Memoirs of a front-line fighter pilot. Memoirs of a participant in the Great Patriotic War Memoirs of a fighter pilot and Karpovich read

In the fall of 1940, I arrived for further service in the 54th Aviation Bomber Regiment, which was stationed at an airfield four kilometers from Vilno. Great was my amazement when the next day, among the fighter pilots heading to the dining room, I saw my brother Ivan. He was no less happy. In the evening, after dinner, we met. There was no end to the stories and questions. After all, we haven’t seen each other for two years. After graduating from the Vyaznikovsky flying club in 1938, Ivan was sent to the Chkalovsky military pilot school. He graduated from it, became a fighter pilot and served for some time in Velikiye Luki, and from there their regiment flew here. The city of Vilna was liberated from Polish occupation by the Red Army in September 1939 and was soon transferred to Lithuania. In October of the same year, the USSR concluded mutual assistance agreements with the Baltic republics, including Lithuania, under which a number of Red Army garrisons were stationed in these republics. However, various provocations were carried out against our garrisons and military personnel, including the kidnapping and killing of our military personnel. Ivan told how in June 1940 the airfield was blocked by Lithuanian troops. Machine guns and cannons were aimed at airplanes and airfield structures. The personnel slept under the planes, ready to fight back at any moment. Ivan and his flight were ordered to take off and conduct reconnaissance. With great difficulty we managed to suppress the desire to storm the enemy. Three days later the blockade was lifted. In June 1940, elections were held that brought representatives of the people to power. Here, at the airfield, was the regiment in which my brother served. They flew on Chaika fighters. I will tell about myself. After graduating from pedagogical school, I, like many of my peers, asked to be sent to work in Siberia, although I was left to work in the city, and was even almost sent to study at the Leningrad Military Medical Academy. After a year and a half of working as a teacher, I was drafted into the army. To my greatest pride, which I immediately wrote home, I became machine gunner No. 1 on a cart. A dream came true - in childhood, everyone after the movie “Chapaev” wanted to become machine gunners. But I didn’t remain a “Chapaevite” for long. Soon, six of us from the regiment who had secondary education were sent to the ShMAS aviation school in Kalachinsk near Omsk. After graduation, he became an air gunner-radio operator, rank - sergeant major. Sent to serve in Kaunas at the air division headquarters. Everything here seemed new, interesting, and sometimes wild to us. The provocations that I have already written about drove us to live in a monastery. We lived there for two months. It was fenced with a high (eight meters) thick brick wall. One of the buildings was freed from the monks and handed over to us. Monastic cells were allocated for housing - quite comfortable rooms. Bed, table, bedside table, separate toilet, bathroom, prayer corner. A spiral staircase connected the library rooms (approximately 100 square meters each) from the first to the fourth floor. There was a lot of literature, different, including foreign, not to mention Catholic. In one wing of the building, part of the first floor was occupied by a huge hall, and here I saw an organ for the first time and played it. On the second floor there is a physical office. On the third - chemical, the floor above - biological. All well equipped. Our technical schools are squalor in comparison. That's it, monks! How far this is from what we were told about them at school. We were not really allowed to walk around the territory of the monastery. And there was no time, since we were leaving for the airfield in the morning. But they still watched. The monks have a strict daily routine. Usually from 6 to 7 pm they walked in pairs and alone through the large park. In the middle there was a covered veranda with ping pong (table tennis). I saw him for the first time. One Saturday my friend and I invited the girls over. We sat on the veranda, laughed and played. And it was just an hour of an evening walk and pious reflections of the servants of God - and suddenly such a temptation. From the next day, the hour of the walk was moved to another time, and we were forbidden to invite girls. On November 6th, a funny thing happened. The building was decorated for the October holiday. Slogans, flags. One of the flags was attached to the railing on the 4th floor balcony. In the evening we see the monks looking at our visual propaganda with some displeasure. About twenty minutes later the abbot of the monastery walked leisurely with two servants. I stood there for a while. I looked. Headed to division headquarters. They left after about five minutes. The division commissar jumps out after them. Staring at the flag on the fourth floor. We are interested. It turns out that if you look at the flag directly, it is just shamelessly projected between the legs of Matka Bozka Częstochowa, whose human-sized image was located on the wall. It is funny and sad at the same time. It was ordered to immediately move the flag to the corner of the balcony. The monks calmed down. This is how we became acquainted with monastic reality. And soon I was transferred to serve in Vilna in the crew of the squadron commissar in the 54th regiment, where I met Ivan. Now my brother and I served in the same place. In mid-June 1941 six crews of our regiment were tasked with transporting SB aircraft to an aviation school located in the Totsky camps near Chkalov (we began to receive new AR-2 aircraft and were already flying them). I was flying in the crew of Lieutenant Vasya Kibalko, to whom I was transferred for this flight. It turns out that the school's cadets had completed a course of theoretical training, but had not yet flown combat aircraft, since the school did not have them (only training "sparks"). It is not difficult to imagine the joy of the cadets when we landed at their airfield. They rocked us and carried us in their arms. And I got a special treat, because among those who met me (or rather, they noticed me earlier) Rasskazov and other guys with whom I studied together at the Gorky school in Vyazniki. After graduating from high school and the flying club in their hometown, they went to a flying school here and “swelled up” here waiting for planes. The meeting remained in my memory, although I never met these guys at the front (they said in the city that they all died). To rejoice in the evening, the kind hosts offered us a barrel of beer, which they had prepared with great difficulty in advance. We expected to walk here for two or three days, and from here I had to go to Tomsk to the Pedagogical Institute to enroll in correspondence studies. However, at night a telegram unexpectedly arrived from the regiment, in which the commander categorically ordered an urgent return to Vilna. Nothing to do. Go. Already on the trains we met many military men, summoned by telegrams to their units. There were many guesses, the most fantastic. We arrived in Vilna on the evening of June 21. We reached the airfield on foot. To our great surprise, there were no planes of ours (apart from a few faulty ones). The duty officer met us at the entrance. He said that our regiment and Ivan’s regiment flew to alternate field airfields during the day, the barracks were sealed, and we could sleep until the morning in the camp. If there is a car heading to the airfield at night, they will wake you up. We came to the hangar, collected airplane covers, and seemed to have settled down appropriately for the night - how much does a military man need? Since the next day was Sunday, everyone began to ask the group commander not to rush to the airfield tomorrow, but to rest for a day in the city. We went to bed around midnight. Suddenly the duty officer came running and said that a car was on its way to the regiment. The command “Get up, get in the car” followed. Alas, our plans to go for a walk in Vilna dissipated like a mirage. The field airfield was located 15-18 kilometers from Vilna in Kivishki. We got there at about two in the morning. The fog was so thick that literally nothing could be seen three steps away. We were taken to tents, but we couldn’t sleep because the alarm horn sounded. It was about three in the morning. We jumped up. Get dressed. You can't see anything in the fog. It was difficult to find our plane and technicians. We run up to the aircraft parking lot. Work is already in full swing there. We got involved too. The gunsmith was busy at the bomb bay, hanging up live bombs. The mechanic helped him. Since I was in the crew of squadron commissar Verkhovsky, I asked Kibalko how I could decide. He advised me to work on his plane for now (then she left me with him). I started setting up the machine gun and testing out the radio. The pilot and navigator fled to the checkpoint. Little by little the fog began to clear. We, who came from Chkalov, were noticed. Questions began. Suddenly, in the distance, at an altitude of about a thousand meters, a group of planes appeared in the direction of Vilna. The configuration is unfamiliar. They began to ask us if we had seen such people in the rear. Although we didn’t see it, we began to “bend” (and all aviators are masters at this) that it was obviously And L -2 (we saw them under covers in Saratov). In fact, these were German Ju-87 aircraft, a little similar to our attack aircraft. The strangers were simply flying in a group, almost out of formation. With our heads raised, we admired the decent speed of the planes. And since large exercises were expected in June, they believed that they had begun, and the flight of unfamiliar planes, our flight here, and the alarm are confirmation of this. The planes flew right above us. Why they didn’t bomb us still remains a mystery to me. Either the remnants of the fog interfered, or their attention was focused on the city of Vilna and our stationary airfield. In a word, after a few minutes they were above us. They separated into a circle and began to dive. Smoke appeared. An interesting (so to speak) detail: the first bombs, as we were later told, destroyed the hangar in which we were camping for the night. We admired this picture, thinking: practice bombs are falling, but why so much smoke? From further bewildered thoughts about what was happening, I was distracted by a rocket from the command post, indicating the command: “Taxi for departure.” I remember that the field airfield was not very important, the crews had not yet flown from it, and Vasya Kibalko barely managed to tear the plane off on takeoff, hitting the tops of the spruce trees. So we flew on our first combat mission. It was around 5 am. Believing that it was a training flight, I did not put on a parachute. It was attached to the straps in front and was very in the way. Let him lie in the cabin. And I didn’t load the machine gun - there was a lot of fuss with it later. Before the war, our regiment was given main and backup targets in case of war. And the route was worked out in accordance with this. The main target was the railway junction of Königsberg. Considering the flight a training flight, we gain altitude above the airfield. But we had to gain 6 thousand meters. We scored 2 thousand. Using a radio code, we ask the ground to confirm the task. They confirm. We scored 4 thousand. We ask again. They confirm. You must wear oxygen masks. We collected 6 thousand and went on the route. Before reaching the border we saw fires on the ground, and in some places gunfire. It became clear that this was a real combat mission. I urgently put on a parachute and load the machine guns. We are approaching Königsberg. We've bombed, we're heading back. We did not encounter any enemy fighters or anti-aircraft fire. The Germans, apparently, did not count on such “impudence” on our part. But then German fighters appeared, already in the border area. They immediately shot down several of our planes. The German managed to set our plane on fire with a long burst. Having flown 20-30 meters towards us, he made a bank and his smiling face became visible. Without much aiming, I manage to fire a burst from a machine gun. To my greatest joy, the fascist caught fire and began to fall. We burned and fell. What to do? We must jump. That's when the parachute came in handy. I tear off the cap over the cabin. I pull myself up to jump out. But the plane fell randomly, tumbled, and all attempts turned out to be fruitless; it was thrown from one side to the other. I look at the altimeter. Its arrow stubbornly shows a decrease in altitude, 5000-4000 meters. But I just can’t get out of the burning plane. This continued until about 1000 meters. This arrow is still before my eyes, stubbornly creeping towards zero. I even thought that I was done. And suddenly I was in the air. Apparently, I was thrown out of the cockpit when the plane turned over. I didn’t immediately figure out what to do. And quite instinctively he pulled out the parachute ring. He opened up. After 7-10 seconds I found myself hanging from a tree. It turns out that all this happened over a forest area. He unfastened the parachute straps, pulled himself up to the tree trunk and jumped to the ground. I look around. There was a forest road nearby. Since I lost my bearings during the battle, I decided to go east. I walked about 300 meters. Suddenly a man with a pistol in his hand jumps out from behind a tree and asks me to raise my hands. It turned out to be Captain Karabutov from our regiment, who was also shot down. The misunderstanding has been cleared up. Let's go together. Several more people from our regiment joined us. Then the infantrymen. They reported that the Germans were already somewhere ahead of us. They began to walk more carefully, looking for a working car from among those abandoned on the road. Found. I get behind the wheel. Karabutov is nearby. This is where the ability to drive the cars that we drove around the airfield in our free time came in handy. There wasn't enough gasoline in the tank, so we decided to refuel. It was not found in abandoned cars. But then we see an arrow on the tree indicating MTS. Turned around. A fence and an open gate appeared ahead. We're moving in. To our horror, there are German tanks about 50 meters away. The tankers stand in a group to the side. I turn the steering wheel in panic, turn the car around and out of the corner of my eye I see the tankers rushing towards the tanks. We jumped out of the gate and meandered along the forest road. Shells fired from tanks explode above the car. But they did not harm us, and the tanks along the forest road could not catch up with us. It blew by. After 8-10 km of travel we caught up with the retreating infantry unit. We learned that there was a highway to the north, and German troops were moving along it; from there their tanks were turned into MTS. That's why we didn't meet any Germans on this road. A day later we reached the Dvinsk airfield, where we were supposed to land after a combat mission.

