Luftwaffe Bomber to Nightfighter: Volume I: The Memoirs of a Knight's Cross Pilot

With Kampfgeschwader 53

[21 June to 6 October 1941]

21.6.41

¹

On standby since 1330 hours. What’s going to happen? Rumours are going round. Everyone’s instinct is spot-on. The attack on the Soviets seems imminent.

On 21.6.1941 towards 1500 hours the entire squadron reports for duty. Its captain, Hauptmann [Fritz] Pockrandt² receives the message and proceeds to unfold several maps. He’s unusually serious and briefs us on the situation. Russia intends – and our in-depth reconnaissance has confirmed this – to push forward against East Prussia and the Generalgouvernement.³,⁴ Extensive provisions have been made on the German side as well. We had become well aware of that over the last few days.⁵

Insignia of Kampfgeschwader 55 – named after the ‘Legion Condor’ but not to be confused with it.

‘If it all starts tomorrow morning, we’re to attack the airfield Biels-Piliki⁶ south of Bialystok, some 80 km behind the front line. The area is swarming with fighter planes. Here’s how we’ll distribute: we, the 9th Squadron, will attack the ammunition bunker and the runway, the 7th Squadron targets the barracks and the 8th Squadron the machines placed on the eastern edge. I hope that you, the young new crews, will prove as feisty and successful in this your first enemy attack, and in those that follow, as the old ones did before you. Pilots and observers will receive maps and images, and above all: make sure you do a proper job tomorrow – hit your targets!’

Initially, his words are met with dead silence. Everyone is deeply impressed. This is followed shortly afterwards by loud jubilation drowning out anything anyone tries to say. All crewmembers were overjoyed to finally see some action, finally be able to prove themselves to the enemy and at long last be allowed to show what they had been learning during so many years of training.⁷

All crews gather and try to figure out what are the optimal targets to engage with, from the images provided to us. Our crew seems to have been given the off-cuts – the bunker, it looks like, and the runway. But bunkers certainly needed to be cracked.

That evening at 2300 we have to report a second time. The flying personnel immediately report in the long corridor of the barracks. The captain announces the start time: tomorrow, at 03.30. We make our last preparations and go to bed. But then again, who can sleep before their very first operation?

22.6.41

First Operation

Night 01.00. Reveille. We’re dressed in no time, and we wait for the trucks in front of our barracks. A few minutes later we’ve boarded and approach the yard at full pelt. Far away we see fires burning, and a slim sliver of skylight indicates dawn. Standing in the middle of the HQ courtyard the Gruppenkommandeur [Major Richard Fabian] explains the situation once again, allocates the targets we are to engage with and wishes everyone good luck. He’ll take the lead.

Once again we find ourselves on the truck. Each crew is being driven to their machine. An ‘all-clear’ is reported from the first control room.

On the left: Fritz Pockrandt, captain of the 9th Staffel. On the right: Major Richard Fabian, group commander (photo 1944).

There’s quite a bit going through my mind. Will my He 111 cope with its cargo? Will my bird manage to take off with it being pitch dark outside and having to make do with the miserable small airfield which we’ve only had a few days to get familiar with? If everything just goes to plan and doesn’t … No, it doesn’t even bear thinking about! Everyone will be cruising up there in the sky, except for you – you’ll crash. Just clench your teeth – it simply must work!

In you go! Get yourself into the good old crate! Let’s do one last check, but frankly the work done by the control room never disappoints, it’s 100 per cent. The engines of the old guy ahead of me start revving up and a moment later I too roll along, positioning myself to his left, as I am allocated to his section. I can see Rudi Schwarze grinning over to us from the right.⁸ That guy with his big gob cannot be made to shut up. The old guy lifts his hand. We’re set. The next minute our section rolls forwards, rumbles along the uneven runway and our bird lifts off easily despite its heavy cargo. Bang on the dot, at 0330 we take off.⁹

Our squadron whips into a sharp left turn and zooms up in a corkscrew climb, and in tight formation targets the Sielce airfield¹⁰ to chase the intruders. And guess who doesn’t turn up? The good old fighter planes.¹¹ Didn’t much bother us, mind you, as we didn’t carry ammunition with us just for fun and games!¹²

Single-mindedly our squadron flies towards its target after changing course only slightly. At 0415 we cross over the Bug, the border. In quite a few places below us the spectacle has started. Artillery advances into Russian territory. Can’t make out any enemy guns or cannons.¹³

A thick bank of clouds bars our path. We press down and fly just below the cloud ceiling at some 2,000 metres and before we know it we’ve reached our destination. Banking sharply, the commander steers us towards the optimal course of attack.

