Red Star Airacobra

by Evgeniy Mariinskiy

  It was my first combat sortie. We younger pilots had been so looking forward to it! But it didn’t impress us. It even disappointed us. Eight fighters crossed the Dniepr in one formation. Then the group for some reason split into pairs. I alone stayed with Korolev, having lost sight of the rest. Ground attack planes were operating below us. Sometimes fighter planes were dashing past, but those were Soviet aircraft of different types. The Fascists were not coming into view. It was confirmed by the silence of the ground control. The Fighter Air Corps commander, General Utin, was on the ground but his call letter, ‘Gusev’, was not heard in the air, despite the establishment of a stable two-way connection with him.

  Time and again white and black puffs were appearing not far from the plane. I guessed that they were the bursts of German flak shells, but paid no attention for those woolly lumps looked quite harmless. That was it. It seemed to me that we had just started our patrol, but they had already called us through the two-way to land. Is that all there is to a combat sortie? I thought disappointedly. This way we’ll get through the whole war and not see any enemy. Although it was clear that the end of the war was, oh, so far away. Every day I read about ferocious fighting in the papers. But my youth made itself felt. I wanted to fight then and there, to encounter the Fascists now, and fight and fight…

  This had been a useless sortie. The petrol had been burnt to no purpose. I couldn’t understand all the subtleties of war back then. The fighters, by their very presence, had given the ground troops confidence that the enemy wouldn’t strike them from the air. And in reality we had protected them from such a strike. Had there been none of our fighter planes in the air, the enemy planes would have come over straight away. But I didn’t know that. For some reason I was being confident that there was no German aviation at this sector of the front. All sorties made that day were in vain. But I had to change my opinion after the landing. The second and the third squadrons had been in fierce air combat. Some planes had come back with shell-holes. Nikifirov, Bukchin and Koziy had not come back at all…

  One of the fighter planes of a neighbouring squadron looked pathetic. It was stitched through, from nose to tail, by a German gun-burst, and light shone through it in places. The flyer himself had already gone around the plane several times inspecting the shell holes. He was visibly still going through the upheavals of that dogfight. I was surprised by the durability of the Airacobra since, despite all that damage, the plane had not caught fire, and had not crashed. The pilot had managed to fly it back to the airstrip, land it and taxi to the parking bay.

  Chugunov was hanging around. He was asking mechanics, busy with repairs, about something, standing in their way all the time, hindering their work. The mechanics were looking at him with displeasure, mumbling something, most likely not very complimentary, but wouldn’t express their dissatisfaction openly. After all he was an officer, a flyer. Chugunov came up to the bonfire with his usual impetuous, slightly bobbing walk and straight away began, with arms waving, to tell about the dogfights had by the other squadrons. He managed to visit all the parking bays and question all the flyers. Now he was bursting with all the news he had gathered. “Koshel’kov hit hard! And Bekashonok turned around and gave ‘em a good chop!”

  I was hardly listening to him at all. What is he cheerful about? Three guys haven’t come back, some have returned with shell holes! “Why are you so…” I didn’t get as far as so “what”. And I had whispered it nearly to myself. But others had heard me. Obviously, everybody was thinking along the same lines. Anyway, Chugunov understood and leapt up trying to hide his fright. “You’re scared? Look, Koshel’kov wasn’t!”

  “Shut up, you chatter-box!” Korolev pulled Chugunov up and turned to me. “Don’t be in the dumps. Moscow wasn’t built in a day. You thought we would be shooting the Germans down in droves, but that we’d all be getting back in one piece, didn’t you?”…“I know I can’t expect that”…“And never can. You have just joined the Regiment. No experience. Never been in combat. You haven’t even seen live ‘skinnies’ or Fockers.”

  Victor rolled himself a cigarette, lit it up and continued. “Our co-ordination is poor. A wingman must know, without commands via two-way, what his leader wants to do. But what have we got? You got your machines in the North, in Ivanovo, and we, front line ones in the South. We got together only before the flight to the front in Voronezh. We’d never flown together before. Four flights! It’s a joke! You lose touch straight away. But a leader and his wingman have to be together, on the ground and in the air. Doesn’t matter, you’ll get used to it, have your own fights and then you’ll begin to shoot them down. And keep your chin up now. Have you heard that Bekashonok and Koshelkov have shot down five?”

