[caldrail]

Secret Memo To Chiefs of Staff...

Mr Churchill has today expressed his desire for a new operation to outflank the German advance in northern Europe. His suggestion involves an expeditionary force to travel to Russia by way of the Barents Sea and reinforce Russian operations against Germany and Finland.

We see this as desirable in view of Finlands supply of raw materials to Germany. Without their nickel and iron, Germany's war effort will be severely hampered.

Operations to commence immediately. Army divisions and squadrons of the Royal Air Force have been assigned and will embark for Murmansk with all due haste.

This thread will be a campaign diary, as Squadron Leader Miles Hendon takes his men aboard the aircraft carrier HMS Shamrock Bay and heads for the arctic circle. The missions are entirely generated by DCG. Let war commence.

[caldrail]

06:00 Hours, 17th August 1941, HMS Shamrock Bay, somewhere north of Murmansk on the Barents Sea.



To our chaps of the Royal Air Force, the comings and goings of sailors aboard the aircraft carrier Shamrock Bay were something of a mystery. Still, the fellows were kind enough to supply a mug of hot tea this fine morning. Although August, the chill air was uninviting, the cold wind even less so. I looked out at the haze obscuring the calm grey water and above us, the ivory cirrus clouds, and knew today we would fly out.

An hour earlier we'd finally been told what to expect. I marvel at at the way the military drops these suprises on you when you've had it figured out for weeks. All that short field circuit flying had to be for a reason. Some of the men had postulated we'd be heading for Canada. That's ten shillings Raymond owes me.

Our mission was simple. The Northern Expeditionary Force was to disembark at Murmansk and assist the Russians attacking Finland. It seems the Finns are supplying the Third Reich with all sorts of materials and Mr Churchill wants to put a stop to it. Personally, I think he wants revenge for that Norwegian fiasco last year. Too many defeats doesn't help ones political career.

The sailors were at work, our Huricanes rising out of the dark steel hangars on lifts with practised ease. If I were honest, they made the process look easy than it was, adopting the demeanour of men who'd done this a thousand times. I watched them manhandle the aircraft into position at the back of the flight deck. I knew this would come, but the prospect of taking off along this frighteningly short deck was something I was in no hurry to experience, especially since a mistake would drop me into the freezing waters of the Barents Sea.

"We're ready for you now Sir." Called a naval petty officer. He seemed suited to this enviroment, a square jawed man carved from salt water. He may have been polite to my rank, but I got the impression that on his deck a Squadron Leader does what he's told.

The others heeded my call, and given the temperature, were only too keen to get going. Flight Lieutenants Carter Bishop and Hayden Burbridge chatted eagerly to each other, both young men who'd missed the Battle of Britain and were keen to make their mark on the Luftwaffe. Flight Sergeant Raymond Pattle was a different man altogether. He was a quieter, more grim faced man. An excellent pilot but one with a lot buried under the surface.

We clambered aboard the aircraft and the cold air was shocking. It was a strange scene. A short metal runway ahead of us, tall plumes of steam rising from the ships funnels either side of us, and our aeroplanes packed tight ready to go. Mechanics swarmed around like flies and demanded attention as we began firing up our engines. They knew a thing or two about starting merlins and without any fuss the Rolls Royce fired into life, a few bursts of flame from the exhausts followed by a cloud of grey smoke that dissipated in the propellor wash, a blast of air that froze me there and then despite the protective windshield.

The sailor standing on the wing stopped me from closing the cockpit with hand signals. Of course he was right. Standard procedure was to leave them open in case you ditched on take off. How can he stand the cold? The man isn't human. Everything checked out, he gave a final thumbs up and vanished from sight. Another sailor waited to pull the chocks away. He signalled me to run the engine up.

The burbling engine changed character immediately. The pops and bangs gave way to an angry roar, the Hurricane vibrating as I held it on the deck with the stick fully back. The propellor wash was merciless, biting cold. Then the sailor waved me on. I felt the aeroplane lunge forward of its own volition and quickly countered the swing. The bridge superstructure flashed past me - it was all I could see - and as the Hurricane left the deck I felt it sink. The engine was giving everything. The flaps were down. I wound up the undercarriage as quick as I could, seeing the grey water rise in the corner of my eyes. At last, clawing its way skyward, the Hurricane began to fly and I breathed in relief, hurriedly closing the canopy.

My tiny world seemed instantly warm and quiet. I adjusted the heading to one nine zero and trimmed the aeroplane for a climb. It was a glorious morning. The sun very low on my left through the deep haze, and a fleecy blue sky above. Our destination was Vayenga airfield, where we'd begin operations. In this sunlit murk, I wondered how I would find it.

Glancing back I spot a couple of my lads closing into formation. I leave them to it. Ahead, on my left, high ground rose above the mist. Ostrov Kildin? I hope so, or I'm hopelessly lost. A thick russian voice came over the radio. I doubt that was meant for us, whatever it was he said. This was their realm, a place of alien coldness, and a part of me wondered what to expect.

The coast began to emerge, draped in white frost or snow, and looking so bright in the sunshine. The river was plainly visible and I used that to guide me in toward Vayenga. Down there, ahead of my right side leading edge, a ship cruised northward. We must be near Vayenga surely? I dipped my wing and there, almost passing me on the left, a snow covered airfield below. This Russian terrain is deceptive. I shall note that for future reference.

