Grasping the straps across his chest quickly, he released his restraints, his body falling downwards and out of the stricken aircraft, a boot clipped by the tailfin as he shrieked in pain. His body tumbled and twisted, light then darkness filling his vision as he kicked out, holding his breath until his back faced upwards, his hand tugging on the cord across his chest.
The force stretched across his chest, winding him as he whined in agonising pain, the air sweeping across his exposed upper features, the rippling of material above as his chute opened, his body swinging violently back and forth before steadying slightly, Ernst spluttering and coughing uncontrollably beneath his flight mask.
He grimaced as he saw the fighter plane spin away beneath him, smoke billowing over the open canopy, his eyes widening as he glimpsed the blood soaked boot below him, his lower leg now pulsing in intense agony as he gritted his teeth.
Staring round wide eyed, his body swayed back and forth as the parachute above was buffeted by the cold wind, his eyes fixing on another parachute a short distance to the east, then three others further. The nearest figure waved, Ernst forcing a smile as he realised it was one of his fellow flyers, guessing the three other more distant chutes were enemy crew.
Plumes of smoke rose from the green farmland countryside below, two large billowing masses indicating the sites of downed B17s in trees, two other smaller fires from crashed fighters. Ernst could just make out the dots of lorries of nearby garrisoned soldiers speeding towards the crash locations, his eyes then moving to scan the grey sky once more.
Three B17 bombers were struggling back westwards, smoke pouring from damaged engines, the Luftwaffe pilot knowing it was unlikely their crews would escape, their planes too damaged. Then his eyes darkened, the distant sky to the east filled with black puffed smoke and the streams of enemy aircraft. The deep rumbling engulfed him like a wave, the sound constant as falling bombs pounded the Focke-Wulf factory, his eyes straining as he considered the terror of the local inhabitants, civilians cowering in their underground shelters as screams and whimpering were drowned out by the loud explosions, the walls shaking as the sheltering terrified people were showered with dust.
His eyes moved across the terrain further, seeing a huge plume of smoke to the north, the site of another large destroyed aircraft, his hands reaching further upwards on the cord above him, glimpsing two more crippled bombers heading west further south. Staring downwards, he grimaced once more at the torn light trousers, blood soaked fabric as the ground seemed to rise up beneath him, the pain increasing through his lower limb.
The field was relatively small, his eyes scanning the terrain nearby, a small wood, a track leading past the end of the field to his right, relief passing through his chest as he glimpsed a Kubelwagen jeep jerking to a halt just outside the trees, three soldiers inside.
Drifting further downwards, he saw the local farmhouses and a village in the distance, then stared back at the soldiers, the men clambering over a fence below to head towards his believed landing position, the local garrison commander instructing his soldiers to pick up downed flyers very quickly.
The ploughed field got nearer and nearer, Ernst wincing as the brown earth seemed to accelerate towards him, his boots extending downwards. Then the crunch on wet soil, his body rolling over roughly into the uneven mud as he groaned loudly in pain, the parachute falling over his prone frame as he gasped for air in agony then was dragged across the rough earth.
Flailing around, the parachute blinding him, he groaned as he felt rough hands on his shoulders, the parachute cloth dragged from his body, the light filling his eyes once more suddenly as he looked up, a shadow over him. The young infantryman grinned mischievously, his helmet seeming too big for his sixteen year old head as the youth stared down at the flyer, ‘Herr Leutnant…a lift back to Bremen?’ The young man’s eyes widened in horror as he glimpsed the bloodied leg, the wound seeming deep as he turned in desperation, ‘Medic! The pilot is wounded!’
Authors note (some personal opinion):
The comparisons between tactics in the Battle of Britain and the allied bombing offensive are interesting. Despite the obvious geographical differences of the two target countries, there are also the aircraft to consider. The Germans used medium bombers like the He111, JU88 and Do17 whereas the allies used heavy bombers like the B17/B29 for the Americans and Lancaster and Halifax for the British. The German failure to build/deploy a heavy bomber force effectively pushed the Luftwaffe to use aircraft originally designed to support the advance of ground troops, the medium bombers to drop payloads on rear assembly areas and reinforcements, their cargo usually far less than the allied planes.
