Over Fields of Fire: Flying the Sturmovik in Action on the Eastern Front 1942-45 (Soviet Memories of War)

by Anna Timofeeva-Egorova

  We would re-read the pages of the KULP dozens of times before a flight, before implementation of another exercise, during preparation for exams. We also studied the ‘Flight Operations Manual’, the FOM. At the aerodrome first of all we took an examination before a mechanic on knowledge of the aircraft and the engine. Then, setting the plane up on a pivot post, we in turn entered the rear cockpit (an instructor sat in the front one) and, manipulating the levers, learned how to take off, turn around, and land on three points. An instructor patiently showed us how to work out the level for different flight configurations. To do this we would now lift the plane’s tail, now lower it, now move it sideways.

  At long last all the tests had been passed, the ground-based preparation had been completed and the next Sunday we should be flying. How slowly time drags when you are waiting…By now I was working at the shaft again – as a caulker. We caulked the tubing seals (this was to damp-proof the tunnels). It was really hard to caulk the arch of the tunnel – my arms raised up with a caulking hammer grew tired. On top of that when you do this work water pours from above directly into your sleeves and flows down all over your body, so you stand as if under a heavy shower of rain. When you are caulking the floor of the tunnel other difficulties arise. After a lot of preparation work done with a beading puncher you have to fill the seams with lead and tamp grout on top. Our work was considered unhealthy and a girl from the canteen would constantly bring us milk straight to the workplace and make us drink as much as we could! My duty was to prepare grout from cement, liquid glass, sand and other components according to the set proportions and fill the tubing seams with it. It was not a complicated job but it was difficult to do in gloves. Then I took them off and began to stuff the grout between the rough pig-iron tubing walls with my bare hands.

  After the shift I washed my hands and looked at them: there was no skin on them, and they hurt terribly: “What about flying?” An anxious thought flashed through my mind. I ran to the medical unit and the doctor gave a gasp, “What have you done, you silly girl?”

  “Will they skin over by Sunday?” I asked. “I have to go flying, you see.”

  “What do you mean, go flying!?” The doctor growled, smearing something on my hands and binding them up. She gave me a sick-leave certificate and forbade me to take off the dressings or wet my hands.

  On the second day I nevertheless went to work but I couldn’t stuff grout into the seams even with gloves on. Then I began carrying cement and sand in buckets. Trying to protect my sore palms, I would take the bucket like a ladies’ handbag and carry it on my bent arm. Passing by with yet another bucket of cement I suddenly heard yelling. Blokes from the tunnelling crews were arguing. There was a lot of noise anyway – from rock breakers, from caulking hammers driven by compressed air, from hissing hoses, from trolleys. But the blokes were outshouting all the workplace noise.

  “Anya! Anya!” I heard them calling me. “tell us which is right: opéra or òpera?”

  Two huge blokes stood in front of me, with faces red from arguing, gripping colossal spanners in their hands. Just in case I stood between them and said in a conciliatory manner “In French it would be opéra but in Russian, òpera.”

  The blokes calmed down, sympathized with me because my hands were in dressings and one of them asked “Why do we never see you at dances?”

  “No time, I’m studying at our aeroclub’s flying school.”

  “Have you already flown?” The miners asked with one voice.

  “Of course”, I lied, blushed and, hanging the bucket on my arm strode to my workplace.

  “What’s wrong with your hands, Egorova? Why are you carrying the cement bucket on your hip and not in your hand?” the shift boss asked, coming towards me.

  “It’s comfortable like that.” I answered and quickened my pace. At the beginning of the shift the brigade foreman had tried to ban me from working but I convinced him I would be assisting the brigade to meet the plan, and stayed.

  By the end of the second piatidnevka4 my hands had skinned over and I immediately headed to the aeroclub. Now we had to go to the aerodrome on a daily basis. The shaft was operating well but when I requested a transfer to work only day-shifts, for I would have to fly every day, our foreman Zaloev objected, “I won’t let you! You have no right!”

  The Ossetian5 Zaloev was handsome. His eyes, black with dark blue, flashed with fires from under long bushy eyelashes, his eyebrows were like two wings, his curly hair poked out from under his miner’s hat. He was tall and well-built. His ugly work clothes seemed to suit him! I was watching him carefully and he was running back and forth around the site brandishing his caulking hammer. “Here we go”, I thought. “With his hot Caucasus blood what a whack he’s gonna give me with the hammer!” but Zaloev, having calmed down, said reconciliatory “You no be angry ata me, me wanta good for you. Drop outta you flying, you may losa you head. Once we builda the station you willa join any institute you wanna. But now, Anya, you musta work.”

  “No, Georgiy, thanks for your advice but I’m not going to give up flying.”