We fly in, appreciating the english voice we hear on the radio. At first I lose the field in the mist, but there it is, and with a little change in heading and some extra power I approach the runway. The Hurricane floated more than I expected, as if it didn't want to touch down here. I could feel the drag of the snow and grass, and at the same time, the momentum of my aeroplane pushing forward on the slippery surface. Nonetheless, the brakes worked, and I taxied in to the open area on my right, first to land.

With the sun in my eyes I cut the engine, the propellor coming to a stop with a series of clacks. The straps were known to me but my cold fingers found them strangers. My nose began to run. A knock on the canopy gave me a start. A Russian leaned forward on my wing grinning like a lunatic, beckoned me to open up, and as I pulled the canopy back he offered a handshake, chatting away in fluent gibberish. He presented a half empty vodka bottle. Now that I understood, and warmed myself discreetly.

Once we assembled at the wooden cabin we assume was set aside for our use, our Russian hosts threw an impromptu party, eager to trade and make friends. None of us understand a single word they say. It doesn't matter.

Carter Bishop wasn't there. I saw Burbridge looking out the window, searching the sky for signs of his friends arrival. A Russian with a walking stick arrived and saluted his senior officer, who glanced at me with knowingly whilst the party went on. I knew what that message was, and later I learned officially that Carter Bishop hadn't made it. He'd flown into a hillside. Burbridge took that hard. They were close friends. Somehow, I sensed the Russian commander knew how he felt. My task for tonight was morale. Young men far from home and already missing a comrade.

[caldrail]

06:00, 18th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

Finally we got ourselves some rest. The hut was perishing cold during the night. Funny thing though, I kept hearing faint noises, and I couldn't really sleep. Dimitri, our chirpy Russian hut warden speaks enough english to make himself understood. He told us that the Germans were attacking the bridge at Ura Guba, though he wasn't supposed to know that. The batle has gone on for two days now. The Nazi's can't be more than fifty kilometres away.

We woke to another hazy day. The Russian are keen to throw us into the fray it seems, and as soon as we've had what little breakfast was available our liaison officer told us we needed to patrol Kilpyavr Airfield, to the west. Raymond has taken to calling him the Tour Guide.. Anyhow, we trudged across to the aeroplanes and with some cursing from our mechanics we got the engines started up.

Flying Officer Edmond Hesslyn has taken Carter Bishops place in my flight. Robust sort of chap, good at rugby. We took off and flew west with the sun behind us. Kilpyavr wasn't difficult to find. Orbiting at around 6,000 ft we waited for the enemy to appear.

Eventually I saw something coming from the south at higher altitude. A bomber perhaps, or a recce plane. At any rate we all began climbing after it. The crew must have seen us because they turned east and tried to clear the area. No such luck. The lads climbed better than me (I suspect my Merlin isn't running as well as it might) and once they catch up I can see tracer above. The target is a Focke-Wulf 189, the twin boom recconaisance bird. He's trailing fire from his left engine, and one by one the Germans bail out. The aeroplane begins to dive to the right.

"Who got that one?" I ask. It's Hesslyn, making his debut amongst us in style. We turn back toward Kilpyavr and resume our patrol.

Burbridge started yelling into the radio. German fighters? He's not wrong! They jumped us from the cover of cloud. I roll over and chase one, but he's too canny and climbs out of danger. Another flashes past my windscreen so close I can smell the burning oil. This is getting dangerous.



I choose a target and dive after him. He seems totally unaware of me. Closer... Closer... Too late, His Messerschmitt begins turning tighter. I try to stay behind and we snake around the sky. I fire my guns again and again, watching bits flying off of him, but he jinks upward and I can't follow. He gets away.

Tracer passes me and I pull hard into a corkscrew. A german is firing at me and I don't know where he is. I feel a vibration as bullets chew my left wing. Nothing serious, but that was too close for comfort. I see his 109 pass under me at speed. I want to go after him, deterred only by the other Messerschmitt coming right at me. I fire the guns again, a good long burst. Surely I hit him? His 109 zooms past my left trailing smoke.

By chance I see a 109 ahead, flying in a wide circle. As much as I try to close on this one I can't, he's making full use of speed and I can't match it. I try to cut across his turn and he sees my move, but now I gain an advantage. He sees the mistake and tries to throw me off. I fly closer and closer as he jinks left and right. At the last moment he rolls right and tries to dive away. I follow, much closer now, getting a bead on him... click.... My guns are empty! He gets away.

So do we. Discretion gets the better of us and we turn for home. I can see a 109 chasing us on a parallel course eight o'clock high, but he gives up and flies home too.

Landing at Vayenga, I discover Burbridge shot one down. A little later and the Russians confirm that I shot one down too, the pilot crash landing his 109E7/Z inside our lines. I don't fancy his fate. The Russians like the Nazi's even less than we do.

[caldrail]

05:00 19th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

Yesterday we hear about the fighting at Ura Guba from official channels. The Germans need to secure it to advance on the north flank, intent on capturing the Murmansk railway.. The Russians seem somewhat hesistant to tell us everything, but it's clear this is a determined offensive we're facing.

