Red Star Airacobra

by Evgeniy Mariinskiy

  The nuns were listening to them enthusiastically, and looking at them fondly, with glistening eyes after the first glass of home-brew plonk. They were courting the flyers in every possible way. Keep eating! Eat this, don’t disdain our fare! They were not letting their glasses get empty, nor, however, forgetting their own. They begged them not to be shy in their expressions, to tell more. They clasped their hands, crossed themselves, and pressed themselves, as if unintentionally, against the tellers, as if scared. “Lively grannies!” Petr Nikiforov said later on.

  “That, Valentin, is why you are interested in the park! You’re longing for the nuns again, aren’t you? And I was wondering why you enlisted as a gardener!” Victor feigned a smile.

  “And you guys have never visited them again?” Misha Lusto asked.

  “O-o-oh, Pupok’s heard about the doughnuts!” Gulayev laughed. “Even his eyes are on fire!”

  No argument, this was one Misha’s vices, he liked to eat especially starchy foods.

  “How can we go back there? We ate everything up then and never said thanks.” Nikiforov sighed.

  “Don’t worry hyar! God will soon have sent them something else!”

  “The guys are afraid of being blessed there. By crosses, the bigger and heavier ones, by prayer books. What else is there? By a church-chandelier…” Bourgonov thought a censer and a church-chandelier were the same.

  “No, no!” Karlov tried to return to the beginning of the chat. “This park is famous! It’s called the Sofievka. The hostess said Earl Pototzky planted it in honour of his wife.”

  “Who told you that, the hostess or a nun? Try to remember. It’s easy to forget after such excitement. It’s more of a thrill than any Schmitts and Fockers,” Korolev asked compassionately.

  “Oh come now! I’m making a point. But they! It’s interesting to see!”

  “What the hell can you see there? Bare trees and mud.”

  However, we had a walkabout around the park, turned off from the customary footpath to the mess-room. Of course, we were unimpressed by the park. Bare trees, mud, snow in the bushes and on the sides of the alleys, desolation. Three years of war and occupation had had a heavy impact on this monument of eighteenth century park and garden architecture. All this time nobody had looked after the alleys and bushes, or cleaned and trimmed the trees. The remaining sculptures and fountains had a pathetic appearance.

  And suddenly the virgin whiteness of some construction flashed between the dark trees. We turned to this alluring mirage. The trees reluctantly gave way to us and the mirage took on a more concrete shape. Light columns, arches, previously seen separately, joined together and formed a beautiful summerhouse, a real work of art. It looked fine, even against the pathetic background of dark plants weeping under the drizzling rain. How nice would it be in spring when the foliage came out, among flowers and various shades of green! Or in a hot Ukrainian summer when everything breathes with heat, the leaves droop lazily down, the air is motionless with stuffy languor, and only this summerhouse endures the baking sunbeams, proudly and unwaveringly, and promises coolness and rest.

  Yes, coolness was really guaranteed around here. The summerhouse stood amidst a stream on an artificial island. It was even scary to step on it since it seemed to be so elegant and fragile. ‘The Island and Summerhouse of Love’, someone read on a plaque that had miraculously remained preserved near the footbridge. Then when some reasonable weather set in, we found this summerhouse from the air, and saw that it was exactly on a line with the airstrip. Currently, in these most complicated conditions, the ‘Island of Love’ was the only landmark that could have helped to land and save the planes.

  We encountered the Island at a course nearly perpendicular to the line of the concrete strip lying somewhere to the north. We had to make a kind of improper steep turn, and approach the Island at a more acceptable course. We managed to do it far from straight away. But then only ‘trifles’ remained to do, i.e. adjust the course a bit, lower the undercarriage and wing flaps, which usually by this moment had been lowered long before, and fly at a low altitude with the engine on until the strip was seen.

  The tree tops flashed just below the wings, but just don’t catch on them! Then there were occasional roofs of the suburb, a field, and a barbed wire fence at the aerodrome! Here we were, the concrete strip! And now I could throttle back. The planes suddenly broke out of the solid mush of wet air, wet snow and fog, levelled off, raced above the ground for a bit and landed near the command post at the very beginning of the concrete. The first, the second, the third, the fourth…. All of them… The planes were intact, and in perhaps half an hour might be ready for another sortie.

