Alexander Pokryshkin: The sky of war. Pokryshkin

Among the names of military pilots, the name of Pokryshkin stands apart. Having one of the highest official results in the number of aerial victories, he was the author, guide and bearer of new tactical formations and air combat techniques, an unbending fighter against routine, an example of a fighter - skillful, fierce and noble.

Natural wisdom, honesty, strength of character and, as a consequence, high civic courage distinguished the actions of this man and determined the greatness and adversity of his inspired destiny.

It is probably not an exaggeration to note that at the end of the Second World War, Pokryshkin was not only the most famous pilot in the world, but also the most authoritative figure, along with I. Polbin, in Soviet aviation. “Achtung! Achtung! Pokryshkin in the air” - this phrase was not only a find of Soviet propaganda: starting in the spring of 1943, German warning posts, using agents, urgently warned that the famous Russian ace was in the air. What this meant was to increase caution, to get out of protracted air battles, for the “hunters” to gain altitude, for young people to return to the airfields. The one who shot down the Russian ace was promised high rewards, and there was no shortage of people who wanted to distinguish themselves, but this task turned out to be too tough for the enemy. And it wasn’t just Pokryshkin’s exceptional skill. It is appropriate to remember that in his squadron, and then in the regiment and division, such aces as Rechkalov and the Glinka brothers, Klubov and Babak, A. Fedorov and Fadeev took place. When such a group fought, it was, at least, imprudent to expect to defeat its commander. Of course, the war was the main “mentor” for all of them, but few can quickly learn lessons and correct mistakes. The roots of Pokryshkin’s “academy” were in his old notebooks, where information about Nesterov and Kruten, about air battles in Spain and on the Khalkhin Gol River was collected bit by bit, and his own finds and failures were analyzed. Later, he would start an album of air battles, decorating it with a truly knightly motto: “Fighter! Ask: not how much the enemy is, but where he is!”

A fighter, purposeful and active, looking for his own path, not in a hurry to carry out ill-conceived orders, an excellent organizer of group air combat and, as time has shown, air warfare, Pokryshkin was very inconvenient to many superiors. Initiative and independence do not always find recognition, and during the hard times of war they cost the ace a lot of strength. At the same time, Pokryshkin was not ambitious, as evidenced by his refusal in February 1944 from a high position at the Air Force headquarters and from the immediate rank of general's shoulder straps.

Despite his outward severity, as a true pilot, he was characterized by balanced and accurate humor; he himself loved jokes, was not offended by witticisms directed at himself, and appreciated humorists.

By nature, Pokryshkin was very reserved and delicate. Companions and relatives testified that swearing in his mouth was impossible under any circumstances: not in the excitement of an air battle, not when other people made mistakes, not during domestic troubles.

The people's hero of the USSR and the national hero of Russia was born in Novonikolaevsk (now Novosibirsk) into a poor family of immigrants from the Vyatka province on March 6, 1913. At the age of fourteen, he was already a roofer at Sibstroytrest, justifying his surname, as sometimes happens with Russian people.

The dream of a flying profession took possession of Pokryshkin in early childhood, and it seemed that by the will of providence itself he was striving for the sky... To get into a flight school, you had to have a working specialty; The “philistine” profession of an accountant, what his parents dreamed of seeing him do, did not fall into this category, and after finishing the seventh grade, Sasha entered the secondary school. His parents did not support him, and the boy left his father’s home forever. He decisively exchanged his faithful craft and relative well-being for one of the sixteen beds in a dorm room, a piece of bread with boiling water and hungry, furious study... After 4 years, the coveted ticket to the aviation school was received; he goes to Perm and here he finds out that the school now trains only... aircraft technicians. Having thoroughly studied the materiel, the young man becomes an excellent specialist, and now the management does not want to let go of the 2nd rank military technician Pokryshkin. But he is indomitable: in September 1938, during his vacation, in 17 days he mastered the two-year flying club program and passed the exam as an external student with excellent marks. His determination scares some, delights others. Pokryshkin was sent to flight school, and again, with excellent marks, less than a year later he graduated from the famous Kacha.

The joy of flying, the awareness of the importance of the work being performed, and military brotherhood made his life happy, filled it with energy and inspiration. Alexander systematically engages in self-education, studying physics and physiology, mathematics and descriptive geometry, flight theory and military history. Subordinating his life to a single goal, he even changed his sports priorities: now it’s gymnastics, trampoline, Rhine wheel, special exercises for training the vestibular system.

2 months before the start of the war, the 55th IAP, where Pokryshkin served, who had previously flown I-15 and I-153, was re-equipped with MiGs. Alexander Ivanovich was one of the first to take off in the new machine, appreciated its advantages, and pointed out a dangerous design defect, which was eliminated later in the series.

On June 23, while reconnaissance of crossings across the Prut, his pair met five Me-109s. While fighting off an attack on his wingman, Pokryshkin set one of the Messers on fire in short bursts as he exited the dive. Fascinated by the sight of his first defeated enemy, he himself came under attack from a German fighter, but escaped at low level and landed the damaged car at his airfield.

The pilot was shot down over the Prut by anti-aircraft artillery fire on July 3, having by that time won at least 5 air victories in the MiG-3, conducted a dozen attack missions in the I-16 and earned... the disfavor of the division commander, who saw obstinacy in his actions. While in the medical unit after the wrecked car landed on the edge of the forest, he started a notebook, entitled “Fighter Tactics in Combat.” These notes, clippings, and diagrams became the beginning of Pokryshkin’s science of winning; unfortunately, all this property has not been published in any detail, but in its influence on the fate of thousands of people, on the very course of the air war, it is not comparable with any other theoretical constructs or practical instructions. (This notebook was saved by M.K. Pokryshkina and transferred by her to the Central Museum of the Armed Forces.)

Soon Alexander Ivanovich again takes part in the battles, again flies out on an attack and conducts reconnaissance, and again on October 5 he is knocked out. Having landed in a field, he tried to take out his fighter on a truck, but, finding himself surrounded, was forced to burn it. During the fighting, at the head of a group of Red Army soldiers, the pilot went out to his own.

Pokryshkin's front-line fame preceded his official recognition. Upon returning to the unit, he is entrusted with retraining young people from I-16 to MiG-3 and, on the personal orders of regiment commander V. Ivanov, he introduces the reinforcements to tactical discoveries, the author of which he himself was: with an open battle formation, with a targeted attack from above at high speed - the so-called “falcon strike”, with separation in height...

In November 1941, during a difficult flight in conditions of limited visibility, when the lower edge of the clouds dropped to 30 meters, in the Novocherkassk region he managed to discover Kleist’s tank group. The skill and vigilance of one of its pilots saved the Red Army from what losses! The significance of what he accomplished was too obvious, and Pokryshkin received the first award for his search - the Order of Lenin.

In June 1942, when the 55th IAP became the 16th Guards, and the squadron where Pokryshkin flew was re-equipped with Yak-1 fighters, using the new machine he shot down another Me-109 on his first combat mission. At the end of December, before the regiment was withdrawn for reorganization, Pokryshkin shot down at least 7 enemy aircraft on a Yak (2 Yu-88, Me-110, 4 Me-109). Very characteristic of him was the interception over Kropotkin, when, taking off at the head of the five, he personally shot down 3 Yu-88s, another 2 Me-110s were shot down by A. Fedorov’s pair. Upon landing, Pokryshkin reported that each of the pilots participating in the flight shot down one enemy aircraft.

However, the most terrible things for him were not the Messers and Junkers, not the fogs and anti-aircraft guns, but envy and evil vindictiveness. The long-standing unfriendliness of the regiment navigator N. Isaev, who became commander at the end of 1942, coupled with obsequious meanness, almost cost Pokryshkin his life: he was removed from the regiment staff, his nomination for the title of Hero of the Soviet Union was recalled, he was expelled from the party, and the case was sent to the tribunal . And after all, we were talking about a pilot who spent a year and a half in continuous battles, flew about 400 combat missions and actually shot down about 20 enemy aircraft in the air! The love of the nurse Masha, whom he met in the summer of 1942 and who later became his wife, saved Pokryshkin from despair, from himself, and the intercession of the regiment commissar M. Pogrebny, who returned from the hospital, saved him from an unjust trial.

Having retrained in the 25th Regiment and received Airacobras in Tehran in March 1943, on April 9 the regiment began combat work from the Krasnodar airfield. The Kuban epic began.

The spring of 1943 was truly stellar for Pokryshkin - the air battle in the Kuban. In terms of the concentration of aircraft and the density of air battles, the Kuban battle was the most intense in the Second World War: more than 800 German aircraft were shot down here in 2 months. Officially, Pokryshkin shot down 16 enemy aircraft over the Blue Line, but in fact about 30 (12-15 Me-109, 4-6 Yu-88, 9-13 Yu-87, 2 FV-190). Here the pilot conducts several outstanding battles. On a memorable day, April 12, in the Krymskaya region, he shot down 4 Me-109s. Fortunately, General K. Vershinin was a witness to this battle, and Pokryshkina was not only counted for the downed vehicles, but was also awarded the second Order of the Red Banner. Later, he destroyed 3 more enemy aircraft and brought the number of aircraft shot down per day to seven. With the exception of the semi-legendary battle of A. Gorovets, the history of Soviet aviation does not know such examples. A few days later, Pokryshkin shot down 3 Yu-87s in one battle, and at the end of April, as part of eight, having dispersed 3 nine “laptezhniki”, he shot down 5 (!) of them. He attacked with his favorite “falcon strike” - from above, at high speed, with a steep variable dive profile to make it difficult for shooters to aim.

On May 5, Pokryshkin makes the first flight on a new Cobra with tail number 100, replacing his old car with the “unlucky for them” number 13.

As a result of intense fighting in the Kuban, a significant part of the aviation of both sides was knocked out, and a temporary lull occurred in this sector of the front. At a meeting convened by General Vershinin, where the most distinguished pilots, command staff and Air Force headquarters workers were present, Pokryshkin unveiled his tactical findings: a “stack” of aircraft in pairs, shifted towards the sun (this order provided an advantage in vertical battles), justified the need for patrolling at high speeds, which was contrary to existing requirements. Here he criticized the old order on mandatory confirmation of those shot down by ground troops. Fortunately, his speech found a response not only among the pilots present, but also among the command. Soon the 4th VA, and after a while the entire Air Force, also agreed to consider reports from pilots and gunners who witnessed the air battle as official confirmation of the fact of victory.

It is difficult to overestimate the influence of Pokryshkin on the young pilots who arrived in the regiment in June 1943. Most of them were not beginners, but more often had sad combat experience. Having selected the most prepared and thoroughly “flyed” them, he led the newcomers on a combat mission and, in the very first battle, personally shooting down a pair of Me-109s in one attack, he created the conditions for several more victories for the pilots inspired by him.

Since August 1943, the 16th GIAP took part in battles on the Mius Front, on the Molochnaya River, over the Black Sea, and over the Dnieper. On August 24, Pokryshkin was awarded the title of twice Hero of the Soviet Union. In battles in southern Ukraine, Pokryshkin shot down 18 Junkers (7 Yu-88, 6 Yu-87, 5 Yu-52) and Me-109. Among those shot down were 2 high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft Yu-88. Among the especially victorious and furious were the battle in the Greater Tokmak area on September 23, 1943.

In the morning, Pokryshkin, together with G. Golubev, flew out to “hunt”. Having discovered “bast shoes” preparing to bomb over the front line, he quickly attacked them; He shot down one, damaged two more and was forced to fight with covering fighters. In the next sortie at the head of the four, noticing the Yu-88 group, he let it go to the rear, gained altitude and, coming from the direction of the sun, quickly attacked. Confused by the yellow reflections on the wings of bombers: this is how red stars sometimes reflect, he gave the command “don’t shoot” and walked forward, but noticing the crosses on the wings, he instantly made a sharp loop and, finding himself behind the leader of the enemy group, pierced him with a cannon burst. It exploded, and Pokryshkin’s plane jumped through the epicenter of the powerful explosion, miraculously remaining unharmed. The neighboring Junkers was less fortunate: it caught fire when hit by debris. Composure is the most important quality of an ace, and, barely jumping out of the fiery cloud, Pokryshkin again makes an extremely short turn and attacks again. The bomber, snarling in long bursts, tries to escape in a steep dive, but after the repeated attack of Pokryshkin’s “Cobra” it no longer comes out of the dive... This battle took place in front of hundreds of people, dozens of memories were left about it and paintings were written, and yet the fourth “Junkers” Alexander Ivanovich, who was shot down that day, was not counted; The regiment commander considered it to have “spontaneously combusted.”

In November, using a drop tank, Pokryshkin conducts a “search and destruction of the enemy on air communications” over the Black Sea. In four “hunts” he shoots down 5 Yu-52s. The three-engine Junker, armed with several large-caliber machine guns, was a serious opponent, but low dense clouds, stormy seas and strong gusty winds made the “hunting” conditions extremely difficult. The discovery of single aircraft over the sea, in conditions of limited visibility and bad weather, can perhaps only be explained by the genius of the pilot.

At the beginning of February 1944, Guard Lieutenant Colonel Pokryshkin was summoned to Moscow to the Air Force personnel department, where he was congratulated on his appointment as head of the fighter aviation combat training department. He refuses; neither persuasion nor attempts to seduce him with the Moscow generalship help. At the end of March, after the death of L. Shestakov, Alexander Ivanovich is offered to become the commander of the “Marshal’s” 176th GIAP, but he is eager to join his own people, in Chernigovka, in the roaring world of the airplane cabin and airfield, smelling of gasoline, oil and gunpowder. Only in April was he released, and a few days later Dzusov introduced him to the order by which he, Pokryshkin, was appointed commander of the 9th Guards Mariupol Air Division.

As part of the 2nd and then 1st Ukrainian Fronts, the division takes part in the air battle near Iasi. As a division commander, Pokryshkin directs air battles from a guidance point, organizes the interaction of aircraft in the air and with ground troops.

The famous whatnot becomes more powerful and maneuverable: now it is a battle formation of fours with an excess of about 1000 meters in pairs. Although Pokryshkin was practically bound by a ban on participating in air battles, he shot down 7 enemy aircraft in 1944 (4 Yu-87, 2 FV-190, Khsh-129), and 4 of them in a manner typical for him, like no one else. another, highly effective air combat. One of these battles took place on the evening of July 16, when, immediately after the wounding of the commander of the 16th GIAP B. Glinka, forgetting about all the prohibitions, Pokryshkin lifted the strike eight into the air. Already at the end of the patrol, about fifty German aircraft were discovered going to attack Soviet troops. The four covering fighters engaged the fighters in battle, and Pokryshkin and his wingman, having slipped inside the defensive circle built by the Yu-87 and Khsh-129 attack aircraft, instantly shot down the nearest Junkers. Having completed a left combat turn and again finding himself inside the circle, he ignites the second one from above, at the same moment energetically, with a half-flip, he emerges from the attack of the Focke-Wulf. Pokryshkin's maneuvers in battle are so sharp and swift that the group loses him, and he shoots down two more attack aircraft without witnesses, alone - they were not counted.

