Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  Determined Russian attempts to break through had been thwarted with heavy casualties, the Luftwaffe pilots of his own unit flying endless interdiction sorties in response to radio calls for help from frontal commanders, advancing ground units stopping to reinforce the defences when required.

  Moving his sight to the white terrain below, he stared at the broken armour across the fields, black dots of destroyed tanks probably surrounded by snow covered bodies, the treelines and copses hiding more gruesome casualties that had defended valiantly against Panzers and diving planes. Hamlets slowly passed by beneath, most inhabited by security units or Wehrmacht troops, denying any retreating enemy the warmth required in such weather, the temperature still bitterly cold in darkness.

  The excitement surged through him as he glimpsed dark objects moving north across the snow, a grin forming across his lips as he realised the German tanks and vehicles were approaching the front lines, a river below having been forded, a number of lines denoting pontoon bridges stretching across the waterway.

  Lorries and Hanomags were lumbering across the snow, infantry spaced around them as they headed for the makeshift bridges, several reserve Panzers accompanying them for protection. Around the engineered pontoons, 88mm and 20mm anti-aircraft guns were supported by pak anti-tank guns, the positions sandbagged with heavy machine guns and their padded uniformed crews staring out to the south west and east with binoculars…the net around any beleaguered Russian survivors having been closed.

  The radio burbled in his ears, the familiar voice of their squadron leader surging through the headphones, ‘Messerschmitt Bf110s and Heinkel He111s approaching from the south west…assume escort formation and take them in…intercept any Russian fighters and drive them off…we clear the way!’

  Ernst glanced out to the left, his eyes straining as he stared out across the dull clear blue sky, a wry smile forming on his lips as he glimpsed the formation of dots in the far distance, the twin engine fighter bombers and medium bombers approaching rapidly, their ME109 fighter escort spaced above and below their charges.

  The radio burbled once more, the tone more excited, ‘Ground radio reports Russian fighters from the east and north…they are attacking our forward forces…Sturmoviks with Yaks in support.’ Static raged through the earphones, ‘The ME109s will engage…Brandt and Hessler support them…we need to clear the enemy from the skies. Stukas are on their way with further ME109s…Hartmann or as we know him, ‘Bubi’, is apparently with them…let us show him we are not wanting…’ The flight leader hesitated, ‘…the Stukas are required to clear enemy defences in Kharkov…the Russkies have apparently dug a deep tank ditch in the city and Das Reich Division is stuck there until the enemy opposing them is dislodged.’

  Jolts of nervous energy shot through Brandt’s body, Hartmann’s name instilling him with surging adrenalin, one of the most infamous rising German fighter aces of the Russian Front approaching. Gritting his teeth in competitive smile, he clicked his microphone, ‘Jawohl, Herr Rottenführer (Yes Sir, flight leader)!’

  The FW190 fighter swept and banked sharply over onto its right side, the engine screaming as it descended rapidly, Ernst’s adrenalin soaring as the landscape below filled his cockpit windows, easing the fighter level as it swooped across the terrain and skimmed through the air. Soldiers glanced up from below as loud engines roared overhead, a hoarse cheer rising as Ernst flicked the stick from side to side, the wings rising and falling rapidly in salute.

  The flight leader shook his head, grinning at his countryman’s flair and charisma as another Focke-Wulf dropped from formation, streaking away after the first. Staring back out of the cockpit windows to the west, he glimpsed the ME109s drop from formation, their pilots increasing power as they received their orders, the enemy planes only minutes ahead.

  Ernst Brandt stared through his targeting sights, energy surging across his frame as the BMW engine roared, his intention to bounce the Russian planes from low altitude. Streaking across the terrain, the FW190 windows began to fill with tanks lumbering towards the city to the north, trails across the snow as infantry looked up in response to the engine drone, lorries and Hanomags churning along tracks towards their targets.

  Flashes in the distance as flak exploded across the sky, German anti-aircraft guns beginning to respond to the Russian fighters and ground attack aircraft. Ernst became aware of a plane gradually descending next to him, a furtive glance to his left as he grinned, the sleek grey mottle camouflaged ME109 fighter flying parallel to his, the pilot raising a hand in greeting and indicating forward, the two fighters tearing across the sky towards the flashes, black flak puffs and rising tracers.

