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

15. A fellow native

Everyone in the squadron already knew of my woes — a message had been sent by the radio operators of the cavalry corps that had set up communications. Coming back to my aerodrome I landed and taxied to the parking lot, but didn’t find Lieutenant Alexeyev’s plane. Everything was scattered around the place in some disorder.

“What’s happened?” I asked Dronov the mechanic.

“Lieutenant Alexeyev died…”

“Who was he flying with?”

“His navigator was Lieutenant Grachev. Grachev is alive but badly crippled…” My heart began to ache, tears welled up, and barely shifting my feet I walked away from the parking lot.

“What are you doing, Egorova, dragging your feet instead of walking?” I heard the angry voice of Major Boulkin. “Where’s the package from the cavalry corps commander? Look a bit lively!”

I pulled the package out of my map case, handed it over to the major and went off to look for the squadron commissar Ryabov and the Party organiser Irkoutskiy. “How can this be?” I thought. “Our comrade, a pilot, has died… People should be called together to commemorate him. How can this be?”

I found neither Ryabov nor Irkoutskiy in place. They’d flown off on a mission before noon. To be frank, we were not overfond of Boulkin for his arrogance, dryness and roughness. But Alexey Vasilievich Ryabov was his exact opposite. The commissar had often flown as a lay pilot but would find time for a heart-to-heart talk, or a reprimand if one deserved it. However, if Ryabov had given a scolding no one would have resented it. The Party organiser Ivan Iosifovich Irkoutskiy was a good match for our commissar — a tactful, kind and thoughtful man. Irkoutskiy was especially good at locating encircled units. And he was an excellent navigator. In the squadron they joked that “Ivan would find the Fritzes77 if they were underground”. Once, when searching for a cavalry detachment, Irkoutskiy and airman Kasatkin came across German tanks. The latter immediately opened fire on them but Irkoutskiy quickly noticed that in one village were some men with bales of hay, wandering between the houses. The navigator suggested Kasatkin land the plane. When they landed, it became clear that in the village was exactly the detachment they were looking for. In order to disguise themselves the cavalrymen had hidden the horses in sheds, outhouses and even dwellings. Thus the crew had carried out their mission this time too.

Irkoutskiy was regarded in the squadron as a ‘lucky one’. Once with the pilot Kasatkin he even landed straight on a minefield and everything came out ok — both survived unscathed. And once Irkoutskiy took off with the pilot Sborshikov to reconnoitre the roads near Nikolayev. En route they encountered 10 Ju-87s escorted by Me-109 fighter planes. The fighters pounced on the defenceless U-2, Sborshchikov landed the plane directly and he and Irkoutskiy ran from it in different directions. The Hitlerites made several passes on the plane, strafed the running airmen as well, but without success. The whole U-2 was holed but it hadn’t caught fire and the flyers, as the saying goes, ‘got off lightly’. When they came back home it turned out that our aerodrome had been bombed yet again — the whole airfield was sown with mines as if with tulips. How to land? There was a cross on the ground to forbid them from landing but nevertheless Sborshchikov touched down, manoeuvring between shell craters and mines during the run like a true circus artiste. The crew received a citation from Front Headquarters. But Sborshchikov was put on a charge by the squadron commander for landing when the inhibitory sign was on the ground.

“Egorova! You and me are fellow natives — I was born near Torzhok too”, once Irkoutskiy addressed me and asked: “Have you been getting letters from your mum?”

“Haven’t heard from her for a long time. I’m afraid the Fascists are raging around our parts. I fear for mum very much…”

“I haven’t heard from my mum for a long while either”, bowing his head, the partorg78 said quietly, and went on: “Our comsorg79 told me the Comsomol recommended you to the Communist Party. So, I am ready to vouch for you. After all, Egorova, I joined the Party in 1939 and had been in the Comsomol since 1928. You see how old I am!”

“What are you talking about? You’re only 31”, I pointed out. “Are you married, Ivan Iosifovich?”

“No, Egorova, I haven’t got around to it. I haven’t had time. I had a girlfriend but she got married, giving up on me leaving the Army… Well, Egorova, Commissar Ryabov will give you the second reference — he told me about it himself”, our partorg added finally.

