Stuka Pilot

by Hans Ulrich Rudel

  We make a start at 1 a.m. - a pitch dark night. We fly over the Sudeten mountains into the battle zone on a north north westerly course. The country below us is illumined eerily by fires, many villages and towns are burning, Germany is in flames. We realise our helplessness to prevent it- but one must not think about it. On the outskirts of Berlin the Soviet searchlights and flak already reach up at us; it is almost impossible to make out the plan of the city as it is enveloped in thick smoke and a dense pall of vapour hangs above it. In some places the incandescence of the fires is so blinding that one cannot pick out the landmarks on the ground, and I just have to stare into the darkness for a while before I can see again, but even so I cannot recognise the east-to-west arterial road. One conflagration next to another, the flash of guns, a nightmare spectacle. My radio operator has made contact with the ground; our first instructions are to wait. That puts the lid on it, especially as we have only so much petrol. After about fifteen minutes a message comes through from Wing Commander von Below that a landing is impossible as the road is under heavy shell fire and the Soviets have already captured the Potsdamer Platz. My instructions are to fly on to Rechlin and to telephone to Berlin from there for further orders.

  My radio operator has the wave length of this station; we fly on and call Rechlin, not a minute too soon, for our petrol tank is nearly empty. Below us a sea of flame, which can only mean that even on the other side of Berlin the Reds have broken through in the Neuruppin area and at the best only a narrow escape corridor to the west can still be free. On my request for landing lights the Rechlin airfield refuses; they are afraid of instantly attracting a night attack from enemy aircraft. I read them in clear the text of my instructions to land there, adding a few not exactly polite remarks. It is gradually becoming uncomfortable because our petrol may give out at any moment. Suddenly below us to port a niggardly show of lights outlines an airfield. We land. Where are we? At Wittstock, nineteen miles from Rechlin. Wittstock has listened in to our conversation with Rechlin and decided to show its airfield. An hour later, getting on for 3 a.m., I arrive at Rechlin where the V.H.F. is in the commodore's room. With it I am able to get in touch with Berlin by telephone. Wing Commander von Below tells me that I am not now to come into Berlin as, unlike me, Field Marshal Greim has been reached in time by wireless and has taken over my assignment; moreover, he says, it is momentarily impossible to make a landing in Berlin. I reply: "I suggest that I should land this morning by daylight on the east-west arterial road with a Stuka. I think it can still be done if I use a Stuka. Besides it is essential to get the government out of this danger point so that they do not lose touch with the situation as a whole."

  Von Below asks me to hold the line while he goes to make enquiries. He comes back to the telephone and says: "The Führer has made up his mind. He is absolutely decided to hold Berlin, and cannot therefore leave the capital where the situation looks critical. He argues that if he left himself the troops which are fighting to hold it would say that he was abandoning Berlin and would draw the conclusion that all resistance was useless. Therefore the Führer intends to stay in the city. You are no longer to come in, but are to fly back immediately to the Sudetenland to lend the support of your formations to Field Marshal Schoerner's army which is also to launch a thrust in the direction of Berlin."

  I ask von Below what the feeling is about the situation because he tells me all this so calmly and matter-of-factly. "Our position is not good, but it must be possible for a thrust by General Wenk or Schoerner to relieve Berlin." I admire his calmness. To me everything is clear, and I fly back to my unit forthwith to carry on operations.

  The shock of the news that the Head of State and Supreme Commander of the armed forces of the Reich is dead has a stunning effect upon the troops. But the Red hordes are devastating our country and therefore we must fight on. We shall only lay down our arms when our leaders give the order. This is our plain duty according to our military oath, it is our plain duty in view of the terrible fate which threatens us if we surrender unconditionally as the enemy insists. It is our plain duty also to the destiny which has placed us geographically in the heart of Europe and which we have obeyed for centuries: to be the bulwark of Europe against the East. Whether or not Europe understands or likes the role which fate has thrust upon us, or whether her attitude is one of fatal indifference or even of hostility, does not alter by one iota our European duty. We are determined to be able to hold our heads high when the history of our continent, and particularly of the dangerous times ahead, is written.

