by Gee, Colin
The general type was unknown to the crews of the 21st, not having been supplied within the lend-lease programme, although a few ex-USAAF models had been found damaged and made airworthy in the later years of the Patriotic War.
In the last years, the USAAF in Europe had mainly used the Lightning for reconnaissance, but now the ground attack and interceptor roles were more required, with other aircraft set aside to do the photo-recon work.
This particular unit was formed from training unit personnel and given a brand-new designation, that of the 601st Fighter Squadron.
Their first mission, a ground attack strike in support of a defensive battle north-east of Bretten, had been carried out with all the hallmarks of men either unused to combat, or rusty from an absence of it. Twelve had flown out and ten had come back, two aircraft lost due to mechanical failure, safely landing in friendly territory.
The 601st contained both sorts of pilots, new and veteran, and it took time to gel properly.
Their second mission had been an escort assignment, remarkable solely for a total no-show by Soviet fighters. Again, the entire squadron of fourteen aircraft returned.
This was their third, and they had thirteen birds in the sky.
‘Tanya’ was performing well, her twin engines sounding perfect as the squadron settled into line for the ‘Carousel’ attack.
Senior Lieutenant Istomin was checking the ground, observing numerous palls of smoke from the target area, markers of his comrade’s success.
Like the veteran he was, Istomin calmly searched for something of note, his mind registering the tracers rising from the German town, suggesting the presence of military, and therefore justifying it as a target.
Istomin heard the call through a positive deluge of messages, the common radio channel sharing the destruction of the 9th Bombers, as well as adding a realistic commentary to the deadly fighter battle going on above them.
His head swivelled and his eyes tried hard to adjust to the approaching shapes, not knowing what exactly they were, but knowing exactly what they were about to do.
The bomber leader gave instructions for the ‘Carousel’ to commence and screamed into his radio for fighter assistance, receiving some hazy reassurance of ‘help on its way’.
No help would come.
The Soviet fighter flight leader who acknowledged was already spiralling down in a fireball, dead before the bombers commenced their attack.
Istomin could see a disaster in the making, the regiment lined up preparing to follow the lead aircraft into a bombing attack, the enemy aircraft closing at high-speed.
“Zirafa-two-three to one-one, enemy fighters attacking head on, type unknown, over”
He made the call, even though the commander had to have seen them.
The man was a fanatic, and determined to discharge his duty, so he gave no countermanding order as he dived on his target.
‘God fucking help us.’
Possibly God did help the 21st at that moment, although if he did it was by guiding the AA fire of the ‘Camerone’ flak unit into the regimental commander’s diving aircraft, the 37mm shell striking the port engine on the propeller boss, its explosive power spent in wrecking the engine and sending fragments of itself and the propeller in all directions.
The Tupolev was a tough airframe, and the commander’s aircraft almost seemed to shrug off the strike, continuing on its attack dive.
The regimental commander, the pain excruciating, his intestines already spilling out over the flight controls and pedals, issued one last order.
“Zirafa-one-one to all, continue the attack for the Rodina. Good luck comrades.”
The 20mm quad flak guns now started to chew pieces off his aircraft, ending his suffering, and that of the three other crew, all victims of the shrapnel from the engine strike.
As the stricken Tu-2 buried itself in the ground, the second and third aircraft virtually came apart in the air as the enemy fighters struck.
Istomin acted.
“Zirafa-two-three to all, jettison bombs, break away, left, left, ground level, over.
Wide-eyed soviet bomber crews watched as the beautiful twin-hulled aircraft swept past them, more bullets striking home from quadruple .50cals mounted in each US aircraft’s nose cone.
The tail end Tupolev received special attention from one of the three Lightnings that also had their 20mm Hispano cannon in place, the explosive shells biting deep into the wing spar and destroying the starboard wing’s fuel tank.
For anyone on the Soviet radio scheme, the next few seconds were too horrible for words, and more than one pilot switched channels, be they in a bomber with Lightnings closing, or in a Lavochkin fighting for its life in the sky above.
Those who could observe, married the sight of the burning Tupolev losing height gradually with the animal screams of those being incinerated inside the metal tube.
Even those USAAF and Normandie pilots who caught sight of the aircraft immediately understood the suffering of those within, but none sympathised any more.
‘C’est la Guerre.’
Four of the Tupolev’s were either down, or going down, and the 21st Regiment had not even started to get itself down and heading back home.
The Normandie pilots concentrated on their own prey, pursuing the Il-4’s away from the target area.
The 601st swept round and bore down again.
“Zirafa-two-three to all. Get down fast and turn left, course 100. Come on, comrades!”
Another Tupolev went, more spectacularly than the rest, cannon shells coming into contact with something that didn’t respond well to the marriage, the sturdy aircraft disintegrating in the resultant explosion.
“Two-three, break left, now, now, now.”
The column shifted instantly, the Tupolev no longer occupying the air now being thrashed by .50cal bullets.
A shape swept past Istomin and he instinctively flicked the aircraft to follow, pressing the firing button for his forward firing ShVAK cannon.
