Diary of Stuka Gunner: 11 July 1940

A difficult note this time Mutti. My hand is shaking too much to write properly, I hope you can read it.

Today I died. Twice.

The Hauptmann killed me as surely as any Tommy and divine intervention is the only reason I am still here to write to you about it.

Another convoy attack was our mission today, but we never even sighted it. Nor, our escort. In our briefing we learned we would be 160 Stukas in the air that morning, with double that number of fighters to protect us, and certainly we saw and heard the whole Gruppe readying for action as we took off. You can imagine the feeling Mutti, to see hundreds of German aircraft in the air as we assembled for the mission.

But as we hit the coast we went our separate ways. Our escort were nowhere to be seen, and we were alone over the Channel at 1,000 metres when, to the north, we saw six Hurricanes climbing fast to meet us. It was clear they would reach us within minutes, and the convoy was nowhere to be seen.

Hozzel the Schnozzel gave the order to dump our ordnance and scatter, and our comrades all dived for the safety of France, about ten kilometres away. It would be a close race. Either we would reach France and our own flak defences before the fighters reached us, or we would not. Either they would have the fuel to chase us, or they would not. We could only hope they were flying on fumes. I held my breath.

Hptmn Hein also dumped our bomb, and started to turn for home, but then something in him seemed to snap, “Dammit, it’s like they knew we were coming! Well, let them see we are not all cowards!” he said. And then he hauled the Stuka around and dived towards the climbing Tommies!

“Hauptmann!” I screamed, “We should stay with the staffel! I can hold them off if they get close!”

“You, Fritz, have only one MG. I at least, have two,” he said.

And so I flew to my death with my back facing the enemy. I heard the pathetic chatter of our two MG 17s, drowned immediately afterwards by the thunderous roar of engines and guns as we blew through the formation of Hurricanes – unscathed! The Hauptmann kept the Stuka in a dive without brakes until the airframe was shuddering and we must have been at nearly 600 km/h before he hauled us up in a climbing turn. Two Hurricanes had turned to follow us down, the rest were continuing after our comrades.

“See Fritz,” Hein said, as to my relief he pointed our nose down toward the coast, “The odds in this race are not so bad as before, right?”

“The Stuka is not a race car, Hauptmann. It is a delivery truck.”

“Maybe if you were flying it Fritz, but not while Heiny is at the stick!”

We slowly built speed toward the coast, but still the two Hurricanes crept closer. In front and to port a melee played out as the pursuing fighters one by one chewed at the tails of our comrades, sending three spiralling into the sea or sand. Several of the Hurricanes broke off, no doubt worried about fuel for the trip home. Stupidly I watched, cheering those who looked to have escaped, when suddenly death claimed me for the first time. The lead Hurricane in pursuit of our aircraft had closed more quickly than I expected and opened fire from directly behind us, about 200 metres away. I saw the tracers flash towards me and then stitch down the fuselage in a neat line straight at my face. I closed my eyes. The heavy leaded glass around me shattered.

My leg was burning. I opened my eyes just as the Hurricane flashed over our tail and saw a smoking, buckled, .303 round sitting on top of my thigh, burning a brown patch on my flight suit. I flicked it onto the floor of my cockpit. Certain death turned to miraculous life. I grabbed my MG in mortal fear of the second Hurricane but saw immediately the gun was ruined, hanging loose on its mount.

By now we were nearly at the coast, and nearly on the deck. The Hurricane that attacked us was 500 metres away, swinging around behind us again in an almost lazy circle, either to re-engage or maybe he was heading home too. But his wingman had dropped in behind us, in a perfect firing position.

“Fighter!” I called, “Break right!”

For once, the Hauptmann listened to me. But he also did something that, looking back on it, I still have trouble believing. He engaged the dive brakes, and pulled our flaps to full, even as he hauled us into a screaming bank. With the dive brakes engaged, our siren engaged, and the Stuka began wailing like a demon as it seemed almost to spin vertically on its wing.

For me, in the back seat, it was almost like being on a fairground ride. We began to stall. Once again, I closed my eyes against the nauseating mist.

When I opened them, the Hurricane was nowhere to be seen, “I have lost him Hauptmann! I can’t see him!”

“It is alright Fritz,” Hein said quietly, “I have him.”

Then he rolled into an opposite bank, pulled in the brakes and flaps, and the guns on our Stuka chattered briefly. Somehow the Hauptmann had got onto the tail of the Hurricane, which had made the fatal mistake of trying to turn with us. Once more the MGs chattered in a long sustained burst as Hein found his target and I saw oily smoke begin to stream past me through the sky, before the Hauptmann peeled away and headed for the coast again.

As we levelled out I saw the Hurricane, its engine smoking and coughing, trying desperately to maintain height. He was too low to bail out. Too fast to ditch. His port wing caught the water and he cartwheeled across it.

It was then, that I died the second time. The Hurricane leader had indeed circled back to attack us again, angry at the loss of his comrade, not caring about whether he would make it home - and slashed across us from rear starboard to port in a blaze of gunfire, catching our wing and engine. One moment I saw sea and sand, the next, some grass and hedgerows. My head slammed into my MG mount, and then into the seat behind me.

“Hold on Fritzy!” was all I heard before I died the second time.

Obviously, the devil did not have my room made up yet. I woke to a thundering headache. Hein sat on the ground beside our shattered aircraft, smoking and flicking ash at the flock of bemused French sheep that had gathered around us.

"Ah, you are alive. Well done," is all he said.

I undid my harness and as I rallied my shaking feet, the .303 round that earlier landed in my lap, crunched under my heel.

I have it on a chain around my neck as I write, Mutti. You know I am not usually superstitious, but I think I need all the help I can get to protect me now.

Not from the English. They are the least of my concerns. But to protect me from Hauptmann Hein, I will need a powerful talisman.

And your prayers, Mutti.

Last edited by HeinKill; 02/22/07 10:08 AM.

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