25.03.2009, 09:34
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.
![[Image: 4b3bd3f1f7beebbc2864f72072de5ce96g.jpg]](http://www1.mediafire.com/imgbnc.php/4b3bd3f1f7beebbc2864f72072de5ce96g.jpg)
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.
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.