On 13 June, the Regiment was moving to a new aerodrome, situated near Shepetovka, with the soldierly name Okopy, i.e. trenches. I didn’t have to fly there on my old plane, as the aerodrome was too dusty. A new machine arrived in ten days.
In the last days of July we were ordered to escort the Pawns. Almost four hundred bombers were to conduct an en-echelon strike on an accumulation of tanks and artillery near Zolochev. When we came up to the target, the whole sky was full of planes, bombers and fighters. Everything underneath was blanketed by smoke, lit by the flares of explosions and tongues of fire. I was flying with the last group. On finishing this mighty strike, the Pawns formed the famous ‘carousel’ and began to dive-bomb. They were picking off the remaining targets, bombing with precision and with no rush. I was diving along with them, as down below, at pull-out level, the German fighters might be in wait for them. But that was not likely. Too many Soviet planes over the target and the Hitlerites didn’t like to fight in those conditions. But we had to be alert.
In one of the dives I noticed that the Pawns were not only bombing but also strafing the targets. “I’m no slouch either, am I?” I thought, and began to fire from machine-guns and cannon. “No point wasting a flight. No Germans in the air, but there’s a chance to kick them around on the ground!”
Next day, by nightfall, we had moved to the Neznanov aerodrome closer to the front line. In the evening, before sunset, we were taken to a village and billeted in the houses. Yakovlev and I were taken to a good roomy house, surrounded by a solid fence no less than three metres high. We were to sleep in such a mansion for the first time, and it alarmed rather than pleased us. We decided to sleep in turn, just in case. All night, we heard people coming and going, and it made us even more alarmed.
Next day, having come back from the aerodrome, I got acquainted with the owner. During our chat over the evening meal he told how he had seen dogfights between German flyers and ours in 1941. “I’ve seen a lot of your guys dying. We respect you, the flyers.” These words of his somewhat calmed us down and we decided to cancel our night watches.
“We will be flying around the area today,” Figichev announced in the morning. “An advance will begin some day soon. Study the area, we’re flying after lunch.” Before lunch, bombers began to drag towards Brody over the aerodrome. One group after another was heading westwards. “Is it another strike like on Zolochev?” The flyers were wondering, as they had never seen such masses of bombers from the ground. They covered the whole sky and the heavy roar of their engines was coming from everywhere. “Where did they get so many from?” the flyers didn’t know yet that our Commanders had mustered nine Air Corps, totalling three thousand fighters, bombers and ground attack planes, against six hundred German planes.
The troops of the Front began to advance. The frontline was irresistibly rolling westwards. We couldn’t plot it on our maps in time. And did it really exist, the front line? We had just received an order to cover ground troops north of Brody. An hour later a group from a neighbouring regiment was fighting around Podverezie-Pechikhvosty, another one over Gorokhuv and Stoyanuv. Who was there? The Germans or us? Most likely, still the Germans. There was a German aerodrome near Pechikhvosty. A quartet from a neighbouring Division had fought over there against eighteen Fockers. They shot down four but lost one as well.
“Watch out,” Figichev kept warning us time and again. “The Germans are hardly flying at all, but if they do, they do it in big groups. Stay together.” Figichev knew very well, from his own experience, that flight with no combat could make the flyers slack. Later, when the enemy is encountered, unjustified losses might become a reality. And he pitied the young people, as their Commander, and simply as a human being, and always tried to advise how to act.
But not a single German plane was encountered, although other regiments were coming across them. We were told about one dogfight as the right example. Twelve of our fighters, under Goreglyad’s general command were covering the ground troops around Gorokhuv-Stoyanuv on the evening of 15 July. The crack quartet was led by Goreglyad, the covering one by Bobrov, and the reserve group by Williamson.
“Goreglyad! A group of bombers is coming towards me from the north-west,” General Utin transmitted from the ground. The engagement took place around Zavuduv. The first ten Junkers had already gone into a dive on the target, and three more nines were coming up as well. Five hundred to a thousand metres above it there were twenty FW-190s. “Attack!” Goreglyad led his quartet on the first nine Ju-87s straight away.
