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Red star against the swastika

"I remember" web site presents a book "Red star against the swastika" by Vasily B. Emelianenko published by "Greenhillbooks" (available from December 2005)

2. BIOGRAPHICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL DETAILS

Vasily B. Emelianenko was born in 1912. He entered the piano department in Moscow Conservatoire in 1932. He quit his musical education unfinished and went into an aeroclub to learn flying. Soon he became an instructor. In the spring of 1942 Emelianenko went to the front in the 7th Guards attack aircraft regiment. Soon he became a squadron leader, and later a regiment navigator. For courage and heroism shown in 92 combat sorties Emelianenko was conferred the Hero of the Soviet Union in 1944. He was transferred to the post of a division inspector of the pilotage technique. At the end of 1944 Emelianenko was sent to study in Air Force Academy. After graduation he taught tactics of the front air force application for 18 years. Emelianenko has written two books, and is now on a pension.

3. DESCRIPTION OF BOOK

Vasily Emelianenko performed 92 operational flights on an attack aircraft "Il-2". His plane was shot down three times. Each time Emelianenko managed to pilot the damaged attack aircraft home. This is his extraordinary story. His vivid inside view of a ruthless war in the air on the Eastern Front gives a rare insight into the reality of the fighting and into the tactics of the Red Army Air force.
The attack aircraft "Il-2" was one of the Soviet most contradictory planes in the times of the World War II. This heavy armoured aircraft had practically no rivals in firing power, but at the same time was slow in maneuvering and was an easy target for fighters. "Il-2" had to attack enemy flak columns at extreme low altitude, which led to enormous tolls, both in equipment and personnel. No wonder that a pilot, who performed 80 combat sorties, was awarded the highest decoration - the Hero of the Soviet Union. Only two pilots, who survived in the war, had conducted more than 200 combat sorties.
In his own words, and with a remarkable clarity of recall, Vasily Emelianenko describes what combat was like in the air, face to face with a skilled, deadly and increasingly desperate enemy. The terrifying moments of action, encounters with fighters, forced landings on the enemy territory, the emotional strain before getting a military task, the death of friends and the pilots' way of life - all these aspects of a Soviet pilot's experience during the Great Patriotic War are brought dramatically to life in his memoirs.
The grand strategy of the campaigns across the Eastern Front is less important here than the sequence of engagements that were the first-hand experience of the pilot and squadron-leader. It is this close-up view of combat that makes Vasily Emelianenko's reminiscences of such value.

Sample story

...Heading for the Artemovsk aerodrome we flew above a deep ravine. A hill towered on the horizon ahead. Judging by the time our target must be behind it... if only we had not swerved from the course. I felt a wave of heat. "Trust the compass!" I sped up keeping an eye on the supporting aircraft. They were flying next to me.

The aircraft carried containers with granular phosphorus. To set the enemy aircraft on the fire we had to open the containers at a very low altitude. Otherwise the fiery rain would die out before it hit the ground: the phosphorus granules burn out very quickly in the air.

I moved the stick slightly right before the hill, and the overloaded attack aircraft ascended smoothly. The panorama opened up gradually. Suddenly I saw two lines of bombers almost straight on the heading. So I did guide the group to the target!

Now to the attack… I started to lower the prow of the attack aircraft when something banged deafeningly. The aircraft jolted and banked abruptly. I saw a hole gaping in the right wing. My hands and feet were acting reflexively. I straightened the plane out, and it went on descending. The engine was working all right. I kept my eyes fixed on the bomber with crosses on its sides. Missiles darted towards it from under the wings of my aircraft. Machine-guns started firing. A burst, another one, and the bomber caught fire. Meanwhile the ground was approaching. I leveled the plane out of diving, pressed the button, and for a second looked back. The supporting aircraft were flying with fiery tails of burning phosphorus following them, as if the aircraft were burning themselves. White smoke covered the air base…

I saw a wall of high pine trees behind the aerodrome. The cowl of my attack aircraft was below their tops. I made a steep climb, and the plane was immediately hit in the engine. Water sprayed on me as if from a pulverizer. I reduced speed sharply in order not to overload the damaged engine. The supporting aircraft raced past me one by one, and soon I lost sight of them.

