Memoirs of pilots of the Second World War. All books are about: “Memoirs of military pilots. We are children of war. Memories of military test pilot Stepan Mikoyan

The loss of both legs is a high price to pay to at least be eligible to be heard. It's rare to find someone who would give more, and yet it was the price paid by Peter Henn to write his book. Even if memory is a bad advisor, when you have to remember the events of ten years ago, crutches or prostheses serve as a wonderful reminder. Isn't this the reason for the power hiding in these eyewitness memories? I do not think so. But we must admit that the last statement makes sense and cannot be ignored.

We have before us the book of the former enemy. It is not as significant as, for example, The Diary of Ernst Jünger - so restrained in expression and just as dangerous in its destructive praise of the war - or The Responses of the fanatical Ernst von Salomon in their hideous frankness. The author cares little whether he is liked or disapproved, whether he flatters or destroys the expectations of his own people or his own military caste. To some extent, this may explain the lack of success of his book in Germany. Peter Henn became a soldier only because his country went to war, otherwise in peacetime he would have been a civilian pilot. He, it seems, was not a Nazi or an ardent nationalist, and never touches on this topic, with the exception of words about distrust of high party dignitaries and the arguments of their propaganda. Henn only took up the weapon because he hoped that one day he could put it down again. Staff officers can praise the flight data of the Messerschmitt 109, which was supposed to be superior to enemy aircraft. Peter Henn himself flew the Me-109 himself and felt the car much better than the pen in his hands. But professional writers and memoirs of staff officers worry us much less than Peter Henn, trying to get away from the Lightning's cannon bursts or swinging on the lines of a torn parachute.

This is because he formulates one of the most important truths of any war: the threat of death gives an understanding of the essence of people and events, brings to light any false ideas. Ideas rule the world and unleash wars, but people who risk their lives can themselves, under the merciless and blinding light of their fate, judge these ideas that kill their comrades and, ultimately, themselves. Based on the above, the voice of Peter Henn, a former fighter pilot of Mölders Squadron and Squadron Commander of the 4th Direct Support Squadron on the battlefield, will be heard today and tomorrow, and we must hope that he reaches any part the globe, where they live with hope for a peaceful future.

Peter Henn was born on April 18, 1920. He never tried to avoid the dangers to which his comrades were exposed, and he did the most reckless acts. He was nearly torn in two once while taking off in a plane from a tiny rocky area in Italy to escape - according to his words - from Allied tanks. Of course, he could have left in the car, but difficulties attracted this man, who wanted to win by trying to do the impossible. There were all the prerequisites for the fact that on that day he could die, and it is surprising that he managed to escape. But the greatest pleasure for this reckless young man was to click his heels in front of the Old Man - the commander of his group, who was probably about thirty years old and who disliked him - and to report after some new misadventure: "Lieutenant Henn has returned from a combat mission." And after all this, enjoy his dislike amazement.

Peter Henn, a twenty-three-year-old lieutenant, the son of a rural postman who assumed he would become a teacher, hardly suited the commander of a fighter group. In the Luftwaffe, as in the Wehrmacht, only officers who graduated from higher military schools were always cared for. The rest were treated as regular cannon fodder and consumables. But war distributes titles and honors at random.

In my opinion, the image of Peter Henn in no way contradicts the images of famous aces of all countries who deserved medals, crosses with oak leaves and other awards that opened the way for their owners to the boards of directors of large companies and to the conclusion of successful marriages. Take away their gold chains, eagles and shoulder straps, and Peter Henn will resemble one of these cheerful young men whom we all knew during the war and whose good spirits could not be destroyed. A tattered cap, carelessly shifted over one ear, gave him the look of a mechanic turned officer, but as soon as you paid attention to the honest, open gaze and hard lines of the mouth, it became clear: before you is a real warrior.

He was thrown into battle in 1943, at a time when Hitler's failures were beginning to become more serious, and it was obvious that defeats did not bring anything like common sense and humanity into military service. He was sent to Italy, returned to Germany, returned back to Italy, spent some time in hospitals in Romania, participated in crazy battles on the Second Front and ended the war in Czechoslovakia, being captured by the Russians, from which he returned in 1947 as an invalid ... Pursued from all sides by defeat, he went from misfortune to misfortune, accidents, skydiving, awakening in the operating room, reuniting with his comrades, until some new disaster threw him down ...

In battles, he won victories, which were not without sacrifices. In one of the battles, when ten Thunderbolts were chasing him, he was lucky to catch one of them in the sight of his cannons, and he did not miss the opportunity to pull the trigger. Henn must have sent several of his enemies to the ground, but it can be assumed that there were no more than Richard Hillary, whose publisher tells us that he shot down five German planes during the Battle of England. Peter Henn was not in the habit of shouting his victories into the microphone. He did not brag about a "new victory." When Goering, whom everyone in the Luftwaffe called Hermann, visited his group and made one of his delusional speeches, everyone expected Lieutenant Henn to make a scandal by saying something reckless because he could not contain himself. But who knows, under other circumstances, for example, being in the victorious squadrons in Poland in 1939 or during the French campaign of 1940, Lieutenant Henn would not have been intoxicated with victories? There is obviously a significant difference between fighter pilots during times of victory and times of defeat.

What is the reason for Peter Henn's humanity? Colonel Ackar seemed to be talking about this when, in Forces Aériennes Françaises (No. 66), wrote that "the fighter pilot is either the winner or none," trying to explain why both Richard Hillary's books and letters read as as if they were written by a bomber pilot, that is, a combatant who had a lot of time to think. He is convinced that Lieutenant Henn did not have the spirit of a fighter pilot and that the infamous Rudel, with his golden oak leaves and diamonds, who was only the pilot of the Stuka, possessed him to a much greater extent.

We must admit that Rudel never felt any compassion, neither for himself nor for others. He was a tough man - tough and merciless towards himself, while Peter Henn, by the way, like Ackar, could be touched by a friend who fell into the sea or died. Or he was enraged by the high-flown speeches of "ground" officials. His nerves were fired because he clearly saw the reasons for the collapse of the Luftwaffe on the ground and in the air, and the nonsense broadcast by the Reich propaganda radio station left him indifferent. He just shrugged his shoulders in disdain. He uses the word "carnage" when it comes to war. The way it is. Whether we should call this extraordinary fighter pilot an evil genius I cannot say, but it is obvious that he was a talented man. Lieutenant Henn was thinking too much, and the commander of his group did not speak well of him in his personal report. "The best thing you can do," he advised Henn, "is to rush into battle, pull the trigger, and not think about anything." In fact, it was the moral principle of all fighter pilots, as well as the first rule of war. But when it is impossible to think about it, all that remains is, I suppose, to leave the service.

L83 The sky remains clear. Notes of a military pilot. Alma-Ata, "Zhazushy", 1970. 344 pp. 100,000 copies. 72 kopecks There are events that are never erased from memory. And now, a quarter of a century later, Soviet people remember that joyful day when the radio brought the long-awaited news of the complete defeat of Nazi Germany. The author of this book went through the war from the first day to the battle at the gates of the Nazi capital. On his combat account of a fighter pilot about forty shot down German aircraft. The publishing house hopes that the memories of the twice Hero of the Soviet Union General ...

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We are children of war. Memories of military test pilot Stepan Mikoyan

Stepan Anastasovich Mikoyan, Lieutenant General of Aviation, Hero of the Soviet Union, Honored Test Pilot of the USSR, is widely known in the aviation circles of our country and abroad. Coming to aviation in the late thirties, he went through the crucible of war, and then he had a chance to test or pilot all types of domestic aircraft of the second half of the XX century: from light sports cars to heavy missile carriers. Memories of Stepan Mikoyan are not just a vivid historical essay about Soviet fighter aircraft, but also a sincere story about the life of a family ...

Military Pilot: Memories of Alvaro Prendes

The author of the book, now an officer of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba. talks about his military service, about his participation in the revolutionary movement on the island of Liberty against the reactionary regime of the dictator Batista and the American imperialists for the establishment of popular power in the country.

