The Third Reich's Last Eagle

By Bob Mustin

Hans-Ulrich Rudel loves his family, but he fears the Soviet threat more. After single-handedly destroying a Soviet battleship near Kronstadt Island, he returns home to marry fiancée Ursula. She travels with him to Austria, where he is to train Stukadive-bomber pilots. This life soon has him on edge, and he requests transfer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gridley Fires Books
• Release date: Jul 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780692149584

Bob Mustin

Bob Mustin has had a brief Naval career and a longer one as a civil engineer. In the 1990s he was the editor of a Georgia-based literary journal, The Rural Sophisticate, and was later a North Carolina Writer's Network Writer in Residence at Peace College in Raleigh.

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PROLOGUE

This is a fictionalized account of the most decorated member of the German armed forces during WW II, Oberst Hans Ulrich Rudel. The work is based on information from German archives, Rudel’s own writings, including his autobiography of the war, Nevertheless; media reports, Rudel’s personal correspondence, personal correspondence from other major figures of WWII, the works of German and Allied veterans of the war and reference works of incredible value in reconstructing details of history otherwise impossible to understand.

This book is not a vindication of the horrors of war, or the Third Reich, as none would be possible. It is not a vindication of Oberst Rudel as none is needed. This work is in praise of honor, valor, loyalty, and incredible flying skills under the most difficult of conditions; no one could be a better example than Hans Ulrich Rudel.

The most decorated heroes of most conflicts are grunts because the ground soldier usually has the most opportunities to engage in feats worthy of medals and recognition. Oberst Rudel flew a Stuka dive-bomber---a slow, plodding, aerial dump truck in a sky filled with Cadillacs flashing by. Rudel managed to turn his outmoded, winged dump truck into the most feared ground assault weapon on the Eastern front. He destroyed 513 tanks, four armored trains, one battleship, two cruisers, four destroyers, enough landing craft for a couple of assaults on Iwo Jima, and an array of other vehicles and artillery.

For variety, he was also an ace with nine confirmed aerial victories. Shooting down a fighter with a Stuka is somewhat like a flying elephant attacking a hummingbird, but Rudel accomplished the feat nine times.

On six occasions, he landed his Stuka to rescue downed pilots behind Soviet lines. He was wounded on six occasions and shot down thirty-three times by ground fire, but never by another aircraft.

After the loss of his left leg below the knee from a flak hit, he piloted the plane to his base and landed it intact. Oberst Rudel was back in the cockpit and flying missions within less than a month. With a jury-rigged prosthetic limb, he was still a pilot beyond compare.

He flew 2,530 combat missions. No other bomber pilot in any war came close to this number of missions.

The German word Experten is exemplified by Oberst Rudel. An Experten is like a sensei with an umlaut and an iron fist without penchants for haikus and flower arrangements.

Rudel could have sat out the last eighteen months of the war by obeying an order from the Fuhrer to cease all flying activity; he refused to obey the order. No other individual is known to have survived intact the disobedience of a Führerbefehl. This is much like Moses disobeying an order from the burning bush, but with more rapid consequences.

There was no doubt by mid-1944 the war was lost, yet Rudel fought on when he had the perfect set of excuses to go home: missing one leg below the knee and a direct order from der Fuhrer. The Experten chose to remain with his comrades to the end.

Rudel is in the pantheon of heroes such as Dienekes and Leonidas; in fact, Dienekes and Leonidas combined would have difficulty matching the feats of Oberst Rudel. Germany created a medal for Rudel after he had won the Knight’s Cross, the equivalent of the Medal of Honor, for the fifth time. His awards include:

Rudel became the most recognized hero of the Reich and, in his country’s defeat, suffered the inevitable consequences. He experienced what most of the Defeated are granted when captured by the Victors, humiliation, petty abuse, and petty thievery of anything of value. Rudel was also befriended by other heroes among the Victors as they shared a common bond; men like Group Captain Douglas Bader, D.S.O., D.S.C. who wrote a foreword to Rudel’s Nevertheless, even referring to him as a gallant chap.

