9 October 1943: The jubilant return from the historic combat sortie of III.Gruppe / Sturzkampfgeschwader 2 (StG 2) "Immelmann". At left is Oberfeldwebel Erwin Hentschel (1,200th sortie) with bottles of Champagne, while at right is Gruppenführer Hauptmann Hans-Ulrich Rudel (1,500th sortie) with a piglet. At center is Gruppe Adjutant Leutnant Helmut Fickel.
In the late summer and fall of 1943 Sturzkampfgeschwader 2 (StG 2) "Immelmann" are devotedly trying to help the striking Wehrmacht units in stopping the Soviet troops, which are attacking in an extended line. However, along with their ground army comrades, they have to retreat ever farther west. The Geschwader's consecutive bases are: Karaychev, Bryansk, Kharkov, Dnepro-petrovsk, Barvinovka, Stalino, Pavlovka, Bolshaya Kostromka and eventually Krivoy Rog. October 1943 sees fierce fighting in the arch of the Don. On the 9th Hauptmann Hans-Ulrich Rudel (Gruppenführer III. Gruppe) becomes the first pilot in history to fly a 1,500th combat sortie. Kriegsberichter (War correspondent) Josef "Jupp" Müller-Marein witnessed this action:
"It's Hptm. Rudel's 1,500th sortie. Morning, about 8 o'clock. The air is misty. Clouds are hanging low. Only for off above the horizon can one see a fragment of clear blue sky framed by white curls of clouds — it looks like a tiny banner, an area of a friendly color above the grim ground, where the frontline runs.
Hptm. Rudel has completed 1,499 combat sorties, so this is going to be the 1,500th. Indeed, if this number be the sum of all the dangers, it shall also be that of all the great and daring combat actions. Yes, a number can become a monument — a monument to great victories.
Hptm. Rudel has appeared. The light-grey of the vest which he has put on his suit is contrasting with his sun-burnt face. It is a proportional face of a very manly but at the same time boyish expression. He climbs into his machine with a sportsman's skill. But later, after he has taken off at the head of his Gruppe, there is occasion to look upon him as an airman: Hauptmann Rudel operates the controls with such ease and feel that one may forget about the heavy bombs carried under the fuselage. From time to time he takes the map and scans it. Sometimes he thoughtfully raises his hand against the forehead to scrutinize the sky in search for enemy fighters. At times, he points his index finger up as if in order to admonish himself or his comrades. Turned in the opposite direction is his radio-operator sitting behind his back, with whom he has been flying for quite some time — they are inseparable like brothers. The Radio-operator, who's flying his 1,200th combat sortie on this mission, is constantly looking into the distance from behind the handle of his machine gun. A farm boy from the heart of Saxony, he remains cold-blooded. Now he's an Oberfeldwebel, but he remembers how it was when instead of flying over trenched fields of crops he slowly and meditatively followed the plough.
How beautiful and powerful the impression is also today, in this misty sky, of the speeding aircraft of our dive-bomber Gruppe! Their bodies with bent wings, clearly outlined against the grey cloud cover, look like armed, dangerous hornets. And over there, where the light-blue fragment of the sky is to be seen, ruins the frontline.
Then sounds a voice indicating the exact target of the raid: enemy troops concentrated at front attacking positions. Yellowish curls of pungent smoke are rising from below — the sign of advanced German positions. Is there no-man's-land here at all? No, right before the German lines are Soviet troops, sticking in the ground and waiting to attack. Gun by gun, tank by tank. Yes, that which is happening below is only a short break before an oncoming strike. The Stukas should hit there.
Attack!' — it is commander Hauptmann's voice, a voice that is so calm on this 1,500" combat sortie as during his first action back in Poland. The dance of the hornets has already begun. Their every turn is just an attempt to break through the net mesh formed by enemy gunfire. And after a while everything follows quickly. The commander is the first to dive. The other aircraft follow him, which looks as if the aircraft were linked with a magnetic tape. The diving and then steeply pulling-up aircraft disappear in the smoke plumes generated by their bombs blowing up. Aircraft cannons and machine guns are dispatching tracers in the direction of the trenches occupied by Soviets, who are cowering under the fire. A Soviet tank is rolling by, seeking shelter among sparse vegetation somewhere aside. The Stukas are circling over the battlefield, repeating low-flying attacks over an over again. This is the 1,500th combat sortie!
