots up our tanks—there are some Fockes with him (my escort). You are all to attack the Stuka, not the Fockes—he must be shot down today!”

During this pandemonium I have long since come down and made an attack. One tank is on fire. Two FW 190s are weaving above me trying to draw off a few Lag 5s. The two others stick to me, maneuvering as I do; they have no intention of leaving me alone which is bound to happen if they engage in aerial combat with any Ivans. Twenty or thirty Lag 5s and Yak 9s now turn their attention to us; apparently the control officer on the ground directing the fighters is near the tanks, for he yells like a stuck pig: “Go on, go on and shoot the Nazi swine down. Don’t you see one tank is already on fire?” For me this is the surest confirmation of my success. Every time one of them attacks I make a sharp turn just as he is bearing down on me; his speed

prevents him from following my maneuver and he loses his firing position because he is carried out of range. I then bank round again and come in behind him, even if at some distance away. Although I am sorry to waste my anti-tank ammunition I fire two 3.7 cm. shells after him; of course I shall want them later for other tanks. Even if they now miss their mark the chap they were intended for cannot have failed to observe their trail and he gets a shock at seeing these fire balls streak close by him. Now again one of those I have fired at yells: “Look out—be careful—didn’t you see? The Nazi swine is firing back. Look out.” He bellows as if he had already been shot down. Another, certainly the leader of the formation:

“We must attack him from different angles simultaneously. Rendezvous over the village for which I am now heading. We will discuss what is to be done.”

Meanwhile I attack another tank. So far they have not run for cover, doubtless believing that they are sufficiently protected by their fighters. Again one bursts into flame. The Red Falcons are circling over the village and making the craziest hullabaloo; they all want to give advice on the best way to shoot down my Ju. 87. The control officer on the ground rages, threatens, asks whether they have not seen that four tanks are already burning. Now they come back again, from different angles in fact, and I am glad that my fifth tank has used up my last round of ammunition, for if we keep up this game much longer one cannot count on a happy ending. The sweat has been pouring off me all the time though it is very cold outside; excitement is more warming than any fur jacket. The same is true of my escort. Flying Officers Biermann and Kinader are less afraid of being shot down themselves than of failing in their duty to protect me, yet it is more than likely that one or other of the Ivans may say to himself: if I cannot bring down the Stuka with the bars as ordered, I can at least have a go at the Fockes. We set course for home; the Ivans do not stay with us very long before turning back. For quite a while we still hear the reproachful bellowing of the control officer on the ground and the Red Falcons making their excuses.