British officers, especially decorated war heroes and former German prisoners of war, do not provide gallant chap appellations to those unworthy. Rudel was, indeed, a gallant chap.

The Victors’ treatment of Rudel was as little in comparison to the treatment he received from his fellow countrymen of the Defeated. In a short space of time, Rudel went from a man whose company was sought by all, to a man none sought to accompany. As always, there must be those to blame for defeat and none are so worthy of the burden as those who fought the battles. At war’s end, the number of the Defeated who opposed the war grows in proportion to the magnitude of the defeat until only those in uniform are left without the solace of being able to pretend otherwise.

The hero, above all others, is most guilty of Defeat; the greater the hero, the greater his guilt. Suddenly, Rudel was a pariah within his own country, a country for which he had fought on long after all hope of winning had vanished.

Rudel overcame even this misfortune as it must have seemed more than small in comparison to flying a Stuka with part of his leg missing. He went on to become an avid sportsman again, climbing mountains, playing tennis, and generally engaging in activities even those with two intact legs would find far more than difficult. He was one of a kind, an Experten, a man who would not bend to any hardship life could provide. He was loyal and courageous to the end.

Nothing so exemplifies the Experten’s uncompromising valor as his willingness to include his mother’s comments within the prologue to his autobiography. For all who have known the joy of a mother’s assessment of their childhood failings gratuitously presented to the world, know even the greatest of heroes are not exempt. Until his twelfth birthday I had to hold his hand during a thunderstorm.

I too was young once and in harm’s way. When I look at Rudel’s deeds, his gracious courage, his unending loyalty, his insistence on placing his life in extreme jeopardy to save his comrades as if nothing less could possibly be expected while granting to all the belief they would do the same for him thus making more of them than they might have been, his determination to treat with each new disaster as a new opportunity to achieve, his evaluation of his own courage as only what was required within the moment and his refusal to waste time in bemoaning his fate; my petty travails are humbled into obscurity and I am the better for it.

Robert W. Wood

Once a Captain of Marines

Credits

No work of this type is ever the product of a solitary writer. Thus, I freely admit to having had much assistance in creating this novel and I wish to thank all that memory brings to mind. First, many thanks to Omonomany Publishing’s Robert Ritter and Debbi Hernandez for Omonomany’s interest in this novel and their work on and advice concerning the final text.

Dr. Ted Uldricks of the University of North Carolina–Asheville aided greatly by directing me to the most valuable research and documentary sources for understanding the Eastern Front war. Dr. Holly Iglesas and her Master’s class gave critical commentary on the text during the initial writing.

During that writing, I took part in several enjoyable conversations with Commander Gary Scott (USN retired) concerning combat flying in World War II (and the Vietnam era) vintage planes, and I can’t thank him enough for his seat of the pants perspectives. His advice on air combat tactics, and those of Paul Stehlik, proved most valuable in this writing.

Special thanks to Technical Sergeant Dennis Williams for his first-hand descriptions of Rudel’s surrender to American forces at war’s end. And, finally, I thank my father, Master Sergeant Amos Mustin, for his photos of Rudel’s surrender and for gifting me with a copy of the book, Thunder Monsters Over Europe, compiled by Colonel Reginald G. Nolte (USAAF retired), which gives a first-hand depiction of Rudel’s surrender, complete with photos.

My goal in writing this book was to expand on Rudel’s biography, Stuka Pilot, as published in 1958. Rudel wrote little about his personal, non-combat life in his book, and it is always this writer’s challenge to ferret out—or at least imagine—such personal data. Too, I wished to create a novel placing Rudel’s wartime experience in the broader context of the Eastern Front war.

Other particularly valuable sources include:

Barbarossa, The Russian-German conflict, 1941-45, by Alan Clark,

Stuka Pilot, Hans Ulrich Rudel, by Gunther Just,

Stuka, JU-87, text by Alex Vanags-Baginskis, Illustrations by Rikyu Watanabe,

Eastern Front – The Unfinished Photographs, 1941-45, by Will Fowler, and

The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, by William L. Shirer.

Many other works and sources proved of value to this project and I’m most appreciative of their application to the final text. For bibliographies providing works of great merit in comprehending the war on the Eastern Front, I highly recommend those provided by Alan Clark and William L. Shirer.

