Stuka Pilot

by Hans-Ulrich Rudel

They are lucky to have died at a time when they could still hold the conviction that the end of all this misery would bring freedom to Germany and to Europe.

These Asiatic pupils of integral communism, and the political commissars standing at their backs, are destined to force Germany, and the whole world with her, to abandon the comfortable belief that communism is a political creed like so many others. Instead they are to prove to us first, and finally to all nations, that they are the disciples of a new gospel. And so Stalingrad is to become the Bethlehem of our century. But a Bethlehem of war and hatred, annihilation and destruction.

The Führer pins the medal on our chests. He talks to us for over an hour about the military situation, past, present, and future plans. He touches on the first winter in Russia and Stalingrad. All of us who were there at the front are amazed at his unerring grasp of detail. He does not blame the German soldier at the front, but sees things exactly as we up there have experienced them. He is full of ideas and plans, and absolutely confident. Again and again he stresses that we must win the victory over Bolshevism, as otherwise the world will be plunged into an appalling chaos from which there is no way out.

Bolshevism must be smashed by us, even though for the present the Western Allies refuse to recognise how disastrous is their policy for themselves and the rest of the world.

The Russians are dumbfounded by the many little things our soldiers carry on their person. They think the snapshots of our homes, our rooms, our girls, are propaganda. It takes a very long time to convince them that they are genuine, that all Germans are not cannibals. They presently even doubt the truth of the indoctrinated catchword: Germanski nix Kultura. In a few days time, here as elsewhere, the Russians come and ask if they may be allowed to hang up again their icons and their crucifixes. Previously under the Soviet regime they have had to keep them hidden away because of the disapproval of a son, a daughter, or a commissar. That we raise no objection to their displaying them evidently impresses them. If you tell them that there are any amount of crucifixes and religious pictures to be seen in our country they can hardly believe it.

German inventive genius, he informs us, is still working on stupendous projects, and we must succeed in wresting victory from Bolshevism. Only the Germans are in a position to do this, he affirms. He is proud of his Eastern Front soldiers, and he knows their tremendous exertions and the difficulties they face. He is looking well; and is full of ideas, and of confidence in the future.

The representatives of the church especially maintain close contact with us, following the lead given by the bishop whose guest I often am. He is never tired of explaining that the clergy see in our victory the only possible chance of keeping religious liberty and independence, and that they long for it to come with the least possible delay.

“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.”

We are barely installed on our cornfield when the inevitable cake arrives with the Field Marshal’s compliments; no matter where I turn up in his command one of these fabulous cakes always appears, usually with a T 34 in sugar icing and the number, whatever it is at the time, of tanks I am credited with. The cake is now piped with the figures 320.

We often encounter American types of aircraft, especially Aircobras, King Cobras and Bostons. The Americans are aiding their ally tremendously with motor vehicles, but also particularly in the air. Is it in their own interest to give the Russians so much help? We often argue this question.

“My Führer, I cannot accept the decoration and promotion if I am not allowed to go on flying with my wing.” My right hand is still clasped in his, he is still looking me in the eyes. With his left hand he gives me a black, velvet lined case containing the new decoration. The many lights in the room make the diamonds sparkle in a blaze of prismatic colours. He looks at me very gravely, then his expression changes, and he says: “All right, you may go on flying “, and smiles.

He asks me if I still think it practicable to continue flying with the slow Ju 87 now that the enemy’s fighters are as much as 250 mph faster than they are. Referring to some blue prints and calculations he points out to me that a retractable undercarriage might increase the speed of the Ju 87 by 37 mph at the very most; on the other hand, its diving performance would be disadvantageously affected. He solicits my opinion on every point. He discusses the minutest details in the field of ballistics, physics and chemistry with an ease which impresses me who am a critical observer in this department.

He goes on to say that he would never have believed I could induce the Führer to change his mind about letting me go on flying. Now that I have his authorisation he could not himself renew his prohibition.