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Soldier's Award William Faulkner

Faulkner wrote his first novel, A Soldier's Award (originally titled Distress Signal) in New Orleans in 1925. The plot of the novel is connected with Faulkner's aspiration to become a military pilot during the First World War. As you know, he entered the school of military pilots in Canada, but the war ended before he graduated from the school. The novel was published in 1926 and had no success, although it was noticed by many prominent American writers. After the Second World War, the novel was reprinted and sold in large editions.

Jim Garrison's Revenge

The story of a classic of modern American literature, based on which Tony Scott has shot the famous film with Kevin Costner and Anthony Quinn in the lead roles. Garrison can write about a bloody love triangle with the participation of a powerful drug lord and a former military pilot, or masterfully pack a lyrical family saga into a hundred pages, but his characters are always looking for justice in an irreparably changed world and can hardly withstand the pressure of passions to which all ages are submissive.

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As conceived by the author, the novel "The Mystery of the Master" shows the confrontation between two systems - good and evil. On the side of the light forces, the main character Heinrich Steiner, a native of the German colony. In the early thirties of the twentieth century, while serving in the Soviet squadron next to the secret German flight school, the military pilot Heinrich Steiner will be involved by local security officers in the work of exposing German agents. Then events will take place as a result of which he will illegally leave the Soviet Union and find himself in the lair of Nazi Germany. A…

Hans Jurgen Otto

From the memoirs of a Luftwaffe pilot who was captured from the Soviet Union

Translated from German by E.P. Parfenova.

H.Yu. Otte was born in 1921 in Amelschghausen (Lower Saxony, near Luneburg). After graduating from high school and receiving a school leaving certificate, he volunteered for the German Air Force in October 1940. At first he was a soldier of the flight training battalion in Schleswig, then he studied at the school of military pilots near Potsdam. In November 1941, H.Yu. Otte received a pilot's license. For several months, until the summer of 1942, he learned to fly a dive bomber.

On August 1, 1942, with the rank of Lieutenant H.Yu. Otte, he was sent to the Soviet-German front, he was transferred to the 77th squadron of dive bombers stationed in the Crimea. This is how his military epic began. In October 1942 - January 1943, he took part in the battles for Stalingrad and in the Caucasus. In May 1943, the squadron was transferred to Kharkov, and on June 2, H.Yu. Otte made his last combat mission - during the bombing of the city of Oboyan in an air battle with Soviet fighters, he was shot down, jumped out with a parachute and was captured ... It is these events that are discussed in the memoirs published below. Their author had a chance to visit several prisoner of war camps on the territory of the USSR - in Tambov, Suzdal, Yelabug. Being a "prisoner of war", H.Yu. Otte had the opportunity to get acquainted with the activities of the National Committee "Free Germany".

After the end of World War II, in September 1945 soda, he was transferred to Kazan, to the working camp "Silicate Plant". Here, in February 1947, he fell ill with bilateral pneumonia and was soon transferred to the hospital of the prisoner of war camp in Zelenodolsk.

In the summer of 1947, H.Yu. Otte was among the repatriated, on 19 August he arrived in Frapkfurt an der Oder. The years of captivity are behind us. The further fate of Hans Jurgen was no longer associated with either military aviation or the army in general - he chose for himself a teaching career. After graduating from the Pedagogical Institute H.Yu. Otte worked for many years as a teacher, then as a school director. In 1984 he retired, currently lives in Germany, is engaged in social activities.

The editorial board of Novy Sentry is grateful to Hans Jürgen Otte, who provided the manuscript of his memoirs and kindly agreed to acquaint the Russian reader with its fragment. We hope to continue publishing the memoirs of Kh.Yu. Otte in subsequent issues of the journal.

We also express our sincere gratitude to Evgenia Petrovna Parfenova, who took the trouble to translate the manuscript from German into Russian and prepare it for publication.

We believe that the publication of the memoirs of the participants in the dramatic events of half a century ago, who were on opposite sides of the front, will contribute to the achievement of a noble goal ~ - the prevalence of the truth about the greatest tragedy of mankind, which was the Second World War.

Instead of a preface - a short introduction

The nature in which a person is born, in which he grows and in which he spends his childhood and adolescence, along with other factors, has a significant impact on his development. Who could argue that there are significant differences between a miner from the Alps and a fisherman from the North Sea coast, between the "Cologne guy" and the one who calls the island of Rügen his homeland.

Likewise, the Haidist, this man from Lüneburger Heide, has a special peculiarity: he is rather silent and thoughtful than talkative, inclined more towards static contemplation than to observing scenes of life constantly changing each other, but at the same time he is persistent in following a goal once set; stubborn and energetic when it comes to injustice, and, obviously, sometimes leaps the goal far, and also most often has a strong will.

Perhaps I got a lot from all this, at least a little. This was already put into my cradle and throughout my life it protected me from unnecessary turns in my life path.

Then the ancestors. They are, in poetic language, the source of the juices of life. The cornerstone of our being is they, the origin and then the upbringing, on which a person can build if he wants. And he must want!

I was often driven by my desires. From time to time they forced me to choose directions that led to delusions. A good chance then often saved me from despair. But enough philosophy. I want to tell you about those years that first of all shaped me and my entire generation.

I was born in Heidedorf Amelinghausen, raised in Lüneburg, the city that gives its name to the landscape. My parents are of so-called humble origins. The maternal grandfather was a craftsman and for many years before his death burgomaster of Amelinghausen.

For the father's parents, who had eight dependent children, it was much more difficult, working as agricultural workers for richer peasants, to make a fortune for themselves with hard work. As a result of 12 years of military service, my father managed to become an employee of the Reichsbahn (state railway) after the First World War - for a village boy who had "only" a village school - this is an elusive, hard-won trick.

Along with the parental home, two more "sisters" by their very existence made sure that the danger of becoming a closed only child in the family did not arise at all: the school in Luneburg and the Hitler Youth were the institutions that in the 30s had a significant influence on as regards, as it was then understood, education and political consciousness. History, German and sports were the subjects that piqued my interest at school. The Hitler Youth took care of a gradual and smooth infatuation with the Fuhrer and National Socialism. And soon, inevitably, I was chosen to a leading position: the leader of the squad (as it was then called) of the glider pilots of the Hitler Youth in Luneburg.

But then came the war, which scattered all my thoughts, reflections and dreams, and not only mine! My professional desires during these years ranged from studying politics and history to flying, to being an active Luftwaffe officer.

And suddenly it happened, the day of parting and entering a new life, a soldier's life: October 15, 1940. About this and about how I was all these years, I want to tell you.

Osterholz-Scharmbek (Lower Saxony)

A mortal fear gripped me in a split second, when I pulled the handle of the parachute - and suddenly felt it in my hand. Lord, didn't the parachute open? And before I had time to think it through to the end, a strong jolt brought me to a horizontal position - and then at one moment it suddenly became completely quiet. When I looked up, I saw a wide and probably open parachute above me. Thank God, I at least survived this!

It wasn't long before I heard my plane explode. It happened on a plowed field, the plane was on fire, and my airborne radio went along with it. Now I was at an altitude of about 2000 m and had time to orient myself. Maybe I'm still on German territory? Intensively I tried to recognize something below on the ground, but apart from a small mill and a few houses near it, I did not find anything. The front line could not be found with all the desire. Perhaps this is difficult at such an altitude. Or maybe there was something that looked like this? No, nothing like that.

I took my pistol out of its holster, pulled the safety catch, and fired it into the air. Yes, he's fine. We often discussed among ourselves; into Russian captivity - no way! Better to shoot yourself. As a precaution, I put the pistol away again. It's too early to take this last step. First you need to find out where I am. Then I will always have time to do what I consider necessary to do. Thank God, I was not presented with an alternative - to shoot myself or not.

When you hang on a parachute, it seems that the parachute will remain hanging in the air, especially if there is complete calm, as this morning on June 2, 1943.

Only gradually did I begin to notice that I was going down and the ground beneath me was getting bigger. Wonderful vaping! Only it would be on a different occasion than this one, which leads me into the global unknown.

