Excerpt from Chapter 12:
It was now the middle of August, the temperature
in the mid 90s with hot winds from Budenovsk,
the Kalmuk Steppe and the Caspian Sea, and
constant dust, stink and heat everywhere. The
Russian Armies must have received some help from
somewhere as their resistance grew stronger,
with heavy fighting south of the Kuma river,
some 15 km south of Mineral'nyye Vodi, from
Kislovodsk to Georgiyevsk, perhaps with
reinforcements brought in from the Kalmuk and
Astrakhan regions, fierce Cossack units and
Mongolians with very little regard for their own
life (or anybody else's for that matter).
Kislovodsk, Jessentuki and Pyatigorsks were taken
on 18 August by Kleist's Panzers. We proceeded
south-east to Georgiyevsk which had been taken
two days earlier. Some ten km south towards
Prokhladnyy we reached a newly captured
airfield, the same airfield those sky
battleships - the dreaded Illyushins who had
attacked us near Nevinnomyssk, had presumably
come from. There were about twenty of them still
in their protective parking bays, some burning,
some still in good condition, and wrecked MiGs,
YAKs and PE 2s were scattered around the field.
Probably the field had been taken by surprise as
some of the planes still had their dead crews
inside. This was the first time we actually saw
Illyushin dive bombers intact on the ground,
with their solid armour-plated base and
something like 120 mm thick plexiglass in the
pilot's cabin. No wonder we couldn't shoot them
down with our 2 cm.
Our task was to take over security of the field
to prevent it from being recaptured as it was
earmarked for the operational base of our FW 189
Reconnaissance Squadron, which until then had
been operating from Salsk, an air base on the
Manyche, by the main railway line from
Novorossiysk to Stalingrad. An advance party
from the squadron arrived and began clearing the
field, preparing it for their planes and we were
ordered to dig ourselves into defence positions,
and not just temporarily for a night or so;
rumours went around that we could be there for
some time.
It seemed the German advance had slowed down and
mounting Russian resistance was coming from the
apparently regrouped Russian Trans-Caucasian
Army from Ordzhonikidze, Tbilisi and Azerbaijan.
Maintaining supplies over the long distances and
shortage of fuel for Kleist's Panzers were
beginning to be a problem. The German air force
in the Caucasus was practically non-existent as
most of the fighter and bomber units were tied
up, either around Kotelnikovo, Tsimlyansk and
Kalach in the Stalingrad region or in North
Africa. This gave the Russian air force almost
complete air superiority in the region.
Around our field were large areas of sunflowers
in bloom, cotton plantations and water melons,
making a colourful landscape. From our position
we looked to the huge mountain range in front in
the direction of Nalchik, to the massive 5.047
metres Kasbek range and further to the right the
impressive snow-covered Mount Elbrus. The rumour
was a German mountaineering unit had scaled the
huge 'pyramid' and placed the German flag on the
summit, only for it to be replaced the next day
by a Russian unit with the hammer and sickle and
the Soviet star, climbing from the Sukhumi side,
from the Russian held Black Sea shore.
The air force ground crews were clearing the
field of wrecked aircraft and the Illyushins in
their parking bays were slightly altered by
means of wire frames and netting to make them
look like ours from the air, hoping in the event
of an attack they would act as decoys. Our guns
were taken off their carriers and dug into the
ground in a horseshoe-shaped defence position
with zig-zag splinter trenches on either side to
dive into when necessary and the carriers were
sent back to base.
During the next few days the Fokke-Wolfs arrived
from Salsk and were parked around the airfield
perimeter, well camouflaged and hidden from the
air. We were very pleased to have a visit from
our pilot friend Johann who told us they had
been flying missions into Stalingrad, had lost a
few aircraft and crew and he didn't think the
Caucasus campaign was going too well, judging
from reports via long distance aerial
surveillance of Russian reinforcements east of
the Volga moving towards Stalingrad. His
predictions were if the 6th Army couldn't get a
secure hold on Stalingrad, the Russian armies
concentrated east of the Volga would have no
trouble sweeping across to Rostov to cut off the
whole of the German army in the Caucasus. Uncle
Joe will be aware of that.
