Stuka Pilot

by Hans Ulrich Rudel

  The strategic objective of the Soviet offensive is clear: a still wider encirclement of our forces in the South and a simultaneous thrust by way of Jassy into the Ploesti oilfields. As the intervention of my squadron in the Nikolajew area is still daily required, it is not possible at first for us to fly more than one or two sorties in this sector. For all our operations we are using the advance airfield at Kotowsk, S. of Balta. So now, unusually, this mission takes us West. Our main targets are troop concentrations in the neighbourhood of Jampol, and the bridge which is being built there. After every attack the Soviets immediately replace the damaged pontoons and hurry on with the completion of the bridge. They try to smash our attacks by intense flak and fighter interception, but not once do we allow them to drive us back with our mission unaccomplished.

  Our successes are corroborated by picked-up Russian radio messages. These chiefly consist of complaints against their own fighters, the Red Falcons, charging them with cowardice and enumerating their losses in men, arms and building material caused by their poltroonery. We are often able to listen in to Russian R/T conversations between their ground units and the Red Falcons. There is a Russian-speaking officer in my squadron who tunes in his wireless set to their wave length and instantly makes a verbatim translation. The Russians often yell wildly over the R/T in order to interfere with our reception. The Russian frequency is generally practically the same as ours. The Soviets frequently try to give us target alterations during flight. Of course the new targets lie inside the German lines. These pretended corrections are issued in fluent German, but we very soon see through this trick and once I am wise to it if ever I receive one of these fake corrections when in the air I invariably come down to make sure that the amended target is really an enemy objective. Often we hear a warning shout: "Cancel attack. Target occupied by our own troops." The speaker is, needless to say, a Russian. His last words are then usually drowned by the noise of our bombs. We get many a good laugh when we overhear the ground control cursing the Russian fighters.

  “Red Falcons, we shall report you to the Commissar for cowardice. Go on in and attack the Nazi swine. We have again lost our building material and a whole lot of equipment."

  We have long been familiar with the bad morale of the bulk of the Red fighter pilots; only a few crack units are an exception to the rule. These reports of losses of material are a valuable confirmation of our success.

  A few days before the 20th March, 1944, we are hampered by vile weather with heavy rain storms. In airman's lingo we say: "Even the sparrows have to walk." Flying is impossible. While this weather lasts the Soviets are enabled to continue their advance and push on with their crossing of the Dniester unmolested. There is no prospect of forming a defensive front against this threat on the ground; not even a single company can be spared from the Nikolajew sector and no other reserves are available. In any case we assume that our Romanian allies will defend their own country with the fanatical fury of self-preservation and so compensate for our numerical weakness.

  On the 20th March, after seven sorties in the Nikolajew and Balta area, I take off with my squadron on the eighth of the day, our first mission for five days against the bridge at Jampol. The sky is a brilliant blue and it can be taken for granted that after this prolonged respite the defence will have been considerably strengthened by flak and fighter protection. As my airfield and Rauchowka itself is a quagmire our fighter squadron has moved to the concrete airfield at Odessa. We, with our broad tyres, are better able to cope with the mud and do not immediately become bogged down in it. We fix a rendezvous by telephone for a certain time about thirty miles from the target at 7500 feet above a conspicuous loop of the river Dniester. But apparently difficulties have also cropped up at Odessa. My escort is not at the rendezvous. The target is clearly visible, so naturally we attack. There are several new crews in my squadron. Their quality is not as good as it used to be. The really good men have by this time been long since at the front, and petrol for training purposes has been strictly rationed to so many gallons per man. I firmly believe that I, had I been restricted to so small an allowance, could not have done any better than the new trainees. We are still about twelve miles from our objective when I give the warning: "Enemy fighters."