By February 1943, we completed retraining, received new aircraft and flew to the front, to the Kursk Bulge. By this time I had already become the flagship gunner-radio operator of the first squadron. In March-May, the regiment occasionally made reconnaissance flights and bombed individual targets. They helped the partisans. Flights to help the partisans were associated with great difficulties. We had to fly far behind enemy lines through enemy airfields and fortified points. One day it was ordered to fly down and burn several villages where there were German garrisons. The partisans were surrounded here and broke through to the southwest through these villages. It was necessary to clear the way for them. Taking nine American Airacobras as cover, they flew along the front line for a long time and brought them to Fatezh, where they were going to take Yakovs in return. The Airacobras were supposed to land here and meet us on the way back. However, a tragic event occurred here, which sometimes occurs. In the nine of us from another regiment flying in front of us, two planes crashed into each other while turning, caught fire and fell. The anti-aircraft gunners, who had overslept, concluded that they had been shot down by fighters and opened fire on the Airacobras, mistaking them for Germans. The “Yaks” who were waiting for us to the side saw the anti-aircraft fire, the burning planes on the ground and also mistook the “Aircobras” for the “Messerschmidts” (they really look alike), supposedly blocking the airfield, and rushed to attack them. Thus began a fight between friends and family. Meanwhile, we were making one... two... circles to the side, not understanding what was happening. Despite my radio calls, the covering fighters are not approaching us. We had to ask the regiment commander by radio code what we should do. The command followed to go to the target without cover. A little later, two of our fighters caught up with us, but they also fell behind somewhere. We approached the target under the clouds at an altitude of 700-800 meters. I had to go through many anxious moments. Over the 90 kilometers that we flew to the target behind the front line, several enemy airfields and fortified points passed below us. But neither fighters nor anti-aircraft guns stopped us, apparently afraid to unmask themselves. About five kilometers away we saw long fiery arrows among the forest, pointing to the villages that we were supposed to bomb. We formed a bearing, in sections, and dropped bombs. We turned around. A sea of ​​fire raged at the site of enemy strongholds. The way back to my airfield was just as calm. We sat down immediately, as some of us were already running out of gas. During the flights, we saw how much the Germans concentrated aviation and anti-aircraft guns here. And it was very surprising to us when, under these conditions, wanting to give some veterans of the regiment a rest, the six of us were sent to rest for two weeks in an aviation sanatorium located in the Smirnovsky Gorge near Saratov. We got there not without some oddities. About 8-10 kilometers from Kursk there was an airfield from which we were supposed to fly to Saratov on the Douglas at 10 am. And we got to Kursk by train. We arrived at Lev Tolstoy station in the middle of the day. I want to tell you about this not to amuse anyone, but so that you can at least get a little idea of ​​what the situation was like near the front, in the rear. The train stopped. We stand for an hour or two. No movement. The commander went to the station chief. He didn't promise anything comforting. Trains with military cargo kept passing through, and they did not stop here. And it’s already evening. Then the commander sent a telegram to the division commander. He indicated where they were staying and that there was no hope of leaving before the morning. We're late for the Douglas. Is it possible to transfer us there on a U-2? The plane can land on a field about 600 meters north of the station. There was no answer, but soon the U-2 began circling over the station over the place that we indicated in the telegram, and began to land. At this time our train showed a desire to move. Having decided that the plane would not have time to transport the six of us before nightfall, in a hurry the commander told me: “Jump (and we were traveling on an open area), fly to Kursk on a U-2.” He jumped while the train was moving. I hurry to the U-2 landing site. There were about two hundred meters left. To my surprise, I notice that they are turning the propeller to start the engine. For what? And why are there two people there? I grab the pistol and shoot to attract attention. Converted. I run up to them. They ask who I am. I say that they came for us. Those eyes are wide open. They explained that they were with the mail and had nothing to do with us. Horror! I explained the situation to them and asked them to be transferred to Kursk. They answer that they can’t take off themselves, since the spring soil has become soggy and they have to wait until the morning, maybe it will freeze. What to do? I'm running to the station. The boss was no less discouraged than I was. I asked him to find out by phone where the train our people were traveling on was. Found out. It turns out that he has traveled about fifteen kilometers and is standing at the railway station in front of Kursk. They asked to invite the commander to the phone. After 10-15 minutes a conversation took place. Having explained the unpleasant news to the commander, I asked what to do. I learned that their train would remain idle for another two hours. I was ordered to catch up with them on foot along the sleepers. Without further ado, I decided not to waste time and jogged on my way. Various philosophical thoughts came to mind, but were distracted from them by a terrible desire to smoke. I smoked a lot then (and I started on the first day of the war). To my horror, I remembered that I not only had no tobacco, but also no documents. All this remained with the commander. Having trotted about ten kilometers (it was already dark), I saw a guard’s booth. I went there and asked for a smoke. Looking at me suspiciously - and I looked inflamed - the handler gave me terry for a goat leg. Having lit a cigarette, I seemed to move on with renewed vigor. Meanwhile, the inspector immediately reported on the phone that a saboteur had run in, threatened him with a pistol, took away the cigarette and disappeared in the direction of Kursk. But they had already determined what kind of saboteur he was and did not attach any importance to the “patriotic message.” I ran to the station, having completed the entire journey in record time - an hour and a half. And the train, it turns out, left about five minutes ago. Exhausted, he lay down on the sofa in the duty officer’s room. And only in the morning, having lost all hope, I arrived in Kursk. But there you still have to get to the airfield 8-10 kilometers. I got there, or rather, I ran. "Douglas" was already preparing to taxi for takeoff. The guys saw me and dragged me, barely alive, into the cabin. First of all: “Give me a smoke.” We had a good rest near Saratov.