  “Yes, I have. One Messer and one Junkers each, and one Junkers shared.” “That’s it. We all shot down six during these sorties and lost only three. And they have some planes damaged too, for sure.” All Victor said was understandable. The win to loss ratio was not that bad. But it was one thing to understand it with your head, and another, with your heart. The shot down Fascists fell down somewhere over there, around the frontline. But there were three empty parking bays. The technicians and mechanics sitting gloomily near those lots, were down here, nearby.

  Meanwhile, Korolev kept talking. “For the time being you watch out better. If you see a German he won’t shoot you down. It’s always feasible to avoid fire. But you’re used to watching your leader and are not interested in what happens in the air!” “I was looking around…” Actually, I was watching badly. And I was to become convinced of it very soon.

  The second cover sortie was no different at all from the first one. Except, the clouds were gone and it was quite sunny. The group split up into pairs beyond the Dniepr as well. “Why are we splitting up? It’s better to stay together”, I thought. But I didn’t see either Germans or ours during the patrol. Only after the command to fly back to the aerodrome, I suddenly saw one more plane, between me and the leader, It was painted in some kind of dirty yellow-green colour. A black cross, framed with white strips, was distinctly seen on its fuselage. “Messer! Where did it come from?”

  The Me-109 was very close, about twenty, twenty-five metres. I forgot about everything, two-way, gun-sight… I failed to aim. The gun-sight was turned off. The regimental engineer on special equipment had taught us this method to save on American gun-sight bulbs, in scarce supply. He had recommended turning the gun-sight on only in combat. But the German was quite close and it was impossible to miss! I pressed the trigger and immediately released it. A red ball of my cannon’s shell instantly covered this short distance and pierced the Messer’s engine. There was no burst and it meant that it had been an armour-piercing one. One large calibre bullet passed in front of the enemy’s cockpit and another pierced it through. “Oh, it needed a bit more!” But it was too late. The Fascist sharply threw his fighter-plane downwards, under my Cobra. And straight away something blazed up on the floor, burned my right foot and crackling resounded…

  “Another Messer on my tail”, I guessed. It was my turn to avoid the Fascist’s fire. I didn’t know how to do that. Korolev and Arkhipenko had told me, but it wasn’t clear enough from someone’s words. By instinct I repeated the Messerschmitt’s manoeuvre. There were no more hits on my Airacobra. Having looked around, I saw nobody. However hard I watched the air I couldn’t see a German. Only now I transmitted to Korolev, “The ‘skinnies’ are around!” but it was too late. “I’m shot up, have to ditch!” I heard his reply. “He’s alive?” My spirits rose a bit and I flew back to the aerodrome.

  I hadn’t even turned off the engine on the parking when the squadron flyers gathered around my plane. Everybody was interested in details. “Did you have a dogfight?” Chugunov asked. I had no time to answer. Valentin Karlov, a stocky brown-haired fellow of medium height with somewhat Mongolian features, moved Chugunov aside. He used to be Korolev’s wingman during the Battle of Kursk and now of course he wanted to know where he was. “What’s
happened to Victor?” he asked. I calmed him down, told him in detail what had happened, and that Victor had safely landed on our territory, and showed him the landing place.

  “What kind of a fighter are you? You let it slip! The leader was nearly shot down and you came back with a hole. You couldn’t cope with a couple of ‘skinnies’!” Chugunov was outraged. “I would have taught Schmitt a lesson!” “Enough! You’re all the same!” Karlov interrupted him, meaning all young pilots who had arrived as reinforcement. “If you see a ‘skinnie’ you tremble all over.”

  In about an hour Korolev showed up near the bonfire. “Hey, Victor! Are you alright?” We gathered around him. “I’m in one piece. The engine got a bit of a hit…” “We’ve heard here that your wingman let it happen.” I thought Korolev would be cursing me, but he took all the blame upon himself.

