Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright Notice
Quotation
Title
Foreword
Introduction
1. From Umbrella to Dive Bomber
2 - War Against the Soviets
3 - Bad Weather Flying
4 - The Battle for the Fortress of Leningrad
5 - Before Moscow
6 - Training and Practice
7 - Stalingrad
8 - Withdrawal
9 - Stuka Versus Tank
10 - On the Kuban and at Bjelgorod
11- Back to the Dnieper
12- Further Westward
13 - Retreat to the Dniester
14 - Fateful Summer 1944
15 - Battle for Hungary
16 - Christmas 1944
17 - The Death Struggle of the Last Months
18 - The End
Copyright Notice
Stuka Pilot
by Hans Ulrich Rudel
First Published in Dublin by Euphorian Books 1952
© Copyright Black House Publishing Ltd 2011
ISBN 978-1-908476-03-6
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Only he is lost who gives himself up for lost.
STUKA PILOT
by Hans Ulrich Rudel
Foreword
AS so often occurs during a war particularly in the Air Forces, you often hear the names of pilots on the opposite side. It is seldom that you meet them subsequently. At the end of this war some of us had the opportunity of meeting several well-known pilots of the German Air Force, who had hitherto been just names to us. Now, 7 years later, some of the names escape me, but I well remember Galland, Rudel and a German night fighter pilot called Mayer. They visited the Central Fighter Establishment at Tangmere in June 1945 for a couple of days and some of their opposite numbers in the Royal Air Force were able to exchange views on air tactics and aircraft, always an absorbing topic amongst pilots. A coincidence which amused all of us, if I may be excused this anecdote, occurred when Mayer was talking to our well-known fighter pilot Brance Burbidge and discovered that Brance had shot him down over his own aerodrome one night as he was circling to land.
Having been a prisoner in Germany for much of the war I had heard of Hans Ulrich Rudel. His exploits on the Eastern Front with his dive bomber were from time to time given much publicity in the German press. It was therefore with great interest that I met him when he came over in June 1945. Not long before he arrived Rudel had lost one leg below the knee, as he describes in this book. At the time of this visit that well-known R.A.F. character, Dick Atcherley, was the Commandant at Tangmere. Others there were Frank Carey, Bob Tuck (who had been a prisoner-of-war in Germany with me), "Razz" Berry, Hawk Wells and Roland Beamont (now Chief Test Pilot for English Electric). We all felt that somehow we should try and get an artificial leg for Rudel. It was very sad that we were unable to do this because although a plaster cast and the requisite measurements were taken it was discovered that his amputation was too recent for an artificial leg to be made and fitted and we were reluctantly compelled to give up the idea.
We all read an autobiography written by someone we have met, if only for a short time, with more interest than that of a stranger. This book of Rudel's is a first-hand account of his life in the German Air Force throughout the war, mainly in the East. I do not agree with a number of the conclusions he draws or with some of his thoughts. I was, after all, on the other side.
The book is not broad in its scope because it is confined to the activities of one man—and a brave one—waging a war in very single-minded fashion. It does however shed an interesting light on Rudel's opposite numbers on the Eastern Front, the Russian Air Force pilots. This is perhaps the most revealing part of the whole book. I am happy to write this short foreword to Rudels book, since although I only met him for a couple of days he is, by any standards, a gallant chap and I wish him luck.
DOUGLAS BADER.
Introduction
It is not customary for a father and mother to write an introduction to their son's book, but we believe it would be wrong to refuse the invitation even though at the present time it may appear imprudent to write a preface to a war book.
It has been said with competent authority: . . . that Hans-Uhich Rudel (as from the 1st January, 1945, Wing Commander of the Luftwaffe—at the age of 28) has distinguished himself far beyond the measure of all officers and men, and his operational flights at focal points and in frontal sectors have been decisive for the general situation (wherefore he has been the first and only soldier to be awarded the highest decoration—the Golden Oakleaves with Swords and Diamonds to the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross).
"... Rudel is pre-eminently equipped to write his war experiences. The stupendous events of the war are still too close for it to be possible to present a comprehensive picture of them. It is therefore all the more important that those who did their duty at their post until the bitter end should record their experiences truthfully. It is only on the basis of a balanced objectivity and first hand individual experience that the Second World War will one day appear in full perspective. With 2,530 operational flights to his credit, Rudel—and this is admitted also by fair-minded enemies—is the foremost war pilot in the world ..."