Carrying out individual tasks, the regiment prepared for major battles. The famous Battle of Kursk was preparing. 3-4 days before the start of the battle, a messenger came running to our plane and gave the order to urgently report to the regiment headquarters. A representative of a fighter regiment has just arrived at the airfield to agree on the order of escort, cover, fire interaction, and communications. And I, as I already wrote, had to do this. I ran to headquarters. He was housed in a dugout. I looked around. And now the ways of the Lord are inscrutable. My brother was at headquarters, as a representative of the fighter regiment. We explained. He was already deputy regiment commander. We didn't have to talk much then. After the meeting, Ivan hurried to his airfield. It was late in the evening. While flying away, at the request of our regiment commander, he performed several complex aerobatics over the airfield and disappeared with a sharp descent. A rumor quickly spread among the flight personnel that we would be covered by the 157th Fighter Regiment, that there were quite a few Heroes in it, that one of them had arrived and that it was my brother. And I walked with my nose up. From the first combat mission we felt the difference in the organization of cover. Previously, fighters somehow huddled closer to us, although in a number of exceptional situations this should be the case. But not always. Previously, we were usually given 6-8 fighters to accompany us. Now there are four of them, and very rarely six. Usually Ivan on the radio and on the ground during meetings with our regiment told us not to worry about our tail, or rather, to bomb. Indeed, during our joint flights with their regiment, we did not lose a single aircraft from enemy fighters. During the Battle of Kursk, on some days, especially the first, it was possible to make two or three sorties. And all this in the face of fierce opposition from enemy fighters and anti-aircraft guns. There were so many anti-aircraft guns that people on the ground marveled at how they managed to get away and hit the target. After almost every flight, the plane had a lot of holes from anti-aircraft shells. One day, while checking my parachute, the sergeant major discovered a fragment in it that had pierced up to ten layers of silk and was stuck. So the parachute saved my life. There was such a case. I lie next to the lower machine gun, hold on to its handles and look for the target. Suddenly I feel a blow to my chest. It turns out that an anti-aircraft shell exploded next to the plane, a fragment pierced the side, flew under the right arm (they were both extended), hit the parachute carabiner, broke it, hit the chest and, hitting the order, pierced the left side with it and flew out. That's how powerful the impact was! And then the orders were never returned to me. It was not easy for me as a flagship gunner-radio operator. We must keep in touch with fighters, with the ground, inside the formation with gunners of other aircraft, and organize fire resistance to enemy fighters. And shoot yourself. You spin like a squirrel in a wheel. These days, cases of Germans using airwaves for disinformation began to be observed. I usually received the main and backup radio waves in the morning. Their use on the first flight was strictly limited. But the Germans managed to install them by 9-10 o’clock and use them for their own purposes. On August 12, we flew to bomb the Khutor Mikhailovsky railway station. Suddenly I received an open command on the radio to go back with bombs. Reported to the commander. He ordered to request confirmation with a password, but there was no confirmation. Then they decided to bomb the target. More than once there were cases when on the radio, in a pleasant voice, we were invited to land at a German airfield, promising a heavenly life. We usually answered with words that are inconvenient to write here. We started flying on July 7th. The tension of the fighting and the loss of comrades was depressing. These days we were accommodated at the school. Bunks were built in the classrooms and the crew slept on them. On the seventh, one of our crews was shot down. Then the second, third. They were all lying on the bunks in a row, one after another (this, of course, was an accident). But when the third was shot down, the crew of the fourth moved to the floor. In fact, there are many signs in aviation, and people usually believe in them. In the first days of the battles near Kursk, a certain balance in aviation was observed in the air. However, after 15-20 days of fighting, the situation changed in our favor. I remember one of the flights. They started giving us free flight assignments. The specific target was not indicated, the flight area was given and you had to look for the target yourself. One day at the end of July we were given a rectangle, the sides of which were two highways and a railway. This is where we had to look for purpose. We see a train with gasoline tanks moving west from the direction of Orel. What a success! We go in as he moves and fire at him. First the pilots from the bow machine guns, then the gunners from the tail ones. We came in once, twice. The bullets hit the train, but there is no point. The driver will either slow down or pick up speed. We decided to start shooting early on the third approach. And in a machine gun cartridge, bullets alternate: regular, tracer, explosive, incendiary, armor-piercing. And as soon as the bullets reached the ground, a fiery tail flared up, instantly caught up with the train and it exploded in front of us. We barely managed to turn to the side. Apparently the bullets in the first passes, hitting the tanks, went out, since they were also running out of gas. But we pierced the tanks, gasoline leaked onto the ground, and quite by accident we managed to light it on the ground on the third approach. Why didn't we realize it right away?

In the area of ​​the city of Loev, our units immediately crossed the Dnieper. A fierce battle ensued on the bridgehead. German planes frantically bombed the crossings to disrupt the replenishment, and enemy artillery fired at those who had broken through the Dnieper. We were ordered to suppress this artillery. Before one of the flights, we agreed on the ground that after dropping the bombs we would move away from the target into our territory by making a left turn. The fighters were informed. However, everything has changed. No wonder they say it was smooth on paper, but they forgot about the ravines. Before us, German positions on the right bank of the Dnieper were bombed by several more groups. And they all left the target with a left turn. The Germans realized this, the anti-aircraft guns took aim, and the groups ahead of us suffered losses from the anti-aircraft guns. The fire density was very high. We saw all this while approaching the target. Then the commander of our squadron decided to leave with a right turn, about which I radioed a message to the fighters. They threw bombs, made a right turn and, to their horror, saw that our fighters were going to the left. We were left alone. While we were making a turn towards the front line, we were intercepted by enemy fighters - and in large numbers. We prepared for battle, closed tighter. Seeing that we were unescorted, the Germans decided to use their huge advantage and land us at their airfield without shooting us down. Take him alive, so to speak. As soon as we made a turn to the right, towards the front line, shells and bullets from their fighters flew in front of our course. They cut us off to the left in every possible way. It smelled like kerosene. What should I do? On this flight we were accompanied by fighters from another regiment. But when we were still approaching the front line, I heard on the radio the voice of Ivan, who commanded a cover group over our crossings of the Dnieper (cover groups are not associated with escorting specific attack aircraft or bombers). After being wounded, Ivan lost part of his hearing and now in the air with his formation he was most often called not with a password, but with the nickname “deaf.” I knew this, as did many front-line pilots (and perhaps the Germans too). And when approaching the Dnieper, I realized that Ivan was leading the cover group. By the way, I told the commander about this. At the tragic moment, when we were surrounded by the Germans, our commander, before making a decision to fight, asked me if it was possible to call Ivan on the radio. Not knowing their password, I started calling out in plain text: “Deaf, deaf, I’m Gregory, how can you hear?” Fortunately, Ivan answered immediately. I reported to the commander and switched the receiver and transmitter to him. With my help, the commander briefly explained the situation in open text (for which we were later reprimanded - well, what should we do?). Having learned where we were, Ivan advised that we continue, reducing speed, fly to the German rear and wait for him. Having a significant advantage in altitude, he led the group in pursuit of us and five minutes later radioed that he saw us and was starting a battle with the Krauts. We took advantage of this, sharply increased the speed and made a turn towards our territory. The Germans were no longer interested in us.

During the liberation of the city of Dmitrovsk-Orlovsky by our troops, they bombed a Nazi convoy on the highway. They took small fragmentation bombs from the ground and now dropped them on the column. The fascists were blown away from the road like the wind. The cars were also abandoned. Then we formed a bearing along the links, made a second approach over the scattered column and stormed the enemy with machine gun fire. They got so carried away that many shot all the ammunition. Then a couple of German fighters turned up. They are coming at our tail, but there is nothing to shoot back with. In desperation, I grab a rocket launcher and shoot at the fascist. The German fighter apparently recognized the missile as a new type of weapon and rolled aside. No wonder they say: live forever, learn forever. Although I did not invent this method, it was also used in other parts.

