Red Star Airacobra
Page 8
Only later I found out what Victor was doing. Victor could see fascist bullets and shells whizzing around his plane. Then the shooting suddenly stopped. He thought that he’d probably left the zone of ground fire and began to turn around watching me at the same time. I was pulling out of the attack, in a sea of fire, and began to turn. “What are you doing? Don’t give them your whole flank!” he yelled, but there was no reply from his wingman. “One more approach!”
Korolev was not transmitting anything for some reason. Again I stuck to his plane in a turn. Victor was working out a manoeuvre for a second attack. “Aha, we’re going to strike again…” And again the Germans shot at Victor’s plane until I opened fire… Shooting stopped again surprisingly quickly. When Korolev glanced back he saw me strafing the anti-aircraft guns. “Good boy!” Victor shouted to me via two-way. “That’s the way, hit their flak points!
Again I didn’t reply. I began to pull out of the attack and fire traces stretched up from the ground again. The flak gunners were shooting at both planes simultaneously. “They could shoot me down this way!” Victor pulled the steering lever to him and retreated into the clouds. In ten seconds he dropped out again. The flak fire stopped. The gathering of tanks and vehicles was not seen through the haze anymore. “Zhen’ka, stick to me, we’re going home!”
Silence. He glanced back and didn’t see his wingman. Only the grey-black steppe was below and leaden clouds were above, no one in the air. “Zhen’ka, where are you?” The only answer was a rustling in his headphones…Prior to this I was following Korolev through the dense mesh of flak traces. He was in no better position, as the same fire was enveloping his plane. Then he threw himself up and went into the clouds. What happened to him? Wounded?
The flak ceased. “Victor, Vit’ka! Get out of the clouds!” Silence. “They haven’t hit him, he would have fallen if they had…” I looked around fearing to see a huge fire burning over the smashed plane. The grey-black steppe remained deserted. A pall of black smoke from burning fuel and oil held aloof from the leaden clouds. “Korolev! I don’t see you. Where are you?” Silence.
I need to go home. The course should be at about twenty degrees from here. I looked at the compass. The needle was at ninety degrees. Well, let’s turn left! But the arrow didn’t want to react to the plane’s turn. It made a full turnaround but the needle was still at ninety. Where to go? I wish the sun would come out. The leaden cloud cover hid the daytime luminary completely, and it was impossible to define by it where the south or the north was.
I looked around helplessly. Situation… The plane is intact and I don’t know where to fly. That’s how you crash. And it’s not clear whose land I will crash on…What’s that? Something flashed and disappeared in the grey haze. Victor, maybe? I turned around and flew towards the flashing plane. No, it wasn’t Victor… It was a pair of ‘Humpbacks’ as the Il-2 ground attack planes were called. Doesn’t matter, they’ll fly somewhere some time… And they’ll lead me as well. Meanwhile, I decided to help the ‘Humpbacks’ out and to go into an attack with them. But the Il-2s didn’t accept me into their company. Their rear-gunners opened furious fire at me. That’s all I needed! The Germans haven’t shot me down but these guys are ready to chop me up! I broke off. For how long will they be operating? Maybe, they have just arrived. I’m running out of fuel… Wait, they are probably pulling out of attack towards our territory! True or not I didn’t know for sure, but I had no choice and headed in the direction the ground-attack planes were pulling out.
Our flight path went along some small river. I saw a village on its bank. Which? Who’s that? About a platoon of soldiers was marching down the street. I descended to a contour flight. Germans! I concluded by the colour of their trenchcoats. I must be flying the wrong way… Nevertheless I decided to maintain the same course. If it was wrong Krivoy Rog would appear soon. All rivers down here flow towards Krivoy Rog. Our aerodrome came into sight instead of Krivoy Rog.
“Why didn’t you answer through the two-way? They thought here that you weren’t coming back. The fire was quite intense. Have you understood what a ground attack is? Will you ask for it again?” Korolev was frankly happy that I had come back. Now he was talking without giving me a chance to say a word. Sixteen holes were found in my plane. The radio transmitter and receiver had been smashed, the compass as well, and several bullets had hit the fuel tank. Strangely it had not caught fire.