On January 14, 1945, having gone into battle in noble rage after the death of his student commander V. Zherdev, Pokryshkin attacked and shot down the Yu-87 on the move, while climbing. Then there was the work of the division from the Breslau-Berlin highway, where Pokryshkin and his constant wingman G. Golubev were the first to land on a highway strip narrower than the wingspan of their Cobras. The ace made his last combat missions over Berlin.

Officially, Pokryshkin conducted more than 650 sorties and 156 air battles, personally shot down 59 and 6 enemy aircraft in the group. In military-historical and memoir literature there are assumptions about a significantly larger number of victories he actually won - 72, 90, more than 100.

Probably, like no one else, the official results of his combat work were underestimated, for which there are a number of both objective and subjective reasons.

When in the summer of 1945 Pokryshkin was offered to enter the Air Force Academy, he refused with his characteristic determination and asked to be sent to the M.V. Frunze Military Academy, where he could gain broader knowledge. Many people remember the episode when, in practical gun firing with three shells, A. Pokryshkin and V. Lavrinenkov achieved an absolute result. None of those who took the test at that time, and among the examinees there were also experienced artillerymen, could repeat their success. The ace graduated from the Academy in 1948. with a gold medal.

Not long before this, an event occurred that influenced Pokryshkin’s career in the late 40s and early 50s. One day he was summoned for a conversation with the commander of the Moscow Military District aviation, Vasily Stalin. After waiting in his reception room for about an hour, Alexander Ivanovich left and forever lost the favor of this unbalanced man, a good pilot and weak commander, whose enormous power was created by bureaucratic servility.

After graduating from the academy, Pokryshkin was appointed deputy corps commander in Rzhev... Only a year later, three times, the Hero with his wife and two small children finally received an apartment in one of the 100 Finnish houses brought here...

When, at the end of 1950, a warehouse of old ammunition was found under one of the houses, and it was dangerous to wait for sappers, he, forming a chain, was the first to jump into the pit and began to dismantle the stack of rusty shells. The combat pilot remained a fearless knight all his life.

In 1953, Pokryshkin received the rank of general and a year later was appointed deputy commander of the air army in Rostov-on-Don.

After graduating with honors from the General Staff Academy, he became commander of the 8th Separate Air Defense Army and remained in this position for 10 years. And while studying at the academy and later, until 1963, Alexander Ivanovich flew almost all types of Soviet fighters. There were some incidents. One of the most dangerous things happened during his service in Rostov, when during a night flight, at a great distance from the airfield, the attitude indicator failed... Only enormous flying experience and a specific “memory of space” helped him return to the airfield and land the car.

His wife tried to persuade Pokryshkin to give up flying, he joked: “Why did you marry a pilot? I would marry the head of production. The most he could face would be indigestion or embezzlement...”

He was happy in his family life. Tactful and balanced, loving and loved, Maria provided him with “reliable rear support.” She could make a frozen room in a Rzhev barracks cozy, with dignity, from her own supplies, instantly improvise a dinner for ten, soften his anger and, on the contrary, come to the aid of his delicacy. Alexander Ivanovich divided his rare leisure hours between books, chess and hunting. He is the author of the books: “On a Fighter” (Novosibirsk, 1944), “Wings of a Fighter” (M., 1948), “Sky of War” (M., 1965-1975), which went through 5 editions, “Your Honorable Duty” (M. , 1976), “Know yourself in battle” (M., 1986, 1993).

In the early 60s, he defended his dissertation on the use of network planning in air defense forces. Probably, this intense analytical work helped him endure the severity of parting with heaven. The command in a unique way “appreciated” the innovations summarized in the dissertation, rewarding for them... colleague Pokryshkin, who had a very general idea of ​​​​the work.

In August 1968, he was appointed Deputy Commander-in-Chief of the country's air defense. Relations with the commander, Marshal Batitsky, did not work out, and his service in this position was especially difficult. When the opportunity presented itself, he decisively went to work for DOSAAF, to the position of chairman of the society, and enthusiastically took up military-patriotic work.

In his life, Alexander Ivanovich passed the test of “copper pipes” with honor and fully drank the bitterness of their other side - the envy of officials for the glory of the People's Hero. Here there is air defense instead of the air force, and general stars detained for 10 years, and a continuous series of business trips “with Batitsky.” He was the “Honored Military Pilot of France,” but he never became, just as Kozhedub did not become, the “Honored Military Pilot of the USSR”... France is the birthplace of chivalry.

In December 1972, he was awarded the rank of marshal.

One day he called the Central Committee and asked for his resignation. They objected, persuaded, offered options, but he left his last position on his own.

He died on November 13, 1985 in the arms of his inconsolable Maria after several days of unconsciousness, when in delirium he called his friends to attack, warned them of danger, and again overtook the hated enemy.

Three times Hero of the Soviet Union (24.5.43, 24.8.43, 19.8.44). Awarded 6 Orders of Lenin, Order of the October Revolution, 4 Orders of the Red Banner, 2 Orders of Suvorov 2nd class, Order of the Patriotic War 1st class, 2 Orders of the Red Star, Order “For Service to the Motherland in the USSR Armed Forces” 3rd class ., medals, 11 foreign orders.

The days were hot, the scorching wind was blowing, but it was felt that summer was already coming to an end. Although we, front-line soldiers, retreating across the Kuban soil, almost did not perceive the signs of time and terrain. Only the mountains seemed to be noticed. Only mountains! The regiment has now moved to the very foothills. There, further, among the rocks, there is nowhere to land the car or take off.

There was no answer. We didn't expect it from anyone. The last planes flew every day to accompany the bombers. They dropped heavy land mines on enemy columns advancing towards Grozny. We worked very amicably, but there were conflicts.

One day our six accompanied the PE-2 group. Its leader discovered only a small column of enemy vehicles. And yet he dropped his bombs. Others bombed after him. I was perplexed: after all, if you fly further over this road, you can probably find a more important goal. Why waste time and ammunition so unwisely? Here it is, blind diligence! No initiative!

Having bombed, the “pawns” turned back. Only one of the entire group of bombers continued to fly in a straight line. I understood the intention of the commander of this crew and led the entire six behind him. We fighters were ready to die for this daredevil.

Soon we saw a real avalanche of German tanks and vehicles on the road. Despite the anti-aircraft fire, PE-2 broke through to the target and, diving, accurately sent all its bombs into the very thick of the column. Fountains of fire and smoke appeared on the road. We watched this picture with joy. One brave and proactive crew inflicted more damage on the enemy than the entire group. On the return route we accompanied the bomber, as if on a parade. And he fully deserved such an honor.

When returning home, my wingman Naumenko’s car malfunctioned: long tongues of flame began to shoot out of the pipes. The phenomenon is clear: the carburetor is out of adjustment. It is impossible to fix this malfunction in the air, and I decided to land with my wingman at the nearest airfield.

Having landed, we taxied the planes away from the runway and began repairs. We barely had time to lay out the tools when an Emka drove up. A young, fit lieutenant emerged from it.

“I am the adjutant of the regiment commander, Major Dzusov,” he introduced himself. - You have been ordered to disperse the vehicles immediately.

We will quickly repair it and fly away.

The regiment commander ordered...

Got it, Lieutenant. We all know how to give orders. The adjutant left. We started working on the engine. But after a few minutes the lieutenant returned to us again.

Regimental commander Dzusov ordered the vehicles to be dispersed immediately. If necessary, we will pull them away in tow.

Put away your tools,” I told Naumenko. - I'll fly on your plane, you get on mine.

They took off. The tail of flame appeared again. Lengthening, it threateningly reached towards the stabilizer. Somehow I managed to bring the plane to my airfield and land...

On the second day, returning from the attack, I saw many unfamiliar planes at our airfield. Two of them stood in the middle of the airfield with broken landing gear.

Whose? - I asked Chuvashkin.

Dzusov's regiment sat down.

Wow neatness! - Naumenko noted.

Yes,” I agreed with him. - It would be nice to see the adjutant and his commander now...

Why do you need them? The end of all troubles - Chuvashkin objected with joy in his voice.

What do you mean by this?

We're going on vacation. The transfer of aircraft to Dzusov's regiment is already underway.

The technician's message startled me. A strange feeling took possession of me. It was both joyful that the heavy burden of war had been lifted from your shoulders for a while, and sad at the thought that tomorrow you would no longer be able to shoot at the arrogant enemy who had driven us here into the black steppe.

This means that it is not us, but others who will stop the enemy hordes. And who will avenge the death of fighting friends?

The command post dugout was crowded. Seeing us, the pilots and technicians gathered there shouted for us to go quickly. There, it turns out, a feast began no worse than the Zaporozhye one. Technician Loenko stood near the barrel and poured Caucasian wine into mugs. Every now and then there were toasts:

For victory!

For a life!

Dzusov’s subordinates were gathering not far from the command post. Obviously, they were jealous of our guys.

But then comes the command for all pilots to line up. Kraev and Dzusov appear in front of the general formation of the two regiments. Our commander reads out the order to transfer the aircraft. Then he announces that some of the pilots will be allocated to ferry planes to the area where the neighbors are relocating.

Won't they be detained there? - one of our people asks. Dzusov does not answer immediately, thinking about how best to answer. He is clearly being cunning, wanting to get several young guys from the guards regiment along with the cars.

We, guardsmen, will ferry the planes! - I declare, realizing that Dzusov does not have the right to leave pilots who already have a guards rank in his regiment.

We don’t need squadron commanders,” says Dzusov. - There are enough of our own.

I wait for what our commander will say, but he is silent. Doesn’t Kraev understand that his cunning neighbor will not return our young fighters? Or does he not care? May be. After all, he did not go into battle with them. I am outraged by his indifference to the future of our regiment. Is it difficult to understand that Berezhnoy, Kozlov, Stepanov, Verbitsky and other pilots have already gone through a good war school, that these are ready-made leading pairs? The young people look at me. Really, they say, you can’t defend us?

Kryukov and I and the flight commanders will ferry your planes,” I again enter into the conversation, feeling the approval of my comrades.

Dzusov, of course, is unhappy. This can be seen even from the expression of his black Caucasian eyes.

“We can do without your services,” he says, throwing a dissatisfied glance in my direction. - We'll take the planes ourselves. When the formation was disbanded and Dzusov and his pilots left, Major Kraev told me:

You, captain, are behaving incorrectly.

Don’t you understand that the pilots would not be returned to us?

I don’t have to explain to you what I understand and what I don’t understand! - he cut me off.

Soon the transfer of the aircraft was completed. Boxes with staff files began to be loaded onto vehicles.

Trouble, comrade captain,” Chuvashkin ran up to me.

What's the matter?

Your spotted MIG is not accepted. It is not documented anywhere. The major ordered us to fly it further until we found workshops somewhere.

This means that my troubles with this MIG are not over yet. We already know that the regiment is heading to a city on the shores of the Caspian Sea. Our wandering Figichev squadron is located somewhere in that direction. If only we could find her, then we could get rid of the MIG. On my map there are mountains, mountains and only one Terek valley. You'll have to fly in an old, unreliable car over such terrain. And even with Chuvashkin behind him. He agrees to this in order to help me on the ground if we are forced to sit down.

By evening, Loenko was already treating pilots and technicians from other regiments stationed at our airfield. The barrel was emptied and, amid everyone's laughter, thrown from the hill, on which, like Scythians on a mound, cheerful technicians and mechanics sang and danced - after all, they were resting for the first time since the beginning of the war.

At a signal from the chief of staff, the regimental convoy with people and equipment set off on a long journey to the Caspian Sea. And Chuvashkin and I flew in our MIG to the southeast.

I saw the village in the valley already at dusk. In general, I was lucky at dusk. How many times have they overtaken me on the air route! But the more difficult it was to read the ground from above, that is, to navigate the terrain, the more difficult it was to land in the dark, the more concentration and attention appeared. Twilight has never forced me to spend the night at a foreign airfield, which I really didn’t like.

There was a place for my plane at the airport. As soon as I got out of my MIG, I saw a familiar number on a Yak nearby. What the hell is this? Is it really my Yak? Chuvashkin immediately identified it as ours. It turns out that Dzusov’s regiment, having received our vehicles, flew here too. Well, we'll meet the picky commander again. We need to inspect everything so that we don’t get into trouble tomorrow. As soon as we left our plane, Major Dzusov met us. Accompanied by some other commanders, he goes around the parking lots.

Ahh, it's you! - He looked at me. - How did you end up here?

Arrived.

On a private jet, or what?

Yes. On a stolen MIG.

Look!..

There are a lot of people in the dining room, a crowd. In this cramped space, in the noise, you can no longer hear something that is not front-line. Do you queue up for a table and think about what awaits us pilots there, deep in the rear? You understand that so many army people have crammed into small mountain villages and towns that it is not possible to accommodate everyone, to provide what they, tired and exhausted, are waiting for. You understand this, but your nerves, strained to the limit, cannot stand it. Some people are indignant, raging...

In the morning the trucks of our regiment arrived. People, not accustomed to such crossings, dusty and tired, rushed to the mountain stream. Scattered along the shore...

Here I found Major Kraev. Drying himself with a towel, talking with others, he pretends not to notice me. It was not difficult to understand the reasons for this attitude towards me: my new commander did not forget anything said against him. I have already met such people in my life. They only see the bad in others. They consider as bad, first of all, those who do not agree with them in anything, do not agree with them, and do not praise them to their face. I easily recognized such people.

You're already here?

I'm on a plane, have you forgotten?

You won't be forgotten... Get to the city. It seems Figichev is sitting there.

I returned to the airfield. Chuvashkin was digging into the MIG engine.

One more flight, captain, and you will carry me straight from the fuselage to the coffin. I'll suffocate in this doghouse.

Is it more pleasant to drive in the back or on boxes? Well, I will continue to fly alone.

If you, captain, are going to travel for a long time over the mountains on this zebra, I can’t vouch for your life.

We'll rent it out in the city.

The sooner the better!