The oil pressure indicator was slowly approaching zero, while the water temperature was constantly rising: the oil lead and cooling system were hurt. The engine would stall soon, and the front line was more than five minutes of flying ahead… While the engine was still working I climbed a little. Thus I could glide on a suitable spot when the engine stopped working. The windshield grew dim, I could see nothing ahead. My glasses were splashed with oil, I pushed them on the forehead. I had to look through the open side window. My eyes were watering from the airflow.

I was flying really low; the engine was working its last. But with every revolution of the propeller I was approaching the front line. I felt a glimmer of hope: perhaps the engine would hold out till our lines? The altitude was two or three meters; the speed was critical; the aircraft was obeying poorly. The engine stalled. Should I land on the fuselage or on the landing gear? My hand already grasped the stick releasing the landing gear. I felt two typical jerks – the wheels got out – and the plane rolled down the rocky soil with the speed of more than 100 k/h. And then a crack – the plane crashed down on the fuselage and crawled…

Silence. The raising dust hid the sun for some time. I pushed the canopy back. Light wind was slowly dispersing the dust. "So where have I landed? Is it our territory or the enemy's?" Ahead I could see a metal tower of the high-voltage line with fragments of wiring hanging freely. The ground was bare around the plane; only at a distance there was an islet of high grass with panicles of yellow flowers. What should I do next? At that moment a burst of machine-gun fire broke the silence. Bullets were hitting the armor plate behind me. I bowed my head to my knees. After a short pause a new burst hit the duralumin skin of a wing near the cockpit. The machine-gun was firing somewhere from behind, at a short distance. It was firing one burst after another at regular intervals. It was dangerous to stay inside the cockpit: they would finish me off. I thought it better to hide beside the engine, on the ground.

Without raising my head I got ready to jump. I was waiting for the next burst. It came. In a second I jumped out of the cockpit and lay flat on the ground. Now the submachine guns began firing. So they noticed me...

I snuggled up to the hot engine shell near the warped propeller blade. Shooting came from behind only. I could crawl forward and hide in the grass. But the whining bullets chained me to the ground; I couldn't stir my hand...

The machine-gun kept firing, and I cocked my pistol. At that moment something rustled strangely above me... I pressed my face to the ground and closed my eyes. A sharp blow came from behind the attack aircraft. The machine-gun stopped. I guessed that there was our mortar near the tower of the high-voltage line, and it was firing. I must crawl at that direction, and do it quickly before the machine-gun starts shooting again...

I leopard crawled, pressing my whole body to the ground, and moving with the help of elbows, knees, toes of my boots.

Finally I reached the islet of grass, which I had noticed from the cockpit. But the grass obstructed the view, and I couldn't see what was going on around me. What if the "Fritzes" are somewhere close crawling artfully in order to lay hold of me? I raised my head – something clinked. I pressed myself back to the ground and passed my hand over the helmet – a splinter of glass stuck into my finger. I pulled the helmet off my head; the glasses were completely smashed. A stray bullet? Or was it a sniper, who located me by the glint of the glasses? I threw the helmet aside.

For a long time I was crawling from one grass islet to another, before finally I reached the tower of the high-voltage line. Now my way was blocked by a spiral of Bruno: a huge skein of barbed wire. One can not jump over it even if one takes a run. And I couldn't even raise my head... So I had to crawl along the spiral till I found a big hole, breached by a shell. I squeezed through it and was totally exhausted.

I lay for a long time listening to the rare sounds of skirmish, peering into every knoll, every shrub of grass. The mortar had long seized firing; only a single shot would break the silence. Sometimes a bullet would hit a knoll and rebound.. And then I discovered that the oblong mound, which was accidentally hit by the bullets, was a camouflaged parapet of a trench. A top of a helmet would appear regularly from the trench, and that was when a shot came. I was wondering, who was in the trench: our people or the "Fritzes".

My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden rustle. The grass ahead of me waved, and I saw a faded field cap. I could see no star on it. I cocked my pistol and pointed it on the cap. A long swarthy face appeared for a moment. The man was crawling cautiously, looking around. I aimed at his head, and at that moment our gazes met. The man got petrified. I had only to pull the trigger, his submachine gun was at his side...

We kept silent, gazing at each other. Then a grimace that resembled a smile appeared on the swarthy man's face. I saw a gold tooth. He asked in a low voice, speaking with a strange accent:

- Are you from our lot? – and without waiting for my reply he waved - Come on! "A Fritz!" - thought I

- Don't move... - I hissed and added a round oath.

