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

by Anna Timofeeva-Egorova

  That’s when my mouth went dry and my palms got sweaty! I wanted to thank the instructor for having me taught to fly, for letting me fly the first in my group, wanted to find many kind and good words but not saying anything, just sniffling I began to pull my goggles on. I did it too soon, paying no attention to the plane mechanic setting a sandbag on the seat. How many months I’d been waiting for those little words “fly alone”, that sign of the highest faith in a young flyer. I’d been dreaming of them, saying them in different ways and thinking under what circumstances I would hear them. And now I heard them…Miroevskiy began to help the technician tie up the sand bag inside the front cockpit and was saying “This is for Egorova so that she doesn’t get bored! It’ll replace me! Well, don’t hang back, flyer…Everything will be alright…Be calm.”

  “Contact!”

  “Clear the prop!”

  The propeller began to make its revolutions and the plane shuddered again. All my attention was concentrated on the instruments. Grasping the wing cantilever the instructor Miroevskiy walked alongside up till the start point, and confidence was passing from his strong skilful hands to me through the whole body of the plane as if by invisible impulses. Here were the control column, throttle lever, magneto lever…I had touched them hundreds of times, turned them, made the machine go through complicated manoeuvres. But that had all been done with an older comrade watching – and now I was responsible for each movement of mine and of the plane. Myself! Strange thing – whereas only several seconds ago the responsibility was pressing me down, now, at the starting line, there was nothing of the sort.

  I turned the U-2 around during the take off. My heart was beating evenly, I was breathing easily, my mind was working sharply, my memory was prompting me to perform the well-programmed actions. The utmost concentration and determination! No, my dual training flights had not been in vain. The machine was gaining speed – one more second and the undercarriage left the ground. I am flying! Everything went well. The main thing now was to carry out all elements of the flight neatly and correctly…

  Do many people know what a flight means? You will say: millions. Look how many of them dash from one city to another, from continent to continent. But how can you compare the open cockpit of a training plane with the hermetically sealed salon of a passenger liner? Everything in it is like in a bus: the walls, the windows, the ceiling. You can walk in it, move around paying no attention to any kind of atmospheric conditions. It’s comfortable…But this is only the illusion of a flight: you do not fly, but you “travel by air”. Being in a training plane is completely different, even if it’s a U-2! Everything is open to the air: your head, shoulders, hands. Sink your palms into the rigid air waves and you will feel the strong chilling current. Turn around and you’ll see – there is no one else in the whole world. There is only the sky, you and your plane obedient to your human will. It lifts you higher and higher: up to the stars, up to the sun. If you want to turn it sideward it’ll do it, if you want to take it lower it’ll do it. You’re its master.

  I was inundated by happiness. I wanted to sing, to yell into space. To shout that I was a pilot, that I could tell the plane what to do! I, a simple Russian girl, a girl from the Moscow Metrostroy! But the miracle that seemed to me an eternity lasted only a few minutes: just enough to manage to make a circle over the aerodrome. And now the U-2 was running on the grass again. Miroevskiy stood near the T-point. He raised his thumb and made some sign with a white signal flag. Initially I didn’t understand what it was about but then guessed: permission had been given for a second flight. It meant I had done everything alright. And there was no limit to my joy during the second flight. I sang, then yelled something, finally, taking my feet off the pedals I tried to cut some capers, and I didn’t notice I was approaching the fourth turn.

  I am trying, trying very hard to land the plane as accurately as possible and I manage to do it: the U-2 touches down on three points at the T-point. Our starshina1 Khatountsev meets the plane. He has grasped a wing with one hand and is holding the other one raised with the thumb stuck up. In revenge for him making me wash the plane’s tail I stick out my tongue and rev up. The plane speeds up and Vanya runs with all his might accompanying me. And I am so cheerful, my soul rejoices so much, that it seems there is no person in the world happier than me! Having taxied to the parking lot I turn off the engine. Mobbing the plane, the guys ask me some questions, congratulate me, but I rush to report the mission accomplished to the club management. “Well done, Egorova. Keep flying like that”, the flying unit commander said and shook my hand firmly.