And there - what are the brown figures swarming on my supposed landing site? But these are not Germans! It can only be Russians! At the windmill I saw light-colored women's dresses. So, I was still on Russian territory. Oh God, what will happen? In desperation, I tugged at the parachute lines to steer it further south. But that was wasted work. Vertically, like a sack, I fell down into the hands that were already waiting for me.

The last meters flew by quickly, the landing was soft. Of course, because it was arable land, and dung heaps were all around. Despite several somersaults, I quickly got to my feet and immediately saw the Russians running towards me. I quickly fumbled for the holster - it was empty. Perhaps this was my happiness. Could I really put the barrel to my temple? I'm not sure about that.

I quickly released my parachute and ran through the arable land, barefoot, but as fast as I could. Nearby I saw bushes and a small forest. There I wanted to hide in order to later try to get through the front line, which should have been nearby, to the German side. Some of the downed pilots have already succeeded, why not me?

But then I saw Russian soldiers running towards me from all sides. It was impossible to escape. I stood up and held my hands in front of my body, while the Russians continued to shoot at me. Now everything was indifferent to me. At that moment, I said goodbye to life. Get it over with pleasure - I would have shouted to the Russians with pleasure. They continued to shoot, and one bullet hit me. It went through the left forearm and got stuck in the right. At first I didn't feel anything. The bullet flew quite sharply past the top of my torso. Not a trace of pain!

Then the Russians ran up, the screaming crowd began to beat me. I fell to the ground, put my hands on the back of my head. The blows with some objects hit the back of the head and hands. Now I felt pain, and the back of my head seemed to be torn. If I was still able to think at all, I had one thought: That's it, now it's over! God grant it soon!

Suddenly they stopped beating, jerked me up and began to rip off everything from me: a wrist watch, a purse, even a handkerchief, tore the insignia from my shoulders and seemed surprised that I came to them without boots. Otherwise they would have taken off my shoes.

A small man stood in front of me, in uniform, but no insignia. Maybe this is the so-called commissioner? The respect the crowd around me showed him indicated this. He spoke to me in broken German: “You don’t have fear, you don’t kill. Stalin to order not to kill the German soldier. "

It sounded completely soothing. Obviously, I survived the critical moment of captivity (what can be called “safely” here). But now my hands were very sore, blood dripping through my uniform onto the ground. Plus wounds on the back of the head. What will happen to me now?

I had no opportunity to reflect on my fate, because now it was called: Well, come on! - and under strong guard, accompanied by half of the village, I was pushed forward towards the mill and towards the village.

Stumbling and barely, under constant jolts, kicks, curses and curses, I moved a hundred meters, when suddenly my eyes went black. I only remember that I sank to the ground. Then night enveloped me. When I came to my senses again, I was lying on the bed. How did they get me here? Nearby, on the edge of the bed, sat a Russian in uniform. She cut open the sleeves of my jacket and treated my wounds. A soldier stood at his feet and in his head with machine guns pointed at me in his hands. Were they really afraid that I would run away?

The pain in my forearm became more and more unbearable. Especially the left one, probably broken, hurt terribly. Because of this, it was simply impossible to think about my situation.

After about an hour, I had to get up. There was a truck on the street that I had to get into. A soldier sat down beside him, and the ride began at hellish speed through the bumpy streets. I was thrown back and forth, and I would have screamed with pleasure in pain. But to let the Russian, who was smiling at me with a mockery, enjoy the triumph - no, I didn't want that. Better to clench your teeth and endure!

Then the city appeared. It was Oboyan, the site of our bombing a few hours ago. We drove past the station, which could only be recognized with difficulty. On the streets littered with ruins, people scurried back and forth. They shook their fists at me when they recognized me. “Here he is, one of those who bombed our city,” they probably thought. Besides, my uniform was familiar to them from the long occupation. Do they want to drop me off here? Not that. Thank God, the truck drove on.

The village behind Oboyan was a preliminary parking lot. I have arrived. I couldn't have withstood these shocks anymore. The mass of military vehicles, on the roads and on the streets, there is a bustle of traffic everywhere. The smoking soldiers standing around looked at me with curiosity. Now one, now the other spat under my feet, threw curses or ridicule at me. I was taken to a house, and I was brought before several officers, who now began interrogation.

In the meantime, I prepared for such an interrogation and firmly decided to say only what we were allowed to, namely: name and military rank. It was clear to me that I was different and did not expect that they would try to gut me. Therefore, I decided to undertake the following tactics: I am at the front only for the first week and I do not know anything.

And so it began: name, rank, military unit - here I did not answer. The officer jumped up to me in a rage, released a burst of machine-gun curses at me, pulled out a revolver and gave them to me in the ears. But this only increased my stubbornness. I gave only my name and military rank and thought: You can do with me what you want, I won't say anything else. If I could withstand such tactics for a long time - today I would not undertake to assert it. But I, as in general often, was lucky: happiness is in unhappiness. Suddenly a siren rang out: Alarm! Everyone ran out. I was pushed into a hole in a good 2 meters deep, which smelled terribly. They dumped all their trash here.

So I sat, poor creature, in complete peace and could watch the German He-1P combat aircraft flying high in the sky. Oh, if you could get me out of here!

When the sky cleared, the Russians gradually crawled out of their burrows. Their respect for German aircraft was great. They dragged me out of the garbage pit and led me out of the village to a lonely peasant hut. A dilapidated barn stood next to the house. He became my refuge for the near future. The ceiling was so low that I could not stand up to my full height. From the manure I established that it was obviously a goat barn. There was nothing on the floor except for an armful of stinking straw and goat feces. A small window let in at least a little light and sometimes even a sunbeam. If I got down on my knees, I could see the Ukrainian distance through the window.

The soldier brought me soup and some bread in a tin can. Only now I realized that I have a good appetite. When was the last time I ate something? Yesterday? Tonight? It was the first meal on this eventful day. I did not feel hungry, for at the moment the situation was too dire for that. It got dark little by little. The glance at the clock now belongs to the past. Forever and ever?

Nothing else happened that day. I lay on the straw and tried to take stock. I still could not realize what happened to me. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and everything will be just a dream? But no, I was under no illusion. My life will now change dramatically. Freedom is over! How much? Forever and ever? Gallant flying life has flown by! But the everyday danger to life also flew by. Although I had no idea that now and in the near future they just won't take up arms against me. The war was over for me, even if the question arose: is it possible to return home at all and when.

My squadron landed in Kharkov long ago. I wonder if I'm the only one on today's list of losses? I imagined what would happen now. As an officer, I had to fulfill such formalities several times in a similar situation. They will wait only 2 weeks to see if this Otte will appear. Then they will inform the relatives, then they will pack the missing person's things to send them home. I even knew the text of such messages. It was always the same: Unfortunately, we must tell you the sad news ... and so on. ... missing or killed for Greater Germany!

A terrible thought! How will they receive this news at home? At the same time, I still lived - and wanted to survive!

This and the like came into my head, made me feel sad. Until, finally, nature took its toll and I, in spite of the hard bed and pain, fell asleep.

The days that followed consisted of interrogations. The Russian major, who took over this mission, believed, and he constantly reminded me of this, that I was an officer, so I should know everything he wanted to hear from me. I objected with the phrase that only 2 weeks ago I arrived from Germany to the front, made only the third flight and therefore I do not know anything at all. They had known the name of my military unit “77 Dive Bomber Squadron” and the location of Kharkov for a long time, so I didn’t need to say more than my name.

Every morning I was rudely awakened by a soldier, but he always brought something to eat and water. Then I was even allowed to wash in the yard, which was not easy because of my bandaged and severely aching hands. I stretched my face wash as long as possible, as being outside in the sun was incomparably more pleasant than lying on the stinking straw.

Every two days an orderly came to change my bandages. He did it well and healed quickly. True, the bullet was still in the right forearm, but it almost did not bother me. Only the left hand worried and ached. Enduring a broken arm without a plaster cast day and night was more than painful. No matter how at night I was spinning, and at night I always lay, the pains were strong.