Bob Mustin

THE WAR IS OVER

KITZINGEN, GERMANY

MAY 7,1945

On the surface of it, the Bavarian city seemed little different than on any earlier day of the war. A pair of barges floated through a gentle bow of the Main River. Beneath the city’s baroque towers, white-haired German men, too old or otherwise unsuitable for war, talked in muted voices and inhaled from rationed cigarettes. Inside clustered, red-roofed homes, women read week-old newspapers and sipped weak coffee. Children sat silently on doorsteps and peered down the narrow streets. A dog’s bark echoed along a residential avenue, eliciting an answering yap from a distant, open doorway. To the west and north, a blue haze had collapsed about the closest mountain peaks and set them shimmering.

Across the river to the east, an airport control tower’s shadow edged across the runway. U.S. soldiers had earlier scattered into a nearby field, and now their laughter burbled skyward with the runway heat. Near the airport’s easternmost end, a two-story building housed the 405th Fighter Group’s headquarters. Inside, a phone jangled in a second-floor office.

Group Commander Colonel Garrett Jackson leaned to his aide’s outstretched hand and took the receiver. He nodded, thin lips arcing upward. Then he returned the receiver to his aide.

Call the squadron commanders, he said. The Krauts have given up. We’re going to throw ourselves a victory parade.

The aide, a lanky three-striped sergeant, sank into his chair’s back as if suddenly unburdened. Then he bolted to his feet.

When, sir? I mean, when’s it officially over?

Day after tomorrow, Jackson said. May ninth. He hurried to the door and into the hallway.

The parade, the aide called after him, when’s the parade going to be, sir?

You decide. Jackson’s words echoed behind him as he banged on a pair of doors, yelled into the rooms, then raced to the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.

A night of celebration ensued with every man on the base not on duty, and a few who were on duty, participating to the fullest extent possible, given the amount of available alcohol. As they drank, a feeling of reprieve swept the men. Still and despite an assured victory, the possibility of death lurked. This fear of dying many felt was different from the fear of dying one experiences when death might serve some further purpose. It was a little like getting a broken neck in the fourth quarter of a football game with a minute left to play and your side up by fifty touchdowns. In this last minute, you still had to fear a cheap shot or two from the losers.

When reveille sounded the morning of the 8th, a general haze of intoxication remained from the night before. A sense that the party should continue also remained; one night of celebration for a war that lasted so many years didn’t seem adequate. The sergeants and officers pushed to keep the rowdy airmen under control, but they didn’t push too far. Rank and good order didn’t seem quite as important with the war over and most of the troops soon to return to civilian life.

Airmen and pilots drifted into rows and columns at the runway’s edge. Their commanders called out in less severe tones than usual to shut up, knock off the horseplay. Ignored, the officers shrugged, smiled and told their men to stand at ease.

Farther to the east, an antiaircraft gun crew sandbagged into tall grass had just watched the last of the air group’s fighters lift off, ready for their fly-by. They continued to follow them, the planes roaring and wobbling in the updrafts like silver geese. They watched until the planes shrank to specks in the northwest, then they turned wary glances to the eastern sky’s depths, listening for anything that might forebode danger. The pale second lieutenant who commanded the anti-aircraft gun crews, preoccupied with the slowly cohering formation on the runway, jumped at the hand on his shoulder. A staff sergeant with a radio headset to one ear withdrew his hand.

Lieutenant, radar is picking up some new traffic, he said.

Unknown aircraft. Four. No, six. Maybe more.

Ours? the lieutenant asked. He’d heard little word of aircraft movements this day, nothing of last-ditch German sorties.

Don’t know yet, sir.

What’s the forward observer say? The Sergeant asked, listened, then nodded.

He thinks he can hear them, but he can’t see them yet, Lieutenant.

The officer huffed. The observer, a private with a hangover, had earlier shuffled unsteadily eastward to his observation post. Maybe he was hearing his head throb, the Lieutenant thought. Still, he couldn’t ignore the radar report. He grabbed the phone.

