Chapter 1060: Eastern Front Ablaze

In a concealed field airfield in the southern theater of the German Eastern Front, a young pilot was talking to his squadron leader. Beside them was a camouflage net supported by wooden poles, which looked like a clump of weeds from the sky. But under this net was parked a sleek Ta-152 fighter, with a black tulip painted on its nose.

This aircraft, like most Ta-152 fighters on the Eastern Front, had no special structural modifications. The only difference was that the kill markings, which should have been painted under the cockpit, had been moved to the tail. The reason was that this aircraft’s combat record was simply too vast.

A full 190 aircraft. This was the current combat record of the German super-ace, Hartmann. It had only been about a year since he began combat, and in this time, he had shot down an enemy aircraft, on average, every one and a half days.

The commander of the fighter force, General Galland, once joked to those around him: “We don’t need to produce fighters anymore, we just need to produce Hartmanns.” This terrifying record has brought Hartmann incomparable glory. He was the youngest captain and fighter pilot in the air force, and also the first in the air force to receive the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords, and Diamonds.

Even General Kesselring of the Air Force enviously remarked on Hartmann’s personal honor: “God, if I don’t get promoted to Field Marshal of the Air Force in my lifetime, I won’t even be able to compare with Hartmann. In terms of medals alone, he has almost double what I have.”

Of course, the object of his complaint was Admiral Dönitz, and this naval general was also completely resigned, shrugging his shoulders and lamenting to General Kesselring: “Do you think I don’t have this problem? I have five U-boat captains under my command whose Iron Crosses are of a higher grade than mine. It’s not just you in the Air Force who has a Hartmann; we in the Navy have one called Prien.”

At this very moment, Hartmann’s squadron leader was discussing the issue of equipping jet fighters with this legendary pilot. “I hear this new type of aircraft can easily fly at speeds approaching 700 km/h. I believe that in the future, this kind of plane that can fly faster and higher will definitely become the mainstream of the air force.”

“If flying faster is all it takes to shoot down the enemy, then what’s the use of us pilots?” Hartmann said with a smile, pointing to the 88mm anti-aircraft gun towering not far away. “A shell flies much faster than a plane, but it can’t turn.”

“But I heard that the capital’s air defense units have already officially re-equipped with jet fighters, and that it was an order from the Führer you respect most,” the squadron leader said, his hands behind his back as he looked at the new trainee pilots who were running in the distance. He continued, “Didn’t you say it yourself? The Führer’s words are always right.”

“Of course! The Führer is right,” Hartmann nodded, then stubbornly pointed to the Ta-152 behind him, which the Soviets called the “Black Death,” and said firmly, “Because good pilots can’t be mass-produced, the Führer can only mass-produce faster planes to meet the needs of those rookies who only know how to dive and fire.”

“Haha,” the squadron leader laughed heartily, then pointed at Hartmann from a distance. “You, as soon as you talk about flying, you’re as sharp as a killer. When you’re in the dormitory, your voice is at least a hundred times softer than now.”

His smile faded, and the squadron leader looked at the fighter that had won countless honors for the entire squadron, the entire group, and even the entire Eastern Front Air Force. He asked solemnly, “So, Captain Hartmann, you don’t agree to our squadron being the first to re-equip with the new ME-239 jet fighter?”

“Yes,” Hartmann replied, scratching his face with his finger. “At least let the other squadrons get them first, and then we’ll apply. After all, we’re more experienced at flying the old fighters. And I hate newly-equipped weapons. I hate that feeling of always being on edge, waiting for the plane to break down.”

It should be known that the process of equipping a new weapon is not a simple one. On the contrary, this kind of large-scale re-equipment is a long and repetitive process. It wasn’t that Hartmann looked down on the new equipment, but that the newest equipment was often a byword for “unreliable.”

In the cold, thin air of high altitude, in a dogfight of pulling and circling, Hartmann needed his plane to be in optimal condition at all times. Even a moment’s hesitation could change the outcome of an air battle. The sense of mastery that Hartmann had built up with his fighter over a long period was truly an indescribable, wonderful connection.

If he were to switch to a new plane, when challenging the airflow and the enemy, a subconscious action could be his doom. To reach for a button only to find it wasn’t there would be an absolute, terrifying disaster. It was like that desperate feeling of constantly mistyping after suddenly switching to a new keyboard.