  And here we are – having done a shift at the shaft we are heading off to our date with the skies as to a festival! It is noisy and cheery in our wagon our way to Malye Vyazemy. We sing songs – a beautiful blonde girl in a dark-blue velveteen dress with red buttons starts singing. She’s got a blue silk kerchief the colour of her eyes on her neck. This is Anya Poleva – also a trainee flyer at the aeroclub. An hour and a half has flown by unnoticed and now we are walking towards the aerodrome. The lawns have become greener over the week we haven’t been here and in some places the bird cherry trees have already blossomed as well. Victor Kroutov runs off the footpath, barges into the bushes and I am presented with the first bouquet of flowers in my life. I am still angry at him but accept the gift. The flowers from Victor are in my hands. I tear off a tiny petal and begin to tell my fortune, whispering to myself “I’ll fly, I won’t fly…” instead of “He loves me, he loves me not…” It comes out that I will fly and, rejoicing, I run lightly and freely towards my future…

  6

  My first flight

  W

  hat 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 OSOAVIAHIM1 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”.

  7

  I’m a pilot!

  T

  he first Sunday of June was ordinary. A day like any other: bright, warm, summery. At dawn quaint palaces of white clouds were still hanging on the horizon but by the time flying started they had dissipated and the sky had cleared. The weather was just right – aviation weather. Truth to tell, the breeze was playing up a bit but not too much. The aerodrome woke up early from habit, and when the disc of the sun rose up above the treetops our tall and thin instructor Miroevskiy was already inspecting the line of trainee pilots. It was as always, like many a time before that, but for some reason today he was looking us over very carefully as if we were soldiers on parade, and checking our flying gear. And no less cordially, with his pleasant, unexpectedly low voice he announced “Egorova will be the first to fly with me if there are no objections.”

  The very idea! I took a step forward and my whole posture expressed full readiness.

  “May I board?”

  “You may…”

  I deftly jumped up on a wing and then threw myself into the rear cockpit. That was how it should be. The front one was for the instructor.

  “Taxi out!”

  The obedient U-2, waddling from side to side like a duck, rolled towards the airstrip on the stiff grass. “Take the controls!” Miroevskiy ordered.

  “Aye-aye, taking the controls…”

  It was a routine dual training circle flight. As usual we took off, landed and taxied to the parking lot…Then the instructor’s seat was occupied by the flight commander and we took off and landed again. And at this moment I was surprised by the inopportune appearance of the club Flying Service commander. The flight commander was already unbuckling his seatbelts and threw his leg overboard. It was time for me to get out too. But the flight commander made a sign with his hand as if to say: ‘stay there’. There was a smile on Miroevskiy’s kind long face. It meant that everything was alright – he was pleased.

  In the meantime the aeroclub’s Flying Service commander was already heading for the plane, doing up his helmet on the way and pulling on his leather gloves. Flying Service commander Lebedev was a simple, cordial and benevolent man. We, the trainee pilots, had never seen him blazing up, yelling at anyone, degrading anyone’s human dignity even under stress. He always listened attentively to us, his subordinates, made his remarks tactfully, gave useful recommendations. When lecturing he would instil in us that a man in the sky doesn’t learn just flying skills. He builds his character and his outlook on life in the skies. “For his success each pilot is obliged not so much to his natural disposition and abilities but rather to his diligence”, he used to say. “All your flying days are still ahead of you. So gather all the best you have inside: courage; self-control; love for your trade, and work! That’s the only way you will earn the gratitude of the people…”

  And Lebedev was an excellent pilot too. They said that he had been awarded a Chinese medal for his excellent training of Chinese pilots in a combined aviation school in Urumchi. What skill must he have attained to train the Chinese pilots, illiterate, not knowing the Russian language, not having seen a plane in their lives?

  All of us trainee pilots were eager to be examined by the flying unit commander himself and not by the head of the aeroclub. “Are they really going to let us fly on our own?” the presumptuous and thrilling thought flashed through my mind. However, I was ashamed of it straightaway: “How did that get into my head? No one has flown on his own yet…”

  “Something’s up!” I thought and the Flying Service commander climbed into the front cockpit.

  “Fly a circle. Altitude’s 300 metres, then land on the landing T on three points inside the boundary”, I hear his voice through the speaking device. I repeat the order and ask for permission to taxi out.

  “Taxi out and take off!” – The commander ostentatiously put his hands on the sides of the cockpit, thus showing that now I would have to do everything myself and he was almost an bystander here and was not going to interfere with the controls.

  Well, if I have to, I will. I have been flying the plane for a long time, and the presence of an instructor has been som
ewhat soothing. After all, you know that if something happens he’ll be sure to help. I gradually rev up and take off, doing everything the way we’ve been taught. Here is the last straight line of the ‘box’ – the most crucial one. I glide, set the levelling altitude, pull the lever to me with a barely perceptible movement – and the plane lands on three points near the T-point of the airstrip.

  “Taxi in!” I hear the Flying Service commander’s order.

  When the plane stopped Lebedev ordered me to stay in the cockpit and headed towards Miroevskiy. The latter said something to him and then the instructor called for a sandbag to be put in the front cockpit. I immediately remembered that this used to be done to keep the plane aligned when a trainee flyer was flying on his own. And so it turned out. The instructor said, looking into my cockpit, “You’ll be flying alone now. Do everything you just did with the Flying Service commander”.