Fighters for Germany were not furnished with fuel drop tanks, whereas allied formations were from late Spring 1943, allowing fighters to support the tight bomber formations. This permitted considerable extra flying time, were as the Luftwaffe over England had limited ranges, sometimes reducing dogfights to ten minutes if the German pilot wished to get back across the channel safely. Many German machines were lost as they simply ran out of fuel, pilot morale suffering dramatically as a result, particularly when they were ordered to escort the bombers directly, preventing operational freedom and the element of surprise.
During the Battle of Britain, the Luftwaffe was actually originally beginning to win, attacking airfields, radar stations and industry and proving unpredictable on the choice of targets, thus the RAF was unable to engage them en-masse, the British pilots fighting valiantly and desperately against superior numbers.
Then fate intervened, a German formation losing their bearings and dropping bombs on a virtually fully lit London at night before returning across the channel. The next night, the RAF raided Berlin…causing little damage but infuriating Hitler and invoking all out raids on the British capital and other cities at the expense of the previous nearly successful strategy. Once the RAF realised the tactics had changed, they were able to concentrate their fighter strength to intercept, the limited German fighter range adding to the attackers’ problems as losses rose dramatically, eventually becoming unsustainable. The Battle of Britain was lost and German attention turned east…a historically proven fatal error to disregard a surviving foe to the west.
I have attempted to depict the dilemma faced by German fighters as they approached and attacked such a large allied formation over Europe, the concentrated fire from the allied planes devastating to any plane that approached incorrectly or with inexperience. The defending Luftwaffe realised that a high frontal attack was more effective against the B17s due to the lack of effective cockpit or lower forward defences…this changed with the next upgrade to the Boeing bomber. Any attack then becoming an utter nightmare for the German pilots as heavy machine guns were deployed all around the American craft, the tight formations maximising firepower from neighbouring machines towards the engaging fighters.
The Americans attacked by day and the British by night, providing no rest for the beleaguered defenders, fighters pulled from fronts all across Europe to support the pilots. The continual changes of targets also prevented a concentrated defensive force as the German fighters were spread across a wide area, sometimes even attempting to just chase the attackers once they had completed their bombing runs.
With the rise of losses on bombing runs during late 1942 and early 1943, the allies sought to minimise casualties, seeing the attrition and limited lifespan of bomber crews begin to severely affect morale. The depreciation of experienced crews was beginning to bring the air offensive against Germany into question…better planes and tactics were required.
Tighter formations were introduced, the sheer volume of concentrated machine gun fire able to hold off the hordes of German fighters unless a plane fell from formation due to damage. Then a breakthrough in strategic thinking…the adoption of fuel drop tanks enabling fighters to extend their ranges and escort the bombers for most of their mission was introduced hastily on May 5th 1943…suddenly the Luftwaffe fighters faced similar opposition.
The German pilots wished they had experienced the same support during the Battle of Britain, perhaps history and their current challenges would then be different.
By the summer of 1943, losses were beginning to drop once more with P47s escorting the bomber streams over German held territory, the shooting down of German fighters rising in number. The German initiative to inflict heavy losses (matching what the British had achieved two and a half years earlier) had failed by late 1943 as more and more bombers filled the skies, increasingly advanced allied fighters escorting them into the depths of the Reich and warding off the Luftwaffe. By 1944, with Axis aircraft now fighting desperately across Central Europe, there were even fewer machines to send to the front and less and less experienced pilots…air superiority or even challenges to the Russian planes in the east would become more and more infrequent.
