THE MEMOIRS OF “STUKA” HANS DEIBL
1939 - 1945
(translated to English by Jochen Mahncke, November 2012)
This is now the story of part of my life. I am not only writing it down because my children wanted it, but it might be possible that a later generation would have an interest in knowing how it was during the times of the great war from 1939 – 1945, when the whole world was turned upside down. There apparently exists a great-great-grandfather in the family who was a tiny wheel in the war machinery at the time.
I am not writing these lines to glorify the war or the period in itself, but will merely try to write about things in the way a nineteen-year old experienced them.
One must understand that I was then a young man, formed by the family, my friends, and the whole background. Had only one of my ancestors written down when he had fought against the Prussians in 1866, and when he had marched with Napoleon towards Moscow,…… But they had not!
But I have, and here it is:
I am Hans Deibl, born 3rd November 1921, really the last Johann in a line that began in 1569, according to proof of ancestry, and ended 12 generations later with the last, Sabina.
They have all been through a lot when, for example, I read from 1683: ”The Turks stole a horse, one ox and four bulls from Mathias Deibl, captured his wife and two children, but they were freed again….”.
I live in Pernitz, Muggendorferstrasse 11, next to the school, and was also born in this house. My mother, Theresia Deibl, who has surely formed me, was midwife in the village, and has almost certainly assisted in 3.000 births. I clearly remember how at night someone hammered at our window, because every expecting father hurried to have the midwife in his house in time. And since the houses in the area were widely scattered, some lay even in side valleys and on mountains, it was definitely not an easy profession.
There was not much known about mechanisation at the time since the only motor car belonged to the factory owner, and my mother had to cover the roads on foot or by bicycle. Wealthy farmers arrived with their own carts, but that was the exception. She took me to baby christenings occasionally, and I remember the delicacies even today.
Father was employed by the municipality and was the handyman, because there was only one mayor and one secretary. He had to collect the water levy once a year and was also the meat inspector. This meant he had to inspect every freshly slaughtered animal, privately, or at the butchery. If it was suitable for human consumption it received a mark, and I will talk about it later. If it was not suitable it had to be buried or otherwise destroyed. Naturally, the butchers fought against this very much. For such cases father carried a small bottle of petroleum with him from which he sprinkled the fluid on the meat. This created great problems with the butchers, especially if they were relatives. At night he had to spot-check adherence to closing time by the inns. Then he took our dog with him, possibly to be safe against drunkards, which gave him the proud name of “police dog” among us youngsters.
Yes, I must not forget that I had a sister with the name of Grete. She was five years older and I had to defend myself often. I remember that once I received a toy locomotive which landed me in difficulties. I had it fully wound up and placed it on her head, where the little wheels entangled themselves in her hair, and the whole thing sat on her head like a crown.
My father was a happy man who could sometimes deal out powerful hits if it became necessary, but otherwise he left me to roam free. During the war years and afterwards, when meat was strictly rationed and one only received small portions against coupons, he helped us often. The pigs had to be weighed after home slaughtering, and according to its weight this was deducted from the ration cards. This was the time when pigs only weighed 40 kg each in Pernitz.
Besides this my life as a youngster, and apparently that of my parents, passed along without real problems. I grew up “wild and free” because my parents were seldom at home. If I compare this to what is done to children nowadays…. …During attendance at schools I was a good student with good marks. Only once did I receive a bad mark in “conduct”, which, however, I immediately obliterated. This can still be seen as a smudge in the report of the third class.
Slowly there arose the choice of a profession.
Originally, and prompted by our games of soldiers with the other boys in our streets, I wanted to become an officer, but for a simple country child without any connections, this was impossible. Therefore, and following the advice of my teachers, my parents sent me to attend the entrance examination for teachers in Vienna-Neustadt. Unfortunately, although I passed, I was not accepted on account of shortage of space. My parents were advised to let me try at another college based on my pass, as otherwise I would lose one year. Easier said than done. A local chaplain suggested Wien Strebersdorf with the school brothers, but this had the draw- back that I would have to serve as a brother when finished. But there was no other way, as boarding school would have been too expensive. I was accepted at Strebersdorf, but they did not want to release me after a year. Eventually my parents succeeded in having me transferred to Vienna Neustadt where a vacancy had become available, and I completed my matric there.
But two years before something important had happened. Adolf Hitler came to Austria and we became the Ostmark of the German Reich.
The political arena of the time:
This forces me to step on the political parquet floor and I hope I will not slip up.
Adolf Hitler had been Reichskanzler of Germany since 1933. He did not achieve this through a Putsch (coup), as is sometimes said today, but on account of his majority in parliament Reichspräsident v.Hindenburg had named him as Kanzler.
In Austria not everything went off as peacefully. The Christian Heimwehr of Count Starhemberg and the socialist Schutzbund faced each other, armed and hostile, And when the Socialists wanted power in 1934 with the help of the Februarputsch, Dollfuss put this down with the assistance of Heimwehr and Bundesheer. Only half a year later the Nationalsocialist had their Putsch and Dollfuss was assassinated. As his successor, Schuschnigg prohibited NSDAP and Socialist, and forced a large part of the population into the underground. On the other hand Schuschnigg wanted to raise Austrian Patriotism and formed the Vaterländische Front and the Schutzscharen as a copy of the Heimwehr and the Schutzbund. “Austria above all else, if it only wants it”, was the slogan. Despite all endeavours he did not succeed in forming a genuine peoples’ movement from his Vaterländische Front. Many NSDAP members and their sympathizers fled to Germany, where they were formed into a Ősterr.Legion.
While Germany experienced a commercial and military upswing, it went downhill in Austria. Germany said: “In my territory the sun never sets”, and here they said: “In Austria the sun never rises”.
Unemployment spread like a plague across the country where those who had received the dole beyond a certain period were entsteuert, meaning they did not receive any monetary support at all.
It was not unusual to see men in the prime of their lives standing in Vienna’s streets with a sign around their necks reading: “Academic, 3 children, no dole. Accept work of any type.” In neighbour Germany the ghost of unemployment had been chased away, and all people had again work and bread. Hitler cancelled the humiliating peace treaty of Versailles and brought home (or annexed, depending on opinion), Saarland, Sudetenland etc., and the Germans sang again: “Deutschland, Deutschland űber alles…!”
It was understandable that Gt.Britain, France etc. disliked this development because they feared German commercial supremacy more than a fire.
Today many opponents of this development naturally say this was only possible because Hitler re-armed, and that the Volk had to pay for this in the subsequent war. There is some truth in this, but at the same time, and after long years of need, people again had work and bread. And there were the reforms of protection of mothers, grants for children, Kraft durch Freude, which gave even the simple labourer a chance to have a holiday trip. This new period was shown in the songs of the period: “We workers build a new Reich in proud freedom…. …..or farmer, worker or noble man, they use the sword and the hammer.”
In Austria Schussnigg tried to organize something like this, but he did not succeed, although one must admit he really tried. We youngsters were also told: “Austria above all, if it only wants…” But apparently it did not want. I was then between 15 and 18 years old and, due to my family being on the Christian-socialist side, not really happy when Hitler came to Austria. We accepted the lesson-free week when soldiers were quartered in our school building. But it was not long before we were also drawn to the enthusiasm. The marching soldiers had been greeted with enthusiasm and people threw flowers at them. People who today say that we had been “occupied” , alter the truth. When Hitler rode in his open car in Vienna on the ”Ring”, thousands of Austrians cheered him when he spoke his famous sentence: “I report to history the entrance of my homeland into the Grossdeutsches Reich!”
Thus, this 13th March 1938 was for many people the fulfilment of dreams, but also, for a small part, a day of sorrow and grief.
The NSDAP showed itself from its best side. Public marches and march music were organised, and from today to tomorrow people had work and hope for the future, and it was no wonder that the following plebiscite gave an almost total “JA” for the joining of Austria to Germany. By the way, nobody was forced to vote JA, although perhaps there might have been small irregularities in places.
Thank God I have come to the end of my political survey which one may have difficulty to describe in a few short sentences. It is customary today to throw mud on all this. It is only a pity that those who did not live in those times, especially the youth, are incorrectly informed. There are certainly many people, and they are increasing all the time, who claim to have known then that we were steering towards a war which we could not win, but where do you not find such fortune tellers who had known this all along? Only a small example at the end. Today one says that everybody had been pressured to join the Party and that one was required to be a party member for the smallest job.
I, Hans, Deibl, was not in any Party or one of its affiliates, and no one asked me if I was a member when I wanted to become an officer, although I was checked out for one full week.
And then came the war.
Yes, and then it was really war and I sat as a Pilot in a Sturzkampfbomber(Ju-87 Stuka) and attacked the British, but until then it is a long story.
Life in Austria had normalised if one disregarded the signs pointing to a war confrontation. By now the Saarland had been “brought back home”, as the formula said, and the Sudetenland came to Germany which had changed its name to Grossdeutschland. (Perhaps copying the name Grossbritannien). When the “Tschechei” was annexed, it came almost to a war, but the west swallowed this too, since it became only a German “Protectorate”. One of the reasons was probably the fact that it presented a buffer towards Russia, whose ideology and re-armament instilled fear and dread in the west.
Today, almost 70 years later, I cannot avoid the feeling that they played Germany against Russia in order to save their own blood, and the stupid “Michel” fell for it. After the “Tschechei”, peace returned to Europe, but it was a deceptive peace, because in the meantime Hitler had become too big both commercially and militarily for the western powers. And then suddenly it was the time that Hitler began the war. It was much too early, as we say today, because it was not the time, whether militarily, nor commercially or diplomatically. Yes, in their own country where doubters and opponents to the system in leading positions who were dead set against this development, for instance the chief of the German counter-intelligence, Canaris, was a spy for the other side.
Hitler’s famous speech: “…from 5.45 on we have returned fire….” Started the war against Poland . Before this one heard reports over the radio, Television did not exist, about political bandits who had attacked the radio station Gleiwitz etc. One notes the Propaganda-ministry under Joseph Göbbels knew its business and kept going until the bitter end when he took his wife and 4 children to his death. But back to Gleiwitz. Here one said after the war that not Poles, but criminals dressed as Poles, had been told that they were to recapture the radio station for a film shoot, dressed in Polish uniforms. What is the truth? I personally knew an officer pilot, Dr.Toni Stangl, who had been ordered to cross the border with his Me 109, to provoke the Poles. The Poles had a mutual assistance pact with Gt.Britain and Russia When Hitler attacked Poland, Gt.Britain declared war on Germany. But not the Russians, they had signed a secret pact with Germany which allowed them to march into Poland as well, and this is what happened. The Germans marched as far as a pre-determined demarcation line, where they waited for the Russians to advance. Gt.Britain declared war only on Germany, but not on the Russians. In history books this is described in more detail, but there are always two kinds of history, the one from the victors and the one from the losers.
But I only wanted to talk about my own story which is exciting enough. However, back to the demarcation line in Poland once again. In a prisoner of war camp in Egypt, a Pioneer officer, who had been at this border, told me how badly equipped the Russian soldiers had been. Beginning with the shoes to their weapons. A clever trickery by the Russians. When Hitler attacked the Russians in 1942, everybody was forced to acknowledge the opposite. Lies and deception wherever one looked
This attack was also the source of a rumour. Hitler had only attacked to get to the wheat of the Ukraine and to move the German border to the east. The truth is, as far as one can come near this during a war, that the Russians wanted to march into Germany and were ready for an attack. How could it otherwise be possible that the Germans made hundreds of thousands of prisoners during the first few days, because the Russians had been ready to attack and not to defend, which militarily makes a big difference.
And now, perhaps, I come to my own fate. I remember very accurately the hour when war began. As was then customary, we tried to improve our pocket money during school holidays and so I and a friend assisted a land surveyor who worked on a meadow near Hollingersäge. We were in the middle of work when a woman ran from the nearest house and shouted: “War has broken out!” We almost threw our survey equipment onto the meadow and wanted to march off! But already next day we sat on a friends’ motor bike to volunteer in Vienna Neustadt. The matter was not as simple as we impetuous warriors had envisaged. Because a Prussian sergeant declared with a rasping voice of command that we would have to consent to a six-months service period with our application. When he left the room to collect application forms, Sepp and I disappeared quickly, because we felt this was too long. I am grateful that no fairy then whispered into my ear: ”You will not serve six months but six years!”
And then I sat in my school bench once again and made my matric in April 1940, but not before…. but this is the following Chapter.
I and the war:
As I said before, the Propaganda Ministry was in full gear, because it very cleverly succeeded in inspiring the Volk and especially the youth, to become enthusiastic about the war. There were maps in all school rooms, offices etc. where the advances of our troops were marked with coloured pins. Everyone crowded around the radio when fanfares with the melody: …”soon swastikas will fly above all streets…” announced a special report (Sondermedlung). And then it arrived: “ …our units have reached the outskirts of Warsaw…. see the towers of Moscow….. unfolded the Swastika flag at the Kaukasus etc.”
No wonder that we youngsters were afraid to miss the war, when it seemed that it would be over in a few months. For me it was certain that I would become a pilot. In the newspapers advertisements appeared: “Do your duty, volunteer to serve in the Wehrmacht. Matriculants volunteer for the Luftwaffe, become officers in the proud air force.” Placards showed clever illustrations of diving or attacking aircraft…. although the enemy fighter planes who shot at them from behind were never shown.
I therefore volunteered, completed many questionnaires, and on 8th January 1940 reported with ink pen and sports things at the Luftwaffe depot. However, and that was the crux of the matter, one had to provide a special letter of consent from the father, officially stamped. And this almost sunk my wish to become a pilot. But only almost….My father, who knew the war 1914 – 1918 could not be convinced to sign. It did not matter that I could copy my father’s signature exactly since it had to be officially confirmed. Signing the declaration also included that one would do unlimited duty for life in service of the Luftwaffe, which was to prevent that one was trained as pilot, only to change over to a private airline after completion.
In the meantime I had carefully copied father’s signature and took this to the local Gendarmerie where an official did duty whom I knew, since he visited our house. Although I knew him as a friendly, fatherly man, he disappointed me with the words: “This looks strange that your father signed it, I will come by in the afternoon to talk to him.”
This was the end of my plan No.1. I had to find another way, and I already had one. Father always carried the key to the administrative office with him, which was only one room. During one night I organised this key and crept to the office. Since I had been there often, it was easy for me, without switching on the light, to extract the stamp from the stand and press it onto the form below father’s signature. But the devil is in the detail. When I looked at my work by light at home, I saw to my horror that under Josef’s signature was a stamp copy, but it read: “Official meat inspector of the village of Pernitz”. Another hope was broken. But giving up was not for me. So I began again. New form, falsified signature, because Joseph, the son of the motorcar dealer Joseph Schönthaler in the centre of Pernitz, was not the mayor but only a friend, who sneaked into the office, this time with pocket flashlight etc. This time everything went well, and soon a letter of application was on its way to the Annahmestelle fűr Offiziere der Luftwaffe” in Berlin. I waited four full weeks until the reply arrived. Eight days call-up for a suitability test in Vienna. Now I faced another stumbling stone on my road to becoming a pilot.
The examination.
I proceeded to the Stiftskaserne on the designated day, nervous and full of doubts, and reported to the appropriate office. Everything was strange and oppressive for me, the many class rooms, the running soldiers etc. In my luggage was the latest school certificate as I did not have matric yet, then the required sports clothes, sponge bag, pyjama etc. because it was to last a few days. And the somewhat strict commandos were unusual: stand here, carry this over there, wait here etc. In addition, I and the other applicants were uncertain of how this would all turn out. The first day was taken up by general medical examinations and we were chased from one department to another. If one applicant was not completely sound: heart, lungs, eyes and so forth, he was immediately rejected and could return home. We stood excited while waiting for the diagnoses from the various surgeries. So far everything went well with me since I was a healthy boy through and through. Next day came the special examinations for the flying personnel, I was strapped into the inside of a large wheel and they set this in motion. I was fitted with microphone and earphones in a face mask, and was asked many questions about all sorts of things. When the wheel stopped and I was unstrapped, I almost fell over. When testing my eyes’ field of vision I remember an impatient doctor with a very loud voice who was unable to formulate his sentences properly. I had to look through a pipe where I saw the picture of a warship at the end, above which flew an aircraft. I had to guess if the aircraft was before or behind the ship. He meant it three-dimensional, but I thought differently. After he had corrected me twice in a very loud voice, I became impatient, plucked up all my courage and asked him to look into the pipe himself to see where the plane was. With waving of hands this was cleared up and we were taken to supper. There we discovered that from twenty applicants six had already been eliminated. This did not improve our mood.
Next day it was the turn of the ears. After the routine examinations, one strapped or bound us onto a sort of swivel chair, similar to a dentist’s chair, covered our eyes and pulled a hood over our heads, and then the chair began to rotate. It turned forever faster, and it we were ordered to say in which direction it was turning, to the right or to the left. I said left, left, left, now we are standing still, now right, right, right etc. Afterwards the cautious question: “Was everything correct?” Answer: “No, you always turned around to the left.”
Not wanting to fail so soon, the answer gave me a shock. “Impossible, at the start I had turned to the left, then I stood still, then I turned right.” “Well, young man, you did react correctly, in reality you turned always to the left, but due to the high speeds, the equilibrium organs of the inner ear believed that they stood still, then they received outside pressure and showed a wrong result, so everything is alright. If you had always said “left” then this would have pointed to a growth inside the equilibrium organs.”
For the next morning swimming had been announced, but there was nothing about swimming, it was rather a test of courage. Standing in line at the 3 m springboard in a small hall, and jump into the water, no matter how. The terrible thing was, one had the feeling of jumping on top of the previous man. But nobody asked beforehand if one could swim, One could not and he reported this, but the reply was: “Just jump, we will pull you out of the water.”
Then came the “drop off”. One had to stand stiff at the end of the springboard, looking away from the pool, arms tight to the body, and in this manner fall into the pool. Really quite easy, but one had to use all courage not to quit.
And then arrived the Psychologists for tests etc., which at the time were strange to us. We were led into a hall where at one end five or six gentlemen sat at a table. One had to stand in front of the table and the questioning began. They were questions we did not understand. F.i.. “Can you play an instrument? In which colour is the manufacturer’s name printed on it? Are you for the death penalty? Have you masturbated? Have you had intercourse? A member of your family is murdered, what would you do with murderer? When was the present Pope christened?” In this manner and mixture it carried on. One wanted to test our speed to react in a certain way. I would have really liked to read my analysis, because the gentlemen were very busy writing things down.
One day was reserved for sports examinations, again in extreme forms. After the usual moves at the vaulting horse, the beam etc. we went to the high bar. The exercise there has remained clearly in my memory. It started when I could not reach the bar with my 1.66 cm and had to really stretch. But then came an exercise everyone had to perform/ Hang onto the high bar and do a jump over the low bar, which meant a squat vault, A terrible exercise for an untrained person. Even if a heavy mat was spread at the landing site, one had to use a lot of courage, or desperation, to throw oneself over the bar.
One afternoon was reserved for resourcefulness, and a special test remains in my memory: In the centre of a small room was a beam in abt.30 cm height. The task was to secure the beam with a supplied rope in such a manner that we could lead a group of men across a ravine. There were a number of hooks in the walls onto which the rope could be secured. We also had to stand on the beam and were not allowed to fall down, because the ravine was underneath. I fastened myself on the beam to be sure not to fall down into the “ravine”. This forced one of the examinators to the laughing comment: ”Very clever, nobody has done this before”. I hoped that this would give me plus points for cleverness and not negative points for cowardice.