  Nearing further, the black dots of Russian machines began to appear, the fighters and fighter bombers attacking German units south of the city, Ernst’s eyes staring across the grey line of buildings that filled the horizon, dark plumes and lines of smoke rising from the southern outskirts. Tensing in his seat, he winced, realising there were probably in excess of twenty Russian planes including several circling above, his hands gripping the controls tighter in nervous anticipation.

  The two fighters roared over the smouldering villages near the city, Ernst twisting the controls, the FW190 banking sharply to the right as he chose his victim, the Russian Yak fighter veering sharply away ahead, vapour trails trailing from the wings.

  The German fighter closed on the unsuspecting Russian, a Sturmovik rear gunner glimpsing the streaking enemy just too late, Ernst pressing the fire buttons hard on his controls with his thumbs as the rear of the Yak filled his forward cockpit window. The burst of bullets swept forward from the wings, Ernst twisting the aircraft upwards as debris flew from the plane ahead, a flash of flame, then black billowing smoke, the Russian aircraft banking away steeply as the pilot lost control, the aircraft crashing into a field before the city outskirts, a plume of billowing fire and black smoke rising upwards.

  The FW190 turned in the air, the Russian planes breaking from formation as Ernst pulled back on the stick, the engine screaming as the plane shot upwards, twisting over onto its back and rolling, Ernst frantically glancing round and glimpsing a Sturmovik streaking away towards the south as he thrust the stick forward. Surging after the fighter bomber, tracers swept past his canopy from the rear gunner, the machine gun proving too slow to aim as the German plane swept from side to side.

  Nearing the heavily armoured Russian plane, Ernst fired his wing mounted cannons, fragments tore from the Sturmovik, the rear gunner killed instantly as a burst of machine gun fire swept across the top of the plane, the pilot banking sharply away to the east as his aircraft engine spluttered, a nervous gasp from his lips before the drone of the motor continued, oils streaks splashing across his wings.

  Ernst grinned with adrenalin as he glanced round, glimpsing several aircraft in the sky behind, pursuing him across the terrain as his excitement soared. His hand thrust the stick forward once more, the FW190 descending rapidly before banking sharp left, two Yaks behind overshooting in their eagerness to catch him, tracer bullets pouring past.

  Pulling sharply back towards the north, he glimpsed two Russian planes chasing the ME109 pilot, the BMW engine screaming as he increased speed, the Red Air Force planes turning in behind him, their pilots unaware of the trap he was setting for them as their eyes narrowed, fingers squeezing the fire buttons.

  Tracers swept past the cockpit windows, the FW190 banking right and left as the Red Air Force pilots attempted to close the distance, their firing wide. Ernst squealed in delight, his adrenalin overwhelming as he felt the clanks behind, stray bullets cracking against the rear fuselage. The BMW engine screamed as he swept upwards, banking sharp right and then rolling round to the left, the fighter spinning as the Soviet pilots swore in anger, two more overshooting the high powered German aircraft.

  Ernst shrieked in triumph as he levelled the single seater, a burst of bullets pouring from his wings as he swept over another Yak, the cockpit windows shattering below, the blood spla
ttering against the front controls as the pilots shuddered violently. The Red Air Force fighter began to lose power, propeller and engine spluttering as the dead flyer slumped forward, the plane descending rapidly and turning in the air, flames and black smoke billowing upwards from the ground explosion as the stricken fighter clipped a four storey building in the city, smashing into the street below, flames pouring upwards.

  The FW190 banked sharply right, pulling further over the lower suburbs of Kharkov, tracer fire rising from the Russian positions as Ernst twisted the stick once more, flipping the fighter round, two Yaks nearing from the south, glowing bullets zipping past his forward vision as he hauled back, the fighter soaring upwards as the engine roared.