Two He 111s posted to KG55 – to which Döring was due to switch – at take-off at dawn on 26 June 1942, on course to attack the Soviet Union.

‘Open bays!’ Richard [Wawerek] quickly cranks up the lever, then pores over the bombsight: ‘List to port – more! Stop – pull it back – good, that’s good … again, list to port … Full throttle! Achtung! Bombs dropping!’

Calmly I’ve been observing the needle indicating the small changes in course. I then look outside. It’s still quite hazy below, but I can make out the targets. No air resistance as of yet, which slightly puzzles me. Have we really succeeded in our surprise attack and are the guys down below still asleep? Looks like they’re in for a rude awakening.

We drop our eggs, fire clouds rise up, great masses of dirt fountains spurt into the air mixed with all kinds of debris, and flames of fire come belching out from all directions. Pity, but our bombs have hit the area to the right of the ammunition depots. Nonetheless, another wave sweeps across the entire field and rips through the runway with two deafening explosions at the top end. No chance for a fighter to take off for quite a while, as the bombs jettisoned by the other crews come whistling down, carpeting the rest of the runway.

Peering down during our sharp turn, I catch a momentary glimpse of several parked fighters with fifteen of them ablaze and flames pouring from most of the barracks. ‘Flak!’ exclaims Rudi, but all we can make out is a single shot which missed its target by a good kilometre. By then, we’re well beyond the range of fire. But then comes the alarming call: ‘Fighters at the rear!’

Blazing away until the barrels are hot, our formation packs up tight – easy target for the Russians but our defence is in shape. A fire trail from twenty-seven machines streaks across the sky, near-blinding the Russians, who prefer to dive off immediately.

Ahead of us the protruding nose appears in our sights. Some artillery exchanges – not much else as far as we can tell.

In front of us the airfield and within a short time our entire task force has landed. No losses – we return and fly home. Such was our success that a further sortie which had initially been scheduled to take place was not flown.

Towards the evening a second sortie was flown to the Bialystok airfield,¹⁴ which had already been under attack during the day by other units. But just before crossing the border we are forced to turn round due to rapidly falling darkness and when we land on our small Polish airbase it is pitch black.

23.6.41

Second Operation

Werner Mölders after being awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Swords (Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Werner_M%C3%B6lders#/media/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-B12003,_Werner_M%C3%B6lders.jpg).

Attacked and hit tanks and motorised units heading north-east of Brest-Litovsk, passing Koboyn towards Bereza-Kartuska. These, more or less, were our orders.¹⁵ Some ten minutes later our team is in the air, calmly gliding towards our target crossing over Brest-Litovsk at 800 m. Parts of the city were burning, with large columns of bright red flames lighting up the night. Ferocious fighting on a grand scale around the citadel. We carry out escort patrols and Mölders¹⁶ personally heads up Jagdgeschwader 51.

Lots of traffic on the road to Koboyn. Everything down below is stuffed with troops. Vehicles drive long stretches off-road. Our advance pushes forward inland, our tanks are at the front. Ahead of them some 2 km of no man’s land. Then column after column stack up in disarray. Hurrah! These are Russians. Clunky Russian tanks of all sizes, motorised troops, military vehicles, artillery sandwiched in between, throngs of people fleeing by the hundreds, charging east. We’ve reached our objective. Our Staffel dived from our higher altitude and pelted the road with our machine guns. Boy, oh boy – we sure hit our targets. The first bombs hail down in quick succession. We fly in a line alongside the road and carefully take aim. Our bombs explode among tanks, armaments and vehicles, spraying panicked Russians with a rain of fire. All hell breaks loose down below and nobody even considers defensive fire. All over the sky the flash of tracers illuminates the targets like beads of a necklace. To safeguard the road for our own advance we avoid full-scale action, giving a few bursts into the ditches alongside instead. Our shells crashing and bombs exploding in all directions create a sea of flame. Actually hard to miss targets that are presented so neatly. Overturned tanks are swiftly engulfed by fire, with pillars of smoke and dust billowing into the air. Armoured vehicles obstruct the road and horses rearing up and thrashing around add to the fear and frenzy.