Get headquarters on the line, Sergeant.

In Colonel Jackson’s office, Technical Sergeant Dennis Williams, the Group’s Tactical Intelligence NCO, answered. He listened to the lieutenant’s insistent report.

How far away are they, sir? he asked.

Forward observer estimates five minutes from the base. No more.

Williams sighed. The war was still on until midnight. Maybe some diehard Germans were bent on taking a few Americans down before the surrender. Williams had received an intelligence report, originating with Czech partisans, laundered through unknown channels to London. Be aware, the brief warned, that Luftwaffe units might approach you to surrender. Be equally aware that we cannot guarantee their intentions. Exercise due caution in evaluating any contact their forces might initiate.

Williams had already heard radio chatter from other American bases that Luftwaffe pilots were surrendering in twos and threes in flak-pocked, poorly-maintained planes, some crash-landing from lack of fuel. If those on the 405th’s radar screen were Luftwaffe, their number and formation might indicate intent.

What are my orders? the lieutenant shouted. Williams pulled the phone from his ear. The bogeys—whomever they belonged to—had spooked this too-green junior officer. Not a good sign.

Get back to your observer, Lieutenant, Williams replied. I need to know how many. A definite number, sir.

The lieutenant checked with the observer. Seven planes, Sergeant. German. At least they appear to be German. Still too far out for an accurate visual.

Williams knew the flak crewmembers were seasoned, but today they had been issued only token ammunition. If these were Germans intent on attack, could the crew bring down all seven? He doubted it.

What’s their formation, sir?

Observer has a good visual on them now. Trailing formation, low and slow. The lieutenant gave their estimated speed and altitude.

Williams frowned. Trailing and low could mean anything. If they intended a war-ending attack, they might dash in below flak, in a snakelike, hard-to-hit formation. But they were proceeding slowly. And they weren’t low enough to scoot in under radar and flak. That sounded like surrender.

I repeat, what are my orders? This time the lieutenant’s voice cracked with anxiety.

Anything else from your observer, sir? You’re sure they’re German? Williams needed to gain some time to decide without having to send it up the chain.

There was a pause of almost a minute before the lieutenant came back on the line,

German. Three Stukas, four fighters. Still proceeding, low and slow.

Lieutenant, any ordinance on the Stukas? If the Stukas were carrying bombs there would be no doubt of their intention. The reply came back quickly.

No ordinance we can see. One more piece of information, but still no certainty of intention.

Williams blinked. The lack of bombs on the Stukas did not mean the Germans wouldn’t strafe the airfield or do a kamikaze on them. He wished he could take this to Colonel Jackson, or maybe his adjutant, but they were outside, stalking up and down the flight line, and the planes would be over the field before he could get an answer. His brow knotted as he thought.

He’d read an intelligence report the day before concerning a Stuka pilot, a Colonel Rudel, who had caused the Soviets a lot of pain on the Eastern Front during the previous four years. Was this Rudel? The report had speculated the man was foolhardy, a pilot eager to take the fight to the Russkis, but with no regard for his life or that of his men. Has to be nuts, Williams thought, a rabid, nutso Nazi. If these are Rudel’s planes, he may attack.

We can see them! the lieutenant shouted. Got them in our sights. Their heading will take them straight over the airfield. Damn it, what are my orders?

Williams blinked again. He couldn’t worry about names, personalities, reputations. His attention settled on their number, ordinance, formation, altitude, and approach speed; he’d go with that. His grip on the phone tightened. He took in a long breath and exhaled.

Hold your fire, Lieutenant. Stand down, but keep your guns trained on them.

THE WAR IN THE EAST BEGINS

DIRECTIVE 21, OPERATION BARBAROSSA

In obedience to the Führer’s Directive 21, of 18 December 1940, German forces invaded Soviet territory on 22 June 1941 at 0400 hours. The start of the offensive against the Soviet Union had been delayed many times due to actions by Allied forces and those of Mussolini.

In a fit of pique over the Fuhrer not sharing his plans concerning Germany’s intentions in Rumania, Mussolini thought to even the game by invading Greece without first discussing it with Hitler. Mussolini considered himself an equal, and equals should play fairly with one another or be forced to demonstrate their equality. Mussolini was also certain Greece would be an easy conquest to bolster his own sense of dignity. He was wrong.