So, on the matter of re-equipping with the new jet fighters, Hartmann himself was very cautious. At least at a time like this, he was unwilling to take the risk. As a fighter pilot with over a thousand hours in the sky, he seemed more willing to entrust his life to the Ta-152 he was more familiar with.

“Orders from above. We are to strengthen our control of the southern airspace in the next few days,” the squadron leader said, changing the subject to the latest mission arrangements. “It seems the bomber units are being transferred from the Western Front… As you know, our fuel situation is much better than it was half a year ago.”

“That’s no problem. We just need to send out more fighters to patrol. The Soviets rarely scramble to intercept our fighter patrols. Recently, the Soviet Air Force seems to be very concerned about the air defense around Kursk. I shot down 6 enemy planes there…” Hartmann recalled.

“Let’s the two of us go up for a spin this afternoon,” the squadron leader said, patting Hartmann on the shoulder, and then, pulling rank for his own enjoyment, said, “Heh heh, since we’ve been resupplied with so much aviation fuel, one extra flight for us isn’t too much to ask.” As he spoke, he turned and walked towards the runway. The new trainee pilots had finished their run and were standing in a neat formation, waiting for their squadron leader to begin his speech.

The Soviet forces in the Kursk sector were contracting. This was no longer news. General Guderian was slowly advancing G Army Group’s front line to the north, locking onto Zhukov’s armored group to prevent it from easily moving north to Moscow. Everyone was well aware of Zhukov’s tactic of breaking up his armored forces and moving them to the region south of Moscow. It was just that the German army, for a time, could not detach too many forces to launch a fierce attack on the Soviet armored forces in the central sector.

Ever since the last Battle of Kursk, when G Army Group had been forced to retreat by Zhukov’s group, it had been licking its wounds. The increasing number of replacement King Tigers had also made General Guderian’s backbone stiffer. A dozen or so days ago, his troops, unable to sit still any longer, had begun to probe north.

The 1st Panzer Corps had advanced like a hot knife through butter, capturing several important villages and strongpoints one after another. It had also torn open a part of the Soviet flank, but had never encountered any large-scale resistance from the Red Army. Compared to the G Army Group, which was being progressively strengthened, Zhukov’s armored group was now truly on the decline. At least in terms of the number of tanks, the Soviet armored forces could no longer achieve an overwhelming advantage.

“Zhukov’s troops are moving north. He hasn’t transferred many, but they are all his more elite main forces,” Guderian said in his armored command vehicle, placing his palm on the area near Kursk. He had been quiet for almost a month, which made him, one of the “Imperial Twins,” feel restless. “What’s blocking our advance are some tank destroyers converted from T-26 chassis, and some scattered infantry. We should quickly launch a probing assault to find the core defensive position of Zhukov’s group.”

“The 3rd SS Panzer Division is already attacking to the northeast. Their furthest units have reached this area,” the chief of staff said, pointing to the map and reporting the latest troop movements to Guderian. “The 1st Panzer Corps’ reconnaissance units have met with Soviet resistance in the area east of Kursk. They report that the enemy has T-34 tanks. It should be a Soviet main force.”

“The Air Force is working to destroy Zhukov’s supply lines. We have attacked transport nodes, railway lines, and villages along the way. Several designated key areas have even been carpet-bombed by DO-217s,” the air force liaison officer reported, before Guderian could even ask. He, too, had been walking taller these past few days. The reduction in bombing scale, which had been caused by the fuel shortage, had been completely resolved. The Air Force was now flying dozens, even hundreds of sorties a day, and the Soviets were suffering under the pressure.

“It’s time to execute Operational Plan No. 2,” Guderian nodded, his eyes lifting from the map. He grabbed the radio handset hanging on the wall of the armored vehicle and spoke loudly into it. “This is Guderian. Get me the Wolf’s Lair, Marshal von Brauchitsch… This is Guderian. Based on the analysis of the intelligence from our reconnaissance units, I believe the time is ripe to execute Operational Plan No. 2.”

Field Marshal von Brauchitsch was silent on the other end of the line for a moment, then he replied, “Very well, General Guderian, you can begin preparations for the attack. I will report the situation to the Führer. If the High Command has no other objections, then I have none either.”

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