  More than twenty Soviet Lag 5s are approaching. Our bomb load hampers our manoeuvrability. I fly in defensive ellipses so as to be able at any moment to come in myself behind the fighters, for their purpose is to shoot down my rear aircraft. In spite of the air battle I gradually work round to my objective. Individual Russians who try to shoot me down by a frontal pass I disappoint by extremely mobile tactics, and then at the last moment dive through the midst of them and pull out into a climb. If the new crews can bring it off today they will have learnt a lot.

  “Prepare for attack, stick together - close up - attack!"

  And I come in for the attack on the bridge. As I dive I see the flash of a host of flak emplacements. The shells scream past my aircraft. Henschel says the sky is a mass of cotton wool, his name for the bursting flak. Our formation is losing its cohesion, confound it, making us more vulnerable to the fighters. I warn those lagging behind: "Fly on, catch up, we are just as scared as you are."

  Not a few swear words slip past my tongue. I bank round, and at 1200 feet see my bomb nearly miss the bridge. So there is a wind blowing. “Wind from port, correct to port." A direct hit from our No. 3 finishes off the bridge. Circling round I locate the gun sites of the still aggressive flak and give the order to attack them.

  “They are getting hell very nicely today", opines Henschel. Unfortunately two new crews have lagged slightly behind when diving. Lags cut them off. One of them is completely riddled and zooms past me in the direction of enemy territory. I try to catch up with him, but I cannot leave my whole squadron in the lurch on his account. I yell at him over the R/T, I curse him; it is no use. He flies on to the Russian bank of the Dniester. Only a thin ribbon of smoke rises from his aircraft. He surely could have flown on for another few minutes, as the other does, and so reached our own lines.

  "He lost his nerve completely, the idiot", comments Fickel over the R/T. At the moment I cannot bother about him any more, for I must try to keep my ragged formation together and manoeuvre back Eastward in ellipses. After a quarter of an hour the Red fighters turn off defeated, and we head in regular formation for our base. I order the skipper of the seventh flight to lead the formation home. With Pilot Off. Fischer, flying the other staff aircraft, I bank round and fly back at low level, skimming the surface of the Dniester, the steep banks on either side. A short distance ahead in the direction of the bridge I discern the Russian fighters at 3000 to 9000 feet. But here in the bed of the river I am difficult to see, and above all my presence is not expected. As I climb abruptly over the scrub on the river, bank I spot our aircraft two or three miles to the right. It has made a forced landing in a field. The crew are standing near it and they gesticulate wildly as I fly over at a lower level. "If only you had paid as much attention to me before, this delicate operation would not have been necessary” I mutter to myself as I bank round to see whether the field is suitable for a landing. It is. I encourage myself with a breath: "All right then ... get going.

  This lot today will be the seventh crew I shall have picked up under the noses of the Russians." I tell Plt./Off. Fischer to stay in the air and interfere with the fighters in case they attack. I know the direction of the wind from the bombing of the bridge. Flaps down, throttle back, I'll be down in a jiffy. What is happening? I have overshot - must open up and go round again. This has never happened to me before at such a moment. Is it an omen not to land? You are very close to the target which has just been attacked, far behind the Soviet lines! - Cowardice? Once again throttle back, flaps down - I am down . . . and instantly notice that the ground is very soft; I do not even need to brake. My aircraft comes to a stop exactly in front of my two colleagues. They are a new crew, a corporal and a L.A.C. Henschel lifts the canopy and I give them a sign to
hop in and be quick about it. The engine is running, they climb in behind with Henschel. Red Falcons are circling overhead; they have not yet spotted us.

  "Ready, Henschel.?" "Yes." I open the throttle, left brake, intending to taxi back so as to take off again in exactly the same way as I landed. My starboard wheel sticks deep in the ground. The more I open my throttle, the more my wheel eats into it. My aircraft refuses to budge from the spot. Perhaps it is only that a lot of mud is jammed between the mud-guard and the wheel. "Henschel, get out and take off the mud-guard, perhaps then we can make it."