Throughout the long war he was hardly ever on leave; even after he was wounded he immediately hurried back to the front. At the beginning of April 1945 he lost his right leg (below the knee) in action. He refused to wait until he was fully convalescent, but despite an open wound forced himself to go on flying with an artificial limb. It was his creed that an officer has a vocation in which he does not belong to himself, but to his fatherland and to the subordinates committed to his charge, and that he must therefore—in war even more than in peace time—show an example to his men without regard for his own person or his life. On the other hand he did not mince his words to his superiors, but spoke his mind openly and honestly. By his forthrightness he gave his successes their real foundation, for only where mutual confidence prevails can superior and subordinate achieve the highest and the best.
The old soldierly virtues of loyalty and obedience determined his whole life. “Only he is lost who gives himself up for lost" is a maxim which our son made devotedly his own. And in obedience to it he now lives in the Argentine.
We—his parents and his two sisters, but countless others besides—have often feared and prayed for him, but we could always repeat—as he did—with Eduard Mörike: "May all things, both the beginning and the end, be given into His hands!" May his book bring words of cheer to his many friends and admirers, a message of inspiration to all readers from afar.
Johannes Rudel,
Retired Minister of Christ.
Sausenhofen bei Günzenhausen/Mfr.
September, 1950.
For the comfort of every mother of a boy I should like to mention that our Hans-Ulrich was a delicate and nervous child (he weighed five and three quarter pounds when he was born). Until his twelfth year I had to hold his hand during a thunderstorm. His older sister used to say:
"Uli will never be any good in life, he is afraid of going into the cellar by himself” It was just this ridicule that put Uli on his mettle and he began to toughen himself in every way and to devote himself to sport. But through this he got behind with his school work and his bad reports, which had to be initialled by his father, were kept back until the last day of the holidays. His form master whom I once asked: "How is he getting on at school?" gave me this answer: "He is a charming boy, but a shocking scholar."— Many tales could be repeated of his boyish pranks, but I am happy that he was granted a care-free youth.
His mother: Martha Rudel.
1. From Umbrella to Dive Bomber
1924 My home is the rectory of the little village of Seiferdau in Silesia; I am eight. One Sunday my father and mother go into the neighbouring town of Schweidnitz for an “Aviation Day”. I am furious that I am not allowed to go with them, and when they return my parents have to tell me over and over again what they have seen there. And so I hear about a man who jumped from a great height with a parachute and came safely down to earth. This delights me, and I badger my sisters for an exact description of the man and the parachute. Mother sews me a little model, I attach a stone to it and am proud when stone and parachute slowly drift to the ground. I think to myself that what a stone can do I must be able to do too, and when I am left alone for a couple of hours the following Sunday I lose no time in exploiting my new discovery.
Upstairs to the first floor! I climb on to the windowsill with an umbrella, open it up, take a quick look down, and before I have time to be afraid I jump. I land on a soft flower-bed and am surprised to find that I have twisted every muscle and actually broken a leg. In the tricky way in which umbrellas are apt to behave, the thing has turned inside out and hardly broke my fall. But nevertheless I abide by my resolve: I will be an airman.
After a brief flirtation with modern languages at the local school I take up classics, and learn Greek and Latin. At Sagen, Niesky, Görlitz and Lauban - my father is moved to these different parishes in the lovely province of Silesia - my schooling is completed. My holidays are devoted almost exclusively to sport, including motor-cycling; athletics in summer and skiing in winter lay the foundations of a robust constitution for later life. I enjoy everything; so I do not specialise in any particular field. Our little village does not offer very much scope-my knowledge of sporting tackle is derived solely from magazines-so I practise pole-vaulting by using a long tree-prop to vault over my mother's clothes-line. Thus later with a proper bamboo pole I can clear a respectable height....As a ten year old boy I go off to the Eulengebirge, twenty three miles away, with the six foot long skis given to me as a Christmas present, and teach myself skiing.... I stand a couple of planks resting on a sawing-horse of my father’s, this gives me an upward slope. I give the contraption the once-over to make sure it is firmly fixed. No flunking now - I open the throttle of my motorbike and sail up the boards ....and over. I land on the other side, swerve wildly and back again for another run at the planks and the trusty sawing-horse! It never enters my head that in addition to all this I ought to be a good scholar, much to my parents' distress. I play almost every conceivable prank on my teachers. But the question of my future becomes a more serious problem as matriculation looms nearer. One of my sisters is studying medicine, and consequently the possibility of finding the large sum of money needed to have me trained as a civil air-pilot does not even come under consideration - a pity. So I decide to become a sports instructor.