  The minutes of leisure were very short for us during the days of intense operational activities. We hadn’t finished our lunch yet when the Regimental Commander Figichev entered our cabin. He had recently replaced Bobrov, who had been transferred to a neighbouring division. When seeing him I always remembered the first day of his command. Figichev himself had made little difference. He just read out the orders, decorating the flying and technical personnel with orders and medals, and an announcement of gratitude on the occasion of Red Army Day. Victor received a Red Banner Order in addition to his Red Star. I got a Red Star.

  The formation was dismissed. Gulayev came up to the first squadron flyers with congratulations. “Well, famed and valiant Pupok, an occasion like this calls for a salute!” Gulayev was referring to the fact that the Order of Glory 3rd Grade had been added to Misha Lusto’s Medal for Valour.

  “Take the flare pistol! Careful, it’s loaded!” He handed Misha a captured flare pistol with a large clumsy handle and kept a home-made one for himself. They climbed up on the roof of the commanding point and shot on the count of ‘three’. The whistle of a flying bomb cut the air. It was the flight of the captured sound-signal flare. The whistle died up above and immediately a ‘ka-boom!’ resounded as the second signal flare exploded. These flares were not a novelty for the flyers but, nevertheless, this time the effect was unexpected. Having made a shot Lusto failed to keep his feet and fell over in front of the whole Regiment. The recoil of the captured pistol turned out to be too strong for small Misha! Later on, Gulayev admitted that he had intentionally folded the edges of the flare-case and thus the recoil had been amplified even more. I smiled having remembered this episode and looked at Figichev again. What would he say? “Boys, I didn’t want to send you up after such a landing today, but nothing can be done. We have to!”

  The Fascists didn’t have enough ground troops at this sector of the front. The available forces were unable to liquidate the bridgehead and throw the Soviet soldiers into the Dniestr. And the bridgehead was a path to the State’s border, to Romania. They had to liquidate it at any cost. To wait for reinforcements? It would have taken too much time. The bridgehead would consolidate and expand. They had to act immediately. And the German Command entrusted their aviation with a task to wipe out the bridgehead. Large groups of Fascist planes kept appearing over a small patch of land on the right bank of the Dniestr, in front of Yampol, and over the river crossing several, times a day.

  A difficult task fell to us. “We have to!” The flyers knew all about it.

  “Eh, the ‘Island of Love’ let us down! Otherwise we’d be sitting somewhere in a field having a smoke”, someone joked.

  “Well, enough of that, hyar!” Arkhipenko interrupted. “When are we taking off?” He asked Figichev. “In twenty minutes.”

  And this time the fighters had to engage the enemy straight off too. In fact, only a ‘frame’ was circling over the bridgehead. Our four fighters attacked the German spotter. And perhaps this was our mistake. The Hitlerites saw us from afar and began to retreat to the south using the excellent manoeuvring qualities of their planes. Our attacks followed one another, bringing no success. At that moment, we were ordered by ground control to come back, for we couldn’t leave the bridgehead and the crossing without cover.

  Nevertheless, the Fascist failed
to escape. Knowing that he was now deep into his own territory, and the Soviet fighters would not be able to chase him for too long, he decided to break off at once in a dive. And at this moment Misha Lusto caught him in his gun-sight. One more long burst, and the ‘frame’ went up in flames, tilted and hit the ground. We returned to the bridgehead.

  “Arkhipenko! Twelve ‘crutches’ are on their way from the south.” So the flyers nicknamed the German dive-bomber Henschel-126, a biplane, with very high tail. “Understood!” Arkhipenko responded to Goreglyad’s message. “Eaglets! Turn left by ninety!” And the quartet sharply turned left by ninety degrees towards the bridgehead, so as to meet the enemy planes on the approach to it.