The tests went on until the weekend because there was enough time to examine the aspiring pilots. When we were released, we were not given the results, which meant that the hearts of the young pilots were left in uncertainty.
Home again, it took three weeks until the relieving news arrived: “Passed examination, you have been accepted as officer cadet for pilot training, and will shortly receive the call up.” This arrived soon after matric, it had turned April 1940, and I searched on the map for the first training base, and this was Salzwedel, a town between Berlin and Hamburg. The last days at school I arranged to be easy for me, and whenever it became critical, “I have to report to the military command office”.
The day to leave home arrived. Mother cried when I left the house with my suitcase, and father hugged me and called me a stupid boy, because he somehow doubted the ”voluntary report”, but then he pressed a note into the hand of the boy who marched to war. Having been thus sent off, I climbed into the railway coach to ride to the unknown north. After twenty hours ride I arrived in Salzwedel and saw immediately that more young men with large suitcases stepped down. In front of the station stood a military bus, and a loud commando voice shouted with a North-German accent: “New call-ups for the pilot training camp into the bus.” So we climbed in with mixed emotions as the harsh North-German tongue was new to us. And off we went from the town as the airfield was situated outside the built-up areas. At the gate of the airfield we had to leave the bus, were checked individually and our names ticked off the lists.
The buildings and hangars of the Fliegerhorst seemed large and impressed with their size and camouflage. Because on some of the roofs where aircraft were parked, real forests had been planted. Having arrived at our designated building at a fast march tempo: “Quick, quick you lazy Spunde.”, (The name Spund was given to the most recent arrivals and was the lowest form of life.), and entered our quarters and allocated rooms, and milled around, shocked and ignorant, until we were called to the barrack square.
With much unnecessary shouting we shocked newcomers were divided into sections, and the Kommandeur, Freiherr von Biedermann, who said of himself that: “Everybody can become a Colonel, but you have to be born as a Freiherr.”, greeted us with the words: “I greet you in the name of the Luftwaffe. Having decided to volunteer for this job does not grant you special privileges. On the contrary, this war with our enemy demands that we train you to become proficient soldiers and pilots in the shortest possible time, and I prefer to call you soldiers first and pilots second for a reason. Your training will be hard and not always a pleasure for you. That you want to become officers adds a stronger meaning to your training. Do not be surprised if we give you a dressing down and push you to the limit of your ability. We have the best teachers and pilot instructors in Germany. The military complaints’ procedure does not apply to you. Who wants to command later will first have to obey. Hauptmann Frohme takes over this cadet company, and he guarantees that you will be trained hard and correct. The company will be divided into groups which will be supervised by “cadet fathers”, decorated officers with frontline experience. Dismissed, and off to work.”
This was our reception. Confused and shocked, we looked at each other. Then we went to collect our uniforms and equipment, from socks to the steel helmets. A first small taste of being trained to obey came when an N.C.O. threw a cigarette end into an ashtray and said: “Please damp it.” And when I looked at him without understanding, he shouted immediately: “Are you deaf, you are supposed to kill the cigarette end”.
Then we started filling the palliasses, an activity none of us knew. Some of us asked ourselves during the first few hours, if it had been advisable to report voluntarily to this club. The uniforms which were thrown at us by the quartermaster, guessing our sizes, did in no way satisfy our expectations of a smart pilot’s uniform. After detailing the barrack rooms, the fatigue roster was drawn up to determine who was responsible for cleaning, because every night this was checked with an unbelievable thoroughness. The duty NCO came with white gloves with which he searched for dust. It was impossible that the gloves remained white when he swiped across the top surfaces. Therefore we cleaned these with a wet rag to at least give him wet gloves. The bed required special care. Because the sleeping blanket had been covered with a white sheet, we required a long time to smooth it down. Their seams and the edges of the cushions we sprinkled with water to press them into sharp edges. The rubbish bin had to be washed and brushed every evening, but we did not use it and instead filled the rubbish into an own bag. But if the NCO wanted, he could always find something wrong since he was trained to do this. Then it often happened that: “The illumination is bad. Into the yard with the complete room, march!” Then we had to carry everything, from the boxes and the beds to the rubbish bin, to the yard and, after a repeat check, back to the first floor.
During our first drill on the parade ground there was a puddle which had remained from the morning rain. This approached me directly, and I did a wide sidestep while marching.to avoid it. At once there was the shout: “Everybody halt!”, our instructor had seen my evasive step. I had to step forward, and he directed me with the commands: turn left, turn right, two steps forward, until I stood directly in front of the puddle. Then came a new command: “Down, up, down, up, turn around etc.”,. until I was completely wet to my skin and the puddle almost dry. We did not wear uniforms during our exercises but the so called Drillichanzug , loose overalls, made from linen. Then in the evening we stood in the cellar and tried to wash the mud from our overalls and dry them, as otherwise we would have to wear them wet during exercises the following day. The so called Maskenball, masquerade, was well known in the German Army. Alarm at one in the morning: “Get up! Section B assemble in battle dress in the yard.” Then a detailed check if everything was correct. If it was, then: “In five minutes assemble in walking-out uniform.” Then strict control again to see if one had wound a handkerchief around the neck instead of wearing a white shirt. And then often the crowning remark: “You are in stepping-out uniform and not shaved? Quick march, everybody collect his shaving kit but without brush and water. ” And like this we stood in the yard and tried to shave the whiskers off which sometimes led to blood. How much different had I expected my pilot training to be, sitting in an aircraft in a smart flying suit. But we first had to become soldiers, and in the German Army this meant: unconditional obedience. Some reader might think that it was absolute craziness to demand these things, but in this training there lay surely the successes of German soldiers. .Unfortunately, ” they were gambled away.” Just think, dear reader, Poland was beaten in a few weeks, France, Jugoslavia, Greece, the Netherlands, Belgium, Norway, Denmark etc. Have a look at the map, from the Nordkap to North Africa, everything was in German hands. But even Churchill is reported to have said: “Leave the Germans alone, they will eventually win to their deaths”. But all these successes were the fruit of our training. When later our squadron leader said: “Below left, Tobruk harbour, we attack the two large ships”, then some of us might have thought that this was impossible, facing the defensive fire from the harbour guns, but nobody remained behind and we all dived. (One of us did not dive because he had a radiator defect, and when he had an engine malfunction once again before diving, he was replaced.).
But we were still busy with infantry drill and were trained in courage: jumping through burning hoops, loop across a high table. I had never done anything like this in my life, but when Hauptmann Frohme, who happened to be present, performed the loop in full uniform, did we throw ourselves in loops over the table, defying death, and never mind the blue patches afterwards.
Until now we had never seen anything of flying, although we lived on an airfield, and only saw the aircraft in a distance. But now came the “Inspection”, and we were expected to show what we had learned. Naturally, Hauptmann Frohme wanted to “shine” with his cadets, and we were drilled accordingly. It happened like this:
Because one could expect from a future officer that he could handle all kinds of weapons in use in the German Army, (these were remnants from the times when there existed only one type of rifle and one gun!!) he had to know them all, which meant we could dismantle and reassemble them. This was certainly an impossible demand considering our short training period. But since the inspecting General was an old infantry man and known to be very strict, we had to train again and again on the available weapons. The weapons, i.e. rifle, machine gun and anti-aircraft gun were formed into a circle, and behind or next to each one lay three of us. When one was reasonably familiar with the rifle, the sergeant shouted: “Move to the next weapon”, and we had to jump up and run to the next position. We did this in such a way, though, that when the sergeant shouted, we did not run to the next weapon but created confusion, which enabled us to end at our own weapon we knew well. It is understandable that our Oberstleutnant Arnie used to say: “Every inspection by a high ranking animal is a sabotage attempt at our training.” .
Since we were expected to jump through burning hoops and perform similar jokes during the inspection, as we had done before, the 3rd cadet group was soon called “Circus Frohme”
When we marched in formation outside our barracks this was something special. If an approaching soldier on the sidewalk did not salute properly, our Chief called him and said: “Do you call this production a proper salute? Join us at the end of the column.” Now these were normally all soldiers in stepping-out uniforms who wanted to go somewhere, but they had to march with us. There were no exceptions. It was a mixed bag marching at the end of us, pilots with side weapon, sailors etc. and we were always curious what would happen to the next soldier who walked towards us.
At last the hard training period was over, we had become real “soldiers” and were transferred to Kriegsschule, as military academies were called at the time.
At the Kriegsschule Berlin-Gatow:
It must have been end of July 1940 when we arrived there. Once again we marvelled at the gigantic installations, laid out almost .like a park. Surely the drill would be just like the one in Salzwedel with a more ‘humane” undertone. Again we were distributed to the rooms, five men each, but we were not any more responsible for the cleaning because we were educated to become gentlemen. We did not see anything of aircraft at the beginning, because it was now theory, aerodynamics, engine design, meteorology etc. we were fed on in a shortened and therefore concentrated form, and we were often overtired and had to fight against sleep during lessons.
We were divided into sections again, one section was equivalent to a platoon, with three sections forming a company. A section was led by a cadet father, although ours possessed little of a father but had a kind and understanding heart. It did not take long and we would have walked through fire for him. On the other hand it must have been a satisfying task for him to educate and train such young, healthy and very willing boys. He was an example to follow in all situations, because during the one-and-a-half year he took care of us, he was responsible less for flying but more for developing human qualities and building our characters, and in many ways we even tried to copy him, since, despite his military roughness, he was a “Sir” as one would say today. I remember one of his maxims: “Gentlemen and dogs never close a door themselves.” He liked me on account of my Austrian heritage for which North-Germans have a soft spot, and he sometimes let matters slide when he could have been more strict. He also tried to train us in proper drinking habits since he believed that here the human shows his true colours. Naturally, there was no saying “Prost” when he gave a toast, instead one lifted the glass to the first uniform button and drank as long as “he” drank. If one wanted to toast him we said: “Herr Oberleutnant, may I please have your permission to give you a toast?”
We arranged many parties while we were at the academy. Once, when the Kommandant of the academy visited us at a party and the beer was finished, we all emptied our glasses into a larger one, and when Nolte shouted: “A beer for the Herr Oberst,” he was served the collection of beer left-overs. Afterwards Nolte promised to stretch the Hammelbeine (sheeps’ legs) of any person who leaked the story, meaning a severe dressing down. In my section served Gustl Cuk from Bruck an der Mur who was my friend and a happy and clever chap. Once, when he was incapable of standing erect, Nolte asked us to push his bed from the room, and when he wanted to sleep because he was very tired, four men had to carry the bed into the shower room and turn the water on. I can still hear his howling under the cold water. Sadly, he had to pay with his life for his carelessness and easy-going style. On his return from a mission his plane started to burn shortly before reaching our airfield. Unfortunately, he had not secured his parachute properly, the bag slipped before jumping, and Gustl was unable to find the emergency ripcord with the grip which is normally under the left armpit, The result was that he fell “brakeless”, ungebremst, from the sky. We jokingly called this “unsharpened in the bone bag (flying suit) into the ground”, because we had no ejection seats etc. However, we are not there yet, but are sitting tired in the lecture room. We had been in the Luftwaffe for four months, and still had not seen an aircraft. Despite all obvious efforts to put us into an aircraft and send us to the front, training was done with typical German thoroughness. We were busy from six in the morning to the evening hours, and it was therefore normal that we fell asleep in the lecture rooms while sitting up, especially during boring lectures. It was not pleasant when the head snapped back. This mostly happened during boring lectures by a technician about engines that went far above our heads. Kapitän Wegerer, who was responsible for weather science, personified the typical seadog on great adventures. He managed to convince us to strive for thoroughness and accuracy. Since he also spiced his lectures with examples from his eventful life, we always looked forward to weather science. He also taught us navigation. The examinations were very fair, and I really preferred them, then having to jump from a 3 m board in the swimming hall. As it had been before, we were under constant observation and in this week as well some were sent home or transferred to other units. The official term was “relieved”, and it was feared by us very much.
I would like to submit a book extract which will describe our training much better than I can, and this is from the book “Stuka” by Hans Jűrgen Baron von Koskull, published 1973 by the Lehmann Verlag, Munich.
“Chapter seven. Pilot training.
Training in the Luftwaffe was very hard and has reached a higher level than in other countries, as has been generally acknowledged. The reason was the formation of a special training inspectorate in the German ministry for aviation. With dynamic and enthusiastic flying instructors, Göring succeeded in recruiting suitable young men for his, in every aspect preferentially treated, Luftwaffe.
As might be expected, and based on German military history, basic training followed general military guidelines rather than aviation requirements. Before the young men could become pilots they first had to get accustomed to proper military discipline. Every recruit and every officer cadet spent part of his training with an air force training regiment, where he was trained according to military requirements.” “ During infantry training smoking and drinking was forbidden. (not correct!). Besides battle training, emphasis was placed on physical education and sports training.” End of the extract.
But otherwise we lived the life of young men in war academy who did not know what to do with their energy, and not even the worst harassment, whether in the lecture rooms or on the drill square could affect our sense of companionship. Regrettably, “pass” was written in small letters only and we suffered. …..”not every day has sunshine, only staff goes on holiday!”, as the popular song said. We learned this every day. Not even at Christmas were we allowed to go home or leave the barracks, but the goal was nearly reached with the theory of flying almost oozing from our eyes. Once again we were tested for flying ability in the smallest detail and then we had arrived. Flying training began.
Flying training.
We marched proudly and under a sunny sky to the airfield in our newly fitted flying suits and felt like little idols.
As already mentioned, we had only qualified personnel to train us, this applied to flying too, and my teacher was the former pilot of the Abessinian Kaiser Haile Selassi, Count Schack. He was around 50 years old, in my eyes an old gentleman, understanding and patient. He did everything slowly and exactly; his successor was the opposite. After I had been strapped into the plane, it was the Focke Wulf 44, called Stieglitz, he first rolled around the airfield a bit and let me hold the throttle to feel how the engine responded etc. The Stieglitz was the standard training aircraft with two seats, identical instrument panels for front and rear. Schack had unscrewed my control column to prevent me from doing something silly.
The first trips had the purpose of getting accustomed to the feel of flying “Well, Deibl, enjoy this trip, have a look around in the air, feel like a passenger not a trainee pilot.” It was simply marvellous, this was really flying. Today with the travel planes, this is not flying but moving through the \air. But here one felt the wind around the head, the roar of the engine, and had the impression of being a bird in the air. I could not imagine a greater feeling of happiness, not then and not today. Von Schack flew to the Havelseen, then across to the Spreewald with its many channels, circled around Königswusterhausen, and landed after more than an hour back home.
I had done about 10 flying hours with von Schack, when reality caught up with me. Von Schack was called away and I received a new flying instructor, Feldwebel Riethoff. His name sounded rough to me and I did not expect much. The fatherly concern and consideration of an elderly gentleman had to give way to the brusque treatment by a Prussian Feldwebel.
But training continued, we were on the airfield every day in groups of five, weather permitting, and all training really only consisted of starts and landings. We were allowed to hold the control column and press hard on the rudder pedal. Then move the controls a bit, which gave the young pilot the impression that he was flying solo. During one landing approach I seemed to fly too high to bring the plane down, when Riethoff suddenly pulled up, and with a giant “slip”, like an aerobatic figure, almost pancaked. I had a big fright and expected the end ahead, but he came down safely. After we had landed, he shouted at me if I had been crazy etc. However, Herr Feldwebel was out of luck. The air traffic controller of our section in the control tower had observed the manoeuver, and Riekhoff was ordered to report/ He was perhaps told what a good instructor should be like and rejected. Rickhoff was probably a good pilot but unsuitable as teacher due to his impatience and temper.
The first solo flight.
After 75 flights with the instructor it was finally time, and the first solo flight approached. The candidate was reported to the control tower, and an officer arrived and settled in the machine to oversee the three examination flights. Now the trainee sat in the front seat and the examiner in the rear, but he would only act in an emergency. Excited, I started the engine and was only expected to perform three simple runs around the airfield, which went well without the examiner having to interfere, and he said: “I am not worried about you, you will come down safely because no one has remained up there yet.”
In the meantime my aircraft had been prepared for my first solo trip: red flags were fastened to the wing tips and the rudder to indicate to other pilots in the air: here is a very young rabbit, keep your distance!
I remember my heart pounding when I stood alone on the taxiway, and pushed the throttle forward. A few rumbles across the grass and I was really in the air, free and alone like a bird. A left turn, then straight again. I sang, no I shouted loud: “I am flying, I am flying.” All efforts and obstacles on my way to this goal were forgotten, a goal reached through single-minded determination.
After landing an old pilots‘ custom was performed: I knelt on the ground and everybody present was allowed to give me a smack on my bottom, and some made good use of this.
Besides flying training, theoretical instructions continued. And since the good weather was used for flying, theory lagged behind. Therefore, legal science, lessons in deportment, swimming etc. carried on into the evening. And we continued drilling, shooting and marching. For us young, thoroughbred youngsters it was often not easy to fulfil the demands made on us and we always went to bed dog-tired. Passes into town, which we had missed in the past, were no problem anymore. But when we did visit the town, the fun started, although with our boisterous attitude we had to be careful, as we could be immediately identified as officer cadets by our uniforms. I still remember how fascinated I was in a bar, it was the “Delphi”, that one could telephone from one table to another and ask a young girl for a dance.
We 19 year olds most certainly felt like Kings, and when I think back with my 82 years, this is what we were. The pilots’ uniform was fashionably cut and we did not wear the standard military loden, but were allowed to have uniforms of worsted material made by the tailor, added to which was a white shirt and dark tie. Altogether this presented a pleasant picture with our young faces.
Before our first pass we were very carefully scrutinized by Nolte. Cap off, shoes polished, inspect nails etc. During a check the pass could be quickly cancelled, and it was hard to see the comrades walk off and remain behind.
Before Christmas we were promoted to Cadet N.C.O.s and the pilots’ extra pay, which was added to the standard pay, was increased. This meant that we had no financial difficulties.
Hans as NCO
Despite the war our food was exceptional, we were fed with everything that was healthy. One took great care that for breakfast we all ate our porridge like little children, and then the real breakfast arrived. On Sundays we always had a feast, and pork knuckle was not a rarity.
Flying continued apace as well, and I completed one test after another. I had to do three emergency landings with an instructor who, at 1000 m altitude, suddenly switched the engine to idle without prior warning to the trainee. He quickly had to decide on which space or meadow he was going to land the aircraft. During landing approach full throttle was given and the instructor decided if the test had been successfully completed. I had done three correct landing approaches and completed the tests. Such tests were varied. For instance: at an altitude of 1000 m above the airfield, the engine was switched off and one had to land as close to the landing marker as possible. We especially liked the so-called cross country trips to other airfields, because then we really flew over the country. It was pleasant when, during further training, we were allowed to fly to airfields close to home.
We are flying across the open country.
During all flying assignments when we had to fly to another airfield, our air traffic control took special care that not two aircraft approached the same town. The reason came probably from the experience that when two planes flew the same route, they were apt to do something silly. And this is what happened. Gustl had to fly to the city of Plauen, close to the Chech border and I, strangely enough, received the same instructions. However, my time for take-off had been moved forward by 20 minutes from Gustl’s plane. And what did we do? I dawled during take-off and Gustl started early. The agreed meeting point was to be the radio masts at Königswusterhausen. I did not have to circle for long when Gustl wobbled along in his Arado 66, and we happily continued south.