  That day three from our group flew on their own: Khatountsev, Petukhov and I. After the flight we went to work under the technician’s command and again starshina Khatountsev ‘entrusted’ me with washing the tail unit. I was not angry at him – on the contrary, I took a rag, soap and a bucket of water with pleasure…In the evening during debriefing the instructor declared his gratitude to us but Tougoushy gave us a scolding, “Why do you look only at the instrument board during the flight? Where’s your field of attention? You can’t fly like that! You will smash yourselves up and kill me. Just as I want to hand the controls over to you at landing I look in the mirror and see you looking not at the ground but at the instruments. We are not doing blind flights after all! And you have to act more freely in the air too, you mustn’t tense up and get scared. The plane is reliable!” And he added, laughing, “History knows a case when a U-2 took off and landed with no pilot.”

  We all laugh and again Miroevskiy patiently tells us about flying a circle, shows the route on a mock-up, draws it on the blackboard and then asks Tougoushy to repeat everything. The trainee pilot repeats everything sensibly – after all, he’s got degree in engineering – but during the next flight he watches the instruments again. The instructor makes him train on the ground, in the plane cockpit, and then finally the penny drops. Soon after that Tougoushy would catch up with us.

  By the end of July when we had all begun flying on our own they suggested we take leave from work and go to camp, to an aerodrome. They made no obstacles for me at the shaft. On the contrary, our Comsomol leader Zhenya kept holding me up as an example at all the meetings, “These are dreadful, bleak times. The clouds of war are coming from the West. Imperialism, riding on a strengthened Fascism, is preparing an attack on our Soviet country!” he would say wrathfully and urging the guys to join the OSOAVIAHIM and pick up military skills. Many of the girls and guys answered the call. Alesha Ryazanov, a metalworker from our shaft’s mechanical workshop, was among them. Running a bit ahead I’ll say that Alesha would graduate from an aeroclub, then the Borisoglebsk military school for fighter pilots, and open his combat account of shot-down Fascist planes on the first day of the war. Ryazanov would defend the skies of Moscow, Stalingrad, Kuban’2, the Pribaltika3. Our fellow Metrostroy worker would become Twice Hero of the Soviet Union…4

  I quickly booked my vacation and, having received my holiday pay, sent almost everything to the village, for my mother, having written in my letter that I would be going to camp. I didn’t explain what kind of camp it was.

  They set up an army-like daily routine for us in the camps. It would be reveille, physical exercises, cleaning up the tents, breakfast if flights were planned for the second shift. If they were to be in the first shift, reveille would be before dawn and commencement of flying, at dawn. Soon we had all worked on our circle flying and started on the most interesting thing, aerobatics. Again we studied the ‘Flight Operations Manual’ which says the aim of learning aerial stunts is to teach the pilot to use the flying characteristics of a plane fully. This helps to master perfectly the art of manoeuvring the plane, necessary for a pilot in combat. But we were still doing our ‘aerobatics’ on the ground. The instructor Miroevskiy would hold a model plane in his hands and analyse with us all the elements of flying: where to look, what to see, how to operate the rudders and elevators, not just which way, but how fast and how far to move them. “Egorova”, h
e asks me, “what kind of manouvre is a ‘dead loop’?”

  “A ‘loop’”, I reply, “is a closed circle in the vertical plane.”

  “Good girl. Sit down”, Miroevskiy encourages me and then jokingly addresses Petoukhov: “And what the hell is a ‘spin’?”

  Ivan gets up with dignity, tucks in his overalls behind the back, stands to attention, his grey eyes light up, and he begins, “A ‘spin’ is a quick rotation of the plane along a steep descending spiral. It occurs during loss of speed by a plane. The ‘spin’ as an aerial stunt has no independent significance but is mandatory for all flying personnel during training.”

  “Tougoushy! What do you know about the ‘barrel-roll’?” Miroevskiy asks.

  “It’s a double flip over a wing in the horizontal plane. Exit is in the direction of entry”, the student-pilot raps out in one breath, “but it’s impossible to do a ‘barrel-roll’ on our U-2 – its speed is too low.”