  The fastening stud breaks, the wheel casing stays on; but even without it we could not take off, we are stuck in the mud. I pull the stick into my stomach, ease it and go at full throttle into reverse. Nothing is of the very slightest use. Perhaps it might be possible to pancake, but that does not help us either. Plt./Off. Fischer flies lower above us and asks over the R/T: "Shall I land.?"

  After a momentary hesitation I tell myself that if he lands he too will not be able to take off again and reply: "No, you are not to land. You are to fly home."

  I take a look round. There come the Ivans, in droves, four hundred yards away. Out we must get. "Follow me", I shout, and already we are sprinting Southward as fast as our legs can carry us. When flying over I have seen that we are about four miles from the Dniester. We must get across the river whatever we do or else we shall fall an easy prey to the pursuing Reds. Running is not a simple matter; I am wearing high fur boots and a fur coat. Sweat is not the word! None of us needs any spurring on; we have no mind to end up in a Soviet prison camp which has already meant instant death to so many dive bomber pilots.

  We have been running for half an hour. We are putting up a pretty good show; the Ivans are a good half a mile behind. Suddenly we find ourselves on the edge of almost perpendicular cliffs at the foot of which flows the river. We rush hither and thither, looking for some way of getting down them . . . impossible! The Ivans are at our heels. Then suddenly a boyhood recollection gives me an idea. We used to slide down from bough to bough from the tops of fir trees and by braking our fall in this way we got to the bottom safely. There are plenty of large thorny bushes, like our dog- rose, growing out of the stone face of the cliff. One after the other we slide down and land on the river bank at the bottom, lacerated in every limb and with our clothes in ribbons. Henschel gets rather jittery. He shouts: "Dive in at once. Better to be drowned than captured by the Russians."

  I advise common sense. We are aglow from running. A short breather, and then strip off as many garments as we can. The Ivans have meanwhile arrived panting at the top. They cannot see us because we are in a blind angle of their field of vision. They rush up and down unable to imagine where we have disappeared to. It is a cinch they think it impossible that we have leapt over the precipice. The Dniester is in flood; the snows are thawing, and here and there a lump of ice drifts past. We calculate the breadth of the river as six hundred yards, the temperature as 3-4 degrees above freezing. The three others are already getting into the water; I am just divesting myself of my fur boots and fur jacket. Now I follow them, clad only in shirt and trousers; under my shirt my map, in my trousers pockets my medals and my compass. As I touch the water, I say to myself: "You are never going in here" - then I think of the alternative and am already striking out.

  In a very short while the cold is paralysing. I gasp for breath, I no longer feel that I am swimming. Concentrate hard, think of the swimming strokes and carry out the motions! Only imperceptibly the far bank draws nearer. The others are ahead of me. I think of Henschel. He passed his swimming test with me when we were with the reserve flight at Graz, but if he goes all out today under more difficult conditions he will be able to repeat that record time, or perhaps get very near it. In mid-stream I am level with him, a few yards behind the gunner of the other aircraft; the corporal is a good distance in front, he seems to be an excellent swimmer. Gradually one becomes dead to all sensation save the instinct of self-preservation which gives one strength; it is bend or break. I am amazed at the others' stamina, for I as a former athlete am used to over-exertion. My mind travels back. I always used to finish with the 1500 metres, often glowing with heat after trying to put up the best possible performance in nine other disciplinary exercises. This hard training pays me now. In sporting terms, my actual exertion does not exceed ninety per cent of my capability. The corporal climbs out of the water and throws himself down on the bank. Somewhat later I reach the safety of the shore with the L.A.C. close after me. Henschel has still another 150 yards to go. The other two lie rigid, frozen to the bone, the gunner rambling deliriously. Poor chap! I sit down and watch Henschel struggling on. Another 80 yards. Suddenly he throws up him arms and yells: "I can't go on, I can't go on any more!" and sinks. He comes up once, but not a second time. I jump back into the water, now drawing on the last ten per cent of energy which I hope is left me. I reach the spot where I just saw Henschel go down. I cannot dive, for to dive I need to fill my lungs but with the cold I cannot get sufficient air. After several fruitless attempts I just manage to get back to the bank. If I had succeeded in catching hold of Henschel I should have remained with him in the Dniester. He was very heavy and the strain would have been too much for almost any one. Now I lie sprawled on the bank . . . limp . . . exhausted . . . and somewhere a deep-seated misery for my friend Henschel. A moment later we say a Paternoster for our comrade.

