Stuka Pilot

It is not customary for a father and mother to write an introduction to their son’s book, but we believe it would be wrong to refuse the invitation even though at the present time it may appear imprudent to write a preface to a “war book.”

It has been said with competent authority: “…that Hans-Ulrich Rudel (as from the 1st January, 1945, Wing Commander of the Luftwaffe—at the age of 28 ½) has distinguished himself far beyond the measure of all officers and men, and his operational flights at focal points and in frontal sectors have been decisive for the general situation (wherefore he has been the first and only soldier to be awarded the highest decoration the Golden Oakleaves with Swords and Diamonds to the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross)…

“…Rudel is pre-eminently equipped to write his war experiences. The stupendous events of the war are still too close for it to be possible to present a comprehensive picture of them. It is therefore all the more important that those who did their duty at their post until the bitter end should record their experiences truthfully. It is only on the basis of a balanced objectivity and first hand individual experience that the Second World War will one day appear in full perspective. With 2,530 operational flights to his credit, Rudel—and this is admitted also by fair-minded enemies—is the foremost war pilot in the world…”

Throughout the long war he was hardly ever on leave; even after he was wounded he immediately hurried back to the front. At the beginning of April 1945 he lost his right leg (below the knee) in action. He refused to wait until he was fully convalescent, but despite an open wound forced himself to go on flying with an artificial limb. It was his creed that an officer has a vocation in which he does not belong to himself, but to his fatherland and to the subordinates committed to his charge, and that he must therefore—in war even more than in peace time—show an example to his men without regard for his own person or his life. On the other hand he did not mince his words to his superiors, but spoke his mind openly and honestly. By his forthrightness he gave his successes their real foundation, for only where mutual confidence prevails can superior and subordinate achieve the highest and the best.

The old soldierly virtues of loyalty and obedience determined his whole life. “Only he is lost who gives himself up for lost” is a maxim which our son made devotedly his own. And in obedience to it he now lives in the Argentine.

We—his parents and his two sisters, and countless others besides—have often feared and prayed for him, but we could always repeat as he did—with Eduard Mörike: “May all things, both the beginning and the end, be given into His hands!”

May his book bring words of cheer to his many friends and admirers, a message of inspiration to all readers from afar.

JOHANNES RUDEL, Retired Minister of Christ.

Sausenhofen bei Gunzenhausen/Mfr. September, 1950.

For the comfort of every mother of a boy I should like to mention that our Haas-Ulrich was a delicate and nervous child (he weighed five and three quarter pounds when he was born). Until his twelfth year I had to hold his hand during a thunderstorm. His older sister used to say: “Uli will never be any good in life, he is afraid of going into the cellar by himself.” It was just this ridicule that put Uli on his mettle and he began to toughen himself in every way and to devote himself to sport. But through this he got behindhand with his school work and his bad reports, which had to be initialed by his father, were kept back until the last day of the holidays. His form master whom I once asked: “How is he getting on at school?” gave me this answer: “He is a charming boy, but a shocking scholar.” Many tales could be repeated of his boyish pranks, but I am happy that he was granted a carefree youth.

His mother: MARTHA RUDEL.

^{Hans-Ulrich Rudel}

1. FROM UMBRELLA TO DIVE BOMBER

“Only he is lost who gives himself up for lost!”

1924. My home is the rectory of the little village of Seiferdau in Silesia; I am eight. One Sunday my father and mother go into the neighboring town of Schweidnitz for an “Aviation Day.” I am furious that I am not allowed to go with them, and when they return my parents have to tell me over and over again what they have seen there. And so I hear about a man who jumped from a great height with a parachute and came safely down to earth. This delights me, and I badger my sisters for an exact description of the man and the parachute. Mother sews me a little model, I attach a stone to it and am proud when stone and parachute slowly drift to the ground. I think to myself that what a stone can do I must be able to do too, and when I am left alone for a couple of hours the following Sunday I lose no time in exploiting my new discovery.