There were days like these at the front. We flew on a combat mission from one of the airfields in Poland. In the morning, as usual, we did not have breakfast. We fortified ourselves with chocolate and that was it. Breakfast was brought to the airfield, but the rocket from the command post (“for takeoff”) “spoiled” our appetite. They flew off. The goal was far away and there was little gasoline left. Some sat down right away. Izvekov lands, and he has two external bombs hanging on him. You can't sit with them. From the start they give him a red rocket: “Go to the second round.” Gone. They call on the radio to decide what to do. And the radio operator of his plane had already turned off. Landing again, he gets another red rocket. We are all worried about how this story will end. Finally, the pilot figured out to turn on the radio and ask what was the matter, why they were chasing him, because there was barely any gasoline left, and he uttered other angry words. They explained to him and ordered him to emergency drop the bombs into a large lake about three kilometers from the airfield. Izvekov dropped, the bombs exploded there. He had to sit down across the starting line - he had run out of gas. They warned us that, obviously, there would be no second flight; we could go for lunch. Go. We had just settled down in the dining room when suddenly rockets came from the airfield: “Urgently take off.” We threw away the spoons, jumped into the lorry and drove to the airfield. Unfortunately, at a sharp turn, the tailgate opens and eight people find themselves on the ground. It was so unfortunate that many were sent to the medical battalion. Almost all of them turned out to be from different crews. The commander had to urgently redesign the crews, and time is ticking. From the division headquarters they ask why we don’t take off? They took off. The flight went well. But the events of that day did not end there. We arrive at the dining room in the evening hungry. The cooks serve us fish soup and fried fish. Where does such wealth come from, we ask. It turns out that the technicians managed to scout out the lake where Izvekov threw two bombs, and there turned out to be a lot of caught pike perch and other fish. They picked up two barrels. After the fish soup, we were served cutlets. They were also eaten. At night, some people, including me, began to experience terrible stomach cramps. We are urgently sent to the medical battalion. Poisoning. We did a wash. It turned out that the cook made these cutlets in the morning, brought them to the airfield, offered them to us for lunch, but we couldn’t eat them. Then he slipped them in the evening. I had to lie there for two days. Since then, not only in the army, but also at home, I couldn’t eat cutlets for ten years. How the regiment commander and the commissar took the rap for that day, one can only guess.

There was a pause before the Warsaw operation. Only reconnaissance flights were made. Once the regiment commander told me that he could give me leave for seven days to travel home. And even earlier, I found out that Ivan was supposed to go on vacation. They were then standing about twenty kilometers from our airfield. We called each other. It was decided that I would arrive at their airfield on a U-2 in the evening. I'll spend the night. And in the morning we will go by train to Vyazniki. A comrade transferred me to Ivan’s airfield. We arrived at about five in the evening, it was cloudy, continuous clouds hung over the airfield at an altitude of 700-800 meters. We sat down. I jumped out of the plane and went to the parking lot (my friend flew back). I asked the pilots where Ivan was (they knew me well there). They said that he gave transportation flights to young pilots and was at the landing gate. Ivan at that time held the position of deputy regiment commander for the flight department. At this time the Yak landed. He landed poorly, missed, and on top of that, he “got off.” When he turned to the T, Ivan jumped onto the wing. The propeller is spinning little by little, and the brother, waving his arms, apparently with indignation, tells something to the young pilot about the unsuccessful landing. Tom had to make one more flight in a circle. And at that time, to the horror of all of us who observed this suggestion, a German Ju-88 plane fell out of the clouds directly above T at an angle of 30 degrees. Since he dived (or rather planned) directly at our fighter, it seemed that he was about to shoot. But the situation, as we later learned, was completely different. The German reconnaissance aircraft, after completing the mission, was returning to its airfield. Since the ground was covered with clouds, the navigator and pilot, deciding that they had already crossed the front line (in fact, there were 20-25 km left to it), began to break through the clouds. Having broken through, to their surprise they saw our airfield and began to gain altitude again to hide behind the clouds, from which they descended about three hundred meters. At first, Ivan and the pilot did not hear the noise of the German car behind the noise of the engine of their plane, and only after noticing the desperate gesticulation of the starter, they looked up and saw the Yu-88. Snatching the pilot from the cockpit by the collar (and his brother was physically strong), he jumped up and gave the gas for takeoff. Seeing the scattering fighter, the German decided that he would not have time to hide behind the clouds and began to run away with humiliation. This turned out to be a fatal mistake. About eight kilometers away, Ivan overtook him and we heard the cannon and machine guns start working. The German also fired back. Immediately on the radio, Ivan reported that the German had been hit and sat on his stomach in a forest clearing. He asks to urgently send machine gunners from the BAO there to capture an enemy plane and pilots. He himself circled over the enemy’s landing site. Many of us, curious people, went there. I also settled on one car. About 15 minutes later we reached that clearing. But as soon as we jumped out to the edge of the forest, we were hit with a machine gun from a sitting plane. This immediately reduced our belligerence. Immediately jumping out of the car, we took cover behind tree trunks and began firing pistols at the plane, which was a hundred meters away. It is clear that our shooting is of no use. It was starting to get dark. It's time to take more drastic measures. Then the machine gunners arrived. Having opened fire on the plane, they crawled towards it. And we, emboldened, moved after them. Here I experienced for the first and only time how to crawl on my bellies under machine gun fire. At first they also responded from the plane with a machine gun, but soon it fell silent. The machine gunners approached the plane, we followed them. What happened? The plane's crew consisted of four people. Several shells and machine-gun bursts from Ivan hit the target. The pilot was wounded, which forced him to land the plane. The navigator was killed. The radio operator shot himself. The shooter was shooting back - a girl, she had no legs up to her knees. And only when the machine gunners wounded her did she stop shooting. I remember when they pulled her out of the cabin, she regained consciousness: she was biting and scratching. She was loaded into an ambulance and taken away. The pilot, who remained conscious, was also taken away. This example, to a certain extent, gives some idea of ​​our opponents. Ivan had long since flown to the airfield; they reported to the army commander about the landing of an enemy reconnaissance aircraft. By the time we returned to the airfield, the commander had already arrived there. The pilot was taken to the regimental headquarters, which was located in a small hut. Everyone wanted to listen to the interrogation of the captured pilot, but practically the size of the hut did not allow us to satisfy our curiosity. The most impudent ones pressed themselves outside to the open windows, I was among them. At the headquarters there were commander Rudenko, the regiment commander, the chief of staff, Ivan and an interpreter. From the interrogation it turned out that the crew of the plane consisted of a father, his two sons and a daughter. They have been fighting since 1940, with France. The pilot is a colonel and was awarded the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves for his services. Now they were making a reconnaissance flight along our railway junctions. After developing the film and deciphering it, German aircraft were supposed to strike in the morning. The wounded pilot grew weaker and asked to tell who shot him, the German ace, down. Rudenko ordered Ivan to unbutton his jacket and show him his awards. At the same time, he said that it was not a bast shoe that knocked him down, but a Hero of the Soviet Union. The German was taken away. Rudenko asked what Ivan would do tomorrow. He replied that he was leaving for a short-term vacation home. Rudenko wished him a happy meeting with his family, asked how much leave he was given, and upon learning that it was seven days, he added seven more with his authority. Hearing this, I was dejected. Ivan noticed me at the window a long time ago. Seeing my gestures, he guessed what was going on and asked permission from Rudenko, who had already gotten up, to make a request to him. He frowned and allowed it. Ivan said that he was not going on vacation alone, but with his brother (that is, with me). The commander was surprised that two brothers were flying in the regiment. He had known Ivan for a long time; Having received an explanation that I was flying in the bomber regiment, which they were covering, I asked what Ivan wanted. He explained that my brother, that is, me, has only seven days of vacation, and what happens now? Rudenko said: “You are cunning, Ivan. But I added leave for you for the feat, but for what for my brother?” However, after thinking, he instructed the regiment commander to contact my commander, explain the situation to him, and if he doesn’t object, let him add days for me too. Our commander Khlebnikov did not object to this turn of events, which was very pleasant for me.

Combat work continued. On April 16, the Berlin operation began. It was a dark day for our regiment. Perhaps during the entire war our regiment did not fight such heavy battles. We made two sorties against German tanks and artillery positions in the Seelow Heights area and shot down six enemy fighters. The regiment flew in three groups, we were in the second. And so, on a collision course, about twenty Focke-Wulfs attacked the first group, and then ours. We could not fire from the bow machine guns, since we were on target with the first group and could hit our own. But when the Germans began to make a U-turn under our formation, I managed to catch one in my sights and light it with a long burst. We ourselves lost three crews that day to anti-aircraft guns and fighters. Two people from the planes shot down on April 16 jumped out with a parachute and then returned to the regiment. Very successful flights were made to Frankfurt an der Oder and Potsdam. In Potsdam, the railway junction was destroyed, and on the second flight, the headquarters of the German division was destroyed. On this day, perhaps, we inflicted the most significant damage on the enemy: we destroyed the division headquarters, killed more than 200 soldiers and officers, blew up 37 carriages, 29 buildings, and a large amount of various equipment. All this was confirmed by photographs, and then by ground units. On April 25 we flew to Berlin for the first time. Berlin was burning. The smoke rose to a height of up to three kilometers and it was impossible to see anything on the ground. Our target turned out to be obscured by smoke and we hit a secondary target (for each flight we were given a primary and secondary target) - the Potsdam railway junction. On April 28-30 we flew to Berlin again. They hit the enemy airfield and the Reichstag. The wind intensified and, as I remember, the smoke, like a huge fox’s tail, deviated sharply to the north, and our targets became visible. The Reichstag was hit from a dive with two 250 kg bombs. The most experienced crews flew with them. Photographs recorded a direct hit on the Reichstag building. Then I and my comrades visited the Reichstag and signed it. But for the sake of fairness, I always say that the first time we signed it with a bomb was on April 30th. In addition to Government awards, all of us received personalized watches for this flight. On May 3, a solemn meeting was held on the occasion of the capture of Berlin, and on May 8, on the occasion of Victory in the Great Patriotic War.

