25th February, 1944
The Americans and British conduct their large-scale air operations in a way which leaves us no respite. They have rained hundreds of thousands of tons of high explosive and phosphorus incendiary bombs upon our cities and industrial centers. Night after night the wail of the sirens heralds more raids. HO much longer can it all continue?
Once again Division Control reports those blasted concentrations in sector Dora-Dora. It is daily waiting for the action call, the permanent state of tension in which we live, which keeps our nerves on the edge. Every mission is now followed by some more pictures going up on the wall.
Concentrations in sector Dora-Dora! This report has now come to have a different significance for us: it is a reminder that, for the moment, we are still alive. The faces of the comrades have become grave and haggard. Concentrations in sector Dora-Dora! Today it will be the same story again. In silence we prepare for take-off. One by one we again retire into the can. That is also part of the same routine. No laxatives are needed to assist the sinking feeling Dora-Dora creates.
Take-off at 1600 hours.
The Gruppe circles the airfield until it is assembled in formation.
"Climb to 25,000 feet on course due north," calls the base.
"Heavy babies approaching over the sea."
At 15,000 feet over Lueneberg Heath we are joined by the Staffeln from our Third Gruppe. It is cold. I turn on the oxygen.
20,000 feet: we maintain radio silence. Base periodically gives the latest position reports, "Heavy babies now in sector Siegfried-Paula."
22,000 feet: we fly strung out in open formation. The monotonous hum of the code-sign is in our earphones: Di-da-di-da-di-da.... short-long-short-long-short-long....
25,000 feet: our exhausts leave long vapor trails behind.
30,000 feet: my supercharger runs smoothly. Revs, boost, oil and radiator temperatures, instrument check shows everything as it should be. Compass registers course 360.
"On your left... watch for heavy babies on your left."
There is still no sign of them. Nerves are tense. I am suddenly very awake. Carefully I scan the skies. Vast layers of cloud cover the distant earth below as far as the eye can see. We are now at an altitude of 33,000 feet: it should be just right for bagging a few enemy bombers or fighters.
Vapor trails ahead. There they are!
"I see them" Specht reports with a crackle of his ringing voice.
"victor, victor," base acknowledges.
The bomber alley lies about 6,000 feet below us- 600-800 of the heavy bombers are heading eastwards. Alongside and above them range the escorting fighters. And now I am utterly absorbed in the excitement of the chase. Specht dips his left wing tip, and we peel off for the attack. Messerschmitt after Messerschmitt follows him down.
"After them!" The radio is a babel of sound, with everybody shouting at once. I check my guns and adjust the sights as we dive down upon the target. Then I grasp the stick with both hands, groping for the trigger with my right thumb and forefinger. I glance behind. Thunderbolts are coming down after us.
We are faster, and before they can intercept us we reach the Fortresses. Our fighters come sweeping through the bomber formation in a frontal attack. I press the triggers, and my aircraft shudders under the recoil.
"after them!"
My cannon shells punch holes in the wing of a Fortress.
Blast! I was aiming for the control cabin.
I climb away steeply behind the formation, followed by my Staffel. Then the Thunderbolts are upon us. It is a wild dogfight. Several times I try to maneuver into position for firing at one of their planes. Every time I am forced to break away, because there are two-four-five-or even ten Thunderbolts on my tail. Everybody is milling around like mad, firend and foe alike. But the Yanks outnumber us by for or five to one. Then some Lightnings come to join in the melee. I get one of them in my sights. Fire!
Traces come in a whizzing stream close past my head. I duck instinctively.
Woomf! Woomf! Good shooting!
I am forced to pull up out of it in a steep corkscrew climb, falling back to old stand by in such emergencies. For the moment I have a breathing space. I check the instruments and the controls. All seems well. Wenneckers draws alongside and points down at four Lightnings on our left.
"After them!"
Our left wing tips dip, and we peel off. We hurtle down towards the Lightnings as they glisten in the sun. I open fire. Too fast: I overshoot the Lightning. I wonder what to do about my excessive speed.
But now a Lighting is on my tail. In a flash, I slam the stick hard over into the left corner. The wing drops. I go into a tight spiral dive. The engine screams. I throttle back. My aircraft shudders under the terrific strain. Rivets spring from the wing frame. My ears pop. Slowly and very cautiously I begin to straighten out. I am thrust forward and down into the seat. My vision blacks out. I feel my chin forced into my chest. A lightning passes me, going down in flames. There is a Messerschmitt on it's tail.
"Got it!"
It is Wenneckers.
A few moments later he is alongside me again. I wave to him with both hands.
"Congratulations!"
"The bastard was after your hide," he replies.
It is the second time Wenneckers has shot a Yank from off my tail.
After we land I go up to Wenneckers to shake hands, congratulate him on his success, and- but Wenneckers interrupts before I am able to thank him:-
"No need for you to thank me, sir. I only wanted your wife not to be made a widow by that bastard. Besides, think of what a terrible nuisance to the Staffel it would have been to have had to dispose of your remains!:
All the mechanics standing around greet this remark with roars of laughter. I dig the lanky lad in the ribs. We go together into the crew-room. Meanwhile the others have also been coming in to land. This is one day we all come back.
This is from Heinz Knoke's "I Flew for the Fuehrer". Great book from a different perspective.
