Bob Carruthers - Into the Gates of Hell - Stug Command '41

“That’s how it should be done,” Rossheim announced immodestly. He watched with satisfaction as the tank came to rest on its side, the tracks now stationary. There was no sign of life from the crew and the next bomb would transform the vehicle into a pile of scrap metal. Suddenly a warning cry was raised over the air.

“Interceptors approaching from the east. Four o’clock high”

The warning cry, heard for the first time in the campaign in Russia, acted like a trumpet call, but it was trumpet call which came too late as first one Stuka then a second suddenly belched black smoke and tumbled earthwards.

The Stuka crews had met with hostile planes in the west and they knew full well that the cumbersome dive-bombers could easily fall prey to interceptors, which were now revealed to be a pair of Russian Rata fighters. There was not much time for contemplation, because the phosphorus filaments were already hissing through the squadron. The air was filled with the babble of voices and air-gunners as each of the Stukas began blazing away for all they were worth.

“Rata on our tail boss,” advised rear gunner Köhler. The Rata (rat) was the German nickname for the Polikarpov I-16, a fighter which Rossheim had encountered in his days in Spain as a member of the Legion Condor. It was considered obsolete even before the present war had begun, yet it obviously plodded along as the Soviet Union’s first line fighter.

“Well, I trust you’ll make him feel welcome to join the party,” said Rossheim, placing the aircraft into a dive as he did so.

By applying the air brakes Rossheim was able to slow the Stuka’s descent and the pursuing Rata was quickly engaged, first by Köhler in the gunner’s seat of Rossheim’s aircraft and then, as it overshot the slowing Stuka, by the fixed-wing machine guns controlled by Rossheim. Under the vicious stream of bullets the Soviet plane fell apart and crashed into the ground with a huge explosion, at which howls of delight were heard in the headphones. It was impossible to say whether the fate of his companion had a bearing on his decision or whether he suddenly realised that his fuel was close to exhausted, but in any event the squadron witnessed the joyful fact that the survivor thereupon showed the large red stars on the lower surfaces of the wings and veered off, heading east as fast as his aircraft would go.

As he re-joined his command, Oberleutnant Rossheim found time to count his squadron and found that two machines were now missing. That was unfortunately only a bitter confirmation of what he had already seen. During the air fight a Ju-87 had withdrawn with a trail of smoke behind it and looked like it might limp home. The other had crashed beneath them. He soon retraced his path and as he let the squadron pass was able to ascertain by the marks of the various machines that it must have been Leutnant Spiegel. Rossheim observed the tall pillar of smoke rising from the ground. He accordingly flew lower, and sure enough, a Ju-87 was ablaze there.

In spite of the severe damage to the plane he had after all succeeded in bringing it to earth under some form of control. Rossheim dropped to a low height above the ground and saw Spiegel, with his face blackened by smoke, frantically waving. Spiegel appeared to be uninjured, but his gunner was lying motionless beside a tree. Help was evidently urgently needed. By a lucky coincidence Rossheim spotted the welcome sight of a cloud of orange smoke from a canister lit by a German infantry battalion on the march on a small road not far from where the emergency landing had taken place. Rossheim climbed a little and wrote a note, with his left hand on the control column: “Wounded airman 300 metres west of the road beside burning plane. Needs help.”

Placing the note in a message-bag he dived down again over the infantry, who were now frantically waving yellow cloths and dislocating their necks while watching the pilot doing his peculiar stunts just overhead. Rossheim let the message bag with its long coloured streamer flutter down and he watched in gratitude as a number of infantrymen ran to pick it up. If the wounded man could still be helped at all, his chances were now enhanced, as a surgeon always accompanied an infantry battalion.

Russian defence by fighter planes had now ceased to exist, so Rossheim and his dive-bomber crews were able to take liberties that would have been prohibitive had enemy fighter planes been about. Conditions were once again as in Poland, where everything that had a propeller had been smashed within a few days.

During the third attack of the day the Rossheim squadron pulled off a great coup. The sun had just risen and was breaking through the nocturnal veil of haze that still hung over the ground. Oberleutnant Rossheim was flying in the direction of Brest-Litovsk at an altitude of 800 metres when he spotted a long column of enemy trucks driving towards the fortress. Rossheim broke up the squadron to crack that nut. There was merry hell down below on that road as the vehicles crashed into trees, bucked into the ditch, or exploded under machine-gun fire and a hail of bombs. Oberleutnant Rossheim was just climbing a little higher in order to get a better view of the effect when suddenly he saw a gigantic spurt of flame from a group of trucks that stood for a few seconds over the column and finally reached a height of over 1,000 metres. That had obviously been an ammunition column!

The chaos of smoke and flames provided cover as number 1 gun rolled back from the Terespol gate to the relative calm of the jumping off point on the other side of the bridge, where SS-Hauptscharführer Fritz Rubbal and his repair team immediately made themselves busy. The guns were soon refuelled and restocked with fresh ammunition. With their work done the crews at last drew breath. Each man had his own way of dealing with the reaction to the stressful experience he had just engaged in. Some threw themselves down and slept where they fell, while others wrote letters or talked about the tumultuous events of the day. Officers and NCOs held debriefings.

Otto Wohl took the opportunity to turn to his favourite pastime and grabbed a pencil and sketchbook. He began to sketch the engineers going about their work, but his mind wasn’t completely on his beloved pastime. He kept one eye on the small group gathered beneath a tree. The loss of number 2 gun so early in the campaign had come as a shock. SS-Hauptscharführer Becker and his crew had been popular with the battalion. They had come out unscathed from the campaign in France and had sailed through Yugoslavia and Greece and now they were gone. It cast a gloomy pall over the battalion. For Wohl there was also a layer of additional anxiety. He could see that von Schroif was angry and there was clearly an issue beyond the loss of the gun and crew. Knispel was clearly on the receiving end of one of von Schroif’s infamous dressing downs. Wohl had a feeling that his failure with the radio was on the agenda and his fears were confirmed as Knispel left the group with a thunderous face.

“The boss doesn’t look too amused,” offered Wohl.

“That’s an understatement,” said Knispel. “Do you know the losses the grenadiers suffered in the assault?”

“No, I don’t, SS-Hauptscharführer.”

“They were over fifty per cent in some units.”

“That’s terrible, SS-Hauptscharführer,” replied Wohl.

“Well, next time it could be you. The boss has decided that you either master the radio duties or you transfer to the infantry.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me, SS-Hauptscharführer.”

“It’s not my decision. His mind is made up.”

“So what do I have to do?”

“Report to Obersturmführer Sanger every day this week and pay attention.”