England did not miss the opportunity so generously granted and provided an expeditionary force to help Greece. The Italians were quickly routed, and their humiliating defeat forced Germany to deploy sufficient forces and focus to eliminate the threat an English and Greek victory would have posed. Resources assigned to Barbarossa were diverted to Greece. Even after Germany defeated Greece, troops and equipment had to remain in Greece as occupying troops, thus decreasing the assets that could be assigned to the invasion of Russia.

The conquest of Greece delayed Operation Barbarossa by five very critical weeks and sealed the fate of the German forces in the East. The German master plan for the offensive was not changed to account for the significant difference in weather conditions associated with the new time table for the invasion and the loss of men and materiel to the occupation of Greece. Too, the immense land mass of Russia and the icy grip of winter would present massive logistics problems not understood by German planners.

In conjunction with Germany’s amazing lack of intelligence concerning the resources available to the Soviets in both manpower and materiel, these factors virtually eliminated the possibility of a quick victory through blitzkrieg tactics; the only hope of victory against an opponent of such vast numerical superiority. German intelligence was not even aware of the formidable T-34 or KV-1 tanks which the Soviets possessed at the beginning of the conflict. Such incredible oversights in planning an operation of this magnitude are blunders of epic proportions.

In the beginning, however, surprise, the lingering effects of Stalin’s purges of top military commanders, and German tactical superiority in the use of men and equipment, swept the opposing Russian forces aside. Within a single year all would change; Stalin and the Russian war machine would claw their way into ascendency, helped greatly by the worst winter since Napoleon invaded Russia on the very same date as Hitler. History would be repeated, but there would be no Elba. Germany would lose more men in the retreat from Russia than in all other combined operational fronts during the entire war.

STALIN’S DACHA, MOSCOW

JUNE 22, 1941

Stalin is startled by a very determined knock on his door. The Supreme Leader seldom has to deal with anything quite so assertive. Most knocks on the door of the Supreme Leader are tentative, full of the utmost respect for the consequences for the slightest possibility of offense.

Stalin walks to the door and opens it. Two men are standing in front of the Supreme Leader, one behind the other as if waiting in a ticket line. The larger man, behind the small man directly in front of the Supreme Leader, speaks.

I would have never disturbed you, Comrade First Secretary, but the news is of vital importance. The large man’s voice is calm, but fear is tucked away in the corner of each word.

Give the Supreme Leader your report, he states to the back of the visibly trembling smaller man before him. The man’s words rush out as a torrent seemingly in fear of being caught by the next word in line.

For three minutes the small man describes an invasion of the USSR by German troops which began at 0400. He presents excellent details with great clarity. Russian troops are being massacred, the border has fallen with little or no resistance, everywhere Russian forces are in retreat or captured.

Stalin says nothing during the report. He looks incredulous. How can this have occurred? He had believed Hitler, believed he would honor their agreement. Betrayed, always betrayed.

For six months, Stalin had heard the reports of massive troop and armor buildups on the border. German reconnaissance planes had repeatedly violated Russian airspace. Had he not been understanding, even generous? One of the flights had crashed on Russian soil due to engine failure. Stalin had the pilot treated with respect, even sending the plane’s camera box and film back with the pilot. No one could have acted with better grace in the situation.

A German deserter, a Sergeant Liskof, Albert Liskof, had claimed an invasion would occur at 0400 on the 22nd. Stalin had known the man was a provocateur attempting to start a war between Russia and Germany, a war for which Russia was not yet prepared. It was obvious Great Britain, the two-faced lion, and France, sent the man to lure Russian forces into a confrontation with Russia’s ally, Germany. Liskof had said 0400. The fool in front of him had said 0400.

The large man waited. Stalin neither spoke nor moved, just stared into a long corridor of betrayals. He had always been betrayed, always. The single certainty of all was betrayal.

What are your orders, Supreme Leader? Stalin remained silent for a moment.

Take no aggressive actions against them. No aggressive actions will be taken. Understood?