  We came across the slow-flying ‘crutches’ before the bridgehead. What happened later couldn’t be called a fight. We attacked the ‘crutches’ from the rear. After our first attack, two of them caught fire and began to fall. The percale panelling of their fuselages and wings burned up instantly and only the ‘skeletons’ of the former light bombers fell to the ground. Another ten ‘crutches’ scattered in all directions, and were escaping our fire. Using their low speed and excellent manoeuvrability, they were hiding in the rather thick cumulus clouds. They were dropping their bombs from there, aimlessly, into the wide world.

  The time allotted for covering expired and we were allowed to get back to the aerodrome. The Dniestr had fallen behind us. We were glancing at our fuel gauges, counting if there was enough fuel. The results were not quite satisfactory. “What if we have to close in from the ‘Island of Love’?” each of us thought involuntarily. “Then we’ll have to land on our bellies.” But…

  “Number Ten! Come back to me! A large formation of bombers is approaching from the south!” I heard the voice of the Division Commander Goreglyad. “This is Number Ten, understood. Turning round leftwards!”

  Again the shining winding ribbon of the Dniester flashed under the wings and the hilly expanses of Bessarabia were opening up in front. The bombers were flying towards us like a thick cloud. There were about eighty Ju-87s, ‘clodhoppers’, in one group. They were approaching the river crossing in a dense formation as if tied together. Eighty aircraft against four!

  The odds were quite unequal. But the Germans wouldn’t fly headlong, regardless of obstacles. Prior to the encounter, they reformed themselves into three defensive circles protecting each other. It’s not easy to approach such a defensive carousel. From the rear, you are awaited by rear-gunners, from the front, by the pilots’ cannons and machine-guns. And here there were three carousels at once. All of them were in touch, circling in opposite directions. One good thing was, there were no escort fighters around. Apparently their Command had known that we’d been over the frontline for a while, spent our fuel and ammunition and now they didn’t expect any aerial engagement. Therefore another group of fighters wouldn’t be around too soon.

  The absence of Fascist fighters made our mission easier. Each of four fighter-pilots could act independently, not caring about covering his flight mate. It was dangerous but there was no other choice. The Hitlerites’ carousels kept moving towards the bridgehead and the river crossing. The Germans still hoped to break through over there and wipe out that thin artery of life. We had to take the risk. And Arkhipenko sent his command. “Everybody – attack at will!”

  “How will I approach them?” I thought. “From underneath, at high speed? Straight away right up against the ‘clodhoppers’ and they won’t be able to shoot at me then!” The decision was made. You can’t change it. It’s not like on the ground. Such is the law of the air war. It’s the right one. It has saved more than a thousand flyers’ lives. It’s based on the following tenets. The first decision is always right, because it’s based on all past experience. It is taken spontaneously, almost outside a flyer’s consciousness. Even having taken a wrong decision, and seeing it through to the end, one may have the upper hand in the most complicated situation. If decisions are changed, one’s death is inevitable.

  Now, the right decision was made. But its implementation was rather too hasty. Instead of approaching the Junkers from the outer side of the whole carousel, I attacked one bomber when it was moving to the centre, where all three defensive circles interlaced. Now this ‘clodhopper’ was a shield for my plane. Neither the ones flying behind it nor the ones moving towards it could shoot at me now.

  The silhouette of a Junkers is quickly growing in the gun-sight. It has filled the whole ring and is getting bigger. It has covered the whole bullet-proof windscreen. I can clearly see the Fascist’s belly, dirty with oil streaks and single rivets on it. Suddenly, the bomb suspended between the two awkwardly sticking-out legs of the attacked bomber snapped off and went down. It was time. A press on the trigger button and a spurt of fire burst out of the plane’s nose. The Junkers reeled somewhat uncertainly, let out a jet of smoke, dived and spiralled down wreathed in flames. My shield, the shot-down bomber, disappeared and my ‘Bellochka’ was immediately shot through by a burst fired from an oncoming Junkers. Resonant shell bursts, and the dry cracks of hits clanged over the monotonous hum of the motor. The motor shuddered heavily. Puffs of smoke appeared in the cockpit and tongues of fire began to lick my legs ‘tenderly’, as if caressing them.