After a week of harsh interrogation, I figured out how to get out of these fruitless interrogations. The major began every morning with the same questions. Perhaps he wanted thereby to establish contradictions. He was very interested even in my family relationships, for example, whether my father is a capitalist or whether we have a noble estate. Sometimes his stupid questions were simply laughable.

He was always angry when I insisted that I did not know which squadrons were on the southern front. Then he banged his fist on the table so that even the translator shuddered. One day he fell into such a rage that he drew his pistol, pointed it at me, fired a stream of incomprehensible sentences at me and then shot me a hair's breadth of my head. The little translator was more frightened than me.

At the end of the condos, I told him, "Okay, I'll try to strain my memory as much as possible." As soon as I said this, he became friendly and helpful again, handed me a cigarette - "Let's smoke" - and ordered me to move immediately. Since I had no luggage, the move was a matter of the moment. I came to a peasant hut standing next to the barn, which was completely empty. In the room in the corner there was a typical Russian stove, which was wonderful to sleep on. A table and a chair, paper and pencil appeared in an instant as well. I had to write which squadrons between Kharkov and Crimea are located at which airfields. He also wanted to know the names of the commanders and, of course, the types of aircraft. Completely utopian requirement. It seemed to me that I was a princess from the tale of Rumplestilchen, who also did not know what to write.

But I needed to draw something on paper. I went for it. Thus, I invented airfields, units, names of commanders and types of aircraft. From all this, within a few days, a detailed plan of the location on the entire southern front was drawn up. I did “this new sketch” for a long time to buy time, and since everything was started for this, enjoy the noticeably improved food and cigarettes as long as possible.

One morning they dragged me out, blindfolded - and the car took me - no, not to be shot, as I thought in fear - but to the general. This was, as the Major later explained to me, General Vatutin, the commander of this sector of the front. He looked at me with interest and, by the way, asked if I had any complaints. I was only able to stutter with excitement. But then I told him that they had not allowed me to wash for three days, and that my wounds had not been treated for a long time either.

Then we returned back to my house, again blindfolded. What all this meant, I did not understand. Did they think I could run?

All my claims were actually satisfied. Obviously, in these days of the summer offensive, I was a valuable prisoner for the Russians. Otherwise, I cannot explain to myself such a cautious attitude towards me. Perhaps they really expected important information from me that related to the upcoming battles.

At the same time, I recall the attitude of some SS officers in the Crimea to the pilot who was shot right over the airfield, who stood in front of us after landing trembling and crying. They would gladly have dealt with her, this rubbish right there and then. Fortunately, our commander intervened.

A few days later, when I was just finishing with my sketches, the door suddenly opened, the sentry, who almost always sat in my room, saluted, and the general entered, as I understood from the wide red shoulder straps - He asked about something and suddenly offered me send me behind the German front line. I could then tell you how well the German soldiers are living in Russian captivity. I was stunned with surprise. There was no answer. What does it mean?! Is he really serious about it? What was the trap behind this? Unfortunately, I never heard of him again.

When I finally gave him my sketches, the major was very happy, he thought that I had done a good job: "Okay, okay." He seemed to be concerned only with doing his duty, whether my data was correct or not. For a long time, I was afraid that the deception would be revealed. One day the Russians still have to find out that everything is lies and invented! This is incomprehensible to me, since my "collected and invented works" could be verified.

This first station of my captivity was about to end. One fine morning - Trinity was, June 13, 1943, my twelfth day of captivity - I was put in a cart, in front of me was an old soldier who allowed the horse to move slowly forward. He obviously had nothing against the Germans, since he did not hesitate to communicate with me. At the same time, we both hardly knew at least a tiny bit of another language. I realized that he had to take me to the infirmary. All morning he drove me along the roads, we did not meet a single person. How easy it was for me to run away!

Even his gun, which he casually hung over his shoulder, could not impress me. But my condition was not such as to think about running away. The pain in my left arm did not subside. No, no, there was no question of running away.

Then the infirmary appeared. A typical front-line infirmary, several tents, several village huts, many ambulances and many waddling and other wounded Russian soldiers.

I attracted attention, which even led to the fact that they all stared at me and greeted me with a cry, which I then often heard: "Hitler kaput" or "War kaput!"

I got a private room. Obviously, I was the only prisoner they got lately. A day later, I was taken for examination. The doctor gave me an injection in my left forearm. Then, with the help of an orderly, he tried to straighten the already crooked bones. It failed. Then the hand was put in a cast. On my right forearm, I barely felt the bullet - everything was fine with me - of course, only as regards the wound.

My bed was wooden bunks, which were built for several people. In front of me in the corner was an old, embedded slab in ruins, on the right - the door to the adjacent room and on the left - the window into the courtyard. These days, that I was here, I did not suffer from anything. The contentment was sufficient, even taking into account the fact that I first had to get used to the contentment of the Russian army. Later, in the camps, when I was pestered by a terrible hunger, I often recalled this meal with longing.

It was just boring and too much time to think. The only difference was the doctor's visits, which took place every two days. From the very beginning of my stay, they immediately cut my hair. It’s an unusual feeling to live like this with a bald head, but I still couldn’t comb my hair. Thus, I had to look like a Russian. Fortunately, there was no mirror.

I had company at night. Rats crawled out of the destroyed slab, about 6-8, looked at me with curious eyes, even jumped on my bunks and jumped off only when I kicked them. They didn't do anything to me - so I had no reason to do anything to them. But what could I even do? They visited me every night, and I was so used to it that I could hardly wake up when they came.

One day I got the opportunity of human communication. Two pilots from Ju-87, Feldwebel Weller and Chief Corporal Rabenort from the first group of my squadron were placed in the next room, both were seriously wounded. They were fired upon while still on parachutes, Weller was particularly unlucky. He had a bullet in his stomach, and he only moaned, he could hardly speak. Now, finally, after more than four weeks of solitary confinement, I had someone to talk to. We exchanged our experiences. I have received the latest information from the front.

Thus, I learned that the expected great offensive had begun in the Kursk-Orel region a few days ago. The tanks are supposedly making good progress and they may have advanced so quickly that they can free us. So we talked and weaved dreams! What do you not dream of when you are in big trouble. Later, all this turned out to be the purest chimera, beyond any reality.

Weller's condition worsened every day. The bullet went right through his body from back to front, leaving a fist-sized hole in the front of his lower body. Russian orderlies stuffed her with cotton wool. Perhaps they considered him hopeless. They also inserted a rubber tube into his bladder through the wound to prevent urine from flowing into the bed. This tube was attached to his meat with a wire. Weller was pulling the tube out of the wound because of unbearable pain, and now it seemed that his pain was terrible. He moaned, rolled back and forth, thereby increasing the pain, and kept asking us: Pull out the pipe, pull out the pipe at last!

I couldn't see it anymore. I plucked up my courage to remove a shard of glass from the shattered window and, after a deep breath, cut a wire from its flesh. Pus was flowing straight at me from his stomach, and with an effort of will I had to pull myself together to endure this scene, but someone had to do it. With relief, Weller tore the pipe from his wound and became somewhat calmer. When the nurse came later, a scandal erupted at our address and his address. But in the end I succeeded - Weller freed himself from the pipe.

A few days later, two Hungarians were added to the three of us, who were shot down on their Junkers-88. They looked terrifying. The two climbed out of the burning plane and suffered severe burns and bullet wounds in their hands. Their heads were so bandaged that only their eyes, nose and mouth were visible. Hands also stuck out in huge bandages, so we had to feed them.

My God, what terrible wounds the war inflicts! This is the first time I've seen such horror.

Thus, we were now a quintet, functioning, however, only partially. Only Chief Freighter Rabenort and I could, albeit to a limited extent, do the bare essentials. Huge problems arose when both Hungarians had to empty the intestines and the bladder, it is generally better to keep silent about Weller. This was done only with our effective help. Only without false shame, I said to myself, as I pulled the pants off the Hungarian and put him on the bucket.

We, five pilots, had completely different injuries, but we were burdened with the same fate. Captivity! Together we tried to overcome the bleakness of days. Each talked about himself and his homeland. Only Weller said almost nothing. These stories helped us a lot, but suddenly we were rudely ripped out of our peace.