The Party meetings in our squadron had always been short, with minutes written in a condensed fashion — just the resolutions, and questions were discussed mostly in relation to admission of new members and candidates to the Party. The commissar had always been present at the meetings. The Battalion Commissar80 Alexey Vasilievich Ryabov wasn’t a skilled public speaker or a theorist. He was just a good man. With all his heart, with all his deeds the commissar had always tried to inspire the squadron personnel to carry out the tasks set us. And we had the same task as the whole nation — to destroy the enemy…

During one of the Party meetings I was accepted as Party candidate. It was in April 1942. At that time we were based in the settlement of Voevodovka near Lisichansk and the candidacy card was handed to me in the Southern Front headquarters. An officer from the political section presenting me with the card suddenly asked me:

“Comrade Egorova, aren’t you a sister of Vasiliy Alexandrovich Egorov?”

“No”, I answered glibly.

Later I would suffer a lot from my treachery towards my brother. How could I disown so heedlessly my elder brother who had taken the place of my late father for me? The bitterness still stings my soul. How could I answer that way? Many years later when my brother had been ‘rehabilitated’ and he had come to Moscow, I told him about it. He thought a bit, then smiled and said: “You were probably afraid they wouldn’t let you fight?”

“I did.”

“Oh, you cowardy-custard!” And my brother gave me a big kiss, forgiving my forced disavowal of him…

For the first time after my ‘Barvenkovo epic’ I managed to sleep my fill. A good sleep drove away the fatigue. Everything I had endured during the two most difficult flights was left somewhere behind and sunk in the depths of my memory. But at the same time it was clear to me that new ordeals were waiting for me. Sprightly, full of strength, I entered the squadron headquarters and the first thing that struck my eye was a large piece of paper fixed on the corridor wall. I was going to walk past but one of the airmen who chanced to be nearby said with a cunning smile: “Don’t turn your nose up, Egorova, read it — it concerns you.”

“Me?” I was surprised and went to the paper… Some amateur artist had depicted on it a fairy of the air drifting through a snowstorm. Under the friendly caricature was a caption: “A woman flies but the men have a day off!”

“They’ve given the blokes a good stir, eh?” Asked Listarevich who had suddenly appeared. I blushed and muttered something indistinct. “What are you shy for? You’ve taught all airmen a good lesson”, and offered me his hand. “Let me congratulate you: the commanders have put you up for an award for searching out the cavalry corps…”

“Egorova, the commander’s asking for you!” came the call.

“You’re to fly to the 6th Army to pick up General Zhouk — the Front Artillery Commander”, the squadron commander ordered.

“Yes sir!” I replied, repeated the order and began to plot the course on my flight map. I took off when the day was already declining. It was pleasant to fly. Everything was white and clean and the sky was clear as if there were no war. However, as the saying goes “God helps those who help themselves”! And just in case, I was doing a contour flight, hiding myself in gullies and copses, trying to merge with the countryside. Immediately after landing a light vehicle rolled up to my plane. A General came out of the car and I delivered my report by the book. “For the Front artillery commander you couldn’t find a bloke?” He asked discontentedly. I answered the question with a question: “Permission to ask where we’re flying to?”

A colonel accompanying the General named the required place. Taking the map from its case I plotted the course there on a wing of the plane with chilled hands, and got into the front cockpit. The general in his astrakhan, muffled in a scarf almost right up to his eyes, settled behind me and we took off. I could see the tired face of my passenger in the mirror fixed on the left hand side to a centre-section stanchion. Our eyes met time and again, I was showing him with my hand sometimes the earth decked out in silvery winter apparel, sometimes the sun — but the General continued to frown. But suddenly a shadow fell on the plane. I looked around and a treacherous chill ran down my back. Two Messerschmitts were insolently and self-assuredly diving upon us! I began to throw my machine left and right just above the ground fleeing the machine-gun bursts. But the Germans were coming in to the attack again and again! The engine snorted, then did it again… The impression was that it was choking like a man short of air. Below, as far as the eye could see, lay the steppe, densely covered with snow. No welcoming smoke, not a hut. The domain of the wolf. Suddenly the engine stalled… I turned back to my ‘passenger’ showing him by hand that I was going to land. In reply he just shook his head but an open dissatisfaction showed in that movement. “Talk about gentry”, I thought. “He doesn’t understand they can kill us… Like we have to land just because I feel like it?”… Especially given I was carrying not just an officer but a “God of War”81 commander. There’ll be no end of trouble now!”