The mountains here are really dangerous: you have to fly between the rocks, over the Terek valley. As soon as some village appears below, I immediately remember Chuvashkin, who, crouched, lies behind my back. I understand how hard it is for him: it’s hot, cramped, he can’t even straighten his legs.

An airfield appeared. Maybe land here? Let Chuvashkin rest a little. Then I decide that I shouldn’t do it. It’s better for him to be patient for once. Once we reach Tulatov, that’s it, I won’t torment him or myself anymore.

...They finally arrived. I'm about to land. While driving, I notice that there are fragments of a MIG lying nearby. If Figichev’s squadron and Komosy’s group are here, it means one of ours crashed.

Whose plane? - I ask the technician who was pulling the rubble into a pile.

Supruna,” he answers sadly.

Suprun died?

The technician silently takes out a bloody tablet from the rubble.

There is a new wound in my soul. I flew near Kharkov with Stepan Yakovlevich Suprun. He shot down five German planes and became a mature fighter pilot. Of course, only a plane could fail him. What an absurdity: to fight so many battles and die far from all dangers!

We approach them with Chuvashkin and silently shake hands. I ask:

Where is Suprun's grave?

He's still in the morgue. Today is the funeral. We must wait until the whole regiment arrives,” I say.

The squadron commissioner is going to be buried today. Tell him that the cars will arrive at night. The pilots tell how Suprun died. On takeoff, the engine of his old MIG failed. Engineer Kopylov sat behind the pilot. He was still alive by chance. Only received a few scratches.

Pokryshkin! Where did you get this zebra? - asks Komosa, probably in order to distract the pilots from gloomy thoughts.

Picked up...

So this is the same plane that we saw. Exactly! Some tester drove him out of the workshops. I remember he left the car at the airfield and went into the city.

He probably went on a spree and forgot about his zebra.

I forgot where! Most likely he escaped on foot.

Now it’s clear whose fault Chuvashkin and I suffered. In the evening, during dinner, I went up to the table where the pilots were sitting and noticed that they looked very sad.

Well, why are you hanging your noses?

Not much fun. You know, Suprun was buried without us.

How were they buried? Why didn't they wait until everyone arrived?

“Ask him,” Golubev nodded at Captain Vorontsov, who was sitting at a separate table. “I hired mechanics to help, drove it and buried it.”

Gritting my teeth so as not to curse, I went to Vorontsov.

Why didn't they wait for the regiment? Who gave you the right to treat our fallen comrades this way?

None of your business! I did as I found necessary.

It’s bad that heartless people like you are trusted with power. Didn't Suprun deserve to be buried with honors? He has five shot down fascist planes. Have you shot down at least one plane?

Stop talking! I order you to shut up! I'm the boss!

Boss! Do you know what a boss is? This is the most humane position in the army. Read the newspapers. Real bosses, like fathers, take care of their subordinates, and in battle they go on the attack ahead of everyone else. And you... are a coward. Maybe they forgot how they abandoned my couple near Izyum when we accompanied the ILs. A coward cannot be a boss!

I don’t know how our heated conversation would have ended if Captain Vorontsov, having thrown his fork, had not left the dining room.

Don't get excited, Sasha! - said Komosa who approached. - And in general, you started this conversation in vain. You can't prove this. You'll only get yourself into trouble. He won't forgive you.

Unfortunately, Komosa was right.

A few days later I brought the squadron to Makhachkala. At the airfield I learned that our former pilot Vikenty Pavlovich Karpovich lives in this seaside town. I went to him with the address in my pocket.

A whole company had already gathered in the small room that Karpovich rented. Figichev, Rechkalov and Trud came there before me.

Karpovich stood up from the table and stepped towards me. Then I saw that one of his hands was motionless. We hugged. Then he introduced me to his wife.

The hosts' table was not overflowing with food and drinks. And we, too, after long wanderings away from the regiment, came to visit, as they say, without “equipment.” I suggested that Karpovich go to the market together and buy something.

We went outside. The wind carried the sound and smell of the sea.

Well, how do you like life in the rear?

What a rear here, Sasha! Now this is the edge of war. Not the front one, of course. But where to retreat next?.. I remained silent.

And as for life, well,” Karpovich continued. - Until the wound heals, they will probably supply me somehow. And then... I won’t leave the army. As soon as I’m cured, I’ll go to Moscow and ask to go to the academy...

Right! - I supported. - Somewhere at the front I have already seen someone like you, one-armed. He managed it properly.

I still need to fly, Sasha. The whole war is ahead.

Yes, there will still be battles. The spring just compresses!

That’s right - it shrinks,” supported Karpovich. - And soon it will unclench!.. I believe in it.

When we bought something at the market and in the store, Karpovich hurried home. And I decided to take a walk to the sea while his wife prepared a snack.

Everything I had experienced from the first takeoff in Novosibirsk to the last grueling journey came back to life in my memory. Either my nerves began to fray from fatigue, or the sea inspired melancholy thoughts, but my soul felt sad. After standing on the shore for a few minutes, I went to Karpovich. There we spent the night with the whole company.

And the next morning, to the chagrin of the hospitable host, we began to get ready for the journey. The regiment was leaving the city.

If they leave you in the army, I will definitely look for you! - Karpovich said in a trembling voice, saying goodbye to us.

Where will you look? - Rechkalov asked.

I hope somewhere in Ukraine, in Moldova.

Save some food for the road - it will come in handy. The regimental commissar looked out from the cab of the car.

Have you talked enough? Stay safe, Karpovich! The truck in the back of which we sat slowly moved through the city. Low houses with flat roofs, as if rooted into the ground, floated past.

Outside Derbent, at the suggestion of the commissar, we bought several bags of apples. The old five-ton began to creak even more, especially when turning.

On one of the mountain descents, I heard some unnatural grinding noise in the cab, leaned over to the window and saw that the driver could not turn on a lower speed. I tried to brake - also without success.

I looked ahead: the road went steeply down with a sharp turn. The driver fussed, but nothing worked. I had to save myself.

Jump! - I shouted and was the first to rush overboard. All the pilots jumped out after me. The last one to jump off the bandwagon was the commissar and went head over heels down the slope. A few moments later, the car turned to the right at breakneck speed and disappeared into the abyss.

Most of us escaped with bruises, but Pogrebnoy, Fedorov and Shulga were seriously injured. Having stopped the first passing car, we got to the nearest town where the hospital was located. The doctors immediately put three comrades into the ward, and the rest were treated.

When we left the hospital, I saw a huge guy with a beard in the lobby. He bent over and cleaned his boots.

“Ah, Pokryshkin,” he responded cheerfully, straightening up to his full heroic height.

Why are you here?

After being wounded. And now I'm going to the dance! My comrades were already waiting for me on the street, but I didn’t want to part with Vadim so quickly.

So, you've healed if you're running around with girls?

In two days I’ll be discharged and head to Baku.

Now all the horseless people gather there,” Vadim answered and laughed.

We are also sent there. Listen, join our regiment. Together we will retrain for new aircraft.

With great pleasure, my friend. Where can I find you there?

Our headquarters will come here and we’ll ask. Yes, I’ll introduce you to the regiment commander here. If he likes you, then...

“I’m not a young lady to please,” Vadim interrupted me. - We need pilots - I’ll go and not let the guard down.

Vadim rumbled in his bass voice as if he was already talking to the regiment commander.

Before we could finish the conversation, our cars arrived.

“Here they are, easy to find,” I told Fadeev. - Went.

The commander stood in the circle of my recent companions and listened to Iskrin’s story about the sad incident.

Comrade Guard Major,” I turned to Kraev. - So I “recruited” a good pilot into our regiment.

Fadeev took a step forward and introduced himself. The commander shook his hand. Vadim shook it so hard that Kraev almost screamed.

What a strength!

“I thought that the guards were much stronger than us,” Fadeev joked. - Sorry, Comrade Guard Major.

Where did you get that big?

On the Volga.

Fighter?

Certainly.

The pilots looked with curiosity at the hero, who had the Order of the Red Banner on his chest.

Why did you grow a beard? - asked Figichev.

For fear of enemies! - Vadim answered just as cheerfully to the general laughter.

The pilots and technicians, accustomed to the intense life at the front, languished from uncertainty and idleness. Before lunch or dinner, a lot of people always gathered around the small dining room. Everyone tried to be the first to rush into the dining room, so as not to sweat in the heat and not stand in line at the tables. Quarrels often arose on this basis, sometimes quite violent, when someone, out of boredom, overdid it in “tasting” local wines. I also accidentally fell into such a story.

During dinner, three tipsy senior officers accosted me and Golubev and Trud, who were sitting next to me. Unable to tolerate rudeness and insults, I gave a sharp rebuff and ended up in the guardhouse for insubordination.

The regiment commander and his friend Captain Vorontsov, who had been looking askance at me for a long time, were quick to take advantage of this. Returning to the regiment, I heard that I had already been removed from the post of squadron commander and retired. I decided to check this rumor and went to the regiment commander, Senior Lieutenant Pavlenko. He sat alone at a table covered with a pile of papers.

The fact that he was removed from his position is not the worst thing,” Pavlenko stunned me. - After all, you, captain, were expelled from the party!

Did they really go for that?

Yesterday at a meeting of the party bureau, the commander recalled everything to you: arguments with him, arbitrariness in tactics, or, as he called it, “violations of the requirements of the fighter aviation charter.” And, of course, the last quarrel with the leadership of the neighboring regiment.

Amazed by what I heard, I silently looked at him.

How so? I fought honestly from the very beginning of the war, was in good standing in the team, shot down the fascists, and now, in the very first days of my stay in the rear, I turned out to be unworthy to bear the title of communist, to be a commander-guardsman.

But that’s not all,” Pavlenko continued. - The case against you has been transferred to the Baku Military Tribunal. Read this description of you that Kraev sent there. You can take it for yourself. It's a copy.

I read it, and everything boiled inside me. The meanness captured on paper burned. I wanted to immediately go to Kraev and tell him everything frankly. But I understood that this should not be done in such an excited state.

Walking from corner to corner, I tried to comprehend what had happened to me. I deeply regretted that I was in the rear and not at the front, that I did not now have the opportunity to board a plane and rush into battle. Only in the face of danger, in a hot battle with the enemy, could I free myself from depressing thoughts, drown out the indignation growing in my soul, and prove that I was not someone who could so easily be trampled into the dirt.

Jumping out into the street, I hurriedly walked to the seashore. It was necessary to retire in order to better understand my behavior and soberly assess the situation in which I now found myself. It was necessary to look at yourself and others from the outside.

Until now, I was convinced that I was living and doing the right thing. He fought as a communist should, never overestimated his merits, was equally demanding of himself and others, and did not put up with what he considered wrong in our life at the front. And now my straightforwardness has turned against me.

Who can help me? Viktor Petrovich is not around, Regimental Commissar Mikhail Akimovich Pogrebnoy is in the hospital.

By order of Major Kraev, I was not allowed to attend classes, and being in the dormitory, in front of the authorities, was unbearable. Therefore, from morning to evening I spent on the seashore, comprehending the accumulated combat experience, developing new tactics. My notebook was replenished daily with interesting conclusions, and my album with diagrams. I believed that soon all this would be useful, if not to me, then to other pilots. And the work itself distracted me from heavy thoughts and helped me forget, at least for a while, that clouds were gathering over me.

My pilot friends visited me in their free time in the evenings and told me all the news related to my “business.” It turns out that the regiment command has already requested back the documents to award me the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.

Here, on the shore, I once had an interesting conversation with Fadeev.

Sasha! Aren't you mad at me?

Well, why?.. It turned out awkward. You recommended me to the regiment, and now I command your squadron.

So what do you have to do with it? - I laughed. - Oddball. I’m even glad that it was you who were given the squadron. The people there are wonderful. You better prepare them for the upcoming battles. Here, Vadim, are my notes on tactics and teach only from them. Remember: to win in battle, you must have superiority in height, speed, maneuver and fire. Everything is said here. And how I wanted to test these conclusions myself in battle!

Well, check it out. We will fight together against the fascists more than once.

I'm afraid not.

What are you thinking, Sashka? Stop fooling around!

Let me figure this out myself.

Later, having calmed down, I realized that I had succumbed to weakness then. Even if I was expelled from the party, I was and will remain a communist in my soul and thoughts. And suicide is a “cure” for weak-willed people. We must fight for what is right, and fight with deeds. Dying is like that in battle! I need to get to the front in any way, go to any regiment if there is no place for me in my own. And I decided to immediately send a letter to Markelov, whose regiment was stationed somewhere near Grozny.

A few days later an encouraging answer came. But I failed to get to the front. The “case” was set in motion. Swelling, it hung over me like a sword. The investigators had a death grip on me.

The only way out was an unauthorized flight to the front. But without documents it was very difficult and dangerous to do this. I could have been detained and accused of desertion.

One evening, as soon as I entered the hostel, almost all the squadron pilots rushed to me:

The funeral is here!

Where is he? - I perked up, ready to immediately run to him.

They delivered it today. Still sick, lying in his apartment.

The next morning I found the house where the commissioner was staying.

“Ah, Pokryshkin, come in, come in,” said Pogrebnoy, rising from the bed to offer me his hand.

A blush was already noticeably appearing on his pale face, his eyes shone with cheerfulness. “So he’s getting better,” I thought happily. And, as if guessing my thoughts, Mikhail Akimovich said that he would soon rise, that he had been drawn to the regiment for a long time, that’s why he left the hospital.

Well, tell me what happened to you,” he suddenly turned the conversation and lowered his head onto the high pillow.

I reported to the commissioner about everything that happened, and took out of my pocket a copy of the statement to the tribunal, signed by Kraev.

After reading this concoction, Pogrebnoy lay silent for a long time, with his hands behind his head. I was also silent, waiting for what he would say.

Yes, Pokryshkin, the situation is difficult. We need to think carefully about how to help you.

I admitted what exactly I was guilty of, but I noticed that they approached me with prejudice and inhumanity. Punishment for wrongdoing is one thing, and merciless punishment is quite another. I asked Mikhail Akimovich to write a truthful description of me and send it to the military tribunal.

“I know you a little,” Pogrebnoy smiled. - You say correctly that you can’t cross out everything good in a person if he made a mistake. But some of our bosses act differently: if someone stumbles, trample him into the dirt, otherwise he’ll rise even higher... How many sorties do you have?

More than four hundred.

How many did you shoot down?

Officially twelve, but there are still some that haven’t been counted. - Here you go. This, brother, cannot be crossed out.

The Commissioner rose again to his elbow. He condemned me for my vehemence, complained that things had gone too far, then began asking me about my comrades and about my studies. It seemed to me that we were again sitting under the wing of an airplane and talking, as often happened at the front.