  Tougoushy has changed since he’d learned how to fly. When his flying wasn’t going well he walked gloomily, without a smile, and even his dark eyes seemed mud-coloured. But now Tougoushy shines, comes to the aerodrome in a white shirt and tie. His grey cloth OSOAVIAHIM suit is thoroughly ironed, the shoes are polished and not even the aerodrome dust settles on them. His face is clean-shaven, his eyes sparkling! We have begun to call him “Prince of Georgia” among ourselves.

  “And how is the ‘Immelman’ carried out, Koutov?” The instructor questions solicitously.

  Victor Koutov, a brown-eyed chap with a face as tender a girl’s, demonstrates the order of implementation of this complicated manouevre. Victor works at a Metrostroy marble factory and studies at college in the evening. He is fond of reading, writes poetry and collects books. He usually buys them in two copies: one for himself and one for me. But I have no room to store books and I hand them over to the shaft library. Sometimes I come across hand-written verses in a book presented to me: they are written by Victor. I take the sheet of verses out of the book with care, and when there is no one around I read and re-read them and put into my hand-bag. Then, in the dormitory I hide them deep in my secret casket…

  And that was theory, independent circle flying and ground drilling done. We have already been allowed into the ‘zone’, to practise aerobatics. Sharp turns, loops and spins, from fascinating terms in our textbooks, are becoming real indicators of our skills. And we fiercely strive further – strive to master aircraft navigation as well as possible. At this time Victor Koutov and Tougoushy became my permanent companions and tried to sit at the same table with me even in the dry mess. I liked Victor but didn’t like Tougoushy although he was doing his best to win me over. He even tried flattering me: “Anya, it’s as if you were born in a plane, I’m even jealous. First time you flew on your own, and you got no critical remarks. How could there be? – the plane in your hands is like a trained horse. But it doesn’t obey me at all!” I said nothing, and what could I say? Now if Victor had told me that…We all were in good spirits and an elevated mood: every day we were discovering something new for ourselves. One would constantly hear, “You know, I nearly broke into a spin doing a loop!”

  “You don’t do sharp turns, you do ‘pancakes’”.

  “What a dive Vitya5 made today!”

  Once we were coming back from the runway, marching as usual and singing our favourite at the tops of our voices:

  Higher, higher and higher

  We send our birds into flight…

  Suddenly one of the guys broke in, “Look, fellas, what’s that showing red in the girls’ tent?”

  The song stopped. Everyone began to scrutinise from afar our tent with its sides raised, and coming up closer saw that my army bed was covered by a luxurious quilt. And there was a woman sitting on a stool next to it – my mother.

  “Fellas, now that’s devotion! All burst out laughing as one.

  The starshina allowed me to leave the formation, and I hastily greeted my mother and blurted out, “What did you bring the blanket for? To make me a laughing stock?”

  “My little girl, aren’t you cold under army issue? My heart told me so!”

  “I am not a bit cold, any more than all the others! And take it back, please or they’ll laugh me to scorn…”

  But at this moment my instructor approached, introduced himself to my mother, admired the blanket and advised that I was a good flyer and soon would do parachute jumping.

  “What do you mean, a flyer?” My mother exclaimed and stood up from the stool, letting her arms drop limply.

  Miroevskiy was surprised too. “Why didn’t you write your mother that you were learning to fly?”

  I stood silent, and my instructor began to explain to mother as simply as possible what a U-2 plane was.

  “Don’t worry about your daughter! Our plane is absolutely safe, just like a cart. But a cart is drawn by a horse and the plane is driven by an engine of several horse-power. And it’s good that you’ve brought the blanket. Everyone is cold at night: the forest is nearby, a river…”

  My mum calmed down and trustingly addressed the instructor. “Please keep an eye on her, sonny. She’s kind of impulsive: first went to work underground, then climbed into the sky…”

  “Alright, alright, mamma. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry about your daughter.”