Flying Officer Edmond Hesslyn is grinning like a cheshire cat. He's a competitive sort of bloke, but I see the same expression on many of the other lads in the squadron. It worries me. We've only just arrived and perhaps we caught the Luftwaffe off guard. We shouldn't become overconfident.

Dimitri woke us very early. I swear the man doesn't sleep. Today seems to be more cloudy than before in more ways than one. I suspect the Russians are worried about how the war is going. We hear rumours that German forces have advanced across Russia like a steamroller. At any rate, they want us to patrol the area.

The mechanics have patched up my Hurricane. I climb aboard, glancing at the dull grey mist with some resignation. The cirrus clouds above are a greyish pink colour, the horizon a splendid halo of red and yellow.



We patrolled for an hour. The Germans were elsewhere it seems, and no-one bothered us.

We had a visit from the Tour Guide (Raymond has got me saying that now) that afternoon. His name is Sergeyev, a former journalist, a pleasant fellow when you get to know him. He informs us that fighting at Ura Guba has intensified. I noticed a line of soviet transport planes lined along the north apron. Something's going to happen soon. I just know it.

[caldrail]

16:00 20th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

We almost slept in today. Dimitri didn't wake us and I suspect he felt sorry for wasting our time yesterday morning. The weather really has closed in with thick overcast cloud. At least it doesn't feel so cold today.

The Li-2 transports flew away this morning but we don't know where they went. We kept ourselves busy. Edmond Hesslyn organised a spot of football for the lads. Some of the Russians got interested but a couple of them got a little too wrapped up in the game and almost came to blows.

It wasn't until the late afternoon that the Russians called us in. Army units on the front line reported formations of enemy bombers heading east, and that meant we'd better darn well stop them. We run out to our aeroplanes and strap in. There's a sense of urgency as the mechanics get the engines going. I'm airborne as soon as possible, the Hurricane wallowing a little on the intial climb. The air is much clearer this afternoon and for once I can see the airfield as I climb out.

We head west above cloud, nothing but blue sky above us. I don't spend much time admiring the view. The Luftwaffe is out there and I don't want to get caught again. Below we pass over the lakes that mark the halfway point between here and Kilpyavr. There's nothing up here, so I call the radio for a heading. They suggested two four zero. Hang on... Down there, ten o'clock low, what's that? Bombers!

I call 'tally ho' and we wing over to the attack. Ju88's see us coming and break up, turning to avoid us. I pull in behind one and fire. He begins to smoke and dives away to the right. The radio traffic is frantic. Another '88 begins to burn. I look around but the bombers are gone apart from a smoke trail or two. Everyone seems to be congratulating each other and I tell them to pipe down. They reform as we head back home.



Within ten minutes we hear the Germans are attacking our airfield. A two pronged attack? Time is precious and we open the throttles, making every second count. I can only see two other Hurricanes behind me. Over the radio F/O Hesslyn calls for help. He got seperated, now he's under pressure from German fighters.

We must be close to home now... There! Below us are two fighters, Bf109's, turning west as we arrive. I call for another attack, roll over, and pull through a half loop to level behind a Messerschmitt. He hasn't seen me, he can't have, he's flying straight and level without a care in the world. I open fire.. Again... Chunks are coming off him and he starts to burn. His 109 flies on. Why doesn't he bale out? Raymond, my wingman, congratulates me on the kill. The German doesn't do anything at all but fly on, then his fuel tanks go up and the shattered plane falls from the sky. The other Messerschmitt high-tails it back to Finland. We can't catch him. With some relief, Hesslyn rejoins our formation, older and wiser.

What a day! We all bagged a Ju88 each. Another Fw189 was downed by anti-aircraft fire not far from the field, and I scored one kill on a 109E7/Z. Good show everyone! The Russians think so too. Sergeyez slaps me on the back and tells me I'll get a medal for it. That Russian with the walking stick makes himself scarce with little grace. I'll ask Dimitri about him.

Things aren't all rosey though. The Red Air Force took a pasting at Kilpyavr, losing some I-16's on the ground. The Germans aren't giving up at Ura Guba either. Both sides are fighting for every inch of soil.

[caldrail]

06:00 hrs 21st August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

We were in fine spirits this morning. Burbridge was smiling, but underneath I think he was rattled about losing his friend. At any rate, we're required to help the Russians fend off enemy air attacks near Kilpyavr.

I think I'm getting used to this early morning mist. I climb out of Vayenga and head west as the flight formate on my right side. The weather is fine with some 4/10ths cloud at 3,000 feet. We soon climb above that.

As we near the front lines I spot the dark specks of aircraft, a large formation, eleven o'oclock low. Out here they have to be German and we swoop down. Heinkel bombers! I make a side on pass to the tail end charlie and a satisfying smoke trail erupts. I pull up, turn left, roll right, and dive down to attack the formation from the rear. I fire my guns... Debris... Fire again... More debris... Still haven't landed a killer blow.

