Over Fields of Fire

by Anna Aleksandrovna Timofeeva-Egorova

  Our squadron was detached and it had its own kitchen, fuel, everything. We were fed well but you wouldn’t always be on time for dinner. Later they began to issue us bags of sandwiches. Listarevich controlled many services: engineering, the PARM (field aircraft maintenance workshop), technical and provision supplies. But the executive officer kept up with everything. He also found time to talk to us, the pilots, the navigators, to ask what we needed or to say simply, smiling, before a sortie, “Good luck!”

  Listarevich and I arrived in Kamensk-Shakhtinskiy, where the Southern Front headquarters was located, after midnight and an orderly walked us into a brightly lit room straightaway. I saw a group of generals around a large desk and stopped in confusion not knowing whom to report to.

  “Was it you who flew to search for the cavalry corps?” At last someone asked me.

  “Yes, it was me.”

  ‘Show me on the map where Parkhomenko’s and Grechko’s cavalry are.”

  I approached the desk seeing that two commanders had courteously made room for me. But unfortunately I couldn’t recall all the settlements the cavalry were in. Feeling nervous I moved my finger for a long time over the operations map, marked all over by coloured pencils, but nevertheless failed to find the necessary area.

  “Permission to show you on my map?” I asked timidly, knowing everything was plotted precisely on it, and pulled out of my flying-boot leg my old large-scale one with routes drafted along its length and breadth but still intelligible to me. Everyone laughed boomingly and amicably and I relaxed — the tension had disappeared.

  “Down here…” I pointed immediately.

  Questions showered one after another and now I was answering clearly. I didn’t have time to notice who was asking the questions but I was addressing only one General. His kind broad face with beautiful luxuriant moustache attracted me. Smiling, this man pointed with his thumb to another General, behind his back, as much as to say ‘address him, he’s the man in charge here’. But I was dragged as if by a magnet and giving my report, addressed again and again the moustachioed General with the gentle eyes.

  When I had showed and told everything they thanked me and let me go. Leaving the room I came across the head of Frontline Communications. He inquired, “How was it?”

  “I gave a full report, Comrade General.”

  “Well done…”

  Korolev hesitated a bit and using the pause I decided to find out who the man was who was smiling at me. “Comrade General, who’s the Commander? Is it the one with the moustache?”

  “No, that was General Korniets from the War Council. Why, did you like him?”

  “Yes, very much so…” I admitted.

  Listarevich and I got back from Kamensk towards morning. But I hadn’t managed to get warm properly and fall asleep when again an order came: “You, Egorova, will have to fly across the front line again to deliver a radio to the cavalry corps. You know the route, I hope you’ll handle it successfully”, Boulkin said.

  But the route had got no easier for having been reconnoitred. There was the same blizzard, the same snow, the same almost blind flying. But to be honest, it was easy to position myself on the map knowing the precise location of the troops. However, I had to go quite a bit off track as there were no cavalry at the old location — they had already taken cover somewhere. Having lost hope of a successful search I decided to land the plane and question the locals. Landing near a small unremarkable hamlet and leaving the engine on, I ran across the snowdrifts to the nearest hut. I knocked on the window with frozen-through fingers and this made a kind of especially resonant and booming sound as if someone had tapped one icicle on another. An old man in an undershirt over his pants and in valenki came out at my knock A very old man but sturdy and upright… “Grandfather, have our men passed through here?”

  The old man hastily interrupted me: “Get out as fast as you can, sonny! The Germans are here, came last night!”

  He pointed and turning around I saw Fascists by the next hut. I should have run straightaway but my legs had become as if paralysed, somehow numb and wouldn’t move at all. The old man saved me, giving me a shove in the back and I rushed towards my salvation — to my faithful ‘cropduster’. The rattle of a machine-gun burst rolled over me from behind, I turned back and saw the old man in the white shirt crashing down into the snow. And whilst I ran to the plane he kept looming up in front of me — that sturdy man who seemed to have stepped out of a fairy tale. But another machine-gun burst reminded me that this was no fairy-tale. Then I nimbly jumped into the cockpit and revved up. My U-2 shuddered and quickly slid across the snow field on its skis. It took off under a hail of bullets and not all of them missed. The mirror on the centre-section stanchion was smashed and the percale on the right wing was rattling… I was very hot but my teeth were chattering as if from cold…

  Not till the end of the day did I had manage to locate the cavalry again. I came across the now familiar colonel — the head of Intelligence — in the school building where the corps headquarters was situated.