Gradually some of those down below manage to gather themselves. Searchlights went on, pointing their thin fingers of death against our bombers. In pairs these tracers swoop over us. In between, red balls zoom past, barely missing us. Escaping light flak shells and bursts of MG fire, we climb higher and though it looks rather harmless we certainly don’t want to be hit. Singling out their batteries, we drop a few fire salvos and with that their posts are silenced.

We are in hot pursuit. Right in front of me a truck explodes, smoke spiralling up into the air. It was probably loaded with ammunition, causing the air pressure to fling me a good distance higher. Quickly I test the rudders and check the engines and the rest of the instruments, but all seems well. At practically the same time Karl and Toni experience something of a mental block when the realise that they aren’t managing to fire at some really juicy targets and they start swearing as only Landsers know how, but moments later tracers from all sides converge on Bolshevik targets, with bullets lashing and slamming into the enemy.

In front of us: Bereza-Kartuska, our turning point. A few tanks give us quite a spectacular welcome from the entrance of the village. We have a close shave with the tracers that come up in orange-coloured smoke chains streaking away over our heads. At times we hear a hollow tin sound of crashing metal. A hit.

A quick check of the instruments and controls while briefly glancing at the visible parts of the machine; I feel reassured about the fine state my crate is in.

Tanks enveloped in the dense web of our tracers while we remain unscathed. Pity that we’ve dropped all our bombs.

The old guy in front of us peels away in a sharp left turn and it’s only then that we commence on our dive to then follow up with strafing the road while heading home, shooting at everything in our sights. Weaving back and forth across it, sometimes zooming straight ahead, at an altitude of very nearly treetop height we spray death and confusion into the red columns. There! I’ve spotted one seeking cover behind a thick tree trunk, someone else flits across the road like a madman, he’s shot and a moment later crumbles into a heap like a blazing torch. All we see are his legs. Bang! A bomb explodes, probably the last of the old guy’s supply, and clean overturned a tank, sending it hurtling down a small embankment – I never expected such a small device to have such an impact. Richard sits huddled up in the cabin, continually banging away at ground targets with empty capsules swishing in the air.

Gently pushing the throttle back, gradually slowing the machine down, I straighten myself out and keep shooting. Edging up close alongside me, a machine overtakes and flies some 100 metres ahead of me. Then, suddenly, four bombs are dropped. With the engine at full throttle I wing over into a steep dive, then engage in an abrupt climb when there’s a thunderous crash, another one and a third. Pressure rises sharply, pieces of shrapnel fly through the cabin, mixed with splinters and shards and the next second the cabin is choked with smoke, dirt and dust. Fighting to get this tricky beast under control, I grapple with the instrument panel but fail. Instinctively Richard and I hunch over, burying our heads.

Before long Richard changes tack, launching into a barrage of not so flattering comments about the poor chap in front. I actually can’t help but laugh as his litany of insults breaks the tension. I ask whether all is all right in the rear, but that isn’t so necessary as they too are happily engaged in foul-mouthing our enemy. Thankfully, our engines seem to be holding up and no one’s hurt. The bomb thrower better beware – we’ll give him a piece of our mind sooner or later. Not everything seems to be going smoothly as the aileron can only be lifted with a lot of effort, but I sort of manage, level the bird and continue low-level flying until all my drums are empty. Pulling the aircraft up to get a better general view, the leader of our tank convoy comes into sight and Landsers wave their hands at us. Looping down, unfortunately, is out of the question.

Gradually our Staffel comes together, flying towards our base. But, hey? What’s that? Two machines are missing … surely not …?

Scanning the area for the squadrons attached to First Lieutenant Lehmann and Lieutenant Hubenthal, we draw a blank – they’re missing. [Rudolf] Nietzsche totters with one engine towards base and two fighter planes accompany him.

A few moments later the field comes into view and my bird too lurches forward onto the apron. Our team, which is waiting for us, won’t stop asking us questions which we try to answer to the best of our ability while not missing a beat and at the same time properly inspect our machine. Looks like we’ve been hit by quite a few MG bullets, with our fuselage and wings slashed by a good dozen splinters and a maelstrom of shards. One splinter, must have been as big as a handball, has punctured the aileron. Bullets have scraped past the radio operator’s seat and even penetrated the dashboard. Two tanks have been shattered. Unfortunately, our bird is out of commission for several days – but should be up and flying in some three days.