Suddenly our uniforms - or what was left of them - flew into the room. We were hardly given time to get dressed. "Come on, come on!" - sounded constantly. Weller was put on a stretcher, the four of us hobbled after him - really sad figures.

There was a train not far from the infirmary. The Russians were in a great hurry. Vanity was seen in their actions. The wounded were loaded in great haste, the tents were removed, and everything was loaded onto the train. Is all this connected with the situation at the front? If only they had left us here! .. We have heard the approaching roar of guns for several days already.

But no, of course not. We were loaded onto a large boxcar. As soon as the sliding doors were closed and sealed, the train began to move. A little light penetrated only through the cracks and through the barred window. Where we were going, we could neither know nor guess, but certainly in an easterly direction, away from the front. Each of us lay down on the bare boards of the carriage and nodded. I didn't have the strength to communicate much. The road went further east, what could we be happy about?

Weller was in a coma and no longer reacted. One Hungarian came up to me and said in broken German: "Mr. Lieutenant, listen." At the same time, he held his tied and already stinking hand in front of his face. What was it? I heard a strange rustling and rustling under his bandage, as if ants were crawling. Fortunately, I grabbed a pair of tweezers from the infirmary. One nurse just left him lying there.

He has now helped me remove the bandage. Oh my god, it was worth a lot of effort, as the hand smelled terribly. But what I saw when I carefully removed the last piece of the bandage made me jump back in horror. The others, too, turned away in horror: in his wounds from the shots full of pus, thousands of larvae swarmed!

The poor guy turned white with fear and began to moan. He thought it was up to him now, but what could we do to help him? The train sped along the ground at a steady speed.

Finally, after a few hours, he stopped. I kicked the walls of the carriage so that they would pay attention to us. Someone should have heard it! At this time, a Hungarian with a pale face was sitting in the corner. We kept a considerable distance. Who knows if he will infect us? He kept his festering, stinking, grub-eaten hands away from him. Later, in Yelabuga, I learned from a doctor that fly larvae feed only on pus and rotten meat, i.e. in a sense, heals wounds. We did not know that then, so our shock was great.

Now the voices have increased. Scolding and cursing, they rolled back the door. A crowd of curious Russian soldiers stared at us. What do these damned Germans want there? I led the Hungarian to the door and showed the Russians his hands. They, too, turned away in horror. Several people ran away and returned with a doctor. He climbed into our carriage and examined his hands quite calmly. It seemed that this was not an unpleasant sight for him. He put some liquid on the wounds and bandaged his hands again. Thus, this case was over for him. But not at all for a Hungarian. He kept bringing his hand to his ear, but the rustling sounds stopped.

During this hustle and bustle, we forgot about Weller. He was completely quiet. A Russian doctor examined him and found that Weller was dead. The stretcher with the deceased was carried out. So we said goodbye to him, it was especially hard for his radio operator.

In the evening we arrived at our destination. This was - as I later learned - the city of Tambov. Here I was separated from my comrades. I never saw them again. I was placed in an infirmary for prisoners of war only. Behind was "army rations." They lived here from hand to mouth. For the first time I learned what hunger is, I felt a rumbling stomach every day, and I had not yet imagined that this feeling would not leave me for many years.

But the medical care was good. I especially remember the elderly doctor, a Jewess. She took care of me touchingly, sat by my bed every day, examined me, took off the plaster cast and talked to me, a young German officer. Was it my youth that made her do this? Did she also have a son at the front? Didn't she know anything about the persecution of Jews in Germany? I was ashamed when I thought about how Russians were presented to us in the past years, and especially, of course, Jews - as monsters. This was not true. I realized more and more that we were being deceived. These were not, the Lord is my witness, no "subhumans" !!

I was lying in a large hall, and I even had a bed with white linens. I could feel good as my wounds healed well. Only the fingers of my left hand took care of me. They became completely numb. I massaged them daily and hourly, which was very painful. But that didn't help much.

Only Hungarians were my comrades in the ward. Next to me was one who spoke German well. He introduced himself to me as a Hungarian-Jewish professor from Budapest. From him I learned about the tragic fate of these men. Like Jews, they were herded into workers' companies, which had to perform the most difficult and dangerous work behind the line and on the front line. When the Russians broke through from Stalingrad, they were overtaken, and the one who was not ground to powder was taken prisoner. The rest lay here in the infirmary. Their, thus, deliberately sent "to the point." He told terrible details, how, for example, during the offensive of the Russian army in December last year, they were used as a living bastion and how most of the workers' company perished. Only a few survived this disaster.

Almost all of them had frostbite on their feet and amputated toes. I saw only the hobbling figures, if he could get out of the beds at all. In addition, they gave the impression of absolute depression, such as if they had said goodbye to life, although, in fact, they should have felt liberated from what my professor called it, the "death machine."

I had many hours of conversations with him. What he was talking about made me listen. This is all wrong, what was drummed into about the Jews? Are they not "culture-immune" at all? And not subhuman? Although I already once had to doubt something that had been taught by many years of education in school and in the Hitler Youth, but only now in captivity my eyes began to open.

That man from Budapest contributed greatly to this. The Jewish doctor was not forgotten either. And what could I answer him when he asked me: “What do you Germans actually have against us Jews? Why do you want to destroy us? What have we done to you? " All propaganda slogans heard and learned so often were no longer suitable. I was unable to pronounce them anymore. The Nazi "house of cards" in me fell apart.

But not only the bleakness of our being was the topic of our conversations, he listened with pleasure when I talked about my youth, about my home, about my passion for flying. He dreamed of Budapest, Pest and a free life in Hungary before the war. And there was a lot of talk about music. Oh, how we both missed her. So I had to be content mainly with theoretical discussions, while he surpassed me by two heads.

One day he began to assert that Mozart was not German, but Austrian. I had no intention of simply agreeing with this, and thus a friendly dispute took place between a Jewish professor from Budapest and a German pilot-lieutenant, and all this was in Russian captivity.

I remembered my friend for a long time. During these weeks, we really became friends. But now I have long forgotten his name and address. And yet - could he withstand these difficult years? His physical condition was very difficult.

As often happens, the farewell was unexpected. The doctor told me that "now I need to go to the POW camp." I am healthy and must make room. Regret was written all over her face. The caretaker appeared with several worn-out items of German men's uniform in his hands. My own flying uniform was completely torn apart. So now I was dressed in a fairly large German uniform. God only knows what German compatriot wore it, perhaps he died here in the infirmary. He even provided me with boots, canvas shoes with thick rubber soles. They - both the uniform and the boots - then accompanied me for more than three years. The last "good health", the last "goodbye", the last look at the sad Hungarians, then by truck to the POW camp.

Thanks to a note in the picture in the newspaper of the organization for the protection of military graves, I know today that it was camp 188 at the Rada railway station, 6 km from

Tambov. This camp has become a grave for many thousands of prisoners of different nationalities. They say about 56 thousand dead from 23 countries buried r mass graves.

There I met about 40 German officers, all of whom were captured during the summer offensive. The Russians achieved a great victory and were on the march. The mood of these German officers was very different. Some were very pessimistic about the future, both their own and Germany's chances of an eventual victory. But the majority were betting on a win. Some acted as if they were still in the Wehrmacht officers' casino. The captivity had not yet had any effect on them. These gentlemen could still lift each other up by the fact that there cannot be what should not be, and stand up to the words of Christian von Morgenstern that Germany cannot lose, because she cannot lose. I often heard a similar opinion in the years that followed until 1945. The incorrigible have never won.

The camp consisted of a large number of pitiful barracks in which people slept on wooden plank beds. They stood deep in the forest and were separated from the outside world by a tall barbed wire fence. The situation here - the food is very bad and, above all, irregular, the general mood among the compatriots who lay here in thousands is very bad. So you can roughly determine the mood. Hundreds of prisoners wandered around the camp in search of shelter. New ones were added daily, and many were taken away every day. Our stay only lasted a few days.

With the usual “Come on! Let's!" and "Fast, Fast"! one fine day we were driven to the station. It happened so quickly, as if the Russians had watched for too long as the officers and the rank and file were in the same camp.