Yes, Supreme Leader. Both men vigorously displayed their understanding.

Go! In this directive from Stalin, two men see momentary salvation.

Yes, Supreme Leader. Both men turn as if preparing for an Olympic sprint.

Wait! Stalin’s word stops both men as if a large hand grabbed them in mid-stride.

Shoot him. Stalin nods at the messenger who simply looks at the Supreme Leader with disbelief. Things were not done this way. No one just shoots a messenger. Who would bring messages if all the messengers were shot?

Yes, Comrade First Secretary.

The large man grasps the messenger by the arm. Large men could stay alive by making sure they never became messengers and quickly followed directives concerning the liquidation of small messengers when presented.

Stalin was already back in his chair pouring his favorite vodka into his favorite glass. I should have had both of them shot, the Supreme Leader thought… Later, I will have the other one shot later.

GULF OF FINLAND

0900 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 22,1941

The sky’s dome over the Gulf of Finland shuddered with the roar of III Gruppe’s thirty-odd Stuka dive-bombers escorted by Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf fighters. The Stuka pilots and gunners tensed as they awaited the first Russian antiaircraft fire from the harbor guns on Kronstadt Island.

"You with me, König 2?" Hauptmann Ernest-Siegfried Steen was searching for the plane of the young Oberleutnant flying as his wingman.

Oberleutnant Hans-Ulrich Rudel waited for a solitary wisp of cloud to slip between his Stuka and that of his Gruppe commander before he answered.

To your starboard and below, Herr Hauptmann.

At least let my gunner see you from time to time. He gets lonely back there. Steen’s laughter exploded in Rudel’s ear.

Below and beyond Steen to the left, another Stuka bounced atop the first volleys of antiaircraft fire. Rudel’s headphones crackled with curses as those behind him began negotiating the flak. The first Kette---three planes---dove to take out Russian gun emplacements. Rudel tapped his throttle lever, pushing his plane closer to Steen. The young pilot was about to nudge his control stick aft and starboard to bring his Stuka within view of Steen’s gunner when the commander whooped.

Steen’s plane nosed over, at a seventy-degree angle to the horizon, dive brakes extended beneath his wings. Below, dull green waters licked at Kronstadt’s ragged shoreline. The battleship Marat lay in its berth, awaiting its fate with the appearance of majestic disinterest in the small specks approaching.

Rudel had hit the Russian battleship a week earlier with a five-hundred-pound bomb, causing little damage. Today, a two thousand pounder hugged his plane’s belly. Lurching forward in his seat harness, he pushed the plane into a dive. The Stuka shook violently as he followed Steen down. A dark, gauzy flak pustule appeared to his right. A miss, but close enough to make him flinch. The flak explosions pushed closer. Sweat beaded on his face as he jerked his plane into downward scallops to avoid the deadly fire.

Corporal Alfred Scharnovski, his gunner, facing the plane’s rear from the aft section of the cockpit, called out. Rudel glanced quickly over his shoulder to see one of their number bank right and into a downward spiral, trailing a thread of smoke. A second later, the crippled Stuka leveled off and darted toward the flak emplacements, a Focke-Wulf fighter gunning a path for him through the Soviet ground defenses. The Stuka, now belching smoke, swung in a wide arc toward the Gruppe’s inland base at Tyrkowo.

Rudel continued to use stick and rudder to throw the big plane up, down, port and starboard as erratically as possible while still homing in on his target, a giant mechanical hornet intent on its prey. He pulled closer to Steen. The Skipper’s dive brakes folded back. His Stuka nosed into a near-vertical dive.

It had taken Rudel a great deal of time and hard work to achieve any mastery of his steel eagle and he still went through each drill, each check list, over and over in his mind. Landing flaps, elevator trim, rudder trim and propeller pitch set at cruise; contact altimeter on and set to release altitude; throttle fully closed, flaps closed, and dive breaks open. Every action had to be perfect.