We had marked all female Arbeitsdienstlager in our maps, and there we paused, demonstrating our artistry, and at the end thundered low over the camp above the waving girls. And we carried on happily. People working in the fields were also forced to duck because we had received training in low level flying as well. After some time I had no idea where I was, since orientation from the air is not easy once one has lost the thread. So I flew closer to Gustl’s plane and held up my map because we had no radio contact with each other. But he also showed me his map and we both did not know where we were. What to do now? We circled through the air for a while and I lost him out of my eyes. Slowly it dawned on me that my altimeter showed 1000 m, and when I looked out of the plane my guess was that I was flying about 300 m up. No wonder, I flew above the Erzgebirge! Carrying on, I spotted at last a large town ahead with a railway line, where the main station could be a great help if one flew low to read the name. But it was also not easy to locate the name on the map, the last resort for a “lost” pilot. Unfortunately, I was unable to read the name since the sign was obscured by the roof. Suddenly, green flares rose into the sky close by. Normally this signalled: “You are allowed to land.” Off in the direction of the signals! It was the airfield of Eger in Tschekoslovakia. I performed a perfect landing in order not to be dressed down and was happy to have firm ground under my feet again. When I reported they was very merciful, I had expected a rocket, but they decided to release me with a full tank to fly to Plauen, which, once in the air, I was unable to locate, as I had lost my orientation again. A fact a non-flyer will find difficult to understand. Therefore I decided to fly straight north towards Berlin. I would be able to find my way in a familiar territory and the many lakes. But suddenly barrage balloons almost barred my way, and a fighter plane pushed me unmistakeably to the west. This area had been pencilled in red on all maps as prohibited area on account of the large Buna factories producing synthetic fuel. Since we had been told that any aircraft, regardless of nationality, would be shot down, I was most grateful to the pilot of the fighter plane that he had spared me. He probably realized that I was merely a stupid trainee in a training plane.
Here in Merseburg, however, I was given the rocket I had avoided at Eger, although in a much worse form. The Major in charge of air traffic control called me all names of animals one finds in a Zoo, and ordered my aircraft to be taken away, which forced me to ride home to Berlin-Gatow by train. This was the biggest disgrace for a young pilot. When the pilot of the fighter plane reported back, the Major said to me: “You can thank him that you are still alive, he acted against his orders.”
At home I received three days severe detention on account of “flying offences”, as the wording said. During detention I heard that Gustl had also lost his way and been “collected” by an instructor, which meant that he was forced to fly home behind him to Berlin.
For further training I came under the wings of Herr Schottka, World Aerobatics Champion from 1937. It was his task to introduce me to this art. He was a typical civilian, even when he wore his uniform, but he was able to teach me this art without strict military commands. Once again I started by sitting behind or next to him, without touching the controls. I was quite glad I did not have to worry when the aircraft turned upside down etc. when he demonstrated his complete repertoire. Then he explained gently and carefully the individual positions of the controls which, in the case of some figures, were not easy to perform, and he even did a loop forward. Soon figures like rolls, where I rolled the plane left or right around its axis, turns and loops etc. were not difficult anymore and they must have looked reasonably good, as I was allowed to train solo during the next days. Schottka merely remained on the ground, observing me with his field glasses, to correct me afterwards. During one turn, though, I received quite a fright. The turn is a figure during which one increases speed and then shoots straight up into the sky until the plane is almost at a standstill, then one presses right or left rudder and the plane falls straight down. If one presses too early, one does not turn but performs a curve. I pressed too late, and this is what happened. I had “starved” the bird to perform a perfect turn, but it was too much and for a few seconds all became quiet, and the plane’s controls did not respond anymore but allowed the plane to fall forward. My turn had turned into a “sit-up position”, a difficult and dangerous performance which is not taught any longer. This was the reason while Schottka asked: “Who showed you the beautiful sit-up?”
For the aerobatic examinations we received a paper on which all figures had been printed we had to perform above the airfield, and in the correct sequence, while the crowd of strict examiners watched with their field glasses. As with other flying tests, one was allowed three tries. I was lucky and received a good note for my first try. Probably not only due to my own aptitude, but because I had Schottka as teacher who, with his yearlong experiences and ability, managed to shape me properly. I remember that my examination began with the “rolling cross”, where the plane rotates continuously around its own axis while flying a circle. I am convinced it was not a nice circle I flew, but this was really a difficult figure to perform. Professionals fastened smoke cartridges to the wing tips for better control.
Cross Country Trips.
I almost forgot to mention the cross country trips which were customary for our training. We were able to control the planes reasonably well, so there was really nothing to worry about, unless orientation became a problem… Look at my trip to Plauen! The reason for cross country trips was to fly without supervision. We generally flew to airfields in Central Germany or in the East. The West was out of bounds since enemy aircraft could interfere. Nolte distributed the airfields we had to approach, and the young pilots naturally wanted to fly close to home which was not appreciated. The pilots wanted to show off their aerobatic skills at home and this could lead to crashes. This was proved by my case. I had obtained an order to fly to Vienne Neustadt which almost ended in tragedy, if my proverbial luck had not flown with me. I came from the north, had passed the Unterberg, and pushed the plane, a twin-engine Focke-Wulf 44, to fly into the Pernitz valley. Unfortunately, I had not correctly estimated this plane’s wider turning circle and almost touched the hills of the Kitzberg, nearly ending my flying display, then flew via the Piesting Valley to Vienna Neustadt, drenched in sweat. The two engines of the plane had not been suitable for such aerobatics, and I am happy, even today, that no cross of remembrance stands on the Kitzberg.for me.
When I later, (the cat will not forget mousing) as fully trained pilot with my heavy Sturzkampfmachine Junkers 87R and a 1.600 HP engine, flew over Pernitz, the whole situation was different.
Now back to military academy in Berlin, as it was time to decide which units to join, fighters, bombers, scouts, destroyers or dive bombers. In part, this decision was influenced by our different assessments regarding courage, tenacity etc. Prior to this we were put into pressure chambers to test our reaction at different altitudes. We were placed in a hermetically sealed pipe and were given pencil and paper on which was a sentence, f.i. “Tomorrow we fly to Poland.” This sentence had to be copied one under the other, while air was released to simulate different altitudes. The pipe was fitted with round port holes like a submarine, through which the candidates could be observed from outside. I wrote industriously: “We fly to Poland”, and felt extremely well. Then the test was complete and oxygen pumped in. I took my paper and looked at it with horror. My handwriting had become worse with each sentence, and at the end it was unreadable. What had happened?
As already stated, the tests were designed to evaluate the candidate’s reactions and responses to higher altitudes. We were expected.to put a pencil mark next to the sentence if we noticed a change in the oxygen supply, which meant one was prepared to drop to lower altitudes. There are two kinds of people, the one realizes this but not the other. I belonged to the “others”. For example: I could expect altitude-death at 6.000 m without prior warning. It is apparently the most wonderful death since one feels excellent until the end. A probable end for a pilot with a defective oxygen mask. Therefore, Hans: Always check the oxygen. The other people do not suffer because they become ill early enough.
For us young, daredevil boys to decide which arm of the service we should select, depended also on the duration of the training period. Being a pilot was not everything, one had to undergo special training. We were worried to “miss” the war and Gustl and I reported to the Sturzkampfflieger who had the shortest training period, although the shortest life expectancy as well. On the day I was shot down in Africa, our group alone lost 14 aircraft and crews, and according to the Luftwaffe general-quartermaster’s casualty list, the Sturzkampf units suffered a loss of 1.269 crews from 1.9.1939 to 30.9.1943. (We did obviously not know these figures then, because we might have changed our minds). Gustl Cuk, a proper wild dog, joined us as well. Prior to our departure from war academy, there arrived the hour for promotions to Oberfähnrich and swearing-in ceremony. This rank was the best of the officer career, one felt like an officer without having their responsibilities.
Induction by Adolf Hitler.
The day of the ceremony came close, but we still did not know where, how and through whom this would be done. Only later did we understand this secrecy, because no one was to know where and when Hitler would be present to prevent preparations for an assassination attempt. Once it was said the ceremony would take place in the Waffensaal of the academy, then in the Sportpalast in Berlin, but if the weather was fine on our airfield. Since everything had to be rehearsed a hundred times in the Prussian Army, a few of our planes were placed in a circle and we as well. Then we were ordered into the Waffensaal which impressed us greatly. On the next day we heard that the commander of the academy would induct us, then Göring, the Reichsmarschall and commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe would do this himself. We had to practise: an officer entered the hall representing our commander and shouted: “Heil meine Fähnriche!” and we had to reply: “Heil Herr Oberst.”, which we shouted loud and had to repeat ten times. But in case Göring was to arrive himself, we had to shout: “Heil, Herr Reichsmarschall”. This went on for days. But in case Hitler should arrive, we had to practise: “Heil unser Fűhrer!”
When on the day of the ceremony, after one hundred checks of hair-cuts, uniform and other things, passenger buses arrived in the yard, we realized we would go to Berlin. But even our officers did not know who would induct us. It must have been mid-May 1941 when we entered the Sportpalast, which had been magnificently decorated with flowers and flags.
Once again we had to rehearse: “Attention”, which produced a terrible noise caused by 150 young men jumping up from their chairs. And then the big moment arrived when the stage curtains moved and our commander shouted his “Attention” into the hall. We almost did not believe our eyes when we saw Hitler suddenly appear in front of us. He looked around slowly as if he wanted to fix everyone with his light blue eyes, and said quietly, contrary to the standard barrack square shouts: “Heil meine Jugend!”. Our reply: “Heil mein Fűhrer”, almost tore the plaster from the walls. I could study him closely as I stood in the second row.
He talked to us for half an hour without notes about:: …”the pride of the Nation, the burden we had to carry, our duty for the German Volk, and our imminent sacrifices….”. When at the end he asked us to sacrifice our last drop of blood for Germany, he could have ordered us to jump into a gorge and we would all have jumped. This remarkable day closed with the handing-over of our promotion documents, music and pomp. In the decree, signed by Göring, there is the wording: “ Ich vollziehe diese Urkunde in der Erwartung, dass der Genannte getreu seinem Diensteide seine Berufspflicht gewissenhaft erfűllt und das Vertrauen rechtfertigt, dass ihm durch seine Beförderung bewiesen wird. Zugleich darf er des besonderen Schutzes des Fűhrers sicher sein. Der Oberbefehlshaber der Luftwaffe H.Göring.”
Saying goodbye to our friends with whom we had lived and suffered together over years, was not easy. It had been a hard education but now we faced new goals. There were not many girls from whom we had to part since we had been under the whip and had neither time nor inclination. We were not even allowed to interrupt training for one day over Christmas. Thus we left Berlin in our blue-grey uniforms, proudly wearing the pilot badge on our chest.
Further training in Bad Aibling and Graz.
The present Stuka pilots’ training course had not yet finished, and we were first sent to the airfield at Aibling in Bavaria. This was a good choice. Despite the war, Bad Aibling was still a peaceful, flourishing, charming spa, as one remembered them from films and novels. We young cadets in our smart uniforms soon became a happy part of this town. Our course-leader was an elderly, easy-going reserve officer who showed a lot of understanding for us young people. There were no flying problems either, since we believed we knew it all.
But we used the extra time well and completed the BI Blind Flying certificate, and trained a lot on the predecessor of the Ju 87, the Henschel 123, a plane which I liked. With aircraft it is the same, one either likes a plane or not. I liked the Henschel, a single-engine all-metal design with a very powerful engine. I often flew along the Bavarian Alps and its many lakes.
We also had boyish fun flying as low as possible approaching yachts and suddenly pulling the plane up in front of the boats which, if they were not careful, flipped over. The experienced yachtsmen got used to this fun and soon we were playing cat and mouse. One day we came to grief. :Ludwig Auer touched the lake’s surface and died. This finished our careless undertakings, although flying under bridges became now fashionable.
There was a beautiful, arched bridge across the Inn river. Fipa, proper name Philips, from Linz, flew a small training aircraft underneath and bragged a lot about it afterwards. Of course, we did not want to stand back, but our strict instructor had discovered this and blocked it by promises of drastic punishment.
We lived well in Bad Aibling and were short of nothing. Now we had time for girls too, and formed a happy circle with Eva, Lotte and Lisa. The Henschel 123 remained our main training aircraft, because there were only a few Ju 87 available, and they were the old type. The Henschel had only one disadvantage. If one pulled the plane up too hard, (űberziehen) during aerobatics, it began to spin out of control, and it was then most difficult to correct this dangerous figure. Whoever succeeded was not given a wreath for his grave but 8 days special leave.
The days in Bad Aibling passed quickly, too quickly, as we were given lots of flying duties, and once they were over, the beautiful Kurmädchen (spa-cuties) were waiting.. I remember Eva, daughter of a Bishop from the north, who called me Haneken instead of Hans, and had already sent her parents my photograph for an “assessment”. I did not like this. But the friendship with this girl was “a honourable one” as one said at the time. My future wife, Friedl, visited me in Aibling as well. And then the hour of parting came close.
In addition to the standard tests, we had to fulfil one for target shooting. Not with a rifle but with the machine guns mounted in the wings. It was like this: an area near Aibling had been cordoned off to be used for shooting trials from the air. Tilted frames were placed there, 2 x 2 m square and covered with white paper. We were given machine guns with 200 rounds of proper ammunition and, during four approaches, had to try to hit the targets as often as possible. When this was done we flew off, wings wobbling, to show the soldiers in their bunkers that we were finished and shooting was over. They ran to the frames to fit new papers. The machine guns in the wings had been adjusted that the bullets crossed 150 m in front of the plane. Ideally and theoretically, one should have stopped in midair at 150 m from the target and begin firing. Since this was impossible, one had to select the correct moment to press the button on the control column. If it was the wrong moment, the bullets either ended before or beyond the target.in the moor. Before the test an older pilot had given us the advice to disconnect one machine gun and only shoot with the other. This had the advantage that we could observe the hits and correct accordingly. We first emptied the one gun and then the other. And now bad luck happened. Egon Reimann saw his hits on the target and came down, wanting to empty the gun, with his plane touching the ground. As we did not fly horizontally but sloping down, our speed was considerable and Egon would not have felt anything! A military funeral was the end of our time in Aibling. However, at the following Stuka school it was much worse.
We were transferred to Stukaschule 2 in Graz. It was decisive for us that our rail tickets were for 3rd class, (officers travelled 2nd class only), and because we already felt like little Görings in our youthful state, we found the proper solution in that we erased the number “3” and replaced it with a number “2”. But we did not feel too self-confident when a military police patrol checked tickets. And when we were asked why we sat in 2nd class, we explained that Stuka pilots in the rank of Oberfähnrich always travelled 2nd class by train. The old reserve Hauptmann did not notice that we had erased the number, perhaps he did not have his glasses on. But he wrote it all down and told us he would have to report the incident to higher authority. We had survived with a “blaues Auge”, (by a whisker).. Nevertheless, two weeks later in Graz we had to report to the Chef , but were in luck since the report had been so badly written one could gain the impression we had occupied 2nd class without permission. We explained that the train had been overcrowded, and this closed the case.
At airfield Graz Thalerhof the Stuka bombers waited in line for us to maltreat them. I hope there will be boys among my grandchildren interested in technical details:
Junkers Ju 87 liquid cooled, hanging, 12 cylinder 1.300 HP engine,
Width 13,6 m, Length 11,1 m, Height 3,9 m
Weight, without weapons and bombs, 5.720 kg
Weapons: 2 machine guns in the wings
1 machine gun for the rear gunner in the cockpit
250 kg or 500 kg bombs under the wings
Speed: 390 km, service altitude: 8000 m
Dive brake under the wing
Dive sirens at both wheels
Pull up pressure 3.9 g
Altogether we were nine cadets of which, sadly, seven were to die during operations. The eighth, Karli Stritter, would be severely injured, and I, lucky beggar, only suffered burns. But we did not know this yet.
Our instructor was a very young Oberleutnant Möbus who certainly impressed us greatly with his Knight’s Cross which he had received for sinking a destroyer. As an experienced frontline pilot he was expected to teach us the necessary skills. With a fighter plane, Messerschmidt 109, he flew faint attacks on us trainees. It happened often after landing that he said: ”After the second attack above the Riegersburg I could have shot you down like a lame duck when you pulled up. You must stay very close to the ground.”
Hans at the Stuka school in Graz
Pulling the plane up from a dive was something else. If it was done suddenly, the pressure on the body was 5 g, and, due to lack of blood in the brain, we blacked out. If one pulled the control column too slow, the pull-out radius became too wide and we came very close to the ground. Generalleutnant Mahlke writes in his book “Stuka” on page 41.
“It was generally left to oneself how hard one wanted to pull the aircraft up…I do not exclude that the physical strain experienced was felt differently by each pilot, and perhaps might have even come close to the limit of being able to take stress. The pressure in the ears was very unpleasant if the pressure balance did not work during sudden increases in air pressure. A sudden cracking in the eardrum showed that air pressure had been normalised. Among laymen it was widely believed that an almost vertical dive created an enormous load. But this was not correct, because the vertical dive with extended dive brakes cannot be measured differently than a horizontal flight, as the powers of acceleration only begin when pulling out. The crew is pressed into the seats by multiple bodyweight (3-5g).”. End of Mahlke’s note..
In Graz we began with aimed bomb drops. Not proper bombs but those made from cement of the same weight. They looked very similar to the real ones and were fitted with glass vials inside who created a smoke cloud when they hit the ground. This made it possible to check the drop’s accuracy. Our own bomb dropping field was at Wildon near Graz, in the centre of which was a white wooden table of abt. 2 m side length. This was our target, but it was seldom hit by our bombs. Although it was claimed that Stuka were able to hit any target they dived on, such accuracy was rarely achieved, as we dived from a height of 4.000 m at high speed, reaching 600 km despite dive brakes. If it happened, though, one had to pay for a case of beer. At the side of the bomb terrain were two bunkers to observe the hits. The lines were measured with a protractor and sent through to the control station where they were drawn on grid paper, and where the two lines met, there was the hit. On this paper was then added: “Bombenabwurfplatz Wildon, 15.9.1941, 16.32 h, Pilot Oberfähnrich Deibl, Treffer 28 m sűdöstl.vom Zielmittelpunkt”, (Hit 28 m south-east of target centre).
We were slowly getting familiar with the 90 degree dive, because it was not easy for a well-honed, twenty-year-old body to master this flying manoeuver, even if it was 4.000 m down. With the help of all possible and impossible exercises one taught us how to master our machines, we were full of enthusiasm, healthy and courageous; all necessary requirements were present. Our unit’s exercises served the same purpose when we, as Kettenhunde, had to follow the leader of the Kette (flight leader) very close. I remember that Möbus once asked me, after we had swept across the airfield flying low: “Well, Deibl, flying rather careful today?” I was so cross I said to Gustl, who was flight leader: “Gustl, when we do low flying again, just be calm, I will move as close to you as possible.” And this is what I did, and with my right wingtip lamp hit his left wingtip lamp, breaking it. When I asked Möbus, who had observed all this from the ground, if I had flown close enough to the flight leader, he chased me away.
I forgot to say that the flight leader has a great responsibility when flying low. If he makes a left turn for instance, he must consider carefully that his left Kettenhund may easily come near the ground, because he has his eyes fixed on the leader and follows him exactly.
