BY Hans Ulrich Rudel
The most decorated German soldier of World War II was Hans Ulrich Rudel, who somehow survived six extraordinary years of air combat. He spent most of his career flying Stuka dive bombers, lost a leg, then returned to flying status and finished the war in an FW-190. Rudel’s 2,530 combat sorties is a record you can set in concrete — no one will ever surpass it.
How did he survive six years of combat? Well, he was very lucky. In addition, he was a damn good pilot and an extremely tough, determined man. Perhaps his iron will was the critical factor. Here is one of his adventures.
On 20 March 1944, after seven sorties in the Nikolayev and Balta area, I take off with my squadron on the eighth of the day, our first mission for five days against the bridge
At Jampol. The sky is a brilliant blue and it can be taken for granted that after this prolonged respite the defense will have been considerably strengthened by flak and fighter protection.
As my airfield and Rauchowka itself is a quagmire, our fighter squadron has moved to the concrete airfield at Odessa. We, with our broad tires, are better able to cope with the mud and do not immediately become bogged down in it. We fix a rendezvous by telephone for a certain time about thirty miles from the target at 7,500 feet above a conspicuous loop of the river Dniester. But apparently difficulties have also cropped up at Odessa. My escort is not at the rendezvous.
The target is clearly visible, so naturally we attack. There are several new crews in my squadron. Their quality is not as good as it used to be. The really good men have by this time been long since at the front, and petrol for training purposes has been strictly rationed to so many gallons per man. I firmly believe that I, had I been restricted to so small an allowance, could not have done any better than the new trainees.
We are still about twelve miles from our objective when I give the warning: “Enemy fighters.” More than twenty Soviet Lag 5s
Are approaching. Our bomb load hampers our maneuverability. I fly in defensive ellipses so as to be able at any moment to come in myself behind the fighters, for their purpose is to shoot down my rear aircraft. In spite of the air battle I gradually work round to my objective. Individual Russians who try to shoot me down by a frontal pass I disappoint by extremely mobile tactics, then at the last moment dive through the midst of them and pull out into a climb. If the new crews can bring it off today, they will have learned a lot.
“Prepare for attack, stick together — close up — attack!”
And I come in for the attack on the bridge. As I dive, I see the flash of a host of flak emplacements. The shells scream past my aircraft. Henschel says the sky is a mass of cotton wool, his name for the bursting flak. Our formation is losing its cohesion, confound it, making us more vulnerable to the fighters. I warn those lagging behind:
“Fly on, catch up, we are just as scared as you are.”
Not a few swear words slip past my tongue. I bank round and at 1,200 feet see my bomb nearly miss the bridge. So there is a wind blowing.
“Wind from port, correct to port.”
A direct hit from our No. 3 finishes off the bridge. Circling round, I locate the gun sites of the still-aggressive flak and give the order to attack them.
“They are getting hell very nicely today,” opines Henschel.
Unfortunately two new crews have lagged slightly behind when diving. Lags cut them off. One of them is completely riddled and zooms past me in the direction of enemy territory. I try to catch up with him, but I cannot leave my whole squadron in the lurch on his account. I yell at him over the R/T, I curse him; it is no use. He flies on to the Russian bank of the Dniester. Only a thin ribbon of smoke rises from his aircraft. He surely could have flown on for another few minutes, as the other does, and so reached our own lines.
“He lost his nerve completely, the idiot,” comments Fickel over the R/T. At the moment I cannot bother about him anymore, for I must try to keep my ragged formation together and maneuver back eastward in ellipses. After a quarter of an hour the Red fighters turn off defeated, and we head in regular formation for our base. I order the skipper of the seventh flight to lead the formation home. With Pilot Officer Fischer, flying the other staff aircraft, I bank round and
Fly back at low level, skimming the surface of the Dniester, the steep banks on either side. A short distance ahead in the direction of the bridge I discern the Russian fighters at 3,000 to 9,000 feet. But here in the bed of the river I am difficult to see, and above all my presence is not expected. As I climb abruptly over the scrub on the riverbank, I spot our aircraft two or three miles to the right. It has made a forced landing in a field. The crew is standing near it and they gesticulate wildly as I fly over at a lower level.
“If only you had paid as much attention to me before, this delicate operation would not have been necessary,” I mutter to myself as I bank round to see whether the field is suitable for a landing. It is. I encourage myself with a breathed: “All right then. . . get going. This lot today will be the seventh crew I shall have picked up under the noses of the Russians.”
