Over Fields of Fire: Flying the Sturmovik in Action on the Eastern Front 1942-45 (Soviet Memories of War)
Page 1
Soviet Memories of War series, edited by Artem Drabkin. Previous volumes in this series:
Volume 1: Penalty Strike. The Memoirs of a Red Army Penal Company Commander 1943 – 45 by Alexander V. Pyl’cyn
Volume 2: Red Star Airacobra: Memoirs of a Soviet Fighter Ace 1941-45 by Evgeniy Mariinskiy
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Published by Helion & Company 2010
eBook edition 2011
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Cover designed by Farr out Publications, Wokingham, Berkshire
Printed by Gutenberg Press Limited, Tarxien, Malta
Text and photographs © Anna Timofeeva-Egorova 2008
Text edited by Sergey Anisimov, translated by Vladimir Kroupnik
Publication made possible by the I Remember website (http://www.iremember.ru/index_e.htm) and its director, Artem Drabkin.
Hardcover ISBN 978 1 906033 27 9
Digital ISBN 9781907677557
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Contents
1 Led astray by a rainbow
2 My native land
3 The underground
4 Out of the pit and into the sky
5 Getting ready
6 My first flight
7 I’m a pilot!
8 Fate plays with human life
9 ‘Kokkinaky’
10 This is war, girls!
11 Closer to the front
12 “Is it natural flair or is it all God-given?”
13 See you after the victory
14 The Greenhorn
15 A fellow native
16 The Katyushas
17 A hooligan on the road
18 Pandemonium
19 “You want to go to a penal company?”
20 “Not a woman, a combat pilot”
21 Dropping bombs through a ‘bast-shoe’
22 Wingtip to wingtip
23 The skies over Taman
24 Tit, Petr and the rest
25 The Blue Line
26 My comrades-in-arms
27 Frogmarched to training
28 The aerial gunner and the technicians
29 A heroic place
30 Off the front
31 Fighting after a lull
32 Poland
33 “She died a hero’s death”
34 The infirmary
35 The SMERSh
36 The Colonel’s suit
37 Where are you now? My regimental comrades
Photographs
1
Led astray by a rainbow
I
’d made my choice – I was going to be a professional pilot! Nothing else would do! One cannot split oneself into two halves, one can’t give one’s heart to two passions at once. And the sky has a special claim on one, completely engaging all one’s emotions…
I remember the send-off as a bright sunny festival, although the day was quite likely to have even been overcast. But…my friends’ smiles, laughter and jokes – all this so dazzled me and so turned my head, and my joy, overfilling me, so fogged my vision…When the train had taken off I, by now on the carriage platform, stared ahead for a long time, blinking with half-shut eyes, failing to make anything out…
In Ulyanovsk, I rushed straight from the train station to the Venets1 – the highest spot above the Volga. And such an inconceivable space opened up before me from up there, such an expanse that it took my breath away! Here it was before me – the mighty Russian river that had given Russia the bogatyrs2…And what a wonder, above the Volga covered by young December ice, a rainbow began to shine. It threw its multicoloured yoke from one bank to the other across the whole blue sky – and this in the wintertime? Yet maybe I had just imagined it? But I was already laughing loudly, sure that it was a rainbow, and that it was a sign of luck. Again just like back at the Kazan train station in Moscow, waves of joy were coming from my chest and their splashes were curtaining the horizon with a rainbow mist. It had been no easy ride – exams passed brilliantly, approval given by a nitpicking medical board – and I had been enrolled as a flying school cadet!
…We had already been issued with uniforms: trousers, blouses with blue collar patches, boots with leggings. It seemed I had never worn a better outfit in my life although it was obviously a bit big for me. In a word I liked everything in the school from reveille and the physical exercises up to marching with a song before bedtime. We studied a lot. I did well in the classes. But once…I still see that day as a terrible dream.
“Cadet Egorova! The school commander’s calling you.”
When I entered the office and reported as one should, everyone sitting at the table met me with silence and just stared at me gloomily. I remember standing at attention and waiting.
“Do you have a brother?” I heard someone’s voice, and answered:
“I have five brothers.”
“And Egorov Vasiliy Alexandrovich?”
“Yes, he’s my elder brother.”
“So why have you concealed the fact that your brother is an enemy of the people3?”
For a moment I was taken aback.
“He’s not an enemy of the people, he’s a Communist!” I shouted in anger, wanted to say something else, but my throat dried up straightaway and only a whisper came out. I could no longer see the faces of those sitting in the office and heard little – only my heart throbbing stronger and stronger inside my chest. It seemed that my brother was in trouble and I knew nothing about it…From somewhere I heard, like a sentence:
“We are expelling you from the school!”