Johann was scheduled for the first flight at dawn
so stayed just a brief while, saying as soon as
he returned he would find a parking place
somewhere close to our position and we would
then have a game of skat together as he reckoned
we still owed him plenty of money from our last
game in Slaviansk. He was very sorry to hear
about Ludwig "chucking it in prematurely", he
said, as he reckoned Ludwig was the one who owed
him the most. Actually we couldn't remember
Ludwig owing anybody anything, and certainly
losing money was the last thing on our minds
when every day we expected to lose our lives. We
played Skat, Seventeen and Four - 'meine Tante,
deine Tante' and won and lost enormous sums of
money on paper. Anyhow we didn't carry any money
and Johann was the last person to bother about
it. Of course, we didn't know it then but he
only had a short time left...
After the close calls of the previous week we
were looking forward to a bit of relaxation.
With cooked food from the air force kitchen,
soaking up the sun and slurping through water
melons, life could be quite bearable if only it
would stay like that. Jakob and I had a special
surprise come our way the first week on the
field when Oberleutnant Belling came to our gun
position and presented us with the Flakabzeichen
medal and promoted us to the rank of Gefreiter
(Lance Corporal) - two wings on the collar
plate, a silver VE chevron on the left coat
sleeve and a bottle of cognac to wash it down!
The night was quiet except for the regular
purr-purr of the 'night witches'. We were
instructed not to fire at them, thus revealing
our positions which they would have been keen to
locate as they knew the airfield pretty well. As
I stood the midnight watch I scanned the sky
with powerful glasses looking for tell-tale
exhausts from their machines and spotted two
close to each other circling the field low
enough for me to actually make out their
outlines. I climbed into the seat and trained
the gun on them and by adjusting the mechanism
relative to their speed and height to give the
barrel the necessary elevation and advance
position steadily kept the gun sight on the
planes and flight path. They were perfect
targets with all margins for error eliminated
and I thought to myself: the whole existence of
those women up there now depends on a slight
movement of my left foot. All I had to do was
press the continuous firing pedal and they would
be history. A burst or two would surely have got
them both. Ah well, orders must be obeyed even
if it meant a missed opportunity. Those little
darlings up there were blissfully unaware of
their luck.
At dawn Johann took off, in the company of two
other flights, roaring over our position as low
as he safely could to make sure we would be wide
awake, then veered off in the direction of
Prokhlodnyy and the beyond. He returned within
the hour and as they taxied in three more planes
were made ready for take off. Johann offloaded
his crew and taxied his glass bubble to a
resting place near us, leaving the ground crew
to look after it while we settled down for our
game.
He filled us in on what was happening over the
other side of the Terek (river), saying that as
soon as they crossed the river they were met by
heavy flak from Russian batteries which
frightened the daylights out of his crew. We
politely refrained from asking whether that
would possibly include himself. Since their
planes had no fighter escorts they depended
solely on their own armaments for defence. He
spoke of heavy troop concentrations around
Groznyy and Ordzhonikidze. Obviously the
Russians were making sure that the huge oil
fields at Groznyy would not fall easily to
Kleist's Panzers, and without the Crozny oil the
Panzers would be very much restricted as petrol
supplies were getting very erratic and was
largely dependent on air supply most of the
time.
Johann made it clear again that should he ever be
shot down and survive he would not hesitate to
shoot himself - rather than surrender to the
Russians for a slow, lingering death in some
remote Siberian slave camp. Little did we know
then how prophetic that remark was. The next
flight was just about taking off and Johann told
us to watch for the flak puffs as soon as they
reached the river. We saw them all right, puffs
like dirty snowballs. The planes must have got
through as we didn't see any fall, but on the
return run one of them was hit badly, killing
the rear gunner and observer and severely
wounding the pilot. Despite his injuries he
managed to bring the plane back and crash landed
on the field but he died a few hours later.