I tell Pilot Officer Fischer to stay in the air and interfere with the fighters in case they attack. I know the direction of the wind from the bombing of the bridge. Flaps down, throttle back. I’ll be down in a jiffy. What is happening? I have overshot — must open up and go round again. This has never happened to me before at such a moment. Is it an omen not to land? You are very close to
The target which has just been attacked, far behind the Soviet lines! Cowardice?
Once again throttle back, flaps down — I am down. . . and instantly notice that the ground is very soft; I do not even need to brake. My aircraft comes to a stop exactly in front of my two colleagues. They are a new crew, a corporal and a LAC. Henschel lifts the canopy and I give them a sign to hop in and be quick about it. The engine is running; they climb in behind with Henschel. Red Falcons are circling overhead; they have not yet spotted us.
“Ready, Henschel?”
“Yes.” I open the throttle, left brake — intending to taxi back so as to take off again in exactly the same way as I landed. My starboard wheel sticks deep in the ground. The more I open my throttle, the more my wheel eats into it. My aircraft refuses to budge from the spot. Perhaps it is only that a lot of mud is jammed between the mudguard and the wheel.
“Henschel, get out and take off the mudguard, perhaps then we can make it.”
The fastening stud breaks, the wheel casing stays on; but even without it we could not take off, we are stuck in the mud. I pull the stick into my stomach, ease it, and go at full throttle into reverse. Nothing is of the
Very slightest use. Perhaps it might be possible to pancake, but that does not help us either. Pilot Officer Fischer flies lower above us and asks over the R/T:
“Shall I land?”
After a momentary hesitation I tell myself that if he lands, he, too, will not be able to take off again and reply;
“No, you are not to land. You are to fly home.”
I take a look round. There come the Ivans, in droves, four hundred yards away. Out we must get. “Follow me,” I shout — and already we are sprinting southward as fast as our legs can carry us. When flying over, I have seen that we are about four miles from the Dniester. We must get across the river whatever we do, or else we shall fall an easy prey to the pursuing Reds. Running is not a simple matter; I am wearing high fur boots and a fur coat. Sweat is not the word! None of us need any spurring on; we have no mind to end up in a Soviet prison camp, which has already meant instant death to so many dive-bomber pilots.
We have been running for half an hour. We are putting up a pretty good show; the Ivans are a good half a mile behind. Suddenly we find ourselves on the edge of almost perpendicular cliffs at the foot of which flows
The river. We rush hither and thither, looking for some way of getting down them. . . impossible! The Ivans are at our heels. Then suddenly a boyhood recollection gives me an idea. We used to slide down from bough to bough from the tops of fir trees, and by braking our fall in this way we got to the bottom safely. There are plenty of large thorny bushes, like our dog rose, growing out of the stone face of the cliff. One after the other we slide down and land on the riverbank at the bottom, lacerated in every limb and with our clothes in ribbons. Henschel gets rather jittery. He shouts:
“Dive in at once. Better to be drowned than captured by the Russians.”
I advise common sense. We are aglow from running. A short breather and then strip off as many garments as we can. The Ivans have meanwhile arrived panting at the top. They cannot see us because we are in a blind angle of their field of vision. They rush up and down unable to imagine where we have disappeared to. It is a cinch they think it impossible that we have leapt over the precipice. The Dniester is in flood; the snows are thawing out, and here and there a lump of ice drifts past. We calculate the breadth of the river as six hundred yards, the temperature as three to four degrees
Above freezing. The three others are already getting into the water; I am just divesting myself of my fur boots and fur jacket. Now I follow them, clad only in shirt and trousers; under my shirt my map, in my trousers pockets my medals and my compass. As I touch the water, I say to myself, “You are never going in here” — then I think of the alternative and am already striking out.
In a very short while the cold is paralyzing. I gasp for breath, I no longer feel that I am swimming. Concentrate hard, think of the swimming strokes and carry out the motions! Only imperceptibly the far bank draws nearer. The others are ahead of me. I think of Henschel. He passed his swimming test with me when we were with the reserve flight at Graz, but if he goes all out today under more difficult conditions, he will be able to repeat that record time, or perhaps get very near it. In midstream I am level with him, a few yards behind the gunner of the other aircraft; the corporal is a good distance in front, he seems to be an excellent swimmer.