I don’t remember leaving the office, changing into my civilian clothes in the cloakroom, the gates of the flying school shutting behind me. They had taken the sky away from me…That rainbow had led me astray…I hadn’t found happiness…And again I found myself on a steep river bank, but this time not up on the Venets but far out of town. I searched through my pockets, found my passport, Comsomol4 membership card, a small red certificate with the Metro emblem on the front – the Government’s token of appreciation for my participation in the first stage of the Moscow Metro construction. That was all I had.
In agonising torment and anxiety I decided to go to see my mother in the village. There, in my native land of Tver I would be always understood and supported. But I suddenly thought: I haven’t even got a kopeck – not even enough for a passage ticket. And then I headed for the City Comsomol Committee…
2
My native land
B
asically our village of Volodovo, lost in woodland between Osta
shkovo and ancient Torzhok, had only one street. By 1930 it had only 45 houses. In summer everyone went to pick mushrooms and berries in the forests and coppices of Glanikha and Mikinikha, in Zakaznik and up on Sidorova Hill. But the main occupation of many generations in our land was flax. When it was in blossom it was impossible to tear your eyes away from the blue sea, and when it ripened it would become a sea of gold! And what great air there was in the many-grassed fields and meadows! And how crystal clear the springs were in Veshnya and Pestchanka, Lotky and Yasenitsa!
After I finished year four of the Sidorovskaya village school my mother decided to send me away to Torzhok and enroll me in a gold-embroidery school. But in a week I began to ask to go home for I understood that I would be unable to sit all day long over embroidery. I had understood even with my child’s mind that one has to have to have a vocation for such a craft. They didn’t make a gold embroiderer of me. But there was no place to continue my education, for there was no secondary school in our area and my elder brother decided to take me to Moscow.
I liked it at my brother’s, especially the warm arms of one-year old Yurka. He wouldn’t let me away from him day or night, and if I chanced not to be next to him he would begin crying so, that he awoke everyone in the apartment. I didn’t go to school for I had a headstart on studies by two months. I went for walks with Yurka, with children from our courtyard in Kourbatovskiy Lane, helped at home, and ran to the bakery to buy bread.
In the winter they set up a skating rink in our courtyard. With home-made wooden skates tied with strings to our valenki1 we managed to trace out some kind of figures on the ice. I happened to be at the circus when Grandfather Dourov2 performed in person. My brother took me once to the Bolshoi Theatre. I remember that the opera Prince Igor was on and I remembered Prince Igor’s aria for the rest of my life.
Looking ahead somewhat I recall that once I would have to listen to this aria as a POW of the Germans. An Italian POW named Antonio would sing it until he was shot dead by the Hitlerites…Years later when my second son was born I would call him Igor…
Thus, with all the variety, discoveries and delights of early teenage life my first Moscow winter went by. The next summer Yurka and I were sent to the village. It turned out that at long last they had opened a seven-year school in Novo village and it was decided that I would go there to study. The new school was a seven-year CYS3 and I entered Year 5 there. Seven kids from our village went there. Every day we had to cover five kilometres there and five kilometres back – in frost, under rain, on roads covered by snow and through impassable mud. Only two of us stayed on till year 6: Nastya Rasskazova and I.
Nastya and I went to the graduation ball dressed “to kill” as they said in our village. We wore black skirts made of ‘devil’s skin’4, white calico blouses with sailor collars and white socks and rubber-soled shoes on our feet. We sang, recited poetry and danced at the ball. They entreated me and Nastya – would-be sailors – to dance to Yablochko5 and we joyfully kicked up our heels with all our might.
Along with our graduation certificates we all received recommendations for further studies. Guryanov and I were recommended for teachers’ college, Nastya Rasskazova for agricultural school. Nikitina, Mila, Lida Rakova were recommended for 9-year school and to continue studying at university.
3
The underground
T
he papers were calling us to the 5-year-plan construction sites and almost all of our graduating class left for different places. Everyone wanted, as it was said back then, to take part in the ‘industrialisation of the country’. We were eager to work and to study.
That summer my brother Vasiliy spent his vacation in our village. He helped mother mow hay for the cow and stocked firewood for the winter. He told us a lot about Moscow, construction sites, and about the underground railroad – the Metro – which was to be built in Moscow.
“What for?”, mother asked.
