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

6. My first flight

What greater thrill can there be in life than flight? I remember it thus: an airfield with skylarks and bluebells. Our planes are lined up, as are we in our brand new dark blue overalls and OSOAVIAHIM29 helmets with goggles. Each group stood by its plane. Everyone stood to attention. A light breeze was blowing in our faces, we were breathing easily and freely. And it was so nice to live in this world, so joyful! I thought that there would be no end to our youth or to our lives…

“To your planes!” the head of the aeroclub orders.

Our instructor Georgiy Miroevskiy takes his seat in the front cockpit, a trainee pilot, Tougoushy, in the rear. We all envy our comrade: he is lucky to be the first to go up in the sky.

“Sta-art engines!” the head of flying gives the command.

“It’s turned off!” Looking at the technician standing next to the plane’s propeller, the instructor says “Inject fuel!”

“Yes sir, injecting fuel!” the technician shouts turning the propeller.

“Start up!”

“Yes sir, starting up!”

“Swing the prop!”

“Yes sir! Clear of the prop!” — And strongly jerking on a vane to vent the compression the technician runs away from the screw. The propeller began to spin, the engine started up, sneezing barely-seen smoke. The instructor threw his arms sideways, which meant “take the chocks from under the wheels”. Then the plane smoothly taxied to the starting point.

We sit in the ‘square’ next to the tool kit bag, wheel blocks and slipcovers and watch the plane. The ‘square’ is a place where all the trainee pilots and technicians of the aeroclub free from flying are positioned. Each of us keeps his eyes on the plane. Now ‘ours’ has made several circles over the aerodrome and touches down. We all dart off to greet him but the technician pulls us up sternly, saying “Let just Egorova meet him.”

Gripping the U-bow of a wing I run with long light strides trying not to lag behind the plane. Without turning off the engine the instructor orders the next one of us to get in, and we mob Tougoushy and bombard him with questions.

“How was it, good?”

“Good!” He replies smiling from ear to ear.

“How good?” I asked. “And not even a bit scary?”

“No, it wasn’t scary.”

“And what did you see?”

Tougoushy becomes pensive, “The instructor’s head, the rev counter in the mirror, the instructor’s face in the mirror.”

“And nothing else?”

“Nothing at all”, Tougoushy answered seriously to our common laughter.

My turn has come. “May I board?” I asked the instructor. Miroevskiy gave permission with a nod, and I climbed into the cockpit, buckled up the belts, and attached the hose of the intercom.

“Ready?” The instructor asked me impatiently, watching me in the mirror.

Trying to shout down the engine’s roar I yelled “Ready!”

I receive directions through the speaking device: the instructor will be doing everything himself during the flight and I will just hold the levers softly and memorise the turns.

“Try to take note of the flight heading, and the landmarks for turns. We’re taking off!” I hear his order at last.

When we are in the air only the instructor talks, “The start is towards the south-west. On the right is Golitsyno, Bol’shie Vyazemy, on the left the Malye Vyazemy train station. We’re making the first turn.”

I am all attention. I do my best to remember what is below, lest I miss the turns…

“We’re over the Malye Vyazemy station. Here is the second turn, memorize it”, Miroevskiy continues insistently. When we were flying over ploughed fields the plane lurched heavily. Abandoning the levers I reached for the fuselage with both hands but it was as if the instructor hadn’t noticed me move.

“Altitude is 300 metres, flying straight. Steer the plane!”

I had not expected that at all. But there was no choice — I began operating the pedals, the steering column, the throttle. And then the quietly horizontally flying plane began listing from one side to another, lifting its nose above the horizon or lowering it like a horse under a bad rider. The machine wouldn’t obey my inexperienced hands! And it seemed to me that a whole eternity had gone by before the instructor took over the controls. The plane immediately calmed down and I gave way to despair: “My flying days are over! I am no good at it, and a coward to boot…” I wanted only one thing — that no-one find out about my disgrace: my inability to handle the plane even in straight flight! My hopes of becoming a pilot were dashed…

But the instructor Miroevskiy tells me about the third turn as if nothing has happened, asks me to keep my eye on the airstrip “T” point and whether we are flying parallel to the sign. Having finished the third turn he slows down and, descending, we approach the last, the fourth, turn. I hold the control levers but not so as to impede the instructor. Now he switches the craft to gliding, then hovers and lands on three points.

“That’s it”, I hear his voice in the headphones. “We’ve made it back! Now taxi to the parking lot.”

And I interpret it my way: “My flying days are over. He’ll cross me off as incapable”. Having taxied the machine to the spot himself Miroevskiy turned off the engine and began to climb out of the cockpit. Having unfastened my seatbelts I clumsily got out onto the wing and jumped down on the ground.

“Ready to have my knuckles rapped” I said quietly, not raising my head.

“What’s wrong with you, Egorova? You’re not going to cry, are you?”

“I’m a failure!”

“But who succeeds on the first go?” Miroevskiy laughed. “Moscow too wasn’t built in a day”.