A Dance with Death: Soviet Airwomen in World War II

by Anne Noggle

  We chose the shortest route to the front line, but when the red light began signaling that we were running out of fuel, goosebumps ran back and forth over my body. I even felt dizzy at the very thought that in a few moments we would crash. I continued flying in a desperate hope to cross back over the front line-and we did! At night the terrain is clearly perceivable, and I decided to land the plane. At any moment the engines could quit. I ordered the crew to go back to the tail of the aircraft, but nobody moved. I throttled back and began gliding down. I did not lower the landing gear, having decided to belly-land. But at this moment, the lights of a landing strip lit up. The mechanic managed to lower the gear, and we touched down. It turned out to be a front-line airdrome for small planes. When the aircraft stopped and we were to deplane, we saw that we were surrounded by military carrying guns. I ordered the mechanic to open the door and say a few phrases in both German and Russian. Then the misunderstanding was cleared up. The day before, a German bomber had landed at that airdrome, and when he found that he had landed on Russian territory, he very quickly took off again.

  In another episode I was assigned a mission to fly to the enemy rear and drop supplies to the partisans. I crossed the front line at 4,000 meters, and at the appointed place began a dive. The altimeter showed me to be lower and lower, but I could see nothing through the clouds. Finally the altitude read zero and then less than that. Judging by the meter I was to be deep in the soil, but still I held the dive. I couldn't return to base without completing my mission: I didn't want to he reproached after the flight that I hadn't fulfilled the risky mission only because I was a coward, because I was a woman. Then I glimpsed the ground, and below me was the target where we were to drop the cargo. The area was covered with dense, patchy fog. We dropped the supplies to the partisans and returned to base.

  When we arrived we learned that all the crews had turned back, not having managed to fulfill the mission. Everyone was astonished. How could I, a woman, do what other male pilots hadn't managed to accomplish? The division commander said he would promote me to be awarded the Gold Star of Hero of the Soviet Union, but I never received that award, because my crew consisted of males. If the crew had been female, it would have been awarded.

  I flew with that division almost the whole war and completed 280 combat missions, but I was never awarded a single order. Although I was promoted for awards, it was always denied. The deputy commander of the division staff told me that it was totally his fault and responsibility that I had never been given an order. He had decided that I might get a swelled head in the purely male division if I had been given a high award. Instead, he thought it quite healthy for stories about me to be published in the press. Twenty years later, when I met him at the reunion of our division, I saw that his breast was pinned with high awards. I told him that during the whole war I had made more than 28o combat flights as commander of the aircraft, while he had all the traces of distinction on his body although he hadn't made a single combat flight.

  I had a funny episode in 1945 when Kiev was liberated. I was assigned to pick up football players from Kiev and bring them to Moscow. I was sitting in the cockpit watching them approach the aircraft, swaying and hardly moving their feet. No doubt they were drunk. Their looks made me laugh until I heard dirty words-it enraged me. They didn't know that the commander of the crew was a woman. I decided to teach them a lesson. I climbed to 4,000 meters and totally disconnected the passenger compartment from the heating system. Some time later their coach entered the cockpit. I demanded an apology for their swearing; otherwise, I would freeze them to death. All together they cried out, "Olga, forgive us." When we landed and I passed by them, they stood with their heads bowed. I smiled, and thus our friendship started.

  Later, in 1945, I flew the same team to play a match with another football team. In the airport where we landed they asked me to be their guest and gave me a seat at the commentator's booth. I was hurrying to my seat when I met a friend, a press correspondent, who introduced me to a young man, Volf Plaksin by name. It was my fate; I have lived in love with my second husband for forty-five happiest years. Then, two years ago, he died.

  NOTE: Olga Lisikova, who lives in St. Petersburg, was not available for an interview, and her reminiscences were obtained by correspondence. There is no present-day photograph of her.

  I always keep in touch with my friends-it is for the last day of my life.