Tracer flashes past me and instantly holes appear in the perspex. The instrument panel almost explodes in my face. The rudder bars suddenly go light and ineffective. I pull up and gently corkscrew away. A 109 had jumped me! Where did he spring from? Too late for me though, I can't dogfight in this condition. I gun the engine and make a shallow dive for home. Two Messerschmitts orbit above but don't seem too interested in my fate.

On the radio I hear about Raymond Pattle and Edmond Hesslyn shooting down the Heinkels. Good lads. I call my wingman down to escort me home. Raymond answers affirmative but my smile vanishes a moment later. The 109's get him. I hear the man screaming. All I can do is shout helplessly at him to bail out. There's no further word.

I can see the 109's in the distance above and behind me. Without doubt, if they catch me, I'm a goner. I make for Kilpyavr and land without ceremony, turning off the runway, shutting down the engine, and clambering out out the cockpit before the Hurrivcane has stopped moving. A Messerschmitt zooms across the field, aborting his strafing attack under the persuasion of Russian anti-aircraft fire. He climbs away and turns west, clearly having had his feathers singed.

Kilpyavr is much closer to the front and I see a lot of Russian aeroplanes wrecked on the ground. They've been hit hard. The Russian soldiers who come out to me in a lorry are none too sure what to make of me. They point their guns and signal me to surrender. I try to make them understand I'm on their side but they don't speak english, and prefer to take me to an officer to sort what to do. At length a tired officer makes a cursory apology and has me taken back to Vayenga.



It was late in the day when I finally got there. Sergeyev passed me a cup of tea and offered his regrets. Regrets? Why? What happened? It came as no suprise, but Sergeyev told me that my wingman, Flight Sergeant Pattle, had bought it. Worse still, the remaining two members of my flight had been attacked by 109's on their way home, flushed with victory against the Luftwaffe bombers. Burbridge had shot up a Messerschmitt - the Russians tell me it burned like a candle - but was himself shot down later. The same German pilot shot down Hesslyn, and with no small sense of relief I learned he was on his way back to Vayenga too, having bailed out. The Russians were giving him the Defence Medal, the same award I was to receive shortly.

"You know," Sergeyev said in his halting english, "They Nazi's have very good pilot. They Nazi's bring him here, to deal with you, hmmm? Next time, should be careful."

Dimitri told me about the Russian officer with the walking stick we saw the other day. It was clear he wasn't interested in talking to us. A veteran of the Spanish Civil War apparently. He doesn't speak english, and for that matter, doesn't speak to the english whatsoever. Definite chip on that mans shoulders.

Three Hurricanes shot down and mine damaged beyond repair at Kilpyavr. Two pilots dead, two shaken, and two new members of my flight to sort out. The squadron adjutant saved me the bother. Flight Sergeant Jarvis Gray was my new wingman, a New Zealander with a calm confident demeanour. Flying officer Benson replaced Burbridge. A scotsman with a thick mane of ginger hair that rebelled against any attempt at tidiness. I was too tired to speak to them. As chilly as the hut was, I bedded down for the night.

[caldrail]

06:00 hrs, 22nd August 1941, Vayenga Airfield.

"Jump! Hit the silk!" My wingman called over the radio. I felt the Hurricane getting away from me. The joystick was loose and the aeroplane beginning to roll over. Two thousand feet or less to go. I jettisoned the canopy and the blast of cold air stung me. There wasn't any time to think. The straps came away and I slid from the cockpit feeling myself fall headlong. With a good heave at the ripcord the parachute opened. It knocked the wind out me. I hung there, swaying from side to side and gyrating beneath the silk umbrella that was about to save my life.



I saw my plane dive in. It could have so easily been me inside it. Aircraft are wheeling around above me. I hear machine guns rattling in competition with the sound of aero engines and flak bursts in the distance. The wavering sound of a screaming engine attracts my attention. Over the city of Severomorsk, an aeroplane is spinning in. From here it looks like a Hurricane. I can see the fighter disappear into the street, marked only by a bright burst of flame and a thick column of smoke. The muffled 'crump' of impact follows on. I hope he got out.

I have six or seven hundred feet to descend. With the ground speeding up toward me, I ready myself and land awkwardly. The chute pulls me across the frosty grass until I wrestle it empty of wind. A little shakey, I check myself and find no serious injury. It took a few moments to collect my bearings, then I stuffed the chute into the pack as best I could, before trudging toward Vayenga.

Glancing upward, I see an aeroplane under attack. It flies on, trailing thick black smoke, but from down on the ground I can't make out who was who. After another thirty minutes or so the Germans leave the scene, and I see one Hurricane landing about a mile away.

Arrving at the base Sergeyev come out to meet me in a rickety old car handpainted in olive green. He gets out whilst the car slows down and walks ahead of it with suprising grace.

"You damaged?" He asks, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"No. No damage." I reply, "But I lost my plane. I lost more men. Can't go on like this. Who is that german pilot anyway? He's all over us!"

A voice from the old car made itself felt, a leather clad German officer, an aviator. "His name is Major Josias During. You might have met him before, over the Channel? One of our fighter aces."

His chuckle nearly cost me my temper. Sergeyev pushed me back gently and herded me past. It seems the German bailed out over the field earlier. Our patrol had seen the incoming Stuka's. I hit the first before he got to the field, and one later after he pulled up from his diving attack. The other two were downed as well. Then those 109's arrived and all hell broke loose. I nearly shot one down. I was blowing chunks off him.