Lev Zakharovich Lobanov

To spite all the deaths

Perhaps this can be considered happiness: I gave thirty years of my life to the sky, was a pilot - civilian, military and civilian again. Before the war, he flew gliders, jumped with a parachute, worked as a line pilot in the civil air fleet, delivering passengers, mail and cargo day and night. Then, at the Bataysk Military Aviation School, as an instructor, he trained fighter pilots on the I-16 aircraft. He spent the entire Great Patriotic War on the Southern, Stalingrad, Southwestern and 3rd Ukrainian fronts.

He fought with Messers and Junkers, bombed enemy airfields, train stations, trains on railroad tracks, and oil fields. At night he made his way to targets inaccessible to daytime aviation, and spent hundreds of hours over enemy territory. I shot down myself, they shot me down... After being wounded in an air battle at the end of 1941, I could not fly for eight whole months. During this time he served in the infantry, in a rifle regiment on the Voronezh Front - he commanded a platoon, a company, and replaced a battalion commander who died in battle.

In August '42, I flew again, but not on a fighter, but on the R-5, a night reconnaissance bomber familiar from the Civil Air Fleet and dear to me. At one of the front-line airfields he was accepted into the party. Before the end of the war, he switched to the Pe-2 dive bomber, on which he celebrated Victory Day.

The war is over. He fulfilled his old dream - he moved to live and work in the Far East. I am again at the controls of civilian aircraft - Si-47, Li-2, worked on the Catalina hydroboat, mastered the domestic Il-12 and Il-14 in the Khabarovsk air squad. The shores of the Bering and Okhotsk Seas have become close to me, just as the shores of the Baltic, Black Sea and Caspian Sea once were... I can’t imagine a better region than the Far East!

Before you are notes from a front-line pilot, stories about individual combat missions, about cases that are deeply etched in the memory by their unusualness or the fierce intensity of the battle.

We have few published memories of the combat work of fighter pilots on I-16 aircraft in the first, most difficult months of the war. Of those who fought with the fascist armadas on the I-16 in 1941, now almost no one is left alive... And, perhaps, nothing at all has been written about the combat affairs of the night reconnaissance bombers flying on the P-5 aircraft. But the regiment in service with these aircraft was unique in its tasks...

So I tried to at least partially fill this gap.

Instructor

Our acquaintance took place in the office of the commander of the training squadron, Captain Kovalev. Tall, with a powerful chest and a somewhat humorous expression on his face, I immediately liked him, and for some reason I decided that serving under his command would be easy and simple. The commander opened my personal file, glanced at the photograph - still in the uniform of a civil air fleet pilot. Now, after I was drafted into the army in April 1940 and sent to this Bataysk aviation school for retraining as a fighter, I was wearing the uniform of a military pilot: a silk snow-white shirt with a black tie, a dark blue jacket with figured patch pockets on sides and chest, breeches of a purely aviation cut, chrome boots, also of a non-standard style, and a blue cap.

- “Flies on U-2, R-5, Stal-3 and K-5 planes...” When did he manage to do so in his twenty-three years! - Kovalev chuckled, reading aloud my last description from the Civil Air Fleet detachment. “He has 4,100 hours of flight time, of which...” Well, of course, the typist made a mistake, she tapped an extra zero, because our entire squadron won’t have that kind of flight time,” the squadron commander looked questioningly at each other with Senior Lieutenant Ganov, the flight commander, standing next to him.

This one, in contrast to Kovalev, is short, dry and agile. This is exactly how I always imagined a fighter pilot to be - small, fast, sharp-eyed, to match his nimble car...

Ganov didn’t have time to speak - I took out my flight book from the tablet:

Comrade captain, the typist is not to blame, the typing is correct. Everything is written down here, down to the last minute.

But for this you had to fly a thousand hours a year,” Kovalev incredulously twirled the book in his hands and continued: “Of these, 715 hours at night...” Do you hear, Ganov, he also flies at night! What else is written about your heroism: “He is interested in sports, has a first class in boxing and gliding, and has completed thirty parachute jumps.”

Kovalev suddenly smiled and put the folder aside.

Listen, lieutenant, maybe we can fight? Show me what you can do.

Wrestling, or rather, pressing hands through the table, was a craze back then; everyone was “pressing” - from schoolchildren to gray-bearded professors. I silently took my starting position. Ganov followed our preparations with obvious curiosity. Kovalev’s palm turned out to be hard and strong. Well, a struggle is a struggle, and I, tensed, began to slowly squeeze his hand... The commander, frowning, suggested exchanging hands. But I again pressed his left hand to the table.

Well done, Lieutenant,” he brushed his hair away from his sweaty forehead. - Glad that you will serve in my squadron. Tomorrow we start flying.

Before being assigned to squadrons, we had already managed to study the I-16 aircraft - at that time the best Soviet fighter. The surface of the planes and the fuselage was “licked” to a mirror finish; a helmet or gloves placed on the wing rolled off from there. Behind the pilot was reliably shielded by an armored back, in front was covered by a wide thousand-horsepower engine, which in turn was protected by a metal propeller. In a word, the I-16 was not inferior to foreign fighters in its combat qualities. The lack of a cannon on it was compensated by the incredibly high rate of fire of two machine guns and four RS rockets suspended under the wings, and the somewhat lower speed (compared to the Messerschmitt-109E) was compensated by extraordinary maneuverability. However, when piloting, the car was distinguished by extreme “rigor” - it did not forgive mistakes.

My first flight was not entirely clean: as soon as I took control, I almost turned the car upside down. Damn it, this “donkey” turned out to be a restive horse! I ran it in: after three laps everything returned to normal. Moreover, it turned out that the I-16 was much easier to pilot than the transport vehicles I was used to in the Civil Air Fleet.

Finally, Kovalev decided to train me in air combat. We met at an altitude of three thousand meters. I already felt the car perfectly, I drove it easily, without tension. At first they “fought” on turns. No matter how hard Kovalev tried to get close to my plane from behind, he didn’t succeed, I didn’t let him. Several times I myself had the opportunity to “hit” him, but I never decided to press the trigger of the film machine gun. It seemed somehow inconvenient to immediately “squeeze” the commander like this in the first battle.

Such compliance cost me dearly. Kovalev suddenly threw the car into a coup and, turning out of it with a combat turn, “sucked” to my tail, not lagging behind until landing. Yes, don’t put your finger in the commander’s mouth... I was angry with myself for my mistake, for my complacency. That’s it: from now on, no giveaways to anyone, no matter who turns out to be my “enemy.”

The competition for the title of instructor pilot was also conducted by Kovalev. In this fight I decided

Gunsmiths equip a ShVAK cannon on a LaGG-3 fighter

Before dinner, after combat missions, the pilots always received vodka. Usually at the rate of 100 grams for each combat mission. Grigory Krivosheev recalls: “There were three tables in the dining room - for each squadron. We arrived for dinner, the squadron commander reported that everyone was assembled, and only after that they were allowed to begin. The foreman comes with a beautiful decanter. If the squadron made 15 sorties, then this decanter contains one and a half liters of vodka. He places this decanter in front of the squadron commander. The commander begins to pour into glasses. If you deserve a full hundred grams, it means you deserve it, if you deserve it a little more, it means you did a great job, and if you didn’t get enough, it means you didn’t fly well. “All this was done in silence - everyone knew that this was an assessment of his actions over the past day.”

Hero of the Soviet Union I.P. Laveikin with the crew at his LaGG-3. Zalazino, Kalinin Front, December 1941

But before a combat mission, most pilots tried not to drink alcohol at all. Sergei Gorelov recalls: “The one who allowed himself to drink, as a rule, was knocked down. A drunk person has a different reaction. What is combat? If you don't shoot down, you will be shot down. Is it possible to defeat the enemy in such a state when, instead of one, two planes are flying before your eyes? I've never flown drunk. We only drank in the evening. Then it was necessary to relax, to fall asleep.”

Breakfast at the airfield under the wing of LaGG-3. Many pilots complained that after intense flights they lost their appetite, but it seems that this is not the case

In addition to vodka, the pilots were also given cigarettes (usually Belomor - a pack per day) and matches. Anatoly Bordun recalls: “Most of our pilots traded their cigarettes to the technicians for shag. We liked it even more than Belomor. You could immediately get high on makhorka, so you wouldn’t want to smoke during the flight. And the technicians willingly changed with us, because they wanted to push themselves with cigarettes. Well, we are already pilots, we don’t need to force it!”

LaGG-3 on the assembly line of plant No. 21 in Gorky (archive of G. Serov)

The technical staff were, of course, somewhat worse fed than the pilots, but often not bad either. The relationship between pilots and technicians was always the warmest, because the serviceability and combat effectiveness of the fighter depended on the technician.

