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I still find these exertions painful because the soles of my feet are not yet quite healed and my shoulder hurts me if I move it injudiciously. But for the squadron as a whole these ultra-routine sports are a splendid recreation. Some, and I am the keenest among them, take advantage of this extra leisure to stroll in the mountain woods or to practice some other sport.

Usually we drive to the airfield for the take off between 4 and 5 A.M. On the far side of the town we always run into a huge flock of sheep with a donkey walking in front. The donkey’s eyes are almost completely covered by a long and straggling mane; we wonder how he can manage to see at all. Because of this mane we nickname him Eclipse. One morning as we squeeze past we tweak his tail in fun. The shock provides a whole series of reactions: first he lets fly with his hind-legs like a kicking horse, then remembering his asinine nature he stands stock still, and lastly his chicken heart begins to thump and he streaks off like the wind. The flock of sheep entrusted to his care of course understand nothing of this unusual contretemps, still less of the reason for his kicking and haring off. When they see that the donkey has left them in the lurch the air is filled with a pandemonium of bleating, and suddenly the sheep set off at a gallop in pursuit…

Even if we meet with heavy opposition on our first sortie we do not care, for we still see the picture of this comic animal performance and our hearts are light with the joy of living. This gaiety robs the danger of the moment of its meaning.

Our missions now take us into a relatively stabilized sector where, however, the gradual arrival of reinforcements indicates that the Reds are preparing a thrust into the heart of Rumania. Our operational area extends from the village of Targul Frumos in the west to some bridgeheads over the Dniester S. of Tiraspol in the southeast. Most of our sorties take us into the area north of Jassy between these points; here the Soviets are trying to oust us from the high ground round Carbiti near the Pruth. The bitterest fighting in this sector rages round the ruins of the castle of Stanca on the so-called Castle Hill. Time and again we lose this position and always recapture it.

In this zone the Soviets are constantly bringing up their stupendous reserves. How often do we attack the river bridges in this area; our route is over the Pruth to the Dniester beyond Kishinew and further east. Koschnitza, Grigoriopol and the bridgehead at Butor are names we shall long remember. For a short period comrades of the 52nd Fighter Wing are stationed with us on our airfield. Their C.O. is Squadron Leader Barkhorn who knows his job from A to Z. They often escort us on our sorties and we give them plenty of trouble, for the new Yak 3 which has made its appearance on the other side puts up a show every now and then. A group advanced base is operating from Jassy, from where it is easier to patrol the air space above the front. The Group Captain is often up in the front line to observe the cooperation of his formations with the ground troops. His advance post has a wireless set which enables him to pick up all R/T interchanges in the air and on the ground. The fighter pilots talk to one another, the fighters with their control officer, the Stukas among themselves, with their liaison officer on the ground and others. Normally, however, we all use different wave lengths. A little anecdote which the Group Captain told us on his last visit to our dispersal shows the extent of his concern for his individual lambs. He was watching our squadron approaching Jassy. We were heading north, our objective being to attack targets in the castle area which the army wanted neutralized after making contact with our control. We were met over Jassy, not by our own fighters, but by a strong formation of Lags. In a second the sky was full of crazily swerving aircraft. The slow Stukas were ill matched against the arrow-swift Russian, fighters, especially as our bomb load further slowed us down. With mixed feelings the Group Captain watched the battle and overheard this conversation. The skipper of the 7th Flight, assuming that I had not seen a Lag 5 which was coming up from below me, called a warning: “Look out, Hannelore, one of them is going to shoot you down!” I had spotted the blighter a long time ago, but there was still ample time to take evasive action. I dislike this yelling over the R/T; it upsets the crews and has a bad effect on accuracy. So I replied: “The one who shoots me down has not yet been born.”

I was not bragging. I only meant to show a certain nonchalance for the benefit of the other pilots because calmness in an awkward spot like this is infectious. The commodore ends his story with a broad grin:

“When I heard that I was no longer worried about you and your formation. As a matter of fact I watched the scrap with considerable amusement.”