Читаем Stuka Pilot полностью

We must take off at the crack of dawn; unluckily, on the return flight we shall have to contend with fog, for it looks suspiciously like it even now. We approach the airfield at low level and see our heavy flak in action on the ground. They have already knocked out some of the most venturesome of the steel monsters; the rest have retired to cover and are out of range. All the personnel of the air formations are at their posts. As we fly over the airfield they perform a regular war dance, for they have no doubt that we shall get them out of their predicament. One T 34 has driven into the flying control but and stands there drunkenly, lopsidedly among the wreckage. Some have concealed themselves in a factory area. Here the approach is hampered by the tall chimneys. We have to be devilish careful not to fly into them. Our cannons reverberate in every comer of the village. We also drop bombs outside the place; at least those Ivans who have come on the farthest now perceive that it is better to beat a retreat. For the most part they make for the eastern exit from the village where a number of deep gulleys offer cover. Here, too, their supply lorries with ammunition and petrol are parked. They hope to hold us off with light and medium flak, but we plaster their A.A. guns with bombs and follow up with cannon. Now they are completely silenced. Shortly afterwards the lorries catch fire and blow up.

The Ivans are in flight across the snow towards the East. Our most troublesome job today is the landing at Slynka, as the fog on the airfield refuses to lift and only allows a very short field of view when coming in to land.

By nightfall we have been back and forth seven times with the squadron while I, with one other aircraft, have been out fifteen times. Malaja Wisky has been cleared of the enemy with the loss of sixteen tanks destroyed from the air.

Not long after this episode our flying personnel leaves to join our ground personnel at Pervomaisk North. The airfield there has a small concrete runway, but it is of no use except to park aircraft on so as to keep them from sinking into the mud. It is practically impossible to take off, land or taxi; the whole place is a quagmire. Near the airfield is a hamlet in which we are billeted. After the last sortie of the day, or on days when no flying is possible, Gadermann must have his exercise. After finishing up with a long cross country run we always take a hot and cold tub, and end with a roll in the snow in front of the house in puris naturalibus. One’s feeling of fitness after this routine is indescribable ; it is like being born again. Some Pans and Paninkas, who take a poor view of water in any case, happen to be passing at a distance from the house and gape at us all in amazement. I am sure that our antics are a fresh confirmation of their propaganda cliché: “Germanski nix Kultura.”

Without met. reconnaissance it has proved a waste of time to make a dawn sortie with a larger formation in this sector. The target area may be obscured by fog and then an attack is impossible. To go out for no purpose is a waste of precious petrol, to say nothing of the fact that these met. conditions may be fatal to larger formations and inexperienced crews. Therefore a standing order has been issued that a met. flyer is to be sent out at daybreak, and his report on weather conditions in the area of our proposed target for that day determines whether we take off or not. The task is usually too important for me to pick anyone indiscriminately for this patrol; Fickel has to go out with him, or some one else if Fickel needs a rest.