Rudel followed Steen, his own dive brakes again snug against the wings. He flipped a small switch to his left, activating a siren—pilots called them the Horns of Jericho. In his downward rush, he knew those below heard it. He could already make out Soviet sailors looking up as they ran in terrorized zigzags. Rudel’s vision blurred, face taut from the dive’s g forces. He managed a grimacing smile. Good. Now let’s give them something more to worry about.

He pulled aft of Steen’s plane, so near he could clearly see Lehmann, the Skipper’s gunner, the man’s face creased with fright. Rudel’s smile widened to a grin. If the man wants companionship, he shall get companionship. He’s afraid I’m going to nick him with a propeller blade, maybe ram him. This is the price of companionship.

Steen released his bombs. Rudel throttled up and pressed his control stick as hard as he could, pushing his plane past Steen. The Marat ballooned to monstrous size. Soviet sailors scurried about, glanced up, ran again. One tripped. His ammunition box skipped across the battleship’s deck.

Plumes of water rose from Steen’s near misses. A second later, Rudel’s Stuka lurched as it spat out its one heavy bomb. He jerked back on the control stick, almost rising from his seat with the effort.

The Skipper knew Rudel had ordered his ground crew to remove the Stuka’s automatic pullout device, which acted independently of the pilot to bring the big plane out of its dive within established safety margins. But Steen had said nothing about it on the ground, nothing as they had flown toward Kronstadt. Rudel had begun his pullout at less than one thousand feet, well below the normal safety margin of 1,470 feet. Intent on the Marat, he hadn’t even considered Steen’s admonition to drop the bomb from no lower than three thousand feet, the safe operational release point for the type of heavy ordinance his Stuka carried on this mission. The bomb’s fragmentation could blow back against him. Too late to worry about it now.

Shoulders tightened, neck bulging, he pulled the control stick with all he had. Pull with your upper body, he remembered; don’t get your legs involved, or you’ll do something crazy with the rudder bar and make the plane yaw. If I do that during pullout turbulence, I’ll lose my lift. I’ll crash. His vision again blurred to a haze. He had to get his plane up. He pulled, harder.

Scharnovski’s voice reached him through the blurring. Sir, the bomb went into her before exploding. She’s breaking up.

He had hit it. He had destroyed the Marat! The Stuka rattled and jerked as the dive bottomed, flattened. His vision cleared. He glanced to his left. The gull-winged plane now paralleled the Finland Gulf, perhaps ten feet above its waves. He tugged the stick back and banked into an upward spiral until the Marat came into full view.

The battleship shuddered. A plume of black smoke rose and partially obscured the vessel as it quaked. Then a flash. The magazine exploded. Rudel shook a fist and cheered.

Congratulations, sir, Scharnovski said in his normal monotone as the voice of Wing Commander Oskar Dinort rattled in Rudel’s headset.

Excellent work, III Gruppe.

Sir, Scharnovski said, We have two Bolshevik fighters at two o’clock. Rudel jerked the plane toward the coast, still skimming the water.

Where are they now?

Still on us, sir. Six o’clock high. The gunner’s voice now rose to shrill, terse words.

Rudel wasn’t accustomed to anxiety from his methodical gunner. Pulling back on the stick, he lifted the Stuka three hundred feet and wagged his rudder, swerving the plane to evade fire from the Soviet fighters.

Still with us, sir. One o’clock high. Scharnovski had regained his poise. He chuckled. But they’ve flown up, into their own flak.

Rudel dove and roared low past the Soviet antiaircraft emplacements. Above, his Gruppemates flew upward in wavering spirals, climbing beyond the flak’s reach.

Sir! Scharnovski yelled. One of the Ratas is still on us. He’s close. Six o’clock high."

Rudel throttled back a bit. Glancing aft, he saw the fighter wigwagging behind him. His Stuka had an advantage now; at this low speed, he could maneuver more precisely than the faster Rata. Still, this was getting a bit ticklish; the Rata pilot was staying with him. Rudel’s hand clenched the control stick. He licked sweat from his lips and realized Scharnovski was no longer firing at the Rata.

For the love of God, Scharnovski, he yelled, shoot him. Let him have it! Only silence from the gunner and his guns.