In the cockpit of this MiG-3 with the inscription “For the Motherland” on board is Vitaly Rybalko, 122nd IAP. The AM-35A high-altitude engine made it possible to develop 640 km/h at an altitude of 7800 meters, but at the ground, as the pilots put it, it was an “iron”

Of course, among the technical staff there were women - motorists and junior weapons specialists. Sometimes the pilots began affairs with them, which sometimes ended in marriage.

MiG-3 of the 129th IAP parked

Many fighter pilots believed in omens. For example, they tried not to shave or take photographs before combat missions. Sergei Gorelov recalls: “There were also signs: you couldn’t shave in the morning, only in the evening. A woman should not be allowed near the cockpit of an airplane. My mother sewed a cross into my tunic, and then I transferred it to new tunics.”

The monetary certificates that fighters were given for their service were mostly sent to their relatives in the rear. It was not always possible to spend money on yourself, and there was no need for it. Vitaly Klimenko recalls: “Before the relocation began, I sent a certificate to my wife to receive money from my salary, because I knew that life was difficult for Zina and her mother at that time. We, the pilots, were well supplied with food and clothing during the war. We didn’t need anything... Therefore, all front-line soldiers, as a rule, sent their certificates to their wives, mothers, fathers or relatives, since food was especially difficult in the rear.”

The pilots, as a rule, washed their uniforms themselves. They didn’t have much trouble with this, since there was always a barrel of gasoline at the airfield. They threw tunics and trousers there, then all they had to do was rub the clothes, and all the dirt would fly off, all that was left was to rinse and dry the uniform!

A MiG-3 group patrols over the center of Moscow

The pilots washed themselves every twenty to thirty days. They were given field baths. Stoves and boilers were installed in the tents. There were barrels there - one with cold water, the other with boiling water - and rye straw lay nearby. Having received the soap, the pilots steamed the straw with boiling water and rubbed themselves with it like a washcloth.

But sometimes a pilot could be called to a combat mission even while washing. Anatoly Bordun recalls: “The weather worsened, and due to the lack of flights, we organized a bathhouse. We are washing ourselves, and suddenly a flare takes off. As it turned out later, the weather cleared up a bit and the bombers approached our airfield, and we were required to accompany them. Accordingly, we jumped out of the bathhouse. I only managed to put on pants and a shirt. Even my hair was left soapy. The flight went well, but if I had been shot down, I think they would have been amazed on the ground that the pilot was barely dressed and his head was in soap.”

The year 1943 was a turning point in the air war on the Eastern Front. There were several reasons for this. Modern equipment, including those received under Lend-Lease, began to be supplied to the troops en masse. Massive bombing of German cities forced the German command to keep a large number of fighter aircraft in the country's air defense. An equally important factor was the increased skill and training of the “Stalinist falcons”. From the summer until the very end of the war, Soviet aviation gained air supremacy, which became more and more complete with each month of the war. Nikolai Golodnikov recalls: “After the air battles on the Blue Line, the Luftwaffe gradually lost air supremacy, and by the end of the war, when air supremacy was completely lost, “free hunting” remained the only way of combat by German fighter aircraft, where they reached at least some positive result." The Luftwaffe remained an exceptionally strong, skillful and cruel enemy, fighting bravely until the very end of the war and sometimes inflicting very painful blows, but this could no longer affect the overall outcome of the confrontation.

Vitaly Klimenko in a school class in front of a stand with an M-11 engine

Nearby, 100–125 km from Siauliai, was the border with Germany. We felt her closeness on our own skin. Firstly, military exercises of the Baltic Military District were ongoing continuously, and secondly, an air squadron or, in extreme cases, a flight of fighters was on duty at the airfield in full combat readiness. We also met with German intelligence officers, but we did not have an order to shoot them down, and we only accompanied them to the border. It’s not clear why they lifted us into the air to say hello then?! I remember how during the elections to the Supreme Councils of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania we patrolled at a low altitude above the city of Siauliai.

“Too many comrades died in Spain... many other mutual acquaintances. Against this background, the rattling stories about the exploits of the “Spaniards” sounded like sacrilege. Although some of these pilots, who were pulled out of the Spanish air meat grinder as exemplary exhibits, completely lost their heads and spun the incredible. For example, the little blond pilot Lakeev from our fighter squadron, who also received a Hero. But he was unlucky - he didn’t get his last name. The selection of heroes was also carried out by last name: there were no Korovins and Deryugins among them, but there were euphonious Stakhanovs and militant Rychagovs, who were destined to turn the world of capital upside down. At the beginning of our serious war, most of the “Spaniards” had a very pitiful appearance and disposition, and practically did not fly. Why risk a head crowned with such great fame? These were division commander Zelentsov, regiment commander Shipitov, regiment commander Grisenko, and regiment commander Syusyukalo. At the beginning of the Patriotic War, we expected from them examples of how to beat the Messers, who literally pecked us and whom these epic heroes in their stories destroyed by the dozens in the Spanish sky, but we heard from them mainly commissar’s encouragement: “Come on, come on, forward, brothers. We’ve already flown away.”

I remember a hot day in July 1941. I am sitting in the cockpit of the I-153 - “Chaika”, at the airfield south of Brovary, where there is now a poultry plant, before takeoff. In a few minutes, I will lead eight to attack the enemy in the area of ​​the Khatunok farm, which is now behind the Exhibition of Achievements of the National Economy. The day before, it was in this very place that we lost pilot Bondarev, and in this battle I was almost shot down. German tanks accumulated in the Khatunka area, perfectly covered by the fire of very effective German small-caliber Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns and heavy machine guns, which pierced right through our plywood planes.

A major general without a position, the “Spanish” Hero of the Soviet Union Lakeev, whose division, where he was commander, was burned on the ground by the Germans on the first day of the war, came up to board my plane, and he was hanging around our airfield. Lakeev was afraid to fly and was busy inspiring the flight crew. He decided to inspire me too: “Come on, come on, commissar, give them a hard time.” I really wanted to send the hero glorified in the press, poems and songs away, but the commissar’s position did not allow me. Lakeev was sent away and shown a combination of a fist pressed to the elbow with the other hand by one of the pilots of the neighboring, second regiment, Timofey Gordeevich Lobok, to whom Lakeev suggested leaving the plane and giving him, the general, a place so that such a great value would fly out of the encirclement when it’s come to this.”

Here is a small quote about the “Spanish” heroes, whose fates developed very, very differently during the Great Patriotic War. Of course, not all of them were cowards and not all of them demanded a plane to fly to the rear, but these were the people Panov had to deal with directly.

This is what Dmitry Panteleevich writes, remembering China: “For the first time I observed the battle tactics of Japanese fighters, but I immediately appreciated the power of the I-98 engines - a new modification of the aircraft. There were no such cars at Khalkhin Gol. The Japanese aviation industry immediately responded to the needs of the army. The I-98 was a magnificent modern machine, covered with a thin duralumin sheet, equipped with four machine guns: three medium and one heavy Colt type, with a powerful fourteen-cylinder “two-row star” engine in meticulous Japanese design. Our “siskins”, in pursuit of the Japanese monoplane along the “candle”, could only pursue it for the first two hundred and fifty meters up, and then the engine lost power and choked. I had to roll over the wing and take a horizontal flight on turns, and hang out like... in an ice hole, waiting for the Japanese, who had come out with his “candle” to a height of more than 1100 meters, to look around and identify a new victim for his rapid peck from a great height.

After takeoff, having gained approximately 4000 meters of altitude, we turned around to attack the enemy from the upper echelon, with the sun behind us, and rushed to the place of the air battle, which had already begun: a huge carousel of fighters was spinning above the airfield, chasing each other. The Japanese followed their previous tactics: the lower group fought an air battle in turns and combat turns, and the upper group rotated, looking for a victim to attack in a dive. Our squadron, divided into two groups of five aircraft, attacked the enemy’s lower group from two sides: Grisha Vorobyov led the five on the left, and I on the right. The Japanese carousel fell apart and the battle became chaotic. We conducted it according to the principle of “pairs” - one attacks, and the other covers him, while the Japanese acted on the principle of collective responsibility - the upper ones covered the lower ones. The Japanese way of fighting was noticeably more effective.

Pilot and writer Dmitry Panteleevich Panov. (wikipedia.org)

So, perhaps the main moment in the life of a fighter pilot has arrived - an air battle with the enemy. It is always a question of life - to win or be defeated, to live or die, which must be answered without delay. The throttle lever of the engine is pushed forward all the way, and the engine trembles, giving everything it can. The pilot's hands on the machine gun trigger. The heart beats wildly, and the eyes search for a target. During exercises, they look into the “tube” of the sight, and in battle, shooting from a machine gun is carried out “hunting style”: you point the nose of the plane at the enemy and open fire, making adjustments as the tracer bullets fly. Don’t forget to turn your head more often, looking under the tail of your plane to see if the enemy has appeared there? Sometimes they ask me: “How did you come out of a long-term air meat grinder alive?” The answer is simple: “I wasn’t lazy to turn my head, fortunately I have a short neck, and my head turns easily, like the turret of a tank.” I always saw the enemy in the air and could at least roughly predict his maneuver. And, apparently, my parents gave me brains that can constantly keep within me the whole picture of an air battle.