  “What, rely on Zhen’ka? He’s just started flying. It was his first combat sortie and he had only flown a hundred hours before, on all kinds of planes, and out of that, probably seventy-five with an instructor.” It’s a good thing he knocked out the Schmitt, or they could have shot us both down at once.” Victor sat down closer to the fire but then stood up straight away. “We have to teach each other, how we learned ourselves, how we fought. Let’s go, Zhen’ka, let’s go over what happened.”

  “Well, tell me how it all happened.” Korolev spoke up again when we had gone a few steps away. “Hell knows! When we were turning back for home it was as if something flashed against the sun. After that I kept watching out but saw nothing. So I never transmitted anything.” “You should have…” “I thought it had just seemed to me…” “Had you said that, we wouldn’t have exposed our tails to the sun. Seemed or not seemed, you have to transmit, we’ll watch out together. What else?”

  “I saw a ‘skinnie’ between us, very close like up to this one, I pointed to a fighter plane standing about twenty metres off. I shot a short burst at it.” Korolev stopped and even spat from indignation. “You what? That didn’t even count as a gun test! Why, you have to use your brains!” Victor swore luridly. “We were taught to shoot with short bursts to save on ammunition in the flying school, in the reserve regiment.” I answered resentfully.

  I thought Victor knew that he had sworn at me for nothing. How was it my fault? He himself as well as other flyers had been taught to spare ammunition. All had to learn it anew at the front. They were lucky. For almost a month before the Battle of Kursk they had been intercepting reconnaissance planes, fighting against lone enemy planes in the rear. Once they beat off a raid of Junkers on their aerodrome. They had understood over that period of time that many dogmas drilled into to them in flying schools, and reserve regiments, were of no use at the front. And our reinforcement went to fight with no re-training.

  “To save? What use is this ammunition in the next world? You saved it and that very Messer could have shot you down after all. You could have let a long burst out even with no gun-sight, just by watching the shot trace. The distance was…” He measured it out with his thumbnail on his forefinger. “You must shoot until you see a Fascist burning and falling!” Victor began to advise how and with what kind of bursts one was supposed to shoot at the Fascists, to explain how to co-ordinate activities in a pair, how to watch the air. “You have to look for planes, not nearby, not under your tail, but far away. If you see it far away you won’t get scared. You’ll have time to warn me and to check all around as well. You saw something flash against the sun but never checked your gun-sight, and never told me about it! You can’t do things like that.”

  For quite a while we kept talking about aerial fighting, about the habits of Fascist fighters, about the way we had to keep formation over the frontline. Here I remembered what I disliked about yesterday’s sorties. Whilst we were discussing the details of that sortie, a truck with Victor’s Airacobra rolled up to the parking area. The regimental engineer, who had come up to us from the truck, told that they’d have to replace the propeller bent during landing, and fix a new engine cowling on the plane’s nose. “Tomorrow the plane will be ready to fly, count on it,” the engineer finished.

  Meanwhile, the soldiers and sergeants, the junior specialists, took the Cobra off the truck, set up special tripods with piano-stool type jacks that allowed planes to be lifted to a certain height, drew out the undercarriage, put the plane on it and began to take off the bent propeller. They worked fast, and in ten minutes the propeller was already on the ground, and people on a step-ladder were working near the reducing gear preparing to fit a new propeller on its shaft.

  “Listen, Victor, why do we split into pairs? If we remain in one group the Fritz won’t be able to come about imperceptibly. Someone will notice them.” Victor understood that I was talking about the ‘hunters’, Fascist fighters who would attack only solitary planes and small groups. As a rule, the ‘hunters’ wouldn’t engage in an intense dogfight. They would strike suddenly from behind the clouds or out of the sun and leave straight away. They would repeat attacks only on shot-up planes.

  “It won’t be easy for the ‘hunters’ to attack us,” he replied. “When split into pairs we will fill more space and see more.” It was hard to argue with that. It seemed right but I still had doubts. “So, one pair has noticed the Germans. Will the rest have to look for them?”

  “It’s simple! They will transmit their location.”

  “But time will be running out. It’s better to attack with the whole lot.”

  “If there is a target for attack.”

  “What’s ground control for? They see large groups from the ground very well. They’ll be able to forewarn us of the arrival of large formations of bombers. But they probably won’t pay attention to single pairs of fighters. How do you distinguish if it’s German or ours up there? We fly at high altitudes.”