  The East and West fronts are edging closer and closer to each other, our operations are of increasing difficulty. The discipline of my men is admirable, no different from on the first day of the war. I am proud of them. The severest punishment for my officers is, as it has always been, not to be allowed to fly with the rest on operations. I myself have some trouble with my stump. My mechanics have constructed for me an ingenious contrivance like a devil's hoof and with it I fly. It is attached below the knee joint and with every pressure upon it, that is to say when I have to kick the right rudder-bar, the skin at the bottom of the stump which was doing its best to heal is rubbed sore. The wound is reopened again with violent bleeding. Especially in aerial combat when I have to bank extremely to the right I am hampered by the wound and sometimes my mechanic has to wipe the blood-spattered engine parts clean.

  I am very lucky again in the first days of May. I have an appointment with Field Marshal Schoerner, and before keeping it want to look in on my way at Air Command H.Q. in a castle at Hermannstädtel, about fifty miles East of us. I fly there in a Fieseler Storch and see that the castle is surrounded by tall trees. There is a park in the middle on which I think I can land. My faithful Fridolin is behind me in the plane. The landing comes off all right; after a short stay to pick up some maps we take off again towards the tall trees on a gentle rise. The Storch is slow in gathering speed; to help her start I lower the flaps a short distance before the edge of the forest. But this only brings me just below the tops of the trees. I give the stick a pull, but we have not sufficient impetus. To pull any more is useless, the aircraft becomes nose-heavy. I already hear a crash and clatter. Now I have finally smashed my stump, if nothing worse. Then everything is quiet as a mouse. Am I down on the ground? No, I am sitting in my cockpit, and there, too, is Fridolin. We are jammed in a forking branch at the top of a lofty tree, merrily rocking to and fro. The whole tree sways back and forth with us several times, our impact was evidently a bit too violent. I am afraid the Storch will now play us another trick and finish by tipping the cockpit over backwards. Fridolin has come forward and asks in some alarm: "What is happening?" I call out to him: "Don't budge or else you will topple what remains of the Storch off the tree into a thirty foot drop."

  The tail is broken off as well as large pieces of the wing planes; they are all lying on the ground. I still have the stick in my hand, my stump is uninjured, I have not knocked it against anything. One must have luck on one's side! We cannot get down from the tree, it is very high and has a thick, smooth trunk. We wait, and after a time the General arrives on the scene; he has heard the crash and now sees us perched up aloft on the tree. He is mightily glad we got off so lightly. As there is no other possible way of getting us down he sends for the local fire brigade. They help us down with a long, extending ladder.

  The Russians have by-passed Dresden, and are trying to cross the Erzgebirge from the North so as to reach the protectorate and thus outflank Field Marshal Schoerner's army. The main Soviet forces are in the Freiberg area and South East of it. On one of our last sorties we see south of Diepoldiswalde a long column of refugees with Soviet tanks going through it like steam rollers, crushing everything under them.

  We immediately attack the tanks and destroy them; the column continues its trek towards the South. Apparently the refugees hope to get behind the protecting screen of the Sudeten mountains where they think they will be safe. In the same area we attack some more enemy tank
s in a veritable tornado of flak. I have just fired at a Stalin tank and am climbing to 600 feet when, looking round, I notice a drizzle of bits and pieces behind me. They are falling from above, I ask : "Niermann, which of us has just been shot down?" That seems to me the only explanation and Niermann thinks the same. He hurriedly counts our aircraft, all of them are there. So none of them was shot down. I look down at my Stalin and see only a black spot. Could the explanation be that the tank exploded and the explosion flung up its wreckage to this height?