At first there was complete chaos and we had to shoot at random. Then my attention focused on the secretary of our squadron party bureau, Lieutenant Ivan Karpovich Rozinka, who, having chosen a target, bravely attacked it in a dive and, having caught up with the enemy plane, opened fire from his four machine guns. The Japanese plane was engulfed in flames and crashed to the ground, turning into a fireball. But the upper echelon of the Japanese was not in vain. When Rozinka was taking his plane out of a dive, it was immediately attacked by two upper-echelon Japanese fighters and the first bursts of fire set the “siskin” on fire. The hit was so accurate, and the gasoline tanks were so full, that the “siskin” did not even reach the ground. The fiery torch into which he turned ended its path at about half a kilometer altitude. I don’t know whether Ivan Karpovich was wounded or simply did not have time to jump out of the flaming car, but in those moments he found his fiery death in the sky of China. Rozinka was loved in the squadron. He was a calm, reasonable, intelligent pilot. He left behind a family...

I shuddered with burning resentment, seeing the death of a comrade, and rushed towards one of the Japanese who shot him down. In the usual manner of the Japanese, having parked the plane with a candle, it came out of the attack, gaining altitude, just past the pair where I was leading. Sasha Kondratyuk was my wingman... I approached the Japanese who was leaving the attack, and attacked him from a very convenient position - from the side, when he was flying vertically, with the top of his head facing me under the plexiglass cap that Japanese I-98s were equipped with. I saw the pilot clearly and opened fire a little earlier. The Japanese flew into the fiery stream and flared up like a torch. First, gasoline splashed onto the left wing; apparently, the bullets hit the gas tank, and the plane was immediately engulfed in flames, ending in a plume of smoke. The Japanese, in a fever, performed a “candle” for another two hundred meters, but then turned over the wing and, taking a horizontal flight, pulled his plane engulfed in flames to the east, towards his airfield. In battle there is no time for curiosity, although it is natural, what happened to my opponent? My attention turned to other Japanese, and Chinese observers from the ground later reported that the Japanese “fiti” plane did not reach the front line - its plane broke off and the pilot left the plane by parachute. The Chinese captured the Japanese and brought him to the airfield.

Having learned about this, in the evening after the battle, we began to ask the Commander-in-Chief of the Chinese Air Force, General Zhao-Jou, who flew after us to the airfield to show us the captured pilot. Zhao-Jou first got out of it, explaining that he was sitting in some kind of barn, and then he began to explain to us that the pilot, in general, was no longer there, and they would show us his uniform. They brought some poor clothes and slippers on thick felt with laces. As we learned later, the Chinese airfield servants, according to Chinese custom, took the Japanese man by the arms and legs and, at the command: “Ay-tsoli!”, “One-two,” tore him into pieces.

War is a terrible thing. Judging by his aerial maneuvers, the Japanese was a good pilot and a brave guy who had the bad luck that could happen to any of us. But the Chinese peasants dressed in soldiers’ uniforms, whom Japanese pilots killed in tens of thousands, could also be understood. In war there are no absolutely right and absolutely wrong. In any case, this story left a heavy aftertaste in my soul.”

The Japanese fought competently: not with numbers, but with skill. But probably the most powerful impression from what Panov wrote in his book was the “star” raid on Stalingrad: “My thoughts were not cheerful: according to calculations, it turned out that on the night of August 22-23 In 1942, German tanks that found themselves at Stalingrad covered ninety kilometers across the steppe: from the Don to the Volga. And if things continue at this rate...

Evening came after gloomy thoughts. The crimson-red Volga sun was almost touching the earth with its disk. To be honest, I already thought that the adventures of this day were coming to an end, but that was not the case. A hoarse, howling, soul-tearing air raid siren sound echoed over Stalingrad. And immediately a dozen and a half fighters from an air defense “division” appeared over the city under the command of Colonel Ivan Ivanovich Krasnoyurchenko, an old acquaintance of mine from Vasilkov. The Golden Hero Star, which he received back in Mongolia, which Ivan Ivanovich literally scandalized by showing tin plates with markings taken from the engines of downed Japanese fighters lying on the ground, helped him throughout the war to be in the background of the fighting, skillfully sharing the glory and creating the impression but without risking your head. Also a kind of art.

This time, it was difficult to expect anything worthwhile from Krasnoyurchenko’s “division” for the reason that the parade of his Stalingrad air defense division in the air was very reminiscent of a review of samples of long-decommissioned Soviet aircraft. It’s amazing how all this museum junk on which pilots died, even when it was new, could stay in the air. If they still wanted to send Yaks, Lagis, and Migis of the latest releases to the front, then among the rubbish of Krasnoyurchenko’s “division” buzzing in the sky, I even noticed the “thunderstorm of pilots” “I-5” produced in 1933. There were I-153, I-15, I-16 and obsolete British Hurricane fighters. And tactically, the actions of air defense fighters resembled some kind of clowning in a circus tent. They rumbled over the city center, rising thousands to four meters, and flew in pairs, while a formidable, close formation of German Ju-88 and Henkel-111 bombers, under the cover of ME-109 fighters, not paying attention to all this clownery, calmly proceeded to the south of Stalingrad to Beketovka, where the main city power plant was located.

The Germans dropped their bomb load along it. The earth shook, apparently, tons of bombs were dropped, the lights went out throughout the city, and thick black clouds of smoke from a huge fire began to rise above the southern outskirts - apparently, the fuel oil reserves at the power plant were burning. The enemy bombers changed formation and began to calmly move away from the target. The fighters did not even come close to them, continuing their aerial clownery, and, obviously, the inexperienced anti-aircraft gunners fired extremely unsuccessfully. The hot fragments raining down on the roofs of houses clearly threatened to kill more of their own than the Germans...

Regimental commissar Dmitry Panov and regiment chief of staff Valentin Soin, 1942. (wikipedia.org)

When I, having put my duffel bag with flight equipment on my back - overalls, high boots, helmet, etc., moved towards the crossings, the Germans, lined up in threes, continued to attack the city from all sides. With an interval of a minute and a half, two groups of bombers, 27 aircraft each, attacked the famous Stalingrad factories, which were being built, tearing a piece of bread from the mouths of starving peasants... Soon huge fires rose above the Tractor Plant, the Barricades, and Red October Plants. But the worst thing was that the Germans, who carried out more than two thousand sorties that day from the airfields of Millerovo, Kotelnikovo, Zhutovo and others conveniently located near Stalingrad, clearly had enough bombs to destroy the city. About half an hour later, they set fire to huge containers of oil on the banks of the Volga and, having perfectly illuminated the city with these colossal torches, began laying bomb carpets of fragmentation and incendiary bombs across residential areas. The city instantly turned into a continuous huge bonfire. This was the famous “star” raid of German aviation on Stalingrad on August 23, 1942, in the hellish fire of which I, a newly appointed commissar of an aviation regiment, made my way to the Volga crossings through the burning quarters of the city.

I have never seen a more terrible picture during the entire war. The Germans came from all sides, first in groups, and then in single planes. Among the roaring fire, a groan and a seemingly underground rumble appeared in the city. Thousands of people sobbed and screamed hysterically, houses collapsed, bombs exploded. Cats and dogs howled wildly among the roaring flames; the rats, emerging from their hiding places, were scurrying through the streets; Doves, rising in clouds, flapping their wings, anxiously circled over the burning city. All this was very reminiscent of the “Last Judgment”, and perhaps these were the tricks of the devil, embodied in the image of a shabby, pockmarked Georgian with a rounded backside of a shopkeeper - as soon as anything connected with his invented name appeared, millions of people immediately died, all collapsed, burned and exploded. The city trembled as if it were in the mouth of an erupting volcano.

We must pay tribute to the heroism of the Volgar men. In this gigantic fire, they were not at a loss and acted like Russian men at a fire: energetically, boldly and with great skill they pulled people and some belongings out of burning houses, and tried to put out the fires. Women had it worst of all. Literally distraught, disheveled, with living and dead children in their arms, screaming wildly, they rushed around the city in search of shelter, family and friends. A woman's scream made no less a grave impression and instilled no less horror in even the strongest hearts than a raging fire.