That same evening a Russian bomber formation paid
us a visit. Heavy bombers, but where did they
come from all of a sudden? Probably from across
the Caspian Sea. Johann was right, they were up
to something and they were not suffering from
oil shortage. Those bombers were on a milk run -
no German fighter anywhere near to challenge
them. Apart from those flying missions from our
field we had seen no German aircraft lately
which indicated either the Luftwaffe was short
of planes, or they were all engaged around
Stalingrad. Our 2 cm guns were in no position to
take on those bombers which were too high and
out of our range, and practically all our heavy
8.8 flak batteries had been transferred north as
well. The 8.8s near Nevinnomyssk were the last
ones we had seen for a long time. As it turned
out the bombing attack, intense as it was, was
not very successful for Ivan. The bombs didn't
cause a great deal of damage as most of them
were aimed at the Illyushin parking bays. The
decoys must have fooled them as that area was
completely destroyed.
Late that night the night witches paid us another
visit, dropping flares here and there, probably
wanting to see what damage their bombers had
caused but again we left them undisturbed. Their
range was limited so their airfield couldn't
have been far away. Early next morning the alarm
sounded when a swarm of P1-16 Ratas, small
stubby fighters, approached from the direction
of Nalchik, swerving from side to side, weaving
in and out as though waltzing, but not more than
about 100 metres up and headed straight for our
positions and the airfiel generally. The witches
after failing to draw our fire last night had
probably reported the field destroyed and
deserted, so this approaching formation were
unaware of our presence and not expecting any
challenge, so maybe there had been some logic in
not getting involved with the 'call girls'...
Though small in size the Rata was formidable. We
were told they were the most heavily armed
fighters in the world at that time and could out
perform a Messerschmitt anytime at low level.
Each carried two heavy machine guns,
synchronised with the speed of the propeller,
plus a 2 cm gun in each wing. We dropped our
camouflage netting and Jakob, his feet on the
pedal, waited for Langhans to give the order. We
caught them completely by surprise. With both
our guns in crossfire they didn't know what hit
them and just swallowed up our tracers into
their bellies. The leading plane tried to pull
up but in doing so exposed his whole underbelly
to our spitting barrel. For a fraction of a
second he stood still then slid back, tail first
into the ground and exploded into a dirty grey
fireball. Another was hit by our neighbouring
gun and dived straight into the Illyushin bays,
while another veered off in a wide circle
trailing smoke, trying to make it back to the
other side of the river and his base before
bursting into flames.
My position on the gun didn't give me much chance
to look up but I was momentarily aware of an
aircraft diving down on us from the left and out
of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the flashing
muzzles of his armaments and felt the crushing
effect as bullets and grenades impacted on steel
and the ground all around us. There was a
horrible scream from the other side of the gun
as I flung myself into the splinter trench which
unknown to me was already occupied. I had landed
on top of Fritz (Ludwig's replacement), who was
probably glad to have another body between him
and the danger above. Our. No. 2 gun must have
scored a hit as the plane failed to pull out of
the dive and ploughed into the melon field to
our right. The bulk of the remaining fighters
were strafing the airfield and flew straight
into the sights of our Nos. 3 and 4 guns on the
opposite side of the field.
Slowly Fritz and I crawled from the trench. The
firing had stopped around us and I was about to
climb back on the gun to replace the empty
magazine when I noticed blood dripping from my
right coat sleeve. A quick look revealed a rip
in my upper tunic sleeve and I realised one of
the Rata's machine gun bullets had got me
between the upper arm and chest, cutting through
the muscle. Jakob took my coat off and put a
bandage around. On the other side of the gun
Anton lay on the ground with Langhans kneeling
over him trying to bandage his upper leg which
had been almost ripped off by an exploding 2cm
grenade. The No. 2 gun on our right had also
been hit, with the Kapo receiving a bullet in
the back and the loading gunner one in the
chest.