Go join the life of the regiment. Today I will write a character reference for you and pass it on to headquarters. Today! - He shook my hand firmly.

I left the commissar inspired, with a feeling of firm confidence in the future. All I had to do was wait: the truth itself was already acting for me.

One day a messenger came running to me.

The regiment commander is looking for you,” he said and left.

His visit alarmed me. “Well,” I thought, “apparently, now they’ll send me to Baku.” At the headquarters, Kraev greeted me with a fake smile.

“You’re wandering,” he muttered through his teeth. - General Naumenko called from army headquarters. Go to the airfield tomorrow, you need to tell the pilots of the neighboring regiment about the Messerschmitt.

Eat! - I answered.

Arriving there, I unexpectedly met a man with whom I had a quarrel in the dining room. He warmly extended his hand to me:

Lieutenant Colonel Taranenko.

Captain Pokryshkin.

We talked about the topic of the lesson and immediately headed to class.

For two hours I lived in battles, flights - my element. I told the pilots everything I knew that needed to be known about the enemy plane that was still ruling our skies. There were many questions, the answers to them took more time than the lecture itself.

Then I was invited to the airfield and shown brand new planes. I wanted to sit in one of them. I would fly to the front, of course!..

After classes, the regiment commander offered to have lunch at his home. Here, at the table, I saw a major I already knew, the regimental commissar. They praised me and among other things asked how I was doing. Both seemed to pretend that they did not remember the incident in the dining room, and I decided to tell them about all my disappointments. They were surprised by this turn of events, sympathized with me, and the lieutenant colonel promised to write a favorable explanation about this to the head of the garrison.

Days passed. The regiment received an order to relocate to another area, where it was supposed to receive aircraft and begin retraining. Having learned about this, I asked Kraev what I should do. He ordered to remain here until the case was considered by the tribunal.

Comrade commander, was the commissar’s character reference sent to the tribunal?

They sent it, don’t worry,” he replied.

No, they didn’t send me away,” I said, knowing that this was exactly the case.

It turns out that you know more than me,” Kraev remarked sarcastically. - I told you, I sent it.

Let’s check it out, Comrade Major,” I suggested. - She lies in the combat department. And you must understand how important it is to me.

Let's check.

We headed to the next room, where the chief of construction was sitting.

Tell Pokryshkin, have you sent Pogrebny’s character reference for him? - By the tone of the question, Kraev let Pavlenko know how he should answer.

Just yesterday Pavlenko told me that the testimonial is at headquarters. “What will he answer? - I thought with excitement. “Will he really betray his soul?”

No, they didn’t, Comrade Major.

How so? Why are you talking nonsense?"

I'm telling the truth, Comrade Major. You yourself ordered not to send it.

I looked at Kraev carefully and, without saying a word, left.

Outside the door I heard the major “swearing at” the chief of staff and threatening to send him to the guardhouse.

The regiment left at night. The vehicles were loaded onto platforms. The pilots and technicians were accommodated in passenger carriages. I, remembering my childhood, settled down as a “hare” in the cab of a truck. I couldn’t stay in the reserve regiment. Everyone knows me in their own way and will always defend me if the case comes to court. And there I am a stranger to everyone. Yes, I simply could not tear myself away from my team! By the way, when I turned to the head of the garrison for permission to leave, he said:

Go with the regiment. I don’t understand what’s going on there...

Hearing the whistle of the locomotive, then the sound of the wheels, I was glad that I was leaving this little town with all the troubles it had brought me.

While unloading at the new point, I tried not to catch the eye of my superiors. And then he stayed away from the house where the regiment headquarters was located. And yet, when I was suddenly needed, they found me quickly. My former wingman Naumenko came to me.

Comrade Guard Captain, you have been ordered to immediately report to the division commander,” he said and smiled at something.

I thought they were calling me to send me back. But Naumenko dispelled my fears. This is what he said on the way.

When Kraev introduced the regiment to the new division commander, Colonel Volkov, he suddenly asked:

And you had a pilot Pokryshkin, where is he?

Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Kraev answered. - He was left in Baku. He must be tried.

Misbehaved, and in general...

Well, well, what else did you want to say? Kraev was silent.

And I know him from the front as a good fighter.

They're blowing it out of proportion, Comrade Colonel.

You misjudge Pokryshkin, Comrade Major! - the commissar responded and, turning to the division commander, continued: - This matter needs to be sorted out.

Pokryshkin also came with us, we can call him,” said one of the pilots.

Find him immediately and call me,” the division commander ordered.

Having conveyed this conversation, Naumenko cheerfully pushed me on the shoulder and concluded:

Don’t be shy, report everything as it happened!

The division commander and commissar, after listening to me, looked at each other. Then I summarized what I had said on paper and left for the hostel.

In the evening I was called to a meeting of the party bureau. The division commissar was also there. Those comrades who two months ago, without delving into the essence of the matter, without even talking to me, voted to expel me from the party, looked pitiful. Today, as if nothing had happened, they spoke out in my defense. I hated their unscrupulousness and was glad that this whole story ended so happily.

I was reinstated in the party. And the next day the regiment commander invited me to talk about appointment to the position.

I'm thinking of making you my deputy.

No, comrade guard major,” I objected, “pick someone more deserved for this position.” And if possible, give me a squadron.

I wanted to say differently: how can I go as a deputy to someone who left more scars on my soul than the war on my body?..

So I returned to my native regiment and took over Figichev’s squadron. And Valentin was appointed deputy regiment commander. The pilots greeted me with joy. Fadeev was especially pleased, with whom we developed a good friendship.

Life has again returned to me everything that I have been striving for lately.

Every day begins with flights. Fadeev and I are training pilots using a new method. We pay special attention to practicing maneuvers, flying in mountain gorges and over the sea. After lunch we study tactics.

It is very rare for our pilots to visit a local club or dance floor. They reproach me for not always giving them the opportunity to have fun while catching up on lost time.

We must hurry with preparations. The German armies are stubbornly pushing through the burning Stalingrad to the Volga, and through the Caucasus mountains to the Black Sea. The enemy must be broken. No one will help our army with this.

On one of the intense days of study, the radio brought the long-awaited news: the Allied armies had opened a second front. But the joy was short-lived. The Allied landings in the sands of Africa did not reduce the number of enemy divisions on our front. Africa was far, very far from the lair of fascism.

Soon the airfield that was being built for our regiment was ready. The headquarters moved to a small fishing village under the hills on the shores of the Caspian Sea. We, the pilots, also received orders to relocate. In the evening, our six training Yaks flew over the roofs of fishermen's huts and landed behind a mountain stream.

We went to explore the village of Manas. From the back of the truck he was in full view. Houses, barracks and a large house surrounded by trees on a hill. A girl in a white robe flashed there.

In this house, in the medical unit, Komosa is treated. I decided to visit him that evening. Trud and Berezhnoy came with me.

The light flickered dimly in the windows. There is peace and quiet in the house. We walk along a dark corridor, open the door, and suddenly...

Only a wonderful image on canvas by a talented artist can be so impressive, filling the soul in an instant. In front of me was a clean room, a small table, on it was a kerosene lamp and in its light was a girl in white. Her hands are placed on the book, her eyes are warily fixed on me.

Good evening!

“Hello,” the girl answered.

Do you have the captain of Komos?

May I visit you?

Why is it so late?

Poets might call the feeling with which I looked at the girl love at first sight. I wanted to stand and stand next to this slender white girl who was simply looking at me.

“He is our friend, and we want to see him now,” I insisted.

Please go down the corridor, second ward. But not for long.

Trud and Berezhnoy went. And I stood there, probably funny in the uncertainty of my intention.

What are you reading?

The book was already closed, I could read its title.

I think you came to visit the patient?

I changed my mind.

The girl laughed. Her smile charmed me even more. I asked her about something else, challenging her to talk. I should have gone to Komosa a long time ago, but something riveted me to this place. Essentially, I haven’t heard a girl’s voice addressed to me for a very long time, I haven’t experienced a gentle look on me. They were so lacking in my life. I needed them so much right now.

I see that you need to be escorted to the patient; you won’t find the way on your own. Let's go!

Before leaving, I paused at the nurse’s desk and thought: could she now leave this little room with the kerosene lamp?.. I was ready to wander with her all night along the seashore, under the moonlit sky. How can I leave here alone? We must at least agree on tomorrow's evening, about dancing. Wait and hope for a new chance meeting? No! It’s better to take her book with me, then I’ll definitely see her again.

- “Les Miserables.” I read it a long time ago. I myself was recently an outcast. Let me read it.

I can't, it's not mine.

Tell me when will you return it? - I asked, taking a book from the table.

Return it to the owner - our nurse Vera.

No. I want to return it only to you.

So, from now on I was not alone. Her name and her book were with me. I remembered this this morning when I woke up. I thought about her when we drove through the village in a car. I felt Maria's gaze on me as I rose into the air.

The days ran faster, life acquired new content. Returning to the regiment, the look of the girls' eyes looking for me in the crowd at the dance floor, accompanying me, as it seemed to me, on every flight - couldn't this not renew my soul?

Every day, returning from the zone after completing a training assignment, I flew over the medical battalion house. I wanted Maria to see my plane. And so that she wouldn’t make a mistake, I always performed three ascending “barrels” in a row. It was a conditioned signal: “I see you.”

On one of these joyful days I was called to the regimental headquarters. Kraev, who was still emphatically formal with me, said that the army commander, General Naumenko, wanted to see me. I guessed why, and I felt sad. If quite recently I was ready to leave even my native regiment in order to go to the front, now I did not want to leave.

I walked from Kraev and thought: will they really take me away from the regiment right away? That's probably how it will be. I’ll fly to army headquarters and won’t return to the village, I won’t see either my friends or Maria again...

In the evening, as usual, I met with her. When the time came to part, he said:

I'm leaving tomorrow.

For how long?

Perhaps forever...

Maybe we'll never see each other again. Take as a souvenir the book that introduced us and made us friends. May she always be with you, if time has not given us the happiness of being together.

Maria squeezed my hand. I hugged her and saw that her big, loving eyes were filled with tears.

The next day I went to see the army commander, General N.F. Naumenko. He first asked me in detail about my “business”, and then explained why I was needed. I was offered the position of deputy regiment commander. I asked to be left in my regiment.

You cannot return to your regiment. Think about it. “I’m waiting for an answer in the evening,” the commander said and ordered to take me to the airfield.

There were brand new LA-5 aircraft parked there. They were the ones that armed the regiment in which I was offered to serve as a deputy.

The general's calculation was correct. When I saw the new cars, I forgot about everything. Until evening, I wandered around the airfield, admiring the fighters, climbed into the cockpit, and turned on the radio.

I walked and thought: what should I say to the commander? I mentally consulted with Vadim, with Valentin, with my students. I remembered the “adopted son” Ostrovsky. Recently he received a response from the Moscow region. Seeing that the young man was crying, I took the letter from his hands, and his pain was transmitted to me. Fellow villagers reported that Ostrovsky’s mother, father, brothers, sisters and all of Ostrovsky’s relatives were shot by the Nazis for their connection with the partisans. I don’t know where I came up with such an “adult” decision, but after reading the letter I said: “Consider me your ‘father’, I will never let anyone offend you anywhere...”

No, I can’t part with such people. We went through too difficult a battle path together. There are too many things that make us similar and connect us. Having informed the commander about my decision, I flew to my home regiment late in the evening. Intense combat training captured me again.

Autumn was coming into its own. The once friendly sea has become gloomy and harsh. Rain and slush drove people into the barracks. The pilots were no longer enthusiastic about their training.

We celebrated the awarding of the title of Hero of the Soviet Union to Valentin Figichev. We were presented together for this high award. But I didn't pass. And yet, I was heartily glad that my friend became a Hero. Soon we parted with him: he went to study at the Air Force Academy.

One day we were all urgently called to headquarters. From a distance we heard the familiar call signs of a Moscow radio station. They approached the loudspeaker slowly, solemnly. Everyone felt that they were conveying something very important.

Apparently, the allies in Europe have opened a second front,” someone joked.

Ha!.. Joker! - came the answer. “They will be chasing Rommel across the deserts of Africa for months to come.”

The second front has long been open. This is our rear. The conversation was interrupted by Levitan's voice, solemnly resounding throughout the village. Everyone listened with bated breath to the report about the defeat of the Germans at Stalingrad, about the encirclement of Paulus's 6th Army.

I wanted to sing and cry with joy. What we had been looking forward to all summer and all autumn had begun.

Comrades! On the occasion of the remarkable victory of our troops at Stalingrad, I am opening a rally,” Pogrebnoy interrupted the silence. -Who wants to take the floor?

Hands stretched up. Everyone tried to express their pain for the dark days of retreat and the joy of victory, their desire to get to the front as soon as possible.

Our small village, like the whole country and the whole world, lived in those days with the great victory on the Volga. Everything somehow went faster, as if the minutes and hours became shorter. Even the cloudy autumn days seemed to brighten.

One December day, Maria told me in “the strictest confidence” that their airfield service battalion was leaving the village and going to the front.

The next morning, a column of loaded cars passed along the street. I accompanied them up the hill. I followed them until they disappeared into the distance...

My short happiness is over. Where and when will I see her? I only know, I feel in my heart, that nothing will separate Maria and me - neither distance, nor time, nor war.

I returned to the village that was deserted to me. I went to the sea. It was stormy. Something big was being thought about here.

A few days later, our regiment left the village near the Caspian Sea that I remember forever. Through Baku our path ran to the front, to the west.

Alexander Ivanovich Pokryshkin

1. Introduction

Hey cab driver!

While he, urging his horse, approached us, I mentally transported myself from one century to another. We lived on the other side of the Dniester for six months, studied there at courses for unit commanders, and just returned to Balti, to our regiment. “Hey, cab driver!” - loudly thrown by Kostya Mironov, the echoing clatter of hooves on the pavement, the sight of a carriage familiar from illustrations to old stories - everything was again unusual. Kostya Mironov hurries to take a more comfortable place.

Aerodrome!

But the driver himself understands where we need to go. He looked indifferently at the frail Mironov and fixed his gaze on the four of us. A dilapidated cab, lovingly painted with black varnish, could have withstood it. Pulling the reins, he dashingly shouted at the horse:

Atya-vye!

Familiar houses on the main street floated towards them. An important event of last year is connected with it, with Balti - the reunification of Bessarabia with the Soviet Union. We were then preparing for air battles, but everything ended very peacefully: our regiment flew over the border in parade formation and landed at the airfield in Balti. Our acquaintance with the city began, of course, from the main street. We walked along it every evening.