The engine stalled and I was going straight for landing. And the Messers82 kept shooting at us. All the time the strong and gusty wind strove to catch the plane’s tail, to turn it upside down or at least break its wings. Generally speaking it was a simple task for a good stepnyak83. A U-2 was not a large machine — just plywood and percale. The wind was stubborn but I was not the complacent type either: I was the determined type too! I held the lever tightly and we landed safely. I jumped out of the cockpit to assist the General who was dressed so warmly that he couldn’t climb out by himself. But the Messers’ blood was still up. Heart-chilling bursts of fire were thrusting into the snow right next to our plane. At last we stopped the plane and ran towards the forest. We were stumbling, falling over, getting up and running again. My General had already run completely out of breath forcing his way through the deep snow drifts — his clothes and age were definitely not suited to cross-country running. Suddenly everything fell silent… Hearing that, I asked the General to wait for me behind the trees.

“What are you saying, wait for you till the cows come home?” The artilleryman interrupted me angrily, catching up with me. “In this weather I’m not going to do that! We have to leave the machine and look for some dwelling before it’s too late.”

We again reached the plane, which shuddered convulsively at every squall of wind. I looked at it anxiously, turning a deaf ear to my ‘passenger’s’ words, and thought to myself: “If it blows a bit stronger it’ll break the machine, carry it away. We have to tie it down immediately”. And I climbed into the cockpit.

“What are you going to do?” The artilleryman was surprised.

“I’m going to get the hawser from the fuselage — we’ll be tying the plane down.”

“I’m sorry but this way we’ll be tinkering with it till dark. And we’ll be done for in the dark!”

“Till dark or not, I have no right to abandon my equipment in this condition.”

“Well, you know…”

But glancing at my face, my ‘passenger’ understood I wouldn’t back away from my decision, and took the rope from my hands. We managed to drag the plane, tail forward, up to the forest with great difficulty. Only here did I examine it properly. Well, all in all the Fritz had crippled my U-2 pretty badly. The holes didn’t matter, the main thing was that a propeller vane had been shot off, one cylinder of the engine was gone and the oil and petrol tanks were breached. Strange that it hadn’t caught fire!

At last we had fastened the machine, tying it to the tree trunks, and disguised it with branches. Together we handled it quickly. Having finished, picked up the documents and plotted the necessary direction on the map, we went deep into the steppe. Oh, that night march was a hard one. We walked for an hour, then another, then a third… Snowy wool kept tumbling from the sky with no end as if from a torn sack. It was becoming harder and harder to walk. But the worst thing was that fatigue was accompanied by indifference. I hung my head low to hide my face from the tiresome snowflakes. Only they kept me aware of reality. “Or maybe it’s a dream after all?” — importunate thoughts were crawling into my head. “That’s the staccato thumping of rock breakers I hear, the faint shouts of miners in the tunnel, the jokes of my girlfriends from the brigade. I hear Tosya Ostrovskaya whispering something into my ear. I can’t understand what she wants and then Tosya begins shaking me by the shoulders. But I still can’t understand… And why is there snow in the tunnel? It tickles my cheeks so tenderly, wraps my hands so warmly. I really don’t want to free myself from its comfortable arms. And again Tosya shakes my shoulder… But this is not my girlfriend — she can’t have this manly bass…”

“What’s your name?”

“Anna.”

“You have to get up, Comrade Anna, get up and walk now.” Now I could discern the words clearly. “It won’t take you long to freeze like this…” But I hadn’t the strength for even a step, and I sat in the snow again.

“I’m not going any further. You go on your own…”

“Get up, get up, Anna,” the General kept tugging at me. “You’ll fall asleep and freeze to death!”

