Having made several passes on the column the Fascists pounced on my plane. A forest and a river winding between the trees saved me then. Nearly touching water with my undercarriage I followed all its curves and meanders. The manoeuvre was successful — the Germans fell back.
I returned to the aerodrome, landed and taxied to the parking lot. Dronov the mechanic greeted my return rapturously as always. And he had to patch up holes and fix up the plane and its engine after almost every one of my sorties! Nevertheless he had always managed to make my machine flight-ready for the next sortie.
There were many Moscovites in our squadron but that was no wonder: after all, it had been formed in Lyubertsy74. Every morning our radio-operators were asked:
“Guys, what’s happening in the capital?”
Moscow was doing it hard: her most terrible days had arrived. The enemy stood at her gates, air-raid warnings were announced nearly every night. But the Moscovites faced the oncoming threat with fortitude. People of the most peaceful occupations: cooks and scientists, clerks and steel-makers, artists, engineers and confectioners were joining opolchenie75 divisions. Moscow itself was turning into a fortress…
After capturing Mariupol and Taganrog the Fascists began to advance on our Southern Front. We flew to the Army Headquarters and to divisions several times a day. The Hitlerites aimed to penetrate into the Shakhty district and from there to Novocherkassk and Rostov. And indeed they managed to press our troops up against Novocherkassk but then the troops of Kharitonov’s army, fighting to the bitter end, didn’t allow the enemy to move forward even a metre. Abandoning the idea of capturing Rostov from the North and North-East, where our 9th Army had stopped them, the Hitlerites decided to deliver a frontal blow on Rostov. On 21 November the Fascists took Rostov. The very same day we relocated to the Lotikov Shaft airstrip near Voroshilovsk…
In the middle of the night a messenger woke the pilot Grishchenko and navigator Irkoutskiy. They were ordered by squadron headquarters to fly to the 37th Army with a top-secret package. We decided straightaway that it was obvious some operation by frontline and army troops was being planned. The nights are dark in autumn, especially in the South — and our planes were completely unadapted for night flights. In spite of this Grishchenko and Irkoutskiy flew the route safely and recognised the village where the headquarters of General Lopatin’s 37th Army was located. They made several circles around the station but there was no sign of a landing strip — not even a lit torch. But no matter how long you are going to make circles there were orders to deliver the package at any cost and so Grishchenko slowed down, turned the ignition off and began to glide. They flew over a hut, then above something just as dark and at last the plane touched down and began taxiing. But the flyers were still sighing with relief when the plane at first abruptly rolled down, then suddenly up and at the same moment smashed into something. Grishchenko came back to his senses first and asked Irkoutskiy “Ivan, are you alright?”
“I am, but my hand hurts for some reason.”
“And my foot’s trapped, I can’t pull it out…”
At last they made it out of the broken plane and went to look for the Army headquarters. It was still dark and quiet in the village — not even a single dog began to bark. However, they found the headquarters, handed in the package and told of their landing. The flyers were walked to a hut where wounded men lay on the floor on straw. Grishchenko’s leg was badly grazed and Irkoutskiy had broken fingers. They remembered there was a dying young female medic amongst the wounded, injured on her buttocks… In the morning the army communications commander Colonel Boborykin ordered the smashed plane burnt. The guys were not censured for that flight but were not commended either.
Our troops began to advance and now Rostov was liberated from the occupiers. An enemy attempt to consolidate his grip on positions prepared beforehand was frustrated and the Red Army troops kept pressing the enemy westward. Boulkin’s squadron relocated to the Filippenko hamlet and the Front headquarters to the town of Kamensk on the Northern Donets river. I was very happy about that: all these months I’d been thinking with fear that my family might fall under occupation. My mum had written me that the Fascists were very close to our Kouvshinovskiy District. The Red Army liberated the city of Kalinin on 16 December. Torzhok hadn’t been held by the Germans but they had destroyed it completely. “So many churches, ancient cathedrals — they razed it all to the ground, those antichrists”, my mum wrote. She further advised that Konev’s headquarters76 had been located not far from our village and his officers were billeted at her place.
