Chapter 536: Hartmann

The two planes landed one after the other at the German frontline airfield. The ground crew hurried forward and began to service the aircraft to ensure that this precious equipment remained in good working order. The pilots’ ability to soar in the sky, and the bomber pilots’ ability to drop bombs on the enemy, all depended on the hard work of these ground crew personnel.

“Why did you disable the communications just now?” the squadron commander, who had been waiting at the airfield, asked the lead pilot who had just disembarked, his brow furrowed.

“We encountered enemy aircraft. I didn’t expect a sudden situation, so I turned off the communications and engaged,” the lead pilot said, handing his goggles and leather helmet to a ground crew member, his voice tinged with frustration.

To have arbitrarily engaged the enemy with a rookie pilot and to have turned off the communication device—it seemed a reprimand was unavoidable. Moreover, the air battle had not yielded any astonishing results. He had originally wanted to shoot down 10 enemy aircraft in exchange for a demerit, but in the end, he had only gotten a pitiful two.

Thinking of this, he looked resentfully at Hartmann, who had just climbed out of his plane, and was so frustrated he almost went over and kicked his wingman. It’s all your fault, you idiot, for making such a mess of things!

He seemed honest enough usually, didn’t he? How could he be so unruly in the sky? If he had been like the other rookie pilots and had honestly stayed behind the lead to provide cover, perhaps not a single one of those Soviet planes would have escaped this time! That was a kill count of a full eight aircraft. If he had added that to his total, his number of enemy planes shot down would have exceeded 50! the lead pilot thought, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

The squadron commander, at this time, also noticed that his favorite subordinate’s mood was a bit off, so he also looked at Hartmann, who was taking off his leather helmet and goggles. “So you’re saying you turned off your communicator this time to rack up some kills, but you failed because of this rookie?”

This squadron commander had been partnered with the lead pilot for a long time and naturally knew his subordinate’s temperament. Turning off the communicator was, to put it bluntly, not a big deal. Many ace pilots would decisively change the original operational plan upon spotting a target. The wing commander, Galland, had done similar things—a classic example of “if the upper beam is not straight, the lower beam will be crooked.”

A demerit would certainly be given, and a punishment would certainly be meted out, but everyone still did it with great enthusiasm. The purpose was very simple: to achieve an astonishing combat record. Otherwise, how were those records of one plane shooting down a dozen others achieved? If you followed the commander’s instructions to the letter, where would you find so many situations of fighting outnumbered? So, increasing one’s own kill count was something pilots did everything they could to achieve. To fight with superior numbers was the pursuit of the commander.

“This Hartmann has really opened my eyes. He charged into the middle of the Soviet planes by himself, flew around like a madman, and then nearly crashed into the ground. He’s no wingman of mine. In short, he didn’t do a single thing a wingman is supposed to do,” the lead pilot said bitterly. “In the end, I only shot down two planes. The rest of the time, I was worried about him.”

“He charged into the middle of the Soviet planes? And he came out unscathed?” The squadron commander, of course, knew the consequences of recklessly charging into an enemy formation. After hearing his subordinate’s description, he asked in a voice that betrayed no emotion.

“He did a reverse Immelmann and a roll. He was flying a bit clumsily, but you could see his fundamentals are very solid,” the lead pilot gave a fair assessment. “But this guy has too little combat training. On the battlefield, he’s worse than a proper rookie.”

Those rookie pilots who had been through training were mostly very skilled in their technical maneuvers. They could stick close behind the lead and do everything a wingman was supposed to do. It might take them a long time to become a lead pilot who could stand on their own, but they could adapt to the escort combat role of a wingman in a very short time. These pilots were familiar with combat but needed to spend time learning how to fly.

It was clear that Hartmann was not this type of rookie, but the kind who could skillfully control an aircraft but was not adapted to combat. Flying was not unfamiliar to him; in fact, it was very familiar. But he was not familiar with air combat and could not immediately become the kind of cold-blooded killer who could quickly lock onto an enemy and open fire.

Anyone who has learned to drive will know that if you don’t know how to drive at all and just follow the instructor’s instructions, you can often easily pass the test and get a driver’s license. On the contrary, if you have some experience with cars and insist on using your own methods to deal with the driving school test, you will most likely fail. Of course, both types of people have their own advantages: the first type can easily get a license but is prone to becoming a road menace later on; the second type has better driving skills than the first but suffers from not having a license to be on the road.

