“Comrades!”…
I cannot go on. Here stands my 2nd Squadron, the 1st is stationed down in Austria… shall I ever set eyes on it again? And the 3rd at Prague… Where are they now, now when I want so much to see them round me… all… our dead comrades as well as the survivors of the unit…
There is an uncanny hush, the eyes of all my men are riveted upon me. I must say something.
“…after we have lost so many comrades… after so much blood has flowed at home and on the fronts… an incomprehensible fate… has denied us victory… the gallantry of our soldiers… of our whole people… has been unparalleled… the war is lost… I thank you for the loyalty with which you… in this unit… have served our country…”
I shake hands with every man in turn. None of them utters a word. The silent hand-grip shows me that they understand me. As I walk away for the last time I hear Fridolin snap the order:
“Eyes-right!”
“Eyes-right!” for the many, many comrades who sacrificed their young lives. “Eyes-right!” for the conduct of our people, for their heroism, the most splendid ever shown by a civilian population. “Eyes-right!” for the finest legacy that Germany’s dead have ever bequeathed to posterity… “Eyes-right!” for the countries of the West which they have striven to defend and which are now caught in the fatal embrace of Bolshevism…
What are we to do now? Is the war over for the “Immelmann” Wing? Could we not give the youth of Germany a reason to hold up their heads in pride again one day by some final gesture, such as crashing the whole Wing onto some G.H.Q. or other important enemy target and by such a death bringing our battle record to a significant climax? The Wing would be with me to a man, I am sure of that. I put the question to the group. The answer is no… perhaps it is the right one… there are enough dead… and perhaps we have still another mission to fulfill.
I have decided to lead the column which is going back by road. It will be a very long column because all formations under my command including the flak are to march with the ground personnel. Everything will be ready by 6 o’clock and then we shall make a start. The squadron leader of the 2nd Squadron has instructions to fly all his aircraft west. When the commodore hears of my intention to lead the ground column he orders me because of my wound to fly while Fridolin is to lead the march. There is a formation under my command on the airfield at Reichenberg. I can no longer reach it by telephone, so I fly there with Niermann to inform it of the new situation. On the way the cockpit hood of my Storch flies off, its climbing performance is bad; I need it, however, because Reichenberg lies on the other side of the mountains. I approach the airfield cautiously through a valley; it already presents an appearance of desolation. At first I see nobody and taxi the aircraft into a hangar with the intention of using the telephone in the flying control room. I am just in the act of getting out of the Storch when there is a terrific explosion and a hangar goes up in the air before my eyes. Instinctively we fall flat on our stomachs and wait for the hail of stones which tear a few holes in our aerofoil, but we are unscathed. Next to the flying control but a lorry loaded with flares has caught fire and the flares explode all around up in a harlequinade of colors. A symbol of the debacle. My heart bleeds—only to think of it. Here at all events no one has waited for my news that the end has come; seemingly it has arrived considerably earlier from another quarter.
We climb back into the crippled Storch and with an interminably long take-off she lifts herself wearily from the airfield. Following the same valley route by which we came we get back to Kummer. Everybody is busily packing his things; the order of march is arranged in a way that seems tactically most convenient. The A.A. guns are parceled up through the length of the column so that they may be able to put up a defense against attack, should the need arise, if anyone tries to hinder our westward march. Our destination is the American-occupied southern part of Germany.
After the column has started all the rest, except those who want to wait until I take off, will fly away; many of them will have a chance to escape capture if they can land somewhere near their homes. This being out of the question for me, I intend to land on an airfield occupied by the Americans as I need immediate medical attention for my leg; therefore the idea of my going into hiding is not to be considered. Besides, too many people would recognize me. I see no reason either why I should not land on a normal aerodrome, believing that the allied soldiers will treat me with the chivalry due even to a defeated enemy. The war is over, and so I do not expect to be detained or held prisoner for long; I think that in a very short time everyone will be allowed to go home.
I am standing by, watching the column loading up when I hear a droning high above; there are fifty or sixty Russian bombers, Bostons. I have barely time to give warning before the bombs come whistling down. I lie flat on the road with my crutches and think that if those beggars’ aim is good there will be appalling casualties with us all so close together. Already the crash of the bombs as they make impact with the earth, a little carpet of bombs in the middle of the town, a thousand yards from the road where we were drawn up. The poor people of Niemes!
The Russians come in twice to drop their bombs. Even at the second attempt they do no damage to our column. Now we are in column of route and make a start. I take a last comprehensive look at my unit which has been for seven years my world and all that means anything to me. How much blood shed in a common cause cements our fellowship! For the last time I salute them.
Northwest of Prague, near Kladno, the column runs into Russian tanks and a very strong enemy force. According to the terms of the armistice arms must be surrendered and laid down. A free passage is guaranteed to unarmed soldiers. It is not long after this that armed Czechs fall upon our now defenseless men. Bestially, with outrageous brutality, they butcher German soldiers. Only a few are able to fight their way through to the West, among them my young intelligence officer, Pilot Officer Haufe. The rest fall into the hands of the Czechs and the Russians. One of those who fall victim to the Czech terrorism is my best friend, Fridolin. It is infinitely tragic that he should meet with such an end after the war is over. Like their comrades who have laid down their lives in this war, they too are martyrs for German liberty.
The column has set off and I return to the Kummer airfield. Katschner and Fridolin are still at my side; then they drive away after the column to meet their fate. Six other pilots have insisted on flying West with me; we are three Ju. 87s and four FW 190s. Among them are the 2nd Squadron leader and Pilot Officer Schwirblatt who, like myself, has lost a leg and has nevertheless in recent weeks done grand work knocking out enemy tanks. He always says: “It is all the same to the tanks whether we knock them out with one leg or two!”
After bidding a difficult farewell to Fridolin and Flight Lt. Katschner—a dark premonition tells me that we shall never see each other again—we take off on our last flight. A singular and indescribable feeling. We are saying goodbye to our world. We decide to fly to Kitzingen because we know it to be a large aerodrome, and therefore assume that it will now be occupied by the American Air Force. In the Saaz area we have a skirmish with the Russians who appear suddenly out of the haze and hope, in the intoxication of victory, to make mincemeat of us. What they have failed to do in five years they do not succeed in doing today, our last encounter.
After close on two hours we approach the aerodrome, tensely wondering if, even now, the American A.A. guns will open up at us. The large airfield already lies ahead. I instruct my pilots over the R/T that they may only crash-land their aircraft; we do not mean to hand over any serviceable planes. My orders are to unlock the undercarriage and then rip it off in a high speed taxi in. The best way to achieve our object will be to brake violently on one side and to kick the rudderbar on the same side. I can see a crowd of soldiers on the aerodrome; they are paraded—probably a sort of victory roll-call—under the American flag. At first we fly low above the aerodrome in order to make certain that the flak will not attack us as we land. Some of the parade now recognize us and suddenly perceive the German swastika on our wing planes above their heads. Part of the ceremonial muster falls flat. We land as ordered; only one of our aircraft makes a smooth landing and taxis to a stop. A flight sergeant of the 2nd Squadron has a girl on board lying in the tail of his aircraft and is scared that if he makes a so-called bellylanding the damage will extend to his precious feminine stowaway. “Of course” he does not know her; she just happened to be standing so forlornly on the perimeter of the airfield and did not want to be left behind with the Russians. But his colleagues know better.