Actually, this was the principle of the Soviet maintenance of prisoners of war - to place officers and rank and file completely separately in different camps. This could have two reasons: on one, the officers, as is customary in the Red Army, received better allowance, on the other, a more intensive opportunity was provided to influence ordinary soldiers, since the latter could not be influenced by officers who were distant from them.

We were surprised a lot when we got into real passenger cars. But our joy soon subsided, as individual compartments, located along the long aisle, were covered with bars. There was a shelf in the compartment at chest height, so that the one sitting below had to draw in his head, while those lying above could not sit at all, but lay like sardines in a tin can. We didn't eat anything that day. So to the ignorance of where we are heading, there was added a painful hunger, which reduced the mood.

The train was rolling northward very slowly. We were able to establish this. Maybe to Moscow? A soldier with a submachine gun at the ready was standing in front of the bars. The exit was strictly prohibited. "No!" - sounded quite simple. This was done for him. The prisoner had to decide for himself where he stays with his urine.

This prohibition on the administration of primitive physiological needs during the day led to little misfortune. One, in the end, could not stand it, pulled down his trousers and launched a stream into the passage, almost at the feet of the Russian.

The soldier's screams and murderous curses had no end. Then the ambiguity of Russian abuse was still incomprehensible. But he released everything that is in the Russian language among the soldiers in terms of unpronounceable swear words.

A little more, and he would have fired into the compartment, but the escort officer who came running apparently reprimanded him, and thus we were finally able to get to the toilet, which was - well, let's say - in a typically Russian "special status" ...

So, another episode was added to our rumbling stomach, we had no time to get bored. The train slowed down and finally stopped. In a terrible hurry, we had to free the train and sit on the street on the ground, surrounded by a group of soldiers with barking dogs. No one dared to move, everyone was afraid of dogs. They acted as if they were just waiting to be launched on us.

Several "green jeeps" have already arrived. We were pushed in by 5-8 people. The terrible tightness made the heat, which had lasted for several days, even more unbearable. Thirst was added to this. Will the damn guys make us die of thirst ?! We drove along wide streets, past tall buildings. From time to time we met churches with typical towers, and there it should be the Kremlin. So, we are in Moscow, but where to now?

The riddle was soon solved. The path led to another station, and there was a freight train with wooden bunks and even some straw. 40 people were always placed in the carriage.

All night long the train rolled east. Where where? This question interested us very much. In our minds we were looking for an atlas, but our knowledge of the places east of Moscow was more than meager.

Early in the morning the train stopped in a fairly large city: in Vladimir, as it turned out later. The doors were rolled back - guards with dogs, shouting, barking - as, they say, is already customary! For two days we did not eat or drink, I walked barefoot, because my feet in hard canvas shoes without socks hurt unbearably.

The escorting officer told us that we only need to walk 30 km. He sympathized with us and told us to bring enough water. But he didn't have food either. How can we overcome these 30 km? With hungry stomachs in the heat of the summer sun, it was still a hopeless venture.

The city is called Suzdal. It's a good camp there, ”the officer said to calm us down. None of us have heard this name.

New watch, 1997, No. 5, pp. 275-287

“Too many comrades have died in Spain ... many of our other mutual acquaintances. Against this background, the noisy stories about the exploits of the "Spaniards" sounded sacrilege. Although some of these pilots, who were pulled out of the Spanish air grinder as exemplary exhibits, completely lost their heads and weaved the incredible. For example, a little blond, pilot Lakeev from our fighter squadron, who also received a Hero. But he was unlucky - his last name did not come out further. The selection of heroes was carried out by surnames: there were no Korovins and Deryugins among them, but there were the euphonious Stakhanovs and the fighting Rychagovs, who were to turn the world of capital. At the beginning of our already serious war, most of the "Spaniards" had a very miserable appearance and disposition, they practically did not fly. Why risk a head crowned with such resounding glory? These were the division commander Zelentsov, the regiment commander Shipitov, the commander of the Grisenko regiment, the commander of the Syusyukalo regiment. At the beginning of World War II, we expected from them examples of how to beat the Messers, which literally pecked at us and which these epic heroes in their stories destroyed by dozens in the Spanish sky, but we heard from them mainly the commissar's encouragement: “Come on, come on, go ahead, brothers. We already flew off ours. "

I remember a hot day in July 1941. I am sitting in the cockpit of I-153 - "Seagulls", at the airfield south of Brovary, where the poultry plant is now, before take off. In a few minutes I will lead the eight to attack the enemy in the area of ​​the Khatunok farm, which is now behind the Exhibition of Achievements of the National Economy. The day before, it was in this place that we lost the pilot Bondarev, and in this battle I was almost shot down. In the Khatunka area, German tanks were accumulating, perfectly covered by the fire of very effective German small-caliber anti-aircraft guns "Oerlikon" and large-caliber machine guns, which pierced our plywood aircraft through and through.

A major general without a position, "Spanish" Hero of the Soviet Union Lakeyev, approached aboard my plane, whose division, where he was the commander, was burned on the ground by the Germans on the very first day of the war, and he was idly wandering around our airfield. To fly, Lakeev was a coward and did what he inspired the flight crew. I decided to inspire me too: "Come on, come on, commissar, give them a pepper." I really wanted to send the hero praised in the press, poems and songs away, but the commissar's position did not allow me. Lakeyev sent away and showed him a combination of a fist pressed to the elbow with the other hand, one of the pilots of the neighboring, second regiment, Timofey Gordeevich Lobok, to whom Lakeyev offered to leave the plane and give him, the general, a place so that such a great value flew out of the encirclement, when it came to this. "

Here is a small quote about the "Spanish" heroes, whose fate was very, very different during the Great Patriotic War. Of course, not all of them were cowards and not all of them demanded a plane to fly to the rear, but Panov had to face such people directly.

Here is what Dmitry Panteleevich writes, recalling China: “For the first time I observed the tactics of the battle of Japanese fighters, but I immediately appreciated the power of the I-98 engines - machines of a new modification. There were no such cars on Khalkhin Gol. The Japanese aviation industry responded instantly to the needs of the army. The I-98 was a splendid modern machine, covered with a thin duralumin sheet, equipped with four machine guns: three medium and one heavy Colt type, with a powerful fourteen-cylinder twin-row star engine in a scrupulous Japanese design. Our "siskins" in pursuit of the Japanese monoplane on the "candle" could only chase it for the first two hundred and fifty meters upward, and then the motor would lose power and choke. I had to roll over the wing and get into a horizontal flight on bends, and dangle like ... in an ice-hole, waiting for the Japanese, who came out with his "candle" to a height of more than 1100 meters, to look around and outline a new victim for his swift peck from a great height.

After takeoff, gaining about 4000 meters of altitude, we turned around to attack the enemy from the upper echelon, with the sun behind us, and rushed to the place of the air battle, which was already beginning: a huge carousel of fighters was spinning over the airfield, chasing each other. The Japanese followed their previous tactics: the lower group fought air battles on turns and combat turns, and the upper one spun, looking for a victim for a dive attack. Our squadron, split into two groups of five planes each, attacked the enemy's lower group from two sides: Grisha Vorobyov started the five on the left, and I on the right. The Japanese carousel crumbled and the battle became chaotic. We led it according to the principle of "pair" - one attacks, and the other covers him, while the Japanese acted according to the principle of collective responsibility - the upper ones covered the lower ones. The Japanese method of fighting was noticeably more effective.

Pilot and writer Dmitry Panteleevich Panov. (wikipedia.org)

So, perhaps the main moment in the life of a fighter pilot has come - an air battle with the enemy. It is always a question of life - to win or be defeated, live or die, to which an answer must be given without delay. The throttle stick of the engine is pushed forward as far as it will go, and the engine trembles, giving all it can. The pilot's hands on the trigger of the machine guns. The heart beats in a frantic rhythm, and the eyes seek purpose. It is during the exercises that they look into the tube of the sight, and in battle, machine gun fire is carried out in a hunting fashion: you direct the nose of the aircraft at the enemy and open fire, making corrections in the direction of flight of tracer bullets. Do not forget to turn your head more often, looking under the tail of your plane, has the enemy appeared there? Sometimes they ask me: "How did you get out of the long-term air grinder?" The answer is simple: "I was not too lazy to turn my head, since my neck is short, and my head turns easily, like a tank turret." I always saw the enemy in the air and could at least roughly predict his maneuver. And, apparently, parents gave brains that can constantly keep the whole picture of air combat.