Is it possible to drive around the whole of Europe in such a car? Kostya Mironov squints blissfully from the bright southern sun,

“I found a place to travel,” Pankratov responded. - Now everyone is running away from there.

The cab driver turned to us, we looked at each other. What was he thinking? We remembered how a Yugoslav Savoy bomber landed at the airfield a few days ago. His crew miraculously escaped from fascist captivity. The stern faces of the Yugoslav pilots expressed desperate determination...

And I would love to ride through the Vienna Woods to the tune of the “Great Waltz”...

The carriage stopped at the headquarters barracks. The cab driver knew the way here well: pilots, having been late for the car that picks them up from the city in the morning, often resort to the help of early cab drivers. True, our trinity - Mironov, Pankratov and I at one time were independent of the truck and cabs. We had our own car. We acquired it by accident and here's how.

...In the first days of life in Balti, we, Soviet commanders, were constantly besieged by street boys asking for “twenty kopecks” (“Uncle, we’ve been waiting for you for twenty years, give us twenty kopecks”), and local brokers.

Brokers vied with each other to offer their services:

What does the officer want to buy?

Steamboat! - someone joked.

A steamboat is also possible. But why a steamboat? A car is better.

Drive the car!

On the second day, an old-fashioned passenger car pulled up to the house where we lived. Seeing a familiar broker driving, we were taken aback: “What should we do?” At first they just wanted to avoid strange beeps, but it seemed inconvenient. Let him take this jalopy for a ride.

- “Hispano-suiza”!.. Racing version! - the broker recommended the car, pointing to the brand name.

We touched its wooden two-seater cabin and wooden wheels covered with gummat, not without a smile. Then, clinging to the wildebeest, we drove around the city in style. And although the chatter of the engine deafened those we met, it seemed to us that the “Hispanic-Suiza” was complete “comfort”.

In this car, a whole crowd of us drove up to the headquarters in the morning, and in our free time we drove like a breeze along good roads. Leaving for courses interrupted the car entertainment. Now our “Hispanic-Suiza” is probably already lying around in a landfill somewhere, because over the past year the life of Soviet Bessarabia has changed dramatically.

At the regimental headquarters we found only the one on duty - the junior commander. He said that the pilots and technical staff recently moved to a summer camp located near the village of Mayaki, near Kotovsk.

The airfield turned out to be thoroughly dug up. Trucks scurried between piles of torn up earth, and Bessarabian boys were intently working with shovels.

Brothers, what's going on here?! - exclaimed Kostya Mironov. - It seems that the rear officials are seriously planning to hide the gas tank underground. This is goal number one.

It’s high time,” Mochalov responded. - Such an object can be seen even from the stratosphere.

Why then whitewash a huge tank?

Calmly! We will probably soon be taking off from a concrete runway.

This business! We've heard a lot about concrete, but we've never felt it under our wheels.

A real anthill.

Our pace is Soviet.

There were no planes at the airport. Only at the very end, approaching the river, were some oblong white boxes visible. Seeing regiment commander Ivanov and engineer Sholokhovich near them, we headed there.

Viktor Petrovich Ivanov was delighted with our arrival. When I, as the senior member of the group, reported my arrival from the course, he shook our hands with a smile and said:

Congratulations to you all on your graduation. And you, Pokryshkin, and with a new position.

We looked at each other. Mironov, who was standing nearby, could not stand it:

I told you that the head of the course will not forgive you for “hooks” in flights. Congratulations on your transfer to ordinary pilots!

Ivanov’s wide, plump face shone with a smile, his large black eyes squinted affectionately.

We know about his “hooks”. Once he gets into the MIG, it’s more difficult to fly than the I-16, even if he unbends his “hooks.” Pokryshkin was appointed deputy squadron commander.

My comrades jokingly called “hooks” the aerobatic maneuvers I invented or somehow modified, which I used in training air battles. The head of the course, deputy commander of our regiment, Zhiznevsky, was a supporter of “academic”, calm piloting and was wary of all innovations. He himself flew without a “light” and tried in every possible way to extinguish it among others.

“Sits on MIG...” What does this mean? Ah, that's it! From the huge white boxes hatched like chicks from a shell, brand new, clean light green fighters.

What can I say, the appearance of new aircraft designs at the airfield is an extraordinary event in the life of pilots. We rushed to the boxes.

At this time, an intermittent rumble was heard in the sky. Everyone threw their heads back.

An unfamiliar plane was flying at high altitude.

German intelligence officer!

- "Junker"!

Yes, he is not alone! The Messerschmitts are with him!

Indeed, four fighters were circling around the twin-engine bomber with diamond-shaped wings. All of them returned to the west from our territory strictly through Balti,

“Junker”... I first heard this word when I was still a boy. Now, when we all looked up, where the Junkers were visible in the blue, I remembered my first meeting with him...

One September day, a plane suddenly appeared in the sky over Novosibirsk. Amazing old and young, he made several circles and landed on a military parade ground. The whole city flocked there. We boys, having such an advantage over adults as fast bare feet, rushed to the parade ground first and, although there was already a guard at the plane, we somehow squeezed through to it. I timidly touched the cold fender of the car and inhaled the unfamiliar warm oily smell flowing from the engine. Who knows, maybe it was the feelings of those happy moments that predetermined my future. At the rally held near the plane, people talked about the creation of the Soviet air fleet and the defense of the Motherland. It was then that I heard the word “Junkers”. It turned out that the car standing in front of us was bought in Germany with funds raised by Siberians from the Junker company and was making a campaign tour through our cities. The word “Junkers” sounded mysterious and pleasant to me then, it called for knowledge. The plane that bore this name gave birth to a winged dream in me. I tried to do well at school, at the factory department, and played sports intensively in order to enter the aviation school... Captured by the romance of a heroic profession, I, like thousands of my peers, took off into the endless alluring sky. Now, on a May day in 1941, I saw the silhouette of a Junkers - an enemy bomber. Its intermittent heavy roar, from which the native sky suddenly seemed to become alien, made me clench my fists.

Is it a fascist, Comrade Major? - asked Kostya Mironov, who became serious.

Whose is it? - answered the regiment commander. - Not the first. They conduct reconnaissance and take photographs.

“Why is there no alarm? - I thought. “Why don’t our people pursue him?” And he said out loud:

If there was a plane here, I would fucking photograph it right now!

“He’s already over the Prut,” Ivanov responded with a sigh. - To intercept one of these, you need a plane faster than the I-16. And they are not allowed to shoot them down.

The commander's last words left us bewildered.

How so? Why don’t we have the right to shoot down if they fly over our territory?

This can't be true!

He takes pictures in broad daylight, and you can’t really scare him?

We looked excitedly at the commander, as if he had established such order in the border strip and could change it himself.

Aware of this injustice, we looked for an excuse for it and found none. It was felt from everything that the increasing frequency of fascist flights over our territory foreshadowed something terrible. We stood among the dug up earth, near the unassembled planes and thought about that reconnaissance aircraft, which at that time was landing somewhere in Romania or Hungary at an airfield crowded with planes. Everyone at these moments recalled that fascist Germany treacherously trampled the borders of almost all Western European states, that in these days its army poured into the Balkans. I thought with bitterness: how little we pilots know about the airfields hidden behind the border hills!

The technicians, under the guidance of the engineer, began assembling the aircraft again. The regiment commander approached one of them, then the other, giving some orders. Then he called us to him with an energetic wave of his hand. We approached the MIG, placed on the chassis. Its wings were already attached to the fuselage and sparkled in the sun.

What are you worth? Get into the cabin! - said Ivanov, and he headed towards the box, which they had just begun to open.

We took turns climbing into the cockpit of the new fighter and getting acquainted with its equipment. Our lesson was interrupted by Ivanov’s voice:

Well, do you like the car?

Everyone remained silent, not daring to evaluate MIG after such a short acquaintance.

Handsome,” I noted cautiously. - And the motor is probably powerful. But the weapon seems to be rather weak.

A bit weak? - the major was surprised. - BS heavy machine guns, two “shkas”. Is this not enough?

A cannon should be installed on it, Comrade Commander. Junkers is not so easy to shoot down.

You just can’t put on a shirt,” Ivanov retorted. - You have to be able to. If we use MIGs to intercept, the Junkers will be in trouble. Or maybe we’ll fly on “donkeys”? - he asked with a smile.

We all started talking approvingly about MIGs.

That's it! - The commander walked in front of us with satisfaction. - Today, head to Mayaki. There are already two MIGs there. Do you see what time it is? The clouds are looming. We need to quickly relearn. We'll catch the bandits. Necessarily! “He himself began to hand the bolts to the mechanic who was standing on a stand near the wing. “We’ll assemble cars for one squadron, and you, Pokryshkin, will immediately drive them to Mayaki.” There we will retrain the squadron and return here.

The commander sought peace in his work. We waited for him to order us to take up the assembly. But the major again started talking about retraining, about the fact that now it is necessary to cherish every minute.

Grab your things and leave! We hurriedly left to prepare for departure.

The train to Kotovsk via Tiraspol left in the evening. We had half a day left at our disposal. We agreed to meet at the station and went to our apartments.

On the way home, Kostya Mironov met our young neighbor Floria on the street and fell behind. I don’t know what he talked to her about, but he caught up with her, cheerful.

We rented a room from a former large merchant. He rented out his two large houses to tenants. We rarely saw the owners. The pungent smells wafting from the kitchen into the hallway were reminders of their presence in the house. Their servants continued to diligently clean our room.

Having returned home, I was about to start packing my things for the trip, when there was a knock on the door. The owner came in. Today the old man is more cheerful than ever. He stopped in front of me in a decisive pose and, pointing his finger at the ceiling, asked:

Have you seen them?

Whom? - I shrugged, although I immediately understood what was going on.

And yours can’t do anything to them. Nothing! - the owner continued hotly. “Once in a conversation with you, Mr. Officer, I said at random that in a year the German would be here.” And I was not mistaken. A year has passed - and now he has appeared.

Well,” I feigned a sigh, “everything is going your way.” Maybe the store will be returned to you soon.

Don't joke, Mr. Officer. I have always considered you a serious person. About them,” he again pointed into the sky, to where a German reconnaissance aircraft had recently flown, “we Jews know something. Will the German return the store to me? Oh, why are you saying this!.. I am an old man and I am ready to live out my life under any kind of power, but not under Hitler.

But are you glad that the Germans are flying over Balti?

Who told you that I'm happy?

I see it in you.

Why say that? I'm thinking about Romania. My brothers and sister stayed there. I used to see them every Sunday, but now... Oh, Bucuresti! You should see what a city this is!

“I’ll see him someday,” I answered with conviction. The owner opened his eyes wide, waiting for what I would say next.

It was necessary to change the topic of conversation.

You will receive payment for the room today. The owner, without listening to me, turned and left.

I pulled out from under the bed the suitcase in which I kept my bachelor's belongings and began to select the essentials for life in the camp. Carpet tunic... I need to take it. New trousers too. Linen, handkerchiefs, towel. A sketchbook is a must. Little book. And what's that? Ay-ay, what a bungler I am! I still haven’t sent my sister the pieces I bought back in the winter. But I was preparing a gift for spring. How she would have been delighted with white silk with printed flowers! And she would have liked black crepe de Chine with white touches no less.

Maria is two years younger than me. She is the only sister among us, five brothers. As a child, life was more difficult for her than for us: household chores fell on her shoulders too early, and she had to be on time for school. All the brothers loved Maria and were ready to protect her from her offenders, but she never complained about anyone - that’s just her character.

Thoughts about my sister took me to Novosibirsk. A distant, but close to the heart city! Here is our house on the bank of Kamenka. The last time I visited it was in 1937, and then I still couldn’t get out. The elements of flying life captured me. I walked to her for a long time and difficultly, as if I was climbing a high, steep pass. And so I climbed it and couldn’t get enough of the open space.

I like to fly. I strive to be among the best. The experience of fighter pilots who fought at Khalkhin Gol and the Karelian Isthmus makes us think more and train more persistently. Everything they obtained with blood must be comprehended, understood, and assimilated. That's all I worry about. I avoid being attracted to girls, being sure that the family does not allow the pilot to devote himself entirely to his difficult work...

What about cuts? Take with me? But there will, of course, be no time for parcels in the camp. Eh, little sister, be patient a little longer - after all, I was waiting longer for what was promised. I’ll drive the MIGs, choose a free hour and send you a gift. Having placed the cuts at the bottom of the travel suitcase, I stuffed it under the bed.

While waiting for Mironov, I once again returned in my thoughts to the events of the day. But today something big and significant happened in my life. The regiment commander appointed me deputy commander! Zhiznevsky, of course, does not know about this. If Ivanov had previously consulted with him, he would not have agreed with this nomination. He knows that I don't like him as a pilot, and that's why he doesn't tolerate me. But I don’t know how to hide my feelings, I can’t make compromises when it comes to piloting skills and tactics.

But, as they say, I do not like my soul in Ivanovo. He captivated me from the first meeting. In the fall of 1939, after graduating from the Kachin aviation school, I arrived in the regiment. At headquarters they told me that the commander was on flights. I arrived at the airfield just as the next fighter was taking off. I was surprised that the I-16, having soared above the ground, turned sharply, as they say on one wing. The I-16 is a very strict car, I met it at school and knew that in such a sharp turn at a low altitude it could punish - it could fall down. But the pilot turned his “donkey” so skillfully and with lightning speed that I was amazed. Fighters understand how important such a sharp, unexpected maneuver of an aircraft is during an air battle.

Who took off? - I asked the pilot standing next to me.

Don't you recognize the commander? - he was surprised.

Regimental commander?!

Certainly! - the pilot confirmed with pride.

I looked with envy at the pilots watching their commander. It's good to learn from such a master! And on the second day I flew out with Ivanov in a two-seater UTI-4.

A fighter pilot masters the art of aerobatics by basically following a pattern. My comrades and I were lucky: our commander himself was such a model. He flew in an aerobatic team at an aviation festival in Moscow. They loved him, trusted him and imitated him in everything. And our conversation with him today, his energetic demand to immediately retrain on new machines was something very important for us.

The German bomber that flew over Balti left a sad trace in my soul. The sky seemed to be pressing on me again, and the memorable rumble of someone else’s plane came to life in my memory.

Mironov did not appear. Annoyed, I was about to go to the station alone, when his figure suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Sorry, Sasha, I’m late,” he said and began to pack his things. And suddenly he blurted out: “I hope we’ll stop in Tiraspol for a day?” I have more than enough girl friends there!