  “Congratulations on your safe arrival”, he greeted me and walked me to Parkhomenko immediately. “Comrade General, here is the messenger from Front headquarters”, the Colonel reported and handed the package over to the Corps Commander.

  “Call him over, let him in”, the General ordered mixing Ukrainian words with Russian, without lifting his head up from the map and not noticing who had come. But then he raised his head and I saw a face lined by fatigue and sleepless nights. But the strain of field life did not seem to have affected the General’s habits. He was carefully shaved, his hair was combed. He breathed neatness and true cavalry bearing. I stood to ‘attention’ without noticing, which didn’t escape the General’s eye.

  “At ease, at ease”, he ordered jokingly. “You bear good tidings, you eagle! Did you bring the radio?”

  “Yes!”

  At this moment claps from nearby shell bursts resounded from outside the windows. To all appearances the Fascists had intensified the barrage. The General pricked up his ears: “The Devil sent you, lad!” he said. “You’ve brought trouble down on us. You’ve disclosed our location. See what the Hitlerites are up to?”

  The Corps Commander had not guessed there was not a ‘lad’ but a ‘lass’ before him. It didn’t seem the right moment to explain what was what. The shells and mortar bombs were exploding closer and closer, shaking the building. Window glass jangled somewhere just nearby and I heard shrapnel rattle on the roof. Parkhomenko remained unruffled and sat at his desk as calmly as before, his chest, decorated with battle awards, spread wide. However I was unable to stay calm. I was seriously concerned about the fate of my machine. My mission was complete and I had to rush back — it would be dark soon.

  “Comrade General, what should I tell Front HQ?” At last I dared to ask.

  “What should you tell them?” Parkhomenko rumbled. “You’re making fun, aren’t you? Don’t you see what kind of fire you’ve brought down with your ‘cropduster’? It’s too late to fly, lad. You’re staying here with us. Let your bird damn well burn! We’ll find you a horse and teach you to sabre”.

  But no, I couldn’t burn my ‘bird’. After all, I had been ordered to come back and I was supposed to obey orders. Running from the General’s office I rushed towards my plane along wicker fences and huts. It turned out to be a long way. Fire sometimes pinned me down to the ground but I kept running from one shell-hole to another, relying on an old frontline belief that a shell would never hit the same spot twice. Fortunately I reached the plane in one piece and alive, but when I tried to start the engine I found it had been damaged. What a disaster… So it had been hit by shrapnel. I had to make my way back to Headquarters along the same route. Cavalrymen were dashing back and forth, soldiers were loading carts with their humble possessions: the headquarters was preparing for evacuation. Parkhomenko met me with the words, “So, lad, you’ve decided to stay with us?”

  “No, Comrade General, I request a
ssistance!”

  “What kind of assistance?”

  “I need a horse to tow the plane away…”

  “I have no spare horses, don’t you see what position I’m in?”

  But I managed to convince the Commander: he gave me a horse. Rope was found as well. I tied it to the undercarriage axle with two knots and made kind of a collar on the horse’s neck. I had everything attached and I was just about to take the horse by the bridle and go when a rider came to give me a hand — a hefty bloke from the Kuban Cossacks. He grumbled, fixing up the traces: “What the hell do we need this plywood jalopy for? If we hang around at all Fritz will nail us.”

  “So hurry up if you don’t want to get nailed”, I hurried him.

  “Hurry up, hurry up? A horse likes it when everything’s done neatly. Each rope should be just right… It’s no good for a beast to have its withers or whatever rubbed raw. It’ll die…” At last the bloke took the horse by the bridle and yelled loudly:

  “Well, darling, off you go!”