At first, complete chaos reigned and had to shoot at random. Then my attention was focused on the secretary of our squadron party bureau, Lieutenant Ivan Karpovich Rozinka, who, having chosen a target for himself, courageously attacked it in a dive and, after catching up with the enemy plane, opened fire from his four machine guns. The plane of the Japanese was engulfed in flames, he crashed to the ground, turning into a ball of fire. But the upper echelon of the Japanese was spinning for good reason. When Rozinka was taking his plane out of the dive, two Japanese upper echelon fighters attacked him at once and set fire to the Siskin with the first bursts. The hit was so accurate, and the petrol tanks were so full that the "siskin" did not even reach the ground. The fiery torch, which he turned into, cut off its path at about half a kilometer. I don’t know if Ivan Karpovich was wounded or he simply didn’t have time to jump out of the flared car, but in those moments he found his fiery death in the sky of China. Rosinka was loved in the squadron. He was a calm, reasonable, intelligent pilot. He left a family ...

I shuddered with burning resentment, seeing the death of a comrade, and rushed towards one of the Japanese who shot him down. In the usual manner of the Japanese, putting the plane down with a candle, he left the attack, gaining altitude, just past the pair where I was leading. Sasha Kondratyuk was the wingman ... I approached the Japanese emerging from the attack and attacked him from a very convenient position - from the side, when he flew vertically, facing me with the crown of his head under the plexiglass cap that Japanese I-98s were equipped with. I saw the pilot well and opened fire a little earlier. The Japanese flew into the fiery stream and flared up like a torch. First, gasoline splashed on the left wing, apparently, the bullets hit the gas tank, and the plane immediately engulfed the flame, ending in a plume of smoke. The Japanese, in a fever, performed the "candle" for another two hundred meters, but then rolled over the wing and, becoming in horizontal flight, pulled his plane engulfed in flames to the east, towards his airfield. In battle, there is no time for curiosity, however, natural, what happened to my opponent? My attention turned to other Japanese, and Chinese observers from the ground reported later that the Japanese "fiti" plane did not reach the front line - its plane broke off and the pilot left the plane by parachute. The Chinese captured the Japanese and brought him to the airfield.

Having learned about this, in the evening after the battle, we began to ask the commander-in-chief of the Chinese Air Force, General Zhao-Jou, who flew after us to the airfield to show us the captured pilot. Zhao-Jow first got out, explaining that he was sitting in some shed, and then he began to explain to us that the pilot, in general, is no longer there, and we will be shown his uniform. They brought some poor clothes and slippers on thick felt with laces. As we learned later, the Chinese airfield servant, according to the Chinese custom, took the Japanese by the arms and legs and, at the command: "Ai-tsoli!"

The terrible thing is war. Judging by his aerial maneuvers, the Japanese was a good pilot and a brave guy who had bad luck with what could happen to any of us. But the Chinese peasants, dressed in soldiers' uniforms, whom the Japanese pilots killed in tens of thousands, were understandable. In war, there are no absolutely right and absolutely guilty. In any case, this story left a heavy residue on my soul. "

The Japanese fought competently: not by numbers, but by skill. But the most, probably, the strongest impression from what Panov wrote in his book is the "star" raid on Stalingrad: In 1942, German tanks, which ended up at Stalingrad, passed ninety kilometers across the steppe: from the Don to the Volga. And if things go on at such a pace ...

Evening came for gloomy thoughts. The crimson-red Volga sun was already almost touching the ground with its disk. Honestly, I already thought that the adventures of this day were coming to an end, but it was not. A hoarse, howling, heartbreaking air raid siren sounded over Stalingrad. And immediately over the city, a dozen and a half fighters of the air defense "division" appeared under the command of Colonel Ivan Ivanovich Krasnoyurchenko, my old acquaintance from Vasilkov. The Golden Hero's Star, which he received back in Mongolia, which Ivan Ivanovich literally scandalized by showing the tin plates with markings taken from the engines of the downed Japanese fighters lying on the ground, helped him to be in the background of the fighting throughout the war, skillfully sharing the glory and creating the impression, but without risking your head. Also a kind of art.

This time, it was difficult to expect anything worthwhile from Krasnoyurchenko's "division" for the reason that the parade of his Stalingrad air defense division in the air was very reminiscent of a review of samples of long-decommissioned Soviet aircraft. It's amazing how all this museum junk, on which the pilots were buried, even when it was new, could stay in the air. If the front was still trying to give "Yaki", "Lagi", "Migi" of the latest issues, then among the rubbish of Krasnoyurchenko's "division" buzzing in the sky, I noticed even a "thunderstorm of pilots" "I-5" of 1933 release. There were I-153, I-15, I-16 and outdated British Hurricane fighters. And tactically, the actions of air defense fighters resembled some kind of clowning in a tent circus. They rattled over the center of the city, having risen thousands of four meters, and flew in pairs, while the formidable, close formation of German bombers "Ju-88" and "Henkel-111" under the cover of "ME-109" fighters, not paying attention to all this clowning, calmly proceeded to the south of Stalingrad to Beketovka, where the main city power plant was located.

The Germans dropped their bomb load along it. The earth swayed, apparently, ton bombs fell, the lights went out throughout the city, and thick black clouds of smoke from a grandiose fire began to rise over the southern outskirts - apparently, fuel oil supplies at the power plant were burning. The enemy bombers reorganized and began to quietly move away from the target. The fighters did not even approach them, continuing the aerial clownery, and, obviously, inexperienced anti-aircraft gunners fired extremely unsuccessfully. Hot splinters falling on the roofs of houses clearly threatened to kill more of their own than the Germans ...

Regiment commissar Dmitry Panov and regiment chief of staff Valentin Soin, 1942. (wikipedia.org)

When I, carrying on my back my duffel bag with flight ammunition - overalls, fur boots, helmet, etc., moved towards the crossings, the Germans, lined up in three nines, continued to raid the city from all directions. With an interval of one and a half minutes, two groups of bombers of 27 aircraft each struck the famous Stalingrad factories, which they built, pulling out a piece of bread from the mouths of peasants dying of hunger ... Soon huge fires rose over the Tractor Plant, the Barricades plant, and Red October. But the worst thing was that the Germans, who made more than two thousand sorties that day from the Millerovo, Kotelnikovo, Zhutovo and other airfields conveniently located near Stalingrad, clearly had enough bombs to destroy the city. About half an hour later, they set fire to huge containers of oil on the banks of the Volga and, perfectly illuminating the city with these colossal torches, began to lay bomb carpets of fragmentation and incendiary bombs in residential areas. The city instantly turned into a solid huge bonfire. It was the famous "star" raid of the German aviation on Stalingrad on August 23, 1942, in the hellish fire of which I, the freshly baked commissar of the aviation regiment, made my way to the Volga crossings through the burning quarters of the city.

I have never seen a terrible picture in the whole war. The Germans entered from all directions, first in groups, and then in single planes. Amid the roaring fire in the city, there was a groan and a seemingly underground rumble. Thousands of people sobbed and screamed hysterically, houses collapsed, bombs exploded. Among the roaring flames, cats and dogs howled wildly; the rats, having got out of their hiding places, rushed about the streets; pigeons, rising in clouds, flapping their wings, anxiously circled over the burning city. All of this was very reminiscent of the "Last Judgment", and perhaps it was the tricks of the devil, who embodied collapsed, burned and exploded. The city trembled as if it were in the throat of an erupting volcano.