Wasting the whole day on such a trifle?

Trifle? - Kostya was surprised.

For you - absolutely.

The smile disappeared from Mironov’s face. Apparently, he did not often hear frank judgments about himself. He flared up:

Oh yeah, I forgot that you're the boss now. Will you read morals to us?

First of all, I am your friend!

“My personal affairs don’t concern you,” muttered an embarrassed Mironov.

What the hell is going on there! Yesterday he made some student cry, today, probably, Florika. Is this humane?

You, Sasha, understand little about this matter.

Oh yeah! After all, it’s such a difficult thing to turn girls’ heads... Don’t forget to grab plenty of handkerchiefs. We will not stay in Tiraspol.

Mironov was already catching up with me on the street.

We were quite bored with the road from Beltsy to Kotovsk - on airplanes we flew around this entire area more than once in half an hour, but we crawled on the ground for a whole day.

We easily reached Mayakov by passing vehicles delivering gasoline, food, and ammunition.

Mayaki is one of those airfields that have been marked on secret maps at headquarters for decades, and were used by collective farms for haymaking and grazing. There were many of them scattered across the steppe Ukraine, not a single plane had landed on them for years, and some might have thought that they were not needed at all. But the time came when military aviation needed this field covered with young clover. Our regiment landed on it like a swarm of bees. The roar of engines continued in the air.

The regimental headquarters was located at the airfield, in a large plywood box from MI Ga, placed in the dense greenery of the forest. The chief of staff, Major Matveev Alexander Nikandrovich, as always busy with telephone conversations, papers, orders, saw us and came out to meet us.

Well, did you focus on the courses? - he turned to me cheerfully. - Zhiznevsky complained about you.

If aerobatics are just tricks for him, let him complain.

That's how! “The chief of staff looked at me approvingly, but answered evasively: “Of course, if this was real aerobatics, it will be of great use in the MIG.” Look what a couple! They say it's a tough car. Don't even try to organize a circus, you'll break your neck.

Nothing... I'd rather fly out.

Oh, and fly out right away? Brave man! Go get settled. We didn't come for just one day.

It didn't take long to get settled. We left our suitcases, passed our certificates, went sightseeing - that's all. We will sleep on the second floor in a spacious classroom, eat in the dining room on the floor below, and swim in a pond half overgrown with reeds. Kostya Mironov asked the “old-timers” where they could “dispel the bachelor’s melancholy.” He was told that in a village located five kilometers from here, there is a club, and sometimes there is a movie there.

Our two-day vacation is over. We, the “cadets”, came to the airfield with headsets on our belts and tablets over our shoulders - no one ordered us to take them, but suddenly we would need them - and everyday, tense, real life captured us in its rapid whirlpool.

The airfield... Its airfield is always trampled to dust at the start and eroded on the take-off and landing strips. From this small square of land we take off to practice some elements of aerobatics, and here we return with our small victory or failure. Wherever we fly, no matter how unconsciously we seem to soar in the sky, the airfield is watching us as a teacher and as a spectator, and we report to it how wisely we used our precious time, whether we wasted gasoline, ammunition, and shells. This square of land is given over to the power of airplanes. Only they have the right to run along it, soaring into the sky or returning home from the heights.

When the pilot arrives at the airfield, he already becomes half “unearthly.” His feelings and thoughts are in the sky, with those who fly, for if one is in the air, everyone is with him. But what is happening at our airfield today? Why are such violations of the statutory provisions allowed? Why don't warning flares fly over the field? The planes are landing at unusually high speeds... The commander of our squadron, Senior Lieutenant Anatoly Sokolov, a participant in the battles at Khalkhin Gol, with the Order of the Red Banner on his tunic and traces of burns on his face, himself stands at the start with flags in his hands.

Whipped by the currents of air merging with the hot spring wind, tanned, he directs the flights. Before releasing the plane into the area, he reminds the pilot of something with gestures; sometimes, when showing something, he crouches, spreading his arms like a hen’s wings. He meets planes taxiing towards him after landing. He climbs onto the wing and, holding onto the canopy, bends into the cockpit and shouts something. A stream of air from the propeller flows around it, ready to push it off the plane. The tunic on his back swells, and his face turns crimson red from tension.

And this time the commander again sends the pilot to the zone. The lantern is closed. One more glance, one more reminder, and the engine roared and the plane took off.

Comrade Senior Lieutenant, I am at your disposal.

Why is it so official? - Sokolov smiled.

A deputy commander has been assigned to you.

Congratulations. Very handy. Atrashkevich needs just such a deputy.

I was sent to you.

I'm leaving tomorrow for Kirovograd for courses. You and Atrashkevich will retrain the squadron. You see: he comes in for landing, forgetting everything that was told to him ten times. The voice broke... Don't slow down! Let me get closer to the ground! Below! Otherwise, you will immediately flop down on the MIG. Well, go ahead, pick up a pen. Yes, great!

Watching how Sokolov, without having radio contact with the pilot, commanded him, I involuntarily laughed.

Sokolov turns to me.

What do you want?

It's funny, Comrade Commander.

Tomorrow you will worry no less than I do. We need to learn!

I told him about the German intelligence officer who flew over Balti. He took out a cigarette and lit a cigarette. I see that out of excitement he cannot find words to express his thoughts.

We must burn the vultures! Burn! You won't scare them off with diplomatic notes.

Right! Here they are, admire them!

Retraining is a fleeting but complex process. Pilots need to transfer their skills acquired in flight from one machine to another. Transfer only what is necessary, and at the same time enrich yourself with something new.

The MIG-3 fighter, in which our regiment met enemy planes on June 22, required a lot of new skills and additional training efforts from the pilot. I liked this car right away. She could be compared to a strict, hot horse: in the hands of a strong-willed rider, he rushes like an arrow; whoever loses power over him will be under his hooves. In general, designers rarely succeed in translating their thoughts into the flight and fire qualities of an aircraft with the same effect. In any design there is bound to be some weak point. But in every new fighter of those years we saw our technical and creative victories.

The excellent combat qualities of the MIG-3 were, as it were, hidden behind some of its shortcomings. The advantages of this machine became available only to those pilots who had the ability to find and use them.

We were in a hurry with retraining. It was felt that terrible events were brewing on the western borders. German intelligence officers intruded into our airspace more and more often. At the beginning of June, the division command moved the first retrained unit to the very border.

Flight commander Lieutenant Valentin Figichev, dark-skinned, tall, with large black sideburns, so unlike a resident of the Urals, where he was from, proudly accepted an important watch at the very edge of our land, near the Prut. The word “Pyrlitsa” appeared in our vocabulary - the location of the jump airfield (from it it was possible to intercept suddenly, as if from an ambush).

I also had a difficult task these days. Our unit - now in an updated composition: lieutenants Dyachenko, Dovbnya and I - was supposed to test the new vehicles assembled in Balti and transport them to the Mayaki airfield.

Almost daily flights from Balti across the Dniester helped me and my friends a lot in mastering the new car.

The MIG-3 easily dived, picking up speed over five hundred kilometers, after which it made a hill of six hundred to seven hundred meters. (I-16 could give a much smaller slide.) Such a large vertical is height, and height is a reserve of speed. I fell in love with this machine, the qualities and design of which seemed to confirm its purpose: attack!

Taking off in such a fighter, the pilot felt strong and confident. While practicing aerobatics, I thought about new techniques in air combat, about that maneuver that is unexpected for the enemy, which puts you in an advantageous position in relation to him. After all, only this can bring victory in a fight. When you have a fast, well-armed machine in your hands, your thoughts penetrate into the more complex details of piloting, maneuver, and combat, looking for something new in our art.

These days, I read somewhere that a person needs half a second of time to react to some phenomenon. A well-trained pilot reacts even faster. But not all pilots have the same reaction. The sharper and more accurate it is, the more unexpected your actions are for the enemy. In order to develop this quality in yourself, during training flights, I reasoned, you must not be afraid of tension, and always feel that you are going into a real battle.

This was the main distinguishing feature of my flying practice. I loved to fly sharply, I loved extreme speeds and altitudes, I tried to automate the coordination of movements with the control surfaces, especially in vertical maneuvers and recovery from a dive. Those who were scared by this called my harshness “hooks.” But it is one thing to take prudent precautions, and quite another to underestimate the capabilities of the aircraft. The comrades were clearly mistaken in believing that air battles with the enemy would take place in exactly the same way as training ones over an airfield - strictly according to the plan and only as part of a group.

The adjutant of our squadron, Ovchinnikov, whom I had to train on the MIG-3 these days, also often argued with me.

“You can’t treat a machine like that,” he was indignant, “to force it to perform evolutions that are not typical for it!” This will not lead to good!..

Why unusual? - I objected to him. - If she obeys my will, then she can obey yours too! But first you must strive to make this movement yourself.

What do you think I am, an insensitive blockhead put in a cockpit?

No, there is some difference between you and the blank. It cannot be shot, and you or I, if we pilot like you, can be knocked to the ground in the first battle.

Stop being intimidating. I have my own sense of the car.

Right! - I liked his idea. - But the feeling needs to be developed - it also does not tolerate stagnation and limitation. Feel free to overload, look for the limits of maneuverability and speed.

As an example, I told Ovchinnikov about how I managed to achieve high hits using a new method of aiming during aerial shooting at a moving target. I made forty holes in a cone instead of the twelve required by the “excellent” rating.

But all the tow trucks were afraid of you! They even refused to carry the cone. “He will shoot us,” they said.

This is excessive fear and excessive precaution.

It never hurts to be careful. But fear, keep in mind, can lead to trouble. So Ovchinnikov and I did not come to an agreement. But such discussions during debriefing forced us to focus on the main thing. We had to really prepare for air battles. To each individual and all together.

A fertile June was walking across the earth. Green hills are softly outlined, gardens flash in even lines of quickly turned pages, streams and ponds sparkle and then go out. But now the wide fields of ripening grain are spread out in a bluish spread, touched by the swell. And the gaze lingers on them...

During a flight close to the ground, or, as we say, at low level, attention is fixed only by the bright, large things, everything else just forms an indefinite background. But what vision and memory note is precisely what creates the feeling of speed, the high-speed influx of terrain, one’s own flight.

This feeling is very necessary for a pilot. The desire to fly as low as possible above the ground is dictated by the desire to be in extreme tension, to train your attentiveness and speed of orientation. And also - you feel the need to feel the flight with all the depth, as if passing through yourself the oncoming flow of colorful earth. You won't get such pleasure from flying at altitude. There, at times you completely lose visual contact with the ground and stick to one horizon or some cloud frozen to the side, a patch of forest splashed below, a ribbon of a river.

Ferrying planes from Balti to Mayaki, we had plenty of fun with low-level flights. We were picked up from Mayakov by transport planes, and assembled and fueled MIGs were waiting in Balti. A quick inspection of the control system, takeoff - and now we are demonstrating aerobatics over the airfield: steep hills, rapid turns, diving with an exit almost to the ground. The technicians and engineers are happy - the machines behave well. The workers also eagerly watch such a spectacle. Only the construction managers look askance at us: work at the airfield is delayed.

In flights over the airfield and on the route, we acted independently. My partners were smart and brave, and therefore testing new equipment became good training for us. I remember with satisfaction the sunny days of the first half of June. They added strength, skill and flight training to me.

During one of my flights to Balti, I popped into my apartment for a few minutes. When the owner saw me, he was delighted and invited me to dinner. I was surprised: this had never happened before. Why such hospitality? Is his hospitality sincere? I couldn’t linger and refused lunch. Saying goodbye at the door, the owner took me by the shoulder with a trembling hand and whispered excitedly:

Listen, this week Germany will attack the Soviet Union.

I had to feign indifference to his message and call these rumors provocative. But the old man did not let up:

These are not rumors! What are the rumors if people are fleeing from Romania from the fascist Antonescu? They see everything. Hitler's army is on the other side of the Prut, and the guns are aimed at us! What will happen, what will happen? Where should we old people go? If I were younger, I would leave for Russia today. We are now praying for her, for her strength. Hitler must break his forehead here, otherwise there will be trouble...

I hurried to the airfield. On the way I thought about the old man, about his words. How much disdain he had for us before! Then it gave way to indifference, and now sincere sympathy.

Having already returned to the airfield, I remembered why I went to the apartment: I was going to take the cuts and send them to Maria. And I forgot again. “Okay,” he calmed himself, “on to the next arrival. I’ll ask the owners to trim the parcel, and I’ll definitely send it.”

But my arrival in Balti was delayed for a long time. I returned to this city only three years later, when the Soviet Army liberated Moldova from the German-Romanian fascists.

Finally, we transported the last three MIGs to Mayaki. I was happy: the task was completed and we were starting to study again. The pilots of our flight, who had worked so well in aerobatics, had to shoot at air and ground targets, and “fight” in the air with such experienced “opponents” as Ivanov and Atrashkevich. I understood that only in an intense training match, and not in free flight, can I polish the elements of air combat and consolidate previously acquired skills.

Complete one more task and then take care of yourself. We need to send three MIGs to the squadron commander course. This matter is not as simple as it seems. We must first land in Grigoriopol, grab two more planes there and fly further as a group of five. Like this. Well, rest today.

In Mayaki we learned about an important event that took place in Pyrlitsa. Figichev’s unit intercepted a German aerial reconnaissance aircraft Yu-88, which was flying over our territory. Taking off from its site near the Prut, the MIGs fired warning fire and demanded that he follow them. But the Junkers brazenly turned around and gave full throttle. The fighters pursued him to the border. Carried away, they went several kilometers deeper into Romanian airspace. No sooner had the MIGs landed on their site than a diplomatic uproar arose around this fact. Moscow immediately learned about the border violation by our planes, they called the division headquarters, and then the regiment.

The pilots heatedly discussed this event:

What you! Figichev could even get into trouble for intimidating him.

Why does it “fly in”?

That's why. I violated the border.

So, the Junkers can do it, but if he’s running away, I can’t even step on his tail? I would chop it down, and that’s it!

Maybe this is just what they are waiting for. Hitler's attack on Poland also began with provocations.

There was something to think about: how much is unclear in the international situation! But soon gloomy thoughts were replaced by everyday worries. Our team, for example, had to complete the next task.

Early in the morning we flew to Grigoriopol. We walked in tight formation from north to south, and across us, from west to east, heavy gray clouds floated low, pressing us to the ground.

A few kilometers from Grigoriopol there was a fighter regiment that had left its airfield in Chisinau for the same reason as us: a concrete runway was also being built there. The pilots and technicians lived in tents. The regimental headquarters was housed in a plywood box similar to ours.