  After the operation the crews which were flying behind me confirm that this tank blew up with a terrific explosion into the air behind me; the bits and pieces which I saw raining down from above were from the Stalin. Presumably it was packed with high explosive, and its mission was to clear tank barriers and other obstacles out of the way of the other tanks. I do not envy Niermann on these operations, for now flying is certainly no life insurance; if I am forced to land anywhere there is no longer any chance of making an escape. He flies with an incomparable placidity; his nerve amazes me.

  18 - The End

  ON the 7th May there is a conference of all Luftwaffe commanders in Schoerner's army zone at Group H.Q. to discuss the plan which has just been released by the Supreme Command. It is proposed gradually to retire the entire Eastern front, sector by sector, until it is parallel with the Western front. We perceive that very grave decisions are about to be taken. Will the west even now recognise its opportunity against the east or will it fail to grasp the situation? Opinions among us are divided.

  On the 8th May we search for tanks North of Bruex and near Oberleutensdorf. For the first time in the war I am unable to concentrate my mind on my mission; an indefinable feeling of frustration suffocates me. I do not destroy a single tank; they are still in the mountains and unassailable there.

  Wrapped in my thoughts I head for home. We land and go into the flying control building. Fridolin is not there; they tell me he has been summoned to Group H.Q. Does that mean . . .? I jerk myself sharply out of my depression. "Niermann, ring up the squadron at Reichenberg and brief them for a fresh attack and fix the next rendezvous with our fighter escort." I study the map of the situation . . . what is the use? Where is Fridolin all this time? I see a Storch land outside, that will be he. Shall I dash out? No, better wait in here ... it seems to be very warm for this time of the year . . . and the day before yesterday two of my men were ambushed and shot dead by Czechs in civilian clothes. . . Why is Fridolin away so long? I hear the door open and somebody comes in; I force myself not to turn round. Someone coughs softly. Niermann is still speaking on the telephone .... so that was not Fridolin. Niermann is having trouble getting through . . . it is a funny thing ... I notice that today my brain is registering every detail very sharply . . . silly little things without the least significance.

  I turn round, the door opens . . . Fridolin. His face is haggard, we exchange glances and suddenly my throat is parched. All I can say is: "Well?" "It's all over . . . unconditional surrender!" Fridolin's voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

  The end ... I feel as though I were falling into a bottomless abyss, and then in blurred confusion they all pass before my eyes: the many comrades I have lost, the millions of soldiers who have perished on the sea and in the air and on the battlefield ... the millions of victims slaughtered in their homes in Germany ... the oriental hordes which will now inundate our country. . . Fridolin suddenly snaps out: "Hang up that blasted telephone, Niermann. The war is over!"

  "We shall decide when we stop fighting," says Niermann. Someone guffaws. His laughter is too loud, it is not genuine. I must do something . . . say something . . . ask a question . . . "Niermann, tell the squadron at Reichenberg that a Storch is landing in an hour from now with important orders." Fridolin notices my helpless embarrassment and goes into details in an agitated voice. "A retirement westward is definitely out ... the English and the Americans have insisted on an unconditional surrender by the 8th May . . . that is today. We are ordered to hand over everything to the Russians unconditionally by 11 tonight. But as Czechoslovakia is to be occupied by the Soviets it has been decided that all German formations shall retire as fast as possible to the West so as not to fall into Russian hands. Flying personnel are to fly home or anywhere ..."

  "Fridolin ", I interrupt him, "parade the wing." I cannot sit still and listen to any more of this. But will not what you have now to do be an even greater ordeal?. . . What can you tell your men?. . . They have never yet seen you despondent, but now you are in the depths - Fridolin breaks in upon my thoughts: "All present and correct."

  I go out. My artificial limb makes it impossible for me to walk properly. The sun is shining in its full spring glory . . . here and there a slight haze shimmers silvery in the distance ... I come to a stop in front of my men.