The planes must have had enough as they
disappeared in a wide circle to the south east
to their base, probably somewhere around Croznyy,
or anywhere in the Kalmuk Steppe. The Steppe
could be described as one huge airfield, flat as
a pancake right to the Caspian Sea, swarming
with marauding Mongolian Cossack units on their
saddleless horses. Their chief function was
maintaining communications and supplies, raiding
German positions in the small hours of the
morning, silently and efficiently, and making
good use of their daggers. "Where is the bloody
ambulance? Toni will bleed to death." Langhans
was getting impatient; one of those occasions
when he showed that he did care for his men.
Actually in Tony's predicament, one felt if he
didn't bleed to death before help came then he
was a 'lucky fellow'. With a 'Heimatschuss',
like that (a wound that ensured you would be
sent home), he didn't need to worry any more
about being sent to the front again. Those were
always one's thoughts. Of course, his leg would
have to be removed but they would fit him with
an artificial one and give him a nice war
service pension. Not like poor Ludwig who was
sent to 'Valhalla' with all the other 'Helden'.
No pension to enjoy there. Perhaps he'd get his
name on a wall in his home town's memorial, then
again, perhaps not...Whoever said there would be
pensions anyway?
The ambulance arrived to take us to the first aid
station. They must have been busy as there was
still blood on the stretchers. The 'heavies'
were sent straight to the Georgiyevsk field
hospital while I was dealt with at the station -
a tetanus booster in the behind, a new dressing,
and plenty of 'Kv Wasser'. The latter was our
malicious description of the antiseptic fluid
that made a wound heal quickly, hence 'Kv'
Kriegsverwendungsf„hig (fit for war service). It
was probably developed by a sadistic scientist
who couldn't bear the thought of some poor
fellow recuperating slowly from his wounds.
Since my wound was only minor I was send back to
our gun and told to take it easy for a week or
so. Langhans was visibly relieved to see me
return - or was it only because he regarded me
as such an asset who could be useful for the odd
jobs and watch duty? He stressed how lucky I
was. "Had the Ivans used explosives in their
machine guns," he told me, " you would still be
crawling around the melon field looking for the
missing arm!" He really was a
comfort."Verdammter Ostpreusse," Tony would have
said. Or maybe Langhans was genuinely glad to
see me back, because I came close to being the
third of his original crew to leave him...
The airfield was in shambles with wreckage
everywhere, and the charred shape of the pilot
of the crashed Rata out in the melon field
appeared to be observing it all from his
smouldering seat, his head shrunk to the size of
an orange, and a grim reminder that his comrades
would be back for revenge. Next time it would be
different as they would come prepared, knowing
exactly the layout of our positions.
I was put on light duties, which included
delivering the food from the base kitchen by
horse and cart to our various gun positions. On
occasions this had been done with the help of a
camel but that creature was useless, to say the
least. Food delivery was very irregular as the
camel only moved when it wanted to and if its
handler strove for better results by simply
kicking it that was the end of the food delivery
for the day; the camel just stood still, turned
his head and spat in the face, and that stank
worse than a two-week old body.
Our second gun had been knocked out and of the
remaining crew Langhans inherited two, the rest
being deployed to guns on the other side of the
field until delivery of a replacement gun, if
ever.
Up on the hills various buildings could be seen
through binoculars, possibly farm buildings, and
camels and sheep moving about. We couldn't tell
whether there were people there though suspected
there would be. As our food supply was always
short and very basic - mainly tinned - the
kitchen was always on the lookout for
supplementary sources. So one bright sunny
morning when I thought I had finished my
breakfast coffee run the kitchen sergeant
decided I should make myself a bit more useful
by taking the horse and buggy and drive up to
the farm on the hill and perhaps try to get some
milk, butter - or anything that was to be had.
"Who is coming with me?" I asked the kitchen
Feldwebel. "Can't spare anybody", he replied.
"What, me, all by myself?" I stammered. "Take
the horse" was his sarcastic reply. I didn't
like the idea very much, but he was 'rank' and I
was well below him. So off I went with two large
milk cans on the buggy and Langhans's borrowed
pistol on my belt with a few spare rounds in the
pocket.