“Yes, yes, need to walk”, I replied automatically. At last I understood what was dream and what was real.” I’ll get up soon, for sure…”

My mind knew what to do but my legs refused to obey me. How could I find the strength to stand upright, so as to walk across this hostile snow-clad steppe? But the artillery General stretched his hand to me and I walked, managing to overcome my deadly fatigue… I held on to him for the first several metres but then felt more and more confident with every pace. The dead point was behind me and I found my second wind. And the howling of the wind no longer seemed to me so ominous, and the bottomless darkness was no longer so scary.

By dawn, with frostbitten faces and hands, we had come across our soldiers. They were artillerymen from the unit to which I and Frontline Artillery Commander Zhouk were flying. They walked us into a hut wherein an iron stove was burning and soldiers were sleeping all over the floor. I fell asleep as soon as I sat down by the threshold. In the morning the signalmen reported my location to my squadron, and mentioned that the plane needed serious repairs. Soon after that Spirin, the pilot, flew over to me with Dronov the mechanic and on a second trip he brought all the stuff necessary for repairs to the engine and plane.

It had taken the whole day to find the plane in an unknown forest (fortunately, a big patch of spilled oil on the snow had helped out) and tow it by horse to a village. Konstantin Sergeevich swore for quite a while examining the damaged plane. He wished a thousand damnations on the German flyers and on Hitler himself, promising to bury the Führer on an aspen stake. But at the same time he went about his business, quickly installing something like a tent over the engine to protect himself from the wind.

When I saw that for ease of working he’d taken off his gloves I began to assist him.

“Comrade Commander, what are you trying to do with the engine with such a frostbitten face, eh? It’ll get scared and won’t start”, my mechanic joked. Indeed my face was scary: it had turned black all over. I daubed it with grease and on top of that put on a mask of mole-fur. Such masks had been issued to all airmen but we didn’t like to wear them — the furry skin on its lining with cutouts for the eyes and mouth made us look as if we were at a carnival.

To send me off to warm up Dronov was inventing various ruses but then he gave up and the whole business went faster. Aircraftsmen are an amazing lot! As a rule they are great masters of their craft or as it is said now, ‘craftsman with golden hands’. They wouldn’t go to eat or sleep until a plane was fully ready and then, having handed it over to a pilot, wouldn’t leave the aerodrome but would patiently wait for his return. He would begin to tidy up the parking lot — he would roll up the aircraft covers, carry brake shoes to the right place, then would simply smoke so the waiting time didn’t drag on so long. And he would cast glances at the sky time and again — is he coming back yet? A mechanic would recognise the approach of his plane from afar — by a note in the engine’s roar known only to him. And then he would run to meet it! How happy these modest aerodrome labourers were when their pilots came back to the ground alive and in one piece. And there would be no limit to their grief if their pilots had not come back from a mission… No, I could not have become a plane mechanic — I wouldn’t have had the strength to wait! Especially at war when all possible time for return is up and all hope rests on a miracle but the mechanic still waits, peers into the sky, listens, hopes…

That time Dronov came back to the squadron with me and he showed his comrades the holes he had had to patch up in the frost.

“I counted 87 holes but Annoushka and the General weren’t scratched! That’s what it means to have the ‘devil’s dozen’ as your tail number”, Dronov chuckled. But I knew: apart from all the numbers, apart from luck, on those flights I’d been faithfully guarded by the hands of my mechanic. And by fate as well. I do believe in fate.

Generally speaking everything had turned out alright except that we’d got our fingers and cheeks frostbitten. But who would pay attention to that at the front? It was a trifle not worth remembering! But the Artillery Commander couldn’t forget that night on the steppe and he remembered my personality. As soon as he’d flown back to Front headquarters he notified the signals commander Korolev: “I’m taking Egorova. I need combat pilots for the spotter planes…”

When it became known in the squadron the airmen began ‘making me see reason’: “Have you gone crazy? You’re a pilot, a human being, not a rubber balloon. You’re meant to fly, not to hang like a sitting duck over the frontline!”

That was true — it’s not too pleasant to serve as a target. But, word of honour, in what way were we, in our U-2s, not targets for the enemy’s fighter planes? And I’d grown sick of being an aerial chauffeur… I wanted to fight a real war. At least the spotter plane pilots helped to detect the enemy and wipe him out, but what about us? But nevertheless if I were to switch to another kind of aviation I would prefer to be a ground-attack pilot. I wasn’t destined to become a spotter plane pilot…