22.03.2009, 05:44
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.
![[Image: 7744353280a05c143dc40e978cd164bd6g.jpg]](http://www2.mediafire.com/imgbnc.php/7744353280a05c143dc40e978cd164bd6g.jpg)
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.
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.