A truck drives past on its way to the command post. Above us a one-engine crate hovers in the air then lands smoothly on the tarmac, reducing speed as it taxis towards the edge of the field. Nietzsche. After his radio message, he’d been hit with MG shelling damaging his left engine and forcing him to shut it down as he couldn’t sustain a good margin of height. A few treetops were clean shaved off, which would explain the damaged elevator. But eventually the crate managed to gain some height, make a wide sweep and then land properly. The fellow certainly lucked out.

Gradually we’re able to gather more details about the whereabouts of Hubenthal and Lehmann. Hubenthal attempted an emergency landing in open countryside between the lines. One team claims to have watched several men bail out – running towards territory behind their front line. Lehmann’s machine had crash-landed on its belly. The crew was nowhere in sight, but having come down over our own land, we know they’re in German hands.

A Fieseler Storch landed that afternoon with Wieser on board, Hubenthal’s radio operator, who brings us sad news: Hubenthal and his gunner were killed by the Russians on their march to reach their front line. My namesake, Paulchen Döring, was injured in his calf and as for his observer, a bullet had grazed his right elbow. While all that happened, Wieser was tucked underneath the crate, pistol at the ready, waiting for the Russians to move away. Pity – they were all good mates of ours.

First Lieutenant Lehmann reappears the following day. Poor fellow had been taken down by a tank, fierce shelling had pierced through his engine, the cockpit was practically wrecked and flying shards embedded themselves in the second engine. Crossing the Bug, he approached land and then, like a flaming torch, he crash-lands. They’d all bailed out and everyone was back safely.

Flight above Russia, 1941.

25.6.41

We were ordered to attack the Luminec rail junction located in the Pripet marshes.¹⁷ The route takes us from Piasov via Brest along the train track which runs across Kobryn–Pinsk direction east. We’re to disconnect the lines running both northwards and eastwards.

We’re cruising at an altitude of some 1,200 metres, tightly below stacked blobs of cumulus clouds which are slowly and ominously gathering in on us and keeping me terribly busy while I attempt an accurate approach – phenomenally difficult.

Finally, I pinpoint our target. Across the train tracks, in close squadron formations, we draw wide loops making directly towards the tracks to put them out of use wherever possible. Then the bombs are dropped. It is sheer impossible to get away, what with the high winds. A stick of bombs explode right across the train tracks with thick banners of black smoke and stabbing jets of flame shooting into the air. Tracks are ripped apart and large craters dug into the embankment. Looks like we’ve disabled that stretch of steel for some time to come and managed seriously to disrupt reinforcement efforts. Not such an easy feat to crack a junction like that – some 4 to 6 metres wide, it was.

After a few turns and wide loops, we get away and fly across the town and its train station, where several trains are lined up. Shame that we’ve completely run out of bombs by now. Tracer flares come whizzing in streams out of everywhere, framing the puffing train carriages – but we’re unable actually to confirm what impact they have.

Diving down, we get out of the glinting sunlight to then climb up and across the town. This is our first time confronting solid black clouds of concentrated flak fire exploding at perfect altitude, but fortunately not adequately angled, and with us drawing wide sweeping curves to get into position, the Russians are forced continually to adjust their position – which in turn sends our needles jumping around wildly. Some targets we’ve identified are strafed with precision and despite the powerful noise of our radial engine we could still hear the dull thuds following the explosions. Damn close to us, bombs begin raining down. As if on cue, we fan out and whatever else is dropped into the sky, now obstinately empty, may or may not be a winner.

On our return we seize the opportunity to make good use of our hard-hitting and effective aircraft armament, launching ourselves into targeting enemy troops and tent lines the minute we catch sight of them. Needless to say, in our low-level attacks we aim with absolute precision. Long trails of smoke and jets of flame rise and encircle the first squadron, flooding the sky in a ghostly light. The boys are real pros. Here and there we can hear hammer-blows to the crates – sure hits. Glancing briefly at the wings, I can attest to a number of bullet holes. Our left fuel tank also got its fair share, steadily losing fuel, but after some vigorous pumping we manage to maintain some formation and remain on course. The leaking fuel stank to high heaven –