Chapter Eight: Kiev and Bremen
Kiev:
Steam poured from the locomotive as it drew slowly to a halt, the carriages clanking behind against their couplings, a shrill whistle sounding as Hase peered through the grimy window next to him. Vapour swept across the glass, the rain drops running down the pane at an angle as he stared across the wide platform, the grey cement dulled and darkened from the heavy downpour.
Grim faced soldiers stood before the ticket offices and administration buildings, several station staff wearily pushing trolleys between them and glancing furtively into the train windows, the waiting Wehrmacht troops preparing to return home or transferred to other units. Many of the walking wounded lined the inner platform, men with a variety of bandaged injuries, the more seriously wounded on stretchers and chairs in the many station rooms.
Glancing across the carriage, he noted the other uniformed passengers grimly reaching for their packs and belongings, slinging rifles over their shoulders and buttoning great coats. Several were pulling their infantry cloth caps down, wary of the lowering temperature outside, the collective mood descending as each man considered his uncertain future back in Russia.
Through the window opposite, he saw the next train preparing to depart, several wounded soldiers staring through windows towards him, a couple smoking and laughing, pleased to be leaving the muddy expanse of the Eastern Front. One stared directly at him, the older man in his thirties seeming isolated in thought, bandages covering his head as smoke drifted across his unshaven features, his hand shaking as he raised the burning cigarette to his mouth. The soldier suddenly smiled faintly, raising his free hand to his forehead in unofficial salute, Hase lifting a weary arm in response. Then the older soldier shook his head in despondent emotion, turning away and pulling the padded jacket up around his ears, his body slumping down next his own window as he stared away onto the middle platform.
Hase shook his head, reaching forward to collect his own pack and rifle, hesitating as he collected Hausser’s kit bag from the bench before him, biting his lower lip in frustration and rising emotion. Stepping down heavily from the carriage doorway, his boots scraped on the cement, waiting soldiers stepping back to allow the arrivals to alight, the men readying to board themselves and eager to get out of the seemingly never ending drizzle.
The line of field grey and camouflaged jackets extended towards a barrier ahead, his nervousness rising as he glimpsed military policemen inspecting papers at the end, the soldiers attempting to find any infantrymen or troopers that had overstayed their leave.
The line nudged forward, many of the soldiers in front lighting cigarettes and complaining in hushed mutters of the further delays, some grimly considering those that had been lost or wounded on the interrupted train journey.
Nearing the front of the line, Hase swallowed hard in nervousness, an officer stepping from behind the two military policemen to answer a question, their dripping gorgets and drenched officer’s leather overcoat glimmering in the overhead station lights. The station loud speakers suddenly burst into life, a surge of static as the announcer spoke, ‘Loyal soldiers of the Reich, the tide has turned in Russia. Once again we are on the brink of victory and this time it will be grasped. No longer will the Russian Bear be allowed to survive, to escape our clutches through luck. Fight well and hard for your families back home…this is the year for success. Long live Germany!’ There was a short pause, and then the national anthem began to play loudly, the music continuing as the line edged forward slowly.
Hase moved forward, reaching the front of the queue, a plump middle-aged policeman beckoning the Hiwi towards him as he nodded, ‘Welcome back to your unit, soldier…your papers?’
Hase looked confused, unable to comprehend the words as he reached into his jacket, shrugging wearily, his shoulders weighed down with two kit bags, Hausser’s heavier with all the rations his father had lovingly provided.
Producing two pieces of ruffled paper, he handed them to the military policemen, smiling as the man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Lifting the pages one by one, the soldier smirked, turning to the officer behind, ‘Herr Major…this soldier has interesting papers. Please can you inspect them…’
The officer stepped forward, glancing at Hase suspiciously as the soldier stiffened, a gloved hand extending for the paperwork as two other soldiers trudged past next to them. With deep brown eyes, the officer read the two pages before him, his eyes widening as he absorbed the information on the second page. Drawing breath, he nodded to the soldier standing before him, clearing his throat, ‘This is a letter from a hauptmann in charge of this train…apparently this soldier does not speak German, but his commander is no longer with him. He is returning to Grossdeutschland Division…let him pass.’ The officer nodded to Hase, coughing further and speaking in broken Russian, ‘Continue with your journey, Soldat…I hope you get back to your unit soon.’
