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Soon after the Easter holidays, which I spend with colleagues skiing in the vicinity of Prebichi, the longed for moment arrives. An order comes through for aircraft to be flown to the Stuka squadron stationed in the South of Greece. With it comes the order for my transfer to this unit. Over Agram-Skoplje to Argos.

There I learn that I am to proceed further South. The 1 Stuka 2 is at Molai on the southernmost tip of the Peloponnesus. To a classical scholar the flight is especially impressive and revives many schoolroom memor ies. On arrival I lose no time in reporting to the station commander of my new unit. I am keenly excited, for at last the hour has come and I am about to take part in serious combat operation. The first person to greet me is the squadron adjutant; his face and mine cloud simultaneously. We are old acquaintances… he is my instructor from Caen.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. His tone takes all the wind out of my sails.

“I am reporting for duty.”

“There’ll be no operational flying for you till you’ve learnt how to manage a Stuka.” I can hardly contain my anger, but I keep my self-control even when he adds with a supercilious smile: “Have you learnt that much yet?”

An icy silence—until I break the intolerable pause:

“I am completely master of my aircraft.”

Almost contemptuously—or is it only my momentary impression?—he says with an emphasis that sends a shiver down my spine: “I will put your case before the C.O. and we’ll hope for the best. It’s for him to decide. That’s all; you can go and get yourself fixed up.”

As I come out of the tent into the blazing sunshine I blink my eyes—not only because of the glare. I am battling with a steadily growing feeling of desperation. Then common sense tells me there is no reason to give up hope: the adjutant may be prejudiced against me, but his opinion of me is one thing, the C.O.’s decision another. And even supposing the adjutant to have so much influence over the C.O.—could that be possible?

No, the C.O. is unlikely to be swayed because he does not even know me and will surely form an independent judgment. An order to report immediately to the C.O. puts an end to my brooding. I am confident that he will make up his mind for himself. I report. He returns my salute rather lackadaisically and submits me to a prolonged and silent scrutiny. Then he drawls: “We already know each other,” and, probably noticing an expression of contradiction on my face, waves aside my unuttered protest with a motion of his hand. “Of course we do, for my adjutant knows all about you. I know you so well that until further orders you are not to fly with my squadron. If at some future date we are under strength…”

I do not hear another word of what he says. For the first tune something comes over me, a feeling in the pit of my stomach: a feeling I never have again until years later when I am crawling home in an aircraft riddled by enemy bullets and serious loss of blood has sapped all my physical strength. This “something” is a dark intuition that despite everything the human factor is the criterion of war and the will of the individual the secret of victory.

How long the C.O. goes on talking I have not the least idea and as little of what he is saying. Rebellion seethes inside me and I feel the warning hammering in my head: “Don’t… don’t… don’t…” Then the adjutant’s voice recalls me to reality: “You are dismissed.”

I look at him now for the first time. I had not until that moment been aware that he was present. He returns me a stony stare. Now I have completely recovered control of my temper.

A few days later Operation Crete begins. The engines roar on the airfield; I sit in my tent. Crete is the trial of strength between the Stukas and the Navy. Crete is an island. According to all accepted military axioms only superior naval forces can wrest the island from the British. And England is a sea power; we are not. Certainly not where the Straits of Gibraltar prevent us from bringing up our naval units. The hitherto accepted military axioms, the English superiority at sea, are being wiped out by Stuka bombs. I sit in my tent “…that until further orders you are not to fly with my squadron!” A thousand times a day this sentence riles me, mocking, contemptuous, derisive. Outside I listen to the returning crews excitedly chatting of their experiences and of the effective landings of our airborne troops. Sometimes I try to persuade one of them to let me fly in his place. It is useless. Even friendly bribes avail me nothing. Occasionally I fancy I can read something like sympathy in the faces of my colleagues, and then my throat goes dry with bitter fury.

Whenever the aircraft take off on a sortie I feel like stuffing my fists into my ears so as not to hear the music of the engines. But I cannot. I have to listen. I cannot help myself! The Stukas go out on sortie after sortie. They are making history out there in the battle for Crete; I sit in my tent and weep with rage.