At this stage of our training we were allocated our Bordschűtsen, rear gunners, i.e. we could select one. Rear gunner is one who defends the aircraft against attacks from the rear with his machine gun and operates the Radio communication equipment. His most important task is to keep his eyes on the air behind the aircraft, because enemy fighters almost always attack from the rear. A machine gun was fitted into the cockpit which the gunner could point in every direction. He sat against my back during a dive, which was not comfortable for him. We used special cues to tell me the attacker’s position, because if a fighter f.i. came from my left I had to turn left. This might sound paradoxical, but if I had turned right, the fighter would have had me right in front of his guns. There were many possibilities that enemy fighters, and they were our main enemies, came from above, below or both sides. For the pilot’s protection a steel sheet had been built between him and the gunner, with a little window that could be opened or shut. When we flew normally, the window was always open, and Willy Luberichs, that was the name of my happy radio operator from the Rhein, was allowed to give me a piece of chocolate or something else. If it became critical or dangerous, I closed the steel plate. This might sound a bit horrible, because he looked the attacking enemy fighter right into the eyes. But the pilot had to be protected since he had to bring the plane and the gunner back home.
Now back to Graz, where we were trained for all eventualities, and since we flew mostly in formation, this was also practised continuously. A stop watch was used to check the time expired between the first and the last bomb hit. This period, measured in seconds, had to be as short as possible, and the planes had to dive very close after each other. For one inspecting General this period was too long, and we were sent up once again, having been urged to fly even closer. The result was that one of us, during diving, came so close to the pilot in front that his propeller cut off his rudder. The outcome was terrible. Both planes dived “unsharpened” into the ground and four young men were dead. But we were young, full of energy, enthusiasm for flying and well fed, and were able to put such terrible moments and tragedies behind us.
We spent many happy hours in Graz. As an example: There was a coffee restaurant with a large terrace almost next to our take-off, and when the girls in their summer dresses visited, sometimes complete classes, we rolled along in our planes, windows open, and felt very proud, especially with our image being high in the public’s eyes. There were nice restaurants in town and we had enough money, and this gave me, for the third time in my career, five days detention. According to my penalty document, I had been caught in the American bar after closing time, making music, and had refused to salute the military police patrol when it entered. What really had happened was that we did not leave the bar at 1 a.m.closing time after we had consumed a lot of drinks, but instead wanted to make music. I played the piano, Fips the violin and Richard directed because as a North-German he was completely unmusical. Both were killed in Norway.
During my time in Graz I completed the glider exams “C” “on the side”. The reason was that the Segelfliegerverein in Graz had no towing pilot and searched among us military pilots for suitable persons. The law required that this pilot had to possess the glider pilot certificate. Since there was no one suitable, and I was very keen, I was given this certificate within a few days. Two friends joined me, and together we almost created a deadly accident. The towing pilot is connected with a rope to the glider which he tows to the altitude requested. Has it been reached, he releases the rope and his aircraft circles low above the airfield and throws the rope to the ground. The helpers then collect the rope and secure it to the next glider. But not with me, a fully trained Stuka pilot. Like a young idiot I put my aircraft into a dive to throw the rope right in front of the next glider to save them the trouble of collecting it. However, my training was not all that good, the rope fell onto the textile covered wing, almost cutting it off. The damage was not severe, but I could easily have decapitated the pilot who was sitting in his glider. A bet with the Graz’ glider club almost made us into criminals. One of their unpleasant members bragged consistently that he could perform twenty loops from 1.000 m altitude with his glider. He did it long enough for Richard to ask to be towed to this altitude, and he did twenty two loops, and I did twenty four afterwards, and the crazy Fips twenty eight, which brought him very close to the ground with his last one. When Möbus heard about this we were close to a report for: “Endangering people and property”. But we were cocky dogs, burning to be sent to the front against a real enemy, although it was not yet the time, because we had to be thoroughly trained.
At the Ergänzungsstaffel in Saloniki.
The reserve squadron of twelve operational aircraft belonged to a front line wing and was under the command of its Kommandeur . This squadron was not stationed at the front but somewhere in the Hinterland. Our wing was somewhere in Africa, and we at the airfield in Saloniki. Losses of crews at the front were made good by us. We young pilots were given the final touches, and transferred pilots who had been at the front familiarized us with the circumstances of the wing. Before this we also had to face a reaction test which was simple and difficult at the same time. One sat at a small table on which coloured circles appeared. With the help of a similar coloured switch they had to be tilted, i.e. red circle, red switch. This was not too bad, but then all colours appeared at the same time, and up left a bell shrilled, and then one had to press a pedal with the right foot to stop it, and then top right a bell for the left foot. After a short time to get used to it, a test paper was fitted to the table, and for ten minutes it was: left, right, up left, up right, red, yellow etc. The colours disappeared after a few seconds etc. The band next to me moved and punched a hole for every mistake and omission. This was not simple but very logical because too many holes signified slow reaction.
The move to Saloniki went by train from the Sűdbahnhof where Friedl; said goodbye. My pain of parting caused me to forget my suitcase and everything else on the station platform. I only noticed this at Belgrade when I became hungry and wanted to look for the sausages mother had packed. My radioman Willy had to travel back to Vienna and I arrived in Saloniki in my stepping-out uniform and not service uniform which was in my suitcase. The first impression I made must not have been a good one. But my happiness was great when I met Gustl in our new surroundings who had been here for one week. .Now we flew and trained the same dives, flying-, and attack manoeuvers in Greece we had done in Graz. Soon I received a compliment from the workshop supervisor of our squadron, Oberfeldwebel Fűrsching, from Bavaria. He always had to fly with the machines which left his workshop, and therefore knew the knowledge and peculiarities of everyone exactly. And he said: “You know, this flying with different pilots is not really a pleasure. But I really like to fly with you.” And this was spoken in the broadest Bavarian dialect.
Every squadron officer had to be responsible for a job and therefore the squadron leader, Oberleuitnant Schubert, promoted me to “technical officer”, although I only knew little about technics. But perhaps Fűrsching was behind this, as I was his superior. But it made me laugh. And I did not beat around the bush. The pleasant side effect was that I could detail myself to collect spares from our depot in Vienna Neustadt, which once allowed me eight days holiday. It was like this: Our aircraft had to have its wings exchanged, although they were not in stock in Vienna-Neustadt for type R2. Nobody said anything to me and built wings of Type R 1 into my plane. Generally, this was not really a problem and might not have been noticed by anybody. Now my proverbial luck kicked in in the person of a service man, who was from Pernitz, and he discovered it. Following the usual greeting, he asked: “Is this your plane? We did not have the correct wings and have fitted R1, because they believed you would not find out…” I thanked him, promised to keep quiet and climbed into the plane with the responsible service supervisor. Immediately after the start I began to trim the plane continuously, and the supervisor, who could not see it from his seat, said over the intercom:
Saloniki: Hans seated on the right
“I would not believe that one can notice it so quickly, they did not have the R2 wing. Now we have to order new R2 wings from Dessau.” When after landing I told him that one could not properly dive, never mind aim, with the plane he talked to the workshop engineer who sadly remarked that I would have to wait for eight days. Thus I departed in a happy frame of mind for eight days to Pernitz after I had sent a telex to my squadron.
When I flew to Saloniki eight days later with a new wing, I first had to collect flight order and weather chart from traffic control at Vienna-Neustadt. When I guessed the distance to Saloniki by measuring with my lower arm across the map of Europe, the military expert of the weather chart tapped me on the shoulder and said: “Only someone from Pernitz will be so casual and guess his course from the chart!.” It was my old instructor Spanblöchl.
Before starting, I collected an infantry soldier who had been waiting for a lift at the airfield. It might have been his first and also his last flight, because I was so tired from the eight holiday days and nights that I fell asleep just before Belgrade, and was only woken by the howling noise of an over-revving engine. It could only have been a couple of second but I was very shocked. My flying guest liked the interlude, however, he believed I merely had wanted to show off.
Hans on the right
My time in Saloniki was similar to the one on Stukaschule in Graz, we trained all day and ambled through town in the evenings. For the Greeks this period was bad, because Greece is not rich, only rich in pebbles. Supplies across their roads benefitted the occupation forces, meaning us. Soldiers often went to the girls in town with bread, until it was verboten and under control. However, in the restaurants one could have everything with an extra charge, and if there developed a shortage anywhere, a grey market developed who could deliver anything. And money we had enough of.
One day my Chief sent me into town to the Music Academy to organise a piano, meaning to “impound it for the entertainment of soldiers.” I presented this request to an old professor at the academy and he said: “We only have one piano, and if you want to impound it, there is nothing I can do against it.” This was sufficient for my soft heart and I walked away without it. Upon leaving I asked him if there was anything I could do for him, and he mentioned the shortage of food and I promised to bring something on the next day, and this is what I did.
Regarding “ soft heart”. There were others, of course. There was a Leutnant in our squadron who used to herd people from the sidewalks with a little stick if they did not give way. He was an officer who had been removed from flying duty because he used any excuse not to dive and remained aloft.
A welcome change were duck hunts in the marshy areas of Saloniki. At their capitulation the Greeks had to surrender all arms to the occupation forces, and this included hunting rifles. The relevant depot was on our airfield in a large, old hangar. We visited and borrowed shotguns The organisation of our “:hunt” was typical for our lifestyle at the time. The birds nested in marches north of our airfield which was traversed by an artificial road. Some of us took position behind this road, and another one flew, according to a pre-arranged time table, low across the march, scaring the birds. Then the shooting started, and a few animals had to pay for our “operation” with their lives.
The preparation of this exquisite meal was done by a Blitzmädchen. These were girls between eighteen and thirty who had been drafted into the armed forces just like us and served in telephone exchanges or other offices in their smart uniforms. The girls in the Army in grey-green and the ones in the Luftwaffe in dark-blue. They were quartered in Hotels in the city and adored by us.
Once when I “had to fly” to Vienna-Neustadt again, just before Christmas, I was ordered by my squadron leader to bring back a small Christmas tree as there were none in Saloniki.. At home in Pernitz, I reported this to my father who brought me a respectable tree which I could not fit into my cockpit. We transported it to the airfield and I wanted the mechanics to shape it in such a way that I could take it with me. They said it would be a pity and they would manage somehow. When I returned after having received the flight document, they had managed to bind the tree with wire and secure it under the body at the bomb carrier.
Unfortunately, I made the mistake and rolled past the control tower where they had apparently noticed my “special bomb”. “Are you crazy?” Was the mildest rebuke I received, although I pointed at my shoulder pads through the window which clearly showed me as an officer. Return and remove the .tree. But not me. I rolled back and around the large hangar to the second runway from which I took off with full throttle. I was only able to dare this since I could rely on my squadron leader who had ordered the tree.
Having arrived in Greece I flew proudly low over the squadron billets so that everybody could see the attached tree. And when I unpacked the suitcase with food which my parents had packed for me, a wonderful Christmas was assured.
On a flight to Athens I found myself in a critical situation, sudden fog at the Olymp almost forced me to turn back, when suddenly the outlines of a Ju 52 appeared closeby, who was probably also on the way to Athens. This was the gute Tante Ju, as she was lovingly called, which could not fly faster than me. I followed her, hoping she was flying to Athens and not Malemis on Crete. It was Athens and I landed there very relieved.
Another lucky break happened when I had to land at Athens Eulysis, being low on petrol, and realized on the ground that I had forgotten my briefcase in Athens Tatoi, another airfield. As it was not yet my turn to be refuelled, there were always a number of planes waiting, I wanted to fly quickly to Tatoi to collect my bag. I flew across the city and – to my horror – just short of the airfield, my tank was empty and I landed with a stuttering engine. A litre of petrol less and I would have fallen into the city. But I could rely on my luck, it sat next to me.
In order to exhibit the power of the Luftwaffe, and especially the occupation force, we were ordered to march into the city in squadron strength, similar to. us later flying low over Italian cities as a peaceful demonstration.
One hundred powerful male voices sang marching songs:
“In the sun or above the clouds
In fog or in clear nights,
To follow the enemy armies,
We Stuka have been made.
We carry death and terror
In our clenched fists.
The enemy must lay down his weapons
In the face of our bombs’ power.
We dive vertically to the ground,
Like eagles from the sky,
We are not afraid of the fire from below,
We are not afraid of our own grave.”
This was most impressive, not just for the people but for us too….
Once, during a normal day in Saloniki, a surprise visitor from Africa arrived, our wing commander, Oberst Walter Sigel. Unfortunately, or fortunately, during a forbidden flying manoeuver when I had led a group of three planes. We did, however, not land after a turn around the airfield as was normally the case, but pushed our aircraft down, - my left and right pilots did the same – coming from up high, and thundered low over the airfield at high speed,, pulling the planes up like a tower, and then prepared to land in the direction of the control tower and landing strip. Rolling on, I noticed an unknown He 111 standing there and hoped it had not brought a high animal with it. But it had, and already there was a voice in the headphone: “Leader of flight just landed to the control tower.” Rather confused I stood in front of him and only thought “what luck that the figure had been performed so perfectly.” The dressing down followed at once: “Endangering people and property.”, but it was not too bad, I believe my ears heard something like praise in his words as well. At the end he asked me if I had already been allocated to an operational unit which I denied. “Then you may come with me,” he said. Despite my eyes lighting up, the squadron commander cancelled this because we were to locate to Italy and I was to lead the unit. Unfortunately, not in the air, my commander would do this, but by train. This was bad, because we had been so spoilt through transport by air, that a railway trip was horrible.
Orders were written, transport schedules worked out etc., because we were a rather large unit The flying staff, pilots and gunners, were abt. 30 strong, then there was the technical personnel, specialists for engines and air frames, weapons and equipment, office and kitchen staff etc. We were probably about 350 people. Yes, and I must not forget, the bombs were transported in a separate waggon, This large transport I was to lead, a young Leutnant, from Saloniki to Piacenza was provided with a railway urgency document No. 2. This meant that we had to be given preference over any other train. (Only a so-called Fűhrerzug had No. 1). British submarines had been spotted outside the Italian harbour Genua, and we were to operate against them from Piacenza. But I had my doubts. Shortly after arriving in Piazenca we were ordered to fly over Milano.
But we are still loading and have an impressive length, because three extra waggons with anti aircraft guns had been distributed along the entire train. All soldiers had to have their arms loaded and ready because we were to travel through partisan country. And then we were off. Just after Saloniki our aircraft flew a mock attack against our Tatzelwurm (old German word for dragon) , just to annoy us who were sitting on the hard railway seats, and flew off in the direction Albania-Rome, wings waving.
I was then twenty years young when I was given responsibility to lead this transport. For safety one had attached an old, experienced Oberfeldwebel, who in truth had command of this transport. But when we took on coal and water in Belgrade, two pretty girls managed to convince us to take them with us to Karlovac. Thinking back, we probably did not need much convincing. Most certainly is was absolute madness and verboten to transport civilians in a military train and in enemy country, since they might have been partisan decoys. But what about the saying: “What the devil can’t do himself he uses a woman to do.” With us as well. And with a small stomach flutter, we smuggled them into our carriage. Blomberg, this was the Oberfeldwebel’s name, said a few times: “Let them come with us, but the responsibility is yours.”
In Karlovac we performed the second prank. The girls wanted to take us to lunch, very kind but absolutely impossible, after all, we had not only every squadron member on the train but also the battle equipment of the whole squadron including bombs, as well as the kitchen. And we were in the middle of partisan territory. But my Oberfeldwebel, who was fancied by one of the two ladies, had a solution. “The team is completely tired, we are not only expected to arrive in Piacena fast but be in a position to assemble everything in order for the planes to be battle-ready. We stop over in Korlovac for one hour, whoever is tired may sleep on the train without noise, who wants to take a stroll in the town may do so. The guns will remain at the ready and twenty soldiers will guard them. The others visit the town without arms, only with hand guns and keep in groups of four. Whoever is not back by 16.25 will remain behind in Karlovac and face the consequences.” Stepping from the train he said to me: “It is your responsibility now.”
All went well. But who was not back at 16.25 was my gunner, but he just made it. When we arrived in Piacena, my chief praised me for our fast trip from Saloniki via Belgrade, Triest, Padua and Bologna.
When I think back what cheek we had arranging our stop-over, I still feel awful, because if something had gone wrong I would not now sit at my typewriter! Weeks later I confessed this escapade to my chief when in a mellow drinking mood, but he really did not want to believe it and merely said at the end: “I have not heard anything, otherwise I would have to let you face a court martial.”
For me Piacena was a wonderful time, there were no actions and no enemy submarines. One probably wanted to impress the Italians, who could not always be trusted, with the power and presence of an air force unit. However, we were really friends with the Italians, not only the civilians, but especially with the fighter pilots stationed on the nearby airfield. They acquainted us with the “finer” points of life. We sampled all restaurants in the area and drove to Milano for dinner, flew to Naples to observe the Vesuvius from above and went skiing with the Italians on the Appenine mountains. An example: I flew to Munich to deliver a box of onions, impossible to obtain at the time, to Lisa’s parents, a friend from Bad Aibling.
No wonder I liked this kind of life and could not imagine, or did not want to, that this would change. Although this was about to happen.
But before we went to Africa, I was to survive an accident and it happened like this: Two pilots from the Italian fighters, Georgio and Nino, “persuaded” me to drive to Milano where they were at home. Since we did not own any cars, I collected our duty car, an American Packard, without asking my chief for permission, and drove off. Just short of Milano we overtook a petrol tanker, and as we were side by side, he swung left and crashed into us. Our right side was cut open like a tin of sardines. Since we almost hung on to him, we did not turn over and survived the heavy crash uninjured. The car, however, was almost a total loss. What to do now, my luck appeared to have left me, just surviving the crash was not enough. How to report this to my squadron leader? I already saw myself demoted and in jail. However, my lucky fairy came back: As it happened not only the driver of the tanker sat in the cabin but also the owner. He owned a large motor car repair shop in Milano. Nevertheless, I would have been lost without my two Italian pilots. They jumped into action with very loud and insistent words. They told me afterwards in German that they had pressurised the owner, whose driver was responsible for the accident, and threatened him with a military court if the car, fully repaired, was not returned within eight days to the airfield in Piacena.
Relatively reassured, we ordered a taxi, and back home told the chief that I had borrowed the car and that someone had scratched the paint. He was certainly not pleased but refrained from punishing me.
The car was indeed returned after eight days but the Italian wanted to charge extra as a few other things which had also been repaired, and the car really looked like new. However, I was then already on my way to Africa and Gustl gave the man a fictitious address, and it might be that they are still looking for Hans Deibl..
By then I was really flying to southern Italy, celebrated greatly parting from Europe with my gunner, and started on 14th April 1942 to fly to Krete and landed at Melamis. While waiting to carry on, we strolled through bushes along the airfield and, to our horror, discovered decayed corpses of British soldiers.
Tired of waiting and still full of “fighting spirit”, I noticed a Ju 52, loaded with petrol canisters on its way to Derna on the North African coast, and that’s where I wanted to go.
I prepared a seat among this hellish load without realizing that in case of an enemy attack I would end up in the happy hunting grounds sooner than expected.
