During a lull of several days I decide to make a short trip to Berlin for a long deferred conference. On the return journey I land at Görlitz, stop off at my home and continue eastward via Voslau near Vienna. Early in the morning I am rung up at the house of my friends: somebody has been ringing me up all night. A telephone message from the Reichsmarschall’s H.Q. having been put through to Husi, they have been trying to contact me all along my itinerary, but have failed to reach me anywhere. I immediately put through a call, and Goering’s adjutant tells me to proceed at once to Berchtesgaden. As I guess that this is another unwelcome attempt to have me seconded for staff or special duties, I ask him: “Is this good or bad from my point of view?” He knows me. “Certainly not bad.”
Not altogether without misgivings I first fly low along the Danube. The weather is the worst imaginable. 120 feet cloud ceiling; no take-off or landing allowed at almost every aerodrome. The Vienna woods are continuously wreathed in the densest clouds. I fly up the valley from St. Polten to Amstetten heading for Salzburg where I land. Here I am already expected and am driven to the Reichsmarschall’s country house not far from the Berghof on the Obersalzberg. He is absent in conference with the Führer and we are at table when he returns. His daughter Edda is already a big and well brought-up girl; she is allowed to sit down with us. After a short constitutional in the garden the conversation takes an official turn, and I am all agog to know what is in the wind this time. House and garden are in really good taste; nothing vulgar or ostentatious. The family leads a simple life. Now I am officially given audience in his bright and manywindowed study, with a glorious panorama of the mountains glittering in the late spring sunshine. He evidently has a certain foible for old customs and costumes. I am really at a loss to describe the garment he is wearing: it is a kind of robe or toga such as the ancient Romans wore, of a russet color and held together with a gold brooch. I cannot precisely describe it. For me at all events it is a novel rig out. He is smoking a long pipe reaching to the floor with a prettily painted porcelain bowl. I can remember my father having possessed a similar instrument; in those days the pipe was taller than I. After eyeing me in silence for a while he begins to speak. I am here again for another decoration. He pins on my chest the Golden Front Service Medal with Diamonds in recognition of my recently completed two thousand sorties. It is an absolutely new kind of medal, never before awarded to anyone, for no one but I had flown so many sorties. It is made of solid gold with, in the centre, a platinum wreath with crossed swords, beneath which is the number 2000 in tiny diamonds. I am glad that there are no unpleasant strings attached to this errand on which I have come.
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 in formed 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 armored 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 intercommunications we Stukas were able to neutralize for him many objectives which his tanks could not put out of action. I therefore know the strength of the 14th armored 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 armored 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 Southeastern 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.