  "Comrades!". . . I cannot go on. Here stands my 2nd squadron, the 1st is stationed down in Austria . . . shall I ever set eyes on it again? And the 3rd at Prague. . . Where are they now, now when I want so much to see them round me . . . all . . . our dead comrades as well as the survivors of the unit . . .

  There is an uncanny hush, the eyes of all my men are riveted upon me. I must say something.... “after we have lost so many comrades. . . after so much blood has flowed at home and on the fronts ... an incomprehensible fate . . . has denied us victory ... the gallantry of our soldiers ... of our whole people . . . has been unparalleled ... the war is lost ... I thank you for the loyalty with which you ... in this unit . . . have served our country ..." I shake hands with every man in turn. None of them utters a word. The silent hand-grip shows me that they understand me. As I walk away for the last time I hear Fridolin snap the order: "Eyes right!", "Eyes right!" for the many, many comrades who sacrificed their young lives. "Eyes right!" for the conduct of our people, for their heroism, the most splendid ever shown by a civilian population. "Eyes right!" for the finest legacy that Germany's dead have ever bequeathed to posterity. . . "Eyes right!" for the countries of the West which they have striven to defend and which are now caught in the fatal embrace of Bolshevism. . .

  What are we to do now? Is the war over for the "Immelmann" Wing? Could we not give the youth of Germany a reason to hold up their heads in pride again one day by some final gesture, such as crashing the whole wing onto some G.H.Q. or other important enemy target and by such a death bringing our battle record to a significant climax? The wing would be with me to a man, I am sure of that. I put the question to the group. The answer is no . . . perhaps it is the right one . . . there are enough dead . . . and perhaps we have still another mission to fulfil.

  I have decided to lead the column which is going back by road. It will be a very long column because all formations under my command including the flak are to march with the ground personnel. Everything will be ready by 6 o'clock and then we shall make a start. The squadron leader of the 2nd squadron has instructions to fly all his aircraft west. When the commodore hears of my intention to lead the ground column he orders me because of my wound to fly while Fridolin is to lead the march. There is a formation under my command on the airfield at Reichenberg. I can no longer reach it by telephone, so I fly there with Niermann to inform it of the new situation. On the way the cockpit hood of my Storch flies off, its climbing performance is bad; I need it, however, because Reichenberg lies on the other side of the mountains. I approach the airfield cautiously through a valley; it already presents an appearance of desolation. At first I see nobody and taxi the aircraft into a hangar with the intention of using the telephone in the flying control room. I am just in the act of getting out of the Storch when there is a terrific explosion and a hangar goes up in the air before my eyes. Instinctively we fall flat on our stomachs and wait for the hail of stones which tear a few holes in our aerofoil, but we are unscathed. Next to the flying control hut a lorry loaded with flares has caught fire and the flares explode all around up in a harlequinade of colours. A symbol of the debacle. My heart bleeds - only to think of it. Here at
all events no one has waited for my news that the end has come; seemingly it has arrived considerably earlier from another quarter.

  We climb back into the crippled Storch and with an interminably long take off she lifts herself wearily from the airfield. Following the same valley route by which we came we get back to Kummer. Everybody is busily packing his things; the order to march is arranged in a way that seems tactically most convenient. The A.A. guns are parcelled up through the length of the column so that they may be able to put up a defence against attack, should the need arise, if anyone tries to hinder our westward march. Our destination is the American-occupied southern part of Germany.

  After the column has started all the rest, except those who want to wait until I take off, will fly away; many of them will have a chance to escape capture if they can land somewhere near their homes. This being out of the question for me, I intend to land on an airfield occupied by the Americans as I need immediate medical attention for my leg; therefore the idea of my going into hiding is not to be considered. Besides, too many people would recognise me. I see no reason either why I should not land on a normal aerodrome, believing that the allied soldiers will treat me with the chivalry due even to a defeated enemy. The war is over, and so I do not expect to be detained or held prisoner for long; I think that in a very short time everyone will be allowed to go home.