“They are so lovely and kind. I heat up the samovar for them, make tea from various herbs and they procure some sugar — we sit and drink tea with them, they tell me all sorts of news from all fronts. I used to question them about you, showed them your letter from the front. They said: “Your daughter is alright, Stepanida Vasilievna, there’s a lull at that sector of the front now”. They might be telling me untruths but it was so convincing and polite. You, my girl, don’t worry about me, I’m fine, it’s only you — my kids and grandchildren, my heart aches for. Nothing’s been heard from Egoroushka for a long time, since the very beginning of the war, since he wrote me that he was going to hit the enemy, that was all. Kostya is somewhere at the Southern Front. Kolyushka’s been badly wounded and he’s in hospital now, Zina is in Leningrad, blockaded, working as a foreman at the ‘Krasnyy Gvozdil’shik’ plant. A death notice came about Vanyusha. Maria is in such a state from grief that she looks like death warmed up. I know nothing about Alexey — there’s been nothing from him since he wrote me from Drogobych about his daughter Lilya’s birth shortly before the war. Vasya keeps applying from Norilsk for permission go to the front but no one’s answering. How are you, my girl? Take care of yourself, dress yourself warmly. I’ve knitted mittens for you with two fingers so you can shoot easier…”
In this letter my Mum prayed God to keep us, her children alive and to let the Red Army muster more strength and cleanse the Russian land of the evildoers…
The letters coming to the front were mostly encouraging. They wrote us from the home front that everything was going well with them, that they were provided with everything, that they were doing their best for victory over the bitterest enemy of humankind — Fascism. The most important message in the letters from the front was — one is alive, fit and giving the enemy hell. It was a sacred and just lie…
I received letters from Victor on the North-Western Front. Victor wrote that he was flying ‘small ones’ (that was what we called fighter planes during the war), that he had shot down nine German planes, that he had been awarded the Order of the Red Banner and two Orders of the Red Star. “When shall we meet again, Anya?” Victor asked, and answered himself, “After the Victory…”
I remembered for the rest of my life how a young radio operator burst into the squadron headquarters and shouted from the door, “Guys! The Germans around Moscow have been smashed!”
We, the pilots, began spinning in some fantastic dance. Revelry broke out in all the units. Everyone was laughing, singing, hugging each other — and tears were gleaming in people’s eyes… At last the Germans had stumbled! The victory near Moscow had not only military but also huge moral significance: all our spirits rose.
14. The Greenhorn
The winter campaign of 1942 was successful. The enemy was still very strong but the imperishable value of the first successes was that that they inspired us, instilling in us the spirit of belief in Victory. Those days this spirit was typical of all the troops on our Southern Front. Together with the troops of the South-Western Front they broke through the enemy defences at the Balakleya sector and formed the Barvenkovskiy Salient. Every frontline soldier was sweating on the success of the dashing raid by the two cavalry corps of Parkhomenko and Grechko on the Germans’ rear. In the winter cold, on the ice-crusted ground they spread panic in the Hitlerites’ camp with their sudden strikes. One encouraging dispatch after another was coming to Front
headquarters via radio but suddenly the air waves fell silent. The commander needed to know exactly in which direction the corps could have moved after their last message had arrived. The commanders understood that the cavalry, exhausted in fierce combat and sleepless nights, needed rest. They had to be brought back, but how could it be done if the air waves were silent? “Let’s send a U-2”, The Southern Front Communications Commander General Korolev suggested.
A whirlwind was raging behind the misted windows but we — the Signals Squadron pilots — were up to the task… On one of those days of February when a blizzard had swept banks of snow all over the streets of the Filippenko hamlet I was called up to the squadron headquarters. They told me about the situation on our sector of the Front and ordered me to fly to the Barvenkovo Region where I would have to find Parkhomenko and Grechko’s cavalry corps and hand them over a package marked ‘Top Secret’. The Southern Front Communications Chief was to fly with me as far as Barvenkovo, but from there I would have to operate independently.
