In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

a bunch of short stories..

operation manna

With all the destruction the bombing caused, in the Netherlands the heavies are still remembered as live savers. This is because of operation manna, which started on April 29th 1945.

The fact that the northern part of the Netherlands was not liberated after the failure of Market Garden had severe consequences for the big cities in Western Netherlands. As revenge for the rail road strike in 1944, German authorities prevented all food transport to western Holland. The cites entered the worst winter of the war, called the Hunger winter. Hardly any food or fuel was available. Trees were cut down, to be burned for heat and many people, mainly women travelled hundred of kilometres on bike to get some food from the farmers in the eastern part of the country.

After months of negotiations, the german authorities allowed te alles to help these people by dropping supplies from the air. On april 29th, 1945, hundreds of Lancaster bombers dropped 535 tonns of food and supplies, later joined by the B17's of the USAAF. The Germans agreed not to fire on the a/c, although some minor incidents occured, mainly with light weapons. In total 11000 tonns of supplies were dropped during 8 days by 30 RAF and 11 USAAF squadrons. After those 8 days, the German army had surrendered and supplies could be transported in other ways to the hungry dutch.


remarkable kill

The Netherlands, may 1940:
Sergeant pilot J. Roos was flying the Fokker D-21, reg.nr. 225. With two others he had escorted a flight of T-5's, bombing the Maas bridges at Rotterdam. On their way back they were attacked by 12 Me's from Waalhaven. Three of them chased Roos. He was driven in a corner that way that he decided to bail out. As he threw off his cockpit cover to jump off his aircraft he saw the canopy struck the propeller of the following Me, so it was knocked out.
chased D-21
He didn't jump but escaped in the clouds.
Coming out of the clouds he was surprised to be on the tail of another Me. An ideal position to open fire, so he shot down the Messerschmitt.
The moment Roos thought he was safe, his plane was hit by a projectile, obviously from Dutch anti aircraft fire from the ground, and he was thrown out of his open cockpit. Just before reaching the ground he succeeded in opening his parachute and landed, seriously wounded, in the surroundings of Leiden.


more on dutch af

May 10, 1940: After the landing of German transport planes at Waalhaven airport from Schipol airport, an attempt was made by the Dutch defenders to destroy the invaders. Three T-5 bombers escorted by 7 D-21 fighters performed a successful raid and destroyed several Junkers on the ground. The aircrew of II(J)./TrGr 186 had a busy day, shooting down 8 Fokker D-21s - one by Ofw. Kurt Ubben and 2 by Uffz. Herbert Kaiser of 5(J)./TrGr 186 - but lost one Bf 109 near Den Helder and a Bf 109 to ground fire near Borkum. Oblt. Dieter Robitzsch, staffelkapitaen of 5(J)./TrGr 186 was shot down by a D-21, flown by Lt. Jan van Overest and crash landed on De Koy airfield where he was taken prisoner. D-21s from Ja V.A. from De Koy gave the Luftwaffe trouble as they were able to shoot down 4 Bf 109s and harrassed most of the airbourne operations over the Dutch airfields.

a funny story

A Heinkel He 111P was forced to land, with smoke streaming from its port engine, at East Coldingham near St Abbs Head, Berwickshire at 12.30 hours. The enemy aircraft landed in a field in a very remote spot, and as Squadron Leader Douglas Farquhar of No.602 Squadron (whose kill it was) wanted the authorities to examine the Heinkel, he decided to land his Spitfire beside it, to prevent the Germans from destroying their plane, he landed his plane alongside at high speed, the bombers crew looked on in disbelief as it trundled on down the hill and cartwheeled into a bog. They first hauled out their injured rear gunner and set fire to their plane, then ran down the hill to rescue the gallant Squadron Leader, who was suspended upside down by his safety harness, the bomber's crew all took part in this rescue.

By then, the Heinkel was well alight so they all rushed up the hill (Sq Ldr Farquhar included) to pull the German rear gunner further from the flames. The comedy of errors was not quite over, the LDV arrived on the scene over the crest of a nearby hill and because they hadn't seen the Spitfire at the bottom of the hill, assumed that the Squadron Leader was part of the Heinkel's crew, so they arrested him too. It was only when he produced an OHMS envelope bearing his latest income tax demand that they transferred him to the side of the 'goodies'. One of the Heinkel's crew, Fw Sprigarth, was mentioned in Parliament for his part in the rescue.

Squadron Leader Farquhar also took the first British gun-camera film of the war, while attacking and destroying the Heinkel He111 over Coldingham in Berwickshire on that day.


a note to remember

In England monitors heard the German pilots gathering from all over France and Germany to ambush our homeward flight ... All across Germany, Holland and Belgium the terrible landscape of burning planes unrolled beneath us. It seemed that we were littering Europe with our dead. We endured this awesome spectacle while we suffered a desparate chill. The cartridge cases ere filling our nose compartments up to our ankles....

But then we come to the interesting bit at the end:-
The professorial Captain of Intelligence confirmed the story. Eleven unexploded 20 mm shelss were in fact found in Tondelayo's tanks. No he ... could not say why.
Eventually (he) broke down. Perhaps it was difficult to refuse ... the evidence of a highly personal miracle ... Or perhaps ... the truth ... was too delicious to keep to himself. He swore (the crew) to secrecy.
The armourers who opened each of those shells had found no explosive charge. They were as clean as a whistle and as harmless. Empty? Not quite, said the Captain ....
One was not empty. It contained a carefully rolled piece of paper. On it was a scrawl in Czech ... Translated, the note read:
'This is all we can do for you now'.

"what ever you do..DONT FLUSH!"

We were to fly to England to look at this new type artillery shell. They called it a proximity fuse shell. It was a different kind of artillery shell, which exploded above 15 feet from contact of anything. It automatically exploded. This allowed them to shoot down more planes and blow up more open-end trenches that the Germans were hiding in. The Colonel took us with him because they had extra room on the plane.

We got to London and he went to the Cumberland Hotel and we went to the Red Cross. Well, while we were there a Buzz bomb come over and hit the hotel. So we had to go back and get his luggage which was still there. As we entered the building we were told that his room was on the fifth or sixth floor. The bomb had really made a mess of the place and there were some Englishmen laying there wounded on the stretchers and we asked if we could be of any help and they said, "Yeah, sure, mates, you can help carry some of the wounded out."

So when I was getting ready to carry this one guy out he opened his eyes and he looked up and he said, "Hi Yank, how you doing?" I said, "Well we are doing all right." I said, "You are going to be all right." I offered him a cigarette which he said sure. "We are going to take you out of here in a little while." I said, "What happened?" He said, "Tell you the truth Yank, I don't rightly know. I was in the pisser, he said, and I just finished and he said, I was shaking my wicky wacky. I reached up to flush it, pulled the chain and the whole "focking" building came down!

Now this was because in England, they had water closets. There is a pipe and the tank is over the toilet. When he pulled the chain on the toilet to flush it, the place blew up at that instant! He thought he was responsible for it blowing up. We convinced him he wasn't.

[bobbysocks]

lawrence thompson meets a legend...

( sounds a little far fetched to me but interesting reading...)

"this was my first major dogfight I had in the war, in January 1945. I was flying a P-51D and we were supposed to meet with bombers over Romania. Well, the bombers never showed up! And we kept circling and wasting our fuel. When we were low on fuel the squadron leader orders us back to base, with the top group at 24,000 feet and the four bait Mustangs ordered to 15,000 feet. Now you might not really think about it, but the difference in altitude, 9,000 feet, is almost two miles, and assuming that the top flight could dive and rescue the 'bait' airplanes, it might take a full sixty seconds or more for the top group to come to the rescue. A heck of alot can happen in sixty seconds. Earlier, I requested to fly in the bait section believing that I'd have a better chance to get some scores (at that time I had no victories either) and this was my seventh mission. I have to say now that I grew up in Kansas City, Kansas, and my older brother flew a Jenny biplane in the late 1930s, so I learned the basics of flying even before joining the Army.

So we're all heading back to Italy when, all of a sudden, a dozen or so Me109's bounce us. From one moment it's a clear blue sky, next moment there are dozens' of tracers passing my cockpit. I'm hit several times and I roll over to the right, and below me is an P-51, heading for the deck, with an Me109 chasing him. I begin to chase the Me109. All this time I believe there was another Me109 chasing me! It was a racetrack, all four of us were racing for the finish line! Eventually I caught up with the first Me109 and I fired a long burst at about 1,000 yards, to no effect. Then I waited until about 600 yards, I fired two very long bursts, probably five seconds each (P-51 has ammo for about 18 seconds of continuous bursts for four machine guns, the remaining two machine guns will shoot for about 24 seconds). I noticed that part of his engine cowling flew off and he immediately broke off his attack on the lead P-51. I check my rear view mirrors and there's nothing behind me now; somehow, I have managed to lose the Me109 following me, probably because the diving speed of the P-51 is sixty mph faster than the Me109. So I pull up on the yoke and level out; suddenly a Me109 loomes about as large as a barn door right in front of me! And he fires his guns at me, and he rolls to the right, in a Lufberry circle. I peel off, following this Me109. I can see silver P-51s and black nosed camouflaged painted Me109s everywhere I look, there's Me109 or P-51 everywhere! At this time I cannot get on the transmitter and talk, everyone else in the squadron is yelling and talking, and there's nothing but yelling, screaming, and incoherent interference as everyone presses their mike buttons at the same time. I can smell something in the cockpit. Hydraulic fluid! I knew I got hit earlier.

.... I'm still following this Me109. I just got my first confirmed kill of my tour, and now I'm really hot. I believe that I am the hottest pilot in the USAAF! And now I'm thinking to myself: am I going to shoot this Me109 down too?! He rolls and we turn, and turn; somehow, I cannot catch up with him in the Lufberry circle, we just keep circling. About the third 360 degree turn he and I must have spotted two Mustangs flying below us, about 2,000 feet below, and he dives for the two P-51s.

Now I'm about 150 yards from him, and I get my gunsight on his tail, but I cannot shoot, because if I shoot wide, or my bullets pass through him, I might shoot down one or both P-51s, so I get a front seat, watching, fearful that this guy will shoot down a P-51 we're approaching at about 390 mph. There's so much interference on the R/T I cannot warn the two Mustangs, I fire one very long burst of about seven or eight seconds purposely wide, so it misses the Mustangs, and the Me109 pilot can see the tracers. None of the Mustang pilots see the tracers either! I was half hoping expecting that they'd see my tracers and turn out of the way of the diving Me109. But no such luck. I quit firing. The Me109 still dives, and as he approaches the two P-51s he holds his fire, and as the gap closes, two hundred yards, one hundred yards, fifty yards the Hun does not fire a shot. No tracers, nothing! At less than ten yards, it looks like he's going to ram the lead P-51 and the Hun fires one single shot from his 20mm cannon! And Bang! Engine parts, white smoke, glycol, whatnot from the lead P-51 is everywhere, and that unfortunate Mustang begins a gentle roll to the right.

I try to watch the Mustang down, but cannot, Now my full attention is on the Hun! Zoom. We fly through the two Mustangs (he was taken POW). Now the advantage of the P-51 is really apparent, as in a dive I am catching up to the Me109 faster than a runaway freight train. I press the trigger for only a second then I let up on the trigger, I believe at that time I was about 250 yards distant, but the Hun was really pulling lots' of negative and positive g's and pulling up to the horizon. He levels out and then does a vertical tail stand! And next thing I know, he's using his built up velocity from the dive to make a vertical ninety degree climb. This guy is really an experienced pilot. I'm in a vertical climb, and my P-51 begins to roll clockwise violently, only by pushing my left rudder almost through the floor can I stop my P-51 from turning. We climb for altitude; in the straight climb that Me109 begins to out distance me, though my built up diving speed makes us about equal in the climb. We climb one thousand fifteen hundred feet, and at eighteen hundred feet, the hun levels his aircraft out. A vertical climb of 1,800 feet! I've never heard of a piston aircraft climbing more than 1,000 feet in a tail stand. At this time we're both down to stall speed, and he levels out. My airspeed indicator reads less than 90 mph! So we level out. I'm really close now to the Me109, less than twenty five yards! Now if I can get my guns on him.........

At this range, the gunsight is more of nuisance than a help. Next thing, he dumps his flaps fast and I begin to overshoot him! That's not what I want to do, because then he can bear his guns on me. The P-51 has good armor, but not good enough to stop 20mm cannon hits. This Luftwaffe pilot must be one heck of a marksman, I just witnessed him shooting down a P-51 with a single 20mm cannon shot! So I do the same thing, I dump my flaps, and as I start to overshoot him, I pull my nose up, this really slows me down; S-T-A-L-L warning comes on! and I can't see anything ahead of me nor in the rear view mirror. Now I'm sweating everywhere. My eyes are burning because salty sweat keeps blinding me: 'Where is He!?!' I shout to myself. I level out to prevent from stalling. And there he is. Flying on my right side. We are flying side to side, less than twenty feet separates our wingtips. He's smiling and laughing at himself. I notice that he has a red heart painted on his aircraft, just below the cockpit. The nose and spinner are painted black. It's my guess that he's a very experienced ace from the Russian front. His tail has a number painted on it: "200". I wonder: what the "two hundred" means!? Now I began to examine his airplane for any bullet hits, afterall, I estimate that I just fired 1,600 rounds at the hun. I cannot see a single bullet hole in his aircraft! I could swear that I must have gotten at least a dozen hits! I keep inspecting his aircraft for any damage. One time, he even lifts his left wing about 15 degrees, to let me see the underside, still no hits! That's impossible I tell myself. Totally impossible. Then I turn my attention back to the "200" which is painted on the tail rudder. German aces normally paint a marker for each victory on their tail. It dawns on me that quick: TWO HUNDRED KILLS !! We fly side by side for five minutes. Those five minutes take centuries to pass. Less than twenty five feet away from me is a Luftwaffe ace, with over two hundred kills. We had been in a slow gradual dive now, my altitude indicates 8,000 feet. I'm panicking now, even my socks are soaked in sweat. The German pilot points at his tail, obviously meaning the "200" victories, and then very slowly and dramatically makes a knife-cutting motion across his throat, and points at me. He's telling me in sign language that I'm going to be his 201 kill! Panic! I'm breathing so hard, it sounds like a wind tunnel with my mask on. My heart rate must have doubled to 170 beats per minute; I can feel my chest, thump-thump and so.

This goes on for centuries, and centuries. The two of us flying at stall speed, wingtip to wingtip. I think more than once of simply ramming him. He keeps watching my ailerons, maybe that's what he expects me to do. We had heard of desperate pilots who, after running out of ammunition, would commit suicide by ramming an enemy plane. Then I decide that I can Immelmann out of the situation, and I began to climb, but because my flaps are down, my Mustang only climbs about one hundred feet, pitches over violently to the right and stalls. The next instant I'm dangerously spinning, heading ninety degrees vertically down! And the IAS reads 300 mph! My P-51 just falls like a rock to the earth! I hold the yoke in the lower left corner and sit on the left rudder, flaps up, and apply FULL POWER! I pull out of the dive at about 500 feet, level out, (I began to black out so with my left hand I pinch my veins in my neck to stop blackout). I scan the sky for anything! There's not a plane in the sky, I dive to about fifty feet elevation, heading towards Italy. I fly at maximum power for about ten minutes, and then reduce my rpm (to save gasoline), otherwise the P-51 has very limited range at full power. I fly like this for maybe an hour, no planes in the vicinity; all the time I scan the sky, check my rear view mirrors.

I never saw the Me109 with the red heart again. At the mess I mention the Me109 with the red heart and "200" written on the tail. That's when the whole room, I mean everybody, gets instantly quiet. Like you could hear a pin drop. Two weeks later the base commander shows me a telex: "....according to intelligence, the German pilot with a red heart is Eric Hartmann who has downed 250 aircraft and there is a reward of fifty thousand dollars offered by Stalin for shooting him down. I've never before heard of a cash reward for shooting down an enemy ace ... "

[bobbysocks]

The florist remembers the call. Make a silk arrangement suitable for a grave. Deliver it to the
country cemetery south of Arnold on Nov. 11. So Lisa Geiser, owner of Pretty Petals Floral, set
it on the grave of Lt. Roland C. Potter, an American pilot who died in combat Jan. 14, 1945.
The arrangement was ordered by a former German fighter pilot named Theo Nau. Six decades
ago in the skies over Germany, Nau and Potter met briefly as enemies.
He’s not sure if the memory is his, or if the story was told to him. Either way, what happened
feels like a memory to him now.
It was 1948, and Roland K. Potter was 5. The boy everyone called by his middle name, Kerry,
was dressed up, standing with his mother and other adults. The boy asked why everyone was
crying.
“She said, ‘When you get a little older, I’ll explain it to you.’”
Over the years, he would understand they were crying at the funeral of his father, Roland
Potter. After his P-47 Thunderbolt went down, the remains of the 23-year-old were buried in
Germany. Then they were moved to France. Finally, three years after his death, the pilot’s
father brought them back to the Sandhills.
Roland C. Potter was born Sept. 4, 1921, and grew up on a farm outside of Arnold, but he
knew he didn’t want to spend his life tethered to the ground. In the early 1940s, he took flying
lessons in Chadron while he was a student at the local college.
His life moved quickly after the United States entered the war. He enlisted in the Army in May
1942 and was assigned to the Air Corps. He married Betty in November and, a month later,
was assigned to active duty.
Their son was born Sept. 1, 1943, while the pilot was learning to fly P-47s in Texas. The
mother waited to name him until her husband made it home on leave, so for a time, relatives
called him P-47.
When he returned to Arnold, Betty snapped a photo of her husband holding their son. Family
legend says the name Kerry came from a character in a comic strip, a pilot.
By November 1943, the father was flying combat missions in the European Theater.
Theo Nau learned to fly when he was 14. After he joined the German Luftwaffe, he eventually
was put behind the controls of one of their primary fighter planes, the Messerschmitt 109.
On Jan. 14, 1945, Nau was flying with a squadron of German fighters who had a lone P-47 in
their sights. The 19-year-old pilot engaged in the battle and hit the American plane above
Heltersberg, Germany.
The Thunderbolt trailed smoke and appeared to be attempting a crash landing. Nau wanted to
follow, to learn the pilot’s fate, but he only had time to note the plane’s tail number before
realizing another American plane was firing behind him.
Bullets struck the tail of Nau’s plane, then just behind the cockpit. Nau pulled into a turn but
couldn’t lose the Thunderbolt, which stayed about 50 yards behind. After about five minutes,
one of the American pilot’s machine gun bursts struck the Messerschmitt’s engine.
Smoke poured out of the plane. Nau bailed, but not before he saw the numbers on his adversary’s plane.
He severely broke his arm and was hospitalized for three months. Later, he was taken prisoner
by Americans, who turned him over to the Russians. He escaped from a POW camp and when
he made it back to his hometown, he found bombs had destroyed his family’s home and killed
his father.
The war was over, but the pain was just beginning.
Back in the Nebraska Sandhills, Betty Potter worked at the bank in Arnold to support her son.
She rarely spoke of her dead husband but made sure her son knew Roland Potter was a good
man who died for his country.
In 1950, she married John Nelson. Together, they had two daughters, Sandra Jespersen, who
now lives in Lincoln, and Susan Nelson, who lives in Arnold. John Nelson raised Kerry like his
own and today they share a father-son relationship.
As a kid, Kerry Potter built plastic models of P-47s and collected books about the Thunderbolt.
He attended the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where he studied geology and enrolled in the
ROTC program. After college, he joined the Air Force and trained as a pilot.
He married his sweetheart, Elizabeth VanSickle of Lincoln. In May 1969, he left behind his wife,
pregnant with their first child, to serve in Vietnam. He flew more than 200 missions in F-4
Phantoms and returned about a year later to his wife and daughter.
He made the Air Force his career and was stationed all over the world, including Germany. He
retired as a colonel and lives with his wife in Wasilla, Alaska.
For a period in the Air Force, he was assigned to pilot an A-10 jet, also called the Thunderbolt
II.
Nau spent his working life running his family’s wine and brandy distillery in Germany. Now
retired, he and his wife live in Bacharach, on the Rhine River.
For decades, he wondered about the fates of the Americans he met Jan. 14.
Over time, he made friends with former American pilots who helped him track down U.S.
military records of the dogfights that occurred that day. Using the plane numbers and times and
locations of the fights, they eventually came up with the identities.
He learned the pilot who shot him down was an ace fighter named Capt. Joe Cordner, a Native
from North Dakota who died in 1965.
Just months ago, he learned the pilot he shot down was another ace who had survived 80
missions and brought down three enemy aircraft.
His name was Lt. Roland C. Potter of Arnold, Neb.
So Nau contacted a friend, Carl Kahn of Lincoln, who flew American planes in World War II. At
his friend’s request, Kahn made the arrangements to have flowers placed on Potter’s grave.
“I was a very young kid then and Lt. Potter was a young kid then,” Nau said, explaining his
gesture. “We loved to fly. We did not love war.
“The war was terrible ... it was terrible and I hope we have no war in the future.”
When Kerry Potter heard about the flowers from a friend in Arnold, he was shocked. Then he
felt touched by Nau’s gesture.
Fighter pilots, regardless of uniform, share an unwritten code of respect. They know what
happens in the skies is duty.
Nothing personal.
“This particular pilot did not set out that day to kill Roland Potter,” he said. “I think it was nice of
him and an honorable thing to do.”
Still, Potter said, he has no plans to talk to the old German pilot.
Not because he harbors hard feelings, but because he’s concerned it would be difficult for Nau
to hear what the war forced him to take away 61 years ago.

[McQ59]

Thanks for posting bobby. I really appreciate these stories.

[bobbysocks]

brazilian airforce in ww2

The First Brazilian Fighter Group consisting of four squadrons arrived at the Italian port of Livorno on the 6th October 1944. The Brazilian pilots started taking part in war missions, flying their new P-47 Thunderbolts on the 31st October 1944, and along with the US 350th Fighter Group were part of the Tactical Air Force of the Mediterranean which supported the US Fifth and British Eighth Armies.

On the 6th November the Brazilians suffered their first loss in action when: 2nd Lieutenant Cordeiro e Silva was killed by anti-aircraft fire in the region of Bologna. Then on the 11th November, the group began operations in squadrons formed exclusively by their own pilots and picking their own targets.

A month later, on the 4th December 1944, the Brazilians, together with the 350th Fighter Group, moved to Pisa airfield, 124 miles to the North and very near the front, which allowed the group to take better advantage of the range of their aircraft.

The Brazilians operated in Italy in the role of fighter-bombers, attacking rail and road bridges, railway stations and tracks, airfields, artillery positions, barracks and troop concentrations, and ammunition and petrol depots, Occasion the Brazilian airmen had the opportunity of supporting the Brazilian Expeditionary Force directly; such as on the 20th February 1945, the day before the BEF took Monte Castelo.

On the 4th February 1945, 2-Lt Danilo. were shot down in flames whilst attacking trains to the Southwest of Treviso. Baling out. Lieutenant Danilo walked for twenty-four days, across enemy territory before joining the partisans and finally getting through the front lines to rejoin his comrades.

Of the 48 pilots of the Brazilian Unit who carried out war missions, there was a total of 22 losses; five being killed by anti-aircraft fire, eight had their planes shot down and baled out over enemy territory, and six had to give up flying operations on medical orders. Three others died in flying accidents.

The 1st Brazilian Fighter Group accomplished 445 missions, making 2,546 flights and 5,465 hours flight on active service. It destroyed 1,304 motor vehicles, 13 railway wagons, 8 armoured cars, 25 railway and highway bridges and 31 fuel and munitions depots.

footnotes:

Brazil was the only Latin American country to send troops to the European Theatre. Brazil declared war on the Axis powers in July of 1942 and a force of 25,000 was prepared to be sent to Italy.

The arrival of the Brazilians in the winter of 1944-45 had caused a near panic in finding Portuguese speaking interpreters. In addition the Brazilians arrived wearing light clothing which was completely inappropriate for Appennine blizzards. Re-equipped with American uniforms it was found that the Brazilians had much smaller feet than the average American or British Soldier and finding sufficient footwear became a Quartermasters' nightmare.

The First Brazilian Infantry Division consisting of the 1st, 6th and 11th Brazilian Infantry Regiments, served in the IV (US) Corps of the Fifth (United States) Army in the Italian Campaign during 1945.

Brazil was one of only two Latin American countries to actually commit military forces during World War II, the other being Mexico.

THE BADGE OF THE 1ºGAVCA

The badge of 1ºGAVCA was designed while the Squadron was travelling to Italy aboard the transport ship UST Colombie by a group of its pilots, Ten.-Av. Rui Moreira Lima, Ten.-Av. José Rebelo Meira de Vasconcelos, Ten.-Av. Lima Mendes and Cap.-Av. Fortunato C. de Oliveira.
Drawn by the latter, it can be described as follows, according to its author:

- The green-yellow surrounding represents Brazil;
- The red field behind the fighting ostrich represents the war skies;
- The bottom field - white clouds - represents the ground to a pilot;
- The blue shield charged with the Southern Cross is the common symbol for the Brazilian Armed Forces;
- The ostrich represents the Brazilian fighter pilot, whose face is inspired in that of Ten.-Av. Lima Mendes, and also the stomach of the veterans of 1ºGAVCA;
- The white cap was part of the FAB uniform at the time and distinguished the Brazilian pilots from the other Allied pilots;
- The gun being hold by the ostrich represents the firepower of the P-47, with its eight .50in machine-guns;
- The motto "Senta a Pua!" is the war cry of 1ºGAVCA;
- The white streak, at the right, ending on a flak burst, was added later, and represents the danger brought by the German anti-aircraft artillery to the pilots (this device appeared only on replacement aircraft).

The use of an ostrich to represent the Brazilian fighter pilots comes from the fact that, during the early Forties, several Brazilian aircrew went to the USA to fly back to Brazil the aircraft then being bought in large numbers by the Brazilian authorities, not only training but also combat aircraft. During their stay in that country, they got acquainted to American food: baked beans, powder eggs and powder milk, among other items. The then Cel.-Av. Geraldo Guia de Aquino dubbed the pilots "ostrichs" and the nickname caught.

The war cry "Senta a Pua!" was a suggestion from Ten.-Av. Rui who had heard it several times from Cap.-Av. Firmino Alves de Araujo while serving at Salvador Air Base; it was used by the latter on his subordinates, inviting them to do their tasks at once and quickly. It became the Brazilian equivalent of the British Tally-Ho and the French "A la Chasse!".

IN ACTION!
The Brazilian pilots initially flew from 31 October 1944 as individual elements of flights of the 350th FG US squadrons, at first in affiliation flights and progressively taking part in more dangerous missions.

Less than two weeks later, on 11 November, the Group started its own operations, flying from its base at Tarquinia, using its call-sign Jambock.

The Group was divided into four flights, Vermelha (Red), Amarela (Yellow), Azul (Blue) and Verde (Green).Each flight had a complement of roughly 12 pilots, these having been flying together since their training spell in Panama. A pilot customarily wore an echarpe in the colours of his flight. The CO of the Group and some officers were not attached to any specific flight.

The Thunderbolt colour scheme
Initially the P-47s were finished in standard US fighter colours, olive-drab (top surfaces) and neutral grey (undersurfaces) (except those aircraft of the commander and operations officer which were finished in natural metal and olive-drab anti-glare panels). The badge of the Group was painted just after the engine cowling, and the aircraft code (flight letter-aircraft number) was in white letters over the cowling.

National insignia was in four positions, this being the US star-and-bar, with the white star replaced by the Brazilian star. Later, replacement aircraft were in natural metal, with olive-drab anti-glare panels, the codes being in black .

[bobbysocks]

what goes around comes around....

This is one of the amazing but true stories of WWII
The Evaders
By Roman Turski

I was born in Poland, where before the last war religious intolerance was not uncommon. In spite of my father’s objection to my participation in anti-Semitic demonstrations in Warsaw, I often heaved stones at windows of stores owned by Jews. I had no qualms about my actions, and later it took months of hardship and persecution-and a Jew- to show me how to abide by the Biblical injunction: “Love thy neighbor as thyself”.
When Hitler annexed Austria and war seemed imminent, I quit my job as instructor of a flying club in Lyons, France, and started for home. My plane developed engine trouble and I had to land at Vienna and stay there overnight to have it repaired.
The following morning, just as I stepped out of my hotel to buy a few souvenirs before checking out, a man who came running past the door bumped into me and sent me reeling. Outraged, I grabbed him and was about to give him a piece of my mind when I saw his face was white with fear. Panting heavily, he tried to wrench himself from my grip and said, “Gestapo—Gestapo!” I know only a little German but understood he was running from the dreaded German secret police.
I rushed him into the lobby and upstairs to my room, pointed to the foot of my bed and motioned him to lie down. I covered his slender, jackknifed body with artfully draped blankets so that the tousled bed looked empty. Then I pulled off my jacket, tie and collar so I could pretend I’d just got up if the Gestapo men came. In a few minutes, they did. They examined my passport, returned it and shouted questions, to which I replied: “Ich verstehe es nicht-I don’t understand it,” a phrase I knew by heart. They left without searching the room.
As soon as they had gone I lifted the blankets. The poor man let out a stream of rapid German. It was not necessary to understand a word to comprehend his gratitude.
I got out my flight chart and, by gesturing and drawing pictures on the margin of the map, explained that I had a plane and could take him out of Austria. He pointed to Warsaw, and his expressive hands asked: “Would you take me there?” I shook my head and made him understand that I had to land for fuel in Cracow. I drew pictures of police and prison bars to illustrate that he would be arrested upon arrival at any airport, and made it clear that we would land in some meadow just over the Polish border and he would get off. He nodded with satisfaction, and his narrow face and dark eyes again conveyed deep thanks.
The customs and immigration men at the airport waved us through when I told them my friend wanted to see me off. My plane was warmed up and ready for flight. We quickly climbed into it and took off. We crossed Czechoslovakia and soon saw the thin ribbon of the Vistula River and the city of Cracow. Landing in a large field by a wood near a country railroad station, I showed my companion where we were on the map, gave him most of my money and wished him luck. He took my hand and looked at me wordlessly, then walked rapidly into the woods.
When I arrived at Cracow airport there was a detachment of police waiting beside the immigration inspector. One of the police said, “We have a warrant to search your plane—you have helped a man escape from Vienna.”
“Go ahead and search it. Incidentally, what was the man wanted for?”
“He was a Jew.”
They searched my plane, and of course had to let me go for lack of evidence.
The war came, and after Poland’s short and bloody struggle against the Germans, in which I served as a fighter pilot in the Polish Air Force, I joined the thousands of my countrymen who wanted to carry on the fight for freedom. We crossed the border into Rumania and were promptly caught and sent to concentration camps. I finally managed to escape and joined the French Air Force. After France collapsed I went to England and fought in the Battle of Britain. The following June I was wounded while on a fighter sweep across the English Channel, when the Luftwaffe hit us over Boulogne. In those early offensive missions we were always outnumbered and outperformed by the Luftwaffe, and our only superiority was morale.
As we started for home I rammed an Me-109 and was hit by a piece of it’s sheared off tail. I was half blinded with blood. My squadron covered my withdrawal across the channel, but I was unconscious when my Spitfire crash-landed in England. (I later learned that my skull had been fractured, and that I was so near death that the head surgeon of the hospital to which I was taken believed it would be almost useless to operate on me.)
When I returned to consciousness, I gradually realized that a narrow face with large brown eyes was looking down at me. “Remember me?” their owner said. “You saved my life in Vienna.” He spoke with a trace of a German accent.
His words ended my confusion. I recalled a sensitive face and managed to say, “How did you find me?” I noticed his white smock. “Do you work here?”
“It’s a long story,” he replied. “After you dropped me off I made my way to Warsaw, where an old friend aided me. Just before the war I escaped and reached safety in Scotland. When one of your Polish squadrons distinguished itself in the Battle of Britain, I thought you might be in it, so I wrote to the Air Ministry and found you were.”
“How did you know my name?”
“It was written on the margin of your map. I remembered it.” His long fingers felt cool on my wrist. “Yesterday I read a story in the newspapers about a Polish hero shooting down five enemy planes in one day and then crash-landing near this hospital. It said your condition was considered hopeless. I immediately asked the Royal Air Force at Edinburgh to fly me here.”
“Why?”
“I thought that at last I could do something to show my gratitude. You see, I am a brain surgeon—I operated on you this morning.”

[bobbysocks]

shot down over dunkirk...SQNLDR K.B. McGlashan AFC

"...As the battle developed beneath me, two fighters, Messerschmitt Bf109s, slipped by 3,000 feet below emerging ahead and to my right at a great rate of knots. They were obviously seeking out the tails of my leading sections and had positioned themselves in the classic six o’clock position. I flicked my gun switch to ‘live’ and readied to roll my machine over to initiate a diving attack on the diving fighters. A screech came over my ineffectual TR9D radio, filling my helmet with deafening, squawking static. I later learned it was Geoff Howitt warning me of the five 109s diving on us, attacking from our port quarter. Howitt broke hard left and crossed in front of me, yet I was still none the wiser. Amidst this melee, I was concentrating on my attack and had totally neglected to look behind. The first indication I had of anything going wrong was when the armour plate behind my head began ringing like an alarm clock. Before I could draw breath, bright red tracers started bombarding my cockpit, whistling between my legs and ravaging the panels of Perspex and fabric to my left. The incendiary-tipped tracers assist the pilot in seeing where his shots are landing and from my perspective I could see them landing very well. As my instrument panel began disintegrating before my eyes, my thoughts leapt suddenly to the vapour-rich petrol tank that sat just behind the instruments. Momentary horror turned to short relief when I recalled that the tank was self-sealing.

The attack had been lightning quick. I slammed the control stick forward and to the right, entering a downward roll and sending the world spinning around. The back of my legs stung as metal splinters spat from the maze of piping fragmenting beneath my feet. Engine coolant, oil and all variety of hot fluids showered me as the scent of smoke began to fill the air. Foolishly I had been flying with my goggles atop my helmet and now the mix of smoke and oils that were bringing down my aeroplane were also serving to partially blind me. My cockpit had become a scene of absolute chaos. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the attack abated. Gathering my thoughts, I pulled the aircraft out of the dive and assessed my situation; not good. Bleeding oil and coolant, I knew my Hurricane was done for and I began readying myself to bail out. With the threat of fire growing, I cut the engine, switched off the fuel and set about sliding back the hood. My vision was getting worse and I fumbled to get the canopy back. Three times I tried and three times it slid closed. In my enthusiasm to get out, I was failing to lock the canopy open and a sense of incarceration came across me. Being trapped in a fiery cockpit was the dread of every fighter pilot and for a moment I began to wonder if this is how my war was to end. A moment after that, the second attack started.

The left hand side of my canopy exploded again as the red tracer ravaged what remained of my aircraft’s port side. With the engine shutdown, I was literally powerless. Again I slammed the stick forward, though this time to the left. I combined inertia with gravity, accelerating my wounded machine downwards. I felt a wallop and then a trickling sensation down the back of my leg and thought that I’d copped a hit in the backside. [It turned out to be a direct hit on an Agfa cartridge in my pocket, allowing the film to unfurl in my trousers.] Headlong, vertical and hurtling towards Terra Firma, I had a moment of unexpected clarity and recalled banter at the bar that formed a consensus that 109s were poor at recovering from dives. With the earth looming large in the windscreen and absolutely nothing left to lose, I decided to apply this theory. At the last possible moment I hauled back on the control column with all of my remaining might. As the blood drained from my head, my world faded to ‘black and white’ and then just black........."

[bobbysocks]

another blurb about SQNLDR K.B. McGlashan AFC
from the book DOWN TO EARTH: A Fighter Pilot's Experiences of Surviving Dunkirk, The Battle of Britain, Dieppe and D-Day

…as the Squadron’s only “single engined” pilot, I was to be sent to Abbotsinch to collect the sole dual control Battle in the country. On its return, the aircraft would be used to convert our “”twin engined” pilots to its ways with a minimum of pain. Well, that was the plan anyway…

…having familiarised myself with the type, I readied to take my new steed to its new home. The weather surrounding the airfield was bleak and foggy as I lifted off and started into the climb. Previously unaware of their presence, I found myself flying through a section of tethered barrage balloons over Glasgow. Through sheer good fortune I escaped harm at the hands of the helium-filled defence system. A few years later I would witness the lethal potential of Barrage Balloons as they dotted the skies over Crewe. One of our own, a Shorts Stirling, flew into the cables, exploding into a fireball before falling to earth and killing the entire crew. I could only reflect about my earlier escape.

With the near-miss behind me, I set course for Leconfield. Passing Thornton Hill, I had no sooner settled in for the flight when my engine stopped, leaving things very quiet. This was particularly embarrassing as I was not at a great height at the time and confronted with extremely limited options. It had been a very hard winter and the small rolling foothills were snow coated with a deeply frozen core of soil beneath. Without further ado I chose a field ahead. My selected area was divided by a small track crossing it and terminated with a house and garage at the far end. Not ideal, but it would have to do. Setting my speed and lining up on the field, I experienced a very uncomfortable feeling. The Battle was the first aircraft I had flown with retractable undercarriage and the proximity of the ground without my wheels lowered was rather unnerving. My next action seemed logical at that moment, but with the benefit of hindsight and experience, it was a basic error. I lowered the undercarriage.

I impacted the frozen earth well into the chosen landing site and bounced high above the snow. Floating over the track that I had noted on approach, my eyes caught those of a woman pushing a pram with a baby in it. I touched down again and stuck this time. Surmounting the crest of the hill, I started down at a great rate before striking a hedge which served to shear off my main wheels. The aircraft fell to its belly with little loss in speed initially and was now effectively a Royal Air Force toboggan heading straight for the residence’s garage. I tried to gain some directional control by kicking the rudders, though this proved very ineffective other than to slew the aircraft slightly from side to side. Throughout, the Battle’s course remained true. As I contemplated whether I would stop in time, one of the double doors opened and a head protruded to take in proceedings. The head was then rapidly withdrawn and reappeared through a side door, at speed, with body firmly attached.

[bobbysocks]

clobber kain and his hurricane...

Cobber' Kain was born in Hastings on 27 June 1918. Following school, he worked as a clerk in his father's warehousing business in Wellington.

In 1936 he obtained his private pilot's licence with the Wellington Aero Club before leaving New Zealand in November for London to join the RAF. Kain began his flying training in January 1937 and in late November was posted to 73 Squadron. Re-equipped with Hurricanes in 1938, the squadron was fully operational by March 1939 and on 24 August was ordered to mobilise for war.

Four days after war was declared 73's sixteen Hurricanes flew across the Channel to France. On 10 September 1939 Kain flew his first operational patrols, but saw no enemy activity. On a defensive patrol on 8 November Kain spotted a Do 17 reconnaissance aircraft ahead and above him. It began to climb and Kain followed, making two attacks but seeing no results. At 27,000 feet, with his Hurricane showing signs of strain, he attacked again and the Dornier dived steeply. Kain followed but pulled out when he saw fabric peeling off his wings. The Dornier crashed into a village, exploding on impact and killing the crew.

On 23 November he shot down another Do 17. Due to bad weather there was little flying in December, January and February. On 1 March 1940 Kain fought an action with two Bf 109's. His Hurricane was already damaged when he shot the first one down in flames. The second fighter attacked him, stopping the Hurricane's engine with a cannon shell but then flew off, leaving Kain to glide thirty miles from 20,000 feet to reach French territory. When his engine caught fire Kain prepared to bale out but got back in his seat when he saw his parachute strap was not in position. Fortunately the flames went out and Kain glided on to a forced-landing on Metz aerodrome.

On 23 February Kain received a Mention in Dispatches and in mid-March he was awarded the DFC. He was by now the centre of a blaze of publicity and his was a household name. On March 26 Kain destroyed a BF 109 and probably a second but then with his own engine on fire he baled out, with shell splinters to his left leg, a bullet-grazed left hand and burns to the face.

Kain went on leave to England on 2 April and before he returned his engagement was announced. Back with the squadron he damaged a Bf 110 on the 23rd. German air activity now intensified and on 10 May 1940 the blitzkrieg was launched. In the next ten days Kain destroyed five more enemy aircraft and probably destroyed or damaged another five.

On 22 May he was posted back to England. With other pilots he left early on the 23rd but on arrival Kain and another pilot were ordered to report back to 73 Squadron at once. They were put on administrative duties and Kain did not fly again until the 25th, when he destroyed a Do 17 but had to make an emergency landing in his damaged Hurricane. He destroyed an HS 126 on the 26th and another DO 17 on the 27th.

Kain continued to fly as his unit retreated from one airfield to the next and on 5 June he shot down a Bf 109. On the 7th he was ordered to return to England immediately. The following morning a group gathered to bid him farewell as he took off in his Hurricane to fly to Le Mans to collect his kit. Whether he felt that those watching below expected him to put on a last show will never be known but he performed a series of low level aerobatics before crashing into the ground. The Hurricane broke up and Kain, fatally injured, was thrown clear.

Kain's official score is fourteen confirmed victories but was more likely to be between fifteen and twenty. Whatever the true facts may be, 'Cobber' Kain - as the first Allied ace of the war - had ensured his place in history.

[bobbysocks]

Vladimir Markov

I was attracted to flying whilst still a young child. As a young lad I was active in a modellers' group and in an aeroclub. The instructors at the aeroclub were just like fathers to us. Their relationship with us was warm and friendly too. At the aeroclub we were kitted out with overalls and boots. We even got the 'Voroshilov' food allowance. We'd get up early in the morning, the dew still lying on the grass, the aeroplane standing ready for you. Do a flight and then off to the station - train to Moscow. That's how we learned to fly.

As I finished at the aeroclub at the end of 1939, a decision was taken to send me to the Serpukhov Flying School. I disagreed with the decision to study there. Why? My sister's husband (later to die near Smolensk) was a fighter pilot who had graduated from the Kachinskiy flying school. He told me, "It's great that you've gone into flying, but I don't advise you going into the naval air service."

I went to work at the 'Red Proletarian' factory, but was soon called up. We ended up at Klyuchevsitsy aerodrome just outside Novgorod. To begin with we remained separated from the rest, but by the end of a month we had completed basic military training. After that the 36 of us were summoned to the commanding officer to discuss our progress. We went in and were told: "You've now become part of a splendid aviation division and your duties will be guarding air-force equipment." At that point one of us stood up and said, "Excuse me, but I graduated from my aeroclub and have a certificate to prove it". Of the 36 of us, 34 had a passing-out certificate, yet we were being sent on sentry duty!

In the spring of 1941 we were called before a medical board, and on the 19th June I found myself enrolled in Moscow Military Pilots' School №2, located at Izmailovo aerodrome. Our tents were already erected, headquarters was on sight and there was even a pilots' mess room.

On the 21st June we went to bed, but next morning we were surprised that there was no reveille. We went down to the mess for a bite to eat but learnt that war had broken out. There was no panic, we were already morally prepared for such eventualities. They started splitting us up into appropriate groups. I don't wish to boast, but I'd had a pretty good induction to flying. I was attached to the group transferred to Chertanovo aerodrome. I was promoted to flight leader, and our instructor, Lilya, was a pretty young lady with a strict code of conduct.

Within a month the first air raids on Moscow had begun but our training continued. One day I was sitting in the cockpit and Lilya approached me saying, "Volodya, what would you like to serve in?" "Fighters." "OK." It was the end of our training and postings were in sight. I was sent off to Pavletskii station to travel on to Krasnodar. It was there we began to fly Polikarpov I-16s.

When Rostov-on-Don surrendered in the summer of 1942, anyone who was a poor flier was transferred to ground forces and sent the front. Later on we were to see a column of wounded amongst whom were those who had been on our course.

Any remaining trainees were withdrawn from Krasnodar to just outside Saratov. There we were re-trained on 'Yaks' and sent to the 8th Reserve Air Regiment at Bagai-Baranovka. It was there that I had to prove the regiment's good name before an Air Force Committee. I had to fly a circuit, fly cross-country, fly blind and demonstrate flying expertise in the combat zone. There followed firing at a drogue, ground targets, and individual aerial combat. My drogue score was 9 out of 60. Pretty good. My flying skills were scrutinised and I was told, "The Chairman of the Committee will now lead take off. You are to fly into the operations' zone and demonstrate your reconnaissance abilities and carry out a search. Engage in a dogfight and we shall assess your fighting capabilities." We both took off in Yak-1s. I spotted his plane and moved up in formation with him. He began spinning this way and that. I closed up right behind him and wouldn't be shaken off. With some annoyance he said, " Right, keep up, and land with me."

After this I left for the front. I went to the 91st Regiment of the 256th Division. The Divisional Commander was Hero of the Soviet Union Gerasimov, a Spaniard and friend of Kamanin - a decent bloke. Our regiment had been formed even before the war. He had taken part in operations in Bessarabia. The war caught up with him in Shepetovka and it was there that the regiment suffered its first bombing raid. Hero of the Soviet Union Major Romanenko was appointed Regimental Commander. We were stationed on an airfield between Kozelets and Borispol'. Experienced pilots accompanied us, the reinforcements, over the whole of the front line, pointing out everything. So we began to provide air cover for our ground troops. I became wingman to the Squadron Commander Borkov, from Leningrad. When I reported to him, he was sitting there reading a map. "Reporting for duty, sir," I said. He looked up: "You'll be flying with me, and if you lose touch with me, you're for it..!" But since I was a competent pilot, he had no opportunity of carrying out his threat.

Soon afterwards the Kiev operation began, and real fighting followed. On the 6th there was a particularly tense situation. First away on operations was Romanenko with his group. With him flew my friend Reptsev. Both went missing. Flight commander Misha Shilov did not return from the next sortie. Two-three hours passed and at 7 o'clock that evening we were sitting in the mess when up came a rider on a horse, Shilov to all appearances, swathed in bandages. It turned out he'd shot down a Heinkel-111 but had been hit in the process. After he'd done a belly landing, some kids had come running up to him saying in Ukrainian, "Mister Pilot, get away from here, there's Germans all about". He was secreted to some woman who gave him a dress. He'd scarcely had time to get a bite to eat when there was a thump at the door. He instantly leapt up onto the stove and just sat still. In came some Germans. Shilov had decided that if anything happened he would start shooting and jump through the window. The Germans spread out across the room, giving it a thorough looking over. They saw Misha sitting on the stove with his back to them. But his hair was so long, just like a woman's. "Who's that?" they demanded. The houseowner said that it was a woman staying there on her own, going to see her sister and just passing through. The Germans calmed down and asked in broken Russian, "Got any eggs or milk?" They had something to eat and left.

Soon after the loss of Romanenko, Kovalev was promoted to Regimental Commander - a real pilot. What followed? On one occasion we flew out from Kopaigoraya on a reconnaissance mission and discovered some strange-looking haystacks. They were arranged in chessboard fashion, not like they are in the countryside. We descended a little and then even lower. We discovered that they were camouflaged tanks. Back at base we reported all that we had seen. The Germans, it seemed, were preparing a counter-attack. Soon after this reconnaissance flight our commander told Neokov, " You and Tsygankov fly over to Zhulyany, top up with antifreeze and get kitted out with your winter uniforms." This was at the end of November. We took off, arrived at Zhulyany, and had just dispersed for landing when we got the message: "As you were. Reform at such and such a coordinate. You'll be covering a group of 'Ilyushins'." Tsygan and I set off, he flying to my right. I lost touch with him in the clouds and began to search around. It was then that I saw my time was running out, fuel was low, and it was time to land. So I did. Tsygan was already down. I asked,

"Where were you?"

"Right there with you. So you didn't notice anything then? They almost got you. A 'Focke Wulf' came right up on your tail. Another few metres and he'd have got you."

"Thank you, Vanyusha," was all I could say. I hadn't seen anything in those clouds.

There were battles of all kinds at that time. We flew a lot of missions escorting 'Ils'. On the 23rd February I chased a "Peshka (Pawn)". It was one of our planes, but the Germans were flying it unmarked and without its stars. But I couldn't catch up with it - the oil temperature was already 120 degrees and the front line was nearby. I decided to break off and return.

In the spring we were dispatched to Kharkov to collect some new planes, Yak-9Ts. We didn't have long to fly them because by summer at Bagai-Baranovka we'd already got Yak-3's. I was given the first production model to test fly. Yes, a good machine, but the engine was sluggish. What was the matter? A test pilot was called in from the factory. He said to me, "You don't know how to fly it." "Well, you fly it then." He climbed in, took off and disappeared somewhere. Then we saw him coming towards us with smoke trailing behind. He said, "There's something wrong here. You're right, the engine 's not firing properly."

Then came a telegram that Golovatyi had bought the plane for Yeremin. We sent this "one off" to him. No doubt a new engine would be fitted and he would get it in perfect working order. We received the new machines on Monday, June 13th. The general staff and Yakovlev's deputy turned up. They wanted to take our photo. We all turned our backs, saying that it was Monday, and, whatsmore, it was the 13th - unlucky and a bad sign. Our photos weren't taken.

During the first two days of the Lvov operation the weather was bad and we were grounded. We were scrambled on the third day. Regimental Commander Kovalev led the flight. The ensuing battle was no joke: 22 of ours against 85 of theirs, all at an altitude of 1500 to 1700 metres. The fight went on for some 40 minutes then stopped unexpectedly. At the time I was already a senior pilot. I looked around trying to find Shilov, my flight leader. I'd only just seen his plane with number 69 on it. He was flying support to the regimental navigator. Borkov and I put down at a neighbouring airfield - our own was too far away. Even after we'd been refuelled Shilov still wasn't back. I said, "He's got to come back. I saw him." But we couldn't wait any longer for him. We got back to our airfield about 90 minutes later. There was still no sign of Shilov. A fitter suggested, "Happen he's had to make a forced landing." We found out later that he'd crossed the front line and come under anti-aircraft fire. He got a direct hit and his engine packed up. He thought that he was in a front line area so decided to land. He dropped his undercarriage, set his plane down and ran on until it came to a halt. He leapt out, but all around were Germans. He was captured. This was a great source of worry for us. I became flight leader in Shilov's place. Then the Lvov operation came to an end and we transferred to Trostyanets. There I shot down a '109'. Initially we had approached each other head on, but I did a 180? turn behind him and brought him down.

Just at that time our regiment was awarded the Order of Bogdan Khmelnitskii. For a whole month we tested out our Yak-3s under frontline conditions. For each sortie we wrote a report on how the machine behaved. And it turned out there was a range of designer flaws. Particularly serious were problems with lowering and retracting the undercarriage.

Our squadron was based at Dembitsy, just to the west of the Vistula. One day we were sitting around playing dominoes, and it was drizzling. A young woman came up to me and said, "I know you." "Where from?" "I'm Shilov's sister" -he had two sisters at the front- "You know, I'd like to collect his things so that they're not sent back to mum and upset her." All the lads fell silent. I said, "Come on then." I explained to her how only yesterday we had received a letter from a certain woman doctor. She wrote that, in a former prisoner of war camp in Przemysl where her medical unit was stationed, she had seen an inscription on the wall of one of the barracks. "I, Shilov Stepan Mikhailovich, eternally devoted to the Party of Lenin and Stalin, was shot down in a fierce dogfight over Ternopol on 16th July 1944. Whosoever reads this, please inform..." That was how we found out that he was a prisoner.

I remember flying one time with the deputy squadron leader to a neighbouring fighter group situated just 1? km from the front line. For that reason we had to come in at hedge-top height to avoid revealing its position. No sooner had we landed than we saw the Divisional Commander, Gerasimov, coming towards us. Cursing, he said,

"So, you figured on flying over in weather like this! Stay here till the morning. Today's the anniversary of the division's formation. There'll be medals, a concert and a supper. And that's for your efforts," he said passing out some spirits and we found some beer to go with it. What were we supposed to do with it? I said to the deputy Squadron Leader,

" Tol', let's take off our tunic tops, wrap it up and stow it behind the armour-plated seat. The main thing is to avoid getting into a dogfight en route."

"Right. Let's do it."

The next day a breeze sprang up. We set off at treetop height. Looking up we saw Germans above and squeezed right down to ground level, but there was a herd of something there and I picked up a bit of wool on my tail. We landed back at Zheshov (Strzyow). I set down but Tolya said,

"I can't land, my instrument are all haywire." He went round for a second approach, and made it this time. The commander saw this.

" Smarten yourselves up!" he barked - he was so angry. We immediately buttoned up our tunics. He went on:

" Why didn't you come back yesterday?"

"Gerasimov wouldn't let us fly in such weather."

"Well, you've brought something back with you, I hope?"

"Of course."

"Off you go, fall out."

In January 1945 we were part of the air cover provision for the troops fighting for Krakow. On the 20th we completed 5-6 sorties in a day, and as evening approached we arrived at Krakow airfield. The aerodrome had been mined and we had to land to the right of the landing strip. 'Lavochkins' were coming into land head on. Everyone just got down as best they could. The town was ablaze. We were billeted to a five-storey building and at about 10-11 o'clock we went back to the aerodrome for an evening meal. The commander was not there, he had remained behind at the previous base. His deputy had us sit down round a П-shaped table for de-briefing. We all had a drink, but realised something was wrong with it. The mess sergeant said, "Comrade pilots, don't worry, it's special rations, it's all above board, and thank you for your efforts." Next morning I got up feeling awful, but three others were still laid out and unable to get up. You felt hungry but the moment you ate anything your guts knotted up. We were baffled as to what had happened. No one went for lunch. That evening a girl suddenly came running in: "Comrade pilots, anyone who's been poisoned must get themselves to the first-aid post immediately." Off we ran and got checked over. It turned out one of our blokes had collapsed and the girl had gone blind. 26 pilots - the whole of the regiment had been poisoned! I've no idea how or to where we were then taken. We were lain two to a bunk. Nuns looked after us. A navigator and two other pilots died and several went blind. True, the mess sergeant died too - the stupid sod had served us methyl alcohol. I was laid up for ten days and only on 2nd February could I fly with my wingman, Vanya Kudenchuk, on a mission.

Spring was in the air, it was already warm and everything was thawing out. We set course for the allotted zone - south-east towards the small town of Gorlitz. Our task was to provide air cover for our tanks. The patrol zone was overcast, the broken cloud suggesting that it wasn't all that solid and thick. There were small breaks in it, at a height of about 1200-1300 metres. For some 35-40 minutes we patrolled giving cover in the target zone. When our operation time was up we turned about face and flew off in the direction of our aerodrome, hoping on our way to root out some enemy ground target and assault it. We flew on at a pretty good 500-550 km/hr. All quiet, it seemed. So I said to my wingman, "Vasya, let's find something to hit, it's not on returning to base with all weapons unused. At that very moment I happened to turn my head to the left and saw eight Me-109's coming up behind out of the cloud at high speed. Instantly I shouted to my wingman, " Vaska, eight of them coming up on our tail." The thought flashed through my mind - low on fuel, they'd obviously been stalking us.

To avoid being hit I had to veer steeply to the left and get into the clouds to gain the advantage. It's a good job we had the speed. I didn't climb, but Vasya, behind and drifting wide on the outside of his turn, picked up speed and plunged through the cloud. From the other side of the cloud cover he shouted that there were eight FW-190s. Their plan was clear: with our fuel about to run out, force us to climb high then shoot us down or at least force us to crash for lack of fuel. I did a U-turn in the clouds, flew a little further on then dived below the clouds. I saw, flying in line astern, two pairs of Me-109s. The leader of one of the pairs spotted me - he side-slipped into the cloud, but I managed to head off the leader of the second pair with a burst of fire from the clouds, then get him in my sights and loosed several more bursts at him. He rolled over onto one wing and went down. I too immediately dived into the clouds - almost out of fuel and no longer able to continue the fight. I reported in to an observer. Ground control told me, " No Soviet losses. Execute a 555 (return to base)." There was no way of finding my wingman. About five minutes later, breaking out from the cloud I saw a Me-109 ahead flying a parallel course. I ducked back into the clouds and when I emerged a few minutes later he had disappeared. I returned to base. At the very point of landing my propeller stopped. So I landed without power. The Yak-3 flies fine for 1? hours, but then you have to get down. Clearly we'd been flying all this time on petrol fumes! I crawled out of the cockpit and walked about in a daze. No wingman. They told me, though, that none of ours had gone missing. A couple or so hours passed. Then I heard the sound of an engine. Yes, it was № 75, Kudenchuk! As soon as he touched down his undercarriage gave way. "All right," I thought, "we can fix that, no problem." It turned out that he'd landed at Pokryshkino, had been refuelled but nobody had noticed that he'd been holed. We were lucky on this occasion, very lucky!

