The war no longer felt like a campaign. It felt like a furnace.
A week after Minsk fell into German hands and the great encirclement swallowed whole Soviet armies, the front surged east toward Smolensk. Columns of refugees, abandoned trucks, and shell-scarred forests slid beneath Andreas Voss’ canopy day after day. Army Group Centre was driving hard, too hard, some whispered, but the Panzers continued to claw forward with the momentum of a steel tide. Between the Berezina and the approaching Dnieper, more Soviet formations were trapped or dying on the roads.
And like the rest of the VIII. Fligerkorps, Andrei and Stuka staffel flew constantly.
Morning Sortie. Breakout Column West of Orsha
Dawn came pale and washed grey over a sky rubbed raw by exhaust. Six Stukas lifted into the morning haze; Voss in the lead, five more spaced neatly in echelon like predatory birds. Their task: smash a troop column attempting to breakout of the Smolensk cauldron and rejoin the retreating Soviet army.
Even from altitude, the road was unmistakable: men, guns, horses, guns, lorries, all stretched thin across the dusty earth.
Voss broke radio silence.
“White Staffel- target sighted! Free attack pattern. Engage!”
He tipped his wings, rolled, and let gravity take him.
The scream of wind filled the canopy, echoed by the familiar sound of the Stuka's Jericho trumpets. Milo called out range, height, slip. The column bucked and swerved below like a wounded animal. Trucks slewed into ditches and Russian soldiers scattered to cover. Voss steadied his thumb and released, the sticks of light fragmentation bombs stitched up the centre of the road, engulfing two guns, men, and horses alike in black-red spray.
White 3 was next, then White 5, and in seconds the column was fire and splinters.
Light MG fire snapped upwards; angry, wild, and frightened. Not trained AA gunners, just boys machine guns firing into the sky. Still dangerous.
“White 2 is hit. Oil pressure dropping, engine rough,” came Rohr’s voice, tight but steady.
“Keep formation, we’ll get you home,” Voss replied.
And they did. Five aircraft returned, one trailing smoke. But no medics required.
Afternoon Sortie — Vitebsk Railhead
Barely two hours later, refuelled, rearmed, and having enjoyed a snack from the field kitchen, the Staffel climbed again into a sky now thickening with heat and thunder clouds. Intelligence reported Vitebsk rail yards under emergency repair. If the Soviets restored even a single line east, thousands might escape the cauldron.
Visibility was good as they crossed the Luchesa River. Smoke from burning depots silhouetted the rail junction like black veins through the town. Voss keyed the mic:
“White Staffel, attack in sequence! Take the rolling stock first, then the repair sheds.”
He put his Berta into a clean, deliberate dive. No theatrics, no hesitation. AA fire climbed up toward him. No scared infantry this time, but men who knew their work. Luckily they had only light calibre guns.
Focus. Utter focus. And the 1,000-kilo bomb fell true.
It hit the central siding, then the world below became a new colour — coal dust, fuel, flames tearing across sleepers like a wind-fed grassfire. The Staffel followed in ruthless rhythm. Carriages flipped. Roofs peeled away. Boilers burst. Railcars jumped from their tracks like toys struck by a hammer.
More flak burst, turning the sky white and orange. Two batteries more batteries, hidden among warehouses, adding to the barrage.
“I'm hit! White 8 hit in the engine cowling. Holding course.”
“Keep it tight, Kette 3. Do not climb into that fire.”
They dragged themselves west with an Me-109 escort arriving just as the last bursts faded behind them. Two damaged crates. No losses.
Evening
Hours later, in the long red dusk of the steppe, Andreas walked the line of patched, fuel-streaked, and silent Stukas. Men sat on ammo crates smoking mechanically, too tired for jokes, others asleep in the shade. The world smelled of hot oil and smoke.
The Russian Front was widening, consuming machines and men in equal measure. Inevitably tomorrow they would fly again, because the Panzers moved and where the Panzers moved, Stukas went first.
Andrei rubbed a hand across his brow and looked east, where thunderstorms and war both rolled toward Smolensk.
No casualties today, he told himself. A small victory but maybe the best kind.
