Stuka Pilot

by Hans Ulrich Rudel

  Then we discuss the situation, and he thinks I ought to lose no time in returning to my base. I intended to do so in any case. He tells me that a large scale offensive is in preparation in my sector and that the balloon will go up in the next few days. He has just returned from a conference in which the whole situation has been discussed in minutest detail with the Führer. He expresses surprise that I have not noticed these preparations on the spot, as approximately three hundred tanks are to be employed in this operation. Now I prick my ears. The number three hundred flabbergasts me. This is an everyday occurrence on the Russian side, but on ours it is no longer credible. I reply that I find some difficulty in believing it. I ask if he is at liberty to divulge the names of the divisions with the number of tanks they each have at their disposal, because I am exactly informed about most units in my sector and their complement of serviceable tanks. On the eve of my departure from the front I had spoken with General Unrein, commanding the 14th armoured division. That was a fortnight ago, and he had complained bitterly to me that he had only one tank left, and even that was actually hors de combat because he had built into it all the flying control apparatus, and this was essentially more valuable to him than a serviceable tank, for with good inter-communications we Stukas were able to neutralise for him many objectives which his tanks could not put out of action. I therefore know the strength of the 14th armoured division exactly. The Reichsmarschall can hardly believe me as he thinks he has heard a different figure for this division. He says to me, half in earnest, half in jest: “If I didn't know you, for two pins I would have you put under arrest for saying such a thing. But we will soon find out."

  He goes to the telephone and is connected with the Chief of the General Staff. "You have just given the Führer the figure of three hundred tanks for Operation X." The telephone is loud; I can overhear every word. "Yes, I did."

  "I want to know the names of the divisions concerned with their present strength in tanks. I have somebody with me who is well acquainted with the position." “Who is he?" asks the Chief of the General Staff. “He is one of my men who must know."

  Now the Chief of the General Staff has the bad luck to begin with the 14th armoured division. He says it has sixty tanks. Goering can hardly contain himself. "My man reports that the 14th has one!" A lengthy silence at the other end of the line. "When did he leave the front?"

  "Four days ago." Again silence. Then: “Forty tanks are still on their way to the front. The rest are in repair shops on the line of communications, but will certainly reach their units by zero day, so that the figures are correct."

  He has the same answer for the other divisions. The Reichsmarschall slams down the receiver in a rage. "That's how it is! The Führer is given a totally false picture based on incorrect data and is surprised when operations do not have the success expected. Today, thanks to you, it is accidentally explained, but how often we may have built our hopes on such Utopias. The South Eastern zone with its network of communications is being incessantly blanketed by the enemy's bomber formations. Who knows how many of those forty tanks, for example, will ever reach the front or when? Who can say if the repair shops will get their spare parts in time and if they will be able to complete their repairs within the specified time? I shall at once report the matter to the Führer." He speaks angrily, then falls silent.

  As I fly back to the front my mind is much concerned with what I have just heard. What is the purpose of these misleading and false reports? Is it due to slovenliness or is it intentional? In either case it helps the enemy. Who and what circles are committing these enormities?

  I break my journey at Belgrade, and as I come in to land at Semlin, U.S. four-engined bomber formations appear heading towards the airfield. As I taxi in I see the whole personnel of the aerodrome running away. There are some hills to the West of the runway in which tunnels have apparently been cut to serve as shelters. I see the formation straight ahead of me a short distance from the airfield. This does not look any too good. I sprint after the stream of people as fast as I can in my fur boots. I just enter the tunnel as the first stick of bombs explodes on the aerodrome, raising a gigantic mushroom of smoke. I cannot believe it possible that anything can remain intact. After a few minutes the smoke cloud thins a little and I walk back to the airfield. Almost everything is destroyed; beside the wreckage stands my faithful Ju 87, riddled with splinters, but the engine is undamaged and so is the undercarriage. The essential parts of the control system still function. I look for a strip of ground off the actual runway suitable for take off, and am glad when I am airborne again. Loyally and gallantly my wounded kite carries me over the S.E. zone back to my wing at Husi.

  During my absence a Romanian Ju 87 flight has been attached to us. The crews consist mainly of officers; some of them have a certain flying experience, but we soon discover that it is better if they only fly as a flight with us in close formation. Otherwise the number of casualties on every sortie is always high. The enemy fighters bother them especially, and it takes them some little time to realise through experience that with a slow aircraft in formation it is not absolutely necessary to be shot down. The wing staff has gone over to Focke-Wulf 190s. Our I squadron has been temporarily withdrawn from operations for an eight weeks rest to an airfield in the rear at Sächsisch-Regen. Here old stager Ju 87 pilots go back to school on the one-seater type. In the long run all our units may have to do the same, as the last production series of Ju 87s has still to be completed after which no more aircraft of this type are to be built. Therefore while at Husi I personally practise flying between sorties in one of the wing staff's new F.W. 190s so that there shall be no reason for my being withdrawn from operations. I finish up my self-training by going out straight away on one or two sorties in the frontal area with the new type and feel quite safe in it.

