Читаем Stuka Pilot полностью

One morning we are heading towards the front at dawn. I have taken advantage of the weather and we have taken off before it is fully daylight. I concentrate on memorizing the whole front in this sector. In the twilight I see clearly the enemy’s artillery fire. From its volume one can draw one’s conclusions for the coming day. The artillery positions, once spotted, are instantly marked on my map. In less than no time they will be unrecognizable, and very likely a few hours later may be under bombardment by our Stukas. This reconnaissance information is also of great interest to our colleagues on the ground. If I have flown low over the front in the early morning I can give the army exact intelligence of enemy concentration points. In this way any surprises for the coming day are eliminated. It is an impressive picture, and to me, up there the flash of the many guns in the semi-darkness, resembles a vast railway station in which the lights flicker or are being constantly switched on and off. Fiery strings of bright and darkly colored beads reach up at me and form a sort of connecting line with the ground. The enemy defense has spotted us. Gaily colored Vereys shoot up from down below, prearranged signals between units on the ground. Gradually on our regular early morning visits we have begun to get too close for Ivan’s liking. This is a special nuisance, because in the early hours we often catch his tanks unawares. They, too, like to take advantage of the first daylight in order to effect a surprise and are now shot up by me. One cannot be sore with Ivan for sending his Red Falcons up to scour the front soon after dawn. We often have a skirmish with the Red Falcons. It is not exactly agreeable for the two of us to maneuver against a superior number without fighter protection.

During this phase Fickel looks very wan and Gadermann advises me to let him knock off for a good while fairly soon or at least to relieve him of these sorties alone with me. Even though Fickel speaks half in jest when he says after making a landing with a badly damaged aircraft: “That has taken another few years off my life,” I can see for myself that he is no athlete, and that even his stamina is not inexhaustible. But I appreciate that he does not suggest not coming with me, and at moments like these I always feel this comradeship is something very fine.

Our present dawn reconnaissance is focused at points W.N.W. and S.W. of Kirowograd, where the Soviets are making repeated attempts to break through with their inexhaustible masses. If any kind of flying weather prevails we take off with the whole squadron on a fresh sortie half an hour after our first landing, to attack the important targets which have just been reconnoitered. Now in winter a thick veil of mist makes all observation more or less guess work, and we take off without any certainty that we shall be able to land here again in another hour’s time. Dense fog comes up quite suddenly and then often hangs for several hours, impenetrable. When it is like this a car would be more useful than an aeroplane.

On one occasion I am out with Fickel; we have completed our reconnaissance and made some low level attacks in the Kirowograd area. It is already daylight and we are flying west on our way home. We have still more than half way to go, and have reached Nowo Ukrain ka when suddenly we fly into a densely gathering fog. Fickel keeps very close to my aircraft so as not to lose sight of me entirely. The ground is now barely visible. Above the place just mentioned I perceive some tall chimneys in the very nick of time. The fog bank rises to a great height so that we cannot possibly fly above it. I shall have to come down again somewhere or other. Who knows for how far these weather conditions stretch? To keep to a westward course for as long as our petrol holds out and trust to luck, and then perhaps to make a landing in a partisan area, is no solution either. It cannot be long before we shall reach our lines, and I shall be urgently needed. Besides, our petrol is very low after our long reconnaissance patrol, so the only thing to be done is to stay close to the ground and try to reach our airfield with minimum visibility. Everything is one grey blur. No horizon. Flg./Off. Fickel’s aircraft has disappeared. I haven’t caught sight of him since Nowo Ukrainka. Perhaps he hit a chimney after all.