A ‘clodhopper’ had dropped his bombs and was pulling out of a dive. However, Goreglyad managed to hit him with a long burst. Leonid Ivanovich followed the burning plane with his eyes, and in a battle turn, began to approach another bomber which had just started diving. “This one still has his bomb,” Goreglyad thought, opening fire. This ‘clodhopper’ caught fire like the first one.
Goreglyad glanced after the falling Junkers and looked up and right. Up there the other pair of his quartet was attacking the ‘clodhoppers’. Captain Rumm was nearing a Junkers, obviously training his guns at him and ready to fire. But a pair of FW-190s fell on him from above and latched on to his tail. The Fockers had failed to impede the first attacks of the Soviet fighters and came into combat only now. “Rumm, the Fockers are on your tail!” Goreglyad yelled and threw his plane to block the Fascists’ path.
Rumm, warned by his Commander, manoeuvred and the Focker failed to open fire. Now it was too late. He was in Goreglyad’s gun-sight. A stream of fire stretched from the fighter’s nose to the Focker’s belly. The latter wavered from one wing to another, dipped his nose and spiralled into the ground. Actually, Leonid Ivanovich didn’t see his end being diverted by his wingman, Lieutenant Veretennikov. “Goreglyad! A ‘clodhopper’ on your tail!” He looked back. A Ju-87 was turning on to his tail taking to a forestall. He was just about to open fire but Veretennikov was on alert. He turned around sharply and opened a covering barrage. The Junkers came across fire himself, got enveloped by smoke and plunged down.
The covering group engaged the enemy simultaneously with Goreglyad’s quartet. It attacked the second nine of bombers, and forced the ‘clodhoppers’ to drop their bombs unsightedly. Two of the bombers met their end on the spot. But four FW-190s were still around the bombers. The rest of the Fockers and the six newly arrived ‘skinnies’ had been tied up by Williamson’s group. Two fighters from the covering quartet engaged four Fockers, near the bombers, and Ivan Mikhalin shot down one of them.
Goreglyad’s group shot down six Junkers and two Fockers all up and came back with no losses. The others had fights just like that. And Figichev was right telling us to stick together. We did that as well and didn’t come across anyone. We had to fly cover and escort for bombers farther and farther away. We flew to Yavorov. That was a long way.
A surrounded German force had stayed somewhere behind us, north-west of Brody. It would be finished off! Go further west! We began to fly over Poland. We escorted Pawns which bombed bridges of the San River near the town of Sanok. The bombers’ bases had been hopelessly far behind the line of the advancing troops and bombers had to land on the fighters’ airstrips. Farther and farther forward!
Lvov was taken on 27 July and the same day the right flank of the Front reached the San River and crossed it. Farther and farther forward! We were coming across no German planes at all. Then we ceased flying. Even Ivan Ippolitov got bored. “They’ve left us behind, in the rear.” The Regiment didn’t fly for two days due to the remoteness of the frontline. In the morning all the flyers were summoned to the Command Post of the Regiment.
“We’re off to Poland,” Figichev announced. “To the Turbya aerodrome. Look for it near Sandomir, where the San River flows into the Vistula,” he added, having noticed the flyers couldn’t find Turbya on their maps. You couldn’t blame them for that. How could you demand a good knowledge of the area when the frontline had advanced over nearly three hundred kilometres since the beginning of the opera
tion! “Have you found it?”
“We have!” The flyers replied noisily. “A long way, isn’t it!”
“Keep quiet! Study the area well. We will be moving over there in pairs and groups. Approach the aerodrome on a contour flight. The frontline is nearby. In four kilometres. Is that clear?” “Clear!”
The flyers began to stand up thinking that the procedure was over.
“Where are you off to?” Figichev angrily flashed his Gipsy eyes at them. “I haven’t dismissed you yet.” The flyers quietened down.
“Everybody who can, take your mechanics with you. The land convoy will take off only today, and get up there not too soon. Is that clear? The Squadron Commanders will decide themselves who’s going to take the mechanics.”
Experienced pilots had begun to relocate the mechanics on the fighter planes since the time at the Dniepr River. Firstly in the suspended tanks. They used to cut a hole in the tank and seat a man in it. It was banned straight away. An accidental tearing off of the tank couldn’t be ruled out. Then they invented a different way. They would remove the rear armour glass shield and stuff a mechanic into the fairing. We had to resign ourselves to it. I was happy to fly with small Volkov but not Karpushkin. Most of him would be in the cockpit!