"You no mind him." Sergeyev advised me, "He is going to prison now. Our prison. We like Nazi's in prison, yes?"

I muttered something about using a pistol as the car began pulling away from the base. We passed the makeshift offices and the man with the walking stick watched us from the doorway. He said something dismissive to Sergeyev as we walked by.

"What?" I demanded, "What did he say?"

"You no mind him." Sergeyev advised in a serious tone. I stared into Sergeyev's face hard. The ex-journalist sighed in resignation. "He thinks you are bad pilot."

"Well you tell that sour faced dimwit that we're here fighting on his soil. My men are dying one by one. And all he can do is sneer? Well maybe that is all he can do. From what I've seen, the Red Air Force is lying in the scrapheap!"

Sergeyev closed his eyes and clenched his mouth shut. The officer with the walking stick came down out of the doorway and limped slowly across to me. He took out a small cardboard box, waved it in his hand, then tossed it unceremoniously to the mud at my feet before returning to the gloom of his office. Sergeyev picked up the box, glanced inside, and offered it to me.

"Yours, I think."

I looked inside. It was a Russian Medal.

The day had not gone well. Edmond Hesslyn had been the pilot of the Hurricane that spun into the city by the river. Officially he was missing in action. Jarvis Gray was shot down too, his plane circling down until it crashed south east of the river. Benson, the cheery scotsman whose aeroplane I'd seen landing, found something alcoholic and whatever it was, we saluted fallen comrades. He congratulated me in his warm scottish drawl.

"What for?" I asked.

"Ah now Skipper, if ah'm not mistaken, you're a genuine fighter ace now. Besides, ah do hear that our command is pleased wi'us. Adjutant tells me me you're goin' ta be receivin' a Distinguished Flying Medal. How about that?"

[caldrail]

16:00 hrs, 23rd August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

I stood to attention in front of General Sir Hugh Wynchett. An older man certainly, but one who retained sharp faculties and had that energy about him that almost guaranteed his position as commander of British Forces in Murmansk.

"So you're Hendon? The silly young officer who upset the Russians yesterday?"

"Sir, the attitude of..."

"Enough!" Barked the General. He looked up and slapped his swagger stick on the desk in front of him. "I don't want to hear it. As the commanding officer in this theatre I have the thankless task of keeping our hosts happy. You will get along with them and thats an order. You will not upset the Russians any more. Is that understood?"

There was no choice but to understand. "Yes Sir. Sorry Sir."

"Hmm. That's better. You've done well here Hendon. Don't spoil it for yourself. Good grief man, I'm supposed to be here to hand you a Distinguished Flying Medal. Adjutant, will do the honours?... Congratulations, Squadron Leader. Good show."

Of course, the show must go on. Having survived the Generals visit our order of the day was to patrol the approach to Murmansk out on the Barents Sea. The Expeditionary Force were expecting vital supplies by sea and no German intereference was to be tolerated.

My flight waited for me at the dispersal. Our new number four was Pilot Officer Elton Stephens. I knew him from England. A decent enough chap, quite a carouser. He and Benson ought to get along like a house on... I stopped myself from thinking about it.

Kenneth Davids was a fresh faced lad, somewhat nervous of his new role as my wingman. I told him to stick with me no matter what. Don't go swanning off on your own. He nodded intently. I saw his inner fear through his eyes. I said "Don't worry Davids, they can't get all of us. Churchill won't allow it."

We made our way to the aeroplanes waiting on the grass. For a moment, I thought I saw a despondent mood in one or two of the mechanics. I gave mine a cheery thumbs up anyway. The Merlin gave a short whine then burst into life as expected. Temperatures and pressures ok. I glance across at Davids waiting on my right side, looking back at me for any hint of an instruction. You stick with me, boy. You stick with me.

We took off and headed north over the slate grey Barents Sea, my Hurricane bouncing on thermals as if riding on cobbled air. The cumulus drifted past us, about 5/10ths at 3,000 ft.

At length we found the convoy, a number of ships cruising in formation in a southerly direction. We were now at 15,000 ft and those ships looked vanishingly small down there, visible only by the wake they left in the water.



It was Stephens who spotted the the Junkers recconaisance aeroplane shadowing the convoy. We all turned to intercept. Davids, you're falling behind, keep up! Stephens caught the Ju88 effortlessly. What's he got in that fuel tank, vodka? He fired a long burst then turned away. I saw the crew bailing out. I didn't envy their chances in the freezing waters of the Barents Sea.

We learned later that Kilpyavr got hit again. The Luftwaffe want that airfield out of action completely. Dimitri is proving to be easily bribed with cigarettes, and he tells us that many of the Russian planes there were destroyed, small Polikarpov fighters and some twin engined light bombers I've never heard of. There's a rumour the Russians are not going to take this lightly.

[caldrail]

06:00 hrs 24th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

The hut shook as the aeroplane flew past at very low altitude with a vibrant snarl and resonant rumble. Are we under attack? The realisation brought me to full awareness. I leapt out of bed and fumbled in the gloom for my flying kit. I heard the men shouting in the barrack hut. Half dressed and holding what kit I could find I left my room and saw the men huddled together by the windows, staring out. A shadow swept past us, followed shortly by another aircraft.