  I took hold tightly on a wingtip so as to hold it on the bumpy road. Fortunately, a heavy snowfall began soon and then night fell — it hid us from the enemy shells. It was the first and only time in my life I ‘flew’ such an unusual horse-drawn carriage. The horse, worn out during the raid pulled without haste, paying no attention to the road. The plane groaned sadly on the bumps. Something cracked alarmingly inside with every new rut. The wings, clumsy on the ground, now bent down to the very snow, now resiliently straightened, lifting me with them. This unnatural vibration didn’t cheer me at all: it looked as if I was about to lose my wings. But, be that as it may, with the help of the horse and the gloomy rider I managed to drag the plane to a safe place. We stopped in some village and in the morning I had time to poke around the engine. I asked the lady of the hut we’d stopped in to warm up some water, drained the oil from the engine into a cast-iron pot and put it into the oven too. Then my helpers from the cavalry helped me pour the now-hot oil into the tank, splashed hot water over the carburettor and began to turn it over. To everyone’s joy the engine sneezed a couple of times and then started.

  More than once on that February day I thought kindly of my aeroclub teachers. No, it hadn’t been a waste of time to make the student pilots take apart and put together all the engine components, it hadn’t been for nothing they’d made us stay after flying, to tinker with the machine along with the mechanic. If you want to fly well — know your plane perfectly! Such had been the rule. And now a thorough knowledge of the equipment had helped me to handle the repairs.

  “Permission to head off, Comrade General?” I asked Parkhomenko.

  “Granted! Take the package and a wounded man, and don’t be angry at an old fellow like me. All sorts of things happen in war. I took you for a bloke, and you’re…” Something gentle appeared in the General’s eyes, he awkwardly waved his hand and gave a shy, boyish smile.

  15. A fellow native

  Everyone in the squadron already knew of my woes — a message had been sent by the radio operators of the cavalry corps that had set up communications. Coming back to my aerodrome I landed and taxied to the parking lot, but didn’t find Lieutenant Alexeyev’s plane. Everything was scattered around the place in some disorder.

  “What’s happened?” I asked Dronov the mechanic.

  “Lieutenant Alexeyev died…”

  “Who was he flying with?”

  “His navigator was Lieutenant Grachev. Grachev is alive but badly crippled…” My heart began to ache, tears welled up, and barely shifting my feet I walked away from the parking lot.

  “What are you doing, Egorova, dragging your feet instead of walking?” I heard the angry voice of Major Boulkin. “Where’s the package from the cavalry corps commander? Look a bit lively!”

  I pulled the package out of my map case, handed it over to the major and went off to look for the squadron commissar Ryabov and the Party organiser Irkoutskiy. “How can this be?” I thought. “Our comrade, a pilot, has died… People should be called together to commemorate him. How can this be?”

  I found neither Ryabov nor Irkoutskiy in place. They’d flown off on a mission before noon. To be frank, we were not overfond of Boulkin for his arrogance, dryness and roughness. But Alexey Vasilievich Ryabov was his exact opposite. The commissar had often flown as a lay pilot but would find time for a heart-to-heart talk, or a reprimand if one deserved it. However, if Ryabov had given a scolding no one would have resented it. The Party organiser Ivan Iosifovich Irkoutskiy was a good match for our commissar — a tactful, kind and thoughtful man. Irkoutskiy was especially good at locating encircled units. And he was an excellent navigator. In the squadron they joked that “Ivan would find the Fritzes77 if they were underground”. Once, when searching for a cavalry detachment, Irkoutskiy and airman Kasatkin came across German tanks. The latter immediately opened fire on them but Irkoutskiy quickly noticed that in one village were some men with bales of hay, wandering between the houses. The navigator suggested Kasatkin land the plane. When they landed, it became clear that in the village was exactly the detachment they were looking for. In order to disguise themselves the cavalrymen had hidden the horses in sheds, outhouses and even dwellings. Thus the crew had carried out their mission this time too.