Whilst not as spectacular as his comrade’s death, the shells did deadly work on the tail plane of the Lightning. Large pieces of the control surfaces fell behind in its wake, and the pilot quickly jumped out of his aircraft, taking to the air in silk.
Istomin jumped instinctively, the metallic rattle of bullets striking home on ‘Tanya’ preceding the anguished cries of one of his crew as the hot metal hit home.
Jinking the Tupolev left, he noticed no change in its performance following the enemy attack.
Sparing a look at his gauges, he saw no issues of note, the rise in engine temperatures because of his altitude and additional applied power.
Tracers formed a web ahead of him, more enemy Flak units taking the opportunity to contribute to proceedings as the P38’s drew off to reform for a third pass.
Heavier clunks gave testimony to the accuracy of the allied ground gunners, and holes appeared in his starboard wing before the final strikes completely took off the wing tip.
Senior Lieutenant Istomin immediately felt the difference, the starboard engine gently dropping power, combined with a flutter on the starboard wing that was negligible, but none the less present.
His navigator had died behind him, despite the best efforts of one of the gunners.
The other gunner had already died quietly, hence the absence of any warning about the return of the Lightnings.
Bullets ate into the fuselage and right wing, adding to the damage and creating new, as the transit of US metal shredded part of the ailerons.
The sustained burst from the quadruple .50cal also left Istomin alone in the aircraft.
Now down low, he noticed that the other Tupolevs hugging the ground were pulling steadily away.
‘I’m losing speed!’
Sparing extra time to study his gauges, he saw more problems.
‘Engine is fucking hot! Losing revs?’
His eyes swept around further.
‘Govno! Where’s my fuel?’
The
first strike had severed one of the fuel supply pipes to the right engine, wrecking the chokes designed to cut off any oversupply.
This was a problem that needed addressing immediately. He stopped the engine and isolated the fuel supply, conserving what was left and removing a source of ignition for the fuel that was sloshing around inside the wing spaces, just waiting for something to bring it into spectacular life.
‘Govno! Work damn you!’
The blade would not feather, and now the Tupolev took on a partial sideways aspect as the idling propeller created tremendous drag.
Another metallic rattle as bullets struck home again, this time kissing the left wing. ‘Tanya’s’ lack of speed was her saviour, as most of the .50cal, and all of the 20mm cannon shells, were spent in fresh air, the USAAF pilot getting his attack all wrong.
“Mudaks!”
Timed to the instant that the invective left his mouth, the propeller feathered, and Istomin could not help the thought that he should shout at ‘Tanya’ more often.
The Tupolev became more responsive again, shrugging off the lack of an engine and the damage to her control surfaces.
Istomin drove his aircraft lower still, too low, swiping some treetops and scaring himself, before rising a few metres for safety.
He shouted to his crew but there was no reply. He understood why but could not find a moment to mourn his comrades.
Ahead, an aircraft attracted the attention of three of the twin tailed aircraft.
Elation took hold as the Soviet gunner made a kill, the graceful US fighter turning over and plunging into the ground with its pilot.
Elation was replaced by horror as the Tu-2 was literally hacked to pieces, one of the cannon-firing Lightnings making it come apart in front of Istomin’s eyes.
Horror was replaced by fear as more bullets beat their lethal rhythm on ‘Tanya’, the sudden inrush of cold air telling him that the glasshouse nose had been badly damaged.
Again, a change in performance, and more speed bled off as the drag increased.
Tracers swept past his right side, so close he could almost sense the heat from their passing.
The Lightning had bled off much of its speed, the new pilot anxious to show his comrades how well he had learned his craft.
Adding something extra, he had dropped his undercarriage, reducing his speed even more.
However, his attack had been badly lined up, and he still missed the struggling Tupolev.
His inexperience condemned his name to the wall of ‘missing, believed killed’, an aggressive quarter-turn from Istomin bringing the slow moving Lightning in front of his ShVAK cannon.
The low speed, the undercarriage drag, and the 20mm cannon shells combined to send the P38 into the small lake below.
However, the aviation spirit within the Tupolev’s starboard wing finally found its ignition source with the firing of the cannon. A fire started; not an explosive ignition or the wing would have come apart, but enough to leave a growing trail of flame behind, a flame that started to melt everything of value that it touched.
Another two of Istomin’s comrades were smoking, a single Lightning hitting both in one pass.
Following an aborte attack, one Lightning had hauled off, it’s pilot working out how to fly with only one good arm, his left severed at the elbow.
Tracers again leapt skywards, ground positions seeking out kills amongst the hated enemy.
They struck home immediately, a P38 coming apart as something heavy exploded under the pilot’s pod.
The USAAF fighters screamed away in a rising starboard turn.
Istomin understood immediately.
“Zirafa-two-three to all. We are over our lines, repeat, over our lines.
In front of Istomin’s eyes were four Tupolev’s, one apparently undamaged, the other three ranging from smoking to burning.
“Zirafa-two-three to all. Have no navigator. Communicate course to nearest airfield, over.”
“Zirafa -three-three to all. Airfield immediately ahead, four thousand metres. We are perfect for land...”