We didn’t stay in Turbya for too long. Although the frontline had gone beyond the Vistula, the German long-range artillery began to shell the aerodrome and we had to clear out. We would hear a gun shot and in about ten seconds a shell would explode on the aerodrome. One shell hit the number “8” plane which caught fire. The technicians rushed to it and another shell fell not far away from them, killed group technician Afanasiy Bushmelev, and wounded some more people.
Funny and tragic stuff often happened side by side at war. Earlier that day Kolya Gulyaev had put some of his possessions and battle decorations behind the armour glass shield. During the shelling, the plane technician took them out, fearing that a shell might hit the plane and the decorations would be lost. The flyers were ordered to take off, and all three squadrons flew over to the Khozheleev aerodrome, despite shelling. Gulayev searched through the whole plane after the flight, looking for his decorations, and was badly frustrated having not found them. Everybody tried to comfort him saying, “You’ll earn more.” The orders were found only when the engineering and technical regimental staff had arrived. After that he had to listen to our witty remarks for quite a while.
Next day, during a burial, the enemy shells hit the burial procession. When the people had scattered all over the cemetery, which was situated next to the aerodrome, they caught a German artillery spotter. Although the shelling stopped after that, it was decided to shift the Regiment to the Khozheleev aerodrome.
Our ground troops were then fighting for the Samdomir bridgehead, and for the city. We had to do some work as well. We were covering river crossings, strafing, and counter-attacking enemy troops. Glotov was shot up during one of these ground attacks, but managed to cross the frontline and landed on our territory.
In September, some wise man from headquarters was visited by an idea to make contour flights over Berlin. Arkhipenko, Nikiforov and Bekashenok were called up to the CP where political officers, who had come from the Corps and Divisional Headquarters, and the Regimental political officer, had gathered. They set up a mission to get ready to fly over Berlin. Arkhipenko later said, “We say that we’ll run out of fuel, even before the Oder River. They assure us in reply that suspended tanks will be provided. We don’t give up, and say that even with suspended tanks there’s no chance of flying over the Oder on the way back. But they answer quietly that we will have to land on German territory and look for rescuers. Generally speaking they decided to cover their arses with our heroic deaths!”
For three days, the Regimental political officer kept following us, instilling into us the necessity of this flight. Saying that we had to show the whole world that the Soviet fighters with Red Stars had already appeared over Berlin. On the fourth day they backed down, and advised that there would be no such flight. Somebody made a justified remark that we flew American-made planes and it would somewhat undermine the whole edification of a demonstration flight! At last everyone sighed with relief.
Then a long lull came. The three months from September to December were filled with theoretical studies, organised in the Regiment, as well as in the whole 6th Guards Air Corps. These were interrupted only by rare sorties for ‘free-hunting.’ Staff changes occurred. Nikolay Gulayev and Fedor Arkhipenko were promoted to Major. Nikolay was appointed as the Regiment Navigator, and Fedor became the Commander’s deputy in aerial-shooting services. Pupok became the Squadron commander and I, his second-in-charge. I chose Fedya Orlov from some new reinforcements as my wingman.
At last on 12 January 1945, our advance from the Sandomir bridgehead began. We started before time, to help the Allies, who were being beaten in the Ardennes. The Regiment flew little as the weather didn’t permit. On 25 January, the Regiment moved to German territory, on to the Alt-Rosenberg aerodrome. The aerodrome, with its unpaved airstrip, got soaked immediately after our arrival, and had in fact become a trap for us. Only on 18 February, when it became frosty did we fly over to the Chestokhov aerodrome with its concrete airstrip. We stayed on it for about five days, completely isolated from the outside world. There was no fuel and the ground service battalion had stuck somewhere. We lived in huts belonging to the Poles, leaving one man on watch duty near the aircraft. Then, at last, the leading crew of engineers and technicians, and a part of the ground service battalion arrived, and everything was sorted out. On 8 March the Regiment moved to the Kitlitztreben aerodrome from where it began to operate. But we encountered German planes only in April.