“To get to work faster”, Vasya1 answered. “In many developed countries Metros were built even in the middle of last century, in London, New York, Paris…”
We were all were surprised by my brother’s knowledge and most of all by the fact that a Metro would be built in Moscow. This word had not been heard before! I had already decided for myself that I would go with my brother and try to find a job on this mysterious construction. But when I advised mother of this she began to object, and lamented “I’ve brought my kids up and now they all are going to fly away from their native nest and I’ll be left alone”. Vasya convinced mother I would definitely keep studying in Moscow and on that we left.
Upon arrival in the capital the first thing I did was to go and look for a district Comsomol committee. I gingerly entered the building and began to guess which door I should knock on.
“What are you looking for, young lady?” a man dressed in overalls asked me.
“I want to work for Metrostroy2!”
“Are you a Comsomol member?”
“Yes!”
“Write your application”, the chap suggested, and asked a passing girl: “Where shall we send her?”
“And what can she do?”
“Nothing yet” he answered for me.
“Then send her to the Metrostroy Construction School FZU”3
“Alright!”
And right there in the corridor, on the window sill, the man immediately wrote me the school’s address on a piece of paper: 2, Staropetrovskj-Razumovskiy Passage.
And off I went. In the FZU during the entrance examination I was told that the Metrostroy badly needed fitters. I didn’t know what fitting was or what it was for but answered firmly, “Alright, I’ll be a fitter!”
The Metrostroy was a Comsomol construction site and everyone was supposed to choose not the job he wanted but the one for which there was a demand. Three and a half thousand Communists, fifteen thousand Comsomol members in overalls, hard hats and metrokhodkas4 were the vanguard of this remarkable construction effort. And this would ensure its success: in a short period – three years – the first stage of the underground was ready. The work was hard but no one was disheartened and the girls didn’t want to lag behind the blokes in anything. The doctors didn’t want to let us work underground but we kept getting permission for it anyway.
But so far, I kept studying at the Metrostroy FZU. We had four hours of practical work and four hours of theory daily. The study was not easy: for us new chums, wire-cutters that were a toy for an instructor would become heavy and fall out of our hands when we tried to twist wire or cut it. And it was even harder to understand blueprints! So as to live closer to the FZU I moved to a hostel located nearby. It was a whole township of barracks. There were four large rooms in a barracks with three rows of beds in each and a table in the middle. We did our lessons and drank tea at this big table. There were no breakfasts, lunches or dinners as such for us. You couldn’t get up to much on the 28 roubles we were getting!
In 1928 the ‘Three Prelates’ Church near the Red Gate5 was demolished. The No.21 shaft of the Metrostroy was sunk there and later on in 1934 the entrance hall of the ‘Red Gate’ Metro station was built. It was right there in the shaft precinct that we made the first slabs for the joists of the concrete ‘sleeve’ of the tunnel. All the slabs were lifted onto a gantry, from there loaded into a cage, and let down into the shaft. Back then during the first stage of the Metrostroy only loads were carried down the shaft and pulled up it, whereas the pit workers went up and down using a ladder. I will remember that ladder all my life – a narrow well or ‘pit-shaft’ and inside it an almost vertical ladder with narrow footholds. If someone was climbing up and another one down at the same time it was really hard to pass by each other. We had to take our gloves off for it was hard to hold on to the slippery rungs with them on. The light from our feeble lamps was quickly lost in the thick darkness. And the gumboots of other miners following you would step on your hands as you held the rungs. How afraid I was going down into the shaft for the first time in my
life! But the further I got from the surface the warmer I got and the lighter it was, and now we were already at a depth of 40-50 metres. Our reinforcing rods lay to one side and trolleys of earth were coming into the pit one after another and the cager was rolling them into the cage and sending them upwards.
The cager is a pit worker who receives loads and sends them up and down. He’s got a rubber jacket, gumboots and a wide-brimmed hat on and you can’t tell straightaway if he’s a man or a woman. He seems like a giant not only because of his dress but also because he so easily handles the trolleys loaded to the top with earth. But now the cage is gone and I see the cager, having taken off first his hat and then a small cap turned peak-backwards, straighten his bushy white hair…
We, yesterday’s new brigade of pals, shouldered our reinforcing rods and, bent over by the weight, strode forward through a gallery towards the tunnel where they would have to be put together precisely according to the design drafts and every crossover tied with wire. Then carpenters would make a casing and the concrete workers would pour concrete into it…We walked through the gallery in single file. It was hard to walk for the load was heavy and we wanted to throw it down, straighten up and have a rest. But we carried on lugging it and someone began to sing quietly “Through the valleys and across the hills…”