  “I’m on fire! Let’s get home as soon as possible!” flashed through my mind. But it was immediately followed by another thought. “The engine still works. I’ve got time. There’s a German nearby!” And a new ‘shield’ cropped up just in time, as I closed on a second ‘clodhopper’. And again no one could shoot at me. There was no Bobrov around in this sortie.

  There is more and more smoke in the cockpit, the tongues of fire are longer and longer, blood from a wound on my forehead floods over my right eye. The Fascist is closer and closer, he drops his bomb on his own troops just as the first one did. “It’s time!” And again I send a burst of fire out of the nose of my plane. It can’t miss. It disappears in the belly of the Junkers. It has caught fire and gone down. And again after this shield is gone, my fighter is struck by a burst of Fascist fire. No, it came from the other side.

  Four ‘clodhoppers’ are still burning on the ground. But the Fascists are still circling in their carousel and trying to break through to the river crossing, or at least to the bridgehead. Their actions become perplexing. Usually, after the first losses, the Hitlerites drop their bombs no matter where, even on their own air base, and flee.

  The plane’s still holding on. A bit more. One more attack, and back home. I aimed at a third Junkers. The engine was still operating, and a new ‘shield’ appeared nearby. In front of my fighter’s nose flew one more Junkers. This time I had come across a somewhat obstinate Fascist. Whilst the first two bombers had behaved calmly, and waited patiently, before they were shot down, this one was capricious. He would manoeuvre abruptly, not giving me an opportunity to aim precisely, or would pull up his plane’s nose, enabling his gunner to shoot at his attacker.

  At these moments I clearly saw short fierce fires breaking off the gun barrel, and smoky traces of bullets were stretching towards my cockpit. There was no chance of getting a good bead in this position, and I shot a long burst at random, as the Junkers lifted his nose up. I sent it just above its pulled-up engine. It seemed to me that the burst had missed, but then something unexpected happened, the bomber’s propeller spinner, the engine itself, went off, and the Junkers broke off into a shallow spiral. Two airmen bailed out, one after the other. No one had parachuted out of the first two I shot down, for obviously the crews had died of bullets and shells from my Airacobra. But now two flyers were quietly descending under the cupolas of their parachutes.

  I had no chance of staying in the fight. The engine was jolting and choking and had nearly no traction. I turned towards the Dniestr. I needed to overfly it and there it would be our territory for sure… I saw ahead of me three Airacobras heading the same way beyond the Dniestr. It was Arkhipenko leading Korolev and Lusto away along with him. I also saw these three planes begin to clo
se for landing on quite a large piece of unploughed land remaining amidst the tilled fields. I wanted to follow them to a landing but my engine died and the cockpit became filled with smoke so dense that I couldn’t even see the instruments. I pushed the steering lever away instinctively so as not to lose speed and not to fall into a spin, and began to descend directly. All the time I had to kind of dance on my seat, to lift my feet to give them a bit of coolness. For all that with no habit it was hot in the tongues of fire…

  Bending to the very dashboard I was trying to keep the rate of descent no greater than half a metre a second, and the plane’s speed no higher than one hundred and fifty miles an hour. Thus I was hoping to hit the ground at the minimum vertical and horizontal speed. It might save me during a fall on the smooth field. But who could know, maybe I was to come across a precipice, or a ravine slope. They were in abundance in these places and then it would all be over. I didn’t want to think about such an option, and kept watching the altitude and speed. I threw off the cockpit door hoping that the smoke would go, but on the contrary it brought even more smoke. There was no chance of bailing out as the altitude was only about sixty metres, and there was no time to let the parachute open. And I couldn’t trust the instruments. We took off in Uman, from a plain, but here, near the Bessarabian border, there were quite vast uplands according to the map.

  “Here it comes… Like they say, it’s going to be no ground, still no ground, now you’re eating dirt! This way… Reduce the glide angle … This way…” This “this way” coincided with me thumping into the ground! I pulled the lever towards me, and the plane obediently lifted into the air. “No, I shouldn’t be going high, further to fall…” Again I pushed the lever away and there was another thump. And this time I managed to get the plane off the ground. Again I pulled the lever … There was no other choice. I could hope to save myself only by ‘probing’ the ground with the nose of the plane.