Stuka Pilot

by Hans Ulrich Rudel

  At the moment we are having a muddy spell and consequent difficulties in getting up supplies, even our rations. When flying low over the Dnieper I have often seen both our own and the Russian ground troops tossing hand-grenades into the water and by this means catching fish. We are at war, the Dnieper is a battle zone, and every possibility of feeding the troops must be exploited. So one day I decide to try my luck with a little hundred pound bomb. Gosler, our Q.M., is sent out ahead with a small fatigue party to the Dnieper. I show him on the map beforehand the exact stretch of the river where I intend to drop my bomb inshore. After waiting until I have identified our chaps I drop my missile from between sixty and ninety feet. It falls into the river very near to the bank and explodes after a short delay. The anglers down below must have been a bit scared by the explosion, for they all suddenly fall flat on their stomachs. A few smart alecks who are already out in midstream in an ancient boat, so as to be quick off the mark in picking up the fish, are almost capsized by the wave caused by the explosion and the resultant fountain of water. From above I can see the white bellies of the dead fish floating on the surface. The soldiers join in the scramble to haul the lot in as quickly as possible. The native fishermen come out from their hiding places and also pull into the bank as many fish as they can. The lorry with the fishing party returns from the Dnieper a few hours after me; they bring back with them several hundredweight of fish. Among the catch are some monster specimens weighing 60 to 80 pounds; mostly sturgeon and a kind of river carp. For ten days we have an orgy of fish and find this an excellent diet. Particularly the sturgeon, smoked or boiled, tastes delicious; even the huge carp have no slimy taste at all. A couple of weeks later a fresh fishing operation is carried out with equal success.

  Our almost daily sorties take us in the most different directions. To the East and the South East the Soviets are continuously battering against our bridgehead at Nikopol, chiefly from the Melitopol area. The names of the key points on the map are many of them German: Heidelberg, Grüntal, Gustavfeld.

  They are the homes of German settlers whose forebears colonised this district centuries ago. Further North the front runs eastward along the other bank of the Dnieper beyond Saporoschje and after crossing the river, into the Krementschuk sector. Dnjepropetrovsk lies behind the Russian lines. As so often, the Soviets exert pressure at different points and frequently succeed in making local penetrations of our front. The situation is restored by counter-attacks, generally by armoured divisions. The industrial town of Kriwoi-Rog, which is in the front zone to our North, has a concrete runway, but we are not able to use it.

  One morning one of the Soviet thrusts reaches Kriwoi-Rog and the airfield. The brunt of the Soviet attack comes from the North from the direction of Piatichatki. Here Flg./Off. Mende is reported missing. Despite the most strenuous search we fail to find this good comrade swallowed up in the vastness of Russia. The situation here is also restored by a counter-attack, and the front pushed back a few miles North. Supply traffic feeding this group is rolling forward uninterruptedly, so we attack the Dnieper bridges. Our target is then generally between Krementschuk and Dnjepropetrovsk. One morning, because of a fresh advance by the Russians pressing forward from the North, I have to go out in bad weather. My mission is to obtain an overall picture of the enemy dispositions and to assess the chances under prevailing met. conditions of attacking with a larger formation. Before taking off I am told that a certain village in the battle area is still held by our troops, but that they are being very hard pressed and urgently need relief. Operational contact is to be made with the unit in question and an operations officer is on the spot.

