I am aware of the stillness round me-therefore I am still alive. I try to reconstruct: I am lying on the ground, I want to get up, but I cannot, I am pinned down, my leg and my head hurt me. Then it occurs to me that Gadermann must be somewhere. I call out: “Where are you? I can’t get out.”
“Wait a second—perhaps we can manage it—are you badly hurt?” It takes some time before he hobbles up and tries to get to me through the wreckage. Now I understand what is causing me so much pain: a long piece of metal from the tail of the aircraft is skewering the lower part of my thigh and the whole of the tail is on top of me so that I cannot move. I can thank my stars that nothing is burning near me. Where can the burning parts have got to? First, Gadermann pulls the piece of metal out of my leg, then he extricates me from the other parts of the aircraft which are crushing me. It requires all his strength to heave them off. I ask: “Do you think the Russians are already here?”
“It’s hard to say.”
We are surrounded by scrub and forest. Once I am up on my feet I take stock of the scene of wreckage: about a hundred yards away lies the engine, burning; fifty or sixty yards to one side the wings, one of them also smoldering. Straight in front of me, a good distance away, lies a part of the fuselage with the R/T operator’s seat in which Gadermann was stuck. That is why his voice came from in front of me when I called out; normally it should have come from the other side because he sits behind me. We bandage our wounds and try to explain our luck in being still alive and relatively safe, for without a proper dressing I cannot contemplate escape as I am losing a lot of blood. Our ninety foot fall seems to have happened in the following stages the main force of our impact was broken by the trees on the edge of the forest, then the aircraft was flung onto a patch of sandy soil where it smashed up and the different parts flew asunder as already described. We had both unstrapped our safety belts and were ready to bail out. I still cannot understand why I did not hit my head against the instrument panel. I was lying a long way behind the remains of my pilot’s seat; I must therefore have been flung there with the tail. Yes—one must be born lucky.
There is a sudden rustling in the bushes; somebody is pushing his way through the undergrowth. We look in the direction of the sound with bated breath… then we heave a sigh of relief. We recognize German soldiers. They have heard the crash from the road, after hearing the noise of gunfire in the distance and shortly afterwards seeing a German aircraft on fire. They urge us to hurry.
“There are no more of our chaps behind us… only masses of Ivans…” One of them adds with a grin: “But I guess you noticed the Ivans yourselves,” and throws a significant glance at the smoldering wreckage of our aircraft. We climb into the truck they have with them and off we go, hell for leather, heading northwest.
We are back with the squadron early that afternoon. No one had seen us crash as everybody had his hands full at the time. The first four hours of my absence have not occasioned much concern as I often have to bring down a gallant Ju. 87 onto its belly some where near the front line as a result of enemy action and then report my whereabouts by telephone. If more than four hours elapse, however, faces darken and faith in my proverbial and infallible guardian angel sinks. I ring up the Field Marshal; he, more than anyone, rejoices with me that I have got back again and, needless to say, gives notice that yet another “birthday” cake will be on its way over tonight.
The sky is now a brilliant blue, the last vestiges of the blanket of fog are dissipating. I report to the Field Marshal that we are about to take off again, I myself being particularly incensed against our Soviet friends. They or I: that is a rule of war. It wasn’t me this time, logically therefore it must now be them. The wing has sent over their M.O. in a Fieseler Storch; he puts a fresh dressing on my wounds and declares that I have concussion. Gadermann has broken three ribs. I cannot say that I feel exactly in the pink, but my determination to fly outweighs every other consideration. I brief the crews, assigning them their targets. We shall attack the flak with all our bomber aircraft and when it has been neutralized destroy tanks and vehicles in low level attacks.
Quickly my squadron is airborne and heading S.E. The lake district comes into view. We are flying at 6,600 feet. We make our approach from the S.W. so that we can appear out of the sun; the A.A. gunners will have difficulty in distinguishing us and we shall be better able to pick out their guns if they are glittering in the sunshine. There they are, too, still on the same spot as before! Apparently they do not intend to make any further advance until reinforcements have arrived. We bank round our objective, baiting the flak to open up on us. The A.A. guns are partly mounted on lorries, the rest have made themselves emplacements in a circle ’round the vehicles. As soon as the fireworks have started I briefly recapitulate the targets and then follows the order to attack, beginning with the flak. I find this a satisfaction because I owe it to them that a few hours ago my life once again hung by a silken thread. We anti-tank aircraft fly through the bomb smoke and spurting clouds of dust and attack the T 34s. One has to keep a sharp look-out not to fly into the exploding bombs. The flak is soon silenced. One tank after another blows up, trucks catch fire. They will never reach Germany. This spearhead has certainly lost its impetus.
We return home with the feeling that we have done all that lies within our power. In the night the Field Marshal rings up again to tell me that our comrades on the ground have counter-attacked successfully, the break-through has been sealed off and the encircled enemy mopped up. He thanks us in the names of his command for our support. I shall pass on his message to the squadron first thing tomorrow. It is always our highest reward to hear from our brothers-in-arms on the ground that our co-operation was indispensable and made their own success a possibility.
Alarming reports reach us in Latvia that the Soviets are driving into Rumania. We are transferred overnight to Buzau, a town N. of Bucharest, our route being East Prussia—Krakau—Debrecen: a wonderful flight across Eastern Europe in brilliant Indian summer sunshine. The flight is made by the III Squadron with the Wing staff, the H is in the Warsaw zone and the I already in Rumania. At Debrecen a lot of time is wasted refueling so it becomes too late to take off for Rumania before dark. We have to cross the Carpathians and I have no intention of losing a crew on a transfer flight. So we stay the night at Debrecen, and at my suggestion go for an evening bathe. There are marvelous baths in the town, supplied by natural warm, medicinal springs. We find women of all ages sitting stolidly in the baths with handbags, books, needlework or their lapdogs, to the delight and amazement of my companions; this squatting in the baths with the in terminable female gossip which is part of the routine is their daily occupation. It is a strange spectacle for old Russian campaigners to see such a collection of scantily clad femininity.
The neat morning we take off for Klausenburg, a lovely old town where the Transylvanian Germans settled centuries ago; that is why the natives here speak German. We make only a short stop here to refuel, for we are in a hurry. At the same time an American reconnaissance plane appears at about 20,000 feet which means that a visit from American bomber formations may be expected before very long. The flight over the Carpathians to Buzau is grand, as is every flight above beautiful mountain scenery in perfect weather. The town now comes into view ahead of us; it used to be an unimportant landing stage on the way up to the front which ran a long way to the north of it, it is now an operational base. What has happened to the stable front line Jassy—Targul—Frumos, and to Husi?