"At the Edge of an Advanced Airfield"
24 August 1944
by
Master Sergeant Carl Junger
Yeserday was a great day for us. A day unprecedented in the history of combat flying. My Chief, First Lt. Erich Hartmann, holder of the Oak Leaves with Swords, in two missions shot down eleven enemy planes, and with this raised the number of his victories to three hundred and one. He is the first to have passed the three hundred mark, and therefore is the best fighter pilot in the world.
Even yesterday, good spirits were in evidence all over the field. The question that buzzed from lip to lip was: 'Will the three hundred mark topple today? Can Bubi do it?' All of us were tense with excitement and anticipation. The day before, our Chief had sent eight Ivans into eternity and had raised his figure to two hundred and ninety. Yesterday morning the weather did not look promising. Not until noon did it clear up, thus reducing operational time to half a day. After lunch came the first mission, and our squadron leader did not waste the chance. Right after he lifted off with his wingman we started counting the minutes.
Exactly one hour later, two aircraft appeared on the horizon and came toward our field. The familiarly marked Bf109 of our twenty two year old 'Old Man' wagged it's wings, pulled up, made another pass and wagged again. Then another and another.... five and then six times. Everyone cheered and shouted, wild with joy. The Chief had two hundred and ninety six kills now. Only four more to go, Hals und Beinbruch!
We could hardly wait for the two ships to become operational again. Refueling and rearming seemed to take forever. Meanwhile there were arguements and bets amongst the rest of us. Can he do it today or must we wait another day? Suddenly another mission is ordered. Everyone scrambles to the machines, the blond haired chief in the lead.
He clambers easily into the cockpit. He buckles himself in, as steady and unexcited as ever. His features do not betray his emotions. Only a slightly harsh line plays about the corners of his mouth. A cool one, this. Quietly and with deliberation he begins the cockpit check for this decisive and historic mission- one that will bring him to the head of all fighter pilots. For those that were there, it was a unique experience.
At his sign, the crew begins to start the machines. First slowly and then ever faster until the starter is running at the highest RPM Then a slight jerk, a turning of the propeller, and finally the engines are running. They smooth down and the Chief starts, easing his fighter to the runway with his wingman behind him.
They pause faced into the wind. The roar of a final run up reaches our ears. Then comes take off. Billows of dust swirl up from the sun dried earth as the slender fighters race forward and lift gracefully into the air. The two ships, course east. What will the next hour bring? With a reporter we drive to the advanced area, where already everybody is in a fever of anticipation. We walk to a man with earphones who is listening to the R/T conversations between the ships. He hands us earphones and we plug in and listen...
The air-to-air communication, by which the pilots inform each other, is very tense. Only the most essential is said, and even this by words of certain meaning, where one word may stand for a whole sentence. Sometimes, there are long breaks between the individual dialogues, sometimes address and reply follow each other in staccato counterpoint, and often in dramatic crescendo when within a few minutes one enemy aircraft after another is being shot down. Then two words, sometimes only one, characterize this happening, but the listeners on the ground are wholly absorbed by the breath taking excitement.
Now, everybody is gathering around the operator and those two poor receivers of his headset. It might happen any moment. The operator fingering the buttons of his set.. he is a little nervous, as though afraid of missing the call of victory
15:44: Hartmann to ground: 'Have you any enemy observations?'
"None"
'Why the hell do they chase us up, then?'
15:50: Ground to Hartmann: 'Enemy echelon over Sandowiez approaching.'
15:51: "Eighth staffel watch out! ... Airacobras... damn!..."
16:00: "Bull's eye!"
16:03: "Bull's eye!"
16:06: "Watch out high six o'clock! Airas to the right! Bull's eye!"
16:07: "Watch out high!"
16:09: "We'll get this one!"
16:10: "Attention! Bull's eye!"
Wingman to Hartmann: "Congratulations on three hundreth!"
Ground to Hartmann: 'Congratulations!'
During the next five minutes, the operator cannot take any more messages. Everything goes crazy. He cannot understand a word because of the ensuing hubbub. Then it goes on.
16:15: "Six kilometers west of Sandowiez. Six light bombers, height 2000 meters, circling.... ah... theres another echelon, they're P-2's..."
16:17: "Eight kilometers east of Ostrowiez, height 3000 meters, fighter echelon.... we can't get at them, dammit!"
16:19: "get at them!..."
16:20: "Bull's eye! Impact burst!"
16:23: Wingman to Hartmann: "Look out, there are two aircraft behind us to the left. One fighter is with them."
16:27: "Single aircraft to the left!... That's one of our own.... "
16:29: "look out back!
"roger!"
16:35: Wing to Hartmann: "congratulations!"
16:37: "go down for a landing, I'll rock the wings five times."
Only an hour before he sat down with us in front of a tent, shirt front open to a cooling ind, looking thoughtful and daydreaming at the same time, for we had been talking about his bride to be. Her photo stood on the table. He had looked down his chest and laughed the merry laugh of a youth.
He said: There is a hair on my chest, now I'm going to be a man! At that moment, he was called for take off on this historic mission; the curtain closed over a little piece of insight into his ego, uttered lightly and laughingly, with self irony- a joke and knowledge of himself all rolled into one.
The above can be found in "The Blond Knight of Germany, a Biography of Erich Hartmann"