Although one third of these transport planes were shot down during the summer of 1942, we arrived in Derna at dusk, and because I had sent a signal, a duty car waited for me to take me to the wing where I arrived at the airfield in pitch black night. Future duties and arrangement were postponed for the next day as one lived in total darkness on account of enemy fighters. On the following morning a glorious day greeted me, and this deep blue sky with a bright sun was to remain with me for the duration of my stay in North Africa and almost cost me my life. When I was later shot down, I and my gunner had not spotted the enemy fighters lurking in the sun.
But I was still full of beans, reported and was greeted by everyone, and was especially glad that a friend from military academy in Berlin, Henner Weitzel, the former circus pilot from Circus Sarassani, was living next to me in my tent. The squadron itself was stationed in tents next to a Wadi, as the dried up river beds are called. The tents were scattered all over and if it had not been war, one could have believed this to be a large camping ground. The field kitchen took care of our solid but not really varied meals. We had enough lukewarm water to drink, but Italian mineral water. The food was stored in a cave of the Wadi as refrigerators for a big unit like ours had not been provided. Meals were taken in a large tent which offered places for twenty people at a long table. This open plan had its advantages but also is disadvantages. The biggest disadvantage was that one could see straightaway when one seat was empty, because this meant that one of the pilots had not managed bringing himself and his plane home. Especially after tough attacks in the face of strong defences and swarms of enemy fighters things looked really bleak.
At the beginning I was given a “good” aircraft and got used to the rather different flying in tropical heat, which was particularly noticeable during landing. The airfield was superficially covered by wind-pressed sand which created a terrible dust cloud behind a starting plane. This made the start of a larger unit most difficult as the dust did not disperse quickly enough. We therefore started two or three planes next to each other to shorten the starting period. We differentiated between Frontflűge and Feindflűge, where the former was without and the last with enemy contact. For my first Feindflug my chief took me with him to Tobruk, the most important harbour of North Africa, where we were to attack transport ships. He told me beforehand: “So you can see what is going on in Africa.” And I was convinced. The approach was in proper formation which reminded me of the test flights back home, no enemy fighters were to be seen far and wide and no flak shot at us. However, this changed in a flash when we reached Tobruk, the flak, sited around the harbour, fired wildly across the harbour that their tracer formed a veritable mouse cage above the targets, and fighters cruised around. When we extended the dive brakes and were set to dive, I thought: “surely the chief, who has to dive first, is not going to dive down there”, but he did, and we all followed. Unfortunately, we lost two planes during the attack with four crew members. This was not caused by enemy fire, but one of the pilots came so close to the one in front that his propeller cut off his rudder, and both crashed. As had happened in Graz! It was always very touching when, during landing approach, the mechanics realized that their aircraft was not coming back.
Our longing for a cool drink gave us the following idea: a canteen was filled with tea, a wet towel wrapped around it and tied outside of a plane. After only a short time we could pull the bottle inside with really cold tea. However, a master stroke of a totally different kind was even more thirst quenching. At the side of the airfield stood a badly damaged Ju 52 which did not belong to anybody. It appeared that the gute Tante Ju , good old aunt Ju, as this solid aircraft was always called, had been fired on during her trip across the Mediterranean and landed here with a last gasp. Nobody wanted her, therefore she “belonged” to nobody. When our Oberwerkmeister inspected her one day, he discovered that it might be possible to return this thing to flying condition. Off to the chief and enquired if his mechanics could try and repair the old aunt Ju to fly again. Our mechanics did not suffer from overwork and since “the devil finds work for idle hands”, he agreed at once provided the normal servicing duties on our aircraft were not affected. The men started immediately.
Later on we found out that our mechanics’ eagerness had a different motive. They wanted to win over one of our pilots to fly to Europe with the patched-up transport plane and return home full of beer. Whatever the reason: after fourteen days she stood there like new, although new really only referred to the camouflage paint, as closer inspection showed her to be full of bumps and patches. But the three engines purred like a satisfied cats, - in this regard our “black men” were tops. (Air mechanics wore black overalls during work). Now the next important question arose: who would sit behind the wheel of this flying coffin? Test flights in our area were harmless, in an emergency one could land anywhere. The sharp volunteer, I forgot his name, began with short hops and round trips until one day he was ready. Without proper papers, merely with a dubious letter from our chief, two men flew via Crete to Athens, where the squadron still had good contacts and beer barrels were waiting. And already next day our beer drivers cruised high above, as high as the plane could be coaxed to fly: the altitude to keep the beer cool. The landing, a bit shaky, turned into a celebration, we were more concerned with the safety of the beer than about the two pilots. Despite daily operations, despite facing death, we tried to win as many good hours from life as we could.
Here I remember the girls, yes, it was true, there were rumours circulating among the soldiers in Africa that we pilots had girls with us. And it was like this: Our squadron had been stationed in Athens for some time, therefore our good beer connections, and two cheerful pilots collected an illness from two cheerful ladies and were unfit for duty. The chief ordered to clear a small villa, we lived in the embassy centre, and invite a few girls to live there. Said and done, our two society tigers were sent off to convince ladies in the city to transfer to our beautiful villa, certainly against financial rewards. So, Mary, Beba and Jolanthe joined the Luftwaffe. Who from this day on still collected an illness in the city would have to face severe punishment. This lasted until the day the squadron was transferred to Africa and when one spoke for all the others. Let’s take them with us, they already had become part of the squadron. Once again our chief, as the responsible person, had to give his permission, and that was that. They flew with us to Africa, were given a beautiful sleeping- and a “working” tent, and a shower was specially built for them, a barrel on an iron support. Everybody lived and loved satisfied if…..if the girls had not been taken swimming once a week. It was a job everyone was keen to do. And then it happened at a crossroad: a column of trucks created a tailback which the military police wanted to unravel. When the girls on our truck were next to them, they believed to have German girls in front of them. They fooled about and the girls, unable to understand German, misunderstood and cursed them with the worst German swearwords picked up from soldiers in their tents back home. This was enough for a call to Fliegerfűhrer Afrika, General Fröhlich, to whom our chief had to report a few days later to “clarify certain happenings at a crossroad south of Derna”. The result was inevitable: the girls had to be transported back to Europe as quickly as possible. Before they left, an army bus full of soldiers arrived to “visit” the girls, but they were chased away by our men, upset about this nonsensical idea! The good-bye for the ladies was grand: about one hundred soldiers stood waving at the airfield as the Tante Ju disappeared with its precious cargo. Only our hope remained that it would return full of beer.
Thus our pleasures in Africa were thinned down. Yes, if we participated in a big battle by dropping our well aimed bombs on the enemy, and the infantry soldiers waved their thanks at us when we flew back low above them, this was our biggest joy and our best reward.
Otherwise, our days ran on without great surprises, because we had become used to actions against the British. They were often difficult since the enemy was also not from yesterday. (German slogan meaning: the enemy was up and alert). And it was always depressing when once again an aircraft did not return, and we often did not know if the crew had saved themselves and had become prisoners, or if they had lost their young lives in the wreckage of a burnt out aircraft.
As far as jumping from an aircraft was concerned, we did not have ejection seats at the time who catapulted the pilot into the air when the cabin roof was opened, it was left to us of how we could escape from the plane.
During training we had been taught to throw off the cabin roof which was done by pulling at a flap, then open the straps which secured us to the seat by hitting a button in front of our chest, and then turn the plane upside down which would make us fall out. This was, of course, grey theory. During an air caboodle when the air was “peppered with lead” and the plane burning, as happened in my case, to follow the rules perfectly if one was agitated, was absolutely impossible. And we never prepared for this manoeuver, although everything else was done again and again, jumping from a plane was never tried. Apparently the reason was for us not to lose the fear of jumping, instead we were expected to bring the valuable plane home safely , f.i. we had performed emergency landings over and over, never a parachute jump.
In the middle of May I lost a few days of duty because the diarrohea made me suffer. As our doctor wanted to pressure-cure this with peach jam captured from enemy depots, and we were not used to such delicacies, I really enjoyed his therapy!
Here is something about provisions for our squadron: One cannot believe how it was possible to feed a few hundred men in the boiling heat, the more so as most of them were young lads who under normal circumstances were able to really polish their plates off. Supplies were often irregular due to enemy action, large quantities could not be stored because we had no cooling facilities, except the caves in the Wadi. Nevertheless, our food was always very good and sufficient, and we pilots were almost spoiled, especially since every one of us was supposed to receive an extra egg for each flying hour. Most of the meat arrived in tins from Italy, and as they had been stamped with the letters “A.M.”, we called them “Alter Mann” i.e. old man. The water supply was problematic, we generally only received mineral water from Italy, which was drunk lukewarm and tasted like “eingeschlafene Fűsse”, sleeping legs, i.e. a derogatory term for something tasting really insipid.
Hans with peaked cap
Now a word about the supplies: One only heard after the war the reasons why so many supply vessels were sunk in the Mediterranean. Almost every ship leaving was reported to the British by the Italians. It was therefore easy for them to follow leads and attack the vessels. In addition the fact that our Navy was unable to send more escort ships for protection into the Mediterranean made matters worse.
Our allied Italians were difficult to handle. The Italian is a happy, open hearted person who does not like to be a soldier. The German’s: “True unto death”, is not his slogan. Therefore, during the first and second world wars, our Italian allies jumped off to the enemy whenever it became critical. We used to say we should fight together with the Italians during the next war since they were certain to be on the winning side at the end….This government mentality is therefore found in their ordinary soldiers as well, a reason why there were so many deserters and…. But this is another story.
"This landing was not perfect"
Mussolini, the fascist Italian leader, driven by egoism and a braggart, also wanted to have a dive bomber squadron since we had performed so exceptionally well in Poland and France. His wish did not remain unfulfilled.
In the summer of ’41, fifteen fully trained Italian pilots were sent to Graz to receive extra training on the dive bomber Ju 87. One was full of praise for their flying knowledge as, due to their nimble and playful attitudes, they were able to master this plane as well. There were no operations in Graz and no one fought or was shot down, and therefore all our instructors were full of praise for these agile lads. They arrived in Africa and formed their own Stuka squadron. But not for long! After a few operations and losses they did not exist any longer as they had landed at the enemy base. And this means all of them!. It was said they had lost their orientation and been forced to land due to shortage of petrol, but no one believed it. Another example: We had a water tanker who drove to Derna twice weekly to collect water. On the way back our driver took two Italian soldiers with him who wanted to get to the front and their unit. Having arrived at our airfield they waited for another lift. It was mid-day and everyone sat down with his full canteen. Naturally, we gave the Italians their full pot as well. They were most surprised that ordinary soldiers were given the same food as an Unteroffizier or Major. They must have liked our food because afterwards they asked if they could remain with us. And since a flying unit always needs people for basic duties, our chief agreed happily. Quite logically, they could not be carried in our books and paid legally as soldiers of our wing, but illegally. And from this day on two happy “Itaker”, as we called them, were the water drivers of our unit. We did not have to suffer any water shortage any longer since the “Itaker” were on the go all the time.
Our days were filled with operations against the British, the support of our ground troops and everything else required. If tank- or infantry attacks were stuck somewhere, there came the shout: ”Call the Stukas!”, and we did our best to live up to our reputation. We only became thoughtful when not all planes returned and discovered it was no picnic to conduct a war. Many returned wounded: if an AA grenade had exploded too close or an enemy fighter had aimed too well. I and my aircraft were lucky, only once did a fighter shoot 10 cm above my head through the roof. My mechanic stretched a piece of string from entry hole to exit hole in the plexiglass cover, and we realized how lucky I had been because the “lucky fairy” had protected my head.
Hans's canopy hit by enemy fire
One evening, when we sat in our mess tent, British bombers attacked our off-duty area and we had to run for our lives, swearing. They had therefore not targeted our airfield or our aircraft, but all crews. They were to regret this very quickly, because early next morning we sat in our planes and flew in the direction of their airfield to send them a considerable bomb load from the sky, well aimed and accurate. From that day on we were never attacked in our billets again.
End of May 1942, Rommel commenced his big offensive in the direction of Alexandria, and from then on we flew every day and our losses were accordingly high. Our wireless operators who sat with their backs against us pilots and looked the attacking fighters into their faces, suffered heavy losses. And it was a great burden when we had to fly a dead or wounded comrade home without being able to help him somehow.
Hans and his gunner Willy
We were lucky, my gunner Willy was never wounded, and on the last leg of our flight home was happy and content, he was from the Rhein, and played his mouth organ. When he played songs he knew particularly well, he switched our intercom on to give me the pleasure of his performance. This was verboten as I could not be contacted by the group leader or ground control, but after all not everything was forbidden! Once, however, he ended his playing in mid-tune and instead his machine gun began to stutter. A Hurricane wanted to attack us from behind and up, but this backfired when Willy clouted her with a perfect burst that she turned away smoking and crashed to the ground. He told everyone over the intercom: “The Hurricane wanted to hear me play but I did not want to and shot her down.” After landing there was joy all round, thank God we did not know what the next day was going to bring us.
Shot down.
It was a day like any other, the sun shone bright from the African sky, and we waited in the squadron’s ready-tent for the handing out of attack targets and times. Rommel’s offensive had been rolling on since the beginning of June, and this time it looked as if we were going to reach Egypt. The offensive, though, had been halted at the right flank, where the British and French had reactivated an old desert fortress with bunkers, and prevented the attacking units of the Afrikakorps to proceed from the south. This installation at Bir Hacheim had already been built in peacetime, and was now defended by the so called “Free French” forces.
Hans two days before he was shot down, 1/6/1942
In her book, Allein unter Männern, published in 2000 by Ullstein List Verlag, Susan Travers writes on page 186: “Bir Hacheim lies in the barren desert of the Cyrenaika, eighty km from Tobruk. The 3732 strong unit consisted of 957 legionnaires and the rest of the British 150th Infantry Brigade. I did not believe my eyes, only a war could lead people to this place. There was nothing else but dust under the burning Lybian sky. South of us there was nothing else but the unforgiving dunes of the Sahara, north was the eight Army and 500 000 mines. If Rommel wanted to push through, he would have to bypass the northern fortifications at the coast, or Bir Hacheim in the south.”
Our squadron had already flown attacks on Bir Hacheim the previous day, but the defenders were motivated and tough. General de Gaulle had been in command first, followed by General König. The individual defensive bunkers had been enclosed by heavy minefields and were defended by different nationalities: in Gazala the South Africans, in Knightsbridge the British, in Adem the Indians, in Tobruk mostly the British, and in Hacheim the French.
Travers continues: “The horror began during a moonlit night end of May when the first Panzer appeared, but we could repulse the attack because they were Italians. On the next day, 1st June 1942, the enemy began its major attack. This time it was the Germans whom we respected very much. Stuka screamed over our heads and Rommel’s Panzer rolled towards us. He had become a legend with an almost mystical reputation. On 3rd June two German officers delivered a letter, personally signed by Rommel, asking us to capitulate:
“To the units of Bir Hacheim:
Continued resistance is needless spilling of blood. You will suffer the same fate as the two British Brigades at Got Ualeb. who were destroyed yesterday. We will stop fighting when you show the white flag and cross over to us without weapons. Sgd.Rommel, Generaloberst.”
But the troops of Hacheim refused.
At night it was deathly quiet on the battlefield while both sides collected their wounded. During daytime the battle began at 6, with the thermometer showing 51 degrees. We fired 40000 grenades altogether, over 100 Stuka flew 1400 attacks at Bir Hacheim and our RAF lost seventy aircraft. The Stuka even attacked at dusk and threw cluster bombs.” Written by Susan Travers.
And I jumped into this hell on 3rd June at 12 mid-day.
It happened like this:
At mid-day we had been above Bir Hacheim once again and expected strong defensive fire as always. As usual we flew in squadron formation and carried a 250 kg bomb under the body, and under the wings four 50 kg bombs. They had screwed the “Dinort-stick” into the bomb under the body which I must explain. If a bomb is dropped in the desert, it digs itself into the sand for a millisecond before it explodes, which reduces its scatter radius. However, if there is a 1m long stick with a tiny plate at the tip of the bomb, this triggers the explosion one tenth of a second sooner. The idea came from Oberst Dinort, Inspekteur of Stukaflieger, therefore the name of Dinortstab. To prevent the stick touching the propeller, a “bomb-fork” had been constructed. If one pushed the bomb-release button, the weight of the bomb activated the “fork” which forced the bomb away from the body and the propeller.
Back now:
Before diving there is a lot to do: the dive brakes have to be lowered, oil cooler closed, ignition switched off. I pushed the plane forward and dived, and just when I was ready to release the bombs, another plane moved from the right and almost in front of me, smoking severely. She must have been hit because the pilot carried on diving, forcing me to throw later despite the warning signal screaming at my neck meaning: pull up, pull up! This confusion made me lag behind the squadron and this was always critical, because a single plane was an easy prey for fighters.
And now it happened like in a textbook:
While I am the last of the unit, a Tomahawk comes out of the sun towards us. Willy did not see her and I could not see her because she came from behind. Willy shouted: “Jäger links!”, but when I therefore pulled the plane to the left, it was already too late and I flew straight into his fire burst. I must explain: During training we had always been drilled to turn towards the enemy, if I had turned to the right he would have had me in his gun sight much longer. As it was, I only crossed his flight path very briefly, but just then he pressed his buttons and fired with cannons and machine guns. It crashed and rattled terribly, a tongue of flame shot from the right petrol tank and flames from the instrument panel came close. Willy gave a terrible shout and I could not hold the plane any longer because the flames from the engine burned my face. For a second I pressed myself into a corner of the cockpit. Willy screamed once more, then it was quiet except the wind whistling outside. The enemy’s fire burst had ended his young life. If I had had the time, I would have looked back, but I could not do so as the steel wall was there. The fire in my face was unbearable, my sleeves were burning and I hit the release button of my harness to lift me from the seat, pulled the safety rope of the roof and was torn from the plane by the slipstream. For a second it seemed as if I was hanging on the cord of the headphone, then the burning plane was gone. Nobody should ask me how I flew through the air. One had taught us to pull the parachute ripcord only after three seconds to prevent a collision with the rudder, as this had often resulted in death when jumping from a plane. I pulled, and immediately the parachute opened, it must be at 1000 m height, but there was another shock: the billowing parachute above me was peppered with burn holes that I saw as much sky as parachute ropes. I prayed that the chute would bring me safely down to earth nevertheless. And the miracle happened, the landing was even rather soft as the holes forced the chute into pendulum motion, and I came down to mother earth by being dragged along. Despite everything I must admit that on my first parachute jump I got off lightly.
Covered with burns all over my body I lay on the hot desert sand. A sad piece of humanity who had lost all enthusiasm for war. The sound of the air- and ground battle diminished, I must have been pushed away from Bir Hacheim. Later I heard that seven planes from our wing had been shot down, with only four crew members remaining alive. Suddenly I heard noises of fighting and noticed to my horror that this was aimed at me, because the fortress troops wanted to bring me in and not let the Germans do this.. Bullets whistled above me and hit the sand close by, and two tanks rolled towards me. When they saw on the German side that I was to be brought to the fortress, they shot above my head to prevent the French from doing this. And I lay in this mousetrap like a poor soul and saw my end approaching once again. When a British tank stopped in front of me, 50 m away, and made moves to bring me in, the Germans stopped firing. The tank rolled forward, a hatch opened and a hoarse voice shouted: “Hands up, German.,” I did not want to do this based on my perception of honour, but gave up when I saw the tank turn his turret my way. I raised my hands willingly and the legion soldier drove his tank closer. One man jumped out with an angry face because he now had one of those who sent death from the sky.