Quite unexpectedly the Luftwaffe is created, and with it a demand for applicants for a reserve of officers. Black sheep that I am, I see little hope of passing the difficult entrance examination. Several fellows I know, rather older than myself, who have previously tried to get in have been unlucky. Apparently only sixty out of six hundred candidates will be selected, and I cannot imagine any likelihood of my being among this ten per cent. Fate, however, disposes otherwise; and in August 1936 I have in my pocket the notification of my admission to the Military School at Wildpark-Werder for next December. Two months Labour Service work on the regulation of the Neisse at Muskau follow matriculation in the autumn. In the first term at Wildpark-Werder we recruits are put through the mill. Our infantry training is completed in six months. Aircraft we see only from the ground, with an especial longing when we happen to be flat on our faces. The rule of no smoking and no drinking, the virtual restriction of all leisure time to physical exercise and games, the pretence of indifference to the distractions of the nearby capital, are tiresome. I take a rather dim view of my milk-drinking existence, and that is putting it mildly. I earn no black marks in my military and athletic training and so my supervisional officer, Lt. Feldmann, is not dissatisfied. In some respects, however, I am not altogether successful in living down the reputation of being a “queer fish”.
The second term finds us in the neighbouring town of Werder, a holiday resort in the Havel lake district. At last we are taught to fly. Competent instructors are at pains to initiate us into the mysteries of aviation. We practise circuits and landings with Flt. Sgt. Dieselhorst. After about the sixtieth time I am able to undertake a solo flight, and this achievement makes me an average pupil of my class. In conjunction with our flying lessons the technical and military curriculum is continued, as well as an advanced course for a commission. Our flying training finishes at the end of this second term and we receive our flight authority. The third term, back at Wildpark, is no longer so diversified. Little stress is laid on flying; instead air tactics, ground tactics, defence methods and other special subjects figure more largely in our work. Meanwhile I am seconded for a short spell and sent to Giebelstadt near Würzburg, the lovely old city on the Main, where I am attached to a combat unit as officer cadet. Gradually the date of our passing-out examination draws near, and speculation is rife as to what unit and what branch of the service we shall eventually be posted to. Almost to a man we would like to be fighter pilots, but this is clearly impossible. There is a rumour going about that our whole class is to be assigned to Bomber Command. Promotion to the rank of officer senior cadet and posting to a definite formation follows for those who pass the difficult examination.
Shortly before leaving the Military School we are sent on a visit to an ant-aircraft gunnery school on the Baltic coast. Quite unexpectedly Goering arrives and addresses us. At the end of his speech he asks for dive bomber volunteers. He tells us he still requires a number of young officers for the newly-formed Stuka formations. It does not take me long to make up my mind. “You would like to become a fighter I argue,” but you will have to be a bomber; so you might as well volunteer for the Stukas and be done with it.” In any case I do not fancy myself flying the heavy bomber aircraft. A little quick thinking and my name is entered on the list of Stuka candidates. A few days later we all get our postings. Almost the whole of the class is assigned to Fighter Command! I am bitterly disappointed, but there is nothing to be done about it. I am a Stuka pilot. And so I watch my comrades happily depart.
In June 1938 I arrive at Graz, in the picturesque province of Steiermark, to report to a Stuka formation as officer senior cadet. It is three months since German troops marched into Austria and the population is enthusiastic. The squadron which is stationed outside the town in the village of Thalerhof has recently received the type 87 Junkers; the single-seater Henschel will no longer be used as a dive-bomber. Learning to dive at all angles up to ninety degrees, formation flying, aerial gunnery and bombing are the fundamentals of the new arm. We are soon familiar with it. It cannot be said that I am a rapid learner; furthermore the rest of the squadron have already passed all their tests when I join it. It takes a long time to ring the bell, too long to please my squadron leader. I catch on so slowly that he ceases to believe that it will ever ring at all. The fact that I spend my leisure hours in the mountains, or at sport, rather than in the officers’ mess, and that on the rare occasions when I put in an appearance there my only beverage is milk does not make my position any easier.
So in January 1939 I find myself on a course at the Reconnaissance Flying School at Hildesheim, and in the depths of despair. We are given instruction in the theory and practice of aerial photography, and it is whispered that at the end of the course we are to be posted to formations whose task it will be to fly special missions for operational air command. In reconnaissance aircraft the observer is also the skipper, and so we all become observers. Instead of piloting our aircraft we have now to sit still and trust ourselves to a pilot whom we naturally set down as a duffer, prophesying that he is certain to crash one day - with us. We learn aerial photography, taking vertical and oblique photographs, etc., here in the region of Hildesheim. The rest of the time is devoted to monotonous theory. At the end of the course we are assigned to our formations. I am transferred to Distance Reconnaissance Squadron 2F 121 at Prenzlau.
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