Gradually one becomes dead to all sensation save the instinct of self-preservation, which gives one strength; it is bend or break. I am amazed at the others’ stamina, for I as a former athlete am used to overexertion.
My mind travels back.*! always used to finish with the 1,500 meters, often glowing with heat after trying to put up the best possible performance in nine other disciplinary exercises. This hard training pays me now. In sporting terms, my actual exertion does not exceed 90 percent of my capability.
The corporal climbs out of the water and throws himself down on the bank. Somewhat later I reach the safety of the shore with the LAC close after me. Henschel has still another 150 yards to go. The other two lie rigid, frozen to the bone, the gunner rambling deliriously. Poor chap!
I sit down and watch Henschel struggling on. Another 80 yards. Suddenly he throws up his arms and yells, “I can’t go on, I can’t go on anymore!” and sinks. He comes up once, but not a second time. I jump back into the water, now drawing on the last 10 percent of energy which I hope is left me. I reach the spot where I just saw Henschel go down. I cannot dive, for to dive I need to fill my lungs, but with the cold I cannot get sufficient air. After several fruitless attempts I just manage to get back to the bank. If I had succeeded in catching hold of Henschel, I should have remained with him in the Dniester. He was very heavy and the strain would have been too much for almost anyone. Now I lie sprawled on the
Bank. . . limp. . . exhausted. . . and somewhere a deep-seated misery for my friend Henschel. A moment later we say a Paternoster for our comrade.
The map is sodden with water, but I have everything in my head. Only — the devil only knows how far we are behind the Russian lines. Or is there still a chance that we may bump into the Rumanians sooner or later? I check up on our arms; I have a 6.35-mm revolver with six rounds, the corporal a 7.65 with a full magazine, and the LAC has lost his revolver whilst in the water and has only Henschel’s broken knife. We start walking southward with these weapons in our hands. The gently rolling country is familiar from flying over it. Contour differences of perhaps six hundred feet, few villages, thirty miles to the south a railway running east to west. I know two points on it: Balti and Floresti. Even if the Russians have made a deep penetration, we can count on this line still being free of the enemy.
The time is about 3 P. M., the sun is high in the southwest. It shines obliquely in our faces on our right. First we go into a little valley with moderately high hills on either side. We are still benumbed, the corporal still delirious. I advise caution. We must try to skirt any inhabited places. Each of us is al-
Lotted a definite sectot to keep under observation.
I am famished. It suddenly strikes me that I have not had a bit to eat all day. This was the eighth time we had been out, and there had not been time for a meal between sorties. A report had to be written out and dispatched to the group on our return from every mission, and instructions for the next one taken down over the telephone. Meanwhile our aircraft were refueled and rearmed, bombs loaded and off again. The crews were able to rest between whiles and even snatch a meal, but in this respect I did not count as one of them.
I guess we must now have been going for an hour; the sun is beginning to lose its strength and our clothes are starting to freeze. Do I really see something ahead of us or am I mistaken? No, it is real enough. Advancing in our direction out of the glare of the sun — it is hard to see clearly — are three figures three hundred yards away. They have certainly seen us. Perhaps they were lying on their stomachs behind this ridge of hills. They are big chaps, doubtless Rumanians. Now I can see them better. The two on the outside of the trio have rifles slung over their shoulders, the one in the middle carries a tommy gun. He is a young man, the
Other two are about forty, probably reservists. They approach us in no unfriendly manner in their brown-green uniforms. It suddenly occurs to me that we are no longer wearing uniforms and that consequently our nationality is not immediately evident. I hastily advise the corporal to hide his revolver while I do likewise in case the Rumanians become jittery and open fire on us. The trio now halts a yard in front of us and looks us over curiously. I start explaining to our allies that we are Germans who have made a forced landing and beg them to help us with clothing and food, telling them that we want to get back to our unit as quickly as possible.
I say, “We are German airmen who have made a forced landing,” whereupon their faces darken and at the same moment I have the three muzzles of their weapons pointing at my chest. The young one instantly grabs my holster and pulls out my 6.35. They have been standing with their backs to the sun. I have had it in my eyes. Now I take a good look at them. Hammer and sickle — ergo Russians. I do not contemplate for a second being taken prisoner, I think only of escape. There is a hundred-to-one chance of pulling it off. There is probably a good price on my head in Russia, my capture is likely to be even better rewarded. To blow my brains out
Is not a practical consideration. I am disarmed. Slowly I turn my head round to see if the coast is clear. They guess my intention and one of them shouts, “Stay!” (Halt!) I duck as I make a double turn and run for it, crouching low and swerving to right and left. Three shots crack out; they are followed by an uninterrupted rattle of quick fire. A stinging pain in my shoulder. The chap with the tommy gun has hit me at close range through the shoulder, the other two have missed me.