"They're Russians!" Cried Stephens.

"There's no need to bomb us, I said I was sorry." I muttered, but the joke was lost in the noise of twin engined bombers crossing the field at very low height.

Shortly after we were summoned to a briefing from the Russian base commander, Anton Kuklev, whose transport planes I'd seen a few days before. The bombers that had woken us were Pe-2's of the 65th ShAP transferred from Leningrad, flying to Kilpyavr for arming and refuelling. They were raiding the Timovka Bridge near Petsamo, inside German lines, and needed escort from us. The briefing seemed a little surreal. Kuklev didn't speak english, and Sergeyev's interpreting left something to be desired. The whole thing felt as if we were under Russian control. The Adjutant advised us that we should co-operate fully.

If anything, this morning was even murkier than ever. The Merlin engine on my Hurricane sensed the dampness, and it took an agonisingly long time to fire. We took off and once above the haze, it was a fine day with lumpy white cumulus stretching in all directions.

Every so often we heard the Russians talking over the radio, short messages, like instructions, spoken flatly in that incomprehensible language.

By now I knew the way to Kilpyavr. Once overhead, we spotted the bombers orbiting to gain altitude and drew alongside. One of their observers gave us a wave. I'm not sure, but I think the burst of Russian of the radio was a welcome message for us. I'll take it as such. We followed the bombers as they gently spiral climbed above cloud level.



Off at two o'clock low, flak bursts were appearing. That would be Kilpyavr. There! A dark spot revealed an aircraft passing the field and I left formation to have a look. A twin boom Focke-Wulf 189 recconaisance plane was heading west. I pulled in behind and gave it a burst. The right engine began a thin trail of oily smoke as the 189 began evading my attck. For a twin it's a livelier bird than I expect and he turns into cloud in an effort to lose me. He gets away.

Having rejoined the Pe-2's we head for Timovka. The Russians make a very determined attack, dive bombing the bridge, scoring hits with great upward gushes of water, and I see the bridge collapse on the west bank. They turn for home and we follow on, still at some height. We keep a wary eye out for the Luftwaffe, but it seems Fritz was concentrating on Kilpyavr again. A couple aircraft were destroyed in that attack.

After a while it's clear the Russians are home free, so out of curiosity more than anything else I head the flight toward Ura Guba where the fighting still continued. Immediately we attract anti-aircraft fire and I decide not to press home a strafing attack, especially since the mist pretty well obscured the targets anyway.

I might be mistaken, but I sense Kuklev's squadron is preparing to move? As always, the Russians are secretive. Even Dimitiri doesn't know what's going on.

[caldrail]

25th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

No flying today. The weather has closed in, bringing strong winds and driving rain.

We had a visit from a number of army officers on the scrounge. It seems the British troops have been billetted a few miles south of Vayenga. They told us our divisions are to be sent to the front lines to reinforce Russian efforts in the next few days. Probably just as well. Even Sergeyev has admitted that the battle for the Ura Guba Bridge has told heavily on their troops there. It comes as some consolation that the Wehrmacht must be suffering also.

[caldrail]

08:00 hrs, 26th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield.

The weather this morning is much better. The ground is pretty damp but the airfield is usable, and we are told to escort Russian transports to Murmashi Airfield further down the river.

The Li-2 transport planes follow us into the air. We gain height and begin to turn south. Stephens, ever the exuberant flyer, makes a habit of barrel rolling into position when change heading. He's testing my patience a little there.

I spot an incoming aircraft from the southeast. At this range, I can't see who it is, and it may well be Rusian. Still, can't do any harm to check it out...

My flight turn with me. Flying on an intercept course we close in on the unknown aircraft and at short rangle, we see the black crosses. He's German! Well, if I'm not mistaken, it's that cursed Fw-189 that got away from me the other day. Not this time Fritz. I turn in and let loose with my guns. Can't tell whether I hit him or not.



He's firing back back. His gunners spray tracer past us but fail to score a hit. I gain height then wing over for another pass. His right engine bursts into flame. Thats more like it. Stephens says something about that being beautiful.

We rejoin the transports and fly back and forth about five hundred feet above them. Those Lisunov's are not the fastest aeroplanes in the world.

Our track falls in alongside the river at one point.I see something high up. My instincts tell me that's not a Russian aeroplane. I call my flight to attack and we break with the transports again, climbing eastward and trying to gain on the aircraft. He's more than fifteen thousand feet up. It takes precious time to reach him. The crew must have seen us coming a long way off as the Heinkel 111's gunners open fire on us. I get in a salvo that doesn;t do much damage before his gunners find the range.

My instrument panel shatters and the engine speeds up. I pull away and head for Kilpyavr. The engine is roaring, not sounding healthy at all, not to mention a thin trail of smoke behind me. Clearly the pitch control is damaged. I order the flight to go home. They say goodbye and wish me luck.

Kilpyavr soon comes into sight. Not before time. My Merlin is slowly losing power. I drop the undercarriage and make a curved approach, landing gently on the muddy slush that passes for a runway here. The Hurricane slows down and as I turn off to taxi in toward their dispersal tents, I run into a bomb crater. The aeroplane tips forward and sits with it's tail in the air.