  Irkoutskiy was regarded in the squadron as a ‘lucky one’. Once with the pilot Kasatkin he even landed straight on a minefield and everything came out ok — both survived unscathed. And once Irkoutskiy took off with the pilot Sborshikov to reconnoitre the roads near Nikolayev. En route they encountered 10 Ju-87s escorted by Me-109 fighter planes. The fighters pounced on the defenceless U-2, Sborshchikov landed the plane directly and he and Irkoutskiy ran from it in different directions. The Hitlerites made several passes on the plane, strafed the running airmen as well, but without success. The whole U-2 was holed but it hadn’t caught fire and the flyers, as the saying goes, ‘got off lightly’. When they came back home it turned out that our aerodrome had been bombed yet again — the whole airfield was sown with mines as if with tulips. How to land? There was a cross on the ground to forbid them from landing but nevertheless Sborshchikov touched down, manoeuvring between shell craters and mines during the run like a true circus artiste. The crew received a citation from Front Headquarters. But Sborshchikov was put on a charge by the squadron commander for landing when the inhibitory sign was on the ground.

  “Egorova! You and me are fellow natives — I was born near Torzhok too”, once Irkoutskiy addressed me and asked: “Have you been getting letters from your mum?”

  “Haven’t heard from her for a long time. I’m afraid the Fascists are raging around our parts. I fear for mum very much…”

  “I haven’t heard from my mum for a long while either”, bowing his head, the partorg78 said quietly, and went on: “Our comsorg79 told me the Comsomol recommended you to the Communist Party. So, I am ready to vouch for you. After all, Egorova, I joined the Party in 1939 and had been in the Comsomol since 1928. You see how old I am!”

  “What are you talking about? You’re only 31”, I pointed out. “Are you married, Ivan Iosifovich?”

  “No, Egorova, I haven’t got around to it. I haven’t had time. I had a girlfriend but she got married, giving up on me leaving the Army… Well, Egorova, Commissar Ryabov will give you the second reference — he told me about it himself”, our partorg added finally.

  The Party meetings in our squadron had always been short, with minutes written in a condensed fashion — just the resolutions, and questions were discussed mostly in relation to admission of new members and candidates to the Party. The commissar had always been present at the meetings. The Battalion Commissar80 Alexey Vasilievich Ryabov wasn’t a skilled public speaker or a theorist. He was just a good man. With all his heart, with all his deeds the commissar had always tried to inspire the squadron personnel to carry out the tasks set us. And we had the same task as the whole nation — to destroy the enemy…

  During one of the Party meetings I w
as accepted as Party candidate. It was in April 1942. At that time we were based in the settlement of Voevodovka near Lisichansk and the candidacy card was handed to me in the Southern Front headquarters. An officer from the political section presenting me with the card suddenly asked me:

  “Comrade Egorova, aren’t you a sister of Vasiliy Alexandrovich Egorov?”

  “No”, I answered glibly.

  Later I would suffer a lot from my treachery towards my brother. How could I disown so heedlessly my elder brother who had taken the place of my late father for me? The bitterness still stings my soul. How could I answer that way? Many years later when my brother had been ‘rehabilitated’ and he had come to Moscow, I told him about it. He thought a bit, then smiled and said: “You were probably afraid they wouldn’t let you fight?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh, you cowardy-custard!” And my brother gave me a big kiss, forgiving my forced disavowal of him…

  For the first time after my ‘Barvenkovo epic’ I managed to sleep my fill. A good sleep drove away the fatigue. Everything I had endured during the two most difficult flights was left somewhere behind and sunk in the depths of my memory. But at the same time it was clear to me that new ordeals were waiting for me. Sprightly, full of strength, I entered the squadron headquarters and the first thing that struck my eye was a large piece of paper fixed on the corridor wall. I was going to walk past but one of the airmen who chanced to be nearby said with a cunning smile: “Don’t turn your nose up, Egorova, read it — it concerns you.”

  “Me?” I was surprised and went to the paper… Some amateur artist had depicted on it a fairy of the air drifting through a snowstorm. Under the friendly caricature was a caption: “A woman flies but the men have a day off!”