I sprint like a hare, zigzagging up the slope, bullets whistling above and below me, to right and to left. The Ivans run after me, halt, fire, run, fire, run, fire, run. Only a short while ago I believed I could hardly put one leg in front of the other, so stiff was I with cold, but now I am doing the sprint of my life. I have never done the four hundred yards in faster time. Blood spurts from my shoulder and it is an effort to fight off the blackness before my eyes. I have gained fifty or sixty yards on my pursuers; the bullets whisde incessandy. My only thought: “Only he is lost who gives himself up for lost.” The hill seems interminable. My main direction is still into the sun in order to make it more difficult for the Ivans to hit me. I am dazzled by the glare of the sun and it is easy to miscalculate. I have just had a lesson of that.
Now I reach a kind of crest, but my strength is giving out and in order to stretch it still further, I decide to keep to the top of the ridge; I shall never manage any more up and down hill. So away at the double southward along the ridge.
I cannot believe my eyes: on the hilltop twenty Ivans are running toward me. Apparently they have seen everything and now mean to round up their exhausted and wounded quarry. My faith in God wavers. Why did He first allow me to believe in the possible success of my escape? For I did get out of the first absolutely hopeless corner with my life. And will He now turn me over unarmed, deprived of my last weapon, my physical strength? My determination to escape and live suddenly revives. I dash straight downhill, that is, down the opposite slope to that by which I came up.
Behind me, two or three hundred yards away, my original pursuers, the fresh pack to one side of me. The first trio has been reduced to two; at the moment they cannot see me, for I am on the far side of the hill. One of them has stayed behind to bring in my two comrades, who stood still when I took to my heels. The hounds on my left are now keeping a parallel course, also running downhill, to cut me off.
Now comes a ploughed field; I stumble and for an instant have to take my eyes off the Ivans. I am dead tired, I trip over a clod of earth and lie where I have fallen. The end cannot be far off. I mutter one more curse that I have no revolver and therefore not even the chance to rob the Ivans of their triumph in taking me prisoner. My eyes are turned toward the Reds. They are now running over the same ploughland and have to watch their step. They run on for another fifteen yards before they look up and glance to the right where I am lying. They are now level with me, then diagonally in front, as they move forward on a line 250 yards away. They stop and look about them, unable to make out where I can have got to.
I lie flat on the slightly frozen earth and scratch myself with my fingers into the soil. It is a tough proposition; everything is so hard. The miserable bits of earth I manage to scrape loose I throw on top of me, building up a foxhole. My wound is bleeding, I have nothing to bandage it with; I lie prone on the ice-cold earth in my soaking-wet clothes; inside me I am hot with excitement at the prospect of being caught at any moment. Again the odds are a hundred to one on my being discovered and captured in less than no time. But is that a reason to give up hope
In the almost impossible, when only by believing that the almost impossible is possible can it become so?
There now, the Russians are coming in my direction, continually lessening the distance between us, each of them searching the field on his own, but not yet methodically. Some of them are looking in quite the wrong direction; they do not bother me. But there is one coming straight toward me. The suspense is terrible. Twenty paces from me he stops. Is he looking at me? Is he? He is unmistakably staring in my direction. Is he not coming on? What is he waiting for? He hesitates for several minutes; it seems an eternity to me. From time to time he turns his head a wee bit to the right, a wee bit to the left; actually he is looking well beyond me. I gain a momentary confidence, but then I perceive the danger once more looming large in front of me, and my hopes deflate. Meanwhile the silhouettes of my first pursuers appear on the ridge; apparently, now that so many hounds are on the scent, they have ceased to take their task seriously.