One frisks me all over, removes my pistol, and places me on the recce tank with my parachute. Only now do I feel the pain of my burns. This trip brings me to part of a fortress. There I am placed on a stretcher and carried down to the first aid station which is hopelessly crowded. In the passage the wounded are lined up according to the severity of their wounds. I lie here with my pain and everybody comes to see the German Stuka pilot. Soldiers give me cigarettes, and a nurse brings me tea which I cannot drink because of my burn wounds. She brings me a straw and I enjoy every sip. The first questions are asked: Do we receive spirits or tablets before every operation etc. Above us one hears the battle noises and for the first time I hear the crashing of bombs because our Stuka are back again. This phase of the battle has been recorded by a Frenchman in his diary:
“….we are alone and lost, only God can save us, because the air attacks by the Stuka drive us crazy. Everyone looks continuously to the sky. Water, water! Is the cry of the wounded and survivors. Today at 12 again this bomb hailstorm by the Stuka, they arrive in waves. The protective caves in the desert and the old fortress cave in and bury the dead. The number of seriously wounded increases hourly and their cries fill the fortress ruins, but we do not know what to do with them. Everyone cries for water, the reserves are depleted. The acid smell from the explosions fills the air and mixes with the terrible smell of the corpses, and having to look at them wears us down.”
So far the diary of a Frenchman.
In this situation the garrison decided to risk a break-out and fight through to the unoccupied harbour city of Tobruk at the Mediterranean. From the preparations yesterday and today I see that they want to take me with them, I am carried to an ambulance where I am at last given a morphine injection and dressings are put on my wounds. I have severe burns on my head, my right leg and on my hands. While this is going on, a British Captain limps into the room and asks for the German pilot. As it turned out, it was the South African flyer, Cecil Golding, who had shot me down in his Tomahawk. (Sorry that I shot you down). He talks to the doctor and I am carried to an ambulance where Golding is waiting. I am unable to understand it all, especially as my school English is more than poor. Everything is cleared up when Golding lies on the stretcher next to me, he had received a bullet in the ankle. The ambulance drove off in the middle of the night. The rest of the garrison broke out next day, nobody had wanted to tell me this.
Susan Travers describes the break-out in her book on page 231.
“…I changed into first gear and drove on, and we rolled slowly towards the gap which pioneers had prepared. The silence was terrible because everyone waited for the explosion of a mine. We had been cautioned that only absolute silence would give us a chance to escape while the Germans and Italians rested ahead of their big attack the following day. Perhaps it was due to the vast silence that had enveloped us for a few hours that the sudden crash of a mine gave us a real shock. As I sat there, shocked rigid, and looked at the chaos, I was convinced that this was the end.
The Germans knew immediately that this was connected to a break-out from Bir Hacheim and continuously shot red and green flares which clearly illuminated the desert. Trucks exploded when the men tried to drive them back to safety . The Legion’s soldiers threw themselves on the guns and sacrificed their lives for their comrades. A real rain of grenades fell on us, ear splitting explosions tore the night apart and dropped burning metal splinters on my truck. The German artillery opened fire and our column came to a stop because no one knew which way to turn or what to do now. The partly well prepared break-out action turned into a flight back.”
And in the middle of all this hell the slightly roasted Leutnant Deibl lay with Golding in an ambulance and held a dialogue with his guardian angel.
Around us it becomes slowly quieter, apparently the ambulance drives away from the battle. I only see very little, my head is a complete gauze bandage. The trip carries on through the desert and we are totally alone. Golding explains to me that we are probably driving in a circle in order not to meet German units. I try to convince him not to evade a German unit because our petrol is low. I even tell him that I will try with all my power to save Golding and the driver from becoming prisoners. But it was not to be as we met Australian infantry and received petrol from them.
On the way we told our life stories and promised each other that the victor in this war should invite the other one day. Unfortunately nothing came of it. But that would be another story.
When we arrive in Tobruk after a three-day-odyssey, we are carried into the hospital and I receive morphine again. At the operating table they have difficulties changing the sticking dressings and I receive an anaesthetic. The doctor, I still remember his name, Dr.Wilson, is a really kind and friendly person and I must tell him where I am from and where, when, how and why I was shot down. After we have finished, they place me on a stretcher in the passage to all the other wounded, and when someone bows over me I see he wants to give me the last rites. But I know it is not as bad as that and want to refuse the priest, but then let it be because it cannot do any harm. I was carried into a large hall full of wounded from many countries. As I cannot move my bandaged arms I am being fed. In the afternoon they bring an Italian flight lieutenant and when his dressing is changed I see a large hole in his back, the size of a fist. His: “Oh,Mamma mia, oh mia Jesu”, still sounds in my ears today. In the afternoon of 8th June they bring another freshly wounded man for the bed next to me and I want to complain that they put a black next to me, this was our opinion at the time. But he was a white man whose face they had painted brown. He was Pharmacist Hugo Werner from Landau in the Pfalz. His ambulance had been shot up and burned out.
Regarding “racial relations” there is a little story from Rommel’s diary after the capture of Tobruk. “During the installation of a prison camp on the airfield of Tobruk, South African officers asked to be separated from the blacks. I refused because both wear the same uniform.”
During the night it banged terribly again and one could believe the Germans would bomb our hospital. In addition, the British have sited their anti aircraft guns next to the Hospital which increases the noise. When two bombs come down next to our windows, we are all evacuated so the bombs can be defused. Next day the complete Hospital is evacuated as apparently Tobruk cannot be held. They load our stretchers on trucks and drive to the harbour. Only now am I able to see the harbour with its sunken vessels, where I was not uninvolved in their sinking. A Hospital ship is anchored there, we are wrapped into something like a bamboo mat and small boats carry us across. There they lower a sort of hook, attach us to it and pull us up to the ship.
Even here a few good days were to begin, because my lucky fairy was apparently with me. On the ship the room with the prisoners was full, and so I was placed with the South Africans.
And now I have to go back a few days:
A few days before I was shot down, there arrived an operational order at dusk, to attack a transport vessel on its way to Tobruk. Our 2nd Squadron was detailed, but I was not included. After returning, the men described that it had not been a troop transport but a Hospital ship. The squadron leader had only realized this when lights were switched on in the face of the attacking Stukas. The dive was aborted which was not easy for Stuka with their bombs. Then the chief flew around the ship to make sure that it was really a Hospital ship and all eleven planes followed him. And now the yarning by the “starved flyers” began. “Do you remember how the sisters in their white coats waved at us etc.?” The female crew waved at the “bad” Germans because they had not dropped one bomb. So much for a flash back. I must repeat that I had not been included in the attack.
And now I was in a British Hospital ship, maybe the same? And this was really it. When I told the story to the first-aid attendants that I had sat in one of the planes myself – I knew of course exactly how everything had happened, – this news spread like wildfire throughout the ship. It did not take long and an elderly officer arrived, it was the Captain himself, to thank the “bad” Stukas for their fair actions and – now here it is: I was to be his personal guest as long as I was in his ship.
On the road to Egypt.
Carriers arrive in the hall and take me to a single room where a white nurse is already waiting for me. I even remember her name after sixty years: Ruth Chietham, a 22 year old English lady, who is responsible for me only. She brings me all sorts of fruit juices which, for a dried-out desert fox with burn wounds, taste heavenly. Pressed orange juice I did not even know then. Because my lips are slightly roasted, I only drink with a straw, great quantities of it. I depend on her when eating, since I am unable to bend my gauze covered arms. She sits at my bed, holds my cigarette, and I must talk and explain in my broken English. She had imagined the “bad” Germans to be vastly different. All my unburnt skin is carefully washed, the teeth cleaned with a cotton wool stick, and I am given a new pyjama and feel like a first-class passenger. By the way, this pyjama remains my only dress for the next few weeks and I arrive in Canada wearing it. When I ask “my sister” for her address, she is unable to give it to me for obvious reasons.
My only problem is that, due to consuming so much fruit juice, I want to empty my bladder. When my sister is outside and an attendant enters, I gesticulate to show him what I must do urgently. He opens the door and shouts: “Hey, sister, the German wants a piss-bottle.”
I am continuously visited by crew members who want to hear from me first hand why we had attacked and then aborted the dive, if interrupting the dive is difficult etc. I tell this story, with “embroidery” so often that I eventually believe I took part as well..
A relationship with Ruth developed slowly, and she made me a present before we entered Alexandria harbour on the evening of lst June 1942. It was a photograph of the ship HMS ABA, and wrote on the back: “With best wishes for your recovery, your Ruth Chietham.” Unfortunately, this picture was later confiscated in the interrogation camp. I hope Ruth did not have any problems on my account..
Now it is up to me to give her a little memento, but I am a poor dog with half-burnt airman trousers with one leg, an empty purse, a pyjama and nothing else. But: in one fold of my purse is a small, fingernail-size envelope with an about 8 mm long ivory elephant. A lucky charm which Friedl had given me to take to war. I could manage without it since I had more luck than brains so far. She was very happy with it and probably showed it around at home since it came from a “bad” German Stuka pilot.
During the night of 10th to 11th June 1942 we remain far outside Alexandria harbour as a fully illuminated hospital ship. Next morning “my sister” says good-bye and places a mosquito net over my face against the annoying flies which seem to be attracted by the bad smell of my burn wounds. Our stretchers are offloaded on a sort of slide and placed side by side next to the railway line. A terrible heat surrounds us here in Egypt, where I had planned to step onto its soil in a different manner. Despite. the fly net the flies cruise around my face in swarms, and due to my bandaged arms I am unable to defend myself. I promised that, once I was able to use my arms and hands again, I would tear the wings from every monster I caught, a promise I have kept until now. .
From the ship they observe my fight with the monsters and immediately send two sailors who erect a fly screen around my stretcher. Just as well that I did not drop my bombs on this ship, this little lie has paid dividends.
The first Egyptian dock workers walk past and gape at us, but a hospital train arrives soon, and we are loaded on fast by hooking our stretchers into ready-frames in the carriages. My head is at the window and we ride into the Egyptian countryside. In Tanta little children arrive and distribute sweets, but the guards chase them away. In El Quassa sin, at the Bitter Lake, we are offloaded and taken to General Hospital No. 6, a field hospital for German prisoners, and the German doctors are prisoners as well. A Dr.Pfister receives us and I feel as if I am in a German camp. We are carried into large tents where it is terribly hot, and I am unable to get up and have to be hand-fed, and feel sorry for myself. Only the hope that Rommel will reach Egypt after all, keeps our spirits up, according to rumours he is already in El Alamein. That’s where he was, but as the supplies, as usual, did not arrive, he could not carry on.
Every wounded man who could walk hatches escape plans, they reach from disguising as an Arab to hiding in the latrine, because Rommel is coming.
Slowly my burn wounds heal and I can get up, it is already five weeks since I was shot down. The most agreeable fact is that I can go to the toilet unaided and operate the paper supply as well……because always having to ask: “Please clean my bottom,” is most inconvenient. Hauptmann Bauer was my main carer. When I thanked him for this later, he only said: “No problem, your burn wounds stank much more.”
Six weeks after my crash it is at last time that my bandages can be removed from my arms which have become very thin and are covered with scabs. Since I am still unable to move my foot I am given crutches and become quite agile. After a while the “cripple team” puts me in goal as one can use the crutches to stop the ball. This goes wrong when I suffer a dizzy spell and collapse. The defenders carry me into the tent.
For the first time we receive pre-printed postcards on which we may write on eight lines to send home. As I am unable to write, Hauptmann Bauer writes the card to my parents. The doctor cleverly suggests to tie the Kuli to my finger that I may at least sign the card. My parents told me later they thought I was blind or had no fingers as my signature was so scribbled. Many weeks later I was photographed in Canada and by chance had my hands in my armpits. This confirmed my parent’s suspicion.
Herewith the situation in Pernitz.
Immediately after my crash, my squadron leader Mossdorf, he is today a dentist in Munich, wrote that he really had little hope that I had survived my crash.
They had searched the whole area but had not found any remains of me or the aircraft. My father avoided going out of the house because he started to cry if someone asked him about it. In a folder I still have all the condolence letters my parents received at the time. I am always able to prove what a happy, intelligent, good lad I had been etc. It must have been a difficult time for my parents until end of August the message arrived that I was alive. The squadron had copied the good news from a British signal communication.
Martin Mossdorf and Hans
But back into the crazy summer heat of Egypt, it is the 19th July. Suddenly there is a message in the hospital: “All walking wounded to assemble”, and no one knows why. Those unable to walk, to whom I have been detailed since I limp badly, climb on the truck, the rest must march, Nobody knows why and where to, but we suspect they want to bring us to the harbour. The column consists of about 1.000 soldiers and 100 officers who generally are very well treated. Many carry a great number of eggs with them in boxes and crates as they were cheap in camp. There was nothing else to buy and a prisoner always thinks of tomorrow.
Having arrived in the harbour after a one-and-a-half hour march, we are told: back to the camp, the ship is not here yet. This was surely planned to mislead and to keep the ship’s departure time under wraps, after all this ship was the largest in the world, the “Queen Elizabeth”, which could transport twenty thousand men in one swoop across the ocean. Everybody was cross because marching in the heat tired the bones. They also did not want to carry the eggs back or hand them to the British soldiers, and on the way back plastered the road with cracked eggs. A yellow road. was the result. We are taken to a camp which has neither tents nor beds, and we stand or rest on the sand for hours until finally one blanket for each man is handed out. Only the wounded receive small tents, and I am together with a pastor and a Prince Hohenlohe. He brags about having received a parcel from the Queen.
On 20th July 1942 we are off again. My “walking trick” does not work unfortunately. They take the bandage off and I have to walk. Next to me walks Alfred Korth from Hamburg, whom we later call ”Shorty” . A most interesting person who not only knows a thousand stories but has lived them. He was interpreter in the Heer and has lived in China and America. He speaks English like a second mother tongue and talks animatedly with the accompanying soldier about soccer...When a soft-drink stand appears at the road side, he tells the guard he will quickly buy a soft drink. He believes he is not a prisoner and agrees, and Shorty runs off. Only now does the guard realize that he helped a prisoner escape who should not have any British money, and shouts like crazy, but Shorty is already on his way back with three bottles of Cola.
It is a monotonous walk in the direction of the harbour of Suez. Having arrived, we are transported in small boats to the “Queen Elizabeth” which, with its 85.000 tons gross weight, makes a tremendous impression on us. To our dismay we discover that we have Polish guards at the ship. Very young boys who are stupid and dense as well as spiteful, that it becomes too much even for the British. They have probably been taught that we know a hundred thousand tricks to confuse them. They only listened to and obeyed their Major and were not impressed by higher British ranks.
The accommodation in the ship was good, we slept in cabins of ten, and used the empty swimming pool as dining room, where at least ten Polish soldiers with their rifles stood at the edge and guarded us. The heat during the voyage through the Red Sea was terrible, the sweat dropped from elbow onto the table while we ate. Once a day we were led into the fresh air, and security rules were silly. Once, when a British Colonel wanted to walk through our ranks, the guard held his bayonet against his chest, and it did not help him that the British officer shouted and showed him his shoulder pads.
We heard later that the British were greatly worried, since there were many Navy officers among us, and that we could have taken control of the ship with a Putsch, which would have been totally impossible. However, the Poles had been drilled and instructed to obey their own officer only.
On 3rd August we reached Cape Town, we had been on the ocean for fourteen days after leaving Suez, because we sailed far into the Indian ocean for security reasons. Two of us have relatives in South Africa and jump through the port holes into the water during the night. We never heard from them again.
On the same day we leave the Cape of Good Hope after a last glance at the beautiful Cape Town, and sail 270 degrees to the west, still not knowing exactly where they are really taking us. Some of us are becoming sea sick, there is a rough sea which even affects our giant liner. And as we have many U-Boat officers on board, heated discussions are taking place: if we U-Boat Captains, knowing that there are Germans on board, would sink the Queen Elizabeth. Considering the importance of the liner for the war effort, there were probably 95% for sinking the liner despite the thousand German prisoners on board.
The Poles become even more insufferable and there are always quarrels. I clearly remember one scene when a group of civilians pass and a little girl, perhaps encouraged by her mother, wants to give us an orange through the erected barbed wire fence. They jump towards the girl like crazy people. She rolls the orange so carefully under the fence that one can believe there are wild animals on the other side..
On 9th August we reach Rio de Janeiro. Although one is only able to look through the porthole, the city and beach create a great impression, this .is especially true when at night the big statue of Christ is lit up. We only remain there one night and start the last leg of our journey which, due to the enemy U-Boat scare, brings us close along the coast to the Carribean ocean, the Antilles and Bahamas to New York. The vessel changes course all the time and even darts from side to side, with the big vessel almost leaning over. The U-Boat sailors among us almost drive us crazy with their remarks: “In this area is the boat from Rorf, here U-86 must be somewhere….etc.”
When they bring us into the fresh air on deck once again, I see a shark next to the vessel who almost keeps up with our speed. No wonder, they throw loads of old bread into the sea. Whales also cross our path to the north and one even starts a U-Boat alarm!
Many rumours about our destination go around, from Sanatorium to tent Camp. We have had enough of the “happy cruise”, particularly now when the food is becoming monotonous. We are mostly served lentils with mutton or the other way around. Just short of New York, the British Major, who never allowed any news to be given to us, arrives beaming with delight. The British have opened a second front at the Channel coast and, together with the Russians, are now able to put the squeeze on us. Hundreds of allied troops have already landed, tanks have been spotted on the beaches, and the sky is crowded by aircraft. He arrives hourly with new joy news, suddenly he stops. During unloading in New York a friendly guard tells us that the British have been beaten back,
During this landing action, really only a commando raid to capture a Wűrzburggerät, forerunner of German Radar, the captured British soldiers are tied up by the Germans. We were to suffer for this later.
American soldiers take over our vessel which will bring troops to Europe. There is space for nearly 20.000 men.
We are taken to the coast by ferries, and there a long railway train .waits for us. We walk past many sightseers and see, for the first and last time, the naked backside of an American woman who, with raised skirt, gives us a greeting of welcome. There are soldiers and policemen swarming everywhere and we are glad when we sit on our seats in the train. We are surprised that breakfast is already waiting on our tables. Bacon, eggs, jam, rolls etc. bid us welcome to the country of unlimited possibilities. We believe we are sitting in the wrong train and maybe there is a catch, but this is only an ordinary breakfast for soldiers, and this applies to prisoners as well. On the way many people wave at us, probably believing these are their own soldiers behind the windows, but some show us how long their tongues are.
The guards in the carriages carry no guns to prevent us taking them. Because a few month ago a young Fliegerleutnant jumped from the train, America was then still a neutral country, (Franz von Werra), all windows have been nailed shut and the WC doors taken off. their hinges. During stops the train is surrounded by guards.
In Canada.
After two nights on the train we reach Bowmanville, a little town north of the Ontario lake which will become my home for the next four years. The train stops in the open field and seventy officers have to leave the carriages, the rest rolls on further west. We walk through the usual corridor of armed guards to a wooden shed, where we are searched while naked, we call it “filzen”. The surprise comes next, the camp is close by, and when we march through the barbed wire security gate, there is a military band in clean German uniforms waiting, and behind them 500 officers shout their welcome. An army general, Generalmajor Friemel, delivers a welcome speech, and in the dining room next door waits a tasty dinner.