Hase’s eyes widened, his nervousness dissipating as he stiffened to attention, saluting instinctively, the Major grinning as he returned the gesture, the boots of several soldiers slamming together behind as they saw what was occurring. The major continued, ‘I hope your unit is as complimentary as this letter…it seems you performed well in a firefight…mentioned as serving with your officer and potentially saving the lives of nearby German soldiers.’ He nodded grimly back towards the train, ‘I may go and speak to this captain and ask for his full report…it seems there are disturbing increases in this activity on the lines leading west.’
Kiev Central Wehrmacht Military Hospital:
The young soldier stirred in his sleep, the sweat coated sheets moving as he twisted from side to side, the fever he had suffered for nearly three weeks continuing, though now of lesser concern to the Wehrmacht nurses and doctors…the troubled man would survive or not, his fate beyond their control, but the signs were improving.
Vivid dreams filled his restless sleep, the raised temperature and infection to his shrapnel wounds having kept him bedbound and mostly unconscious for almost four weeks. Forced awake to consume soup and liquids, the trooper was sometimes delirious, shaking his head in disbelief at his surroundings and calling for his comrades before despondently curling over on his side to drift back into a dreamlike hell, his shoulders shaking as he wept.
The vicious fever had caused fitful memories of the bitter encroaching cold, freezing hands stretching for the bolt of his rifle beneath ragged gloves, the explosions ringing in his ears as he twisted and turned. One of the deep dreams had reoccurred often, seeming to taunt his subconscious as his breathing became sharper, heartbeat rising furiously.
A lone nurse had sometimes sat with the young soldier, mopping his brow and weeping softly as the nightmares persisted, the man shaking in sheer terror at times as his mind drifted back. More than occasionally, another older soldier in a wheelchair had sat by his bedside, eyes strained at his comrade’s pain, the men sharing a bitter common history. Little did the onlookers know that he was part of the recurring darkened terror, a hand stretching to clutch the young man’s arm in support during his deepest nightmares.
The doctors and nurses were mostly immune to the dee
ply troubled memories of patients, their shouts and screams in the night and day for lost comrades, of the bitter recall of Russian tanks and charging infantry. Heavy machine guns had torn through the advancing brown coated enemy as they struggled across muddied terrain or deep snow, mortar rounds tossing bloodied corpses into the air like matchsticks as the Russian armour burned, muffled screams from inside the metal monsters as the fate of the crews were sealed. The defenders were horrified at the torn sights before them, many of the Russians’ common sense overwhelmed by higher vodka rations and the orders of over eager and inexperienced commissars. When the enemy had eventually fallen back, their own Maxim machine guns had sometimes opened fire, culling the survivors as the defending German infantry stared on in horror, realising their own personal fate at the hand of such an adversary may just be as brutal and merciless.
The survivors of successful Russian attacks suffered from endless personal guilt…why they had survived when their countrymen had not, running for their lives as screams of the wounded echoed in their ears…the men left behind and those unable to flee mostly butchered as the Red Army surged forward. Most of these heavily disturbed men had now departed back for the front to be replaced by a new wave of casualties from a German advance, of bitter defensive fighting in the south and during rasputitsa. The medical staff were used to the differing sets of casualties, ones from successful advances and the others from miserable defeat, demonstrating the ebb and flow of the long and merciless battlefield in the east.
Of all the Wehrmacht officers and staff on the Russian front, ones in the medical profession were the most apprehensive of what was to come in 1943…they had seen too many die or sent back home with crippling disabilities and injuries to Germany to still harbour belief victory could still be within the grasp of the weakened military and Luftwaffe.
Bloody Citadel Page 11