  It is getting on for July; our sorties are much more frequent and the planned local offensive in the area N. of Jassy is under way. Not with the invented number of tanks and later than the date of the original plan, but nevertheless with fresher troops than we have recently been used to. It is necessary to capture the whole plateau between the Pruth and Targul Frumos. It is an easier line to hold and its capture will also deprive the enemy of a favourable springboard for an assault. The whole front line in this sector is on the move and we succeed in pushing the Soviets back a considerable distance. By stubborn resistance they manage to hang on to several key points. They are lucky because local attacks intended to mop up these nests of resistance are never carried out. Some of our assault units which are thrown in, like a fire brigade, wherever the fighting is hottest have to be withdrawn. I fly my 2100th operational sortie in the course of this offensive. My target is a familiar one: the bridge at Sculeni, of vital importance to the supply line of the hard-pressed Soviets. Every time we come in to attack it from N. of Jassy it is already hidden by a smoke screen and we can never be sure of not dropping our bombs too close to our own front line. Each time I see the smoke screen I have to laugh, imagining the faces of the Ivans down below, gazing up at our approach. It does not require a linguist to distinguish the one always recurring word: "Stuka - Stuka - Stuka." Our days at Husi are numbered.

  After a birthday party in my vineyard in the first half of July orders arrive for us to move to Zamosc in the central sector of the East front. Here the Russians have launched a new large-scale offensive.

  We arrive at this new operational base flying over the North Carpathians, over Stryj and by-passing Lemberg. Zamosc is a pretty little town, it makes a good impression. We are quartered in an old Polish barracks on the Northern edge of the town. Our airfield itself lies rather far outside it and consists of stubble fields; the landing strip is narrow and at once causes a very regrettable accident. On his very first landing Warrant Officer W.'s aircraft pancakes and the pilot injures himself rather seriously. He is one of my best tank-snipers and it will be a long time before we have him with us again. Here again there is ample work for tank-busters, especially as th
e front lines are not stabilised but fluid. Break-throughs by tanks are the order of the day. We hold Kowel, but the Soviets have by-passed it and are endeavouring to cross the Bug. It is not long before their spearheads appear in the area N.W. of Lemberg - at Rawaruska and Towaszow, and at Cholm to the North. During this phase we have another move, this time to Mielec, a small Polish town sixty miles N.W. of Krakau. The aim of the Soviet advance is clear: they are trying to reach the Vistula on a comparatively wide front. Our targets are the oncoming masses of men and material now trying to cross the San to the North of Premysl. The fighter opposition is not to be underestimated as American fighters now more and more often put in an appearance after flying as escort to four-engined bomber formations. Originally they come from air bases on the Mediterranean. As we now have reason to perceive, they do not return to base immediately on completion of their mission, but land on Russian territory to refuel. Then one day they come back on another mission and afterwards fly South to their starting base. On one sortie over the San I run into one such Mustang formation as I am already coming in to attack. There are nearly three hundred of them. I am flying with a formation of fifteen bombers without any fighter protection; we are still 23 miles from Jaroslaw, our target for today. In order not to endanger the squadron, and, above all, its several new crews, I give the order to jettison bombs so that we shall be better able to manoeuvre in the all too unequally matched air battle. I am reluctant to give this order; hitherto we have always attacked the target assigned to us, even in the face of great enemy superiority. This is the first time; it will also be the last until the end of the war. But today I have no choice. So I bring my squadron home without loss and we are able to make up for our failure to carry out our mission the next day under more favourable conditions. Success justifies my action, for in the evening I hear that a neighbouring unit suffered heavy losses from this huge formation of Mustangs. At midday a few days later while we are refuelling we are again surprised by an American formation which immediately comes down to attack our aircraft. Our airfield defence is not strong and our A.A. gunners, at first taken by surprise, are slow in opening up on the attackers. The Americans had not reckoned with flak, and as it is certainly no part of their programme not to return today, they turn away without any material success in search of easier prey.

  A telephone call from the Air Command: for the first time in this war the Russians have set foot on German soil and are pushing into East Prussia from the Willkowiscen area in the direction of Gumbinnen - Insterburg. I want to move to East Prussia at once; the transfer order arrives and the following day I am already at Insterburg with my flying personnel. In the heavenly peacefulness of East Prussia it is quite impossible to imagine that the war has already come so close, and that sorties with bombs and anti-tank aircraft have to be flown from this quiet spot. In the town of Insterburg itself the people have not yet adjusted themselves to the gravity of the situation. The aerodrome is still overcrowded with installations which are useless for such concentrated operational activity. Therefore it is better to move to Lotzen in the Mazurian lake district where we are alone on the tiny airfield.