I was about an hour out and on the uphill leg of
the trip with just the horse for company and the
farm still in the distance when the horse
started to snort and put its head from side to
side. I got an uneasy feeling that I was not
alone and when I looked around to my horror I
glimpsed a hat and a fearsome-looking beard. It
was a Cossack and he'd been following me on
horseback, probably for quite some time. He kept
a steady distance of some 15-20 metres behind me
I couldn't see whether he was armed or not. I
wanted to turn back and forget about the bloody
milk -let the damn cook come and get it himself.
I had another quick look round to see whether
there were any more of them and it looked like
he was on his own, but he was obviously on my
trail. If I slowed down, so did he; if I trotted
faster, his horse did likewise.
I slowly opened my pistol case and released the
safety catch for a quick draw and good aim, at
the same time wishing somebody else was in my
place. I didn't like him trailing my back, so
stopped the horse for him to come closer,
keeping a firm grip on the pistol. When he drew
alongside I noticed he had a muzzle-loading
rifle strapped to his horse, and a powder bag
and lead satchel in his belt, the kind of arms
he would need to ask his intented victim to
remain still for a moment while he loaded. No,
it wasn't the ancient shooting iron that made me
break out in a sweat, it was the sharp, curved
dagger hanging dangerously close to his hand! I
had no doubt that fearsome looking steel blade
could be placed in the back of my head with
precise accuracy with no trouble at all, if he
wished. I braced myself for a show down, full of
anticipation of what his next move might be
tense, but did my best not to show it.
The Cossack stopped his horse alongside my buggy
and to my surprise gave me a kind of
Moslem-fashioned greeting - head bow, sweeping
hand and touching forehead, all without getting
off his horse. I must admit he'd got me there. I
had no idea how Moslems exchanged greetings and
how I should respond so I simply gave him a
military salute and hoped it wouldn't incur his
wrath. They could be pretty touchy from what I
remembered from one of the Karl May books I had
read as a boy at home on rainy days, 'Travel
through Turkistan' or something like it. I
waited for the dagger to come whirling through
the air though figured it would hit me the same
time as my bullet would hit him. But instead he
put his two fists to his eyes like a pair of
binoculars, turned his head from left and right
and made bah, bah noises. I guessed then to my
enormous relief that he wasn't after my blood at
all but was simply looking for some lost sheep.
Well, I couldn't help him there. I eased the
grip on my pistol, hoping he wouldnt have
noticed it and put my hands to my eyes in the
same fashion and said "Nyeto" a couple of times,
shrugging my shoulders in synchronism just to
make sure he was aware that I was deeply
concerned with his problem, then pointed to my
milk containers and indicated I was looking for
Laylo (milk) and perhaps also for Maslo
(butter). "Da, da" he said, pointing up the
hill, "Yosadba," (farmhouse) and beckoned me to
follow him as he trotted off. I felt much better
then having him in front of me but kept the
pistol holster open, just in case.
Eventually we reached what appeared to be the
farm gate and he motioned me to wait outside for
his return. It sure wasn't a kolkhose, judging
by the missing watch tower. Actually I wouldn't
have dared go past that gate where half a dozen
fierce-looking dogs the size of half-grown polar
bears were patrolling, together with a posse of
equally hostile-looking camels. I tossed up my
chances and thought probably the safest thing
would be to forget about the milk and clear out
quietly, and wondered what the kitchen sergeant
would say to that! However, I decided to chance
it and wait for the shepherd to return, for I
presumed that was what he was.