  The map is sodden with water, but I have everything in my head. Only, the devil only knows how far we are behind the Russian lines. Or is there still a chance that we may bump into the Romanians sooner or later? I check up on our arms; I have a 6.35 mm. revolver with six rounds, the corporal a 7.65 with a full magazine, the L.A.C. has lost his revolver whilst in the water and has only Henschel's broken knife. We start walking Southward with these weapons in our hands. The gently rolling country is familiar from flying over it. Contour differences of perhaps six hundred feet, few villages, 30 miles to the South a railway running E. to W. I know two points on it: Balti and Floresti. Even if the Russians have made a deep penetration we can count on this line still being free of the enemy.

  The time is about 3 p.m., the sun is high in the S.W. It shines obliquely in our faces on our right. First we go into a little valley with moderately high hills on either side. We are still benumbed, the corporal still delirious. I advise caution. We must try to skirt any inhabited places. Each of us is allotted a definite sector to keep under observation. I am famished. It suddenly strikes me that I have not had a bite to eat all day. This was the eighth time we had been out, and there had not been time for a meal between sorties. A report had to be written out and despatched to the group on our return from every mission, and instructions for the next one taken down over the telephone. Meanwhile our aircraft were refuelled and rearmed, bombs loaded and off again. The crews were able to rest between whiles and even snatch a meal, but in this respect I did not count as one of them.

  I guess we must now have been going for an hour; the sun is beginning to lose its strength and our clothes are starting to freeze. Do I really see something ahead of us or am I mistaken? No, it is real enough. Advancing in our direction out of the glare of the sun - it is hard to see clearly - are three figures three hundred yards away. They have certainly seen us. Perhaps they were lying on their stomachs behind this ridge of hills. They are big chaps, doubtless Romanians. Now I can see them better. The two on the outside of the trio have rifles slung over their shoulders, the one in the middle carries a Tommy-gun. He is a young man, the other two are about forty, probably reservists. They approach us in no unfriendly manner in their brown-green uniforms. It suddenly occurs to me that we are no longer wearing uniform and that consequently our nationality is not immediately evident. I hastily advise the corporal to hide his revolver while I do likewise in case the Romanians become jittery and open fire on us. The trio now halts a yard in front of us and looks us over curiously. I start explaining to our allies that we are Germans who hav
e made a forced landing and beg them to help us with clothing and food, telling them that we want to get back to our unit as quickly as possible.

  I say: "We are German airmen who have made a forced landing whereupon their faces darken and at the same moment I have the three muzzles of their weapons pointing at my chest. The young one instantly grabs my holster and pulls out my 6.35. They have been standing with their backs to the sun, I have had it in my eyes. Now I take a good look at them. Hammer and sickle - ergo Russians. I do not contemplate for a second being taken prisoner, I think only of escape. There is a hundred to one chance of pulling it off.

  There is probably a good price on my head in Russia, my capture is likely to be even better rewarded. To blow my brains out is not a practical consideration. I am disarmed. Slowly I turn my head round to see if the coast is clear. They guess my intention and one of them shouts "Stoy!" (Halt!). I duck as I make a double turn and run for it, crouching low and swerving to right and left. Three shots crack out; they are followed by an uninterrupted rattle of quick fire, a stinging pain in my shoulder. The chap with the Tommy-gun has hit me at close range through the shoulder, the other two have missed me.