  Midsummer in the lovely East Prussian country. Is this land to become a battlefield? It is here that we realise that we are fighting for our homes and for our freedom. How much German blood has already drenched this soil in vain! It must not happen again! These are the thoughts which fill our minds as we fly towards our target - North of the Memel or at Schaulen, at Suwalki or Augustowo – and on the way home the same thoughts torment us. We are now back where we started from in 1941; it was from here that the invasion of the East began. Will the monument at Tannenberg acquire an even greater significance? The emblem of German chivalry is painted on our squadron aircraft; never has it meant so much to us as now.

  Stiff fighting in the area round Willkowiscen; the town itself changes hands time and again. A small German armoured unit stands its ground here, supported by us from the first to the last minute of daylight, resisting the incessant onslaught of the Russians for several days. Some of the T 34s take cover behind the corn stacks standing on the harvested fields. We set the stacks on fire with incendiaries so as to uncover the tanks, then we go for them. A broiling summer; we live quite close to the water and often bathe in a half hour break between sorties, a sheer enjoyment. The effects of the ceaseless activity on the ground and in the air are soon perceptible: the initial fury of the Russian assault his noticeably slackened. Counter-attacks are more and more frequent, and so the front can to some extent be stabilised again. But when fighting dies down in one place it is sure to flare up in another; so it is here. The Soviets are thrusting towards Lithuania, trying to outflank our armies in Estonia and Latvia. Consequently for us in the air there is always a job to be done. The Soviets are relatively well informed as to the strength of our defence on the ground and in the air.

  One sortie again provides Flg./Off. Fickel with an occasion to celebrate his birthday. We are on our way to attack enemy concentrations and the Reds are up to their old trick of using our wave length. Personally I cannot at the moment understand what they are jabbering, but it evidently refers to us because the word "Stuka" keeps on recurring. My linguist colleague and a ground listening post which has an interpreter tell me the story afterwards. This is, more or less, what happened:

  “Stukas approaching from the West - calling all Red Falcons: you are to attack the Stukas immediately, there are about twenty - in front a single Stuka with two long bars - it is sure to be Squadron-Leader Rudel's squadron, the one that always knocks out our tanks. Calling all Red Falcons and A.A. batteries: you are to shoot down the Stuka with the long bars."

  Flg./Off. Markwardt gives me a rough translation while we are in the air. Fickel says with a laugh: "If they aim at No. 1 you can bet they'll hit No. 2." He generally flies as my No. 2 and therefore speaks from experience.

  Ahead of us and below us Ivans with motor vehicles, artillery and other stuff on a road between isolated woods. The heavy flak is putting up a good show, the Red Falcons are already there, Aircobras attack us; I give the order to attack. A part of the formation dives onto the trucks and lorries, a smaller section onto the A.A. batteries, all manoeuvring frantically. The fighters now think their opportunity has come. Flak clouds hang close to our aircraft. Shortly before he goes into a dive Flg./Off. Fickel gets a direct hit in his wing; he jettisons his bombs and flies off in the direction from which we have come. His aircraft is on fire.

  We have dropped our bombs and come out of our dive. I gain height to see where Fickel has got to. He makes landing in the middle of quite unsuitable country, furrowed with ditches and full of pot-holes, tree stumps and other obstacles. His aircraft skips over two ditches like a rampagious he-goat; it is a miracle that he has not pancaked long ago. Now he and his gunner clamber out. The situation is bad: cavalry, followed by tanks, are already converging on his aircraft from the woods, naturally intent on capturing the crew. The Aircobras are now attacking us furiously from above. I call out: " Someone must land at once. You know I am no longer allowed to."

  I have a horrible feeling, because I have been expressly forbidden to land and it goes against the grain to consciously disobey orders. We are still banking low above the fallen aircraft; Fickel and Bartsch down there can surely not imagine that anyone can land safely under the circumstances. The Soviets are gradually closing in and still no one sets about landing; outmanoeuvring the fighters makes full demands on every crew's attention. The decision to land myself in spite of everything is a hard one to make, but as I see it, if I do not act now my comrades are lost. If it is at all possible for anyone to rescue them, I have the best chance of anybody. To disobey an order is, I know, unforgivable, but the determination to save my comrades is stronger than my sense of duty. I have forgotten everything else, the consequences of my action, everything. I must bring it off. I give my orders: