I was lucky to get out of the LaGG-3 alive. If it has been a Yakovlev, my mother would soon be receiving a letter about her Vitya giving his life for the Motherland. Still, the LaGG was a pig, as far as I was concerned. But, thankfully, one tough pig. Yesterday our eskadrilya commander had told us that we would be receiving the new La-5's. So, things were looking up. At least until I was shot down.
Once again, luck was on my side and I parachuted into our lines, though very close to the front. A tank unit of SU-76's were driving by the field where I landed and offered to take me to the next junction. Great, I thought. But I should have walked, because 5 kilos down the road, we were swiftedly attacked by German Mk.IV's on our right, who quickly reduced the number of SU-76's from 9 to 6 before we even had time to get off the road.
So here I was, hiding behind a fallen tree while all about were the booming of cannon fire, whistling of bullets, explosions erupting. Quite suddenly, the SU-76 nearest me exploded, lifting off to one side before settling in flames. I distinctly saw one of the crewmen fly out into the brush behind the vehicle. Damn it all, but I knew I had to go get him, to make sure. Thank you, Mama, I thought, for teaching me so well! Now you're going to get me killed! Waiting for a lull in the noise, I made off in the direction of the flying crewman. Not more than 15 meters had been gained when bullets began kicking up dust near me and whistling their song of death by my ears. I jumped like a madman for the brush and cover, but hadn't anticipated the ground to be so hard. Instantly, the air shot out of my lungs in a moan as the wind was knocked out of me. Rolling over in pain, trying to find air to breathe, I happened to look straight ahead, and there he was - the flying crewman! And you know what he was doing? Looking at me, chuckling to himself! After recovering a bit, I crawled over to him, ignoring his grin.
"Are you hurt badly?" I shouted.
He shrugged. "My leg is broken."
Dammit! "We have to move you to cover."
The crewman shook his head, looking grimly at me, and said, "Don't you realize that there is only one SU-76 left? And if they're smart they'll be hightailing it right now! And so should you." He looked at my holster. "Leave me your pistol. And go."
I looked at him, then tried looking in the direction of the Germans, realizing it had suddenly gotten relatively quiet, a machine-gun burst here and there, but nothing else. Oh wait, something else. toejam! The sound of tanks moving!
I pulled out my Tokarev, looking into the doomed crewman's eyes, and was just about to hand him the pistol when I heard something else. A droning sound that was very familiar. Suddenly, I put my pistol back and grinned slowly at the crewman.
"What are you doing? Give me the pistol!" he said in exasperation.
"Don't you hear it?" I responded. My grin was getting wider.
"Hear what? All I hear are Germa-"
Stalin has referred to them as 'more important to us than bread and butter', and the Germans have a nickname for them, 'Black Death', but we flyboys just called them 'Shturmoviks'. And that's what broke over the treeline at barely 50m height: six shturmoviks. Immediately, one Mk.IV burst into flames after being hit by a 132mm rocket launched from the first aircraft. The other five assault aircraft also gave their deadly welcome by turn, showering the advancing German formation with 23mm and 37mm shells as well as 82mm and 132mm rockets. The hellish display could only have been exceeded by Hell, itself. As I slowly sat up to watch the attack, I actually felt sorry for those svolochi. Every pistol, rifle, machine pistol and machine-gun the German formation owned was directed upwards at the Soviet aircraft, but they might as well have been throwing rocks for all the effect it was having. The shturmoviks made pass after pass, expending all the rockets they had, then continuing with cannonfire. They were crazy bastards, those pilots, flying at barely 10m, catching fire from all quarters while dealing their own much deadlier version on vehicles and men alike. The crewman grabbed my hand to pull himself up onto one knee grimacing, yet eager to see the carnage unfolding.
And carnage it was. By the time the shturmoviks left there were two Mk.IV's, 3 armoured carriers and one German truck going as fast as they could back to wherever they came from, followed by a gaggle of dazed, shaken German troops. The rest were dead, burnt, smoking or on fire, including about fourteen vehicles in all. Slowly, tired yet surprised Soviet soldiers began emerging from the cracks and crevices of the nearby countryside. Vehicles could be heard to our rear and there was even the crackle of a radio conversation.
I looked down at the crewman and he at me, and in an instant we both started to laugh, not too hard, but just enough. I grabbed his arm and wrapped it behind my neck, and together we slowly walked-hopped towards the rear, an occasional hiss coming from the crewman's lips as the pain shot up his leg.
[This message has been edited by leonid (edited 10-08-1999).]
[This message has been edited by leonid (edited 10-08-1999).]
[This message has been edited by leonid (edited 10-08-1999).]