“Hartmann! Come with me!” the squadron commander said, glancing at his subordinate and then beckoning to Hartmann. “Let’s go to the office and have a good talk.”

After speaking, the squadron commander looked again at the dejected lead pilot. “You arbitrarily turned off the communicator. Write me a self-criticism and be prepared to present it at the next wing meeting… Also, write a detailed flight report this time. I want to review the entire mission process later.”

“Yes, sir!” The lead pilot felt like crying. He had only been thinking of getting a stunning ten kills, but in his excitement, he had forgotten that the wing’s major pilot meeting was in a few days. Making a self-criticism in front of the wing was a completely different matter from making one in front of the squadron. To be shamed in front of Commander Galland—and for the price of only two enemy planes—was too tragic.

“You’ve really gone and done it now, haven’t you?” a comrade said, gloating at his old acquaintance’s misfortune. He couldn’t help but burst into laughter. The pilot who had been ordered to write the self-criticism was already fuming. His wingman, Hartmann, had been called away by the squadron commander, so he became enraged and began to chase after his laughing comrade.

The wind blew across the open field airfield with a rustling sound, like a giant hand stroking the dozen or so new Ta-152 fighters parked on the field. The ground crew continued to work, making various meticulous adjustments to their beloved treasures.

“Hartmann, I hear you performed some exaggerated and very dangerous flight maneuvers today?” the squadron commander asked after entering the room. He first poured Hartmann a cup of cold coffee, then sat down in his own chair as he spoke.

“Sir, I am very sorry about today’s incident. I know I caused trouble, but please do not take away my right to fly,” Hartmann said. He naturally knew that the punishment for rookie pilots was much stricter.

For example, the same mistake, if made by a battle-hardened ace pilot, might only result in a self-criticism or a reprimand, at most a minor demerit. They could still carry out their missions as usual, without any impact. But if a rookie pilot messed up during a mission, he could be permanently disqualified from flying and be relegated to the ground crew for the rest of his life.

For someone like Hartmann, not being allowed to fly was more unbearable than being killed. So he pleaded with the squadron commander in a begging tone, his eyes full of unease.

“When I was your age, Germany had no airplanes,” the squadron commander, who was already thirty-four, said, looking at Hartmann. “At that time, the French and the British had just destroyed 10,000 of our planes. I saw the terrible wreckage with my own eyes.”

His eyes were filled with sorrow, as if he was very reluctant to bring up that sad period. “Germany’s massive air force was forced to disband. Countless pilots who yearned for the blue sky could only stand on the ground and watch their fighter planes be destroyed.”

“Can you imagine what that means to a 15-year-old boy? This boy had always dreamed of flying, but was told by the adults that his motherland would never have airplanes again…” the squadron commander asked, staring at Hartmann.

“I think there is nothing worse than that,” Hartmann replied. He had not been born at that time and naturally could not feel the humiliation of a German who had experienced the First World War. But when he thought of a whole Germany without airplanes, he still felt a sense of terror.

“So, I hope that every plane in my hands can fight for the freedom of Germany’s skies!” the squadron commander said solemnly to Hartmann. “I don’t care what methods you use. Since the Führer trusts you, then you will shoot down enemy planes for me—ten, a hundred, until there are no more enemies in the sky!”

“Yes, sir! Long live the Führer!” Mentioning Akado, Hartmann felt that the tall, thin Führer had sent him to the front as the best affirmation of his flying skills. He had always complained that he didn’t have the best plane. Now the Führer had given him the best plane. For a pilot, as long as he has a plane with the best performance, there is nothing left to complain about.

“Go and help the ground crew for three days! You have to sweep the floor every day and also clean the runway! This is your punishment for this mess!” the squadron commander issued the penalty, which was much lighter than expected. “Then return to the squadron and be my wingman!”

To not have his flying qualification revoked was already a great joy for Hartmann. He quickly stood at attention and saluted, replying in the loudest voice he could muster, “Yes, Captain! Long live the Führer, Akado Rudolph!”

Watching Hartmann, humming a tune as he walked onto the runway to wipe down the planes with the ground crew, the squadron commander shook his head with a wry smile and muttered to himself, “The people sent to the front by the Führer are really not easy to handle… If the punishment is too heavy, I’m afraid of the superiors’ interference. If it’s too light, the morale of the whole squadron will be ruined… It’s difficult.”

Published: 2025-09-03T02:39:28.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2025-12-16T17:13:12.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c536-137999868

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