My words had an effect: the man started gabbling:

- Why are you going to shoot?! I'm a friend!

- You're lying! Where is your star?

- What star are you talking? - he asked a strange question, as if he was trying to gain time.

- On your cap.

The man grasped his cap, felt it all over and turned it inside out. Now I could see a khaki front-star on it. I felt relieved, but my suspicion was not totally dispelled. Having the star in my sights I began the interrogation.

- Name?

- Do you want my name?

- Yes, I want YOUR name!

- Then - Birbier... - The name sounded like a German one.

- Where are you from?

- From Odessa...

I didn't like the answer. Odessa was long occupied by the Romanians. I asked:

- Where did you live there?

- Well, Bebel, 37... - answered Birbier with confidence. He grew bolder obviously, and suggested that I crawl to the parapet and he follow.

- No, - I said roughly, - You crawl first, and I will have you in my sights... If anything seems wrong I will shoot!

The soldier was crawling, looking back from time to time, and I was crawling after him as an escort. We crawled up to the parapet and I could already see soldiers with helmets on their heads. The closest soldier - round-faced and snub-nosed - was grinning broadly. He waved at me and said quietly:

- Come on, pilot, come on, only keep your head and bottom down!

I dived into the trench, as a walrus into an ice-hole, and first of all took a sip of warm water from a water-bottle, which somebody gave me. Then I lit up some makhorka.

A flaxen-haired soldier squatted in a niche under the parapet with a receiver tied to his head. He was wearing boots with very wide tops. Looking at me he was turning the handle of a portable telephone set, calling up some "Akula". I was showered with questions by the round-faced man:

- Where is it more scary to flight, comrade lieutenant, high or low?

- It is more safe at a low altitude, - I answered from the point of view of our tactics, and trying to avoid discussing the topic of fear. I'd had enough of the fear, when I was crawling on the ground.

- So why did you fly so low that you even got into the German trench, comrade lieutenant?

- Is there a trench there?

- The first one...

Now I understood that I had landed by the enemy, and the wheels of the aircraft had got stuck in the first German trench.

- Why are you putting your heads under the German bullets? Is it not scary? - I asked him.

- It is a bait, we put it on a stick - explained the soldier, showing me a helmet, which already had many holes in it. - We are teasing their sniper, so that our man could spot him from another place...

The flaxen-haired soldier hastily unfastened the receiver and passed it to me: "Battalion commander!" Everyone in the trench went silent immediately, as if the operator had connected to no less than the Commander-in-Chief of the Front. I heard a low voice:

- Well, hello, Stalin's sokol! (sokol means 'falcon' in Russian. "Stalin's sokol" was a name for pilots during the World War II. One can also call a bold, courageous person a "sokol"). How are you?

- I'm fine! - I answered trying to sound cheerfully.

- Well, we are waiting for you...

I thought, what a "nice sokol" would the battalion commander see: my clothes were torn to shreds, and my elbows and knees were bleeding...

Bending down I followed the attendant down the trench.

... In a deep gully I saw a real cave-settlement. Earth-houses were dug in the slope; their entrances were curtained with waterproof capes. I could see soldiers taking their mess kits and hurrying to the steaming field-kitchen - a cauldron on the wheels with a high chimney. It looked like Stefenson's first steam engine.

The attendant brought me to a blindage. Two men were standing at the entrance smiling at me, as if I was an old friend of theirs. A tall man with splay, broad shoulders introduced himself: "Battalion commander Misarov". The other one shook hands with me and introduced himself as senior politruk Murakhovsky. ("Politruk" is the person responsible for political instructions among the soldiers). They invited me in the blindage.

Two trestle-beds, a table of unhewn wood. On the wall hangs a portrait of the Leader in military coat and a slogan: "Our cause is just, the enemy will be defeated".

"The infantrymen have made themselves at home", - I thought.

The commander called: "Tell Lyuda to come!"

Soon there came a blond with a child's face and full lips. She had a first-aid kit in her hands. She had cocked her field-cap at a jaunty angle, her boots sat well on her slender legs, and her wasp waist was laced with a wide belt. A medal "For courage" did not hang, but rather lay flat above her left blouse pocket. Casting her blue eyes over the place she saluted awkwardly with her palm up and reported on her arrival. "So one can meet real beauties even on the front line!", -I thought.