Suddenly at an angle behind me I hear the roar of an airplane and look up over my shoulder. My Stuka squadron is flying over the Dniester with a strong fighter escort and two Fieseler Storches. That means that
Flight Officer Fischer has given the alarm and they are searching for me to get me out of this mess. Up there they have no suspicion that they are searching in quite the wrong direction, that I have long since been six miles farther south on this side of the river. At this distance I cannot even attract their attention; I dare not so much as lift my little finger. They make one circuit after another at different levels. Then they disappear heading east, and many of them will be thinking, “This time even he has had it.” They fly away — home. Longingly I follow them with my eyes. You at least know that tonight you will sleep under shelter and will still be alive, whereas I cannot guess how many minutes more of life will be granted me. So I lie there shivering. The sun slowly sets. Why have I not yet been discovered?
Over the brow of the hill comes a column of Ivans, in Indian file, with horses and dogs. Once again I doubt God’s justice, for now the gathering darkness should have given me protection. I can feel the earth tremble under their feet. My nerves are at snapping point. I squint behind me. At a distance of a hundred yards the men and animals file past me. Why does no dog pick up my scent? Why does no one find me? Shortly after passing me they deploy at two-yard inter-
Vals. If they had done this fifty yards sooner, they would have trodden on me. They vanish in the slowly falling dusk.
The last glow of evening yields to blue; feebly twinkling stars appear. My compass has no phosphorescent dial, but there is still light enough to read it. My general direction must remain the south. I see in that quarter of the sky a conspicuous and easily recognizable star with a little neighbor. I decide to adopt it as my lodestar. What constellation in the Russian firmament can it be? It is growing dark and I can no longer see anybody. I stand up, stiff, aching, hungry, thirsty. I remember my chocolate — but I left it in my fur jacket on the bank of the Dnieter. Avoiding all roads, footpaths, villages, as Ivan is sure to have sentries posted there, I simply follow my star across country, up hill and down dale, over streams, bogs, marshes, and stubbly harvested maize fields. My bare feet are cut to ribbons. Again and again in the open fields I stub my toes against big stones. Gradually I lose all feeling in my feet. The will to live, to keep my freedom, urges me on; they are indivisible; life without freedom is a hollow fruit. How deep is Ivan’s penetration of our front? How far have I still to travel? Wherever I hear a dog bark, I make a detour, for the hamlets hereabouts are cer-
J
Tainly not inhabited by friends. Every now and again I can see gun flashes on the distant horizon and hear a dull rumble; evidently our boys have started an artillery bombardment. But that means the Russian breakthrough has gone far. In the gullies which cut through the occasionally rising ground, I often lose my footing in the darkness and slump into a ditch where the gluey mud stands knee-deep. It sucks me in so tightly that I no longer have the strength to pull myself out and flop with the upper part of my body sprawled on the bank of the ditch — my legs deep in slime. Thus I lie exhausted, feeling like a battery gone dead. After lying there for five minutes I am faintly recharged and summon up the strength to crawl up the sloping bank. But remorselessly the same mishap is repeated very soon, at latest at the next uneven ground. So it goes on till 9 P. M. Now I am done in. Even after longish rests I cannot recover my strength. Without water and food and a pause for sleep it is impossible to carry on. I decide to look for an isolated house.
I hear a dog barking in the distance and follow the sound. Presumably I am not too far from a village. So after a while I come to a lonely farmhouse and have considerable difficulty in evading the yelping dog. I do not
Like its barking at all as I am afraid it will alarm some picket in the nearby village. No one opens the door to my knocking; perhaps there is no one there. The same thing happens at a second farmhouse. I go on to a third. When again nobody answers, impatience overcomes me and I break a window in order to climb in. At this moment an old woman carrying a smoky oil lamp opens the door. I am already halfway through the window, but now I jump out again and put my foot in the door. The old woman tries to shove me out. I push resolutely past her. Turning round, I point in the direction of the village and ask, “Bolshewisti?” She nods. Therefore I conclude that Ivan has occupied the village. The dim lamplight only vaguely illumines the room: a table, a bench, an ancient cupboard. In the corner a grayheaded man is snoring on a rather lopsided trestle bed. He must be seventy. The couple share this wooden couch. In silence I cross the room and lay myself down on it. What can I say? I know no Russian. Meanwhile they have probably seen that I mean no harm. Barefoot and in rags, the tatters of my shirt sticky with coagulated blood, I am more likely to be a hunted quarry than a burglar. So I lie there. The old woman has gone back to bed beside me. Above our
Heads the feeble glimmer of the lamp. It does not occur to me to ask them whether they have anything to dress my shoulder or my lacerated feet. All I want is rest.