  The same day mum left for Moscow. The blanket stayed with me but, to be honest, it began to disappear quite often. Once when it was raining I decided to seek it out and located it in the blokes’ tent: Louka Muravitskiy, having wrapped himself in it as in a sleeping-bag, was sleeping soundly…

  …Time went by fast. The guys and I worked for the Metrostroy, flew in the aeroclub – we did aerobatics in the landing zones near the aerodrome, did routine flights. When the weather stopped us flying we studied parachutes and parachuting – how to pack one and the rules for jumping. We would have to learn it later and, possibly, it would stand us in good stead…As expounded by the parachute trainer Vladimir Antonenko it was all very easy to do. But when the time came to jump I had barely managed to fall asleep the night before. In the morning the weather was fine – that meant we would be jumping. I remember putting on the parachute, primed it – in other words, pulled on the tight rubber bands and fastened them with strong hooks to the snap locks. The instructor checked the ‘priming’ and the nurse Ira Kashpirova my pulse, and at that moment something began to shake and ache in my chest! I walked to the plane like a bear, for the parachute hampered my movements. Clumsily climbing on a wing, I got into the front cockpit: the flyer Nikolay Lazarev was in the rear. We took off and gained about 800 metres altitude.

  “Get ready!” I heard the pilot’s voice.

  “Aye-aye”, I replied, scrambling onto a wing and looked down, grasping a console. Oh, God, how frightening! I wanted to get back in the cockpit and, probably, I would have done but the pilot slowed down and yelled “Go!” And gave me a slight shove forward!

  “Aye-aye!” I yelled and jumped into the ‘abyss’.

  From then on I acted the way I was taught. I pull the ring but for some reason I feel that the cord hasn’t come out and there will be no clap, and that means the parachute will not open! Suddenly I am jolted hard and the snow-white canopy opens up above me, and I am sitting on the straps as if in an armchair. I am surrounded by an amazing silence but an unrestrained joy grips me and I either sing something or shout. But the ground is already close. I tuck my legs a bit under myself and fall on my right side – everything according to the rules. Then I quickly get up, unfasten the parachute, furl the canopy and begin to pack it. At this moment the guys rush up, give me a hand and we unanimously agree to keep on and on jumping. It’s a really great pleasure! After the jump the earth feels a bit special and so do I. A kind of confidence has appeared in me – “I can do anything!”…

  In autumn, when the U-2 training program had been completed, a State Commission from the People’s Commissar of Defence came to visit us. At first they examined us in all the
oretical subjects and then began to test our flying technique. All of us performed aerobatics in the landing zone with excellent marks and the Commission was satisfied. It was time to say goodbye to the camp, to the aerodrome, to the instructors and to our comrades. We were happy and a little bit sad. We were happy that we had found our wings but sad because it’s always sad to part…

  I was working at the shaft and after work opening the library located in the shaft’s dry mess. Instead of bookshelves there were sideboards and I sat next to them like a barmaid issuing ‘brain food’ – the books. The aeroclub graduation party would be in a month…We gathered together in the Malaya Bronnaya Theatre. All were dressed up – the guys even put ties on. The report was made by Guebner, the head of the aeroclub. He said most of the guys who had graduated from the club would be assigned to fighter pilot military schools. Mouravitskiy, Ryabov, Kharitonenko, Petoukhov, Vil’chiko, Khatountsev were among them. And suddenly, somewhat ceremoniously, raising his voice (or maybe, it just seemed to me?) Guebner announced, “And there is one “ladies’” ticket – to the Ulyanovsk OSOAVIAHIM pilot school. We’ve decided to give it to…Anna Egorova.

  My breath caught from the unexpectedness and joy. Could it be the dream I’d been nurturing would come true? Everyone was congratulating me during break but I still didn’t believe it, was afraid to believe it was going to happen. I believed it only when I had received a referral to the school and travel papers to Ulyanovsk. A beautiful girl with a red beret and red scarf, one end of which was jauntily thrown over one shoulder onto her back and the other fluttering on her chest, stood out of those who had come to see me off. She was dressed in a black overcoat and on her feet she had shoes with French heels. She was Anya Poleva – Louka’s girlfriend – who along with me had undergone pilot training in our Metrostroy aeroclub. In an amicable way, Anya envied me leaving for pilots’ school, and said she would go on with flying in the training detachment of the aeroclub and would secure for herself a referral to the Ulyanovsk school.