On March 31st we flew out to attack Ratibor (Raciborz) airfield. The group was lead by Regimental Commander Kovalev. We got into a dogfight. I suddenly found myself on the tail of a pair of FW-190s. My wingman Gena Smirnov repulsed an attack on me from another pair and gave me the chance to attack the FW-190s. I shot down one, but as I chased after my wingman, German flak began to cut me off. I sensed that I'd been hit, the plane began to vibrate. It was cloudy with mist about. In such circumstances it was impossible to look for my group. Gena and I withdrew from the action, swung round onto course "0" reckoning on finding a main road. Before us in the haze a pair of Me-109s were following a parallel course to their own airfield. I could not overtake them because my machine was vibrating and I could not put on speed. I said to Gena, "Attack if you can, I'm right behind you." The Germans appeared not to spot us. Gena turned slightly to the right and attacked. I followed, a little distance behind. He got one but the second 109 quickly went into the clouds when he saw the attack. Like it or not, though, we had to return home. The cloud ceiling kept us down to 300-400 metres. I just could not recognise the locality although previously I had lead groups into this area several times already. We kept to our compass bearing "0" but in reality the course was quite different. Fuel was running low. The plane was shaking, so I decided to find a landing strip and set down. All around appeared quiet and I spotted a suitable landing site below me. I informed Gennadii, " Cover me, I'm going down". I landed, ran on a little, but the wheels began to dig in. The plane threw its tail up into the air and came to a halt. I leaped from the plane and noticed a chap driving a cart. I dashed over to him, drawing my pistol. Seeing me, he said in broken Russian, " I'm a Pole." I asked him whose territory was I in and where was the nearest airfield. He replied that it was Polish territory, now in Russian hands but that the front line was some 10-15 km away (waving his arm in it's direction). He added that there was an airfield at such and such locality. The aerodrome was quite close by in the event. I dashed to the plane and told Gena over the radio where to fly. I said, "Land there and come and get me." He flew away but returned 7-10 minutes later explaining over the radio, "I couldn't get down, the airfield's like a sponge, waterlogged and it's too dangerous to land." Following my suggestion he too landed alongside me as his fuel was about to run out.

It subsequently transpired that that there was magnetic distortion in this region. That's why the compass bearing was incorrect. Once we'd entrusted our aircraft to the local Polish authorities for safekeeping, we picked up our parachutes and with the help of the Poles made our way to a station. As it happened, we used to fly in overalls, and sometimes in sports clothes so that we wouldn't be taken for officers. That followed stories that officers were given rough treatment or shot when captured by the Germans.

From the station we travelled two stops and then got back to the airfield late at night on lorries from a motorised battalion that delivered ammunition and fuel to our troops. It was later revealed that six pilots, including we two, had not returned from the combat sortie. The Regimental Commander was pleased about our return especially since our aircraft were still intact. A team of fitters flew out to the site of our forced landing, they fixed my plane, refuelled it and flew it back to the aerodrome.

On 8th April our regiment was stationed at Grotkau. That morning the weather was fair, high cloud and a slight haze. My friend Misha Pyatak and I got orders to do a reconnaissance of the town's railway station and aerodrome located to the east of the town. Bypassing the airfield and the town itself, we approached from the west. At the station there were three fuel-tanker trains facing towards the front line. You got the impression that they had just arrived, although from the air there was no sign of them being unloaded. We reported our findings back to ground base. We immediately got orders to do two "dummy" runs to ascertain whether the Germans had any flak batteries. We did as commanded and reported that we had not been fired on. As it turned out the Germans had clearly not wished to give themselves away. We skirted the town and, setting a course towards the north-east, flew off in the direction of our airfield. We applied the 'scissors' manoeuvre as we flew, gaining speed to keep as low as possible and avoid ground fire. As we skimmed over an airfield we spotted a couple of airborne Me-109s which had just taken off. We were in a favourable position to attack with no need to deploy. We dived down to attack both. Lesha lead the attack, but after the first salvo his guns jammed. He shouted over the radio, "You continue the attack," which I did. One went down. We overshot the wingman, veered left and departed at hedge-top height for our airfield. We reported back to the commander who decided to send Tolya Malyshev and Vit'ka Alfonskii to attack the fuel train. We told them all we had seen. Malyshev approached his plane behaving in a somewhat unusual manner. I said,

"Tolya, what's the matter?"

"I've got a funny feeling. You know, it's stuck in my memory, being on fire whilst over the Kursk salient."

"Cut it out, Tolya! Good luck!" I retorted.

They flew out in their Yak-3s. An hour passed. The weather was getting steadily worse. A little while later there was the roar of an engine. One Yak came into land. It was Alfonskii.

He told us that they had flown off along our route towards the railway junction. They knew from us that there was no anti-aircraft fire. They had made their first approach on the trains at an angle to remain over the target as long as possible. But as they began to pull away, everything on the ground that could shoot opened up on them. A round hit Malyshev in the feeder tank. Alfonskii said he saw white, then black plumes of smoke coming from Malyshev's plane. Tolya began to be overcome by fumes and so he opened the cockpit canopy. (We flew with the canopy closed. We had been trained to. Incidentally, we also had to be trained in radio skills because initially radios weren't used. Only when the ranks of radio-operator 3rd, 2nd, 1st class and master radio-operator were introduced - and attracted extra pay - did we start using them.) So Tolya opened the canopy. I ought to say that we were flying in German gauze flying helmets. We had got our hands on them just outside Brzeg. Of course, when wearing flying helmets with integral headsets your head starts to sweat and your hair falls out. Even silk skullcaps were no salvation. Flames engulfed Malyshev's head. Alfonskii called out, " Tol'ka, hold on!!!" It was still about 15 km to the front line, but had only some 900 metres of altitude. Clearly he couldn't hold out any longer. He flipped the plane over on its back and ejected. He was captured but returned to the regiment on 13th May.

Breslau (Wroclaw) was taken on 7th May. We remained on combat roster as whole flights. The planes were kept supported on trestles alongside the landing strip. On duty with me were Lesha Pyatak, Yura Danilov and Gena Smirnov. It was approaching lunchtime. The weather was clear and sunny, real spring conditions. Suddenly we saw half a dozen Me-109s brazenly flying towards us along the landing strip at a height of 1500 metres. We were up into the air instantly as the alarm sounded. Following us up were two or three pairs of aircraft from another regiment based here alongside us at the airfield. A dogfight ensued. The group of German planes split apart. One Me-109 was attacking a Yak from a different regiment. It so happened that I was the nearest and best placed to attack the Messerschmitt. I gave one burst, then a second. I saw puffs of smoke from his engine, his flailing propeller halting, the face and expression of the German pilot - looking back over his left shoulder at me, the big white crosses on the wings of his plane. This image is burned into my memory. One more burst of fire, he flipped the plane over onto its wing and limped off towards the front line, trailing smoke.

As evening approached a group of Petlyakov Pe-2s supported by Yaks arrived, having carried out their mission. All the bombers landed and almost all the accompanying fighters. Just one Yak was on its third approach and dropped its undercarriage textbook fashion. Just at that moment a Me-109 attacked it at high speed, coming straight out of the sun at low level. We shouted, as if the pilot could hear, "Look out, there's a Me-109 on your tail!" He had been forewarned over the radio, it seemed. He banked sharply to the left and the Messerschmitt overshot at high speed. The attack failed. But that was not the only incidence of the Fascists coming to get their own back for their compatriots.

On May 8th we transferred to just outside Berlin. The weather was clear. The Regimental Commander ordered me up into the air: "Fly to area such and such..." I flew on and reported, "Prince, this is Swallow -8, carrying out a 204 (i.e. one of a foursome of planes), a mission, please." Came the reply, "Swallow-8, Markov, thanks very much for your work, execute a 555." That was the only number that signified return to base. I said, "Prince, you've made a mistake, other groups have been here, I've just arrived." I got a repeat message: "No mistake, execute 555, thank you for your work." As I was approaching the aerodrome, the regimental commander Kovalev chided me, " I'm serious about this, why has Swallow-8 returned?" I said I'd give a report after I'd landed. The fact of the matter was that our unit's anniversary was designated for the 5th May, but it had been rearranged for the 8th. Six pilots were ordered to remain on duty, the rest get ready for the party. I, though, had a sort of feeling deep inside about this, with everyone sprucing themselves up, so I didn't. And I was proved right, I heard the alarm going off. It was around two o'clock in the afternoon. The whole regiment dashed to the airfield and took off en masse in the direction of Prague. I brought back two holes in my plane - one bullet had hit the feeder pipe, a second had lodged in a wing spar. And with that the war ended. In all I had flown 139 combat missions and had brought down six enemy aircraft.