  “Generally that’s right… I have to think it over…”

  Victor quickly realised all the benefits of my suggestion. To safeguard ourselves from the hunters’ attack was not the main issue, although it was somewhat worthwhile. The main point was that we would be in a position to fall upon bombers as a whole group, and not as separate pairs. It was directly beneficial, impacting on bomber crews’ morale and diffusing their fire as well. And, in the end, it would be easier to tie up the escort fighters.

  “Hey, you’re not bad, you understand these things. Alright!” Victor clapped me on the back. “I’ll talk to Arkhipenko and Gulayev. Yes, you need to talk to Gulayev as well.” Gulayev, the deputy commander of a neighbouring squadron, was the most experienced flyer of the Regiment. During the Battle of Kursk alone, he shot down sixteen German planes. Recently he had been given the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. Of course his opinion couldn’t be ignored.

  I calmed down a bit, after the talk with Victor. It seemed that all the troubles of yesterday were left behind and wouldn’t happen again. But nothing changed in the following days. We kept splitting into pairs over the frontline as before. Karlov’s pair came across the ‘hunters’ and Valentin shot down one Me-109. Other groups fought again. Gulayev, Bourgonov and Remez fought three against thirty-six enemy planes and shot down three of them, having stopped the rest from bombing our troops. The dogfight occurred before the Corps Commander’s eyes and General Utin tendered his gratitude to them all. But Galushkov, Bourgonov, Zadiraka and Gurov didn’t make it home. And Zadiraka and Bourgonov were battle seasoned frontline fighters.

  2

  The human shield

  Late autumn had come. The ground troops had deepened and expanded the bridgehead. Now it stretched south, like a big tongue, nearly down to Krivoy Rog.

  What was happening in the Regiment? Between sorties the flyers would gather together around the bonfire, analyse their fighting experiences, practise aiming at flying planes, talk how better to set up their flying formations, and discuss other squadrons’ dogfights. And there was a fair bit to discuss.

  To tell the truth, most of the talk was over abstract matters. Nobody wanted to remember los
ses. The parking areas had become deserted after five days of fighting. Fifteen fighter planes had not made it home from sorties. Koshelkov, who had distinguished himself so well during the first flight, hadn’t returned on the third day. The same had happened to Remez. The older pilots had not been coming back either. Karlov even told a sad regimental story about one of them, Zhora Ivanov.

  “He shouldn’t have been flying at all in new jackboots.” Valentin said. “He received jackboots two sizes two big outside Belgorod. They were all there was. Straight away, there was a sortie and a dogfight.” Then Gulayev told us about the fight. “I see someone parachuting down, down. You could see it was one of ours by the look of the parachute. Who was it? I flew closer and I see a tall guy, one foot bare, and a new jackboot on the other. I got it! It was Ivanov! And this time, he had put his boots on just before the sortie”, Karlov concluded

  Frontline pilots had their special rules. Nobody would shave in the morning. They would shave in the evening at the aerodrome after the latest sortie. They wouldn’t get photographed before a combat flight. Both things could be explained somehow. There was no time to shave in the mornings and it had become a custom. Getting photographed? Photographers had not been annoying the pilots yet. And, generally speaking, people’s minds were not preoccupied with photos before a dogfight. New boots? This was related only to Ivanov.

  One might think that someone from our squadron didn’t have much luck coming across German bombers. It was me, if anyone. Korolev had a sortie without me, and Arkhipenko shot a Junkers down. The rest of them were fighting Junkers and Heinkels every day, but we had not come across even one.

  The third squadron had flown off and the second one also began to prepare to take off. I was surprised at the small number of people on its parking bay. When a squadron is getting ready to take off, all its personnel gather together, flyers, technicians and junior aviation specialists, armourers, instrument tenders, experts in special equipment, motorists, etc. It might be quite a large body of people, but this time not even half the personnel were seen. Soon engines began to roar and only four planes taxied out for a start. There were no more airworthy planes in the squadron. And these four fighters were supposed to carry out a mission that should have been assigned to a fully manned squadron.