Over Fields of Fire: Flying the Sturmovik in Action on the Eastern Front 1942-45

16. The Katyushas

Missions, missions. There seemed to be no end of them. The squadron was manned by ‘Spanish’ pilots but they were shoving me — a girl — into the most difficult holes. It was an unpleasant sensation.

“Egorova, you will be flying in search of the Katyushas!”84

And again I would answer: “Yes sir, flying out!”

The Katyushas had just arrived at our Front and it had significantly raised our previously depressed spirits. I was given an approximate area and told that they were big trucks with installations for rockets. They would have slip-covers on top. I was also ordered to hand over to General Pushkin — a Corps Commander — a top secret package.

The thaw was on. It was raining in the area of our aerodrome. Visibility was at its lowest — about a hundred metres. When I had flown away from the aerodrome a wet snowfall began and fog overcast everything around — I couldn’t see a thing! I decided to increase altitude: maybe up there it would be a bit clearer than near the ground. The altimeter was already indicating 900 metres and indeed the fog had thinned out — but what was that? The plane began to shudder. All its cross-braces began to vibrate. I glanced overboard and saw the wings, the fuselage, even the propeller covered with a smooth icy crust.

The engine was working, all rudders and elevators were functioning but the plane wouldn’t obey them, it was losing altitude. I pushed the control column away to lose altitude faster but soon some instinct warned me that the ground was already close — somewhere very close. What’s down there, below me? A house, a forest, a river, a gully or something else? I turned off the engine and slowly pulled the lever… Bang! The plane touched the ground and carried us off, dragged us somewhere. I did my best to slow down, to stop our movement. But there were no brakes on the U-2 and I was using the rudder.

At last the plane stopped and it became astonishingly quiet. Nothing could be seen two steps away — there was fog and I was afraid to walk away from the plane — I could get lost. I had to wait until the fog dispersed. In the meantime I cleaned the ice from my plane and determined my location approximately, based on the time and flight speed. And when it had grown lighter I saw a large haystack in front of the plane’s nose. How had I managed not to run into it?

Having taken off I managed anyway to find General Pushkin’s Corps with the Katyushas. But on my way back I ran into a heavy snowfall again. I landed the machine by now in pitch-darkness — not even the plane parking bays were visible, so after touch down I taxied ‘on a wing and a prayer’. It was a good thing Dronov the mechanic had heard the ‘voice’ of his plane and run to meet me.

The squadron commander gave me a long dressing down then: “Tired of living, are you?” The pilots maintained a gloomy silence: it appeared that they had turned back half-way without completing their missions. The Southern Front Signals Commander General Korolev declared his gratitude to me and the political department presented me with a gift — a parcel from the home front. The most interesting moment was that on opening the parcel I found a tobacco pouch on top. “To a dear soldier from Marousya Koudryavtseva — as a keepsake” was embroidered on the pouch and inside there was a photo of a pretty girl. In her letter Marousya asked the young combatant to give the Fascists a real good bashing and come back home soon and victorious. And there was so much in that parcel carefully laid out under the tobacco pouch! Tobacco in packages, a bottle of vodka wrapped in woolen socks and, wrapped in a towel with red embroidery, a small bag of dried fruits. At the very bottom of the box there was a school exercise-book and a dozen envelopes. Half of them bore the address: Town of Mary, Turkmenskaya SSR85, Maria Koudryavsteva. I gave the pouch, the tobacco and the bottle of vodka to my aircraftsman, the towel to the hostess of the house I lived in, and kept the woollen socks and dried fruits for myself. I decided to pass the photo, the writing-book and the envelopes to Victor Kravtsov — a well-built Kuban Cossack who was 22 years old. I remember that in whatever place we were located all the local girls couldn’t take their eyes off him, but the Cossack wouldn’t pay attention to any of them… However, maybe he was only pretending that he was indifferent to them all?

“Victor”, I addressed Kravtsov, “Have a look at the photo — what a wonderful girl! You write her a letter instead of me. Make her happy to know the parcel got to its destination — to a young soldier, to a pilot on top of that.”

“Still up to your tricks”, he growled but took the exercise-book…

Red Army Day came. Our squadron gathered for the festive assembly and executive officer Lisatrevich solemnly began reading a Decree on behalf of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR: Lieutenant Spirin was awarded with the Order of the Red Star, Junior Lieutenant Egorova — with the Order of the Red Banner (by now I’d been conferred officer’s rank here in the signals squadron).

I had just flown back from a mission and being a bit late was sitting behind the rest. I still had the noise of a working engine in my ears and I didn’t catch whom the awards had gone to. Suddenly they all clustered around me, began to congratulate me, but I was standing and not believing it: why me? One might say, I’d found myself at the Front by chance. I’d carried out all the missions I’d been given as a soldier should, from the heart. But there was no denying that although it had often been difficult I’d done my best. For some reason I recalled the road reconnaissance sortie — to find out which troops were on the march — ours or the enemy’s… You couldn’t say it was much fun to fly in the daytime in a defenceless plane whose only weapon was the pilot’s revolver! Everyone knew the German aces chased our planes and it wasn’t a big challenge for a Messerschmitt to down a U-2, but their reward for this would be the same as for a shot-down fighter plane.

“Comrade Commander, what’s wrong with you? Are you alright?” I heard the voice of Dronov the mechanic. “You look awful…”

“I’m fine, what’s up?”

“They’re calling you to the presidium.”

The Order was presented to me by a member of the Frontline Military Council Leonid Romanovich Korniets: the very same General who had shown me by mimicry and gestures that I had to report the location of the Cavalry Corps of Parkhomenko and Grechko not to him but to the Front Commander.