Rudel pulled the control stick back and lifted his plane into a rising bank, a risky move that would slow the Stuka even more. The Rata followed, tracers from its guns streaming past. Scharnovski! Are you making any plans to shoot in the near future, given we have a near future? Scharnovski! He heard the gunner ratcheting an ammo belt. What was happening? Were his guns jammed? Both of them?

What’s going on back there, Scharnovski? Are you dead? No response.

Rudel jerked the Stuka back and forth. Below, the coastline swept past. Twice he heard pops, pinholes appearing in his left wing. Small arms fire, from the ground. Then a round cracked his canopy, not a foot away from his head.

Fire at the Bolshevik, Scharnovski, just to let him know we care, Rudel yelled. What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? My God, is the man insane? Does he have a death wish?

Sir, the gunner replied, one of our Messerschmitts is on the Rat’s tail. I’m waiting until our man is out of my line of fire.

Tracers from the Rata’s guns continued to pour past the Stuka. Rudel swerved out to sea, and again over the flak emplacements. Then the tracers stopped. Rudel glanced left, right. Nothing. Tell me something, Scharnovski; even a hint will do.

It’s all right, sir. the gunner replied. The Messerschmitt nailed him.

Rudel exhaled. His fingers quivered on the control stick. His leg muscles seemed gripped by his fear, each stuttering its own desire to be away from this place of death. He managed a turn and looked past his wing to see the Rata hit the gulf waters in flames. The Messerschmitt flew by; the pilot grinned and gave him a casual salute which Rudel returned. The Messerschmitt increased speed, quickly climbing back into a protective cover pattern above the Stuka.

Once again on Tyrkowo’s grass landing strip, Rudel killed his engine and pushed the canopy cover up. Then he sank into his seat’s cushions and flexed his hands, pulled a piece of candy from his pocket, unwrapped it, pushed it into his mouth. His heart pounded as if it would leave his chest. Another minute passed. The manic thumping in his chest slowed.

Fear. Fear had driven him to want to fly. In flight school, it had been a positive thing, something to overcome by learning to push past comfort and into flying’s danger zone. Today he had experienced fear in the form of an enemy at close quarters, a hated Bolshevik pilot who had wanted to kill him. At the moment, the Stuka’s roar still in his ears, he didn’t feel exhilarated. He certainly hadn’t during the Rata’s chase, tracers tearing past his canopy as Scharnovski waited for the Messerschmitt to down the Rata.

Scharnovski. He was glad to have the stolid Prussian with him. Perhaps Scharnovski would have a damping effect on Rudel’s impulsive nature, on his urge to push those dangerously low bombing runs. But they had survived this encounter, hadn’t they? They would fly again.

Sir?

He turned. Scharnovski peered at him from the wing. I’m all right, Rudel said. He ground his teeth to forestall any sign of fear. Scharnovski mustn’t suspect fear. I must set an example. A gunner must trust his pilot to focus completely on his own vital task of protecting the Stuka’s rear from attack. Rudel forced a smile.

I just needed a moment to get that Rata out of my thoughts along with one other minor point, Scharnovski. In the future, while I will not expect a complete dialogue on all that occurs in your visual field from second to second; the location and intent of those trying to kill us, along with any actions you may think of some benefit, would be considered a great aid to my own peace of mind and our continued survival. A few seconds went by before Scharnovski replied.

Certainly, Herr Oberleutnant. Scharnovski’s tone suggesting this was an excellent idea.

Rudel rose and began his climb from the cockpit. The plane lurched as Scharnovski jumped down. Steen climbed onto the wing.

"The Old Man had already headed back when you hit the Marat, Steen said. As soon as I was on the ground, he rang me, wanting to congratulate the appropriate Staffel."

Steen winked, his lean, still-youthful face and wiry build mirroring Rudel’s. Both men stood slightly less than six feet. The young Oberleutnant frowned as he completed his climb from the cockpit. He knew his Gruppe commander was trying to tell him something. This was the way he pointed out mistakes, proffered advice — from behind a joviality masking determination and an urge to perfection. Rudel and the others followed him instinctively, without question. Everything he said and did had purpose, although it wasn’t always obvious in the moment. Steen continued, turning to include those thronging the