While we, having left our planes in the parking lots, reached the headquarters, we met many acquaintances on the line in front of the tents. My wingmen and I knew some of the pilots of this regiment from Chisinau, where we often went for training camps; I studied with some of them at flight commander courses. The Chisinau Regiment took part in the battles on the Karelian Isthmus, and many pilots had military orders on their chests. I always wanted to see them and talk with them. I envied those who had already fought the enemy. This envy was supported in me by regret that in the winter of 1940 our squadron did not have time to go to the Finnish front: the planes were already loaded onto railway platforms, and we, the pilots, in moments of thought more than once imagined how we were flying over the snow, trenches, bunkers.

The headquarters reported that two MIGs were already ready for the flight, but the departure was not allowed. The weather on the route completely deteriorated. Having allocated us a tent for rest, the chief joked:

We will register you in our village.

For a long time? - Dyachenko became worried.

Indefinitely.

The three days spent in this tent really seemed like an eternity to us. We didn’t know what to do: we read, slept, told different stories. And every time they looked with longing at the low, ragged clouds that crawled over the hills in an endless line. And where did they come from? How many of them are piled up there in the west? Why did the weather suddenly go wrong in the middle of summer?

Dark forebodings crept into my soul. The melancholy subsided only in the evenings, when the pilots gathered in the dining room. We sat there for a long time, endlessly talking about new planes and unusual events in aviation.

The soul of the circle was the eldest of us, a large and handsome captain who knew how to tell a good story. I met him only once, in Chisinau, but in conversations with fighter pilots I heard his name quite often. Previously, Karmanov served as a tester in Moscow. There he was guilty of something, and he was sent to the regiment for correction. Here he commanded a squadron. All the pilots treated him with respect. And there was a reason for this: he flew excellently and got along easily with people. Karmanov had to be stirred up to hear a good story. He loved when people listened to him attentively and sometimes agreed with him.

On the first evening, when I sat down with the pilots at the table, Karmanov was telling a story that had come to us from Spain. I've already heard about her.

So, he concluded, shoulder harnesses can also fail the pilot.

“I never thought about it,” the young, but already completely gray-haired lieutenant doubted. - I can’t believe it.

“I didn’t think so,” Karmanov was offended. - This happened to a person I personally know. It happened, you know, but he said, “I can’t believe it.” Girl, some seagull! - the narrator said to the waitress and continued: - That pilot, like I told you at the table, told me about his misfortune. He fought in Spain. One day he was shot down and the plane caught fire. When the flames entered the cabin, we had to jump, and then the parachute strap got caught on the shoulder strap. And you yourself know that you can’t break this damn lacing and bite it with your teeth. Do you understand the situation?

Understood. But this is a rare case.

Such a case can drive one into a coffin. Cars also have their own appendixes. They need to be cut out and thrown away.

Are these shoulder straps? - someone was surprised.

The case cannot be the basis for a conclusion,” the gray-haired lieutenant insisted.

No,” Karmanov objected to him. - If an instructive case is described in detail, it will be of great benefit.

Why don't you drink tea? - asked the waitress who came up.

“Tea is not wine, you won’t drink much,” answered Karmanov, getting up from the table. He was clearly dissatisfied with the inattention of some pilots to him.

Everyone stood behind him. I looked at my table - Dyachenko and Dovbnya were no longer there. Coming out of the tent, Karmanov turned right, and I walked along with the gray-haired lieutenant. It turned out that we were on the same path.

They walked in silence. The night was dark, chilly, damp, and a fresh wind pierced like autumn.

The pilot is wonderful, but he likes to chat,” the lieutenant said quietly. - Belts - appendix... How frivolous this is! Having heard enough of this, someone will go ahead and cut them off.

This conversation is going on all the shelves,” I noted. - In my unit, one said: “I’ll cut off and throw away this appendix.”

I'm not making this up. “But,” I say, “why should you cut them off? You’re so puny that if necessary, you’ll slip out of the belts yourself.”

Didn't allow it?

Of course not.

Right! Not all advice needs to be followed. You will listen enough to other mentors and stop thinking on your own. And in difficult times, you must first of all listen to the voice of your own reason...

The leaves of the trees rustled. Somewhere in the distance, on the other side

On the Dniester, on the Bessarabian side, lights flickered. I stopped, expecting the gray-haired lieutenant to tell me something about himself. And I was not mistaken.

Before the Finnish campaign,” he spoke again, “I listened very carefully to lectures and conversations about the war, about the behavior of people at the front. And soon he himself found himself in a combat situation. He began to fly on missions - once, twice. Conducted air battles, stormed the White Finnish fortifications. While there was success, everything seemed understandable and clear to me.

But then one day trouble struck. The plane was shot down by anti-aircraft gunners, and I began to fall behind the formation. Now you could only consult with yourself. I didn't remember a single landmark on the route. I’m pulling home and don’t know where I am: above my own or someone else’s territory. And the plane is barely pulling, and is about to crash. Noticing a flat white field, he drove the car to land. Landed successfully. I climbed out onto the wing and looked around.

Soon shooting was heard, and then a group of people in white camouflage suits appeared not far away. They skied towards me. I decided that they were Finns. And I immediately remembered how we were taught to act in such cases: do not surrender, be sure to set the plane on fire.

The skiers in white coats were already nearby, and I only managed to grab my pistol. He put it to his temple and pulled the trigger, but there was no shot. True, the click seemed like an explosion to me. Having reloaded the pistol, I once again raised it to my temple. The shutter clicked again. And so all the cartridges in the clip ended up under my feet, and I stood alive. Having lost power over myself, having killed myself morally, I fell face down into the snow and sobbed.

Someone's hands lifted me to my feet. The skiers turned out to be ours. After all, I landed on my own land. A monstrous story, isn't it? More than one conclusion can be drawn from it...

That evening I could not sleep for a long time, turning over my pillow, damp from the rain. I couldn’t get the story of the gray-haired lieutenant out of my head.

...On Saturday we were also not allowed to fly.

On Monday the sky will become completely clear, then we will release you,” said the chief of staff.

Let’s howl from idleness, Comrade Major,” Dyachenko pleaded. - At least they gave me a lift to Grigoriopol to take a break from the tent.

Well, so as not to howl, take the car and drive. Half an hour later we were in Grigoriopol. There was a place for us in the cramped, crowded dining room. Dyachenko was transformed and cheerful. The tall, pink-cheeked, blond steppe man loved a friendly table with a glass. Having obtained wine and appetizers, he laid everything out on the table and, smiling, said:

And in the sky and in life, bright spots still come. We returned to the town late, but we talked in low voices for a long time. The stars were shining in the sky above us. We could distinguish them even through the tent canvas. There was a soothing silence all around... As we fell asleep, we did not know that the clock of the world had already been counted to the second by someone.

We were awakened by sharp impacts on the rail. The first thought was about drill. They don’t allow you to sleep either at home or away. The sound of stomping feet and excited voices was heard near the tent.

Dyachenko, complaining about the troubled life of a military pilot, could not find his socks for a long time. Dovbnya and I waited for him to come to the headquarters together.

The airfield came to life. One engine roared, then another, drowning out the incessant ringing of the rail.

“That means there is serious concern,” I thought, “if they are already dispersing the planes. Well, that's not bad for training. And they have enough space: the airfield is close to the corn field.”

The headquarters "box" was crowded with pilots in full combat gear. Everyone's faces were stern, as if made of iron. Well, of course, anxiety ruined their day off. And yet, something unusual was noticed in the harsh views.

Having squeezed to the door, I wanted to report the arrival of the unit and then I heard Dyachenko’s dissatisfied voice:

Why don’t you let business travelers sleep?

Sleep? - a question answered a question, sharp as a shot. - War!

"War?" This is what everyone mentally asked themselves. One, not believing the one who said this word, the other - thinking that he had misheard, the third - somehow mechanically... But the true meaning of this terrible word was now confirmed by everything: the glow of a fire on the horizon in the direction of Tiraspol and the nervous movement of planes at the airfield.

War! All the usual worries and yesterday's peaceful plans suddenly moved somewhere incredibly far away. Something unclear and ominous stood before us.

What should we, the three of us on business trips, do now? Why are we standing here when we are desperately needed there, in Balti, where our squadron is already fighting, defending the border, the airfield, the city?

Will you allow us to go to your regiment? - I turned to the chief of staff.

Let the technicians prepare the machines.

- "Give"! Everyone is busy! You understand - war!

In the northwest of the airfield, an increasing hum of engines was heard, and soon the silhouettes of airplanes appeared against the light background of the sky. The bombers were accompanied by fighters. Whose? Ours or not?

Several I-16s flew towards the unknown. The bombers began to turn around. Now their diamond-shaped wings were clearly visible.

Enemy. Yes, this is war...

We ran to our cars, keeping an eye on the group of enemy planes. Machine gun fire could be heard in the air. She was now perceived completely differently than before. There was a real air battle going on.

If our MIGs had been equipped with weapons, I would immediately rush to the aid of my friends and fight the fascists. Will I really not be sent to the front again, like in 1939? Other pilots are already fighting, but I... Everything will pass by again...

As a former aircraft technician, I got into aircraft inspection myself. Dyachenko and Dovbnya brought compressed air cylinders to start the engines.

We took off, and immediately felt uneasy. After all, MIGs don’t have a single cartridge. We must hug the forests and fields until we reach our unit.

We got to Mayakov and were surprised: the airfield was quiet and calm. All planes are dispersed in the corn and camouflaged. The airfield is clear. Having landed, I was the first to taxi the car into the corn. Dyachenko and Dovbnya place their MIGs next to mine.

Have you forgotten that there is a war? - I shouted at them. - Why are you lining up like in a parade?

He stopped completing the task and returned as a unit to the regiment. Allow me to go to Balti with my squadron.

Wait! I need you.

I look to see where our commander is. Can not see. I am waiting. I ask my comrades - the situation is becoming clearer. Yesterday, the division commander ordered Ivanov and commander Atrashkevich to immediately go to Pyrlitsa and figure out why Figichev violated the border while pursuing a German intelligence officer. Ivanov flew to UTI-4. Atrashkevich left in a car. In the evening, a message came from Ivanov: I sat down somewhere in a field on an emergency plane - there was not enough fuel. Atrashkevich reported that his car was stuck in some beam. The division headquarters called the flight commander Kuzma Seliverstov to Chisinau for processing for some offense.

This is the situation! There are no commanders at the airfield, and some pilots too...

I stand at the door with a group of pilots and try not to miss a single word. They report from Balti that early in the morning German bombers, under the cover of Messerschmitts, flew into the airfield and set fire to the gas storage facility. Our fighters conducted an air battle. Semyon Ovchinnikov died.

To those standing further, we convey: “Ovchinnikov died.” I visited his home, in Balti, more than once I saw his baby, his wife... In addition to the anxiety and anger towards the enemy that filled my soul, a new feeling is mixed - the bitterness of the loss of a loved one, a comrade. I immediately want to know how he died, under what circumstances. It seems that the enemy bullet, which ended one life, flies further - looking for another. We must defend ourselves against it, we must outwit the enemy and defeat him.

Allow my team to go to the aid of my comrades,” I turn to Matveev again.

I said - wait! - he answers in a dissatisfied tone. - The second squadron just flew there. What will she do there without fuel?

The chief of staff looked clearly confused. I hasten to my wingmen. Leaving them, I asked them to load and fire the machine guns on all the planes. Seeing me, Dyachenko rushes towards me:

Dovbnya looks at me excitedly:

What's in Balti?

His wife and child remained there.

They fight. Ovchinnikov died. Pause.

I hear the same question I asked myself recently. All pilots have a keen attention to details, even tragic ones. How did you die? Why did he die? After all, we only hoped to win.

Our army, of course, was preparing for defense, for the battle that would be forced on us. We studied hard and did not waste a single day to master new techniques. But the Nazis attacked us suddenly, they took us by surprise. If the danger of attack had been more keenly felt, we could have met the enemy as expected. The main thing is that it was impossible to allow such a state as happened in our regiment on the first morning of the war. Squadrons are scattered, people are scattered, planes are not prepared...

Thinking about our first loss, we begin to understand that the war will be cruel, bloody, that, having taken off now into the air, we may not return to the airfield, we may not see this wonderful, clear morning again.

I run, looking at the sky. The boots, wet from dew, became heavy. The sun is rising above the horizon. There are still crowds of people outside the headquarters.

Get out the card! - Matveev says, stepping towards me. - Do you see a separate grove? - he points his finger at a green circle in the middle of an open field.

Take the U-2 and fly. Ivanov is sitting there. I have to answer “yes,” but I can’t say a word. Is this a combat mission?

When we pulled into the parking lot, a car from the headquarters pulled up behind me. Dyachenko and Dovbnya remained near the planes. I asked what they saw at the airfield, the picture became more complete.

I wish I could hit this air exhibition right away! - Dyachenko said passionately, removing the helmet from his sweaty head.

And they will hit! That's why they flew.

We are on duty at the planes, ready to take off at any moment and cover our bombers or protect the Lighthouses from enemy air raids. In Balti, the Germans had already disabled the airfield of the airfield by bombing.

From the headquarters they said by phone: readiness number one! According to warning posts, three nines of enemy bombers are approaching our airfield.

I take a seat in the MIG cockpit and prepare everything to quickly start the engine. I look first at the horizon, then at the command post. A minute passes, two, five, ten. I mentally imagine a Junkers raid on our airfield, attacking them and shooting down several bombers.

Suddenly I hear:

I'm daydreaming!.. I look into the sky: a group of planes is flying from the direction of the sun. They differ more and more clearly.

I start the engine and taxi the plane out of the corn. The rest of the pilots do the same. I keep my eyes on the command post. Why are there no missiles? A! Here they are, the long-awaited ones! Three red torches fly up.

The bombers pass in a wedge slightly to the side of the airfield. Even though the sun is shining straight into my eyes, I notice that the planes are somehow unfamiliar, even strange: single-engine, the cockpits of the pilot and navigator-gunner are connected together.

I quickly approach the last bomber and fire a short burst. I feel like I got it. Of course: I came so close to him that the stream of air thrown by him turned me over. I turn the plane to the right, up and find myself above the bombers. I look at them from above and - oh, horror! - I see red stars on the wings.

Our! He fired at his own.

Hanging over the group and can’t figure out what to do next. The bomber I attacked began to lag behind. I fly over him for a few seconds, as if tied. With all my feelings and thoughts I am there, with the crew, who are now deciding what to do.