  The Yaks banked right and left beneath, Ernst pulling further back on the stick as the atmospheric force pushed him back in his seat, energy surging through his chest as the fighter engine coughed. The FW190 flipped over and began to descend rapidly once more, the engine screaming as Ernst shook his head to sharpen his senses, staring at the distant terrain below, wind whistling across the canopy as he glanced round. A devious grin crossed his lips as he glimpsed the slim vapour trails sweeping in from the south, his tactic to gain the attention of all the Russian flyers having nearly been accomplished.

  The FW190 hurtled downwards, using the gravitational pull and engine force to gain on the Yak banking and levelling to the west, the Soviet pilot staring upwards as he straightened the wings briefly in attempts to see the Luftwaffe flyer.

  The Focke-Wulf swooped down beneath the unsuspecting Russian, bullets flying wildly past Ernst’s cockpit as another Yak closed in from the south, the Red Air Force plane spurting flame as an ME109 opened fire from behind, the Luftwaffe aircraft joining from the assembled later group. The attacking Yak exploded in flame as Ernst pulled the fighter upwards, a burst of machine gun fire tearing through the target fuselage, the Russian pilot screaming in surprise as he banked hard to escape, grinding and tearing from the hull as the plane spun. A wing cracked and was torn from the fuselage, the stricken aircraft spiralling downwards as Ernst yelped in excited victory, his FW190 hurtling back south westwards, the radio crackling as numerous ME109s fell upon the stunned Russian planes.

  Ernst listened to the static, hearing the low voice of his flight leader break through the distortion, the pilot obviously exasperated as he completed hearing the gasping Messerschmitt pilot’s report, ‘Brandt…you damn brave fool…that was fantastic! Get yourself back to base to re-arm and fuel…I want you back up in the air!’

  Pilot Brandt grinned with adrenalin, his sweat drenched frame heaving for air as he patted the inside of his canopy fondly, unable to believe the luck he had just experienced, an ME109 flying behind him and gaining with the pilot saluting his thanks from the cockpit as he levelled with the FW190. The Red Air Force pilots behind were stunned in anger as they banked and weaved frantically to escape the new attacking ME109s, several streaming back eastwards for safety as radio reports were heard all across the Russian lines…there was a new Luftwaffe target in the sky….and the pilot flew a camouflaged FW190.

  (Author’s Note: Erich Hartmann or ‘Bubi’ as he was known to other flyers was one of the most successful German fighter pilots of World War 2, if not the most successful combat pilot in history. Flying his beloved Messerschmitt ME109 machine to the end of the war, he was crowned with over 1404 combat missions, engaging in 825 aerial combat engagements. Nicknamed ‘The Black Devil’ by his Soviet counterparts, there was a high price placed on his head…a reward no one was ever able to claim. Credited with 352 ‘kills’ (345 Russian and 7 American), he was apparently not once shot down, crash landing 14 times due to mechanical failure or shrapnel from enemy planes. With an unorthodox tactic of flying so close to any enemy that he could not miss, including the deadly Sturmovik, he was therefore able to conserve ammunition and maximise the damage he inflicted on enemy aircraft, a tactic that tormented and terrorised his countrymen and enemy alike.

  Joining the war and on the Russian Front as late as October 1942, his tally of enemy aircraft is nothing short of miraculous, exceeding the few flyers that fought and survived the entire conflict. He was eventually awarded the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds, infamously receiving the decoration from Hitler whilst drunk.

  Towards the end of the conflict, he was renowned for the tactic of bouncing American fighters into the Red Air Force, deliberately creating a number of allied ‘friendly fire’ battles.

  After some quite amazing exploits, he survived the war, spending considerable time in Soviet captivity before returning to his homeland to commence a career in the German Air Force in 1956. The rare book describing his exploits, ‘The Blonde Knight of Germany’ is well worth a read.)

  Chapter Forty Eight: Das Reich, Liebstandarte and the Tank Ditch

  SS Tiger commander Adlan Meier stared through binoculars across the wide deep expanse below the small grimy attic window of the four story building, the Russian defenders having utilised the lower land as a killing zone for tanks and infantry, defending the opposite side with pak and heavy machine guns. A number of smouldering German machines sat crippled on the ground beneath the apartment block, the tank commander noting the scorched and twisted hulls of a Panzer III and IV, two SdKfz 221 armoured cars destroyed beyond them from accurate pak fire. Bodies extended across the open snow covered ground, his teeth clenching as he glimpsed the black uniforms of two panzer crewman dispersed amongst the few dead infantrymen, the tankers killed as they attempted to escape their burning machines.