- Now, deal with the pilot, quickly, - Misarov told her with a smile.

The nurse coped with my knees and elbows, and was gone. Murakhovsky took out a flask covered up in greatcoat cloth, and opened a tin of canned meat with a Finnish knife. Everybody called such canned meat "the second front", though there was not any yet. He also put a mug and a pot of water on the table.

- Come on, pilot, get yourself revived after the long journey. Dilute to your taste. It is pure alcohol, we keep it for the guests, - he told me proudly.

- I will have it pure, and then wash it down, - I said, trying to look brave.

I drank up the fiery liquid, and before passing on to water exhaled my rank and name. This "show" had its effect.

- Pilots can do that! - Murakhovsky gave a wink to the battalion commander, who remained calm. The commander nodded assent:

- They can...

The battalion commander and commissar told me the details of my landing. The front line observers noticed my attack aircraft flying just above the ground. They saw me landing. I was right to suspect that I had lost the landing gear in the German first trench. After that the aircraft crawled forward on the fuselage for about 50 meters. If I had not let the landing gear out, I would have remained on that side of the front line. My attack aircraft landed near a place called Nyrkovo, very close to the height 210.8. From that very place I had been machine-gunned.

The observes reported to the battalion commander that the pilot had jumped out of the cockpit. The commander gave an order to the mortar battery to prang the shooting machine-gun. Then he summoned intelligence officers and posed a task:

- Find the pilot before he gets blown up on the mine field! Five men volunteered. They crawled for a long time in the neutral zone, but failed to find me. Only soldier Birbier, who was in the outposts, ran into me.

- Now we have to recommend Birbier for a decoration, - the battalion commander told the commissar. - We promised an order to the man who would find the pilot.

- But he was taken prisoner himself! - laughed Murakhovsky. He was obviously a great jester...

- Anyway, you must write today... - said battalion commander Misarov, poking the canned meat with the Finish knife.

- Help yourself, pilot, - Murakhovsky treated me. - You must have been born under a lucky star. Even the scouts get blown up sometimes, though they know every bush and knob in the neutral zone...

- Perhaps I have. But I've lost my aircraft. I will have to go to the regiment on Shanks's mare...

- And how much does the aircraft weigh? - my interlocutors seemed interested.

- A bit more than five tons...

- We could try and tow it off with a tank...

And so we decided to conduct a rescue mission at night. The battalion commander phoned somewhere and asked to send a machine. They promised. We found a tow-line of the needed length - a firm cable from a high-tension line. Several men volunteered to crawl to the aircraft and fasten the cable.

- What should we tie it to? - they asked me.

I explained that they could wind the cable round the propeller. The blades had been curved, the cable would be fixed.

The tank arrived late at night. "It wandered about a bit", - said the battalion commander.

The tank drove up carefully to the very edge of the gully and stopped the engine. The scouts disappeared in the dark. The battalion commander and me went to the first trench.

It was a warm, starry night. A smell of thyme was felt in the air. One could hear cicadas chirring, and somebody in Nyrkovo was playing mouth-organ. A German was playing our "Katyusha" (Katyusha is a diminutive from Katya (a female name). The Soviet song "Katyusha" was especially popular in the war years. The Soviet rocket launchers were called "Katyushas" after this song.)...

- They are having good time in Nyrkovo, - the battalion commander explained. I thought that there was no front line not only for birds and wind, but also for a song. If not for the rare bursts of sub-machine gun fire, it would have been hard to believe that the war was going on here.

...The scouts got back by 1 a.m. very displeased. They had failed to fasten the cable. It appeared that the Germans had already visited the attack aircraft. They rummaged in the cockpit and went back. Immediately after that the Germans set up the flares and began to shell over open sights. Our men had a narrow escape.

The gun fired systematically for a long time. Then something flared up in the dark. In the reflections of the flame we could see the wings of the aircraft spread on the ground. After some time we heard the dry cracking of exploding cartridges. And when the flame began to lick the cockpit, a red flare went up in the dark sky. It was one of the flares stored in the pocket by the left side, near the signal pistol.

Squeezing a splinter of flint in my hand I watched my aircraft burning down...

Any comments or questions about his book you can send at this address:

125167 Moscow Leningradsky pr-t 60-39 for Artem Drabkin

You can send your comments through e-mail: drabkin@yandex.ru