Our other fighters are approaching in a tight group. Now the leader has already begun to build a maneuver to attack the bombers from the other flank. I'm in despair - they're going to beat everyone up! Without hesitation, I rush across the attacking fighter, shaking my wings. Almost colliding with me, he moves away. But others are attacking. You have to run from one to another and fire warning bursts from machine guns. And yet some manage to shoot. Fortunately, they miss.

The bomber I shot down landed on its belly in a field, and the rest safely reached the Grigoriopol airfield. There they were joined by two more large groups of bomb carriers, and they, accompanied by fighters, headed west.

After scaring their friends, my fellow soldiers went home. I didn’t have the courage to immediately return to the airfield. What will Viktor Petrovich say? How will the pilots evaluate my mistake? It was necessary to atone for my guilt first, and I decided to follow the bombers.

Then I thought: why don’t I come to the target area before them and block the airfield? Of course, they fly to Roman. If I delay the takeoff of enemy fighters even for a few minutes, then our bombers will be able to strike with the greatest efficiency...

And here I am again over Roman. Enemy anti-aircraft guns open fire, trails of fire stretch towards the plane. Maneuvering in altitude and direction, I look to see if the Messerschmitts are taking off. Noticing that two fighters are taxiing to the start, I go on the attack. The Messers freeze in place. They are waiting for me to fly over them and get in front. I manage to fire several bursts, but they all obviously miss the target. None of the Messerschmitts caught fire.

Minutes pass, but our bombers are gone. I run around among the highways, thinking about our planes, but they don’t appear. Are the crossings being bombed?

I'm going to Prut. Yes, our group seems to have dropped bombs on a concentration of enemy troops on the right bank. And so it is: a high wall of black smoke rises ahead.

I caught up with my group and recognized our planes. My soul felt lighter because I saw my own people, that maybe my stay above Roman helped ours calmly bomb off.

The bombers split up. Eight of them turned left, towards my airfield. I walk away from them, counting them again and again. Eight. Yes, it's that nine. One is somewhere on earth. What’s wrong with him?.. I will find out about this only a few years later, actually, after the war, when a bomber pilot meets me and tells me about the first flight of his squadron, about our fighter that attacked him...

Eight bombers and I alone, apart from them, were flying in the light of the sun, which was sinking below the horizon.

There was already little fuel left, but I didn’t want to land. It’s a shame to appear before the pilots, before the commander. With what impulse I flew into battle and with what sadness I land.

The scolding for wrongdoing was softened by the difficult front-line situation. At another time, how many meetings would have discussed the details of this unpleasant event! But harsh reality suggested that there was no point in punishing the direct culprits of an absurd incident if everything was explained by more serious reasons.

In the evening, having gathered near the aircraft parking lot, we honored in silence the memory of pilot Ovchinnikov and technician Komaev, who died on the first day of the war, and then talked about our failures, about what was preventing us from fighting successfully.

Why were we never shown the SU-2s that we attacked today, mistaking them for strangers? - asked the excited pilots. - They say there is also some kind of PE-2. And he may get it from his own people.

This is a state matter, some argued. - New planes were kept secret!

Wow “secret”! - objections were heard in response.

SU-2s are located in Kotovsk, very close, all the market women saw them every day. Is it right if you only get to know the planes of your division in the air?

It’s just that the command had no time to bother with us; it was investigating Figichev’s “crime.”

Has everyone spoken? - Viktor Petrovich asked loudly and raised his hand to calm people down. - Now allow me to say a few words.

The regiment commander spoke calmly, but sharply, sparing no one. The chief of staff especially got it for the flight alarm signal. And he made me blush several times.

Then Ivanov started talking about the good things that had happened over the past day. We learned that junior lieutenant Mironov shot down a German reconnaissance Henschel-126 in the Beltsy area. Captain Atrashkevich also knocked down the commander of the enemy air group, who was awarded the Iron Cross. Captain Morozov rammed a fascist fighter over Chisinau, but he himself remained unharmed... Captain Karmanov shot down three enemy planes during raids on Chisinau. In total, we destroyed more than ten enemy aircraft during the day.

After this message my heart felt a little lighter. This means that we can still resist the vaunted German aces. And tomorrow we will be even smarter. With this mood, I wanted to quickly climb into the back of an old semi-truck and go on vacation. But the silence of the steppe was suddenly broken by the roar of engines.

Aircraft!

They came from the west in stretched threes and alone. In such chaos, the fighters could only return after a difficult battle.

From Beltsy.

The first one landed on the move. I saw how Dovbnya, who had been silent all evening, immediately ran towards him, holding the tablet to his hip.

They walked from their cars to the checkpoint, also in groups and one at a time. Their fellow soldiers quickly surrounded them, walked alongside them, briefly questioned them and listened attentively. But those who flew from the inferno were not verbose. Uniforms stained with oil and soot. Some are bandaged, their voices are hoarse, their looks are stern. But someone else is flying. Very low. No, this is not a low-level flight. This is a landing without fuel. The motor propeller has already stopped. The sounds of a sharp crash came to us. An ambulance immediately rushed there.

They, who really fought today, were already warriors, they smelled of gunpowder smoke and sweat.

Atrashkevich, who brought the group, briefly outlines the picture of the events in Balti:

The Junkers arrived and dropped bombs as if from a bag onto the airfield where the population was working. We had few anti-aircraft guns. The gas storage facility was immediately set on fire, it exploded and burst into flames. We took off, started a fight, and the technicians carried the wounded out from under fire. The first raid was somehow repelled... A few hours later another group of bombers arrived. This time they hit the city. We protected him as best we could. Smoke covered all the neighborhoods. The commanders' wives came running: “Where should we go?” What kind of cars there were, we gave them to them to evacuate with the children. For the planes, they poured fuel wherever they could. The Junkers arrived for the third time. Their task was simple: to place bombs across the take-off field in order to completely disable it. We got into a fight with the Messers, fought and looked at how much fuel was left. It would be enough to get to the Lighthouses...

Paskeyev, why are you wet? - someone drew attention to the pilot, wet from head to toe, in dirty boots. Hanging his head, he did not answer.

Why are you frowning, tell me,” the squadron commander, Lieutenant Nazarov, remarked with a smile. - Or do you think that you are still sitting up to your ears in a swamp? Oh, and how agile you are! I wish I could take a picture of you at that moment. It would be a fun picture!

The other pilots also made a few remarks, and everything became clear. It turns out that Paskeyev, seeing the enemy bombers, rushed not to the plane, but to a swampy river. He climbed up to his neck into the water and sat until the battle was over. When they pulled him out, he was shaking as if with a fever. The man could not stand the third raid... His nerves gave way.

How did Ovchinnikov die? - I asked Atrashkevich.

Right before our eyes, his plane crashed onto the airfield.

Set it on fire?

Yes, they waylaid him on smooth turns. He began to spin the practiced carousel, and two Messers attached themselves to him and shot him.

An ambulance pulled alongside us. Pilot Ovsyankin stuck his bandaged head out from behind the door and shouted cheerfully:

Greetings to the valiant rear!

“So he’s all right,” I thought. “And we’ll explain something to him about the ‘rear’.”

“Something is missing from Mironov,” I asked, worried. Atrashkevich slowed down:

He flew with us. Haven't you arrived yet?

We listened - silence.

From the command post the pilots called for dinner.

They climbed into the back and stood up, holding each other. There was a war going on, but everything was the same as yesterday - a lorry, a friend’s shoulder, a peaceful dinner.

Atrashkevich, looking at me, who was standing to the side, shouted:

Get in! Let's go!

I'll wait. Maybe Mironov will come.

The car drove away.

The sky was hiding something in its silence.

| |

Hey cab driver!

While he, urging his horse, approached us, I mentally transported myself from one century to another. We lived on the other side of the Dniester for six months, studied there at courses for unit commanders, and just returned to Balti, to our regiment. “Hey, cab driver!” - loudly thrown by Kostya Mironov, the echoing clatter of hooves on the pavement, the sight of a carriage familiar from illustrations to old stories - everything was again unusual. Kostya Mironov hurries to take a more comfortable place.

Aerodrome!

But the driver himself understands where we need to go. He looked indifferently at the frail Mironov and fixed his gaze on the four of us. A dilapidated cab, lovingly painted with black varnish, could have withstood it. Pulling the reins, he dashingly shouted at the horse:

Atya-vye!

Familiar houses on the main street floated towards them. An important event of last year is connected with it, with Balti - the reunification of Bessarabia with the Soviet Union. We were then preparing for air battles, but everything ended very peacefully: our regiment flew over the border in parade formation and landed at the airfield in Balti. Our acquaintance with the city began, of course, from the main street. We walked along it every evening.

Is it possible to drive around the whole of Europe in such a car? Kostya Mironov squints blissfully from the bright southern sun,

“I found a place to travel,” Pankratov responded. - Now everyone is running away from there.

The cab driver turned to us, we looked at each other. What was he thinking? We remembered how a Yugoslav Savoy bomber landed at the airfield a few days ago. His crew miraculously escaped from fascist captivity. The stern faces of the Yugoslav pilots expressed desperate determination...

And I would love to ride through the Vienna Woods to the tune of the “Great Waltz”...

The carriage stopped at the headquarters barracks. The cab driver knew the way here well: pilots, having been late for the car that picks them up from the city in the morning, often resort to the help of early cab drivers. True, our trinity - Mironov, Pankratov and I at one time were independent of the truck and cabs. We had our own car. We acquired it by accident and here's how.

...In the first days of life in Balti, we, Soviet commanders, were constantly besieged by street boys asking for “twenty kopecks” (“Uncle, we’ve been waiting for you for twenty years, give us twenty kopecks”), and local brokers.

Brokers vied with each other to offer their services:

What does the officer want to buy?

Steamboat! - someone joked.

A steamboat is also possible. But why a steamboat? A car is better.

Drive the car!

On the second day, an old-fashioned passenger car pulled up to the house where we lived. Seeing a familiar broker driving, we were taken aback: “What should we do?” At first they just wanted to avoid strange beeps, but it seemed inconvenient. Let him take this jalopy for a ride.

- “Hispano-suiza”!.. Racing version! - the broker recommended the car, pointing to the brand name.

We touched its wooden two-seater cabin and wooden wheels covered with gummat, not without a smile. Then, clinging to the wildebeest, we drove around the city in style. And although the chatter of the engine deafened those we met, it seemed to us that the “Hispanic-Suiza” was complete “comfort”.

In this car, a whole crowd of us drove up to the headquarters in the morning, and in our free time we drove like a breeze along good roads. Leaving for courses interrupted the car entertainment. Now our “Hispanic-Suiza” is probably already lying around in a landfill somewhere, because over the past year the life of Soviet Bessarabia has changed dramatically.

At the regimental headquarters we found only the one on duty - the junior commander. He said that the pilots and technical staff recently moved to a summer camp located near the village of Mayaki, near Kotovsk.

The airfield turned out to be thoroughly dug up. Trucks scurried between piles of torn up earth, and Bessarabian boys were intently working with shovels.

Brothers, what's going on here?! - exclaimed Kostya Mironov. - It seems that the rear officials are seriously planning to hide the gas tank underground. This is goal number one.

It’s high time,” Mochalov responded. - Such an object can be seen even from the stratosphere.

Why then whitewash a huge tank?

Calmly! We will probably soon be taking off from a concrete runway.

This business! We've heard a lot about concrete, but we've never felt it under our wheels.

A real anthill.

Our pace is Soviet.

There were no planes at the airport. Only at the very end, approaching the river, were some oblong white boxes visible. Seeing regiment commander Ivanov and engineer Sholokhovich near them, we headed there.

Viktor Petrovich Ivanov was delighted with our arrival. When I, as the senior member of the group, reported my arrival from the course, he shook our hands with a smile and said:

Congratulations to you all on your graduation. And you, Pokryshkin, and with a new position.

We looked at each other. Mironov, who was standing nearby, could not stand it:

I told you that the head of the course will not forgive you for “hooks” in flights. Congratulations on your transfer to ordinary pilots!

Ivanov’s wide, plump face shone with a smile, his large black eyes squinted affectionately.

We know about his “hooks”. Once he gets into the MIG, it’s more difficult to fly than the I-16, even if he unbends his “hooks.” Pokryshkin was appointed deputy squadron commander.

My comrades jokingly called “hooks” the aerobatic maneuvers I invented or somehow modified, which I used in training air battles. The head of the course, deputy commander of our regiment, Zhiznevsky, was a supporter of “academic”, calm piloting and was wary of all innovations. He himself flew without a “light” and tried in every possible way to extinguish it among others.

“Sits on MIG...” What does this mean? Ah, that's it! From the huge white boxes hatched like chicks from a shell, brand new, clean light green fighters.

What can I say, the appearance of new aircraft designs at the airfield is an extraordinary event in the life of pilots. We rushed to the boxes.

At this time, an intermittent rumble was heard in the sky. Everyone threw their heads back.

An unfamiliar plane was flying at high altitude.

German intelligence officer!

- "Junker"!

Yes, he is not alone! The Messerschmitts are with him!

Indeed, four fighters were circling around the twin-engine bomber with diamond-shaped wings. All of them returned to the west from our territory strictly through Balti,

“Junker”... I first heard this word when I was still a boy. Now, when we all looked up, where the Junkers were visible in the blue, I remembered my first meeting with him...

One September day, a plane suddenly appeared in the sky over Novosibirsk. Amazing old and young, he made several circles and landed on a military parade ground. The whole city flocked there. We boys, having such an advantage over adults as fast bare feet, rushed to the parade ground first and, although there was already a guard at the plane, we somehow squeezed through to it. I timidly touched the cold fender of the car and inhaled the unfamiliar warm oily smell flowing from the engine. Who knows, maybe it was the feelings of those happy moments that predetermined my future. At the rally held near the plane, people talked about the creation of the Soviet air fleet and the defense of the Motherland. It was then that I heard the word “Junkers”. It turned out that the car standing in front of us was bought in Germany with funds raised by Siberians from the Junker company and was making a campaign tour through our cities. The word “Junkers” sounded mysterious and pleasant to me then, it called for knowledge. The plane that bore this name gave birth to a winged dream in me. I tried to do well at school, at the factory department, and played sports intensively in order to enter the aviation school... Captured by the romance of a heroic profession, I, like thousands of my peers, took off into the endless alluring sky. Now, on a May day in 1941, I saw the silhouette of a Junkers - an enemy bomber. Its intermittent heavy roar, from which the native sky suddenly seemed to become alien, made me clench my fists.