  With low cloud cover we fly in threes into the target area, and presently I hear the voice of an operations officer I know; at all events I hope he is the one I have been told to contact and not another. I should mention that everyone wants our support for his own division. We always have to insist on being given the call sign of the unit. The demands on us are so heavy that to satisfy them all we should need twenty times as many men and aircraft. Judging by the voice it is once again the footballer Epp speaking from the ground, but without waiting for his message I have already made out strong enemy concentrations 1 and a half to 2 miles ahead. I am still flying over our lines and banking round when I observe the flash of many flak batteries. I cannot see the shell bursts up in the air because they are hidden in the clouds, but now something hits the cockpit and the engine. I have flak splinters in my face and in my hands. The engine is likely to stop at any minute. It putters for another couple of minutes and then conks out. During this interval I discover a meadow West of the village. I feel sure that I have not yet been spotted by the Russians. I bring off a smooth landing on this meadow. Quickly Fickel brings his aircraft down beside me. We have no idea how long this area will remain in our possession; therefore Henschel and I take out the most essential things, our weapons, clock and parachutes and climb into Fickel's machine. The third in the section has already flown home and reported the incident. Not long afterwards we, too, make a safe landing at Costromka. In these days Flg./Off. Fritsche also has a stroke of luck. After being hit by fighters S.E. of Saparoschje, near Heidelberg, he bales out without mishap, although in the act of jumping he smashes something on the empennage. This grand flight leader and Knight of the Iron Cross is back in operations after a short convalescence.

  But we are not always so lucky. Once on our way back from a battle area to the N.E. we are already close to the airfield and preparing to come in singly after flying low above it. In the last phase of our fly-in our flak suddenly opens fire. High above us are Russian fighters. They show absolutely no direct intention of attacking, but the flak looses off at them, trying of course to fire in between our aircraft. And Flg./Off. Herling, leader of the 7th flight and Fig./Off. Krumings, the squadron engineer officer, are both hit and crash. A bit later Fig./Off. Fritsch is also killed. Three of my friends who have been as inseparable as a four leaved clover, all three decorated with the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross, lay down their lives for their country. We are stunned by their loss as by a mean and furtive blow. They were first rate airmen and good comrades to their men. Sometimes there are periods here at the front when one is under a jinx and there seems to be no breaking the run of bad luck.

  In November a radio message is received: I have been awarded the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords and am to report at once for the investiture to the Führer's H.Q. in East Prussia. It is about this time that I destroy my hundredth tank. Personally I am glad of this new decoration, not least because it is a tribute to my squadron's achievement, but at the same time I am distressed that sanction for my recommendation of Henschel's Knight's Cross has not come through. It must be held up somewhere. I therefore decide in any case to take my rear gunner with me when I report. Henschel has just completed his thousand operational sorties, and with a recent bag of several Soviet fighters is easily our best gunner. We fly to East Prussia, over Winiza, Proskurow, Lemberg and Krakau, to the Führer's H.Q. near Goldap.

  First we land at Lötzen. I report to Wing Commander von Below. He tells me that Sqdn./Ldr. Hrabak is to receive the Oak Leaves at the same time as I; he is due to report with me. I have brought Henschel along with me and ask Below whether Henschel's recommendation has reached his office. He tells me it has not, but immediately promises to find out from the Reichsmarschall how the matter stands. There also the papers cannot be found. They suppose they have been submitted to the Reichsmarschall for sanction. This is obtained by word of mouth from Goering himself by von Below, who goes straight to the Führer and reports to him that I have brought Henschel with me for the aforementioned reasons, and that the Commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe has approved the award. The answer is: "Henschel is to come with the others." This is a great occasion for my faithful rear-gunner. Only a few receive the Knight's Cross at the Führer's hands, as personal investiture by the Commander-in-Chief begins with the Oak Leaves.

  And so Sqdn./Ldr. Hrabak
, Henschel and I stand in the presence of the Führer. First he pins on our decorations and then drinks tea with us in his study. He speaks of past operations in the East and of the lessons to be learnt from them; he tells us about the creation of new units now in progress which will certainly be needed to meet the coming invasion by the Western Allies. The country will still be able to raise a large number of divisions and our industry can equip them with sufficient armament. Meanwhile German inventive genius, he informs us, is still working on stupendous projects, and we must succeed in wresting victory from Bolshevism. Only the Germans are in a position to do this, he affirms. He is proud of his Eastern Front soldiers, and he knows their tremendous exertions and the difficulties they face. He is looking well; and is full of ideas, and of confidence in the future.

