26.03.2009, 11:10
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.
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.