Read Stuka Pilot for Free Online

be the end. I am in a sweat; water just pours off me. Is it rain or is it sweat? 3900, 3300, 2400, 1800, 1500 on the altimeter. Gradually I succeed in getting the other instruments functioning properly except for an alarming pressure on the joy stick. So I continue to hurdle earthwards.
    The vertical speed indicator is still set at maximum. All this time I am completely benighted. Ghostly lightning flashes stab the darkness, making it even more difficult to fly by instruments. I pull on the stick with both hands to bring the aircraft back into a horizontal position. Altitude 1500, 1200 feet! The blood is throbbing in my temples, I gasp for breath. Something inside me urges me to give up this struggle with the unleashed forces of the elements. Why go on? All my efforts are of no avail. Now it also strikes me that the altimeter has stopped at 600 feet; it still oscillates feebly like an exhausted barometer. That means the crash will come at any moment with the altimeter still registering 600 feet. No, carry on, dourly, with might and main. A groaning thump. There now, I am dead… I think. Dead? If I were I should not be able to think. Besides, I can still hear the noise of the engine. It is still as dark all around as it was before. And now the unruffled voice of Scharnovski says serenely: “It looks as if we had bumped into something or other, sir.”
    Scharnovski’s imperturbable calm leaves me speechless. But one thing I now know: I am still airborne. And this knowledge helps me to go on concentrating. It is true that even at full throttle I travel no faster, but the instruments show that I am beginning to climb, and that is already enough. The compass points due West; not exactly unlucky. It is to be hoped the thing is still working. I keep my eyes rigidly fixed on my instruments, hypnotizing them with all the power of my will.
    Our salvation depends on them! I have to pull my stick for all I am worth. Otherwise the “ball” pops back into the comer. I handle the aircraft gingerly as if she were a living thing. I coax her out loud and suddenly cannot help thinking of Old Shatterhand and his horse Rih. Scharnovski interrupts my thoughts.
    “We have two holes in the wings—there are a couple of birch trees sticking out of them—we have also lost a large bit of one aileron and landing flap.”
    I look out and perceive that I have climbed out of the lowest bank of cloud and am now flying above it. We are back in daylight! I see that Scharnovski is right. Two great holes in the wings on either side reaching to the main spar with small birch saplings sticking through them. The aileron and the landing flap are in the condition described. Now I begin to understand: the air is caught in the wings which explains the loss of speed; the difficulties in steering are also accounted for. How long will the valiant Ju. 87 be able to carry on? I reckon I must be about thirty miles behind the Russian front. Now, and not till now, do I remember my load of bombs. I jettison them, and this makes flying easier. We usually meet with enemy fighters on every sortie.
    Today one of them would not have to shoot me down; a dirty look would be quite sufficient to do the trick. I cannot discover even one. At last I am across the front line and slowly approach our airfield.
    I warn Scharnovski to bale out immediately. I give the order in case I find the aircraft no longer controllable. I reconstruct in my mind the recent miracle which has given me an extended lease of life: the storm blew up; after I had got the other instruments back to normal by constantly pulling the stick I must have been close to the ground at the very moment the aircraft recovered a horizontal position. At this speed I must have swept along an avenue of birch trees or between two single birches, and that was where I picked up the broken saplings. It was a stroke of uncanny luck that they tore holes exactly in the centre of the wings and did not catch the propeller, otherwise