Afterwards we are supplied with clothes etc by the older prisoners, I had travelled in my pyjamas, and distributed to the various rooms Because my hair has been burned off and my face aged through the burn wounds, they guess my age as older than I really am and place me in a room with older majors. But the mistake is quickly cleared up, and I move to the room of Oberleutnant Kindermann, where I am to live for all four years.
Certainly there is no end to the telling for days. Because some of the POW live here for more than two years, they are most interested to hear what has happened at home. “Do you know so-and-so… is the third Jagdgeschwader stiil at the channel/… will Rommel reach Egypt?”
I meet Oblt.Sauer during the next few days, rather he has been looking for me, because on the list of new arrivals he had read: Deibl and Prenitz, where he has an uncle, the master painter Petersberger. I had met him at the station in Prenitz before leaving, and he had warned me to me careful since his nephew had been shot down two years ago.
Soon I get accustomed to the monotony of life behind barbed wire. If one does nothing at all, a day never seems to pass. We play a lot of sports, we have a soccer field, tennis court and swimming hall etc. Because I cannot play soccer, I become a member of “The happy eleven.”
In different courses subjects of many kinds are taught: Foreign languages, law, medicine etc. I heard later that many of these courses, who had been conducted by specialists, were acknowledged by the Universities back home. I turn to music, play piano, violin and trumpet. In the large symphony orchestra we play symphonies from Beethoven. In the dance orchestra, a real “big band”, we play all hit tunes of the day from “In the mood”, to “Alexander’s ragtime band” etc.. I play violin in the “staff quartett”, (three staff officers and I). and. when the “Austernquartett” for the “Roter Ochse” is created, I have to learn the double bass but don’t get very far.
By the way, I live in House No. 2 where the theatre hall is situated. Here the theatre group continuously presents classical and folksy plays. But please not to believe that they were amateur productions, we had real capacities from film and theatre in camp, who never tolerated a bad performance. After the war I have seen some of them on.TV, and our stage designer was Hans Bertel, who at home worked for all Schell films (Maria Schell and her family were a great “hit” then). He printed the programme folders as well, they were done in lino cut and looked very professional. Our musical instruments we needed were presents from the YMTC, an American religious organisation. Costumes were ordered from a costume hiring firm in town, but we had to give our word of honour that we would not use them for an escape.
It could be that someone thinks, why did they have everything from swimming bath to theatre stage?
Easy to explain: During the war year 1941, the British wanted to get rid of the captured officers from Gt.Britain, because they were afraid that in the event of Germany invading Gt.Britain etc… Canada had to supply housing urgently. Now, a large school complex had just been built in Bowmanville and the government confiscated this complex to settle German officers there. And we moved in!
The patrons were our own people only, for any production. The Canadians, our own guards, were not allowed to enter for concerts in the gym hall, and at Wunschkonzerte (special request concerts) they were also not allowed and stood in the passage to listen. This had the following reason: …”a German officer will not play a clown in front of the enemy”. The Prussians in camp were very consequent. We rather informal Austrians would have been lenient, but the camp leadership, with the very strict U-Boat commander Kretschmer, did not allow this. He was the most successful U-Boat commander of all time and therefore highly decorated. He was a very rigid and serious man, probably a reason for his successes, and he sank a total of 56 ships with 313.611 gross weight, and after the war was promoted to Admiral in the German Navy.
It might be a bit difficult to understand, but despite our defencelessness we did not give in easily. The Canadians generally adhered strictly to the Geneva convention for the protection of prisoners of war. We were secured in camp by double barbed wire fences and guards on watch towers, but even then there were the craziest escape attempts, and I want to add a few: After about two years, Kretschmer succeeded in arranging that we could leave camp under “word of honour”. This meant we were allowed to walk in Buffalo Park, a barren, empty landscape, no talking to civilians, and no preparations for trying to escape. It happened like this: since it was impossible to arrange to give the word of honour to a Canadian officer when leaving, one was given a little wooden tablet with name and POW number, which we handed over to the guard upon leaving camp. However, even then there was group of strict POW who refused to participate, because: “no officer gives the enemy his word of honour.” But the whole exercise went to sleep soon, walking across the barren prairie was no fun, we rather walked along the wire fence inside camp.
The battle of Bowmanville.
The weeks and months pass forever slower, and we are happy when “something” happens at last. The chains of Dieppe at the Channel coast have eventually reached us. I quote from the book by Terence Robertson: Der Wolf im Atlantik, page 329.
“On a summer morning, Kretschmer, who now acts as the officially recognized camp commander, is called to the British camp commander, Colonel Bull, in his office. “I have the rather unpleasant duty to inform you that, by order of the British Prime Minister, 100 German officers are to be shackled and brought to a nearby farmer’s cottage for an unspecified period.” Bull explains the reason for this order and apologises that he is forced to this action, but as soldier he has to obey. Kretschmer is outraged.
“If necessary I will use force,” Bull threatens.
“You want to use force but seem to overlook that this is a severe violation of international agreements.”
A Canadian Colonel remains behind who is most certainly unhappy about the disruption of relations between prisoners and soldiers. He calls his officers and orders them to collect 100 prisoners from the camp, by force if necessary.
In the meantime defence is organized in camp. Headquarters is the kitchen where men arms themselves with stones and sticks, jam jars and bottles. On Saturday, 14 hours, the first wave of guards arrives, which is normally only visited in singles. They are armed with rubber sticks and fixed bayonettes. Their first goal is the kitchen, but the Canadians are unable to enter, resp. carry a German away. The next wave marches into camp, this time armed with axes. They break the doors and window frames, and when they are almost in the house, the prisoners exit from other houses and attack the horrified Canadians from the rear. Pause in battle, wounded from both sides are brought to safety, because they had bloody heads, broken noses, a bayonet stab etc. Next day the Canadians arrive with fire engines and hoses and chase them back into the houses with pressure. They catch a few Germans, but the main force is unbroken.
Bull arrives in Napoleonic pose and shouts: “Stop fighting or I will call in active companies. What my guard units could not do, active soldiers will achieve.”
A truce is agreed upon which lasts over Sunday because this day is holy for the Canadians.
Nevertheless, a British interpreter officer ambles through the camp, and with his stick hits passing Germans on the head. Kretschmer, accompanied by two sailors, walks towards him, but he also hits them on the head. Now Kretschmer tells his companions: “Knock him down!” This is done, and he is carried to the kitchen, while a watch tower guard tries to assist him by shooting off a round, but only hits Marine-Fähnrich König in the foot.
On Monday morning a dashing unit marches in. It is not a company but a full battalion. Their commander orders them to assemble in the middle of the houses and addresses them in a dashing speech, which, however, ends something like this: “Here are enemy soldiers who cannot, honour bound, agree to be tied up voluntarily. We will have to do this with force. They have no weapons, we will therefore not fire.” He checks the ammunition pouches and asks his soldiers to raise their rifles that one can look through the barrel, and then the new battle starts. Soon doors and window frames shatter and both sides scream for joy. At late afternoon Canadians and Germans crowd the first aid post. Canadians dress Germans, Germans dress Canadians Late in the evening the non-injured inmates assemble in the camp centre. So far Robertson’s report.
I was wounded by a cut in the hand. This helps me as well, because my guardian angel is apparently with me: We have to walk to the roll-call square through a passage formed by Canadians. For the soldiers this is a welcome opportunity to retaliate. I only raise one arm and hold the other against my chest for everyone to see my bloody hand, and do not receive a clout.
From the beginning wrist-cuffing is done casually. And already a few days later, the soldier responsible leaves the keys behind “accidentally”, and now everyone has his own key. The battle was over, interrupting the monotony of the prison camp, giving topics for discussions for weeks, as well as sufficient work to repair as much as possible of the damage caused to living quarters and houses. As possible: meaning that the Canadians had hacked open the ceiling of the flat roof of House No. 4, to reach us. Or in my house No.2, they rammed through the wall with telephone poles etc.
The Canadian Newspapers, always interested in what was happening in the prison camp,. published reports on the “battle of Bowmanville” on the first page. For instance: we had been driven from the houses with tear gas. (This was the water steam which we directed at the attackers with our water pipes from the heating unit and which looked like gas).
Nevertheless, it was a happy battle, if one may call a fight like this happy, which kept us entertained for a long time. And when we meet today somewhere, after ten minutes we are back to “The Battle” . Now I remember something else: Above the main entrance to our theatre hung elk antlers, and one of us sat above it with instructions to loosen them so that the head with the antlers would crash on the invading enemy. Thank God he was so excited, he did this too late by two seconds, and the head crashed on the ground in front of the Canadians. When our house commander, Major Schnorr von Schnorrenfels, ( a genuine Prussian name), gave the pre-arranged signal with his whistle to stop fighting, the Canadians interpreted this as a signal for a fight and wildly attacked us.
Now the daily grind in camp once again. The weeks were monotonous, and only talks about escape plans brought relief. The camp was fully secured with a double barbed wire fence, in between were barbed wire coils, three meters outside the fence was a “shooting wire”, when someone stepped over this wire, there could be immediate fire from the watch towers. For instance: if a ball flew over the wire, we could only collect it after having asked for and received permission from the guard. However, a few very daring chaps managed to escape from this cage. I want to talk about it in the next chapter.
The difficulty was not so much how to escape from camp, but the fact that Canada is a sparsely populated country, and this makes a single person on the march look suspicious. An escapee was immediately reported in the papers and over the radio. Photographs of the escapee were distributed, and therefore this part of an escape had to be carefully planned. As we had to assemble on the sport field twice daily to be counted, it was first necessary to cover for the escapee to give him a head start. The usual way was to dress a doll in uniform, and carry this within the rows of five. This went well for a time and created the funny interlude when the police station captured an escapee and, on enquiring at the camp received the reply: In Camp 30 all are present, it must be somebody from elsewhere. From this time on, we had to march in open rows and were forbidden to link arms. If it was discovered that one of us was missing, the guards still did not know who it was. Description of the person and a photograph were most important, How could we prevent this?
To identify the name of the escapee, we had to walk past the soldier counting us and give our name, he looked it up in the list and compared the man marching past with the photograph. The identity card of the escapee was the one which remained. This was in theory! But I looked exactly like Leutnant Maier, size and stature were also similar. It was not difficult to find two lookalikes among 500 young men. I walked past as Leutnant Maier, and at the end of the long procedure, my card remained. Leutnant Deibl is missing. Now I shouted my presence and was identified by my control card. They could not find Leutnant Maier and the complete counting procedure had to be carefully repeated. This carried on far into the night.
Another trick to give the escapee a head start was this: For roll-call at 8 and 18 hours we had to assemble on the sports field. Only the sick were counted in the sick bay. And first they counted someone “sleeping”, who was really a rolled up blanket. This created the situation that we had one prisoner too many in camp.
For every escape attempt we were given 28 days detention, and had to report with blanket and sponge bag to the duty guard. When Tönnes Növer had to report, he casually draped his blanket over the radio in the duty room…. and took it with him. Great uproar in Camp, it was forbidden for us to have a radio. Already after an hour the guards turned the camp upside down, but the radio remained missing. It had been tucked away behind the 15 cm high couch wall, and the loudspeaker was built into the couch later, where a “sleeper” could listen to the news. From then on we had German news which had been forbidden for us so far. After lunch they were then announced under strong secrecy. Once a radio tube failed and we had no idea what to do. But a solution was found. Every week two or three movies were shown in camp, and the Canadians arrived with their projector. He was an old gentleman who liked to have a sleep during the movie, and had even trained one from us as projection helper which allowed him to extend his sleep. During this time our faulty tube was replaced by a good one, and the old man was woken up as the projector did not work anymore,… and we had a working radio.
I really hope I have presented the course of events as they happened, as I am writing this with long interruptions, and have not repeated myself too often.
And now to the proper escape attempt: Basically it must be noted that only one of us succeeded in escaping by jumping from a train (Franz von Werra), all others were captured sooner or later.
The rubbish bin escape: Rubbish was collected weekly in large containers and taken away by truck. One day one of us had the idea of hiding in a drum and having rubbish spread on top of him. Unfortunately, the co-driver looked back while they were driving to the rubbish dump, and to his horror saw that the rubbish in one drum rose higher and higher as if moved by a ghost. The hidden man wanted to get out of the drum and jump off before the dump was reached. Now he could save himself the trouble.
From this day on, the guards stabbed into the rubbish bins with sharp iron rods when the truck passed through the gate. Escape possibility abruptly curtailed.
The fence painters: One of the most spectacular escape attempts were done by two fence painters: Dr. Wagner and Otto Krug. There were two Canadians, we called them “Frettchen” ferrets, who were constantly busy in camp to attend to small repair jobs and to discover preparations for an escape etc. .With long iron rods they drilled into the meadow ground to search for possible tunnels. Wagner and Krug disguised themselves as ferrets and, with shouldered stepladder and paint pot, marched towards the fence, waved to the guard on the tower, and stepped over the warning wire, to paint the barbed wire poles in white. After they had painted a few, they put the step ladder against the fence and, swearing in English, climbed over the fence and began to paint the other side of the wooden poles. They did the same with the outer fence, stepped over it and were free. The guard on the watchtower waves at them as they, keeping their nerves steady, sit down and eat their snacks. When this was finished as well, they marched to the workshop, made a sharp left turn and entered the forest. They discarded their disguises and their tools and went on their separate ways, because two young men looked more like escaped prisoners than one. Naturally Wagner was caught on the same day, while Krug reaches the next railways station where he buys a ticket to Toronto. Both were fluent in the country’s language, because Wagner had worked there as a ski instructor before the war. Krug obtains a lift to Montreal, crosses the St.Lawrence river in a stolen rowing boat, and tramps with the help of German’Americans, whose addresses he had sown into his jacket, to Mexico’s border. But there fate reaches him too, when he books into a very cheap hotel for one night and the porter becomes suspicious because he is white.
The Bootmannsstuhl (BMS) is a chair-like contraption with which sailors use to transport persons from ship to ship with a rope. Such a device Kapitänleutnant Heyda had completed with strenuous, detailed work, only the rope was missing which was to carry him over the fence, but this was impossible to acquire. Our camp was raised slightly off the ground and the electrical cables rose towards our camp and pointed down away from it. Hayda wanted to attach his BMS to the wire, hoping that it could carry his weight. To prevent an electrical short, he had the wheel made from wood, and at dusk on one autumn evening, he floated high across the wire fence out of camp. Watched from their windows by his thumb-holding comrades. This was a success, he slipped into the forest where he broke up his chair to throw away the parts on his way. I will revert to the real reason of his escape later, but just want to say that it remained a puzzle to the guards to the end of the war, how Heyda had managed to escape.
The easy chair: Because we continued to receive our flyer’s pay in dollars, we were able to buy anything the heart desired with the help of department store catalogues. The exception were things which could be used for an escape. Such as tools, civilian clothes etc. A grandfather easy chair was not among this, and one of us had ordered one and it had been delivered.
When we were transferred to another camp, our luggage was transported separately and carried by train. And thus the easy chair stood next to our luggage on the platform, until a tired guard used the opportunity to let himself fall into the chair, only to jump right up when there came a human shout! Rolf Behrends, the chair’s owner, had opened the cover, taken out some of the upholstery, and sat inside, smoothed lumps with sea-grass and closed the cover again. Holding a razor blade in one hand, otherwise blind, he wanted to jump from the train during a stop.
The Canadian camp commander found this escape attempt so amusing that he did not even penalise the man.
The tunnel:
Because I worked four months on this project, this chapter might be a bit longer.
This was the biggest and “almost” successful escape attempt from camp No. 30. The tunnel
from house No. 4 to freedom. To simplify matters I copy from Robertson’s book “Wolf im
Atlantik” from page 338.
“For a long time the men had pressured Kretschmer for another escape attempt.
Because the trick with the “painters” will probably not succeed again, they think of a
tunnel. This would have to have a length of about 100 m to reach the forest beyond the
wire fence. The most suitable starting point was house No. 4 which is very close to the
fence. Kretschmer suggests to dig two extra tunnels to keep the real tunnel safe from
being discovered.”
(I never knew anything about these extra two tunnels which proves that even in a camp for prisoners there are matters which they not always need to know about).
But now I write again myself, because Robertson mentions things which are not quite true...
We begin the tunnel by pushing a large box out of the way in house No. 4, remove four tiles, and dig out a room, 2 x 2 meters, underneath, which serves as a starting point for the tunnel. It sounds all very simple, but what tools to use for digging, what to do with the sand we dig out? After we have dug the tunnel for 2 m, we hit the very deep foundation of the house. As we have no chisel or crowbar etc., we have to dig underneath with the result that we meet ground water. This depression is filled with water by morning, and has to be emptied laboriously with tins before someone is able to crawl through. An electric cable connected to the electricity supply in the room above., gave us light and also served as warning signal. If a ferret or guard walked past or entered the house, the light was switched off, and we had to remain dead quiet (and became cold). In case of an emergency, a stone slab was put over the hole, the joints filled with sand and the box finally pushed over it. Everything had been very well prepared and each man knew exactly what to do. What we did with the sand I will describe later.
Once something almost went wrong. A probable short in the old cable led to total darkness down there. We sat shivering for almost an hour and did not dare to move. Eventually one man had enough and knocked carefully upstairs, and the mistake was rectified. A “working day”, roll call excepted, was a full day, and one had to walk casually and slowly to house No. 4 to arrive at the designated time. One changed inside the room, swimming trunks and vest were the working clothes, which were completely dirty after two hours work in mud and soil. The relieved team crawled from the hole and each man had to go under the shower. Only when the first man was ready, was the next one allowed to come up, because if a guard surprised us, everything would be over.
The number of tunnel diggers increased with the length of the gallery, because the removal of the soil became more difficult. The many changes in directions underground made it necessary to pull the soil boxes around corners. Therefore at every corner sat one man who only had the job of re-directing the waggon. The changes in direction were due to us having to dig without a compass or similar instrument, and despite all efforts we deviated from the desired course. How can one determine under-ground if the tunnel direction is correct? The solution to this problem was very simple, although complicated in its application. An iron rod (where to get it?) pushed up from below, showed the direction at its exit point. But what to do if one of the guards, who are always prowling around, noticed the point of the iron rod protruding from the ground? Therefore the drilling could only be done when there were no guards around. This required even more men, plus others who searched the area or who looked from the windows to spot the exit point. Others sat “reading” in an easy chair for observation. Everything had to be done well, so that pre-arranged signals reached the right persons. Putting down the book meant: iron point observed. Getting up was the signal to stop work immediately etc.
For all news to reach the “drilling” man underground, required a carefully prepared system. Below ground navigation officers corrected the tunnel course. For every job we had highly qualified specialists. The leader of a design office from Krupp, Dipl.Ing. Rössler, converted kitchen knives into saws to cut wooden beams. Because the tunnel ran underneath the camp’s main road by now, and heavy lorries passed, transporting coal, we worried about the durability of the tunnel ceiling. But we had no wood to shore up the ceiling.. An architect had to enter the roof of the house and mark those beams which could be removed without endangering the roof construction. (How?) . It took three men a full day to saw through one roof beam with a saw made from a pocket knife. Because there was no opening in the ceiling, we had to cut a 50 x 50 cm big hole into it, for which we quickly had to make a cover. Otto Blumers, architect and reserve officer, barely managed to fit through this hole on account of his portliness.
