Free Stuka Pilot by Hans-Ulrich Rudel

decorations. In our squadron I am first to receive the German Golden Cross. On the first Christmas holiday we vainly issue an invitation to our sporting colleagues in Moscow to come over for a Christmas match. So we have our own game of ice hockey on the Moskwa by ourselves. The bad weather continues for days. As soon as it improves we start to pull out, flying back above the vast forests and along the motor road in the direction of Wiasma. No sooner are we airborne than the weather deteriorates, we fly in close formation skimming the tree tops. Even so it is difficult not to lose sight of one another. Everything is one grey blur, a swirling blend of fog and snow. Each aircraft is dependent on the skill of the flight leader. This kind of flying is more strenuous than the hottest sortie. It is a black day for us; we lose several crews in the squadron who are not equal to the task. Over Wiasma we turn off N. to starboard and fly in the direction Sytchewka—Rhew. We land in deep snow at Dugino, about twelve miles South of Sytchewka, and billet ourselves on a Kolkhoz. The merciless cold continues and now at last suitable equipment and clothing arrive by air. Transport aircraft land daily on our airfield bringing fur clothing, skis, sledges and other things. But it is too late to capture Moscow, too late to bring back our side the comrades who have been killed by the frost; too late to save the tens of thousands who have had to be sent back from the offensive with frozen toes and fingers; too late to give new impetus to the irresistibly advancing army which has been forced into dug-outs and trenches by the pitiless fist of an inconceivably hard winter.
    We are now flying in areas with which we are familiar from last summer: in the region of the source of the Volga W. of Rhew, near Rhew itself, and along the railway line near Olinin and to the South. The deep snow sets our troops a colossal task, but the Soviets are quite in their element. The cleverest technician now is the one who uses the most primitive methods of work and locomotion. Engines no longer start, everything is frozen stiff, no hydraulic apparatus functions, to rely on any technical instrument is suicide. There is no starting our engines in the early mornings at these temperatures although we keep them covered up with straw mats and blankets. The mechanics are often out in the open all night long, warming up the engines at intervals of half an hour in order to make sure of their starting when we take off. Many cases of frostbite are due to spending these bitterly cold nights looking after the engines. As engineer officer I am always out and about between sorties so as not to lose any chance of getting one extra aircraft serviceable. We are seldom frozen in the air. We have to fly low in bad weather and the defense is heavy so that one is too keyed up to notice the cold. That does not of course exclude the chance of discovering symptoms of frostbite on our return to the warmth of our billets.
    At the beginning of January General von Richthofen lands on our airfield in a Fieseler Storch and in the name of the Führer invests me with the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. The citation specially mentions my successful ship and bridge destructions last year.

    Fieseler Storch
    An even more intense cold increases the difficulty of keeping aircraft serviceable for the next day’s operations. I have seen desperate mechanics try to warm up their engines with a naked flame in the hope of inducing them to start. One of them said to me: “They’ll either start now or be burnt to a cinder. If they won’t they’re no use to us anyway.” All the same this strikes me as a rather drastic method of solving our problem and I hit upon another. A petrol can makes a tin oven. A sort of chimney protrudes from the top with a perforated cowl to stop the sparks from flying. We place this whole contraption underneath the engine and light a fire in it, pointing the stove-pipe towards the