“What shall I fly on now? Until they have the tanks replaced.” I asked Arkhipenko.
“Maybe Chugunov will fly over today. You’ll take his machine. I’ll run over to the CP now and find out.” “Like he’ll give me his plane!” “I’m not going to ask him. Well, hyar I go”, and Arkhipenko headed to the CP with his impetuous and, seemingly, even mincing gait.
Volkov had already started to repair the plane. Ananiev, Karpushkin and Bourmakova were helping him. “How’s it going, Nikolay, how long are you going to tinker with it?” Volkov took offence at the word ‘tinker’, which escaped my mouth quite unintentionally but didn’t show it.
“Who knows? If tanks are available we’ll have it finished by tomorrow evening.”
“Don’t you have any?”
“They haven’t brought them up from Kozelshchina.”
“But, probably, I can fly with these ones as well. They don’t leak.”
“No, you can’t. The holes have been covered by protector for the time being. But it dissolves in fuel and turns to slime. It’ll plug up the filters and stuff up the engine. That’s fine on the ground, but in the air? No, you can’t do it.”
“Well, let me help you out. What should I do?”
“What should you do? You’ve done your job.” Nikolay pointed at the shell holes.
“That’s not my fault, is it?” I took offence in turn. The mechanic was embarrassed.
“No, what are you talking about? You’ve just been flying, now you need some rest. This is my job, to repair. And I’ve got enough helpers. I wish I always had this many. I would just have to give the orders! Even Galka is working.”
“Well, buddies, there is a lot of news.” Arkhipenko began to talk sitting down by the fire.
“Will Chugunov arrive today?” I asked. Most of all I was worried about having his plane.
“Chugunov?” Arkhipenko asked again, pretending that he could hardly remember what he had gone to the CP for. “Chugunov’s not coming. He smashed his machine.” “How come?”
“How do people smash planes? He did it cleverly. He was test-flying it in the morning and made a forced landed on some holes. Generally speaking the plane’s shattered.”
“What about himself?”
“He’s in one piece. But that’s not all. Bobrov decided to reshuffle the squadrons for a better service. Sheluntsov is not back yet, you know. Gulayev’s been appointed as the commander of the second squadron, Nikiforovas his deputy. And you, Karlov, are going to move there with Akinshin. Lusto comes to ours.” “When will this reshuffle begin?” “We’ve been ordered to shift the planes straight away. The squadron cannot be left without a commander!”
Several days went by. Intense fighting continued on the bridgehead but the aviation was inactive for lack of cloud cover. Rains and fogs wouldn’t allow planes to take off. Such weather along with the threatening uncertainty at the front was quite depressing for us. As before, we kept listening to the noise of engines on the steppe.
Little had changed at the 1st Squadron’s Command Post. Only Karlov’s and Akinshin’s places were taken over by Misha Lusto and Fedya Trutnev. Misha was a flight commander as Karlov. He proudly wore his medal, For Valour, awarded for fighting near Belgorod. In the beginning, he tried to show with all his appearances his superiority over the flyers who had recently joined the Regiment. Short, plump as a barn, in fact that was why ‘old’ flyers called him Pupok, i.e. belly button, because he had been making a funny impression by his attempts to seem taller and more massive.
6
The frontline is below
We were at a height of four hundred metres. A layer of clouds, thick as sour cream, was just ten metres above us. We had been alerted to the noise of engines coming from the clouds. A Junkers had flown over the aerodrome. Where was it now? Catch him if you can! We were ordered from the ground to continue patrolling, and went westwards, closer to the frontline. “Like hell you’ll see something,” I thought looking around. “They are not stupid enough to wait to be caught. They’d drop the bombs and go into the clouds. They won’t come down…” I looked down at the ground. Black-white concentric circles flashed down there about a kilometre and a half from us. “Like sound waves in text-books… Wow, these are bomb blasts!”