Task accomplished, the Gruppe lands on their decent airfield, Hptm. Rude! being first to leave the aircraft, and his face and movements as fresh as before take-off.
The general who commands the Fliegerkorps appears at the airfield. He expresses his congratulations in a few simple words. His comrades bring two squealing pigs to satisfy the superstition. What else can be given to a commander who does not smoke or drink? They bring cakes, pies, flowers. Hptm. Rudel is smiling heartily holding all these gifts in his hands."
"It's Hptm. Rudel's 1,500th sortie. Morning, about 8 o'clock. The air is misty. Clouds are hanging low. Only for off above the horizon can one see a fragment of clear blue sky framed by white curls of clouds — it looks like a tiny banner, an area of a friendly color above the grim ground, where the frontline runs.
Hptm. Rudel has completed 1,499 combat sorties, so this is going to be the 1,500th. Indeed, if this number be the sum of all the dangers, it shall also be that of all the great and daring combat actions. Yes, a number can become a monument — a monument to great victories.
Hptm. Rudel has appeared. The light-grey of the vest which he has put on his suit is contrasting with his sun-burnt face. It is a proportional face of a very manly but at the same time boyish expression. He climbs into his machine with a sportsman's skill. But later, after he has taken off at the head of his Gruppe, there is occasion to look upon him as an airman: Hauptmann Rudel operates the controls with such ease and feel that one may forget about the heavy bombs carried under the fuselage. From time to time he takes the map and scans it. Sometimes he thoughtfully raises his hand against the forehead to scrutinize the sky in search for enemy fighters. At times, he points his index finger up as if in order to admonish himself or his comrades. Turned in the opposite direction is his radio-operator sitting behind his back, with whom he has been flying for quite some time — they are inseparable like brothers. The Radio-operator, who's flying his 1,200th combat sortie on this mission, is constantly looking into the distance from behind the handle of his machine gun. A farm boy from the heart of Saxony, he remains cold-blooded. Now he's an Oberfeldwebel, but he remembers how it was when instead of flying over trenched fields of crops he slowly and meditatively followed the plough.
How beautiful and powerful the impression is also today, in this misty sky, of the speeding aircraft of our dive-bomber Gruppe! Their bodies with bent wings, clearly outlined against the grey cloud cover, look like armed, dangerous hornets. And over there, where the light-blue fragment of the sky is to be seen, ruins the frontline.
Then sounds a voice indicating the exact target of the raid: enemy troops concentrated at front attacking positions. Yellowish curls of pungent smoke are rising from below — the sign of advanced German positions. Is there no-man's-land here at all? No, right before the German lines are Soviet troops, sticking in the ground and waiting to attack. Gun by gun, tank by tank. Yes, that which is happening below is only a short break before an oncoming strike. The Stukas should hit there.
Attack!' — it is commander Hauptmann's voice, a voice that is so calm on this 1,500" combat sortie as during his first action back in Poland. The dance of the hornets has already begun. Their every turn is just an attempt to break through the net mesh formed by enemy gunfire. And after a while everything follows quickly. The commander is the first to dive. The other aircraft follow him, which looks as if the aircraft were linked with a magnetic tape. The diving and then steeply pulling-up aircraft disappear in the smoke plumes generated by their bombs blowing up. Aircraft cannons and machine guns are dispatching tracers in the direction of the trenches occupied by Soviets, who are cowering under the fire. A Soviet tank is rolling by, seeking shelter among sparse vegetation somewhere aside. The Stukas are circling over the battlefield, repeating low-flying attacks over an over again. This is the 1,500th combat sortie!
Task accomplished, the Gruppe lands on their decent airfield, Hptm. Rude! being first to leave the aircraft, and his face and movements as fresh as before take-off.
The general who commands the Fliegerkorps appears at the airfield. He expresses his congratulations in a few simple words. His comrades bring two squealing pigs to satisfy the superstition. What else can be given to a commander who does not smoke or drink? They bring cakes, pies, flowers. Hptm. Rudel is smiling heartily holding all these gifts in his hands."
Source :
"St.G2 Immelmann" by Marek J. Murawski
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