Now again I am tortured by thirst and hunger. I sit up on the bed and put my palms together in a begging gesture to the woman, at the same time making a dumb show of drinking and eating. After a brief hesitation she brings me a jug of water and a chunk of com bread, slightly mildewed. Nothing ever tasted so good in all my life. With every swallow and bite I feel my strength reviving, as if the will to live and initiative has been restored to me. At first I eat ravenously, then munching thoughtfully, I review my situation and evolve a plan for the next hours. I have finished the bread and water.
I will rest till one o’clock. It is 9:20 P. M. Rest is essential. So I lie back again on the wooden boards between the old couple, half-awake and half-asleep. I wake up every quarter of an hour with the punctuality of a clock and check the time. In no event must I waste too much of the sheltering dark in sleep; I must put as many miles as possible behind me on my journey south. Nine forty-five, 10 o’clock, 10:15, and so on; 12:45, 1 o’clock — getting-up time! I steal out; the old woman shuts the door
Behind me. I have already stumbled down a step. Is it the drunkenness of sleep, the pitch-dark night, or the wet step?
It is raining. I cannot see my hand before my face. My star has disappeared. Now how am I to find my bearings? Then I remember that I was previously running with the wind behind me. I must again keep it in my back to reach the south. Or has it veered? I am still among isolated farm buildings; here I am sheltered from the wind. As it blows from a constantly changing direction, I am afraid of moving in a circle. Inky darkness, obstacles; I barge into something and hurt my shins again. There is a chorus of barking dogs, therefore still houses, the village. I can only pray I do not run into a Russian sentry the next minute. At last I am out in the open again where I can turn my back to the wind with certainty. I am also rid of the curs. I plod on as before, up hill, down dale, up, down, maize fields, stones, and woods where it is more difficult to keep direction because you can hardly feel the wind among the trees. On the horizon I see the incessant flash of guns and hear their steady rumble. They serve to guide me on my course. Shortly after 3 A. M. there is a gray light on my left — the day is breaking. A good check, for now I am sure that the wind has not veered and I have
Been moving south all right.
I have now covered at least six miles. I guess I must have done ten or twelve yesterday, so that I should be sixteen or eighteen miles south of the Dniester.
In front of me rises a hill of about seven hundred feet. I climb it. Perhaps from the top I shall have a panorama and shall be able to make out some conspicuous points. It is now daylight, but I can discover no particular landmarks from the top; three tiny villages below me several miles away to my right and left. What interests me is to find that my hill is the beginning of a ridge running north to south, so I am keeping my direction. The slopes are smooth and bare of timber so that it is easy to keep a lookout for anyone coming up them. It must be possible to descry any movement from up here; pursuers would have to climb the hill and that would be a substantial handicap. Who at the moment suspects my presence here? My heart is light because although it is day, I feel confident I shall be able to push on south for a good few miles. I would like to put as many as possible behind me with the least delay.
I estimate the length of the ridge as about six miles; that is interminably long. But — is it really so long? After all, I encourage
Myself, you have run a six-mile race — how often? — and with a time of forty minutes. What you were able to do then in forty minutes, you must now be able to do in sixty — for the prize is your liberty. So just imagine you are running a marathon race!
I must be a fit subject for a crazy artist as I plod on with my marathon stride along the crest of the ridge — in rags — on bare, bleeding feet — my arm hugged stiffly to my side to ease the pain of my aching shoulder.
You must make it. . . keep your mind on the race. . . and run. . . and keep on running.
Every now and again I have to change to a jog-trot and drop into a walk for perhaps a hundred yards. Then I start running again ... it should not take more than an hour. . .
Now unfortunately I have to leave the protective heights, for the way leads downhill. Ahead of me stretches a broad plain, a slight depression in exactly the same direction continues the line of the ridge. Dangerous because here I can be more suddenly surprised. Besides, the time is getting on for seven o’clock, and therefore unpleasant encounters are more likely.
Once again my battery is exhausted. I must drink. . . eat. . . rest. Up to now I have not seen a living soul. Take precau-
Tions? What can I do2 I am unarmed; I am only thirsty and hungry. Prudence? Prudence is a virtue, but thirst and hunger are an elemental urge. Need makes one careless. Two farmhouses appear on the horizon out of the morning mist. I must effect an entry. . . .