“Victor, have you seen bomb blasts to the left?”
“I have… Some ‘ace’ didn’t even pull out of the clouds, just dropped them blindly straight out into Creation”, Korolev replied and suddenly ordered, “Turn right!”
Korolev turned right by about thirty degrees. “What’s he seen over there?” I wondered. The air space in front of us was as empty as to the sides. Victor kept manoeuvering, swinging his plane left and right and came right up to the clouds. And then I saw ‘clodhoppers’ sticking out of the clouds about twenty metres ahead of Victor’s plane’s nose! A Junkers’ undercarriage was hanging in the air as if glued to the lower edge of the clouds. But the clouds were so thick that the bomber itself was not seen through them. The smooth layer of clouds was rolling and swirling only behind the ‘clodhoppers’. Naturally, the Fascist couldn’t see the ground and thought he was invulnerable in the clouds.
Victor finished his manoeuvering and lifted his plane’s nose. He saw the Junkers’ landing gear in his gun-sight a little bit below the centre mark. The mark itself was aimed against the clouds. The bomber’s fuselage had to be there, beyond their thin curtain. Victor pressed the trigger. Red traces burst out of his plane’s nose and immediately disappeared in the grey clouds. The Junkers’ ‘boots’ disappeared right after them and Victor got a good shake from the air-wave.
“He got away, the bastard!” Victor thought in fury, pushing the lever away for he didn’t want to have a collision with the bomber in the clouds. “Vit’ka, turn away!” I yelled into the transmitter. Victor threw his fighter left and at the same moment saw the Junkers falling out of the clouds. The Junkers had managed in a fraction of a second to turn over on its back and was now diving into the ground at a negative angle, followed by a slightly curved strip of smoke. This wavering line was a sort of marker of the Hitlerite’s final journey. It really was their final journey. However hard we watched out we didn’t notice anyone parachuting from the bomber…“Now we can go home!” Victor transmitted.
“It’s good that I always fasten seat belts and tighten them up. Otherwise,” we heard from behind the closed door. The first person we saw after coming down into the dug-out was Chugunov. Lit from one side by dull grey light coming through a small window, and from another by the red gleams of fire from an iron drum standing on its butt, and serving as a fire place, he was waving his arms and telling about his forced-landing. “Belt up, you say! That way you won’t be able to look back, won’t see who’s going to shoot you down when. And you won’t have a chance to land!”
“What are the belts made for if we shouldn’t do them up?”
“To give you something to ask about… You’d do better to say why you landed on those holes instead of the airstrip,” Arkhipenko replied, instead of answering the question.
A mechanic who had arrived two days previously, when the situation on the bridgehead wasn’t so certain, reported that Chugunov could have landed perfectly well on the airstrip, but for some reason turned in the opposite direction. Besides, the mechanics watching the flight from the ground were unanimously saying that the engine had worked well and there’d been no reason for a forced-landing. However, the engineers had already gone to the new air-base, so there was no opportunity to send a special commission to investigate the accident, and the plane was simply written off.
“Where else could I land? I wouldn’t have made it to the aerodrome and that area seemed to be flat from above.”
“Come on, Zhen’ka, get ready. We’re flying off soon. We’re going in a group of eight to give cover,” Victor said, coming up to his wingman’s plane. “See, all the guys are on their way.” The flyers were coming out of the dug-out along with the squadron commander.
“Korolev, get in your planes quickly! We’re taking off now!” Arkhipenko yelled from afar.
We took off and headed straight away towards the area to be covered, since the altitude of clouds was only eight hundred metres and we didn’t need to waste time gaining altitude. I felt relaxed. Eight fighter planes were on the way. It was a force! I’d never flown in such a large group and it seemed to me that no large fighter groups existed. The times when we had to split into pairs and lose each other from sight had gone. Analysis of sorties and dogfights had been done on a daily basis. Everybody understood that a group had to be held ‘in one fist’ for better co-ordination, with part of it allocated to cover the main strike force. Such a cover group was supposed to fly off to the side and no less than six hundred metres higher, so that in case of necessity during a dogfight they could make a decisive strike having gained speed in a dive. Now, with such low cloud cover such a group couldn’t be separated.
