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 maneuvering frantically. The fighters now think their opportunity has come. Flak clouds hang close to our aircraft. Shortly before he goes into a dive Fig./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 a landing in the middle of quite unsuitable country, furrowed with ditches and full of potholes, tree stumps and other obstacles. His aircraft skips over two ditches like a rampageous 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; outmaneuvering 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:
“7 Flight: you are to attack cavalry and infantry at low level.
8 Flight: you are to circle at moderate height to cover Fickel and me.
9 Flight: you are to stay up and divert fighters from this intended maneuver. If fighters dive, then 9 Flight is to attack them from above.”
I fly very low over the scene of the forced landing and select a patch of ground which may serve, with a bit of luck, to land on. Slowly I open the throttle; now we are over the second ditch. Throttle back, a terrific jolt, for an instant my tail is in the air, then I come to a stop. Fickel and Bartsch run for their lives. They are quickly alongside. Ivan’s bullets have so far not hit anything that matters. Both are in behind, I open the throttle. I am seething with excitement. Can I make it? Will my aircraft become airborne before it hits an obstacle on the ground and is smashed to pieces? Now comes a ditch. I snatch up the aircraft, clear it, and again my wheels lightly bump the ground. Then she stays up. Slowly the tension eases. The squadron closes up and we get home without loss.
Rudel’s traveling circus has taken up a pitch on a stubble field near the town of Wenden, not far from the Latvian–Estonian frontier. Field Marshal Schörner has been trying his hardest all this time to get my squadron into his sector with the result that we are now up here on the Courland front. We are barely installed on our cornfield when the inevitable cake arrives with =the Field Marshal’s compliments; no matter where I turn up in his command one of these fabulous cakes always appears, usually with a T 34 in sugar icing and I the number, whatever it is at the time, of tanks I am credited with. The cake is now piped with the figures 320.
The general situation up here is as follows: in the Tuckum area we have launched an attack to re-establish the broken communications with the rest of the :East Front. It is delivered by the assault group under the Command of the distinguished Colonel Count Strachwitz, and is successful. The Soviets are, however, making a persistent effort to indent our front on the east of Courland. This sector has long been a thorn in their side. Hitherto they have been held by the unbounded gallantry of our German soldiers despite their immense numerical superiority. At this particular moment this sector is again being subjected to unusually violent pressure; it is to relieve this pressure that Field Marshal Schörner has called for our support. On our very first sorties we observe that the front lines here are not too fluctuating; the Red positions everywhere are well fortified, their camouflage is excellent, their A.A. batteries well sited quite close to the front line and everywhere strong. Enemy activity in the air is constant and lively. Hordes of enemy fighters and very few of our own formations, if only because of the difficulties of bringing up supplies. Stores of petrol, bombs and equipment must always be immediately available when we require them and demand much transport space. The bread we eat here is bitterly earned, no matter in which direction we fly, whether to the east or the south of the pocket, on the Tuckum front or where the main thrust of the Russian offensive is aimed at Reval via Dorpat. In several sorties we are successful in destroying a big motorized convoy, including escorting tanks, which had reached the gates of Dorpat, so that this breakthrough was checked and could be finally sealed off by the army. Where do they get these endless masses of men and material from? It is positively uncanny. The lorries we have shot up are mostly of American origin. Only occasionally among the tanks have we come across small groups of Shermans. The Russians do not even need these American tanks, for their own are better adapted to the fighting conditions in Russia and their production is fabulous. These enormous quantities of material bewilder and often depress us.
We often encounter American types of aircraft, especially Aircobras, King Cobras and Bostons. The Americans are aiding their ally tremendously with motor vehicles, but also particularly in the air. Is it in their own interest to give the Russians so much help? We often argue this question.