Our aircraft are painted with the emblem of the German Order of Chivalry, for now, as six centuries ago, we are engaged in a battle with the East.

I never drop bombs on villages even if it is militarily expedient, for I shudder at the thought of hitting the German inhabitants with our own bombs when they are already exposed to the Russian terror.

We are no more than a boulder, a small obstruction but unable to stem the tide. The devil is now gambling for Germany, for all Europe. Invaluable forces are bleeding to death, the last bastion of the world is crumbling under the assault of Red Asia.

When I was stationed at Sarabus and keeping myself fit by a little putting the weight and discus throwing after operations a black-painted aircraft often used to land on the airfield, and very mysteriously passengers alighted. One day one of the crew told me under the seal of secrecy what was going on. This aircraft carried Russian priests from the freedom-loving states of the Caucasus who volunteered for important missions for the German command. With flowing beards and dressed in clerical garb each of them carried a little packet on his chest, either a camera or explosives according to the nature of his mission. These priests regarded a German victory as the only chance of regaining their independence and with it their religious liberty. They were fanatical enemies of world Bolshevism

It made a profound impression on my mind when my informant described to me the way these holy men unhesitatingly jumped into the night, sustained by their faith in their great mission. At that time we were fighting in the Caucasus and they were dropped in different valleys in the mountains where they had relations with whose help they proceeded to organise resistance and sabotage.

“Cannot the Western Powers be made to see that Bolshevism is their greatest enemy and that after an eventual victory over Germany it will be the same menace to them as to us, and that alone they will no longer be able to get rid of it?”

He tells me that the whole world is afraid of German science and technology, and shows me some intelligence reports which indicate the steps the allies are already taking to rob us of our technical achievements and our scientists.

The Western Powers have accepted a grave responsibility – perhaps for centuries to come – by weakening Germany only to give additional strength to Russia.

A free passage is guaranteed to unarmed soldiers. It is not long after this that armed Czechs fall upon our now defenceless men. Bestially, with outrageous brutality, they butcher German soldiers. Only few are able to fight their way through to the West, among them my young intelligence officer, Pilot Officer Haufe. The rest fall into the hands of the Czechs and the Russians. One of those who fall victim to the Czech terrorism is my best friend, Fridolin. It is infinitely tragic that he should meet with such an end after the war is over. Like their comrades who have laid down their lives in this war, they too are martyrs for German liberty.

“Even if I can speak English,” I reply, “we are in Germany here and speak only German. As far as the salute is concerned, we are ordered to salute in this way and being soldiers we carry out our orders. Besides, we do not care whether you object to it or not. Tell your C.O. that we are the “Immelmann” wing and as the war is now over and no one has defeated us in the air we do not consider ourselves prisoners. “The German soldier,” I point out, has not been beaten on his merits, but has simply been crushed by over-whelming masses of material. We have landed here because we did not wish to stay in the Soviet zone.

From outside comes the noise of shots and rowdiness; the coloured soldiers are celebrating victory under the influence of liquor.

My assertion that they will one day be sorry that in destroying us they have demolished the bastion against Bolshevism they interpret as propaganda and refuse to believe it.

One of them – not an Englishman – hoping no doubt to anger or intimidate me, asks me what I suppose the Russians would do with me if I had now to return to my home in Silesia where I belong. “I think the Russians are clever enough”, I reply, “to make use of my experience. In the field of combating tanks alone, which must play a part in any future war, my instruction may prove disadvantageous for the enemy. I am credited with over five hundred tanks destroyed, and assuming that in the next few years I were to train five or six hundred pilots each of whom destroyed at least a hundred tanks, you can reckon out for yourself how many tanks the enemy’s armament industry would have to replace on my account.”

I dedicate this book to the dead in this war and to youth. This new generation now lives in the frightful chaos of the post-war period. May it, nevertheless, keep alive its faith in the fatherland and its hope in the future; for only he is lost who gives himself up for lost!