Читаем Stuka Pilot полностью

A telephone call from the Air Command: for the first time in this war the Russians have set foot on German soil and are pushing into East Prussia from the Willkowiscen area in the direction of Gumbinnen—Insterburg. I want to move to East Prussia at once; the transfer order arrives and the following day I am already at Insterburg with my flying personnel. In the heavenly peacefulness of East Prussia it is quite impossible to imagine that the war has already come so close, and that sorties with bombs and anti-tank air craft have to be flown from this quiet spot. In the town of Insterburg itself the people have not yet adjusted themselves to the gravity of the situation. The aerodrome is still overcrowded with installations which are useless for such concentrated operational activity. Therefore it is better to move to Lotzen in the Mazurian lake district where we are alone on the tiny airfield.

Midsummer in the lovely East Prussian country. Is this land to become a battlefield? It is here that we realize that we are fighting for our homes and for our freedom. How much German blood has already drenched this soil in vain! It must not happen again! These are the thoughts which fill our minds as we fly towards our target—north of the Memel or at Schaulen, at Suwalki or Augustowo—and on the way home the same thoughts torment us. We are now back where we started from in 1941; it was from here that the invasion of the East began. Will the monument at Tannenberg acquire an even greater significance? The emblem of German chivalry is painted on our squadron air craft; never has it meant so much to us as now.

Stiff fighting in the area round Wilkowiscen; the town itself changes hands time and again. A small German armored unit stands its ground here, supported by us from the first to the last minute of daylight, resisting the incessant onslaught of the Russians for several days. Some of the T 34s take cover behind the corn stooks standing on the harvested fields. We set the stooks on fire with incendiaries so as to uncover the tanks, then we go for them. A broiling summer; we live quite close to the water and often bathe in a half hour break between sorties, a sheer enjoyment. The effects of the ceaseless activity on the ground and in the air are soon perceptible: the initial fury of the Russian assault has noticeably slackened. Counter-attacks are more and more frequent, and so the front can to some extent be stabilized again. But when fighting dies down in one place it is sure to flare up in another; so it is here. The Soviets are thrusting towards Lithuania, trying to outflank our armies in Estonia and Latvia. Consequently for us in the air there is always a job to be done. The Soviets are relatively well informed as to the strength of our defense on the ground and in the air.

One sortie again provides Flg./Off. Fickel with an occasion to celebrate his birthday. We are on our way to attack enemy concentrations and the Reds are up to their old trick of using our wave length. Personally I cannot at the moment understand what they are jabbering, but it evidently refers to us because the word “Stuka” keeps on recurring. My linguist colleague and a ground listening post which has an interpreter tell me the story afterwards. This is, more or less, what happened:

“Stukas approaching from the West—calling all Red Falcons: you are to attack the Stukas immediately, there are about twenty—in front a single Stuka with two long bars—it is sure to be Squadron-Leader Rudel’s squadron, the one that always knocks out our tanks. Calling all Red Falcons and A.A. batteries: you are to shoot down the Stuka with the long bars”.

Flg./Off. Markwardt gives me a rough translation while we are in the air. Fickel says with a laugh:

“If they aim at No. 1 you can bet they’ll hit No. 2.”

He generally flies as my No. 2 and therefore speaks from experience.