  Nina Slovokhotova

  586th Fighter Regiment

  Nina Raspopova

  Irina Rakobolskaya

  Mariya Smirnova

  Polina Gelman

  Serafima Amosova-Taranenko

  Klavdiya Ilushina

  Yevgeniya Zhigulenko

  Olga Yerokhina-Averjanova

  Mariya Tepikina-Popova

  Nina Yegorova-Arefjeva

  Larisa Litvinova-Rozanova

  Zoya Parfyonova

  Irina Sebrova

  Matryona Yurodjeva-Samsonova

  Nadezhda Popova

  Nina Karasyova-Buzina

  Raisa Zhitova-Yushina

  Alexandra Akimova

  Mariya Akilina

  Valentina Savitskaya-Kravchenko

  Valentin Markov

  Antonina Bondareva-Spitsina

  Yevgeniya Gurulyeva-Smirnova

  Yevgeniya Zapolnova-Ageyeva

  Antonina Dubkova

  Mariya Dolina

  Anna Kirilina

  Antonina Pugachova-Makarova

  Antonina Lepilina

  Yelena Kulkova-Malutina

  Nataliya Alfyorova

  Galina Brok-Beltsova

  Marta Meriuts

  Galina Chapligina-Nikitina

  Yekaterina Chujkova

  Ludmila Popova

  Yekaterina Musatova-Fedotova

  Mariya Kaloshina

  Galina Tenuyeva-Lomanova

  Nataliya Smirnova

  Tamara Pamyatnykh

  Yekaterina Polunina

  Alexandra Makunina

  Mariya Kuznetsova

  Nina Yermakova

  Valentina Kovalyova-Sergeicheva

  Valentina Petrochenkova-Neminushaya

  Nina Slovokhotova

  Anna Shibayeva

  Klavdiya Pankratova

  Zinaida Butkaryova-Yermolayeva

  Raisa Surnachevskaya

  Galina Drobovich

  Klavdiya Terekhova-Kasatkina

  Inna Pasportnikova

  Valentina Kislitsa

  Valentina Volkova-Tikhonova

  Nina Shebalina

  Galina Burdina

  Irina Lunyova-Favorskaya

  Tamara Voronova

  Marina Muzhikova

  Yelena Karakorskaya

  Kareliya Zarinya

  Zoya Pozhidayeva

  Zoya Malkova

  Anna Timofeyeva-Yegorova

  Anna Popova

  Each year since the end of World War ii, the three women's airforce regiments meet in a small park in front of the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow on May 2. In 199o I was invited to be the guest of the 125th Guards Bomber Regiment at their luncheon after the annual meeting.

  The 46th Guards Bomber Regiment proceeded to the steps of the Bolshoi for their group picture. They then read aloud letters from fellow members unable to attend, while graciously accepting flowers, interviews, and attention from admirers old and young. They were very much the center of attention.

  The 586th Fighter Regiment formed a tight group farther into the park and began serenading me, singing wonderful minor-key war and love songs and rousing melodies of their aircraft and victory.

  The 125th regiment had gathered on the far side of the park and were quieter, holding flowers, smiling, and embracing one another. My friend Margarita Ponomaryova was with me. We had worked together in harmony for so long that conversation flowed easily as she murmured to me and spoke my thoughts to them. At that point we began walking out of the park toward the Moskva Hotel, where the regiment had reservations for our luncheon.
When we arrived at the hotel our banquet table was not ready. The regiment waited in a reception area, where they spontaneously began to sing their songs from the war.

  They had gathered as a remembrance, a celebration. They are sisters, they will tell you-closer to one another than to their own relatives. Ultimately their memento mori is one of survival, haunted by the ghosts of those not so fortunate. As they perished, so came others to fill the vacancies, and so the regiments endured. So if you are they, you sing and you remember, and the memories that lie beneath the surface most of the time are living, throbbing realities this day.

  We are seated at the banquet table, and the festivities begin. One of the ladies rises from her chair, lifts her glass, and proposes a toast. We all rise, and our glasses touch with a musical note. A husband, who had also been a pilot, marvels at their absolute mastery of the bomber aircraft, so heavy and unforgiving. The political commissar speaks at length about the deeds of the regiment. A pilot toasts the skill and dedication of the mechanics-they are comrades. Later we stand for a moment's silence honoring those who are gone.

  Then their attention is turned toward me, the American, who represents the Women Airforce Service Pilots, who also flew during the war. The focus is on me, who represents America in World War u -America, with whom we all desire peace forevermore. I, too, am fervent. I respond with affection and admiration; I toast them. I am presented with a regimental postwar medal worn by all the members of the 12Sth regiment, and I am made an honorary member of the regiment.

  Everyone talks and eats, and there are more toasts. Yevgeniya Gurulyeva-Smirnova stands and sings a haunting melody in a clear, melodious voice, then seats herself. Everyone sings together. I burn along, feeling this nostalgia, feeling the vodka; and all around me, their past that I never knew but nevertheless am touched by. I propose another toast, with greetings from the Women Airforce Service Pilots in America. I am filled with the dignity of the occasion, with the mantle bestowed on me to represent my country. My small glass is filled to overflowing. We all drink the toasts in a gulp. It is the way it is done. Later, we file out of the dining room. Aleksandr Panchenko, our other translator, loses his way, and we are diverted through the hotel kitchen.

  I am on the street in Red Square. I breathe deeply. My next remembered breath is late at night, and I am in my hotel room, on my bed, with the medal still pinned to my chest, the lost hours never recalled, I am assured by my friend Jim that I conducted myself properly, rode the metro, went to my room, and disappeared for the night. My dear, dear country, I did not disgrace you after all!