Stuka Pilot

“I shall have to land… engine trouble.”

I am very annoyed at this, not so much because I can make a shrewd guess that the fact that his fiancee lives in Vienna has contributed to the misbehavior of his engine, as because my operations officer, Pilot Officer Weisbach, is traveling in his aircraft. This means that Weisbach will not be with me when we land on our new airfield and I shall again have to be bothered with that confounded telephone!

We approach our destination above the familiar, snow clad slopes of the Sudeten. Who would ever have thought I should one day be flying on operations over this region? When we were over the endless steppes of Russia—1250 miles from home—and the first retreat became necessary we used to say jokingly: “If this goes on we shall soon be based on Krakau.”

We regarded this town as a typical L. of C. supply base with all the amenities associated with such a town and possessing a certain attraction for some—at least for a few days. Now our jest has actually come true, even worse. Krakau now lies a long way behind the Russian lines.

We land at Udetfeld. I learn very little from the air division stationed here. The situation is confused, communications with our forward units being mostly cut. They tell me that Russian tanks are already 25 miles east of Tschenstochau, but nothing is yet known for certain as is always the case when things have got out of hand. The Panzer “fire brigade” in this sector, the 16th and 17th Armored Divisions, is at the moment isolated and fighting desperately for its existence, unable to come to the aid of the other Divisions. The Russian drive seems again to have been mounted on a massive scale; overnight they have penetrated the defense positions of the 16th and 17th Panzer Divisions and consequently our air attacks will have to be carried out with the greatest caution, for the fact that a unit is far behind the apex of the Russian drive does not guarantee its being an enemy.

They may well be units of ours trying to fight their way back. So I order all pilots to make certain by low level flying before attacking that they are really Soviet troops. We munition before leaving Hungary, but there is as yet no sign of our tanker lorries. I glance at my petrol gauge: we shall just have enough petrol for a short sortie. Twenty minutes after landing at Udetfeld we take off on our first sortie in this area. We are now in sight of Tschenstochau. I am searching the roads running eastward, where the Russian tanks have been reported. We fly low over the houses of the town. But what on earth is going on there? There is a tank moving along the main street, it is followed by a second and then a third. They look very like T 34s, but surely that is not possible. They must belong to the 16th and 17th Panzer Divisions. I circle round once more. Now no mistake is admissible; they are T 34s sure enough with infantry perched on top of them. There is no doubt that they are Ivans. They cannot be captured enemy tanks which we are using to supplement our own, for if this were so they would identify themselves by firing Vereys or showing the swastika. My last hesitation is dispelled when I see that the snipers mounted on them are opening fire at us. I give the order to attack. We must not drop bombs inside the town; there is always the chance that the population is still there, that the people have been taken by surprise and have not been able to evacuate the town. The high trolley cables and the tall houses with wireless aerials and other obstructions make low level attack with our cannon-carrying aircraft extremely difficult. Some of the T 34s career in circles round the blocks of houses so that one is apt to lose sight of them when coming in to dive. I shoot up three of them in the centre of the town. These tanks must have come from somewhere; the first of them certainly did not enter the town alone. We fly on eastward following a railway line and a road. Only a few miles beyond the town the next party of tanks are rolling forward in front of a convoy of lorries with infantry, supplies and A.A. guns. Here in the open country we are in our element and give the tanks an unwelcome surprise. Gradually the light begins to fail and we return to base. Eight tanks are burning. We have run out of ammunition.

We have never taken our task lightly, but we may perhaps have been inclined to regard these tank-hunts as a kind of sport; now I feel it has ceased to be a game. If ever I see another tank after I have used up all my ammunition, for two pins I would ram the thing with my aircraft. I am seized with an uncontrolled fury at the thought that this horde from the Steppes is driving into the very heart of Europe. Will anyone ever be able to drive them out again? Today they have powerful allies supporting them with material and the creation of a second front. Will not poetic justice one day bring a terrible retribution?