Removing the dug-out material presented a big problem. At the beginning we managed by using small bags tied to legs, which were emptied by means of a pull-mechanism. But later this became impossible in the face of cubic meters of sand and soil. Because the ceiling hole, made for Blumers, had been so professionally done that the guards did not spot it, we thought that the attic would be suitable place to dump the soil. Still damp, it was filled into bags in the starting room and placed under the box. The bags came from the “Damas Alemannas” from Argentina, who supplied us with coffee. A special transport group was created to lift the bags into the attic and, after a number of drying processes, spread it across the surface.
Unfortunately, someone had the idea not to spread the soil onto the floor but underneath. The floor boards were lifted, the soil distributed underneath, and then the boards nailed down again. However, this proved to be a fatal error a few weeks later, because the damp substance softened the room ceiling so much that, as a result, the tunnel was eventually discovered.
But this comes later, because we were still full of hope that we had only a few days left behind barbed wire, and everybody was busy with exact escape plans after our exit. Rumours circulated that sympathisers in Argentina waited for us with trucks to transport us to the coast where a U-Boat was waiting, Dreams and fantasies by flyers who had been imprisoned for years.
But these hopes were not so far from the truth, because we heard later ….anyway more to follow.
Together with an old pilot from Lufthansa I had made the plan to steal an aircraft from the airfield close by, and fly to the Canadian east coast. We carefully studied stacks of aircraft magazins, and soon I found my plane, it was a twin engine De Haviland, better than my old Ju 87.
But at the moment we are still digging in the damp soil or wait at a tunnel’s corner for the next transport box. All corners had a number, and when we entered everyone asked: “Where was Berthel sitting yesterday?” Berthel was an artist and formed vivid sculptures of nude women in the clay of the walls.
On the ceiling upstairs they were spreading the soil directly onto the floor as the space underneath was already full, and down below in the tunnel, the air became constantly worse, and the worker No. 1, who dug at the head and filled the boxes, had to be relieved often. In this case a solution was quickly found, but not as Robertson writes “500 tin cans were placed next to each other to make an air pipe”, but worker No. 2 cut a space into the right tunnel wall where one tin can after another were secured with clay. Of course, without top or bottom lids. And where did the air come from? Someone sacrificed his leather flying overcoat and clever hands made bellows built into a box, and a piece of stolen garden pipe directed the air downwards into the “pipe in the wall”. But the longer this pipe became, the less fresh air really arrived at the front as the compressed clay was not fully effective.
Operating the Salzburger Stier, (bull from Salzburg), as we called the bellows on account of its two upright handles, was disliked since it really tired the workers out.
In the end, and despite this perspiring work, there was almost no air at the end of the pipe and the worker at the head had to be changed more often. What to do now? The bellows had to be moved to the front. Again a job with many problems. Dismantling was quickly achieved, but re-assembly in the 50 x 50 cm tunnel was absolutely impossible. At a spot as far to the front as possible, the tunnel would have to be enlarged to install this thing. Next problem: where does the bellows receive the air from? Good, simply drill a hole to the top and lead a pipe into a bush. But where to obtain a pipe from, and there were so many people walking around, and we were already outside the fence. In addition, the bellows sighed during operations and one could also hear the air being sucked in. Once again look-outs posted, signals agreed upon etc.
And there were new rumours floating around which affected the “work ethics”. Only sailors would be collected, and we flyers had only been the “Coolies”.
Robertson writes about this after the war and with his research comes close to the truth..
“The daily work-progress has stabilised and Kretschmer is able to calculate when the tunnel will be ready and might be used. Admiral Dönitz is well informed about work at the tunnel by means of encoded letters, since he hopes to get his successful Captains back. Dönitz confirms the dates via radio codes and states that he will keep U-577, 740 tons, under the command of Kapitänleutnant Schauenburg, in position during the relevant two weeks every night from 22 – 24 hours in a bay north of the St.Lawrnce river. Fortunately, Dönitz had made the leeway larger than Kretschmer had expected. The tunnel, in which normally 15 persons work, nears its completion. Everyone becomes nervous when they “hear” that only “Kapazunder” (slang: “chosen, preferred people”) will be allowed to use the tunnel to be taken home by U-Boat.”
A few days after completion of the tunnel, the sleepers hear a strange noise in the ceiling and before anyone realizes what it could be, a portion of the ceiling and soil fall down. Sand, stone and soil and parts of the ceiling crash on the floor, nobody is injured, thank God. Silent alarm and everyone crawls under the beds. How will this carry on next day?
Once again a really simple brainwave saves the situation, the rubble is removed laboriously in bags and sacks and the hole in the ceiling covered with a linen cloth stretched over it, which is painted in the rooms’ colour. A guard, walking leisurely through the room will be unable to notice the repair work, unless he raises his head.
Now everyone realized that they had to break out, every hour might bring the discovery. The action was to begin the following night, but Kretschmer calls us all together and prohibits it. Gritting our teeth, we follow military discipline. And next day a Frettchen lifts his head and raises the alarm. With this he cancels an escape attempt which had been prepared with care and almost carried to the end with so much work. But who should be penalised with 28 days for the escape attempt? Colonel Bull at first wanted to punish everyone in the room from which the digging had started, but let himself be persuaded to reach a compromise. No one would be punished, but we had to work to repair the damage to house and ground. Trucks arrived in camp and, with wooden slides, were filled with the soil from the roof, while the rest was used to fill the tunnel. A construction company repaired resp. replaced the wooden beams and the ceiling, and soon we were again walking our rounds along the fence.
Indirectly connected with our action was the escape by Kapitän Heyda in his B.M.S. I have mentioned.
Robertson writes about this:
“The guards inspect the tunnel and come across the bellows. Kretschmer calls a meeting and it is decided to try and contact U-577 by wireless, because Kretschmer fears the boat might be endangered by waiting too long and sunk. Kapitän Heyda from U-343 which was sunk by the destroyer Stanley, wants to talk. He suggests that he should break out from camp on his own to find U-577. He has prepared a plan which kept him busy for quite some time. Now follows a complete description of the B.M.S. etc. Heyda said after the war that he reached the coast and had found the meeting point in the tiny bay, but instead of the U-Boat, there were three Frigates and one Destroyer anchored there. When he is stopped by a coastal patrol, he shows his forged papers and is allowed to leave after a few questions. Heyda wants to turn away when the officer of the patrol calls him: “Halt, I believe you are a German prisoner of war.” Heyda slowly turns back. “Why do think so, sir?” “Your hat was never purchased in a shop. There is no seam which runs down exactly in the middle of the back of the hat. This only happens when such a civilian hat is manufactured by a layman in a prison camp.”
Three days later Heyda was back in prison camp Bowmanville. From Dönitz comes the news that no more escape attempts should be made. At the same time Kretschmer is promoted to Fregattenkapitän.
Chapter 27. Everyday in Prison Camp.
One day someone reads in a Newspaper that a farm near Bowmansville is to be auctioned off. A group of interested people talks to Kretschmer if we should lease the farm. Kretschmer, always keen for the men to be occupied, agrees and discusses this with Colonel Bull, who has nothing against it. The action “Farm” was to be connected to the ”word of honour” , so that the Canadians do not have to worry at all. Said and done. Soon a large group of German officers marches through the camp gate in the direction of the farm to have a closer look. There were no large animals, merely sheep chicken and pigs. Now “the farmers” march every morning to the farm and only return for lunch. When we, once again, expected to be moved to another camp, we wanted to at least auction off the pampered, feathered animals to the farmers in the area. But as they knew that we were forced to sell, they wanted to force down prices drastically. For instance the price for our best pig did not rise above $ 5.- per kilogram, and the auction was called off. From this day on, we had mounds of meat on the table from which we only selected the best pieces, the rest all went into the rubbish drums. This was at the time when they were starving at home.
We never counted in months of prisonership, but in years. We tried to fill this time with all kinds of activities in order not to become zombies. Sport and music were most important, we present concerts, plays and Wunschkonzerte. But there are also funny episodes in daily life. For instance: we wait at our lunch table, expecting the arrival of our three generals, Friemel, Schmidt and Ravenstein, and only when Ravenstein sits down saying: “Mahlzeit ,meine Herren’”, are we allowed to sit down. While we are waiting, a bowl with a pudding-like substance is placed on the table, and I say to the six men at my table: “It must be a pleasure to throw this stuff into someone’s face.” Then the man opposite me, Oberarzt Dr.Faber, says, “Stuka”, (this was my nickname) if you do this, I’ll pay for a case if beer.” He had not even finished when this stuff was in his face. There was a big hullabaloo at the table, only Faber was upset and bore a grudge against me for a long time. Nevertheless, he paid for the case of beer. A few days later, a Major from the next table came to me and asked: “Is it true that Deibl asks for two cases of beer from staff officers?”
We also had a small Zoo in camp. Neubacher, a brother of the Mayor of Vienna at the time, was responsible for it. We therefore called him Affenvater, (monkey daddy). While the racoons slept most of the day, the monkeys were on the go all day long. Neubacher wanted to hang a rope into their cage, but the guards refused, because a rope could have been used to escape. Consequently, Neubacher gave his word of honour not to use the rope to escape, and from then on the monkeys were very happy with their new gym toy. When Kretschmer walked past and saw the monkeys swinging, he was surprised that the Canadians had allowed rope in camp. When he was told that Neubacher had given his word of honour, Kretschmer threw a fit that a German officer had given his word of honour for two monkeys…. From this day on the monkeys had their rope no longer!
We had a host of different personalities in camp. “Shorty” from our room was such a person. His real name was Korth and he had a varied life behind him. He talked English better than German, and his “career” began when he, as a sixteen year old in New York and a friend pushed small children into the harbour water, to immediately “rescue” them, which brought him a couple of dollars and often a lunch. In China he sold abortion instruments, and in Argentina he sold five cases of braces which he did not possess! The Germans placed him as counter intelligence officer and interpreter in Africa. When he was given a mail bag full of British letters, which had been discovered somewhere, he started a filing system for 100 letters This enabled him to quickly check if mail for a particular prisoner had arrived. He interrogated a British Major for whom a long letter had arrived. Shorty quickly scanned the letter and confronted the officer, who refused to give an answer, and asked him how aunt Mary felt after her operation, and if his neighbour Roby had found his dog Roby. Shorty told the speechless officer that he did not have to say anything because the Germans knew everything connected to the British officers. One can imagine the absolute astonishment of the officer. Afterwards, Shorty, and this was typical for him, handed the letter over..
We also had our own Kantine, (supply store) staffed and supervised by us. There were all kinds of drinks but no wine, only beer, cigarettes, biscuits and other things. Because we received our pay in camp-money in prison camp, while the officers’ pay was paid into our accounts at home, we could buy or order anything. There were two salesmen in the store and the boss, Oblt.Kindermann. The salesmen changed often because it was a tedious job. Once, when I took over as salesman, the drinks were rationed, I don’t remember why. Ration cards were handed out, and I had to punch them with pliers, for instance for beer, to indicate that the recipient had received his beer ration. Now some of my friends came to me, and I had many of them, produced their ration cards which had already been punched, and cheekily said: “Stuka, my beer ration, please!” With a stern look I punched his card again in exactly the same spot and gave him his beer. Since this was repeated a few times, the stock figures seldom tallied at the weekend.
It was almost the same with the good butter biscuits. We salesmen were allowed to eat the broken biscuits. What was the result? It happened more and more that my co-salesman Möller asked: “Stuka, have you not yet dropped a biscuit carton today?”
Surely, there are hundreds of stories about the years behind barbed wire, but I write these lines urged by my wife exactly 60 years later, and a great number of stories have disappeared into the gloom of forgetfulness.
Yes, we also had a dog in camp. He belonged to Oberst Hefele and responded to the name Fitje. There was a marshy stream that ran alongside our camp. And therefore .we had often rats in the area. One of us designed and built a wooden rat-trap, although we never knew how to remove the rats from it once they had been caught, as a few had escaped. Airedale Terrier Fitje was crazy about rats. When a rat had been caught, we formed a circle around the meadow with the box in the centre. The dog smelled the rat immediately, and when we opened the door, a wild race between dog and rat began. Small jokes by poor POW.
Now to the often asked question about homosexuality: Such cases surely may have existed, I remember one couple who always walked their round together and were called Mr. and Mrs.Moll behind their backs. But otherwise it was not a problem. Except the Stabsarzt who wanted to “touch” a young Fähnrich who reported this to the camp leadership. As a result, Dr.Rűgenberg was totally segregated from us, was not allowed to join us for lunch etc. It was a severe punishment to be excluded from the community. He deserted to the Canadians after a short spell.
Our discipline was excellent until the last day. Nobody ran around sloppily dressed, it was either sports dress or proper uniform. Every superior was saluted, although under the prevailing circumstances this was reduced to one salute per day. The 20th April, birthday of our “Fűhrer und Reichskanzler”, was always celebrated, and we were in uniform and military music was played, and if it had it not been for the barbed wire, one could .have taken us for a small German colony.
And because my daughter asks me why I talk of : “we Germans” and not: “we Austrians” I would like to explain this briefly.
Austria became part of Germany in 1938 by means of the Anschluss, “connection”. From this day on we were called “Ostmärker” and not “Ősterreicher” any more. In the Wehrmacht everything was mixed, probably intentionally, and as some were called Schlesier, Bavarians or Rehinländer, we were simply Ősterreicher. Political discussions were non existent, and the question if one was a nationalsocialist or not was never asked. What they sell today as a “Nazi” with bristly hair and batons, has absolutely nothing to do with Nationalsocialism.
In this regard, the Canadians were open and democratic. We wore the Swastika, hated by our enemy, on our uniforms, and who wanted it could hang a picture of Hitler above his bed. We believed in victory for our cause and were convinced to live on the just side. We believed in the final victory right to the end, not only because we had sworn our oath but also from a sincere conviction.
The end of the war with its terrible defeat and all its consequences hit us extremely hard since we had lived apart from the events on account of the distance. The belief that we would be allowed to go home as the war was over, evaporated into thin air. Therefore the time after the end of the war, it would take one year and seven months, was worse than the time before, and it dragged on and on. The rumour kitchen bubbled continuously…., “ we leave in leave in two weeks, the guards will be taken away soon”.
We are shown movies about concentration camps which we cannot believe. Because we are forced to view the movies, we turn the chairs around and sit with the back to the screen.
The rumours about going home come thick and fast, and when they say: we have to be ready to move, we believe we have one foot at home already. But when we sit in the train. It does not roll east but west, to Wainwright, where we are taken to a large barrack camp. I am placed into a room with Heinz Hess and Lothar Horras, two nice and happy lads, and we try to kill time as much as possible.
Soccer teams are formed and matches played. Because my soccer ability has not improved, I am sent again to the “happy eleven”. It seems as if the war and resultant prisonership will never end, and we prepare to settle down in camp. Many reasons are carried by rumours through camp: the officers would have to remain longer in camp “as punishment”, the food supply is so bad at home that they want to keep us here, the west could face war-like conditions with the Russians (and sometimes it did look like this according to newspaper reports), and we would join the action. Suddenly another order arrives from the British motherland: the officers were to receive very small rations. This really hurt us hard since we were used to full meat pots. The reason was supposed to be an answer to the conditions in the concentration camps back home. Gt.Britain could do this as her boys from the prison camps were safely home and reprisal were impossible. It was now late summer, a time when we moved as little a possible to save energy, and at the lunch table did not cut the potatoes but spread them onto a plate to be cut into six pieces. The distributor was changed every day. If one rose up too quickly, there was the danger one could fall over. It was the time when on 3.11.1945 Oberstleutnant Busch presented me with a slice of bread with Schmalz. It was the most wonderful birthday present I ever received and I will never forget it. We started to exchange parts of our uniforms and medals, which were in great demand by the guards, against food. I still remember the joy when I exchanged a tin with Schmalz for my flyer cap and pushed it under my bed. A celebration for all of us, - and this was typical for the fairness of the Canadians - , was when the camp guards conducted a fire drill and misdirected their truck to our kitchen. When the door of the truck opened, a living pig jumped out and ran straight into the kitchen.
The winter of 1945/46 showed itself in all its harshness, so that we only stepped outside for roll call. The starvation rations were still in force and we asked Switzerland, our protecting power, to intervene. When the Swiss commission arrived we were ordered to assemble in the halls to be examined, we had detailed exactly 15 men who looked especially bad, to fall over. As the Swiss entered the hall, the 15 fell down as ordered, and perhaps another ten who felt nauseas. The Swiss did not examine long, we were asked to leave and from next day on received normal rations.
Now I must consider to come to the end of this story. Sabina, resp. Cordelie, my daughter, want to copy everything onto a diskette, and I am not sure if they have not taken on too much.
In October 1946 we were finally transported to the East Coast and “loaded” in Halifax harbour. We sailed to Gt.Britain, this time not plagued by the worry to be sunk by U-Boats.
Having arrived in Liverpool, we travelled in buses northward to the Lake District and Windermere, where Grizedale Hall, a wonderful castle waited for us. By now we had been separated from the Germans and were simply Austrians. Before we were separated, I allowed myself to play a joke. The Austrian government had the impertinence to ask for reparations from Germany although we had lived and fought together, and I found a closed-up box. On the top I cut a slit and wrote: REPARATIONS FOR AUSTRIA. Cashier Deibl.
I placed this box on the table in our room and left for safety reasons. And this was necessary. Grizedale Hall was an old but really beautiful castle in a large park. A few years ago I had wanted to show it to Friedl, but unfortunately the owner had it demolished, and only the wide terrace with the stone steps stood lonely in the scenery. I had not been there for ten minutes when a resident arrived with a book and asked if I was a former prisoner. When I answered in the positive, he handed me the book and asked me to enter my name. I found many names of co-prisoners inside.
In Grizedale Hall we waited for our final release. We were all suddenly asked to write stories and our opinions about Adolf Hitler, and we did this more as a joke and out of bravado than with serious thoughts. One day we had to assemble and the British commander informed us that we would be repatriatead in three weeks.to Germany or Austria if we would report for work voluntarily. According to the Geneva Convention no captured officers could be employed for work, and the Canadians had kept strictly to this, although we would have sometimes liked to work to pass the time. We therefore decided not to volunteer.
When we assembled on the next day and the commander asked: “Come forward who wants to work,” no one from the 150 men redponded. Only one stepped forward, Freiherr von Gianelia. Everbody looked puzzled when Sepp Fröschl stepped forward as well, but he only walked in front of Gianelia and hit him so hard that his cheek swelled up like a tennis ball.
By the way, Cordelie is indebted to Sepp Fröschl for her first flight in his private aircraft above Vienna. Later he became Generaldirektor of the AUA.
In September 1946, one-and-a-half year after the end of the war, we were transported to Southampton harbour to be sent home. On this trip through Germany we were horrified by the destruction in the cities. Especially Kehl remains in my memory as a total heap of rubble. On railway stations women brought us fruit to our carriage windows, only in Salzburg, where we waited for three hours, nobody took any notice of us. When eventually a pompous reporter from Radio Austria arrived, we remained silent.
In Kärnten, in Feistritz Parternion, we entered the last camp and had to sleep on wooden planks with only one blanket. The local Gendarmes did one better, they wanted to search our luggage. We laughed and sent them away. When we arrived in V. Neustadt, a few politicians wanted to sound off their usual speeches, but I shouldered my kitbag and sneaked away.
Arrived at home in Pernitz, my parents had decorated the door of our house with HERZLICH WILLKOMMEN, and father and mother cried as they had done on the day I went to war four-and-a-half years ago.
Completed 29. March 2004