  On leaving Lötzen we must make a slight detour over Hohensalza to Görlitz where we give our gallant Ju 87 a two days' rest. Henschel's home in Saxony is not very far from here, and he goes on by train to rejoin me two days later for our return to the front. We then fly over Vienna, Krakau, Lemberg and Winiza to Kirowograd in filthy weather. The further East we get, the more we feel the imminence of winter. Low lying clouds with densely driving snow hamper our flight and make it difficult for us to keep our course. We feel much happier when as dusk is falling our kite taxies in on the frozen airfield at Costromka and we are home again with our comrades. It is already cold here, but we have no reason to grumble at that because the frost improves the condition of the roads in the village. Large open spaces are solid ice and it is not always the easiest thing to cross them without skates. When we are grounded by bad weather we restart our ice hockey games. Even the least sportingly inclined becomes infected by the enthusiasm of the rest. We use every conceivable implement from regulation hockey sticks to old brooms and shovels. The most primitive Russian skates compete with special footgear fitted with proper hockey blades. Many just lumber about in airman's fur boots. It is all one, it is the exercise that matters.

  Here in South Russia we get occasional warm days which turn everything back into an inconceivable quagmire. Perhaps it has something to do with the influence of the Black Sea or the Sea of Azov. Our airfield cannot stand up to such vagaries of climate, and we always clear out of it and move over to the runway at Kirowograd. One of these muddy spells coincides with Christmas and New Year. Consequently units are compelled to celebrate these holidays in isolation instead of in a general squadron party. Father Christmas has brought a surprise for every soldier, and to look at their faces no one would guess that this is already the fifth winter of our campaign.

  At the beginning of 1944 the hard weather really sets in and operational activity is increased. The Soviets push forward to the West and South West from the area W. of Dnjepropetrovsk, and for a short time cut road communications between Krivoi Rog and Kirowograd. A counter-offensive by our old friends, the 14th and 24th armoured divisions, is very successful. Besides taking a large number of prisoners and a mass of captured material, we manage to bring about a lull, at least temporarily, in this sector. We fly continually from Kirowograd and are billeted quite close to the airfield. The Wing staff is quartered near by. The day they move in they have a most uncomfortable surprise. The Wing adjutant, Squdn./Ldr. Becker, alias "Fridolin“ and the engineer officer, Ftl./Lt. Katschner, are not quite conversant with the local heating arrangements. Carbon monoxide gas is generated in their rooms during the night, and Katschner wakes up to find Fridolin already unconscious. He staggers out into the fresh air dragging Fridolin with him, thus saving both their lives. For a soldier to lose his life as the result of a silly accident instead of by enemy action is particularly tragic. Afterwards we see the funny side of it and their mishap becomes a standing joke; both have to put up with many a leg-pull.

  In the course of our operations during this period we witness a most unusual drama. I am out with the anti-tank flight S. and S.W. of Alexandrija; after firing off all our ammunition we are homeward bound for Kirowograd to refuel and re-munition for another sortie. We are skimming the almost level plain at a low altitude half way to Kirowograd and I am just above a dense hedgerow. Behind it twelve tanks are on the move. I recognise them instantly: all T 34s heading N. In a twinkling I have climbed and circled round the quarry. Where on earth have they come from? They are Soviets beyond all doubt. Not one of us has a round of ammunition left. We must therefore let them rumble on. Who knows where they will get to by the time we can return with fresh ammunition and attack them.