An angry wind was battering the machine. The engine was shivering as if in a fever and sometimes the wail of the wind drowned it out. All this was not a problem but how to break through the solid curtain of snow? It was endless, it had swallowed my small plane and held me tightly in its hands. Snow was clogging my goggles and was hitting me in the face. There was practically no visibility: I had only my intuition and experience to rely on. But there are moments when even they are powerless — and that was exactly what I felt on that day. But at last we were here in Barvenkovo. I delivered the General not far away from the railway station and was about to fly on. Climbing out of the cockpit the General leaned towards me, looked at me with his sad eyes and kissed the helmet on my head…
The snow was becoming thicker and thicker, the blizzard was getting stronger. In the cockpit I felt as if I were on a trapeze. All this taken together made it completely impossible to orient myself during the flight. What should I do? Return? But I had no right to take such a decision: I’d been ordered to keep flying and find the cavalry at any cost. Finding them would mean saving many thousands of lives… And I, finding any sign of a dwelling, would land my U-2 to learn who was there — friend or foe. Each time I had to land in extremely poor weather conditions. Airmen know what that’s like. I landed three times and three times I took off despite the winds and snowfall. I flew very low examining every gully, every ravine. I noticed tanks on one farmstead but I had not got a good look at them when they opened fire on me. But it turned out alright — the snowstorm saved me…
No one knows how my flight would have ended up had I not noticed horses in a gully. “Those are ours!” I closed in for landing and as soon as I touched down two soldiers in cavalry uniform ran up to me. So I was right! “Which corps?” — I asked them.
“General Parkhomenko’s 1st.”
“I’m from the Front headquarters. Which of the commanders is here?”
“The Head of Intelligence.”
An officer in a camouflage jacket was already walking towards me. He introduced himself as Head of Intelligence of General Parkhomenko’s 1st Cavalry Corps, and immediately told me the current situation, and I plotted the position of the 1st and 5th Corps on my flight map with barely visible pencil marks.
“Well done, pilot! See, you found us on a day like this. Give me the package, I’ll hand it over to the corps commander.”
“No, I have to do it myself”.
“Why ‘have to’?” The intelligence officer took a short pause and then laughed loudly and resoundingly. — I took you for an aviator but you’re an aviatrix! D’you want me to take you there?”
“No, I’ll find my own way.”
“Well, be careful”, he warned. “You’ll have to crawl for about a hundred metres up to that shed. The roundabout way through the ravine is too long and not safe: you can run into Germans…”
At last the package was handed over to a dog-tired General. He looked at the order and swore foully, not suspecting that standing before him in a flying suit and flying boots was a woman. A shell burst nearby. The explosion raised pillars of snow-dust, shaking the ground. Over our heads shrapnel whistled past, but the General continued to stand deep in thought. Then, turning to me, the General said decisively: “Here’s what to do. Shoot over to Grehcko in the 5th Corps, deliver my message to him and then fly to Front headquarters — bring us a radio set. We’ll do a bit more fighting here…”
“I won’t be able to do it before dawn, Comrade General — the plane is not equipped to fly at night.”
Another burst of cursing directed at the quartermasters who were lagging behind the Corps: the men and horses had nothing to eat. And on top of that the radio wasn’t working, he had sent a cart yesterday to Barvenkovo but it had disappeared. Continuing to curse, the General waved his hand in despair and suddenly asked “Have you caught cold or something? Your voice is kind of weak.”
“No…” I replied, took the envelope from his hands and asked: “What should I say at Front HQ?”
“What should you say?” The General said, still gritting his teeth. “Are you kidding, you greenhorn? Look what fire you’ve drawn down on us with your cropduster! You’re staying here with us…”
“But you’ve ordered me to deliver the package to the 5th Corps. I request permission to carry out the order.”