My ruminations over this issue didn’t last long. Up ahead, still over our territory, enemy planes appeared. Twenty Me-109s were meeting us on our approach to the target. Apparently they had come over to sweep up the air in order to secure impunity of action for their bombers. “To the attack!” Arkhipenko transmitted and the whole group of eight smashed into the formation of Messers.
A real free-for-all began. The fighters, confined by the cloud cover from one side and the ground from the other, were whirling in a small, enclosed space. The Messers operated quite insolently at the beginning. Why not! There were twenty of them against eight! They were even showing off their airmanship. One of them went up the tail of Lusto’s plane and turned his plane over on its back before shooting, as if to say he could shoot this “Ivan” down even from this position! But a gun burst sent by Korolev ended the Fascist’s bravado. He fell to the ground in this overturned position.
I myself couldn’t attack. Being a wingman, I had to cover my leader and provide him with safety to manoeuvre. This was my first time in such a hot aerial battle. Even escorting Pawns was easier. Back then the Schmitts were coming from underneath. And they had been inferior in numbers compared to us. And, most important, fighting in the air was then conducted in a much greater space both vertically and horizontally.
I was watching all the planes, twisting my head, three-hundred-sixty degrees, as flyers liked to say. “It was a good thing I had taken off my fur lined jacket, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to turn my head,” flashed somewhere in my subconsciousness, and the thought instantly disappeared. The collar of my sweat-soaked shirt was cutting into my neck and I tugged it, snapping off buttons.
“Vit’ka! A ‘skinnie’ on the right!” Korolev threw his plane to the left. Slabs of air compressed by this manoeuvre were breaking off the wing-tips. But the Messer didn’t want to be left behind. He also pulled his steering lever so that white sheets of compressed air began to tear off, not only from his wingtips, but from his rudder as well. “Come here, come here!” I was muttering setting the central mark of my gun-sight so that it was just before the Messer’s nose. “This way,” and I pressed the trigger button. Streams of fire cut th
e air in front of the Fascist and hit the plane.
“Zhen’ka! A Schmitt on your tail!” Forewarned by Korolev I darted to the side. A torrent of fire let off by a Fascist fighter whizzed past me. And it all started again. Again? No! The Fascists somehow quickly lost their zeal for fighting, and began to retire into the clouds, sideways from the battlefield. And soon only fighter planes with red stars remained over the frontline. All by themselves? No! The frontline was underneath, our troops were advancing and German bombers should be arriving soon. The Schmitts wouldn’t have come over without a reason…
“Fedor! Junkers are coming from the south!” Victor’s voice resounded in the headphones.
“I see them” Arkhipenko replied. “Cover us, Korolev, we’re attacking!” And he led his quartet in an attack on the bombers. The Ju-87s were almost directly under the clouds. Firstly it seemed to all that there was no escort around them. Korolev thought so too. “Attention! We’re going to attack from the rear!” he transmitted and turned around to attack. At the same moment I saw four ‘skinnies’ darting towards them. And two Fockers were bringing up the rear. “Victor, Schmitts!”
“Retreat into the clouds!” Korolev got his bearings quickly, for there was no other place where the enemy’s attack could be avoided. Otherwise we would have been under fire from the bomber crew gunners. I pulled the lever to me and immediately found myself in an impervious ‘milk.’ I’d never had to fly on instruments and knew how to do that only theoretically, from the classroom studies in the flying school. That’s why, having spent several seconds in the clouds and being afraid of losing orientation and consequently crashing, I pushed the lever and darted out below the clouds. The bombers were right below us and one of them, the group leader, filled not only my gun-sight but also the whole of my front window. Smoky traces of gunfire stretched from all the Junkers towards my plane. I pressed my trigger as well, and saw that the whole gun burst pierced into the grey green bulk of the Junkers, then pulled the lever to me, retreating from the gunfire.