It was approaching midnight. I tried to walk to the Volga along one street, but ran into a wall of fire. I looked for a different direction of movement, but the result was the same. Making my way between the burning houses, in the windows of the second floor of the burning house I saw a woman with two children. The first floor was already engulfed in flames, and they were trapped in the fire. The woman screamed, asking for salvation. I stopped near this house and shouted to her to throw the baby into my arms. After some thought, she wrapped the baby in a blanket and carefully released him from her arms. I successfully picked up the child on the fly and put him aside. Then he successfully picked up a five-year-old girl and the last “passenger” - the mother of these two children. I was only 32 years old. I was seasoned by life and ate well. There was enough strength. For my hands, accustomed to the helm of a fighter, this load did not pose any particular problems. I barely had time to move away from the house where I was helping out a woman and children, when from somewhere above from the fire, with a furious meow, a large pockmarked cat landed on my duffel bag and immediately hissed furiously. The animal was so excited that it could have scratched me severely. The cat did not want to leave the safe position. I had to throw off the bag and shoo away the cat that had its claws in political literature.”

Regiment commander Ivan Zalessky and regiment political officer Dmitry Panov, 1943. (wikipedia.org)

This is how he describes the city he saw during the crossing: “From the middle of the river, the size of our losses and misfortunes became visible to me on a full scale: a huge industrial city was burning, stretching along the right bank for tens of kilometers. The smoke from the fires rose to a height of up to five thousand meters. Everything for which we had given our last shirt for decades was burning. It was clear what mood I was in...

It was at this time that the Second Fighter Aviation Regiment was holed up in the bushes on the banks of the Volga and was in a rather deplorable state, both materially and morally and politically. On August 10, 1942, at the airfield in Voroponovo, where I ended up the next day and saw an airfield pitted with bomb craters, the Germans unexpectedly captured a regiment on the ground and bombed it. People died and some planes were crashed. But the most serious damage was the decline in morale of the regiment's personnel. People fell into depression and, having moved to the eastern bank of the Volga, took refuge in the thickets of vines between the Volga and Akhtuba rivers and simply lay on the sand; for two whole days no one even made any attempts to get food. It is in this mood that front-line soldiers get lice and stupidly well-equipped units die...”

When Panov became interested in how to obtain aircraft for his regiment, he was informed that in the Khryukin army he was the sixth fighter regiment in line to receive aircraft. Another five regiments were horseless. And he was also informed that “you are not the only regiments and not the only armies that need aircraft,” so the regiment was on the ground for some time. And only a few months later they were given a dozen and a half Yak-1s, which were clearly not enough to equip the entire regiment. But nevertheless, they began to fight and fought very honorably. That is, it was not a marshal regiment, not an elite regiment, these were ordinary hard workers of the war, who mainly flew to cover attack aircraft and bombers. And if they managed to shoot down at least one Messerschmitt, it was considered a fairly serious matter.

Here is what Panov writes about the Yak: “The advantage of German technology still remained. The Me-109 aircraft reached a speed of up to 600 km, and our most modern Yak only reached 500 km, which means it could not catch up with the German in horizontal flight, which we clearly saw when watching the air battles over Stalingrad from the opposite bank.

And, of course, the inexperience of our pilots was very noticeable. However, if our experienced ace entered into a duel with a German, he was able to quite successfully use the advantages of our machine in the maneuver.”

This is one note about the Yak. Another thing is how strong the Yak aircraft was from a structural point of view. One day, Malenkov arrived at the regiment in which Panov served: “Malenkov called the secretary of the regional party committee in Kuibyshev, and he found a way to take her to Stalingrad. And indeed, soon they began to give us good goulash, the side dish of which was (lo and behold!) real, and not frozen, as before, potatoes. Malenkov also seemed to scold us a little: “I often watch air battles over Stalingrad, but more often our planes fall, engulfed in flames. Why is that?" Here all the pilots were already talking, interrupting each other - Malenkov seemed to touch a bleeding wound.

The pilots explained what everyone had known for a long time: the German aluminum fighter flies a hundred kilometers faster than the Yak. And we can’t even dive more than at a speed of five hundred kilometers per hour, otherwise the suction of air from the upper part of the plane will rip off the skin from it and the plane will fall apart, “undressing” in shreds. I had to observe this twice in air battles: once near Stalingrad, another time near Rostov. Our guys, trying to show the “Messers” Kuzka’s mother, got carried away and simply forgot about the capabilities of our “coffins”. Both pilots were killed.

This looked especially tragic in Rostov: our Yak-1 knocked out a Messer at an altitude of three thousand meters and, carried away, rushed to catch up with the German car in a dive. "Messer" went on a low-level flight at a speed of 700 - 800 kilometers. The high-speed aluminum car, rushing past us, howled and whistled like a shell, and our guy’s Yak-1 began to fall apart right in the air: first in rags, and then in parts. The pilot was only half a second late to eject, the parachute did not have time to open, and he hit the five-story dormitory building of the Rostselmash plant. The wreckage of the plane also fell here. And Malenkov asks as if he is hearing about this for the first time. He smiled benignly and vaguely promised that there would be planes for you at higher speeds, we are taking measures. We had to wait until the very end of the war for these measures...”

These are his memories of the planes on which he fought until the very end. Panov also makes a very interesting remark about the “laptezhniki”, Junkers Ju-87 “Stukas”, which in our memoirs, which were published in Soviet times, were literally shot down in batches. Here it should be said that about 4 thousand Junkers-87s were produced during the war, and more than 35 thousand Il-2s were produced. At the same time, 40% of the losses of our aviation were attack aircraft.

Regarding the Yu-87: “Sometimes the accuracy was such that the bomb hit the tank directly. When entering a dive, the Yu-87 threw the brake grids out of the planes, which, in addition to braking, also produced a terrifying howl. This nimble vehicle could also be used as an attack aircraft, having four heavy machine guns in front, and a heavy machine gun on a turret in the back - approaching the “laptezhnik” was not so easy.

In the spring of 1942, near Kharkov, over the village of Mur, a Laptezhnik shooter almost shot down my I-16 fighter. Together with a group of fighters - two squadrons that I brought to cover our troops in the Murom area, I met five "laptezhniki" above the positions of our infantry. I wanted to deploy my group to attack, but when I looked back, I didn’t find anyone behind me. I found myself alone with them. The damned cuttlefish did not lose heart. They left our infantry alone and, turning around, went on the attack on me, opening fire at once from all twenty of their heavy-caliber flat machine guns. Fortunately, the distance was such that the tracks that erupted along with the smoke from the muzzles of the machine guns bent before reaching, losing their destructive power ten meters below me. If not for this luck, they would have smashed my plywood “moth” to smithereens. I instantly threw the plane sharply up and to the right, leaving the fire zone. It looked as if the elk gathered together began to chase the hunter. Coming out of the attack with a decline, the “laptezhniki” reorganized and began bombing our troops...”

Directorate of the 85th Guards Aviation Fighter Regiment, 1944. (wikipedia.org)

These are the memories. Panov has memories of how two of our regiments were taken to German airfields, to put it mildly, by not very qualified navigators. There are a lot of memories about everyday life, the life of pilots, the psychology of people. In particular, he writes very interestingly about his colleagues, about who fought how, and among the major troubles of our army and our aviation, he attributes two factors: this, as he writes, “command, which was often such that Hitler it would be just right to present these would-be commanders with German orders,” this is on the one hand; on the other hand, against the backdrop of combat losses, our troops suffered colossal losses due to the consumption of alcohol, or rather, alcohol-based liquids, which, in general, could not be consumed as alcohol. Moreover, Panov described several cases when good, intelligent and valuable people died precisely because they drank something that was categorically prohibited from being taken orally as an intoxicating drink. Well, as a rule, if they drink, they don’t do it alone and, accordingly, three, five, sometimes even more people die due to alcohol poisoning.

By the way, Panov also writes very interestingly about the 110th Messerschmitt. These are twin-engine fighter-bombers that performed poorly during the Battle of Britain, and were later transferred to night aviation as interceptors or as light bombers and attack aircraft. So Panov debunks the myth that the Me-110 was an easy prey. He describes how he had to deal with 110s in the sky of Stalingrad, and given that he had two engines, experienced pilots removed the gas from one, added thrust on the other and turned it virtually, like a tank, on the spot, and taking into account that he had four machine guns and two cannons in the nose, when such a machine turned its nose towards the fighter, nothing good could be expected.

Sources

1. Memoirs of pilot Dmitry Panov: The Price of Victory, “Echo of Moscow”

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Big show. World War II through the eyes of the French... Pierre Closterman

The author of the book, a military pilot and participant in World War II, describes the battles in the sky as he saw and assessed them himself. Pierre Closterman's impressions, recorded during breaks between hostilities and operations, paint the reader an accurate and reliable picture of military events and convey the vivid feelings experienced by the French pilot.

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The lightning-fast reaction of an air ace helps military pilot Alexei Semenov avoid a bullet after completing a combat mission. The fighter on which he makes a night flight over battle-torn Chechnya disappears along with... the airfield, and he, like a hunted animal, escapes from the pursuit of special forces, disrupting the criminal operation of a corrupt army general. But not everything is bought and sold. There is a fighting brotherhood of soldiers, there are people who know how to look death in the eye and respond to blows with blows. With such allies, Alexey is not alone - the fight...

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