Now I feel like an idiot. I can just imagine what the Russian with the walking stick will say when he hears about this. Thankfully I'm not hurt, but that's another Hurricane out of action. It's embarrasing. I seem to be adding my own scrap aeroplanes to theirs at Kilpyavr. Worse still, the Russian soldiers here recognise me from the last time. If the war carries on like this I'll know them all by their first names. One calls to the others to down their weapons and climbs up to help me out.

Their Lieutenant is unhappy. With me standing their there he uses his field telephone and has a right old go at someone. I suddenly realise General Wynchett might get to hear of it.

[caldrail]

16:00 hrs, 27th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield

The irate Russian officer at Kilpyavr had made his point. Our detail was to protect his airfield today. I'd had to stay overnight at Kilpyavr but got a lift back on one of Kuklev's transport planes, and I wasn't back at Vayenga until gone lunchtime.

We took off in the hazy sunshine, climbing through the cumulus and cruising toward our patrol area. I decided to start on the north side. Kilpyavr was beyond visual range, lost in the low level haze, but we knew where it was from the familiar lakes nearby. My greatest worry was Herr During. It was peculiar we hadn't encountered him lately. The Messerschmitts of his staffel were reported tangling with Russian aircraft on a regular basis. Was he avoiding us? Given how he'd shot some of us out of the sky, including myself, I wondered what on earth would bother him.

Stephens made a laconic call over the radio. "Blue Leader, can we go find some Luftwaffe now?"

"That's enough. Keep your eyes peeled or he'll find you." I replied sharply, noticing the black dots just visible over the cowling. "All right everyone, Fritz has come out to play. Pick your targets. Number Two, stay with me."

Davids answered affirmitive in his enthusiastic way. as we closed in. The formation of Ju88's came at us at a higher level. We climbed hard and began our attack. I was a little more wary after my tangle with the Heinkel yesterday. Just as well, the gunners were on their toes and tracer was passing uncomfortably close. One Junkers was trailing behind. I saw two Hurricanes diving down on him. The three ahead were waiting and I found myself drawing their fire. Another Hurricane came at them from behind - I think that was Davids - and the bomber burst into fire spectacularly. It began to wing over and descend rapidly.



I made several bursts at the other two, neither causing much harm. Two Hurricanes closed in and settled it. One Junkers 88 exploded, the other nosing down trailing smoke.

"Good work everybody, rejoin formation." I called. Stephens had shot two down, Benson the other. A good result, especially since Davids had now scored his first. I checked my maps and looked forward over the wing to confirm my position. Then I heard the heart rending sound of breaking aeroplanes even over the noise of engine. I looked back but I couldn't see anything.

"Two and Three, Sir." Called Stephens, sounding shocked by what he'd witnessed. "They collided... One came down on the other."

I banked my wings. and turned gently, looking back. Shattered aeroplane was falling like confetti. One parachute!... Two!... Both got out. Thank heaven for that. I made my mind up to give the guilty party merry hell when they got back to Vayenga.

[caldrail]

12:00 hrs, 28th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield.

Reinforcements are expected. The carrier HMS Argus was out at sea with another load of Hurricane IIb's, these ones intended as lend-lease for the Russians. The RAF pilots flying them in would be training their intended Russian owners at the same time as any operational duties.

My own reinforcements came back late in the morning. Benson and Davids, looking suitably bedraggled, were hauled into the squadron office. Davids was soon declared innocent and dismissed. Benson gritted his teeth and got the reprimand he expected. It was careless flying and nearly cost the lives of two valuable pilots, not to mention risking two others for operational reasons

The new Hurricanes began arriving much the same time. I wasn't suprised to see how beat up these airframes were. The Russians were getting our military surplus to all intents and purposes.

Our Adjutant ran up and handed a communique reporting Heinkel bombers heading east. I shouted for everyone to get airborne. Those newly arrived Hurricanes hadn't the fuel reserve to help - they might not even be armed - so it was down to us again.

Not far from the front line, we spot the enemy bombers. We went in. I fired a burst and debris came off it. A Hurricane came up from my left side and flashed past the cockpit. I felt my aeroplane shudder. That was close! Who was that? It was Benson, missing his right tailplane. I can't believe he collided twice in two missions! His Hurricane flew unsteadily and was lost to sight.



Stephens claimed two of the bombers. Davids got the other as his second kill. I saw that ahead of me. The heinkel 111 exploded in a brilliant ball of flame.. With the bombers shot down, I led the flight west on a nuisance raid. Over the radio I heard Benson make a last call. He was crash landing inside enemy territory. I heard nothing more.

At Petsamo Airfield, we found the Germans and I ordered an attack. We swooped across their field and I could see the Luftwaffe aircraft parked on the grass. I tried to strafe them but didn't get the result. I latched onto a Bf109 circling the field and fired two long bursts. He trailed smoke, flying on as if he hoped to land before I fired again. Fate intervened and gave him the chance. My ammunition had run out. Nonetheless he struggled to stay airborne and I saw him plough into the ground as he attempted to turn in for a landing.