  The T 34s pay no attention to us and proceed on their way behind the hedge. Further North I see something else moving on the ground. We fly over at low level and recognise German comrades with type IV tanks. They gaze up at us from their tanks, thinking of anything else but the nearness of an enemy and a possible skirmish. Both lots of tanks are travelling towards each other, separated only by this tall line of bushes. Neither can see the other because the Soviets are moving in sunken ground below a railway embankment. I fire red Vereys, wave and drop a message in a container in which I inform my tank colleagues who and what are coming in their direction two miles away, assuming they both keep to the same course. By dipping my aircraft towards the spot where the T 34s are travelling at the moment I tip them off to the nearness of the enemy. Both parties drive steadily on. Circling low we watch for what is going to happen. Our tanks halt at a point where there is a gap of a few yards in the hedge. At any minute now they may both be suddenly surprised by the sight of the other at point blank range. I wait tensely for the second when both will get the shock. The Russians have closed down their turret-tops; perhaps they suspect something from our astonishing manoeuvres. They are still rolling in the same direction, travelling fast. The lateral distance separating the two parties is not more than fifteen or twenty yards. Now!

  The Russians in the sunken ground have reached the gap and see the enemy in front of them on the other side of the hedge. It takes exactly two seconds for the first IV tank to set his opposite number on fire at a range of twenty yards; bits and pieces pepper the air. In another few seconds - up till then I have not seen a shot fired from the rest of the T 34s - six Russian tanks are ablaze. The impression is that they have been taken completely by surprise and have not yet grasped what is happening even now. Some T 34s move in closer under cover of the hedge, the rest try to escape over the railway embankment. They are immediately picked off by the German tanks which have meanwhile got a field of fire through the gap. The whole engagement lasts one minute. It is in its way unique. Without loss to ourselves every one of the T 34s has been destroyed. Our comrades on the ground are proudly elated at their success; we are not less delighted. We throw down a message of good wishes and some chocolate, and then fly home.

  After a series of comparatively uneventful sorties it is not usually very long before we get another jolt. We get one now. Three of us go out, Flg./Off. Fickel and Flg/Off Stähler escorting me with bombers on a tank hunt. We have no fighter escort with us and have just flown past one of our own armoured units when 12 to 15 Airocobras appear with very aggressive intentions. They have all red noses and look as if they belong to a good unit. A wild helter-skelter begins close to the ground and I am glad when I have brought my two colleagues safely home, even though our aircraft are not entirely undamaged. Our experience is often the topic of evening arguments and reminiscences. Fickel and Stähler think that we had a pretty narrow squeak. At the same time the discussion is a useful lesson to our newcomers in correct evasive action in aerial combat.

  Our I squadron has been stationed for some time at Slynka, N. of Nowo Ukrainka, W. of us. My III squadron also receives orders to transfer there with all flying personnel, while our ground personnel proceed by road to Pervomaisk on the Bug. Notification of my promotion to the rank of Squadron Leader comes through at the end of our time at Kirowograd.

  At Slynka it begins to look as if winter had really set in. A bitter East wind blows almost every day. Temperatures fall to 20-30 degrees below zero. The effect
of the cold is perceptible in the number of serviceable aircraft, for maintenance and repair in the open at these temperatures is a specialised business. It is particularly bad luck, because a spearhead of the Russian offensive N. of Kirowograd has just made a penetration into the neck of the Marinowka valley. They are bringing up very strong reserves in order to consolidate the positions won as a springboard for a fresh advance. Every half-serviceable aircraft on the airfield is used for low level attacks. On one sortie to the East Fig./Off. Fickel is forced down after being badly shot up. The terrain is not unfavourable, and I am able to make a landing quite close beside him and take him on board my aircraft with his rear-gunner. In a short time we are back on our airfield, the poorer by yet another aircraft.

  The Russian tanks rarely deliver night attacks, but during the next few days we - our colleagues N. of us in particular - get a taste of them. At midnight my Int. Ops. Officer wakes me in some agitation and reports that some men belonging to a fighter squadron stationed at Malaja Wisky have just turned up with a request that I take off immediately: the Soviets have driven onto their airfield in among the aircraft and their billets in the village. A cloudless starry night, I decide to have a word myself with the refugees. Malaja Wisky is 19 miles to the N. and several Luftwaffe formations with their aircraft have been accommodated on this airfield.