23.03.2009, 05:19
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.
![[Image: c5e812f373e784cd05625f6cbcc6eee66g.jpg]](http://www3.mediafire.com/imgbnc.php/c5e812f373e784cd05625f6cbcc6eee66g.jpg)
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?"
"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?"