“Call him over, let him in”, the General ordered mixing Ukrainian words with Russian, without lifting his head up from the map and not noticing who had come. But then he raised his head and I saw a face lined by fatigue and sleepless nights. But the strain of field life did not seem to have affected the General’s habits. He was carefully shaved, his hair was combed. He breathed neatness and true cavalry bearing. I stood to ‘attention’ without noticing, which didn’t escape the General’s eye.
“At ease, at ease”, he ordered jokingly. “You bear good tidings, you eagle! Did you bring the radio?”
“Yes!”
At this moment claps from nearby shell bursts resounded from outside the windows. To all appearances the Fascists had intensified the barrage. The General pricked up his ears: “The Devil sent you, lad!” he said. “You’ve brought trouble down on us. You’ve disclosed our location. See what the Hitlerites are up to?”
The Corps Commander had not guessed there was not a ‘lad’ but a ‘lass’ before him. It didn’t seem the right moment to explain what was what. The shells and mortar bombs were exploding closer and closer, shaking the building. Window glass jangled somewhere just nearby and I heard shrapnel rattle on the roof. Parkhomenko remained unruffled and sat at his desk as calmly as before, his chest, decorated with battle awards, spread wide. However I was unable to stay calm. I was seriously concerned about the fate of my machine. My mission was complete and I had to rush back — it would be dark soon.
“Comrade General, what should I tell Front HQ?” At last I dared to ask.
“What should you tell them?” Parkhomenko rumbled. “You’re making fun, aren’t you? Don’t you see what kind of fire you’ve brought down with your ‘cropduster’? It’s too late to fly, lad. You’re staying here with us. Let your bird damn well burn! We’ll find you a horse and teach you to sabre”.
But no, I couldn’t burn my ‘bird’. After all, I had been ordered to come back and I was supposed to obey orders. Running from the General’s office I rushed towards my plane along wicker fences and huts. It turned out to be a long way. Fire sometimes pinned me down to the ground but I kept running from one shell-hole to another, relying on an old frontline belief that a shell would never hit the same spot twice. Fortunately I reached the plane in one piece and alive, but when I tried to start the engine I found it had been damaged. What a disaster… So it had been hit by shrapnel. I had to make my way back to Headquarters along the same route. Cavalrymen were dashing back and forth, soldiers were loading carts with their humble possessions: the headquarters was preparing for evacuation. Parkhomenko met me with the words, “So, lad, you’ve decided to stay with us?”
“No, Comrade General, I request assistance!”
“What kind of assistance?”
“I need a horse to tow the plane away…”
“I have no spare horses, don’t you see what position I’m in?”
But I managed to convince the Commander: he gave me a horse. Rope was found as well. I tied it to the undercarriage axle with two knots and made kind of a collar on the horse’s neck. I had everything attached and I was just about to take the horse by the bridle and go when a rider came to give me a hand — a hefty bloke from the Kuban Cossacks. He grumbled, fixing up the traces: “What the hell do we need this plywood jalopy for? If we hang around at all Fritz will nail us.”
“So hurry up if you don’t want to get nailed”, I hurried him.
“Hurry up, hurry up? A horse likes it when everything’s done neatly. Each rope should be just right… It’s no good for a beast to have its withers or whatever rubbed raw. It’ll die…” At last the bloke took the horse by the bridle and yelled loudly:
“Well, darling, off you go!”
I took hold tightly on a wingtip so as to hold it on the bumpy road. Fortunately, a heavy snowfall began soon and then night fell — it hid us from the enemy shells. It was the first and only time in my life I ‘flew’ such an unusual horse-drawn carriage. The horse, worn out during the raid pulled without haste, paying no attention to the road. The plane groaned sadly on the bumps. Something cracked alarmingly inside with every new rut. The wings, clumsy on the ground, now bent down to the very snow, now resiliently straightened, lifting me with them. This unnatural vibration didn’t cheer me at alclass="underline" it looked as if I was about to lose my wings. But, be that as it may, with the help of the horse and the gloomy rider I managed to drag the plane to a safe place. We stopped in some village and in the morning I had time to poke around the engine. I asked the lady of the hut we’d stopped in to warm up some water, drained the oil from the engine into a cast-iron pot and put it into the oven too. Then my helpers from the cavalry helped me pour the now-hot oil into the tank, splashed hot water over the carburettor and began to turn it over. To everyone’s joy the engine sneezed a couple of times and then started.
More than once on that February day I thought kindly of my aeroclub teachers. No, it hadn’t been a waste of time to make the student pilots take apart and put together all the engine components, it hadn’t been for nothing they’d made us stay after flying, to tinker with the machine along with the mechanic. If you want to fly well — know your plane perfectly! Such had been the rule. And now a thorough knowledge of the equipment had helped me to handle the repairs.
“Permission to head off, Comrade General?” I asked Parkhomenko.
“Granted! Take the package and a wounded man, and don’t be angry at an old fellow like me. All sorts of things happen in war. I took you for a bloke, and you’re…” Something gentle appeared in the General’s eyes, he awkwardly waved his hand and gave a shy, boyish smile.
15. A fellow native
Everyone in the squadron already knew of my woes — a message had been sent by the radio operators of the cavalry corps that had set up communications. Coming back to my aerodrome I landed and taxied to the parking lot, but didn’t find Lieutenant Alexeyev’s plane. Everything was scattered around the place in some disorder.
“What’s happened?” I asked Dronov the mechanic.
“Lieutenant Alexeyev died…”
“Who was he flying with?”
“His navigator was Lieutenant Grachev. Grachev is alive but badly crippled…” My heart began to ache, tears welled up, and barely shifting my feet I walked away from the parking lot.
“What are you doing, Egorova, dragging your feet instead of walking?” I heard the angry voice of Major Boulkin. “Where’s the package from the cavalry corps commander? Look a bit lively!”
I pulled the package out of my map case, handed it over to the major and went off to look for the squadron commissar Ryabov and the Party organiser Irkoutskiy. “How can this be?” I thought. “Our comrade, a pilot, has died… People should be called together to commemorate him. How can this be?”
I found neither Ryabov nor Irkoutskiy in place. They’d flown off on a mission before noon. To be frank, we were not overfond of Boulkin for his arrogance, dryness and roughness. But Alexey Vasilievich Ryabov was his exact opposite. The commissar had often flown as a lay pilot but would find time for a heart-to-heart talk, or a reprimand if one deserved it. However, if Ryabov had given a scolding no one would have resented it. The Party organiser Ivan Iosifovich Irkoutskiy was a good match for our commissar — a tactful, kind and thoughtful man. Irkoutskiy was especially good at locating encircled units. And he was an excellent navigator. In the squadron they joked that “Ivan would find the Fritzes77 if they were underground”. Once, when searching for a cavalry detachment, Irkoutskiy and airman Kasatkin came across German tanks. The latter immediately opened fire on them but Irkoutskiy quickly noticed that in one village were some men with bales of hay, wandering between the houses. The navigator suggested Kasatkin land the plane. When they landed, it became clear that in the village was exactly the detachment they were looking for. In order to disguise themselves the cavalrymen had hidden the horses in sheds, outhouses and even dwellings. Thus the crew had carried out their mission this time too.
77
Editor’s note — the most common nickname for German soldiers in Russian military slang.