Our group of eight planes was led by Squadron Commander Lusto. We were flying below widely separated cumulus clouds. When approaching Berlin, we came across a wall of smoke. It rose up to several kilometres, from the destroyed and burning city. For several minutes I was flying in fear of ‘stirring’ and seeing nothing around me. When we shot out of the solid smoke screen the sun splashed on our eyes. The wall of thick smoke was left behind. It was still swirling down, rising up and mixing with some cumulus clouds. Further west everything was clear. In the skies and on the land there was no sign of fires. Such cleanness in the air even seemed unnatural, compared to the thick darkness of the eastern side.
“Turn right by ninety degrees!” Lusto ordered, and the group turned north parallel to the Spree River. My wingman and I, that day I was flying with Ippolitov, found ourselves on the right flank. Other flyers of the group, Lusto with Stepanov, Glotov with Yakovlev and Golovanov with Shalamov, flew left of us.
The day before yesterday we were here as well, over the inter-valley area of the Neisse and the Spree. Then the German lines along the Neisse were fallen upon by hundreds of bombers and ground-attack planes. Over there, behind us, there had been a railway junction, Weisswasser. Now there were only ruins. The Pawns had wiped it out, in one attempt, along with the echelons standing on the rails. At the beginning of the operation the air was crowded with our planes. Ippolitov even followed another group in the smoke and landed on a neighbouring aerodrome. Since then the front had moved up to the Spree, that day our troops were crossing it.
I was quietly looking around. The Germans had not been showing up for the last few days. With Orlov I had come across sixteen Fockers before the advance. Then, on the first day of the operation, a pair of ‘skinnies’ came over our aerodrome. Obviously they were scouts. And that was it. Where had the Germans gone? There was a hell of a fight on the ground! And quiet in the air.
However, I kept watching out. One could expect anything from the Germans. Here came a pair of them! No, not them though. Those were ours. A pair of fighter planes similar to ‘Lavochkin’ aircraft from a neighbouring Division was flying eastwards above the wall of smoke. “Why are there only two of them? We don’t fly that way anymore! Eh, here come the rest. Eight more planes were dragging behind the pair of fighters. Hang on,
those are Fockers!” At the very same moment I heard Glotov’s voice on the radio. “Eight Fockers ahead of us!”
“To the attack!” Lusto replied.
I gave it full gas and began to choose a target for attack. What were the others doing? I glanced to the left. Golovanov and Shalamov were obviously flying at full speed as well, and the line of our eight planes formed up the quaint arc of a young crescent moon, racing forward with horns ahead. Lusto’s and Golovanov’s pairs fell a bit behind from the flanks of the group.
The Fockers noticed the attacking planes and began to turn towards their territory in a climb. “They are good for chasing just a pair, but now they’re falling back straight away. At last I had picked out a target for myself and attacked the leader of the upper four Fockers. “You won’t get away, you bastard!” He’s a hundred metres away. The FW-190 is flat in my gun-sight since it was still in a turn. A trace nearly invisible in the bright daylight stretched from my fighter’s nose. One couldn’t see the trace, but could clearly see the shells exploding in the right wing of the Focker, near the cockpit, and the rear part of the centre-section falling out.
The three other Fockers, having lost their leader, rushed in all directions. I drove my plane after one of them and was already catching up with it when I heard on the radio, “Zhen’ka! Three Messerschmitts left of you!” Yes, four Me-109s were coming over from the west, about five hundred metres above the fighters tied up in dogfights. I had enough time. Whilst diving after the chosen Focker I didn’t forget to look around.
The lower group of Fockers began to turn around, so as to return to their territory simultaneously with the upper one. But they were descending, not ascending, and Glotov’s quartet had to attack them in a dive. Although it was quite unusual for them, the Fockers began to climb, to do a turn around. At least, initially it seemed that way to Glotov. However, they went for a dive again staying in the turn. “Oblique loops,” Nikolay guessed. “Let it be so!” He climbed above the leading Focker, during their second loop, and shot it down from fifty metres. The other of this pair of Fockers was shot down by Glotov’s wingman, Yakovlev, already in a dive at an angle of seventy degrees.
Red Star Airacobra Page 25