The flak claimed Stephens. His plane got shot up and there was nothing he could do but bail out. I hope the Germans treat him well.

Davids was turning back to make another run. The German flak was waking up by this time so I called him to heel. He seemed hesitant and a couple of times I reminded him that he was over enemy territory as we flew home.

[caldrail]

06:00 hrs, 29th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield.

Where was the Luftwaffe? We patrolled Kilpyavr and the Germans were nowhere to be seen. It was nothing more than a waste of fuel, except perhaps our new flight members got some flying time.

Pilot Officer Seymour Gray seemed more mature for his young age than you'd expect. It turned out he'd done a tour of duty in the Middle East already, although had yet to make his mark as a fighter pilot. Flight Sergeant Woodward was more of a moody character, someone that on first meeting I felt was uncomfortable with his role in the war. He would have to get used to it.

There was no escaping a reprimand for myself. The unauthorised raid on Petsamo might have swung things with HQ had it not been for the loss of two pilots and only one enemy plane destroyed. It was a bitter irony that I was held responsible for the collision with Benson.

Shortly after lunchtime I conversed with my opposite number in 134 Squadron, Squadron Leader Andrew Phelps. He was keen to find out how things worked at Vayenga and I pointed out the pitfalls of working with our allies. We were strolling along the parked Hurricanes that were having their roundels painted out and red stars applied. Amongst a small group of Russian officers being introduced to their new mounts was a certain gentleman with a walking stick.

I excused myself and forgot the conversation, standing there amazed to see him climb onto the wing root, then clamber into the cockpit, nodding at everything the instructor was saying in broken english. Phelps had noticed my interest.

"Something wrong, Hendon?"

"That Russian, in the cockpit, third Hurricanre along. I know that one. He can't walk without a stick. Are you seriously training him?"

"I can hardly refuse." Phelps responded, "Thats Mikhail Ivanov. He's a Spanish Civil War veteran you know, shot down down twelve aircraft before his accident three or four years ago. If you're bothered about a gammy leg, don't waste your time. He already knows about Douglas Bader. If we can train a man with tin legs to fly spitfires, we can jolly well show him how a Hurricane works, and that, said the General, is an order. Truth is Hendon, I suspect he'll be showing us a few things before long."

Phelps smiled and wandered over to where the main group sat listening to their instructor have Sergeyev translate his lecture. It was then Ivanov spotted me staring at him. He stared back, no longer listening to his instructor. Now that he was back in the cockpit, he was no longer a worthless cripple on the sidelines. He was Mikhail Ivanov again.

[caldrail]

08:00 hrs, 30th August 1941, Vayenga Airfield.

Phelps sat down beside me and offered bottle of something alcoholic. "Thought you might appreciate this, old boy. Saw what happened. Dreadfully sorry about that."

Today had been a patrol around Kilpyavr. The weather was very good, barely a cloud to be seen. In fact the air quality was excellent and at some distance we spotted the aircraft heading east. I went down to look at them with Davids close behind, the other two staying high as cover.

German transports, Ju52's, easy targets. The lumbering tri-motors were dispatched with little effort, though I confess one gunner did put a hole or two through my canopy. The right wing folded on mine and it fell from the sky. The other began to spiral dive and a chain of parachutes appeared right until the aeroplane smashed into the ground.

We circled for some time but there seemed to be nothing more to shoot down. With my flight beck in formation we headed home. Vayenga came into view over my right leading edge. I was on the point of making an approach when Woodward started yelling "Bandits! Bandits!"

To my horror, I glanced in my mirror and saw a Messerschmitt swoop in and park itself behind me, intending to pick me off at his leisure. With a curse I opened the throttle through the gate and pulled back hard on the stick. The Merlin responded beautifully with raw power and it sang with crescendo of noise. I could barely lift my head. The aeroplane groaned and shook.



I could hear the combined rattle of gunfire behind me. I rolled left, barrel rolled right, turned hard left, winged over the other way - every artifice I could think of to shake the German. All the while I heard bursts of machine guns. I rolled upright and tried to go vertical. The Hurricane ran out of patience with my antics. It began rolling of it's own volition. Don't spin, don't spin!

I fought the controls but the plane flicked over and nosed down. I heard the enemy plane fly past me. Stick central... Opposite rudder... The Hurricane lazily continued to misbehave then at once responded. The throttle was still wide open. I eased the plane out of the dive and breathed out as I swept across the snow and grass with inches to spare.

Someone was calling for Davids to break left. I looked around as I climbed and a Hurricane at two o'clock high seperated into individual components in a bright ball of fire. Three was shouting for assistance then went silent. I saw another Hurricane, my number four, diving to escape two 109's and not pulling out. A great bulge of smoke rose from the ground.

Was it my imagination, or was an air raid siren sounding at Vayenga? At any rate, a couple of planes were starting their take off run. Too late. Herr During and his flight had gotten their revenge for our attack the other day. They left westward, no doubt well pleased with their handiwork.

I took a healthy swig of of Phelp's bottle. He had that look of pity in his eyes, and it was dawning on me if something didn't improve here very soon I was on a boat going home. I sat as Hurricanes of 134 Squadron, some with red stars, took off to close the stable door.