15 June 1941
More than two hundred men leapt to attention as the General entered the hall. Rows of chairs now filled the briefing space, packed shoulder to shoulder with airmen from Sturzkampfgeschwaders 1 and 2. As a Staffelkapitän, Andreas Voss sat near the front, flanked by his officers. Behind them, the hall was thick with smoke, murmurs, and the weight of anticipation.
Generaloberst Wolfram von Richthofen strode purposefully into the room, ramrod straight, his lined face unmistakably bearing the noble features of his famous cousin, the Red Baron. His piercing gaze swept across the gathered ranks.
“Setzen Sie sich, meine Herren. Bitte.”
He looked tired. Like many in the room, Richthofen had just returned from Greece and Crete. While General Student had led the Fallschirmjäger on the ground, it was Richthofen who had commanded the entire air campaign. A monumental achievement—Crete was the first major airborne invasion in history—but the cost had been high, and the strain showed. It was said he played Beethoven’s 7th Symphony so frequently in his command tent during the operation that his staff had started calling it the Crete Symphony.
“Kameraden of the Stukaflieger!” he began. “In the past two years, you have flown superbly. Your Stukas have become the very symbol of the Blitzkrieg. The Panzers may be the darlings of the Army, but they only advance because you open the way.”
He paused. “Now, you will do it again—on a scale the world has never seen. Over three million men are assigned to this operation.”
The room held its breath; they all knew what was coming.
Barbarossa
Since returning from Crete, they had been studying the operations plans. Andreas had been struck by two things: the first, the breathtaking audacity of it—an invasion of the Soviet Union. Even Napoleon had failed. The second was how familiar it all felt. The names were the same—Bock, Guderian, Hoth, Kesselring—commanders they had followed in Poland, France, the Balkans. Men who had led them to victory before.
Richthofen continued: “Once more, we strike the enemy and show them the might of modern mechanized warfare. Our VIII. Fliegerkorps is part of Luftflotte 2, under General Kesselring. You, gentlemen, are again the tip of the spear. Jagdgeschwader will protect you. Heinkels, Dorniers, and Ju 88s will fly beside you. But it is you—the Stukaflieger—who are the flying artillery for the Panzerkorps.”
He gestured to a wall map. “We support Army Group Centre, under Feldmarschall von Bock—forty-eight divisions! But your primary customers are his two Panzergruppe commanders: Generalobersts Guderian and Hoth.”
The general’s voice grew sharper. “Our roles: clear and flexible. From the opening sorties on Barbarossatag, we eliminate the Soviet Air Force. Then, systematic strikes on their army. You will hit bridges, railways, fuel dumps—cutting movement, preventing reinforcement—and clearing the path for our mobile forces.”
“To help coordinate with the Army, we now have Flivos—air control officers—on the ground. They’re Luftwaffe men, many ex-bomber crews, now riding in armoured vehicles with the Panzers. Some will brief you shortly. They know you, and more importantly—they know how to use you.”
Maps rustled. Heads nodded.
Andreas studied the map again. Right there in the centre, west of Brest-Litowsk, was Hoth’s 3rd Panzergruppe. Among his spearhead was LVII. Panzerkorps, and within it—the 12th Panzer-Division led by Generalmajor Harpe.
His brother’s division.
Feldwebel Johann Voss, Panzergrenadier and decorated veteran of Poland and France. Once again, Andreas would go to war flying above his brother. The thought brought a smile to his face and quiet resolve to his heart.
Richthofen’s voice rang out again: “Poland. Norway. Belgium. Holland. France. Greece. Crete. Now—Russia! Coordination. Flexibility. Iron on target. That is how we win. Final deployment to forward airfields is 19 June. Until then, secrecy is paramount. You know your craft and no one does it better. Good luck, gentlemen.”
As he departed, the Gruppenkommandeure and Geschwader leadership followed for a more detailed briefing. The hall erupted into discussion. The mood was high.
Andreas mingled freely, catching up with acquaintances from StG 1, rarely seen outside fleeting handovers. His Staffel was now at full strength—twelve pilots, twelve gunners, and more than 150 ground personnel. He was heartened to see his veterans mentoring the new replacements in the lull before the storm.
At some point a group of the ground control officers — the Flivos — entered with map cases and frequency books, already in animated discussion with various pilots. Andreas was chatting amiably with an officer from StG 1 whom he had known since Flight School, when a firm hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind.
He turned, froze in surprise, then broke into a grin.
“Hauptmann Adler!”
Standing before him, a little grayer at the temples but still carrying himself with the same quiet command that had inspired so much confidence in the early campaigns, was Karl-Heinz Adler, his old Staffelkapitän from Poland, the Low Countries, and France. He had mentored Andreas through those harrowing first combat missions and had last been seen recovering in a Berlin hospital following a wound sustained during the Battle of Britain.
“You’re a Flivo?” Andreas asked, both surprised and pleased.
“Ja. That cushy training gig they gave me in Austria wasn’t for me—though I can’t say I minded the time with my wife. But sitting behind a desk while you boys flew over Greece and Crete? Didn't feel right. I might never fly again, but I’ve still got the skills to make sure the Army doesn’t waste your efforts. Luftwaffe forward air controller now—assigned to 10th Panzer Division under Guderian. I even get to ride around in a shiny Panzer III, so who knows, maybe I’ll add a few Russian tanks to my tally!”
Adler’s grin was infectious, and Andreas felt his own spirit lift at the sight of his old commander, returned to his element and full of fire.
“You being out there—it means a lot,” Andreas said sincerely. “The men will fly with more confidence knowing someone like you is on the other end of the radio.”
Adler clapped him on the back again. “Then let's make sure we all come back to tell the story! Now come on, we’ve got plenty to catchup up on, like that Iron Cross and Wound Badge—and I think there’s still a bar standing around here somewhere.”
Caught up in the infectious energy of the room and the joy of reunion, Andreas laughed and led Adler toward the makeshift mess. For one evening, at least, the war could wait for two old comrades to share a drink.
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| Ju87 B-2, StG2, Russia 1941 |
Yet another theatre! The demands are boggling. At least the Soviets should be a push over compared to the Western and Southern theatres [well not really].
ReplyDeleteStephen
It might start well but then..."Winter is Coming"
DeleteLove reading these. Thanks for all the work these take.
ReplyDeleteExcellent setup…looking forward to the upcoming story!
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