The bearded Cossack wasn't alone when he returned
but brought with him, supposedly, the head man
of the establishment and some of his fellow
'advisors'. It wasn't just the fierce-looking
bearded faces that gave me an uneasy feeling;
what worried me most were the horrible daggers
tucked in their belts. My pistol would have got
one, maybe two, but 5 or 6 knives would have
homed in on me with no trouble at all! Again, I
was greeted with the Moslem touching forehead
and hand waving salute, in reply to that I gave
them my best regulation salute. Then the head
man's assistant handed me a wooden bowl
containing some awful-looking wobbly substance
and indicated that I should eat it. There was no
point in asking for a spoon - they most likely
didn't use such things - and I wasn't too keen
to drink such a horrible looking unappetising
mess which could have been poison but, then,
looking into those bearded faces and the pointed
daggers in their belts with their fists wrapped
round the grips, I was prepared to do almost
anything they asked, so I drank it.
It was awful tasting sour goat milk yoghurt, and
such a lot of it - or perhaps it was camel's
milk. I didn't dare to ask. They kept their eyes
on me until every gut-churning, revolting 'blob'
was gone, then miraculously their faces lit up
and, obviously, I was accepted, and I shuddered
to think what the consequences would have been
had I refused. They were not a bit interested in
war and who was waging it. In fact they thought
I was French, and when I said I was Nemetzky
(German) they said "Da,da, Germansky soldat
kharacho." I suspected anything would have been
'kharacho' provided one drank their yoghurt. I
don't think they had the remotest idea where
Germany was.
Then some more shepherds came running along,
gibbering and shouting in their language,
Georgian or Armenian, throwing their hands about
and pointed down into the valley, in the
direction of our field and I could see why they
were so excited. The Ratas were back again. I
couldn't make out how many, but it was quite
spectacular watching the planes weaving in and
out trying to avoid the tracers from our guns,
and judging by the smoke, followed by a flash of
flame they must have scored a hit on one. It
disappeared into the ground spewing up a
fireball, followed by an oily-black mushroom
cloud, much to the delight of the shepherds, who
kept slapping each other on the back. It looked
like it didn't matter to them whose planes they
were as long as it provided good entertainment!
With my cans filled with milk, and a couple of
lumps of butter thrown into the bargain, and
lots of what sounded like pra-shcha-nye, Russian
farewells I hopped on my buggy and left this
cheerful lot of shepherds for my return journey.
Just as I left I noticed some commotion on the
far side of the farmhouse and could make out the
uniforms of the SS.SD (Security Service). They
would have been making a search of the place but
I felt sure they wouldn't be eating the
shepherd's yoghurt. Knowing their reputation I
made a hasty retreat as I didn't want to be
caught and questioned about my presence on the
farm, or accused of fraternising with the enemy.
The penalty for that could have been worse than
a shepherd's dagger between the eyes... (SD -
Sicherheitsdienst were Himmler's special
police).
I made good time on the downhill leg and by late
afternoon reached the field. I was all right but
the milk hadn't fared too well as the shaking of
the cart and the afternoon's heat had separated
and curdled it. Oh no. Not more yoghurt!
The Rata attack had left a fair bit of
destruction. One of the FW reconnaissance planes
was completely destroyed and another damaged and
our No. 3 gun on the eastern side of the field
suffered one dead and one wounded. One Rata was
shot down - the one I'd seen and which had
provided the shepherds' 'spectator sport'. Two
others had been damaged, leaving a trail of
smoke on their home run. I appreciated having
been sent on the outing up the mountain which
kept me out of the action but Langhans had
decided it was time I gave up my 'malingering'
and resumed full duties with the crew. He
figured I was in better health than he was. That
was all right with me as I certainly didn't want
to go on another milk run.
Johann's plane - he flew a late afternoon
mission - was overdue. The pilot of one of his
escorts reported seeing him get hit from flak
and go down so a search party was sent out as
the crash position had been recorded. We never
saw Johann again. He had desperately tried to
nurse his plane home but his luck ran out and
the plane had come down on its belly close to
the Russian flak position, just short of the
German line. He and his observer survived, the
rear gunner didn't. He told the observer to make
his way across the line with the camera and he
would follow as soon as he had set the fuse to
destroy the plane but by the time he had done
this his escape was cut off by surrounding
Russians and Johann was true to his word. He put
his pistol to his head and blew his brains out.
He was just a few months over twenty...