Tracers formed a web ahead of him, more enemy Flak units taking the opportunity to contribute to proceedings as the P38’s drew off to reform for a third pass.
Heavier clunks gave testimony to the accuracy of the allied ground gunners, and holes appeared in his starboard wing before the final strikes completely took off the wing tip.
Senior Lieutenant Istomin immediately felt the difference, the starboard engine gently dropping power, combined with a flutter on the starboard wing that was negligible, but none the less present.
His navigator had died behind him, despite the best efforts of one of the gunners.
The other gunner had already died quietly, hence the absence of any warning about the return of the Lightnings.
Bullets ate into the fuselage and right wing, adding to the damage and creating new, as the transit of US metal shredded part of the ailerons.
The sustained burst from the quadruple .50cal also left Istomin alone in the aircraft.
Now down low, he noticed that the other Tupolevs hugging the ground were pulling steadily away.
‘I’m losing speed!’
Sparing extra time to study his gauges, he saw more problems.
‘Engine is fucking hot! Losing revs?’
His eyes swept around further.
‘Govno! Where’s my fuel?’
The first strike had severed one of the fuel supply pipes to the right engine, wrecking the chokes designed to cut off any oversupply.
This was a problem that needed addressing immediately. He stopped the engine and isolated the fuel supply, conserving what was left and removing a source of ignition for the fuel that was sloshing around inside the wing spaces, just waiting for something to bring it into spectacular life.
‘Govno! Work damn you!’
The blade would not feather, and now the Tupolev took on a partial sideways aspect as the idling propeller created tremendous drag.
Another metallic rattle as bullets struck home again, this time kissing the left wing. ‘Tanya’s’ lack of speed was her saviour, as most of the .50cal, and all of the 20mm cannon shells, were spent in fresh air, the USAAF pilot getting his attack all wrong.
“Mudaks!”
Timed to the instant that the invective left his mouth, the propeller feathered, and Istomin could not help the thought that he should shout at ‘Tanya’ more often.
The Tupolev became more responsive again, shrugging off the lack of an engine and the damage to her control surfaces.
Istomin drove his aircraft lower still, too low, swiping some treetops and scaring himself, before rising a few metres for safety.
He shouted to his crew but there was no reply. He understood why but could not find a moment to mourn his comrades.
Ahead, an aircraft attracted the attention of three of the twin tailed aircraft.
Elation took hold as the Soviet gunner made a kill, the graceful US fighter turning over and plunging into the ground with its pilot.
Elation was replaced by horror as the Tu-2 was literally hacked to pieces, one of the cannon-firing Lightnings making it come apart in front of Istomin’s eyes.
Horror was replaced by fear as more bullets beat their lethal rhythm on ‘Tanya’, the sudden inrush of cold air telling him that the glasshouse nose had been badly damaged.
Again, a change in performance, and more speed bled off as the drag increased.
Tracers swept past his right side, so close he could almost sense the heat from their passing.
The Lightning had bled off much of its speed, the new pilot anxious to show his comrades how well he had learned his craft.
Adding something extra, he had dropped his undercarriage, reducing his speed even more.
However, his attack had been badly lined up, and he still missed the struggling Tupolev.
His inexperience condemned his name to the wall of ‘missing, believed killed’, an aggressive quarter-turn from Istomin bringing the slow moving Lightning in front of his ShVAK cannon.
The low speed, the undercarriage drag, and the 20mm cannon shells combined to send the P38 into the small lake below.
However, the aviation spirit within the Tupolev’s starboard wing finally found its ignition source with the firing of the cannon. A fire started; not an explosive ignition or the wing would have come apart, but enough to leave a growing trail of flame behind, a flame that started to melt everything of value that it touched.
Another two of Istomin’s comrades were smoking, a single Lightning hitting both in one pass.
Following an aborte attack, one Lightning had hauled off, it’s pilot working out how to fly with only one good arm, his left severed at the elbow.
Tracers again leapt skywards, ground positions seeking out kills amongst the hated enemy.
They struck home immediately, a P38 coming apart as something heavy exploded under the pilot’s pod.
The USAAF fighters screamed away in a rising starboard turn.
Istomin understood immediately.
“Zirafa-two-three to all. We are over our lines, repeat, over our lines.
In front of Istomin’s eyes were four Tupolev’s, one apparently undamaged, the other three ranging from smoking to burning.
“Zirafa-two-three to all. Have no navigator. Communicate course to nearest airfield, over.”
“Zirafa -three-three to all. Airfield immediately ahead, four thousand metres. We are perfect for land…”
The radio gave up working with a noticeable sizzle, leaving Istomin alone in every sense of the word.
He could see the undamaged lead aircraft make an adjustment and lose height, the other aircraft moving away to make their own approaches in their turn.
As protocol required, Istomin in ‘Tanya’ would land last so as not to obstruct the runway if he failed to make it.
He circled gently, alert for any return of the enemy aircraft, sparing a glance as his comrades touched down one by one.
‘Two down, Come on, come on!’
The third aircraft, the flames almost extinguished, touched down and sheered right immediately, its damaged undercarriage giving way.
The fuselage ploughed up some grass before coming to a halt.
Spreading his attention equally between the air and the ground, Istomin saw only two running figures before the Tupolev was totally ablaze.
‘Tanya’ was starting to act up, the damaged right ailerons unresponsive, the right wing losing its integrity as the fire continued to wreak havoc.
Gently, he eased his aircraft into a left turn, losing an extra few metres of height, and lining up for a textbook landing.
Readying himself for any change in the flying characteristics, he lowered the undercarriage.
Or rather, he tried.
The starboard wheel was partially destroyed and refused to move, its operating system already consumed by the fire.
He tried to recover the port wheel.
‘Govno!’
He tried again, remembering how to do it properly.
“Govno!”
The Tupolev did not respond.
The vibrations on the right wing were becoming worse, but Istomin had no choice except to go around again, his battle with the undercarriage bringing him to the overshoot point on his approach.
Turning to port, he found himself sweating and realised that the fire in the right wing was much larger than before.
The attempt to drop the undercarriage had merely opened the small doors, permitting additional oxygen to enter and feed the flames.
‘Tanya’ was dying around him, her systems failing as the damage increased by the minute, but she was still flying.
Istomin lined up again, his speed up, the single wheel down, the fire blazing.
As the aircraft dropped slowly, he found himself almost squealing, not a recognisable human sound, just the unmistakeable sounds of someone in the extremes of terror.