We must pay tribute to the heroism of the Volgar men. In this gigantic fire, they were not taken aback and acted like Russian peasants in a fire: energetically, boldly and graspingly pulled people and some belongings out of burning houses, tried to extinguish the fires. The worst was for women. Literally distraught, disheveled, with alive and dead children in their arms, screaming wildly, they rushed around the city in search of shelter, relatives and friends. The woman's scream made no less painful impression and instilled no less horror even in the strongest hearts than the raging fire.

It was towards midnight. I tried to go to the Volga along one street, but ran into a wall of fire. I looked for another direction of movement, but the result was the same. Making my way between the burning houses, in the windows of the second floor of the burning house, I saw a woman with two children. The first floor was already engulfed in flames, and they were trapped in a fire. The woman screamed for rescue. I stopped near this house and shouted to her to throw a baby in my arms. After some thought, she wrapped the baby in a blanket and gently released him from her arms. I successfully picked up the child on the fly and put him aside. Then he successfully picked up a five-year-old girl and the last "passenger" - the mother of these two children. I was only 32 years old. I was seasoned with life and ate well. There was enough strength. For my hands, accustomed to the steering wheel of a fighter jet, this load did not pose much of a problem. I had barely managed to move away from the house where I was helping out a woman with children, when a large pockmarked cat landed on my duffel bag from somewhere above from the fire with a furious meow, immediately hissing furiously. The animal was so agitated that it could scratch me badly. The tomcat did not want to leave the safe position. I had to throw off the sack and chase the cat out of it, clutching its claws into political literature. "

The regiment commander Ivan Zalessky and the political officer of the regiment Dmitry Panov, 1943. (wikipedia.org)

Here is how he describes the city he saw during the crossing: “From the middle of the river, the size of our losses and misfortunes became visible to me in full scale: a huge industrial city that stretched along the right bank for tens of kilometers was burning. The smoke of the conflagration rose to a height of five thousand meters. Everything for which we gave our last shirt for decades was on fire. It was clear what mood I was in ...

It was at this time that the second fighter aviation regiment was sitting out in the bushes on the banks of the Volga and was in a rather deplorable both material and moral and political condition. On August 10, 1942, at the airfield in Voroponovo, where I found myself the next day and saw an airfield pitted with bomb craters, the Germans unexpectedly captured the regiment on the ground and bombed it. People were killed and some of the planes were destroyed. But the most serious damage was the drop in the morale of the regiment's personnel. People fell into depression and, having moved to the eastern bank of the Volga, took refuge in the thickets of vines between the Volga and Akhtuba rivers and simply lay on the sand, for two whole days no one even made any attempt to get food. It is in this mood that front-line soldiers get lice and well-equipped units die foolishly ... ".

When Panov became interested in how to get planes for his regiment, he was told that in Khryukin's army he was the sixth fighter regiment in line to receive planes. Five more regiments were horseless. And he was also told that "you are not the only regiments and not the only armies that need airplanes," so the regiment was on the ground for a while. And only a few months later they were given a dozen and a half "Yak-1", which was clearly not enough to equip the regiment entirely. But nevertheless, they began to fight and fought very worthily. That is, it was not a marshal regiment, not an elite regiment, they were ordinary hard workers of the war, who mainly flew to cover attack aircraft and bombers. And if they managed to shoot down at least one Messerschmitt, it was considered a fairly serious matter.

Here is what Panov writes about the Yak: “The advantage of the German technology was still preserved. The Me-109 aircraft developed a speed of up to 600 km, and our most modern Yak was only up to 500, which means that it did not catch up with the German in horizontal flight, which we saw well when we watched the air battles over Stalingrad from the opposite bank.

And, of course, the inexperience of our pilots was very noticeable. However, if our experienced ace entered a duel with a German, he managed to quite successfully use the advantages of our machine in maneuver. "

This is one comment about the Yak. Another is how robust the Yak was from a structural point of view. Once Malenkov came to the regiment in which Panov served: “Malenkov called the secretary of the regional party committee in Kuibyshev, and he found a way to give her a lift to Stalingrad. And indeed, soon they began to give us good goulash, to which they served (lo and behold!) Real, and not frozen, as before, potatoes. Even Malenkov seemed to be scolding us a little: “I often watch air battles over Stalingrad, but our planes fall more, engulfed in flames. Why is that?" Here all the pilots have already started talking, interrupting each other - Malenkov seemed to touch a bleeding wound.

The pilots explained that everyone had known for a long time: the German aluminum fighter flies a hundred kilometers faster than the Yak. And we cannot even dive more than at a speed of five hundred kilometers per hour, otherwise the suction of air from the upper part of the plane rips off the skin from it and the plane falls apart, “undressing” in shreds. I have seen this twice in air battles: once at Stalingrad, another time at Rostov. Our guys, trying to show the "Messers" Kuzkin's mother, got carried away and simply forgot about the possibilities of our "coffins". Both pilots were killed.

It looked especially tragic in Rostov: our Yak-1 knocked out the Messer at an altitude of three thousand meters and, carried away, rushed to catch up with the German car in a dive. "Messer" went on a low-level flight at a speed of 700 - 800 kilometers. A high-speed aluminum car, rushing past us, howled and whistled like a projectile, and our guy's Yak-1 began to fall apart right in the air: first in rags, and then in parts. The pilot was only half a second late to eject, the parachute did not manage to open, and he hit the five-story building of the Rostselmash factory dormitory. The wreckage of the plane also fell here. And Malenkov asks, as if for the first time he hears about it. He smiled benevolently and vaguely promised that there will be planes with greater speed, we are taking measures. We had to wait for these measures until the very end of the war ... ”.

These are his memories of the planes on which he fought to the very end. A very curious remark from Panov and about the "laptezhniki", Junkers Ju-87 "Stuka", which in our memoirs, which were published in Soviet times, were literally knocked down in batches. It should be said here that about 4 thousand Junkers-87s were fired during the war, and more than 35 thousand Il-2s were fired. At the same time, 40% of our aviation losses were attack aircraft.

Regarding the Ju-87: “Sometimes the accuracy was such that the bomb would hit the tank. When entering a dive, the "Ju-87" threw out the brake grilles from the planes, which, in addition to braking, also produced a terrifying howl. This swivel machine could also be used as an attack aircraft, having four large-caliber machine guns in front, and a large-caliber machine gun on a turret in the back - it was not so easy to approach the "bastard".

In the spring of 1942, near Kharkov, over the village of Murom, the shooter of the "laptezhnik" almost shot down my I-16 fighter. Together with a group of fighters - two squadrons, which I had brought to cover our troops in the Murom area, I met five "laptezhniks" over the positions of our infantry. I wanted to deploy my group to attack, but when I looked around, I did not find anyone behind me. I found myself alone with them. The damned cuttlefish did not lose heart. They left our infantry alone and, turning around, attacked me, opening fire at once from all their twenty large-caliber plane machine guns. Fortunately, the distance was such that the tracks that escaped with the smoke from the muzzles of machine guns bent, not reaching, losing destructive power ten meters below me. If not for this luck, they would have smashed my plywood "moth" to smithereens. I instantly and sharply threw the plane up and to the right, leaving the zone of fire. It looked as if the moose gathered together began to chase the hunter. Coming out of the attack with a decline, the "laptezhniki" reorganized and began to bomb our troops ... ".

Directorate of the 85th Guards Air Fighter Regiment, 1944. (wikipedia.org)

These are the memories. Panov has memories of how two of our regiments were taken to German airfields, to put it mildly, by not very qualified navigators. There are a lot of memories of everyday life, life of pilots, psychology of people. In particular, he writes very interestingly about his colleagues, about who fought how, and among such major misfortunes of our army and our aviation, he attributes two factors: this, as he writes, “the command, which was often such that Hitler it would be just right to hand over German orders to these would-be commanders, ”this is on the one hand; on the other hand, against the background of combat losses, our troops suffered colossal losses due to the use of alcohol, or rather, alcohol-based liquids, which, in general, could not be consumed as alcohol. Moreover, Panov described several cases when good, intelligent and valuable people died precisely because they drank something that should not be taken inside as an intoxicating drink categorically. Well, and, as a rule, if they drink, then not alone and, accordingly, these are three, five, sometimes even more people died due to alcohol poisoning.

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