“Off you go then…”
It wasn’t too difficult to find General Grechko’s 5th Corps for I knew its location already from the Intelligence Commander of the 1st Corps. I landed my plane almost in the middle of the hamlet, handed the package in and took off straightaway. I remember that General Grechko was very polite. He told me, “Take off your flying suit, you’re wet all over. I’ll feed you and give you tea.”
I said: “I have to head back.”
“No, don’t put on the wet flying suit!”
I was returning to my aerodrome by night: I made circles knowing I had definitely reached it but was afraid to land, lest I crash my plane. It was pitch-dark on the ground. I wished someone would think to light a match at least or have a cigarette! At last I noticed a light and descended for landing. I touched down safely and at that moment my mechanic came up and helped me find the parking lot. Dronov was waiting for me as usual, not leaving the aerodrome. It had been him who, on barely hearing the murmur of my engine, had rushed to the airfield with a blowtorch. It was its light I’d noticed from the air…
Chilled to the bone, dead tired, I entered the command post like a ghost, to report to the squadron commander that the mission had been completed. He listened to me in silence, silently went to the telephone and ordered he be connected to Front HQ. “Permission to go sleep?”
“Granted!” Boulkin casually waved his hand. I was offended. Passing by the canteen I walked towards the house I was billeted in. Despite the late hour my hostess wasn’t asleep. Seeing me in such a state she began to bustle about, wailing “How did you manage to get so fagged out, darling? Have a drink, here’s some warm milk…” She helped me to pull off my wet boots and the flying suit, gave me warm valenki. “May be you’d like to get up on the oven? It’s lit…”
“The oven”, I agreed weakly.
My hostess was the exact copy of my mum. All mothers seem to have something or other in common. Each time I came back to spend the night in her hut she would sit me at the table and start treating me to Ukrainian borsch and the most tasty pickled tomatoes. She used to put all this on the table, sit on the other side and begin to tell me yet again about her three little boys who were fighting somewhere in the North. She would recall how difficult it had been to raise them after her husband’s death, regret that the sons hadn’t managed to get married and present her with grandchildren — the war had started. At the mention of this the hostess would sigh bitterly, wiping with the ends of her apron the tears running down her cheeks and keep plying me with food: “Eat, eat, my girl. Maybe someone’s mum will feel sorry for my little boys and feed them. Maybe even yours!”
> After the hot milk I had drunk I got warm on the oven and dozed off. Around midnight someone knocked on the door. Grumbling, the hostess flipped aside the door hook and let in a man in a short army fur coat.
“Where is Egorova?” He asked.
I recognised Listarevich’s voice and responded: “Here I am, Comrade Senior Lieutenant, on the oven.”
“Hard as it may be you’ll have to leave the warmth. You’re called to Front Headquarters. I’m off for a vehicle…”
“I won’t let her go”, my benefactor wailed. “Have you ever heard of a girl tormented so! She’s not had time to dry out, to get warm and you’re getting her up again. Is there no bloke to get up at night? It’s always her…”
I jumped down from the oven, quickly dressed, took my revolver and stuck a map in the leg of my flying boot as the vehicle came up. Senior Lieutenant Listarevich — executive officer of the squadron — deftly opened the door of the pick-up and said apologetically: “Sorry that we haven’t let you have a rest, Annoushka. You’re urgently called to the Front headquarters to report on the cavalry corps you found today.”
Listarevich was a very cheerful and joyful man by nature, liked to joke and laugh but over the last few days he had changed, as if into a different man. The Fascists had been committing atrocities in his native Byelorussia, in the Gomel Province: and his ancestral home was there — his old mother, a teacher and father, a postal worker. We could see Konstantin was worried but he wouldn’t show it and seemed to have become even more energetic and was working with tenfold zeal.
Our squadron, although designated ‘Communications’ nevertheless carried out intelligence duties over the front, searches for units and groupings that Front HQ had no information about. The Chief of HQ often had to stand in for the Squadron Commander. He would have loved to fly missions himself — flying was more to his heart than HQ work — after all he was a former fighter pilot, having flown an I-16. But he couldn’t: it was out of the question…
Over Fields of Fire Page 9