  Having made his way precariously to the front line almost an hour ago, he was keen to see if the new heavy tanks could find a new way into the defences ahead...perhaps something the Russians had overlooked.

  Running through the frosted streets with an SS-Rottenführer (corporal) as a guide, he wore a dirt smeared white padded jacket over his black tunic to avoid being specifically targeted an MP40 in his right hand. Passing crouched and seated grim faced and sullen eyed infantrymen sheltering behind cover, they stared up at the tank commander, glimpsing his black combat trousers. Several long distance sniper shots rang out as the two men lunged between sections of cover, their boots slipping across the deep snow, distant shell blasts and the rattle of machine gun fire interspersed with rifle cracks.

  Clambering up the dust and plaster covered stairs in the damaged apartment block, he had avoided the torn masonry and broken windows, knowing Russian snipers and riflemen were now targeting any shadows or movement in the buildings opposite their positions. SS Schütze (soldiers) had gouged makeshift fire points in the brick by dislodging small sections, several crouched on the stairs as he struggled past them. Stumbling as the building shuddered, a pak shell smacking against the exterior wall with clouds of dust pouring from the ceiling, he gripped the torn balustrade tightly for support, thrusting up the last few steps as the SS-Rottenführer grinned behind, his sweating face smeared with dirt.

  Panning the glasses across the grey buildings opposite, he noted the sandbagged windows opposite through the few falling flakes, numerous gun barrels protruding from concealed positions, several behind the front line with open streets ahead of them for lines of fire, the tops of helmets just visible over heavily fortified doorways and openings. To the left a low bridge over the wide terrain was pock marked and half collapsed, the commander studying the snow bound structure and considering the remaining struts were capable of perhaps supporting one Panzer at a time.

  Rusting tank traps were placed across the narrow streets opposite, the jagged metal girders crossed over each other and half buried into the tarmacked roads. Further sandbagged positions were placed in the streets beyond, the machine gun crews scrutinising their lines of sight through binoculars.

  Dark smoke rose from some of the war torn high buildings opposite, dust seeming to hang in the cold air over the defences, his eyes widening as the cracks of sniper rifles rang out from the damaged rooftops, SS-Stabsscharführer Meier
ducking back from the shattered window, glass crunching under his boots.

  Gritting his teeth in irritation, the SS junior officer glanced round, two young infantry grenadiers and SS-Rottenführer staring back at him as he spoke softly, ‘We have requested the Luftwaffe assist us in clearing the defences ahead…I am not willing to risk any more tanks and the Russkies have dug in heavily…’ He sighed, annoyed by the interruption to their advance, ‘…we will just have to wait.’

  They ducked as further shells hit the building, dust pouring from the cracked ceiling as they pushed their faces to the broken floorboards, grimacing in irritation as bullets smacked against the exterior masonry, several bullets from the machine gun bursts opposite sweeping through the window above, the room seeming to shake as plaster exploded from the walls and ceiling above.

  Hearing the distant pops of heavy mortars, further blasts as the Russian guns fired across the tank ditch, Adlan grimaced, crawling across the floor and back towards the open cracked trap door, his voice a hiss, ‘I am going back to my Tiger...at least we can fire back...’ He nodded his thanks to the SS-Rottenführer as his Panzer boots began to descend the precarious ladder below, ‘We have moved some artillery and Nebelwerfer batteries up to the western outskirts...once the Luftwaffe finally arrive, the fireworks will start.’

  The Hanomag drove through cold streets, frozen snow covering the cobblestones as the tracks clattered across the stones. Gunfire and explosions echoed around them, the fighting now off to the right and east as SS soldiers grimly fought their way forward. Delayed by checkpoints, Leutnant Hausser had to explain on a number of occasions their orders, several military policemen and SS soldiers questioning further until the written instructions had been produced.