The radio gave up working with a noticeable sizzle, leaving Istomin alone in every sense of the word.
He could see the undamaged lead aircraft make an adjustment and lose height, the other aircraft moving away to make their own approaches in their turn.
As protocol required, Istomin in ‘Tanya’ would land last so as not to obstruct the runway if he failed to make it.
He circled gently, alert for any return of the enemy aircraft, sparing a glance as his comrades touched down one by one.
‘Two down, Come on, come on!’
The third aircraft, the flames almost extinguished, touched down and sheered right immediately, its damaged undercarriage giving way.
The fuselage ploughed up some grass before coming to a halt.
Spreading his attention equally between the air and the ground, Istomin saw only two running figures before the Tupolev was totally ablaze.
‘Tanya’ was starting to act up, the damaged right ailerons unresponsive, the right wing losing its integrity as the fire continued to wreak havoc.
Gently, he eased his aircraft into a left turn, losing an extra few metres of height, and lining up for a textbook landing.
Readying himself for any change in the flying characteristics, he lowered the undercarriage.
Or rather, he tried.
The starboard wheel was partially destroyed and refused to move, its operating system already consumed by the fire.
He tried to recover the port wheel.
‘Govno!’
He tried again, remembering how to do it properly.
“Govno!”
The Tupolev did not respond.
The vibrations on the right wing were becoming worse, but Istomin had no choice except to go around again, his battle with the undercarriage bringing him to the overshoot point on his approach.
Turning to port, he found himself sweating and realised that the fire in the right wing was much larger than before.
The attempt to drop the undercarriage had merely opened the small doors, permitting additional oxygen to enter and feed the flames.
‘Tanya’ was dying around him, her systems failing as the damage increased by the minute, but she was still flying.
Istomin lined up again, his speed up, the single wheel down, the fire blazing.
As the aircraft dropped slowly, he found himself almost squealing, not a recognisable human sound, just the unmistakeable sounds of someone in the extremes of terror.
The pitch of his voice increased as his fear grew, the ground rising to meet him almost hand in hand with the increase in volume.
Teeth clenched in a brave attempt to silence his external display, Istomin went for the touchdown.
The survivors of the 21st Guards Bomber Regiment watched as the ravaged aircraft almost seemed to kiss the runway, no noticeable change from being airborne to being on the ground.
Still it was moving too fast but the engine sounds were dropping off as the pilot did what he could.
In silence, they and the soviet ground crews watched as the pilot skilfully cajoled his aircraft into losing speed, keeping the starboard wing above the ground until the last moment.
Spectacularly, fate took a hand, bringing the ‘last moment’ forward as cannon shells, cooked by the heat, exploded sequentially, opening up the ravaged wing and dropping the Tupolev to the runway instantly.
Dragging to the right, ‘Tanya’ ploughed the grass with a shorn-off starboard wing, the fire all but gone as the wing separated, courtesy of the cannon shells.
All across the airfield, men were running to his aid, mostly carrying nothing but their hopes.
The port wheel strut surrendered to the increased strain, bringing the fuselage down level and increasing the drag.
The Tupolev came to a sudden halt, settling into a dignified repose, surrounded by a cloud of smoke and grass.
The second fire truck had left the previous cra
sh site, the fire crew determined to do what they could for the brave air crew of the latest arrival.
Overtaking running men, the elderly vehicle closed quickly on the smoking ruin and crashed to a halt, the crew quickly running out hoses to quell the flames, and arming themselves with tools to pry and cut open whatever needed to be pried and cut open in order to get the crew out.
The fire fighters swarmed over the fuselage and inside, bringing out the gunners and navigator, laying them down gently and covering them with their jackets.
More personnel now arrived and set to with helping. Others, members of the 21st, lifted a jacket here and there, confirming the identity of a dead comrade.
A wave of laughter grew throughout the responders, causing anguish with the bomber crews, who sought out those responsible for the disrespect.
Intending to right the wrong, the survivors of the 21st could only add to the growing sounds of laughter as, one by one, they became aware of Istomin.
Carrying signs of his close encounter, the blackened Senior Lieutenant was sat on the steps of a nearby equipment hut, sharing a bottle of vodka with the two air force personnel who usually inhabited it.
All three men sat there quietly praising fate for her benevolence, two for having survived the death they anticipated as the aircraft bore inexorably down upon them, one for being inside the blazing coffin all the way to the end.
The pilot had no boots, his bare feet a contradictory pink set against the more common black and brown of his ensemble.
The trio bore more than a passing resemblance to the ‘three monkeys’ of old, especially as Istomin massaged his head in an effort to relieve the headache brought on by the tension of his experience.
The doctor who checked him shortly afterwards also humorously observed that the heavy machorka tobacco he had obtained from the ground crew, combined with the vodka they liberally imbibed, probably also contributed.
However, in seriousness, he plainly put the headache down to the five inch gash in the back of Istomin’s head, courtesy of the final lurch, the white of the skull plain for all to see before twenty-nine stitches pulled the flaps back together again.