I stop for a moment at the door of a bam and poke my head round the corner to investigate; the building yawns in my face. Nothing but emptiness. The place is stripped bare, no harness, no farm implements, no living creature — stay! — a rat darts from one comer to another. A large heap of maize leaves lies rotting in the barnyard. I gmb amongst them with greedy fingers. If only I could find a couple of corncobs... or only a few grains of com. . . . But I find nothing ... I grub and grub and grub. . . not a thing!
Suddenly I am aware of a mstling noise behind me. Some figures are creeping stealthily past the door of another barn: Russians, or refugees as famished as I am and on the self-same quest? Or are they looters in search of further booty? I fare the same at the next farm. Here I go through the maize heaps with the greatest care — nothing. Disappointedly I reflect, if all the food is gone, I must at least make up for it by resting. I scrape myself a hole in the pile of maize
Leaves and am just about to lie down in it when I hear a fresh noise: a farm wagon is rumbling past along a lane; on the box a man in a tall fur cap, beside him a girl. When there is a girl, there can be nothing untoward, so I go up to them. From the black fur cap I guess the man is a Rumanian peasant.
I ask the girl, “Have you anything to eat?” “If you care to eat this...” She pulls some stale cakes out of her bag. The peasant stops the horse. Not until then does it occur to me that I have put my question in German and have received a German answer.
“How do you come to know German?” The girl tells me that she has come with the German soldiers from Dnepropetrovsk and that she learned it there. Now she wants to stay with the Rumanian peasant sitting beside her. They are fleeing from the Russians.
“But you are going straight in their direction.” I can see by their faces that they do not believe me. “Have the Ruskis already reached the town over there?”
“No, that is Floresti.”
This unexpected reply is like a tonic. The town must lie on the Balti-Floresti railway line, which I know.
“Can you tell me, girl, if there are still any German soldiers there?”
“No, the Germans have left, but there may be Rumanian soldiers.”
“Thank you and God speed.”
I wave to the disappearing wagon. Now I can already hear myself being asked later why I did not “requisition” the wagon. . . the idea never entered my mind. For are the pair not fugitives like me? And must I not offer thanks to God that I have so far escaped from danger?
After my excitement has died down, a brief exhaustion overcomes me. For those last six miles I have been conscious of violent pain; all of a sudden the feeling returns to my lacerated feet, my shoulder hurts with every step I take. I meet a stream of refugees with handcarts and the bare necessities they have salvaged, all in panic-stricken haste.
On the outskirts of Floresti two soldiers are standing on the scarp of a sandpit; German uniforms? Another few yards and my hope is confirmed. An unforgettable sight!
I call up to them, “Come here!”
They call down, “What do you mean: come here! Who are you anyway, fellow?” “I am Squadron Leader Rudel.”
“Nah! No squadron leader ever looked like you do.”
I have no identification papers, but I have in my pocket the Knight’s Cross with Oak
Leaves and Swords. I pull it out of my pocket and show it to them. On seeing it the corporal says:
“Then we’ll take your word for it.”
“Is there a German Kommandantur?”
“No, only the rear-guard HQ of a dressing station.”
That is where I will go. They fall in on either side of me and take me there. I am now crawling rather than walking. A doctor separates my shirt and trousers from my body with a pair of scissors, the rags are sticking to my skin; he paints the raw wounds of my feet with iodine and dresses my shoulder. During this treatment I devour the sausage of my life.
“What clothes do you intend to wear?” the doctor asks me. All my garments have been cut to ribbons. “We have none to lend you.” They wrap me naked in a blanket and off we go in an automobile to Balti. We drive up in front of the control hut on the airfield. But what is this? My squadron officer. Pilot Officer Ebersbach, opens the door of the car:
“Pilot Officer Ebersbach, in command of the Third Squadron advance party moving to Jassy.”
A soldier follows him out carrying some clothes for me. This means that my naked trip from Floresti has already been reported
To Balti from there by-telephone, and Ebers-bach happened to be in the control hut when the message came through. He has been informed that his colleague who has been given up for dead will shortly arrive in his birthday suit. I climb into a Ju-52 and fly to Rauchowka to rejoin the squadron. Here the telephone has been buzzing, the news has spread like wildfire, and the wing cook, Runkel, already has a cake in the oven. I look into grinning faces, the squadron is on parade. I feel reborn, as if a miracle had happened. Life has been restored to me, and this reunion with my comrades is the most glorious prize for the hardest race of my life.
World History
